by Ian Morson
‘But I was busy, Agnes. I had other things to do.’
‘Like stealing books?’
Agnes couldn’t bring herself to say the other word expressing what Will was also accused of.
‘I found them, Agnes. Really I did. I couldn’t leave them on the ground where they were.’
Agnes’s sigh from the other side of the solid door made Will realise that even she didn’t believe him. And soon she wasn’t there any more, and he was alone again for a long time. He dozed off, but then a sound woke him up. He listened for a while, imagining he could hear rustling outside the door. He tried a little whisper, scared of who it might be.
‘Is that you, Agnes?’
There was no reply, and he was going to call out a little louder, when he heard a creaking sound. He looked, and saw the door swing slowly open. He clutched his knees and hugged them up to his chest. He was mortally afraid now. But no-one came in, and soon he was emboldened enough to crawl across the damp floor of the crypt. He peeped around the door, and saw a pair of legs at the top of the stone steps that led down to where he had been imprisoned. They were encased in sturdy boots with mud on the heels. He couldn’t see the body that was atop the legs, and he crawled through the open door to get a better look. As he did so, the person turned and moved away, so all he could see was still the booted legs. He felt impelled to follow, and cautiously got to his feet, and made his way up the steps. At the top of the steps stood another open door, which he knew led out into the castle courtyard. He ventured up to it, and risked a glance out. A dark figure stood with its back to him on the other side of the yard, close to the gate that led out into the town. Clouds scudded across the moon, and made it difficult to see who it was. He rubbed his eyes, but when he looked again, he couldn’t see the figure at all. He tiptoed across the yard towards the open gate, not sure if he should take advantage of his freedom, or stay safely in the crypt. Then he heard a low moan from behind him.
Swinging round, his heart in his mouth, he saw that the same figure had somehow got to his back. A silvery beam of light shone through a break in the cloud, and he saw a face at last. Dark, with staring eyes and exposed teeth, it made him shudder with halfrecognition. He hesitated, but the outline of the horns sticking out from its forehead made him certain it was the Devil that was calling him onwards. His heart pounding, he took to his heels and ran.
Chapter Sixteen
Early hours of the Feast of St Theodore, 19th September.
Master Gerard Anwell felt his full seventy years. The night was chill, and his bones ached at the very thought of another winter. He no longer taught at the university, finding the task of plodding through the basics of the trivium — grammar, logic and rhetoric — with dull, young clerks tedious in the extreme. The quadrivium was only marginally less excruciating. Arithmetic, astronomy, geometry and music could be worthwhile topics to study, but not with the stumbling idiots who seemed to populate the schools of the university nowadays. No, he had given all that up to devote himself to the study of pure knowledge. In his tiny back room that he rented with his dwindling funds from Mistress Dockerel who ran the brothel next door, he surrounded himself with texts that few could decipher. No longer content with the stilted Latin translations of Aristotle and the like, he had taught himself Greek, Hebrew, Chaldean and Arabic. Now, he read texts where he could get them in the original. Even then, he eschewed the authorities approved by the church, confining himself to reading such esoteric texts as he could lay his hands on. These included such nonreligious authors as Galen, Maimonides, Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Abraham ibn Ezra and Samuel ibn Tibbon.
Recently the Jewish Kabbalah intrigued him, but he dare not tell anyone of his interest. Studying Hebrew texts was frowned upon by the university and the church both. He had made some indirect approaches to scholars who also were of an enquiring nature and might have helped him trace the works he sought. Edmund Ludlow, a fellow Welshman, had promised to find out more for him, but had not come back to him for a few days. He wondered why that was, and cursed his one-time friend for ignoring him. As Anwell rarely left his room, and had certainly not stirred himself in order to attend the Black Congregation, where his joints would have ossified with the cold, he was quite unaware that Ludlow was dead. Or that a thief was plundering texts of the very sort that Anwell himself cherished. He had barely acknowledged the pox that ran through the streets of Oxford. He didn’t have contact with a soul from one day to the next, other than with Sal who collected his rent weekly and brought him some food at the same time. He was content to immerse himself in scholarship, and especially liked the ornate decoration of some of the Christian texts he owned, where the rich reds, blues and yellows were offset with lettering in gold leaf. Some of his precious Arabic and Hebrew texts were similarly decorated with geometric patterns in gold.
As the cold of the night set in, and he remained unable to sleep, he wrapped his fur-trimmed gown around him, lit another candle, and opened his favourite work. Maimonides’s philosophical treatise, Guide to the Perplexed. As the candle grew lower, and the wax dribbled over the base of the pewter stick that held it, Gerard Anwell’s eyes began to tire. The Arabic text on the parchment began to swirl and stretch so that it became a long, undecipherable string for a while. He screwed up his eyes and when he looked again, the text had returned to legibility. But then it happened again, only this time Anwell’s weary, old eyes drooped and refused to focus.
He awoke with a start, not sure if he had slept for long or merely dozed off for a moment. He looked at the candle, which was still alight but was no more than a blackened stub of wick in a misshapen mass of wax dribbling off the edge of the table so that it resembled the hand of an old man with long fingers dangling down to the floor. He estimated that he must have slept for some time. Then he heard a noise, and realised that it had been a similar sound that had awoken him. He shook his head to clear his senses, and he looked round behind him where the noise had come from. He heard a door creak open, felt a breeze on his cheek, and the remains of the candle guttered and went out. He thought the intruder might be Sal Dockerel come to collect the rent, but then remembered she had only done so a couple of days earlier. Fear gripped his heart and he tried to call out, hoping that his landlady might hear him. But that was a forlorn hope, and his throat was dry anyway. All he could manage was a croaking sound.
‘Who is that?’
The dark shape loomed over him, and he saw the silver light of the moon catching on a blade that swung towards his neck. The blow, when it came, made him choke and gurgle. But only for a moment, then he was dead.
*
Having spent a celibate night in Aristotle’s Hall with his mind tossing backwards and forwards theories of Will Plome’s guilt or innocence, Falconer was anxious to talk to Bullock again. As he entered the castle courtyard, he was surprised to find a scene of some confusion. The members of the players’ troupe were standing in a group debating anxiously amongst themselves, while the constable was poking at their possessions with his trusty sword. As he prodded the cart in which were piled all their precious props for mounting scenes from morality plays, John Peper jumped forward.
‘Take care, Bullock. There are irreplaceable items in there.’
Bullock snarled, and continued to poke away. Peper was so anxious he tried to stay the destruction by grabbing the constable’s arm. Bullock, despite the disparity in their ages, easily threw the actor off. Peper fell back on his arse complaining.
‘How could Will be in there? It’s too small to hide him.’
The other members of the troupe were aghast at their leader’s treatment, and Robert Kemp was emboldened enough to step forward. But Falconer strode across the courtyard and interposed his body between the protagonists. He threw a warning look at Kemp, and then turned to address Bullock.
‘What is going on here, Peter? Why should Will Plome be hiding somewhere in the yard?’
Bullock scowled, casting a look around the group of players.
; ‘Because someone released him from the crypt last night, and I don’t doubt it was one of his friends here.’
This accusation raised a howl of protest from Peper’s troupe, words that were cut across by a harsh but controlled voice with a foreign accent.
‘If you didn’t free your friend, then why not show your allegiance to the law and go and find him.’
Isaac Doukas strolled out of the shaded archway leading into the stronghold that was the tower. He stuck his thumbs in his broad leather belt, and tossed his head in the direction of the gateway to the town.
‘Go and find him before he gets into any more trouble.’
John Peper picked himself up off the ground, and looked to be ready to attack Peter Bullock again. But the wiser head of Agnes Cheke prevailed. The old woman screwed her wrinkled face up in what passed in the circumstances for a grin, and diverted Peper’s attention.
‘The foreigner is right, John. We can best help Will by finding him before either he does something silly, or …’ She stopped and stared hard at the constable. ‘… or the real murderer kills again, leaving Will accused of a new crime.’
Bullock growled, but sheathed his sword, and the tension in the air eased. Simon Godrich strolled casually away from the constable singing gently under his breath.
‘He that courts a pretty girl, courts her for his pleasure.
He is a fool, if he marries her without store or treasure.’
Robert Kemp linked arms with him and joined in the second verse.
‘He that drinks strong beer, and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to live, and dies a hearty fellow.’
Peper was still red-faced and angry, but followed his compatriots, and the awkward moment was over. The troupe of players gathered by the castle gate, and planned their search of Oxford. Falconer looked at Bullock, who shrugged his shoulders and signalled for his friend to follow him into the castle keep.
*
The next few days witnessed a strange revival in the life of Oxford. Not that anything returned to normal — such a rebirth was not yet possible. The whole town knew — because the rumour had spread like wildfire — that the red plague took ten days before it might reveal itself again. The cursed evil was seen to linger in doorways, and trickle down drainage gulleys. It hovered in the very air, and would sneak in open windows, if it were allowed. Then the rumour was somehow born that it was a Jew who had said all this. And if he knew how long it took to fester before it broke out again, then he must be responsible for its existence in the first place. From that surmise it was only a short step to the conviction that it was all therefore a Hebrew plot to ruin the business of the town, cutting off the market from its customers, and starving the population. On Saturday — the Jews’ holy day — Peter Bullock had to use force to disperse a gang of four men, who had broken the curfew and taken it into their heads to try and break into Simeon’s house on the corner of Fish Street and Jewry Lane.
Martin Durham, the ring-leader of the gang that was made up of his three sons, had been convinced that Simeon was hoarding food. He knew that the Jews went to the synagogue on Saturdays because he rented his house at the other end of the lane from Jacob and Cresse. It would be a perfect time to break in and steal the food. Unfortunately, Simeon, like all the other Jews, was observing the proscription on assembly, and was at home with his family. Martin had got no further than damaging the sturdy lock on Simeon’s front door, before Samuel across the street had seen the rumpus and raised the alarm. His own boy was despatched secretly but with speed to fetch the constable.
Bullock, together with Isaac Doukas, who had offered his help, was soon on the scene. He threatened to lock the whole Durham family up, if they did not return to their own home. Durham, faced with the constable and some swarthy individual with authority written all over his face, backed down, and then complained about their straitened circumstances.
‘We are starving and have nothing in the larder.’
Bullock knew that the main reason why Mistress Durham had nothing in reserve was that her husband, Martin, drank away most of the money he earned as a mason. His wife had precious little food to last them from one pay day to the next, let alone during a siege laid by an invisible enemy like the pox.
‘Go to the bakery at the other end of this street. Simon will let you have a loaf on the promise of payment. Tell him I sent you. Then get home and stay home.’
Durham slouched away grumbling under his breath, and was followed by his three growing and pinch-faced sons. Bullock hoped the man would pay his dues afterwards, or Simon would be complaining to him soon enough about the mason’s arrears. As the constable and Doukas walked back to the castle, it became evident that others were running out of food. Shadowy figures lurked in doorways, waiting until they had gone past before sneaking out to buy what provisions they could find. As they went down Pennyfarthing Street, a woman approaching them crossed to the other side of the street to be as far away from them as possible. She nervously nodded her head at the constable, held her hand to her mouth, and scurried on past. On any other day, Bullock might have been hailed, and drawn into a conversation. Today he, like any other person abroad, was shunned for fear of being a bearer of the pox.
And so it was for the next day and the next. Fearful figures sneaked along lanes, carefully avoiding anyone else in a terrible parody of the crowds that would normally have filled these streets. A few days ago, people would rub against each other, shoulder to shoulder, not caring one bit if they were jostled. Now, the widest berth was afforded, and if there was no reason to be outside, everyone stayed indoors. And even there, a sneeze was viewed with suspicion, and the offender was ostracised as far as the narrow confines of the houses in Oxford permitted. Families lived cheek by jowl, so a wife could not avoid her husband, or a father his children. But any sign of illness in anyone was occasion for the victim to be closely watched from a distance. The mood in every single home was therefore tense, and it was no surprise that such circumstances bred resentment and a need to apportion blame.
Chapter Seventeen
The Feast of St Maurice, Sunday, 22nd September
Saphira was at the home of Samson, and Falconer had joined them. Will Plome had not been found, and his hunt for an alternative suspect had got him nowhere. So when Saphira had asked him to join them to talk about a suitable strategy in their combating the pox, he had readily agreed. He was fascinated that the doctor’s room was filled like his with vials and pots, and a mixture of sweet scents overlaid with a faint, but still noisome, stink. Samson, more so than even the ever curious Falconer, obviously distilled various preparations, for stained glass alembics stood beside a small furnace with its own set of bellows. But all these possible distractions did not at this time divert Falconer from the task in hand. It was less than ten days since Hugo de Wolfson had been found by Thomas Dagville, and examined by Samson and Saphira. That was a fixed point in the calendar of the development of the red plague in Oxford. Much of the rest was uncertain, however. Where de Wolfson had gone, and whom he had come into contact with was unclear. But the exact date of the crusader’s arrival in Oxford could be verified by Falconer.
‘He almost ran me down at East Gate. It was the twelfth day of September.’
Samson frowned.
‘You can be certain it was him?’
‘Yes. It’s not every day that a well-built knight with a tanned face that has been exposed to the sun of Outremer comes to Oxford. Besides, I saw his horse at close quarters. It is the same one that was found wandering the lanes close to Beke’s Inn the other night.’
Saphira laid her hand on his arm.
‘The one that convinced the monk staying at the castle of his Prince of Bronze prophecy? But how did it get free?’
Falconer shrugged his shoulders.
‘It was the very same. But I can’t answer your other question. Dagville says it was still in his stable after de Wolfson’s body was removed. He had intended to sell it to defray t
he costs incurred by the knight. How it got dressed in all its armour and set free in Shidyerd Street is a mystery.’
Samson made a suggestion.
‘Perhaps the monk did it to help fulfil this prophecy you mention.’
‘It’s possible. But Aldwyn is quite old, and truly believes in Merlin’s Prophecies. He wouldn’t have need to create proof — it would be manifest as far as he was concerned.’
Samson peered at Falconer, a sceptical look on his face.
‘Like the miracles of Christian saints, and the … the discovery at Glastonbury nigh on a hundred years ago of the bones of King Arthur, just when King Edward’s great-grandfather wanted to show that the mythical king was dead and would not return to aid the Welsh?’
Falconer laughed out loud.
‘You are right. And in the same circumstances as now, for it is just at a time when Henry was trying to crush Welsh ambition. But to get back to the point, you may be right. Aldwyn may have helped his prophecies along a little.’
Saphira was frustrated by all the wild speculation. She was more anxious to get back to the reason for their meeting that morning.
‘If the crusader knight arrived ten days ago, then he could have passed on his pox to others in the town soon after that. If he did then some will show signs from tomorrow perhaps.’ She turned to Samson. ‘What will they be — these signs?’
Samson began to explain.
‘Ten days may be a little early, but the signs are fever, headaches and muscle pains. The victim will also feel nauseous and will vomit. Quite soon after that, visible lesions will appear in the mouth and on the tongue and throat such as you saw with the crusader. That is what we must look out for.’
Falconer wondered if anyone in the town would reveal to Peter Bullock a member of their family showing those symptoms. Or if they would keep it quiet. Nobody wanted their house marked as a plague house.
