[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death

by Ian Morson

  Grumbling, the men got up and tramped out into the rain, pulling their felt hats well on to their heads as protection. It was left to Wilfrid Southo to aim the parting shot.

  ‘And don’t find another bloody skeleton, or Master Thorpe will blow his top.’

  As the rain had petered out, William Falconer decided to visit the rabbi and piece together his recollections with what Jehozadok could remember of that time twenty years ago.

  Until he had begun to recall his own arrival in Oxford he had forgotten the matter of the murdered boy. It was as though his purpose in the town had been presaged by the event. For he had gone on to become embroiled in many puzzling murders. But the very nature of the incident would also have ensured that Jehozadok remembered the time. Accusations of ritual murder of a child would have been seared into every Jew’s mind, and the times would have been very unpleasant.

  He slung a cloak around him for extra protection, and made his way downstairs and out of Aristotle’s Hall.

  In the street the rain had had the compensating factor of washing away the filth and rubbish. The open sewer that ran down the centre and usually stank in warm weather at least ran with water and not with human waste for once. Falconer stepped tentatively over it, and made for the narrow opening to St John’s Lane. He hurried down the short cut, and then into Little Jewry Lane. Normally, he would have used Schitebarn Lane to cross over to Jewry. Even though the alley still bore the aroma of manure, it was some time now since it had truly earned its name. The barns that leaned precariously against each other to one side of the lane were still there, but no longer housed cattle. Today though Falconer used Little Jewry despite the chaos of the building work. He was curious to see again the place where the skeleton had been found. Indeed, perhaps the builders would at last have found the missing skull. He was to be disappointed.

  Little Jewry Lane was a mass of rubble, and where the half-demolished building had stood there was now only a yawning gap like a missing tooth in a rotten jaw. A disconsolate bunch of damp workmen, their soft felt hats clinging wetly to their heads, shovelled rubble into barrows, which were trundled down the lane and out of sight. They were probably being shot into the wet meadows outside the South Gate. As he Watched, Falconer recognized the heavy-set man he had passed a few words with the previous night. He was picking up large stones, which would have been beyond the power of the other workers to move, and carrying them to the edge of the building site. They would no doubt form part of the new edifice as it rose in place of the demolished buildings. Falconer wandered over to the big man, and waited until he had loaded the latest prodigious stone on to the new pile.

  ‘Trial is some task you have there. It reminds me of the labours of Hercules.’

  The man turned round, a puzzled frown on his face.

  ‘I don’t know him, master, this Hercules. But if he works for someone as hard a slave-driver as Master Thorpe, then he has my sympathy.’

  Falconer smiled.

  ‘He performed his tasks for a king. Looking at what you are doing, I was put in mind of the clearing of the Auger, stables.’

  ‘I have heard King Henry is a fair man, sir. Though I would not like to clear his stables myself. I am apprentice to a mason.’

  He spoke the last words proudly, and Falconer felt and foolish to have paraded his superior knowledge in face of a simple but honest man. He blushed, and returned to his sudden reason for speaking to him.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a question .. I am sorry, I do not know your name.’

  ‘John Trewoon, sir.’ He pronounced his surname in way of the Cornish Celt as Trewan. ‘That is spelled E-W-O-O-N.’

  Falconer saw he was proud of being able to spell, thanked him.

  ‘Well, John Trewoon, I wished to know if you have the rest of that skeleton we unearthed yesterday.’ John looked over his shoulder at where the foreman stood.

  But Wilfrid had his back to them, so he spoke up.

  ‘We are not supposed to find anything more, sir, or Thorpe will blow his top.’

  Falconer thought from what Trewoon was saying something had been found, and kept secret. Especially as big man was still casting furtive glances over his shoulder.

  ‘You can tell me the truth, John. I promise I won’t anyone.’

  Trewoon frowned, and then his face split into a wide smile.

  ‘Oh, no, sir, you misunderstand. We have knocked that wall down completely and found nothing.’

  Falconer was not sure if he had really been made a fool of, or not. He certainly felt confused, but believed the man.

  ‘And how is your friend this morning?’

  ‘Who, Peter Pawlyn?’ Trewoon grinned again. ‘His head hurts something awful.’

  Falconer thanked him, and left Trewoon to his Herculean task. Turning away, he soon spotted the wiry little man who had accused him of unspeakable acts with his students. Pawlyn was definitely suffering from his excesses of the night before.

  Falconer watched as he shovelled the heaps of rubble. He groaned, and screwed up his eyes against the morning light, dull though it was. Falconer grinned maliciously, and strode over to him. He slapped the man heartily on the back, extracting a yelp of pain, and spoke in the loudest and most jovial of tones.

  ‘Tell me, my good fellow, where I might find Master Thorpe.’

  Pawlyn clasped his head as if it might shatter and fall to the ground in pieces.

  ‘May it please you, sir, he is over there in his lodge.’ He squinted at Falconer through eyes that were a haze of red, and clearly didn’t recognize him. He pointed silently to where Richard Thorpe attended to his bills, and returned to his tentative shovelling. Falconer smiled, and only just refrained from slapping the unfortunate man on the back again.

  Pawlyn was so pale he looked as though he would collapse if he did. Instead the regent master made his way over to Thorpe’s workbench. He did have a purpose in seeking the master mason, for he intended to ask him a question that had come to him during the sleepless hours of the night.

  ‘Master Thorpe. I see you are hard at work despite the Weather.’

  Thorpe turned to see who had interrupted him, and for a moment appeared not to recall Falconer. His thoughts were no doubt deep in the mysteries of calculating the layout of the new building.

  ‘Ah, Master... Falconer.’ The name came to him at the last minute. ‘Yes, I can at least plan, and order my materials until the weather improves and we can begin in earnest. Is there anything I can assist you with?’

  ‘Actually, yes, there is. Have these houses long been in your employer’s possession? Did the widow’s husband own them before he died?’

  Thorpe looked down at the ground, considering his reply.

  He could see what the regent master was moving towards.

  ‘You want to know who owned the land when the houses were built? Who might have arranged for the body to be incarcerated in the walls?’

  ‘Well, the owner may have been entirely innocent of the murder, but yes, I would like to know who he was.’

  ‘Then I can tell you that neither the houses nor the land were the property of the Bassett family twenty years ago. Dame Elia bought them specifically for building the new edifice with which she plans to perpetuate the name of her husband.’

  ‘And do you know who she purchased them from?’ Again Thorpe scanned the ground at his feet as though the answer was written in the packed earth.

  ‘I think you should ask that of Dame Elia.’

  The mason then abruptly turned back to his workbench, and began scrutinizing the detailed calculations on the parchment before him. Falconer saw he was not going to get any further with the man, though why he should be so incommunicative, he didn’t know. It was clearly time to speak to Rabbi Jehozadok.

  Thomas Brassyngton, Prior of St Frideswide’s, was planning how he was going to benefit from the revelations provided by the little curate Simon the previous evening. If the church was to revive its funds by means of a child martyr like Little Si
r Hugh of Lincoln, the prior knew he would need the boy’s body. And with it, clear evidence of a Hebrew ritual murder. He was not going to miss his chance as had happened twenty years ago to his predecessor. On that occasion, the body had been hurriedly shown off in the church, only to have some interfering scholar ruin everything with his spurious erudition in matters Jewish. The old prior had railed against the evidence brought before him so publicly, but the damage had been done. Doubt had been sown, and the whole issue of martyrdom scorned in the streets of Oxford. Today he had a witness but no body, whereas then, they had a body but no witness to the ritual.

  In that year, Brother Thomas had been a fiery preacher of the impending End Times. He did not fully subscribe to the Augustinian rule that governed his order of the Austin Canons, in that he was not an inclusive sort of man, believing all were born equal. How could he, when he saw his own evident superiority in matters of the mind? He wriggled uncomfortably in his seat at the thought of the old prior’s failure, and resolved that it would not be his too. He had sent Simon away the night before with a warning not to say anything of his discoveries, in the sure knowledge that his proscription would ensure the very opposite. The rumours would quickly spread of the iniquity of the Jews, and the case would be confirmed in people’s minds before the need arose to display the body.

  It was only left for him to lay his hands on the child’s remains, and the momentum begun by the rabble would be inexorable.

  He smiled coldly to himself, and tidied the skirt of his black cassock, so the folds draped more elegantly over his lap. As he laid his plans, sharp thoughts of his early preaching days came into his mind.

  The day after Pentecost, May 1250

  Brother Thomas watched from a distance as his prior, John Ufford, fussed over the body of the child. It had been laid out in one of the side chapels of St Frideswide’s Church, and decorously covered with a white linen cloth, leaving only the boy’s face on view. There had been some debate amongst the canons as to whether the marks of his martyrdom should be displayed or not. Modesty had prevailed, and they had been Covered up. Thomas thought it just as well, as not only were the marks on the body unpleasant, but in life he had been a scruffy street urchin seething with lice. One of the lay brothers had at least washed his face, and its deathly stillness gave it an angelic appearance.

  Standing next to Prior John was a priest clad in a green robe with gloved hands that marked him out as a Templar.

  Thomas didn’t know his name, but was aware that his business in Oxford was gathering funds for the ransom of Louis, King of the Franks. The Holy War being waged in the Middle East, the seventh of its kind, was going badly. Louis had been captured at the Battle of Fariskur, and a million besants was requir’ed to effect his and his army’s return. Damietta was also to be ceded to the Muslims. The Templar priest was here principalty to screw money out of the Jews, who were effectively King Henry’s property. As long as he kept away from raiding the funds of St Frideswide’s, Brother Thomas didn’t care. Let the Jews scream and wail - no one would have any sympathy for them in the present circumstances. The dead boy bore witness to that. He watched as the Templar priest leaned across to his prior, and whispered something into his ear. Whatever it was, it pleased John Ufford, who smiled, and squeezed the green-clad arm of the other priest.

  Soon, townsfolk started assembling as the news of the outrage began to be spread. Reverently clutching their headgear in their hands, a handful of merchants with nothing better to do with their time shuffled down the aisle towards the side chapel. Thomas recognized them as aldermen of the town, who were wealthy enough to pay others to do their work.

  Even down to the employment of crook-backed Peter Bullock as their town constable. John Bodin and William Inges were at the head of the delegation, ensuring as usual that they were in a position to take credit for anything that happened in Oxford.

  Brother Thomas was inclined to remind them that they had not, however, been in the forefront of the cowed congregation when he had last delivered his oration on the impending end of the world. Maybe because that was something Masters Bodin and Inges did not want to claim as their responsibility.

  Nevertheless, their presence was now required at the hastily convened display of the church’s latest martyr. Brother Thomas suddenly realized he didn’t even know the name of the boy, and began to walk towards the prior to rectify the omission.

  His progress was abruptly halted, though, by an unprecedented occurrence.

  ‘What have we here, good prior?’

  The strong and confident voice resonated down the nave of the church, and everyone present turned to look at who had spoken out of turn. The reverent hush had been cleaved apart.

  The sombre canons in their black hooded cloaks and the pompous townsmen alike wanted to know who dared perpetrate such an outrage. Striding up the nave came a tall, well-built man, dressed in a shabby black robe covered in the dust of recent travelling. He strode straight up to the group of prelates next to the boy’s body.

  ‘Is this the poor child? Where was he found?’ Prior John was almost dumbfounded by the stranger’s presumption. Huffing and puffing, he finally spat out his words.

  ‘He was found in the ditch outside North Gate, next to Broken Hays.’ He named an area of dubious merit consisting of ramshackle houses and stinking piggeries. ‘Though what concern that is of yours, master...’

  ‘Falconer. William Falconer, newly appointed regent master of the University. And formerly of the University of Bologna.’ It was not usual for Falconer to boast of his achievements, but he knew time was of the essence, and he needed to assert his authority in the face of this gaggle of priests.

  ‘Well, Regent Master Falconer, I ask again, what concern is it of yours? This poor child has been murdered as part of some foul ritual perpetrated by the Jews, and they will be brought to book.’

  The murmured assent from the great and the good of the town fluttered upwards inside the dome of the church like a flight of frightened pigeons. The regent master was not intimidated. He snorted with derision, and yanked the lily-white covering off the boy’s body. The assembled canons gasped and stepped backwards as one. Even the prior was shocked by his actions, but Falconer noticed out of the corner of his eye that the Templar priest was not similarly taken aback. He stood his ground, a faint smile lifting the corner of his lips.

  He made the sign of the cross with his gloved hands. Falconer bent over the body.

  ‘And these are the marks that are supposed to be Hebrew letters, are they? They look more like marks made by a stout branch to me, applied to the poor child’s body with excessive force. Look how this curved mark is repeated as the switch was brought down time and again.’ He mimed the action to emphasize his words, bringing his arm up and down over the dead boy’s torso. ‘And look here where there are old bruises and scars under the scarification. This boy has been beaten more than once, probably by his brute of a father, only this time the beating was more than he could bear, and he died under it.’

  One of the townspeople stepped forward, an old man with a freckled; bald head and whiskery face.

  ‘It’s true. This is Matt Stokys’ boy. I have often heard the poor mite being beaten by his father.’

  Others joined in the general condemnation now.

  ‘What? Stokys, the town constable? I always knew he was a brute.’

  ‘And I have often seen his wife with a black eye too.’

  Falconer quietly breathed a sigh of relief. He had spoken confidently - more confidently than he had actually been. He had been uncertain of his deductions based on the pattern of scarification, but it seemed he had hit the mark. He just hoped the sheriff examined the accusation carefully before condemning this Stokys out of hand. He would not want to be the cause of an innocent person being accused. But at least he had succeeded in avoiding a bloodbath involving innocent Jews. As the townsfolk began hurrying out of the church, he too turned to leave. He was not unaware of the enmity in the eyes of
the old prior, and the hard look he got from one of the younger Austin canons who was standing a little apart from his fellows in the shadows of one of the soaring columns along the nave. He didn’t know Brother Thomas then, of course.

  And by the time the priest himself became Prior of St Frideswide’s, Falconer had long forgotten this first encounter.

  But Thomas Brassyngton never did.

  Eleven

  30 August, 1271

  Master Richard Bonham was excited by his new discoveries. He could now see the fascination that drove William Falconer to pursue the matter of unresolved murders.

  At his first acquaintance with him, he did not see why the simple hue and cry that followed the discovery of a body did not satisfy Falconer. Now he perceived the intellectual attraction of applying a logical approach to uncovering a murderer.

  He had moved from merely eviscerating fresh bodies to finding out how the body worked. Now he had applied the rigours of logic in order to tease out the evidence that lay locked within the remains from the building site that were all of twenty years old. Firstly, the skeleton had offered an insight into how the man died, if not the actual cause of death. Whether he had been decapitated pre- or post-mortem remained a mystery.

  But the marks on the bones of his hands and arm spoke eloquently of a mortal struggle.

  But Bonham had delved deeper than that. Substantial remnants of the man’s clothing had remained encased in the muck that had covered the lower part of the body. The part that had degenerated into white, slippery fat. The material he eventually exposed still retained its colouring, which was a significant find. Moreover a leather glove encased the left hand, which had remained under the rubble. The right hand had been exposed and all that was left of that was bones. But these other clues were enough to give Bonham reason to believe that he could at least identify the calling of the man when alive, if not his name. He was so pleased with himself that once he had finished his morning lectures, the attendance at which was satisfactory despite the weather, he rushed back to his house to set down on paper everything that he had deduced.