by Ian Morson
The cloak he wore was pulled back over his shoulders, and Deudone could discern a red Christian cross positioned over his left breast. The man was waving his hands at the other two, and Deudone could see they were gloved, even though the weather was warm. A big gold ring glinted on his left hand.
‘See that you come up with the money, and soon. I will be back to collect it, and don’t want to waste my time in Oxford. Now off with you, I have other business here.’ Deudone huddled down in the wood pile, his back to Jed Stokys. He couldn’t look at the other boy while his own face was flushed red with embarrassment over the way his fellows had been dismissed by the supercilious priest. But he had already resolved to have his revenge on behalf of his fellow Jews. As he sat simmering, the afternoon was turning into evening, and Jed nudged his back.
‘I have to go home soon, or my father will be angry.’ Deudone grudgingly agreed, and the boys crawled out of their hiding place. The idea of climbing the scaffolding didn’t seem so exciting any more. Besides, the priest was still hovering around. Deudone could see him talking with one of the workmen from the building site at the end of the lane.
The workman had a felt hat pulled down over his curly hair, no doubt, to keep it free of dust from the site, so his face was obscured, and the brim masked his eyes. From the agitated way the priest was waving his arms once again, Deudone guessed that he was not pleased with the workman any more than he had been with Hayim and Aaron. Jed Stokys grabbed his arm, and began to pull him away.
‘Come on, Deudone. We should go before we are seen.’
‘Before you are seen, you mean,’ hissed Deudone angrily.
Jed blushed and turned away. Deudone saw an opportunity to get his revenge on the priest, and Jed’s timidity wasn’t going to stop him. He picked up some fist-sized stones from the pile next to him, and crept towards the two men, ignoring Jed’s plaintive whispers to come away. Soon he reckoned he was within range, and he took aim. As he pulled his arm back, he was aware of someone else watching the altercation between the priest and the workman. Standing nonchalantly under the wooden scaffolding that enveloped the partially built houses, was a swarthy, bearded man in ragged clothes. His long sidelocks identified him as a Jew, though he did not wear the yellow tablets on his breast that he should. Deudone did not recognize him as anyone who lived in Oxford, but dropped his arm nevertheless. He expected to be chided for his childish impulse by the adult stranger. But the man pierced him with a sharp stare, and then slowly winked. Deudone grinned, knowing he was being encouraged to act. The stone flew with unerring accuracy. The sickening crack as it hit the priest on the back of his head made Deudone flinch. What had he done? The priest’s cap flew off, and he pitched forwards into the arms of the workman, crumpled there like a dead weight.
Deudone turned to look at the stranger, but he had disappeared.
The boy fled without a backward glance, and Jed scurried after him. Though he had not seen the effect of Deudone’s missile, the Jew’s pale face was enough to scare the Christian boy to death. It was very unfortunate that both boys ran straight into the arms of Matt Stokys when they emerged on to the High Street.
‘What the hell are you doing with this little Jew boy, Jed’! Come here right now.’
31 August, 1271
Deudone could still remember how ashen-faced Jed had gone that day as Matt Stokys led him away. The boy’s father had grabbed Jed’s arm in a pincer-like grip, and dragged him off down the thoroughfare. Jed looked back at Deudone even as his father rained blow after blow on his tender back with the hefty stick he always carried. The boy shot him a look of pleading and horror, mixed with regret. The next time Deudone had seen Jed’s face, the features were still and placid, his eyes sightless, as he lay dead on the side altar in St Frideswide’s Church.
Deudone had grown into a man, but Jed Stokys had never had that chance. He hadn’t even had the chance to become a martyr, when that traveller uncovered the truth about his death.
Deudone now knew the man as William Falconer, and somehow resented his uncovering the fact that Jed had been thrashed to death by his father. A thrashing that Deudone had long felt guilty of causing. Now, with the discovery of the body in the wall, it seemed he might have been guilty more directly of another death. That was why he was once again trying to find Covele. The renegade rabbi was the stranger who had encouraged his action all those years ago. He had turned up every now and then in Oxford since that terrible day, a man reviled by his own kind. The boy had been puzzled by the cold looks that the more respectable Jews of Oxford gave Covele. Being a community virtually shunned by the Christians surrounding them meant other Jews, even strangers, were taken in and protected. But not Covele.
Once Deudone grew older, Jehozadok had finally told the young man why Covele was unwelcome. It seemed he not only practised forbidden rituals that other Jews had avoided since the fall of the Temple, but he did so in a way that aroused the suspicions of Christians. Far from turning him away from Covele, this revelation intrigued Deudone. With a burden still on his conscience, that he reckoned he shared with the renegade, he finally approached Covele. Thus it was that he partook of the ritual the other night. During the ceremony he feared to come fight out and ask the rabbi if the stone he had thrown had killed the priest outright, and Covele hurried away afterwards, not allowing Deudone an opportunity to talk. Now he was resolved that he would get Covele to tell him what might have transpired after he had fled. But he could not be found.
And Deudone could only think of one other man who might be able to help him.
When Falconer woke up it was late afternoon, and a weak and watery sun was shining in through the solar’s windows.
It was the beam of unaccustomed sunlight angled into his eyes that had woken him. Above his bed, the owl had wisely swivelled his head away from the sun’s rays and was sleeping.
The light shimmered redly on his ghostly white feathers.
Falconer was reminded of the trail of blood and death that lay across Oxford. Then he thought of the strange turn of events with Saphira.
For years his slow and careful affair with Ann Segrim had been pleasing and unsatisfying by degrees. It had not led to a physical consummation, but at the time that seemed fight to Falconer. Then Saphira Le Veske had intruded into his life.
Where Ann was fair-skinned and coolly controlled in all she did, Saphira was dark and as elemental as a lightning storm.
He and she had been drunk last night, but he doubted that the outcome would have been different if they had been sober.
Somehow, from when he first met Saphira, shinning down a drainpipe, he had envisaged the inevitable conclusion of their liaison. So, it seemed, had she. He just didn’t know how to deal with it now. Especially as he had ruined everything apparently imagining there might be some truth in the slander of ritual murder of children. How could he have been so crass? He rose from his bed, and tried to press the creases out of his grubby black robe, to little effect. Thoughts of Bonham’s odd behaviour next washed over him. The little grey man had been afraid to open his door. Did that mean he really feared that someone wished him dead? Or had Falconer misunderstood? He stepped across to the oaken table that dominated the centre of his private room, and touched the dirty bundle that he had picked up from Bonham’s doorstep. Suddenly he was aware of angry cries coming from the stairwell, the voices of young men in conflict. Flinging his door open, he peered down the stairs.
‘Stop this caterwauling immediately. What on earth is going on?’
Tom Youlden’s head poked around the wooden newel post at the foot of the staircase.
‘I am sorry to have disturbed you, master. It is nothing we cannot handle.’
Another voice piped up.
‘Handle? I’d like to see you try and handle me, you puny ... clerk.’
The other voice, high-pitched in its irritation, was one Falconer recognized immediately. It was the angry tones of Deudone, fully thirty years but still a hothead, who could not contr
ol his temper.
‘Thomas Youlden, why are you preventing Deudone from seeing me?’
The student’s face appeared once more at the foot of the stairs, a little redder than before.
‘But, master, you were exhausted, and the Jew has no right to be on these premises.’
‘I may decide that you have no right to be here if you continue to harbour such prejudices, boy. Now show the gentleman up, and fetch us both a jug of wine from the tavern on the comer. Here.’ He tossed a coin down to the youth, who caught it deftly. ‘And think yourself lucky I haven’t made you pay for it yourself.’
‘Yes, Master Falconer.’
Youlden’s blushing face disappeared once more, and in its place appeared a dishevelled Deudone. He looked up hesitantly, unsure of himself, so Falconer beckoned to him to proceed.
‘Come, Deudone, and tell me what it is that bothers you.’ Deudone trudged up the creaking staircase, as if reluctant to take each step. Falconer could tell from the laughter and jibes at the bottom that Tom Youlden was being mocked for his error by those who no doubt had been assisting him. When Deudone reached the top of the stairs, Falconer put his arm round the shoulders of the young man, and guided him into the cluttered solar. Bonham’s bundle was for the moment forgotten.
Fifteen
Thomas Brassyngton was angry with the priest Simon. He had arranged for a riot to take place, sparked off by the rumour of ritual child-murder in the house behind St Aldate’s Church. And now, Simon couldn’t come up with the body.
They were standing outside the shabby, rundown house at the end of Pennyfarthing Street with the constable of Oxford. As the Prior of St Frideswide’s, Brassyngton had some considerable standing in the town. Now it looked as though he was going to be embarrassed all because of an idiot priest who couldn’t even read.
‘When you came to me, you were certain that someone had been slaughtered here.’
Simon was overawed by the presence of the two powerful men. He stammered his reply.
‘S-sir, I am sure of what I s-saw. I saw a body being dragged into the house from the rear yard. I heard the child squeal. I know what I saw and heard.’
Bullock grunted sceptically, and rattled the firmly barred street door.
‘We can put an end to this, if only we can get in.’ He stood back, but though the building looked ramshackle, the ground-floor window was firmly shuttered. On the upper level the windows were small and set under the eaves. They had no shutters but looked firmly latched. Besides, there was no way to climb up to them even if they could be forced open.
He had an idea, though.
‘Show me where you saw this murderous attack. Over the rear wall, you said.’
The scrawny priest nodded and took them round to the entrance to the church. Once inside and down the aisle, he led Brassyngton and Bullock into a rear chamber and on through to a small back yard. A stone wall just over head height defined the boundary of the church’s land. Simon pointed nervously at it.
‘It’s there I heard the sound of a child screaming, and calling out for help. I had to look over, and see if there was anything I could do.’
Bullock took note of the fact that Simon’s story grew more certain and more detailed at each retelling. His scepticism was growing, but nevertheless he needed to check out the story.
Particularly with as important a man as Thomas Brassyngton breathing down his neck.
‘Hmmm. Let’s see.’
He pulled a small cask over to the wall, and set it on its end. He clambered awkwardly on it, holding firmly on to the top of the wall. Looking over, he could see a straw-strewn back yard whose hard earth surface had been churned by some animal in the past. There was a distinct smell of urine. What concerned him more was the sight of long gouges in the earth running towards the back door of the house, and a distinct dark patch between them that looked suspicious. He groaned, realizing he would have to get over the wall to investigate further. He was too old for this sort of game, but he couldn’t see either cleric climbing over.
‘Here, hold this.’
He unbuckled his sword and passed it to Simon, who took it in a shaky pair of hands.
‘Don’t drop it,’ admonished Bullock, and he pulled himself up with his powerful arms. Swinging one of his legs on to the top of the wall, he managed to scramble over and drop down the other side. It was an ungainly and painful descent on to his arse, but at least he hadn’t broken any bones. He picked himself up, nursing an ache at the base of his spine, and brushed at the sticky mud smeared on his woollen breeches as best he could. The strong farmyard smell now clung to his clothes. Crossing the yard tentatively, he examined the gouges.
Could they have been caused by dragging a child across the soft, rain-soaked earth?
Bending down to look at the dark patch between them, he suddenly thought of William Falconer, and how he would have approached analysing the clues before his eyes. He felt an ache in his chest caused by his regret for the way he had treated his friend recently. Involuntarily, he thought of the man who had usurped his loyalty, regretting his decision, and looked up at the next house. He was not sure, but he thought he had seen someone in one of the upper windows. A fleeting shadow, which, disappeared even as he looked. Turning away in embarrassment he looked once again at the mark in the earth. It had rained a lot recently, but he was quite sure the stain was blood.
Cautiously, he pushed at the back door. It creaked eerily as it gave under the pressure of his hand. He stepped into the darkness of the house.
‘Hello? Is there anyone at home? I am the constable of Oxford. If you are there, show yourself now.’
Bullock’s hand dropped to his side for the reassuring feel of his sword. Then he remembered he had passed it to the skinny priest. He peered into the gloom, aware of a lingering smell of burnt flesh. He thought of the fires of Hell, and prayed fervently that no demon was about to leap out on him. With the window firmly closed, it was difficult to examine the back room, so he held the creaky door open. The shaft of weak evening sunlight lying across the stone flags revealed what might have been a smear of blood, though equally it might have been just mud. He stepped away from the door, and it swung closed behind him. He called out once again.
‘If there’s anyone there, show yourself, or it will go badly with you later.’
His voice was deadened by an oppressive miasma that hung over the room. Was it stale smoke, or the foetid breath of a demon? He was not sure, but he thought he heard a noise above his head. He strove to listen hard, but it may have just been old beams shifting in the damp air. He heard nothing more. Cautiously, he crossed the floor of the back room feeling his way with his hands in front of his body. Damp rushes squelched under his feet. He found the inner door and pushed through it. It led into a narrow passage that was even darker than the back room. Once again feeling his way forward, he came abruptly to a large door set with iron studs. If this was the front door, he reckoned he could unbolt it and let some light in. Running his fingers round the edge, he eventually came to a heavy, rusted bolt that nevertheless he was able to pull back with ease. It suggested that someone had used it recently. That the house had been occupied. The door swung open surprisingly easily on oiled hinges. Suddenly, he was stating out into the darkening lane, and could barely make out the two black shapes looming in the doorway. Fearing a demon, and wishing for his sword, he raised his fist in a futile defence.
‘Whoa, Peter! It’s me, William.’
Squinting out into the gloom, Bullock realized that the taller figure was indeed William Falconer. By his side stood a nervous-looking young Jew whose name he couldn’t quite recall. His friend’s sudden appearance was so surprising, however, he still couldn’t quite dismiss the thought that it was some demon sent to torment him.
‘Falconer? Is that really you?’
‘Of course it is. Who else could it be? Don’t tell me there is some unfortunate who resembles me so closely that my old friend Peter Bullock can’t tell us apart?’
The teasing tones reassured Bullock that this was truly his friend, and not some hellish beast. What had Falconer called that monster from Jewish lore that he reckoned to have encountered in Bermondsey Abbey? Oh yes, some golem made of clay with inhuman life breathed into it. He muttered some curse to hide his confusion, and then fixed Falconer with a newly suspicious gaze.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
Falconer gestured to the young man at his side.
‘Deudone here told me a tale of a man who was using these premises for, shall we say, purposes of his own. Someone who might have enlightened us on the causes of the riot of yesterday.’
Bullock’s face darkened, picturing the marks in the yard, and the stain on the floor in the back room. Reminded of Deudone’s name, he brought to mind the many times the young man had been a troublemaker, and a thorn in his side.
If he was involved with this unnamed fellow, perhaps there was substance in Simon’s claim, after all.
‘And who is this man you are here to find? I think I would also like to speak to him.’
‘He is called Covele, Peter. Why do you ask?’ Covele. A Jew, then. And someone who no doubt could have perpetrated some ritual horror in this house. Bullock could sense Deudone becoming more and more agitated as Falconer spoke. He seemed to be reading what was going through Bullock’s mind, and guilt was written all over his face. There was also a tension in his stance that worried the constable. Deudone was ready for flight. Bullock made a grab at Deudone’s arm, but the young man was too swift for him.
With a cry, he spun around and raced off towards Jewry.
