by Ian Morson
Bullock would have pursued him, but Falconer stood in his way, anger etched on his face.
‘What the devil is going on Peter? First you prevent me following up the murder of someone interred in the walls of that house. Then you pass off the killing of Wilfrid Southo as a trifle. And now you scare off my first real informant to either matter.’
‘That boy knows about something what happened twenty years ago?’
‘That boy is all of thirty years old. Though I will admit he sometimes does not behave like it. Such as fleeing from a precipitate act by a constable who has done nothing to ascertain the facts before leaping at him.’
Bullock was about to protest at Falconer’s unfair accusation, and point out that the master had impeded an officer of the law in carrying out his duty, but he was interrupted.
‘What is going on, Bullock? Why was that Jew running away?’
Bullock had forgotten about Thomas Brassyngton, and his pale familiar, Simon. But now the prior was not about to let that oversight continue. Brassyngton, overweight and overdressed in more sumptuous garb than was seemly for a priest, came striding along the lane, his face red from exertion. Simon scuttled at his heels like some faithful cur.
Bullock made to speak, but the prior had not finished his remonstrations.
‘Did you flush him out of the house? Was he responsible for the foul and ritualistic evil that has been perpetrated here?’ Falconer stepped between the two men, a frown on his face.
‘Peter, what is he talking about?’
Bullock had the grace to look embarrassed, even though he was prepared to believe what Simon had said. He knew Falconer’s weakness when it came to the Jews who lived in Oxford. But like most Englishmen, he himself could not be persuaded that they were innocent of all the evil levelled against
them. He tried to find a way of expressing his reservations, but Brassyngton beat him to it.
‘We know what happened here. This priest...’ He pointed at Simon as though his word could not be doubted. ‘This priest saw the slaughter of an innocent. And nothing you can say this time will change that.’
This time.
Falconer realized that Brassyngton was referring to the incident twenty years ago, when he had foiled the plot to claim another martyr for Oxford. This time the prior was determined that Falconer would not prevent the lucrative creation of a pilgrimage site in St Frideswide’s Church. A site where the body of a child martyr could be venerated even at the expense of the Jewish community living in the town. Falconer turned to Bullock, appealing for common sense to prevail.
But once again, the constable seemed unable to agree.
‘There is a lot of blood in the house, William. At the very least someone must give account for what has happened here. And young Deudone running away does not bode well for the Jews.’
‘What of Covele, the man who was living here? Can you not find him, and extract the truth from him?’
Even as he spoke, Falconer realized his case was weakening. And Brassyngton saw his opening.
‘Who is going to believe him? A Jew who probably was responsible for carrying out the atrocity will not tell us the truth. He will wheedle and lie like the all the rest of his kind.’ Falconer felt his anger rising at the false accusations being levelled at the Jews of Oxford. But there was little he could do, unless he could uncover what really took place on these premises. And for that he needed either Deudone, or Covele, both of whom had now disappeared. He was further away than ever from solving the mystery of the Templar priest’s death, but he knew the present situation was more pressing.
He came to a decision and, ignoring the two priests, addressed his thoughts to Bullock.
‘Very well. I will prove to you that nothing untoward happened here. And I will expect nothing more to be made of the mystery unless you can produce a body.’ He now turned to Brassyngton, noticing his upper lip was covered in beads of sweat, he did not know whether from his recent physical exertions or from fear that his plot was once again going to be stymied. Whatever the reason, Falconer decided he needed to turn the screw another notch. ‘And it had better be a body that is more convincing than poor Jed Stokys’s, covered in marks" applied by his own father.’
Brassyngton blanched, and turned on his heels. He pushed aside the cowering Simon, and stalked off towards the sanctuary of St Frideswide’s. A grin split Peter Bullock’s face for the first time in days.
‘He can see his alms reducing by the day, William. I hope you can do what you said, for I would not want to try to deal with what happened in Lincoln.’
‘No, indeed, Peter.’
Both men glumly pondered on the events some fifteen years earlier surrounding the supposed martyrdom of an eight-year old boy called Hugh. Eighteen Jews had been taken and summarily hanged from the town gibbet. More than eighty had been incarcerated in the Tower under threat of suffering the same fate. They had only escaped death due to the intervention of the Minor brethren. If something similar was to occur in Oxford, the turmoil would be horrendous. Their silence was broken first by Falconer.
‘I was looking for this Covele character because Deudone said he knew something about what happened with our Templar priest twenty years ago.’
He waited a moment to see if Bullock would protest again about his investigation of the incident resulting in the man being immured in the house in Little Jewry. But though Bullock’s face darkened, he kept silent, and Falconer pressed on.
‘Perhaps if I can find him we can kill two birds with one stone. If only you hadn’t scared off Deudone, my task would have been easier.’
Bullock merely grunted, aware that at some point he would have to confide in Falconer. But that time was not now. He would have to speak to the Templar knight first.
‘Do what you must, William.’
He was about to say more, but at that moment one of his watchmen ran towards him waving his arms. Roger was an old man, and always short of breath at the best of times.
Running was not good for him. He stood before Bullock gulping in air, and pointing back towards Carfax. Each time he tried to speak, however, he failed and had to gulp another mouthful of air. Finally, he managed to utter a few words.
‘A fire. In Sumnor’s Lane.’
Falconer had a terrible premonition. That was where Master Bonham lived. He lifted the skirts of his heavy black robe, and ran pell-mell towards North Gate. He reached the lane well before Peter Bullock, who was hampered by his bowed back and bandy legs. Outside the south wall of St Michael’s Church, another elderly watchman hovered nervously in front of Bonham’s house. Falconer could see smoke already seeping under the door, and drifting down the lane. It was an irony that the persistent rain had ceased at last. Nothing would prevent the fire taking hold.
‘What are you doing?’ Falconer berated the indecision of the watchman. ‘Quick. Rouse the neighbours and get them to dampen their own thatch or it will take the whole street.’ He leaned a hand experimentally against the door, only to pull it away again quickly. The studs felt hot to his touch, and he knew the fire was well under way behind it. As if to confirm his fears, he heard the crackle of tinder-dry laths and beams.
He beat on the door, jiggling the latch, and calling out.
‘Master Richard, get up. Your house is on fire.’ A man poked his head out of the window of a neighbouring building, and William called out, ‘Fetch water. Master Bonham’s house is on fire.’
The man’s head disappeared, and then moments later he shot out of his door, two empty buckets already in his hands.
‘There is a pump at the end of the lane. Rouse the others.
Quickly.’
He began pounding on the unyielding door, rueing the fact that all the shutters had been securely closed by the fearful Bonham. He felt helpless.
Behind his firmly barred door, Master Richard Bonham slumped to the floor as the heat and smoke overwhelmed him.
He coughed, and his pain-wracked body spasmed. He prayed that the fire would consume him an
d the contents of his house before Falconer broke in.
Sixteen
Feast of St Giles, September 1271
When a whole night had passed by without a sign of Deudone, Hannah began to worry. Though she was betrothed to him, she had at first felt no great concern. They had known each other since childhood, and the arrangement of their betrothal had been agreed to by Hannah out of duty.
Her father, Samson the apothecary, had been widowed early, and had a fatherly attitude to his only child untempered by a woman’s viewpoint. To see Hannah grow into womanhood without seeking a husband for her was unthinkable. In the small Jewish community of Oxford, suitable partners were few and far between, but Samson could not bear the thought of his daughter leaving the town for marriage. Deudone was the next best thing to a love match. Hannah had agreed, but had been in no hurry to finalize the arrangements. The suspicious circumstances of Deudone’s disappearance caused her to re-examine her motives.
Without a mother to confide in, Hannah had sought other female company. Fortunately, the rabbi had asked her to help the visitor from Canterbury maintain her household and keep her company. Saphira Le Veske’s was a perfect ear to bend, especially as she was a stranger, who would leave Oxford eventually without gossiping about Hannah’s private business.
Hannah’s chance came that very next morning, when she called in at Abraham’s house to see if Saphira was well stocked with provisions. For once, the older woman seemed stiff and remote, as if something was troubling her. Her reply was cooler than normal.
‘Yes, thank you, Hannah. I still have some business to transact, but I don’t imagine I will be staying much longer. The larder is sufficiently stocked to meet my needs until then.’
Hannah sat in Saphira’s bed chamber, watching as the older woman combed out her thick auburn hair. She envied Saphira the colour of her locks. Her own hair was dark brown, almost black, and just as luxuriant, but the unusual copper colour of Saphira’s was startling. Hannah imagined it would turn the eye of most men, and wondered if it had done so with William Falconer. When Saphira had first called on Jehozadok, Hannah had been present and overheard Saphira mentioning the regent master. It had seemed then that Saphira had come to Oxford specially to see William again. But apart from the night of the terrible riot, Hannah was unaware that any meeting had taken place. Perhaps William, who, rumour had it, was enamoured of a married woman, had resisted temptation. That might explain why Hannah thought Saphira sounded a little wistful when she announced her intention to leave Oxford.
She watched as the widow tucked her lovely hair into the snood that modesty dictated she should wear in public.
‘Saphira. Did you love your husband?’
Her hair neatly stowed away, Saphira turned towards the younger girl, a smile on her lips. She paused, considering her reply carefully.
‘I certainly gave him the love he was entitled to as my husband.’
Hannah frowned in frustration.
‘Then you didn’t love him.’
‘Love? We had jongleurs in Bordeaux who sang of love...’ Saphira sang a few lines of one she recalled. ‘She dreamed a dream of her love Gregory, a little before the day...’ Her voice had rich tones, and sweetness. But she stopped abruptly, and looked hard at Hannah. ‘Usually, such romances end badly with the death of all concerned. Take my advice, Hannah, and seek a good husband and be a dutiful wife.’
Hannah’s shoulders slumped. She had imagined Saphira to be a woman who did exactly as she wished, not caring to be browbeaten by a husband. She looked up into the woman’s startling eyes.
‘Then I am to hope that Deudone is found, so that I may marry him.’
Solemnly, Saphira nodded her head, but then could sustain it no longer. Her face creased up in a broad grin, and peals of laughter broke free.
‘Of course, that shouldn’t prevent you having a lover or two.’
Hannah was shocked, but then she too could not restrain her laughter. She laughed until tears were streaming down her face."
A sudden-downpour had extinguished the fire that gutted Master Bonham’s house. Now the charred timbers of the roof stood like gaunt ribs against the grey sky. One of the remaining walls gave a juddering groan as a crack split the hot stones asunder. A few solitary ashes fell like dirty snow from the heavens, and there was nothing left for the crowd that had hastily assembled to contain the fire, and save the neighbouring houses, to do but disperse. The master would not have survived the inferno, and the interior had at first been too hot to make any sort of search for the body. Or bodies, thought Falconer.
For there would be some explaining to do about not only the skeleton of the man dug out of the wall in Little Jewry Lane, but also the body of the girl from Sir Gilbert de Bois’s manor house. He reckoned he would have to be honest with Peter Bullock about the second matter, should the constable wish to sift through the ruins himself. Fortunately, Bullock had gone to deal with other matters, and Falconer was left with the puzzle of what caused the fire. And whether Bonham had been murdered like the apprentice mason Wilfrid to keep something secret.
As a fine drizzle dampened the pile of charred timbers that had fallen inside the house, Falconer decided it was time to sift through them. And to look for the girl who was supposed to have been buried already, but whose remains were still somewhere under the rubble. Along with the skeleton of the unnamed Templar. Falconer waited to see if Bullock was going to return, but he did not put in an appearance, and he was aware of curious eyes peering out from the neighbouring buildings. Human nature was such that most people were keen to see the remains of someone who had been more unfortunate than they. It affirmed their own tenuous hold on life. Falconer decided he could wait no longer, and pushed at the heavy street door. He felt the reluctance of the hinges, and was not sure if the heat of the fire had caused the problem, or if there was something behind the door. He leaned his shoulder against it and pushed harder. The door scraped across the debris littering the floor making an arc in the ash and blackened mess. Squeezing through the narrow gap, Falconer peered round.
What remained of Master Richard Bonham had been the impediment, his body a blackened skeleton tightly wrapped in a cindery shell. Falconer winced at the sight, but was puzzled by it. If Bonham had been trying to escape the fire, why was this shell of a body apparently seated with its back against the door?
Carefully stepping over the corpse, Falconer made his way through the ash and lumps of charred timber. The ground floor did not seem to have fallen in, so the contents of the cellar might still be intact. He hoped so - the servant girl and her unbom child deserved a decent burial, even if she was a self-murderer. And he wanted another look at the skeletal remains of the Templar priest to see if he could glean any other clues to the mystery of his death. He had to pull a large baulk of timber from across the cellar door, but once he had done that, he was able to descend the steep flight of steps to Bonham’s lair.
The cellar was pitch black, and the air stank of wet ash.
Fumbling around, Falconer found the set of candle holders that Bonham used to light his work on the great oak table, and next to them he found the tinder box. He stood in the dark striking a spark into the box, hitting the flint several times before he managed to create a red glow. The irony of struggling to make a flame in a house that had been destroyed by fire so recently did not elude him. He blew on the glowing embers until they became a small flame and proceeded to light the candles. Bathed in light, the cellar revealed that Bonham had once again placed Sarah on the table. Her body was covered in a stained cloth so that only her head and shoulders were on display, but it was obvious that under the covering she was naked. Falconer tumed away in embarrassment. It was one thing to peer into her entrails as he had done earlier - that was like looking at an anatomical drawing. It was another thing to see her whole and unclothed. Looking around, he saw that the Templar had been relegated to a dark comer. And his dismembered parts were still in the bucket from the building site. He bent dow
n and sifted through the small bones, looking for the ring that he knew should be there. He could not find it, and wondered where Bonham could have put it. It might have been a final confirmation of the identity of the man.
‘Who the hell is this?’
Peter Bullock’s voice startled Falconer, and he tipped the bucket over, scattering bones across the beaten earth floor.
‘Peter I didn’t hear you coming.’
‘No, you were preoccupied with that bucket of old bones.’
‘Well, someone has to be, Peter. Now that Master Bonham is dead, I appear to be the only one who cares what happened to him.’
Bullock’s face darkened at the clear criticism of his behaviour. But he would not be diverted from his enquiries.
‘I have to ask once again. Who is this girl laid out on the table?’
Falconer pulled a face as he picked up finger bones, and told his friend the truth. What did it matter any more, now that Bonham was dead? Bullock listened with a stony face.
‘You should not have been involved in this, William. It is an illegal, if not a blasphemous act. Only victims of murder may be examined for reasons of pursuing justice, and dissection should only be practised on the bodies of criminals. This girl should not have been cut open. Unless ... did the jury of the eyre decide she was not in her right mind?’ Bullock was raising the matter of the decision of the local court because if the girl had taken her own life while sane, she could not be buried in consecrated ground. Falconer shook his head, knowing from what Bonham had told him that her lord, Gilbert de Bois, had dealt with the matter with great despatch. And the jury he had arranged to be called had agreed she had been in her right mind. It had been felonious self-murder. The girl was not to be allowed a Christian burial, and Bonham could legally lay his hands on her, as she was a criminal.
Bullock sighed.
‘Then I will arrange her burial. And as the perpetrator of this outrage is dead himself, there seems no reason to pursue the matter further. As for Master Bonham’s death, we can only guess that it was an unfortunate accident.’
