by Ian Morson
Further Titles by Ian Morson
The Falconer Mysteries
FALCONER’S CRUSADE
FALCONER’S JUDGEMENT
FALCONER AND THE FACE OF GOD
A PSALM FOR FALCONER
FALCONER AND THE GREAT BEAST
FALCONER AND THE RITUAL OF DEATH*
FALCONER’S TRIAL*
The Medieval Murderers
THE TAINTED RELIC
SWORD OF SHAME
HOUSE OF SHADOWS
The Niccolo Zuliani Mysteries
CITY OF THE DEAD*
* available from Severn House
FALCONER’S TRIAL
Ian Morson
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published 2009
in Great Britain and 2010 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2009 by Ian Morson.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Morson, Ian.
Falconer’s Trial.
1. University of Oxford – Fiction. 2. Falconer, William
(Fictitious character) – Fiction. 3. Great Britain –
History – Henry III, 1216–1272 – Fiction. 4. Detective and
mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9′14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-184-2 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6826-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-196-6 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Dedicated to my wife, Lynda, without whom none of this would have been possible.
PROLOGUE
Old Sekston woke from his slumbers, uncertain of the sound that had roused him. He looked cautiously round the mistress’s physick garden to make sure he had not been spotted, but could see no one. The weather had been too good to sit indoors cleaning Sir Humphrey’s silver, so he had sneaked off from his duties to sit in the sun close beside the apple trees that hid him from the house. He resented the demeaning tasks they had found for him since he had been removed from his previous responsibilities. And he hated his master’s wife for being the instrument of his downfall.
Mistress Ann Segrim’s fate had once been entirely in his hands, for he had been tasked by her husband to keep an eye on her every move. He had been particularly warned about a master in Oxford, who sniffed around the mistress whenever she went to town to shop. Sir Humphrey suspected the master of breaking his vows of celibacy with his wife. Sekston had taken great pleasure in never allowing that to happen when he was present. But the mistress had at last had her revenge. She had finally convinced the master that he, Sekston, was too old to look after her when she went out and about. Sir Humphrey had had him replaced. Having for so long enjoyed the freedom of following her from place to place, he felt betrayed. Now he was confined to the estate at Botley polishing silver and chivvying lazy serving maids.
He eased back against the knobbly trunk of the old apple tree and sighed, half forgetting the noise that had roused him. He closed his eyes and revelled in the sun warming his wrinkled old features. Then he heard the noise again. He started up and cupped a hand to his ear. It had sounded like a low moan but he was not certain whether it was a human or animal sound. Then he heard it once more. Definitely human, and coming from just outside of the walled garden that was Ann Segrim’s pride and joy. Fearfully, he pushed himself up on all fours, and levered his creaky limbs so he was finally standing. He tiptoed towards the door in the south side of the wall. When he got there, he pressed his ear against the weather-beaten wood. He was sure he could now hear some muttering. It sounded like a prayer. Carefully, he inched the door open.
On the path outside that led back to the manor house, he could see a man kneeling down with his back to him. A tall man dressed in a shabby black robe. He looked vaguely familiar to Sekston, but his eyes were not so good and he couldn’t make him out properly. There was also a shape at the man’s feet that looked like a bundle of clothes. He began to creep towards the man, who seemed engrossed in his prayers. If that’s what the muttering was. As he got closer, Sekston realized the bundle of clothes looked quite like the dress that he had seen his mistress wearing that morning. A fine blue robe that had looked well with her pale-yellow braided hair. In fact, he could now make out her long braid lying across the path. A small broken pot lay close by with some nasty-looking fluid dribbling out of the shattered base. What had happened? Had Mistress Ann been carrying the pot and fallen? Then he saw the bloody flux that pooled around her mouth and head. He let out a sudden groan and the man turned abruptly round.
At that same instant, Sekston saw the bloody stains all over the man’s hands. And he knew why the figure had been familiar. It was the man Sir Humphrey had warned him about, the Regent Master of the University of Oxford. William Falconer.
Thomas Symon was seriously contemplating his future. Now that he had passed all the required examinations at the university, he had to decide how he was to earn his keep. Henry Ely, the parish priest of his local village who had supported him at Oxford, would want to be relieved of his burden. After seven years, it was time for Thomas to repay his debt. But he desperately did not wish to return to his family’s village. His eyes had been opened to the full panoply of knowledge that the university offered. He could not go back to settling petty disputes between neighbours and teaching illiterate children their catechism. But what else could he do? He sighed and stared out of the narrow window that looked out on to St John’s Street. The view, like his future, seemed dark and restricted. Then the main door of the hall swung open with a jarring crash. Startled, Thomas stood up and turned to see who had so abruptly broken into his thoughts. The crooked figure of Peter Bullock, the town constable, stood framed in the doorway.
‘Peter? What on earth has happened?’
Bullock stepped into the hall, his hand clutched tight on the hilt of his old sword that hung at his waist. Thomas could not recall ever seeing the constable without this weapon by his side. It was his badge of office and, though the metal was rusty and the edge blunt, it served Peter well. Many a fight had been broken up by the judicious application of the flat of the blade on a drunken head. Bullock was clearly in a hurry and his answer came between pauses to catch his breath.
‘Master Thomas, you must come. It’s William.’
Thomas Symon felt a cold chill run down his back. William Falconer was his mentor and friend. What could be wrong?
‘Is he hurt?’
Bullock’s rheumy old eyes closed and he shook his head, not believing what he was about to say. When he spoke it was in short gasps as though he was forcing the truth out from between his lips.
‘No, he is not hurt. It is far worse. He is taken. For murder.’
Thomas followed the constable to Bocardo, the jail set in the thick town walls beside North Gate. The hea
vy oak door had an iron grill set in it and anyone could look inside to see whoever was interred within, the intention being to show everyone who passed what the fate of a malefactor was like. The cell was bare of any comfort, even decent straw for the floor. Thomas now peered through the grill. He saw Falconer sitting on the slimy floor, hunched up against the cold and damp of the cell. Bereft of any expression, his eyes stared dully into space. Thomas had never seen them so empty before. Falconer’s gaze was usually so piercing, often with a hint of mischief in the eyes. Thomas recalled how he had looked at his Inception when Falconer had played that trick on Ralph Cornish. Now his eyes were voids, as if his soul had been taken and his body was only waiting for death.
‘He has been like this since he was brought here.’ Bullock’s voice was low, as if in the presence of the dead. ‘He will not talk to me. And he apparently offered no resistance to the labourers who were called by Sekston to help take him.’
Thomas frowned, puzzled by the reference to the old retainer from Sir Humphrey Segrim’s estate in Botley.
‘Sekston? What had he to do with this?’
‘It was he who found William. And the body. He called for help, fearful for his own safety. But as I said, William waited patiently until the field labourers who responded to Sekston’s call came and bound his wrists. They brought him here without any trouble. He didn’t even object when my watchman locked him away and went off to fetch me.’
The constable squeezed hard on Thomas’s shoulder. ‘See if he will talk to you.’
Thomas peered once again into Bocardo. It was clear Falconer had not moved an inch since he had last looked.
‘Master Falconer… William… what has happened here? Will you tell me?’
Despite his wheedling tones, Thomas could not get a response out of the prisoner. He turned back to Bullock.
‘Who is it he is supposed to have killed, anyway? You did not say.’
Bullock swallowed hard, as though he were choking back tears.
‘It’s… Mistress Segrim. Ann.’
As though Ann’s very name had penetrated into his daze, Falconer’s voice could be heard echoing from his cell.
‘Thomas? Is that you? For God’s sake, take care of Saphira.’
PART ONE
THE CRIME
ONE
A week earlier
Young Thomas Symon raised the long knife blade uncertainly, hesitated and looked at his mentor. The older man nodded grimly. Thomas gritted his teeth and plunged the knife into the pale-pink flesh stretched out on the table between them. The taut skin yielded beneath the cruelly sharp blade, and peeled apart as Thomas drew the blade down his victim’s belly. Surprisingly little blood oozed out of the wound. But then the subject of their attention was already dead, and much of the blood had previously been drained from the incision made in the neck region. Thomas was encouraged by the first cut he had made and proceeded to enlarge the opening. His aim was to reveal the viscera lurking within. His mentor had killed their victim in some unspecified way earlier that morning. It was now his job to uncover the cause of death. Soon he had a shimmering, greyish-pink mass of organs revealed as he pulled back the resilient flesh.
He was already sweating, and made to wipe the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip with the back of his hand. The older man grabbed his wrist in a steel-like grip.
‘Stop right there, Thomas. Remember what happened to Richard.’
Thomas stared at his blood-smeared fingers, which he had carelessly almost wiped across his mouth, and shuddered. He nodded in acknowledgement, and crossed to the barrel of water on the other side of the cellar where they worked. He plunged his hands into the icy water, vigorously washing them. Then he lowered his face into the water, cooling both himself and his nerve-endings. Lifting his head up, he flicked the water off his dark locks and looked across the well-lit basement room at William.
‘I will not forget in a hurry.’
Master Richard Bonham – the man of whom the two spoke – had on the surface been a quiet, grey figure of a man. Apparently a deeply religious and conventionally-minded teacher at the University of Oxford, he had hidden a secret in his heart, and in the cellar of his house close by St Michael’s at North Gate. When Thomas Symon had first come to Oxford as a student clerk more than seven years earlier, he had seen something that made him think Bonham was a murderer. He had stumbled on the man with a wicked blade in his hand and a corpse in his cellar. Bonham had turned out to be innocent of murder, though his secret was almost as dangerous. What he was revealed to be was no more nor less than an anatomist. His obsession had been to understand God’s work in the form of the human body. An obsession he had to hide as anatomizing bodies was largely proscribed. Unless the body was that of a murderer, in which case the offender had forfeited any right to have their remains treated with reverence. Bonham’s obsession had come to the attention of Regent Master William Falconer, who himself had an unhealthy obsession with death, and Bonham had ended up helping William in establishing cause of death in many strange cases of murder.
But in this fifty-sixth year of Henry of Winchester’s reign, the third king of that name, in the year of Our Lord 1272, Bonham had contracted a dreadful disease due to some carelessness on his part when handling a body. When his house had burned down with him inside it, everyone had lamented the tragic accident. But William knew Bonham had sacrificed his life, and perhaps his immortal soul, to prevent the spread of typhus to others. Now, as Thomas Symon learned the skills of anatomy for himself, William was determined that a similar act of carelessness should not befall him. Regent Master William Falconer patted Thomas on the shoulder, drawing him back to his task.
‘Come. This elderly pig, which only yesterday was rooting in my backyard, calls for your attention to establish how I so foully slew her. And do hurry – my students are impatiently waiting for a good meal made from its carcass. Moreover, I have matters to attend to before you and other students of mine undertake Inception.’
Thomas smiled secretively. He knew what was on the regent master’s mind; it had been the talk of the university for days now. Inception was the final step in the young students’ process of qualifying as a Master, where they had to maintain a thesis in debate against any opponent. But on many occasions older regent masters used the days of the ceremony to throw out challenges to their peers by questioning the skill of their students. Just such an encounter was predicted in two days’ time. The rumour abroad was that Regent Master Ralph Cornish was preparing to debate with Falconer. Thomas didn’t reckon that such a public debate between William and Ralph could hold any fears for Falconer. Ralph Cornish was a regent master who stuck to the orthodox views on everything, whereas Falconer’s mind ranged freely on a myriad subjects. Thomas was sure his mentor and regent master would run rings round Ralph in a debate. And he told William so.
‘Master Ralph will be humiliated.’
Falconer smiled at Thomas’s confidence in his abilities, and certainly he was not afraid of the impending encounter. He was only worried that he might speak his mind too openly. He had a habit of getting into trouble with the establishment of the university, and in consequence the Church.
‘I have prepared my debating points. And anyway, if matters should go against me I have a little surprise in store.’
Thomas Symon raised a quizzical eyebrow, but Falconer would say no more. Turning back to the beast on the table, the young man pointed at a small tear in the pig’s heart.
‘This pig was killed by a thin blade being pushed through his chest and into his heart.’
Falconer patted him on the back.
‘Very well done. Now wash your hands in the vinegar water and we will eat.’
Sir Humphrey Segrim held on grimly to the gunwales of the little cog that had carried him across the Channel from Normandy. As it beat its way up the Thames on the incoming tide, he held his heaving stomach in check. He reasoned that it was the pork he had eaten in the dingy harbour tavern at Honfl
eur that afflicted him. It must have been bad. Now, he calmed the bubbling surge in his belly by scanning the level mud flats of the estuary. Then he cast a fearful look behind him to once again convince himself that the Templar was no longer on his tail. The broad, brown waters of the Thames Estuary bore only small craft dodging from shore to shore and into the various inlets. He breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Thank God my ploy of leaving from Honfleur has got rid of him.’
‘What’s that, Master?’
The whining Essex tones of the little vessel’s skipper reminded Segrim that there was precious little privacy on the small boat. Indeed, he had not realized he had expressed his relief out loud. He covered up his slip.
‘I said – when will we be landing?’
‘Not long, Master. The tide will not be at the full for a long time and we shall be at Shadwell steps soon. But are you sure you wish to disembark in the middle of nowhere? We will easily make Queenhithe before the tide turns.’
Segrim shook his head vigorously.
‘No, no! The middle of nowhere suits me fine.’
The cog’s skipper shot his passenger a strange look and shrugged his shoulders. The heavy-set old knight who had sidled up to him in Honfleur harbour had seemed furtive from the start, as though he had something to hide. But if he did, then the skipper cared not in the least. His wish to be dropped outside of London was his own business. Let the man drag his heels through the mud of Shadwell if he wanted. He was paying handsomely enough. The skipper jingled the coins he had earned in his well-stuffed purse and cast an expert eye over the sails of the sturdy cog that was his home from home. He knew a short stop at Shadwell would not delay him much and the taverns of Queenhithe would be all the sweeter for it. A sudden cross-current lifted the bow of the boat abruptly. It lurched, and the passenger threw up the contents of his stomach over the side.
In the end, Falconer eschewed the pork stew for himself. He had decided to call on Saphira that night and did not want the odour of a forbidden animal on his clothes. Or on his lips. It was some months now since Saphira Le Veske, a Jew from France, had surprised him with her forthrightness. For weeks since she had turned up in Oxford, they had performed a decorous dance around each other’s feelings. Then she had stopped his dithering by simply offering him her naked body.
