by Ian Morson
He had revelled in her red-haired charms many times since, regularly breaking his notional vow of celibacy. A regent master of the university was supposed to be in holy orders of a sort, but many took the stricture with a pinch of salt. The rules really only meant that he could not marry and Falconer had indeed been celibate for many years before meeting Saphira. Except for the occasional romp with a pleasant whore from the stews of Beaumont, which didn’t count. His very public friendship with Mistress Ann Segrim had remained unconsummated, despite what others thought. She was the wife of Sir Humphrey Segrim of the Manor of Botley, and though the marriage was essentially a sham, still Ann held to her vows.
Perhaps that was why their friendship had not withstood the arrival of Saphira Le Veske in Oxford some months ago. The Jewish widow was all passion and fiery charm, where Ann was cool and composed. Falconer had not stood a chance. Yet he regretted the estrangement from Mistress Segrim and resolved to reinstate their friendship as soon as he could. But tonight he was to devote his time to Saphira.
Or so he thought.
Saphira was renting a house in Fish Street that belonged to her cousin Abraham. The front door was noticeable for a gouge in its surface caused by an axe. An axe which had almost split Falconer’s head open. It had been during a riot when the Jews of the town had been under attack for an imagined offence against the Christians. Saphira had dragged Falconer indoors just in time to save his brains from being splattered across her doorstep. The door had suffered badly from the blow, however, and the mark still marred the surface. But Falconer did not use this front entrance to Saphira’s house. For the sake of her reputation, and not really his own, he used the rear access to her house via Kepeharm Lane. This evening, he did not get as far as the narrow alley, however. As he passed her front door, Saphira came hurrying out, almost bowling him over.
‘Whoa!’ He grabbed her arm, halting her headlong progress and smiled ruefully. ‘I did not think to meet so publicly as this.’
‘William! How nice to see you. Was I expecting you? I am in rather a hurry.’
She smiled up at Falconer who was a head taller than her. He grinned and reached out to tuck a stray red curl back under the modest snood she wore in public. As a widow and a Jew, there were certain niceties to observe. Niceties that had no place in the privacy of her home, however. He had felt the lithe form of her body as they had collided, and marvelled again at the sleekness of her shape even though she was forty years of age. A twinge of disappointment shot through him.
‘You are going somewhere? I had thought we might… talk.’
Saphira pulled a face, expressing her regret.
‘I am sorry, William. Truly I am. But Samson has promised to teach me a little more about herbs and cure-alls. He has an alembic bubbling nicely and it will not wait for any man.’ She pressed her hand against his chest. ‘Even you.’
Falconer felt the heat of her hand through his robe. He was filled with desire for her, but knew that Saphira had recently conceived a desire to learn more about the art of herbs and their use in medicine. Samson the Jew was not getting any younger and had no one to pass his knowledge on to. His only child was Hannah, who though dutiful, had no desire to learn the secrets from her father. And although she had recently married Deudone, her new husband too showed little interest in the esoteric art. Saphira could not bear to let the knowledge lodged in Samson’s brain be lost and had spent weeks learning the basics. Now she was entering the next stage of her studies and had become an eager student. She saw the look of disappointment on William’s face and squeezed his arm discreetly.
‘Come later tonight, if you can. But beware, for I am learning about poisons. Today Samson is telling me how to concoct the most lethal of brews.’
She grinned at him and with a swirl of her favourite green gown, strode off down Jewry Lane.
TWO
Sir Humphrey Segrim had instantly regretted his decision to disembark secretly at Shadwell. Only after the sturdy little cog that had brought him safely across the Channel had drifted away from the dock on the tide, did he look round. There was nothing but a rickety wharf and stinking tan yards. The smell of piss was overwhelming and no one was in sight. He had slumped down on his oak chest that contained all his armour and spare clothes and stared disconsolately over the mud flats towards London. In evading the Templar, he had landed himself in the middle of nowhere. He was safe for now, but could see nothing for it except to trust his worldly goods to luck, and to walk along the bank of the Thames towards Wapping. At least there would be someone there who could arrange his passage to Oxford. He had wearily hauled himself to his feet and trudged off into the mud.
Now, he sat in a dark, low-ceilinged inn perilously perched over the banks of the river Thames, drinking weak ale and eating an unidentifiable chunk of burned meat. All around him sat rough-looking workmen with big beefy hands that bore the scars of heavy rope and manual labour. They eyed Segrim with curiosity. He was a man well advanced in years, with long grey hair and a beard he had cultivated in the East. His skin was reddened by his journey, but he had the unmistakeable bearing of a nobleman. His tunic, though caked with mud along its hem, was of fine cloth. He clutched his purse nervously and cursed the fact he had left all his weapons except a dagger in the oak chest in Shadwell.
‘I have arranged a cart, Master. Jed will collect your chest and be back in no time.’
Segrim was startled by the sudden appearance of the scrawny man at his shoulder. He reckoned the fellow must be a thief to be able to pad around so quietly. He had seen Segrim looking lost on Wapping quay and offered his services. With no alternative, Sir Humphrey had given him a small coin and enlisted him in the recovery of his chest. Now, it seemed the rescue party was swollen by another man called Jed, who would no doubt also want paying. Segrim wondered if his purse would stand it, and if he would ever see his property again. Or his home and estate in Botley. He appeared to have fallen from one hot pan into another. Though he acknowledged that Osbert Smith – as the scrawny thief called himself – was to be preferred to the Templar. It might be like having to choose between facing either a slippery snake or a wild boar head on, but Segrim knew which he preferred. Chances are a snake like Osbert would slither into the undergrowth if threatened with a stick.
‘Sir, would you like another jug of ale?’
Segrim observed the man, who stood before him wringing a shabby felt hat in his calloused hands. He shuddered at the thought of drinking any more of the stale beer, that he was sure was just dipped directly out of the Thames. It had the same muddy brown appearance as the river.
‘No, Osbert. But you can take one for yourself.’
The little thief grinned as another coin was pressed into his palm, and waved his hand imperiously at the innkeeper.
Segrim stepped out of the inn, leaving the odour of sweat and stale clothes, and stood inhaling the less dank airs of the marshy river. As he stood at the quay, he saw a large sailed vessel, its sides black with pitch, drift by. It looked grand and yet at the same time dark and demonic to Segrim. It was no doubt on its stately way to Queenhithe and a more commodious landing than Segrim had found in Shadwell.
As the sun descended in the sky, a golden glow sparkled along the rippling surface of the river. The ship seemed to glide effortlessly over this gilded surface. A beam of sunlight caught on something shiny, high on the stern of the demon ship. It must have been the sparkle of well-oiled chain mail or a polished helm. Segrim screwed up his eyes, which could no longer see clearly over such a great distance. An imposing figure stood at the stern rail of the ship, holding casually on to a halliard that ran up into the rigging. For a moment Segrim was convinced that it was the Templar, and that the man was staring directly at him with those crazy green eyes of his. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the apparition was past. Segrim shuddered, turning away from the river and its traffic. He needed to get to London as soon as possible and arrange his passage to the safety of his estate near Oxford.
/> Falconer rose early the next day. Despite his dismissal of the importance of his possible debate with Ralph Cornish, he could not stop his brain from scurrying back and forth over arguments and ideas. He had sat through Thomas’s simple disputes of Vesperies the night before, after which it had been too late to return to Saphira’s house. He regretted the omission at the time but was determined to support his favourite student as he took his final steps to becoming a master of the university. The boy was on the verge of his final test. Boy? Thomas Symon was a young man in his twenties, and far more level-headed than Falconer had been at that age. He had thrown up his studies for a life on the roads and merchant routes of Europe, sometimes earning his keep as a mercenary soldier. It had only been the recollection of the encouragement given him by a certain Franciscan friar that had lured him back to learning. Roger Bacon had been teaching at Oxford when Falconer first arrived and had shown him what a good brain he had. His yearnings to see the world, though, had torn him away from the man later dubbed Doctor Mirabilis. But the bond had always remained. Falconer had eventually settled down to study at the University of Bologna, only to return to Oxford in 1250.
He could not believe that twenty-two years had passed since that fateful day. But scrubbing his fingers through his greying locks and feeling the natural tonsure that was growing atop his skull, convinced him that time was indeed passing. It did not seem seven years since Thomas Symon had arrived in Oxford in the middle of a particularly nasty set of murders. But today he would complete his studies and become a master himself. He would have his Inception into the university. And Falconer would encounter Ralph Cornish. He grinned at the thought of Ralph Cornish thinking he could ambush Thomas with his disputations, merely to humiliate William himself. Ralph’s tenet was that, if the student was shown to be foolish, then the mentor must be also. But what Ralph did not know was that Falconer had prepared a surprise for him that had nothing to do with cold intellect. Ralph would be caught like a rabbit in a trap. Falconer looked at the long paper tube lying amidst the jumble on his work table. He tapped it tentatively with a finger and grinned like a naughty little boy.
Morning in Oxford that day was beginning exactly as any other day in the town, except for Sunday, of course. The sun had barely begun to warm the streets before the sellers of fish and meat began to open the shutters of their narrow-fronted shops. Long before being a university town, Oxford had been the marketplace for the region. A crossroads of trade. In fact, the main streets of Oxford were like four arms of a great cross, apparently lying on its side from east to west. It defined the shape of the town. These unusually broad avenues were filled with shops, each with its own customary site on the cross’s arms. A traveller entering from the east would stroll past the pig-market, kept close to the edge of town, then wood-merchants, purveyors of earthenware, gloves, bread and dairy produce. From the south another traveller passed first the firewood sellers, then fishmongers, tanners, faggot sellers until he passed the crossroads and encountered the corn-merchants below the north gate. Here the impressive gate, stoutly built because there was no protection from the marsh and rivers on this side, housed the Bocardo. The town’s prison.
It was as though the sun had stirred an ants’ nest with its rays. Townspeople, intent on the business of the day, came scurrying out of the narrow streets that linked the broad avenues. And from the vennel, or passage, set in the narrow frontage of each house, emerged the shopkeepers and metal-beaters, ready for the arrival of their life’s-blood. Those with money to spend.
Saphira Le Veske was an early riser normally, but last night she had been awake almost till dawn. So the daily noise of Oxford’s market beginning did little to rouse her from her stupor. She stirred languorously in the warmth of her bed, and wondered if William had come to her back door last night only to find her not at home. A momentary regret at missing their assignation crossed her mind. But then she began to mull over what she had learned from Samson. She had not been joking when she had told William that she was learning about poisons. That was the dangerous knowledge that the old man had led her through last night and on into the early hours. She had exhausted Samson and herself with her eagerness to learn. She once again pictured the scene.
Samson had cautiously opened his door in response to her knock, his lined face peering out. The grizzled locks, hanging either side of his old face, gave him the look of the very Devil incarnate. But his strong visage and sparkling eyes did not correspond to the reserved manner that defined the man. And few outside the Jews who lived in Oxford knew of his secret skills, not only in medicines but also in poisons. If the Christians in whose midst he lived guessed at this knowledge, he would have been singled out for special attention and, even worse, persecution. So he lived a secret life inside a secretive community. He was getting old now, however, and Saphira hated the idea of his knowledge dying with him. She had begun to mine that fund of information, and the night was going to be about poisons.
Samson pulled her in by her arm and slammed the heavy oaken door closed behind him. He dexterously slid a wooden bolt across the back of the door; only then did he speak.
‘Saphira. Welcome. Come with me.’
He crooked a finger and trotted off down the dark passageway, his black robes billowing in his wake. Saphira, who knew his odd ways, smiled and followed her new master. The room at the back of the house was like her own, at least on the surface. A kitchen with a large open fire dominated one wall, and in the centre of the room stood a well-worn table for preparing vegetables and meats. But that was where the resemblance ended. The table was not set up to accommodate Jewish dietary laws, nor any other form of food preparation. Instead, its surface was covered with pots and jars. Strange aromas filled the kitchen, coming mainly from the pot that bubbled over the fire. Samson had hurried over to it and was stirring gently.
‘Forgive me, child, for being so abrupt, but the concoction needs my full attention.’
Saphira smiled coyly at being called a child and even found herself blushing a little. This old man indeed made her feel once more like a child learning its alphabet. Except he was teaching her ways of poisoning people. He pointed to the brew on the fire.
‘Albertus Magnus himself wrote down this recipe. It is arsenic boiled in milk and can be used to kill flies. He also recommends a mixture of white lime, opium and black hellebore painted on the walls to the same purpose. This preparation…’ He took one of the jars from the table and lifted the lid, showing it to Saphira. ‘. . . This is the herb henbane which Pliny says can be used to cure earache. Though he does warn it can cause mental disorders.’
Saphira peered in the pot and went to touch the contents. Samson cautioned her.
‘Beware. Four leaves only shall induce the sleep of drunkenness from which you may never awake.’
Saphira had found herself wanting to know more. And more. Until the lecture had lasted into the early hours of the morning. Finally, Samson had fallen asleep over the big kitchen table and she had quietly let herself out of his house, stepping over the unseasonal frost that coated the cobbled street. Now, she lay enveloped in the warmth of a thick bearskin and played with the names she had learned.
‘Mercury, gypsum, copper, iron, lapis lazuli, arsenic sublimate, lead.’
These were all powerful, strong words with powerful effects. But she preferred the names of the herbs and insects. She lay back with her eyes closed and recited her lethal catechism.
‘Usnea, hellebore, bryony, nux vomica… serpentary… cantharides.’
And the most evocative of them all.
‘Cateputria.’
THREE
The interior of St Mary’s Church was alive with the excitement of the moment. Twenty or thirty students were incepting today; they were at last becoming Masters of the great University of Oxford after seven years of study, disputation and reading. Far from being a solemn occasion, it was a lively event, and loud voices echoed into the vaulted ceiling of the church, which stood metaphorically a
t the centre of the university as it did physically in the town. A whole day had passed since Falconer had missed his assignation with Saphira, and he hoped she didn’t think he was deliberately ignoring her. She surely understood that his students came first, and the previous day had been spent teaching and organizing the rowdy events that would follow Inception. Looking around him now at the uninhibited behaviour of some, it seemed that many clerks had already started consuming plentiful supplies of wine and ale. Even before they were incepted.
Falconer had to elbow his way unceremoniously through the throng of excited students, and their supporters and masters. He was looking for Thomas Symon, though he was keeping a weather eye for his adversary Ralph Cornish too. He didn’t doubt that Ralph would see him first. Despite having a piercing stare that scared many of his young protégés nearly to death, he was very short-sighted and could not see far without eyeglasses. Though he avoided the finery indulged in by most other regent masters, especially on such a day as today, he was himself a tall man and stood out in a crowd.
All around him were masters bedecked in cappas or sleeveless copes bordered with many different types of fur. This they wore over a simple tunic, the colour of which ranged from black to purple and in some cases a less than sombre scarlet. And all wore the square biretta on their head. William was dressed differently. He wore the same black robe he was garbed in every day, its edges fraying and green with mould. Normally, he would be bareheaded too. But today he had given in to formality and wore a simple black pileus over his greying, unruly locks. It amused him that it closely resembled the cap worn by many of his Jewish friends.
