Falconer's Trial

by Ian Morson

  ‘Hebrew. The texts are both Hebrew translations of Arabic works by Averroes. I am trying to discover the true original text from examining the errors in both translations.’

  Falconer’s explanation of the scratchings on the scrolls was bewildering to Mithian. He was afraid he would never understand the simplest of texts expounded in ordinary lectures at the university. Let alone be able to put into Latin or English a Jewish version of an Arabic work. He sighed deeply.

  ‘Yes, master. I think I had better learn my Aristotle first.’

  He turned to the heap of books, not sure where to begin even now. How was he to identify which text was which amidst this pile of paper and parchment? Perhaps he had better first move the pots and vials that lay atop them. He picked up a stone jar and sniffed its contents. Recoiling in horror, he nudged the pile of books, and had to grab at a couple of other pots that began to slide off the top.

  ‘Here, here. Let me do that.’ Falconer shrugged off his blanket and leaped nimbly across the room. Though he was a large, rangy man, his footwork was still neat and sure, due to long years spent dodging swords and daggers in his youth. He had been a mercenary in many of the skirmishes that played out across Europe and along the trade routes that he had chosen to explore before settling to a scholastic life. He grabbed the foul-smelling pot from his student and steadied the others. Gingerly, Peter Mithian took one in each hand and transferred them to the cluttered table.

  ‘You need to take care with some of these pots. What they contain could be quite deadly if swallowed.’

  Mithian shuddered, stepping away from the pots and vials as Falconer transferred them from the pile by the chimney breast. Then the regent master slipped out a roughly bound sheaf of papers from the middle of the heap.

  ‘There it is. The Aristotle you so wish to consult, Peter. Learn it well, for I shall test you on it when next you are in my school.’

  Mithian groaned. What he had feared had come to pass. Master Falconer would now single him out for special attention and he would no longer be able to hide in the shadows.

  ‘Thank you, master. For this, and for the mattress. I have already brought it in from the shed and set it to dry out by the fire.’

  ‘Which I am sure you now have burning well and warmly.’

  Falconer’s parting shot gave the boy good reason to hurry from his master’s presence. He rushed down to check on the fire that he had roused from the embers of the night before. Falconer, meanwhile, picked up one of the pots and peered at the label he had bound around it. The ink had smeared and the label was illegible. Truth to tell, he could not remember what the contents were and why they stunk so much. Perhaps he would take it round to Saphira and see if her new knowledge of poisons would serve to identify it. Insatiably curious though, he poked his finger in, wiggled it around and withdrew it. Tentatively, he touched his finger to his tongue.

  Saphira was sure she had seen the weirdly dressed talisman seller before. But the large conical hat hid his features well. She had been crossing Fish Street on her way to Jewry Lane and Aristotle’s Hall, when the apparition that had so startled Peter Pady the previous night appeared at the top of the street. The seller had obviously attracted a lot of attention in Carfax because a small crowd of people were following in his wake. Despite the insistent clamour of the church bells calling them, Christians as much as Jews were attracted by magical gewgaws. Everyone believed strongly in the curative powers of talismans and amulets. There were many suffering from all sorts of ailments who would buy from this man. Personally, Saphira would rather depend on the powers of the plants and herbs that Samson was revealing to her. Though, even those held some mystery for her. After all, why should lungwort, whose leaves were supposed to resemble a human lung, ease congested lungs? But it did. Perhaps buying a talisman – a stone or similar with some marks on it – was no less efficacious in the end. Who was to say otherwise? The strangely dressed vendor stopped in the middle of Fish Street and opened the large satchel that hung around his shoulders. From it he pulled out a handful of items dangling on chains and leather strips. Polished stones and silvery boxes glittered in the light. He held the trinkets high in the air and called out.

  ‘Amulets and talismans to ward off all ills.’

  The people that had been following him soon gathered around and began examining his wares. Curious, Saphira delayed her visit to Falconer and walked over to the edge of the crowd. At the front of the assembled throng, a boy with sightless eyes was being pushed forward. He held a silver coin in his trembling hand, uncertain where to proffer it. The talisman seller expressed a reluctance to take his money, but then a sceptic in the crowd snorted his derision.

  ‘I might have known. Just another Jew trick.’

  Saphira looked closer at the seller. It was true that though his eyes were obscured by the hat, and he had his back to her, his long dark beard and hair locks suggested he was a fellow religionist. He stiffened at the jibe, and held out a bright stone with a peculiar mark across its surface that swung on the end of a cord. He dropped it in the boy’s open fist, refusing to accept the coin in his other hand. The boy held the stone to his forehead and slowly his eyeballs, that had been white as an egg’s albumen, rotated. He closed his eyelids, and when he opened them, a pair of dark-brown eyes stared out incredulously. The crowd gasped as one, and the boy darted away, crying out he was cured. Suddenly, hands reached out to touch the Jew’s wares. A young woman with an ugly boil on her neck fingered one of the small silver boxes nervously. She engaged in earnest conversation with the stranger, who clearly reassured her that the amulet could rid her of her existing affliction, as well as it could ward off future ills and ailments. The woman turned to her companion, who groaned and put his hand into the purse at his waist. Another coin was exchanged and the box was hung by its leather strap around the woman’s neck.

  As the trader sold more wares, he turned towards Saphira’s part of the crowd. When his conical hat tilted back, she recognized him immediately. It was a man called Covele. Several months ago, he had crossed her path when he had come to Oxford offering to carry out rituals that the majority of Jews deemed forbidden. Rituals that could only be carried out in the Temple of Solomon, which had long ago been destroyed. He had scuttled out of town when his actions had seemed to be mixed up with the death of a child. His deeds had caused untold problems for the Jews who tried to live their life alongside the Christians of England. Saphira recalled he had then had his son with him.

  ‘You trickster. The blind boy was your son and the last time I saw him his sight was perfect.’

  She only spoke under her breath, so he couldn’t have heard. But Covele must have recognized her all the same. He suddenly stuffed the rest of his wares in his satchel and shook his head at his other customers.

  ‘I am sorry but I cannot sell any more today. The time is not propitious.’

  Despite the loud protests, he pushed through the crowd and hurried back up Fish Street in the opposite direction to Saphira. She made to follow him, lifting her skirts to keep pace. At first, she kept him in sight because of the strange hat with the spike on the top. But then he looked back at her and realized what was giving him away. He pulled his hat off his head and was soon lost amidst the rest of the people who thronged the street.

  Ann woke up that Sunday with a vague feeling of nausea in the pit of her stomach. Was it a genuine illness creeping over her? Or were the events of the last few days preying on her mind? There had been the unpleasant encounter with the red-haired Jew in Oxford, and the subsequent skirmish with Humphrey’s half-brother, Alexander. Both had left her with a nasty taste in her mouth, but neither had seemed so extreme as to make her ill.

  She had spent three days gathering all the information she could at the nunnery, each day talking to the nuns and taking some sustenance there, then going back to Botley to think. Her encounters with the drunken Alexander had not disturbed her thinking in the least. But she had left it until today before returning to Godsto
w to deliver her conclusions to the prioress. She had learned enough to know what the poor nun had done, but didn’t know if she would tell the whole truth to the prioress. But speak she must. So, though she felt ill, she knew she could not put it off any longer and rode the short distance to Godstow. Shown the same hospitality as before, Ann swallowed her nausea and ate and drank a little. Meanwhile, Gwladys looked at her expectantly, with the wrinkled visage of Sister Hildegard peering over her shoulder. Ann took a deep breath.

  ‘I do not think you have anything to worry about, other than to feel sorrow for a lost soul. If what I have learned is so, no one could have got into Marie’s cell the night she died. Every nun is accounted for, and no one else other than Hal Coke can have gained access. And I rule him out, as I was assured he had had too much to drink that night to even stand, let alone walk into the cloisters unnoticed.’

  Hildegard’s tongue clicked in disapproval at the behaviour of their gatekeeper. Then she realized she was supposed to be deaf to what Ann was saying, and blushed. Ann chose her words before continuing.

  ‘Of course, people – even young people – die naturally in their sleep from time to time. But…’

  The prioress held up her hand, not wishing to make Ann Segrim state the obvious. Ann breathed a sigh of relief and stood up to go. Gwladys managed a grim smile of thanks, and, by way of recompense for Ann’s inconvenience, offered the rest of the dried fruit that Sister Margaret had brought as usual. Ann accepted the gift and left.

  The prioress sat down in her room and pondered her choices. The matter was resolved, but in a most unsatisfactory way. Ann had tried to soften the blow, but the conclusion was clear. The implication of Ann’s enquiries was that Sister Margaret had knowingly killed herself. And self-murder was just as shocking as a killing by another person. One way or another, the matter would have to be buried. Along with the young nun.

  SEVEN

  ‘It’s henbane, you idiot. You were lucky you only tasted a little.’

  Saphira sat on the end of Falconer’s bed looking at his prone form. He groaned and began to sit up. His vision blurred and the room swam. He lay back again. Saphira had arrived at Aristotle’s Hall late that morning to find the students who boarded there in a quandary. Their master had apparently not risen at his normal time that morning. And though it was Sunday, it was very unusual for him to miss the first meal of the day. Even though it could often only be pottage, or bread and ale. The trouble was, they were all afraid to waken him. Then one of their number, Peter Mithian by name, returned from church to tell them that he had spoken to Master Falconer that morning early. He had been awake then, and checking on the potions he kept up in his room.

  Much to the consternation of the students, who were used to their master’s solitude not being disturbed – and least of all by a woman – Saphira rushed up the stairs to Falconer’s solar. She had found him apparently dead on his bed. It was only when she felt for a pulse, she realized he was still alive. She had sent the boy Mithian, who had followed her up the stairs, to fetch some vinegar. She would have liked an infusion of mulberry bark too, but vinegar would have to suffice. She trickled it between Falconer’s lips, and was relieved when he coughed, and then vomited a little fluid. He would feel vile for a while but he would live.

  While he was still recovering, she found a piece of parchment that had been scraped for reuse. In her flourishing hand, she wrote a stern warning and set it by the pot. But then, seeing his hand move with curiosity towards the offending henbane, she snatched the pot up anyway and stuffed it in her purse. She was determined to remove it once and for all from William’s unbridled and dangerous curiosity. He sat up again, this time more successfully.

  ‘I remember now. Roger Bacon was experimenting with soporifics that he had read about in Arabic texts summarizing Galen’s work. Just imagine – hundreds of years ago Galen was performing surgery on eyes and the brain. We both were sure he must have dulled the feelings of his patients first. So we were looking at what he might have used. It was all a bit hit and miss, though.’

  Saphira shuddered at the thought of cutting into human flesh. She wasn’t squeamish, but preferred the idea of intervening in a patient’s illness with natural herbs. It all seemed less brutal and she resolved to stick to what she knew.

  ‘Well, you would have been very successful in dulling a patient with this pot.’ She patted her purse, where the offending article now safely nestled. ‘More than four leaves would lead you by the hand into an eternal sleep.’

  ‘Hmmm. You don’t think, as Albertus Magnus did, that the effects of henbane were due to the influence of the planet Jupiter?’

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Saphira laughed out loud.

  ‘You must feel better already.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You are applying your enquiring mind to the effects you have felt. It cannot be all that dulled.’

  Falconer leaned towards her, placing his hand on her knee.

  ‘And it is not only my mind that is being revived by your presence.’

  Saphira laughed again, but firmly removed his hand from its position on her leg.

  ‘William! Not here, and certainly not in such close proximity to your students. We agreed, did we not, that our pleasures should be undertaken discreetly. For both our reputations.’

  William pulled a face.

  ‘It is ironic, is it not, that we have preserved our secret of intimacy. And yet I am wrongly reckoned to have broken my vows of celibacy with another lady whose reputation should be spotless.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Mistress Segrim. I saw her the other day at Robert Bodin’s shop. It did not go well.’

  Falconer forbore from telling her that he had guessed as much when he had seen the aftermath of their encounter. He might not have been able to explain how he had done so, and not shown himself, but rather scuttled away to avoid a confrontation. He did not think Saphira would appreciate his actions. Besides, he still wished to make his peace with Ann without letting Saphira know he was doing so. Once again, it crossed his mind he would prefer to enter into a battle skirmish without a shield and chain mail than come between two wronged women.

  ‘Are you sure you are fully recovered, William?’

  He saw that Saphira was looking into his eyes with some concern and realized he had drifted off for a moment.

  ‘Hmmm. Perhaps I am not as well as I thought. Do you think you should nurse me a little longer?’

  She put on a stern look and poked him in the chest.

  ‘No. What you need is to immerse that fevered brain of yours in cold water and take a refreshing walk. Besides, I have other matters to attend to rather than look after a fool who swallows henbane for a hobby.’

  She was wondering if she could trace Covele, the renegade rabbi turned amulet seller. She was sure he was up to no good in Oxford. Rising from the end of Falconer’s bed, she straightened her dress, and tucked a stray red lock under her snood.

  ‘I will go. Before you have ruined my reputation as well as Ann Segrim’s.’

  Falconer winced, but bowed before the reprimand. Saphira’s comment, however, made him doubly determined to speak to Ann as soon as he could. If Saphira recommended a brisk walk, then he would obey. It was a fair distance to Botley and back.

  The Jews’ cemetery stood just outside the walls of Oxford at East Gate. The flat slabs were carved with the names of those interred within and other significant symbols. Covele sat on a slab that had a deer carved in it, denoting the deceased as belonging to the tribe of Naphthali. He passed a piece of bread to his son who sat at his feet. The gardens of the cemetery were a pleasant place to camp, with shady trees hiding them from the hot sun, and the gaze of anyone passing along over East Bridge and into the town. Neither he, nor his son, was disconcerted by the presence of the dead. Despite Covele’s professing to be a rabbi, and practiser of ancient rituals banned by his more orthodox brethren, he cared little for appearances. That morning he had even fill
ed his water container from the small mikveh that stood at the end of the cemetery. This stone-built ritual bath was fed by the Crowell stream that ran on into the Cherwell, and was a bath three cubits by one cubit by one cubit for immersion and purification. To Covele it was a convenient reservoir. He passed the water jug to his son.

  ‘Here, drink.’

  The nameless boy took the jug and drank deeply. The morning was already bright and threatened to herald another hot, dry day.

  ‘Do you remember, dad, when we were here last?’

  Covele nodded.

  ‘Indeed I do, son. It rained and rained, and we got stranded on the top of this very grave slab. It was like an island in a great sea that stretched for miles in every direction.’

  The boy liked his father. He told tales that expanded on the mundane truth until he could believe his life was lived in a magical land. He listened with rapt attention as Covele continued.

  ‘We might have starved to death, if I had not braved the elements and hunted for food. The fish were snapping at our heels where now all you can see is dry grass.’ He waved his arms to encompass their surroundings. To the boy, their shabby, patched tent became a multicoloured caravanserai in a painted desert. His father’s voice hardened. ‘Then they came and spoiled our idyll.’

  The boy knew who he meant. The tall, grizzle-haired man in the black robe, whose piercing blue eyes seemed to look into your very soul. And the pretty lady with red hair, who held on to his arm as though she was his wife, even though she was a Jew and he a Christian. After they had spoken to his father, they had been forced to flee. His father hadn’t been accused of anything in the end, but Jews were guilty whether it could be proved or not. Since then, the boy and his father had been scraping a living selling talismans and amulets. It had been a surprise to the boy, therefore, to find his father leading them down the dusty road back to Oxford. And now he still wasn’t sure why they had come.