by Ian Morson
‘What are we doing here, dad?’
Covele looked down into the boy’s innocent, brown eyes.
‘Revenge.’
The black pudding had been particularly appreciated in Colcill Hall that dinner time. Thomas Symon now resided there temporarily while he sought a permanent living, or some other means of sustaining himself. He could no longer live at Aristotle’s Hall, as he was now a master himself and Falconer kept hall for only students. Nevertheless, Thomas had not moved far. Colcill was a tiny hall tucked in between Aristotle’s and Little Merton Hall. Five impoverished masters shared the cost of renting and putting food on the table. This Sunday, due to Thomas’s involvement with Falconer’s unseasonal slaughter of the pig that had become his teaching aid a week ago, Thomas had provided dinner. The blood and oatmeal mixture, spiced with cumin, savory and rue, and stuffed into a length of the pig’s own intestines, had been delicious. Thomas wanted to thank Falconer again for his generosity. But at the same time he resolved to stop relying on his former master and to stand on his own two feet. He rose from the communal table and walked over to the narrow window looking out on the lane beyond. Just at that moment, he saw someone pass. The figure was distorted by the rough diamonds of glazing in the window, but it was unmistakably that of the regent master himself. Thomas hurried to the street door and swung it open. Stepping into the lane to call out for Falconer to wait, he bumped into another person also walking down the lane.
‘Oh, excuse me, sir.’
Thomas grasped the man’s arm as he stumbled sideways, seeking to prevent him from falling. The man cursed and wrenched his arm away from Thomas’s grip.
‘Let me go.’
Thomas flinched and stepped back from the violence of the reaction. Had he not merely bumped into the man by accident? Before he could repeat his apology, though, the man was hurrying off along the street in the same direction as William Falconer. Thomas stared after him, marvelling at his strange brown garb and broad-brimmed hat topped with a sort of spike. In the confusion, he utterly forgot his wish to speak to his mentor, who by now had turned the corner of the lane and disappeared.
Saphira thought she might spot Covele trading his wares at Carfax as he had done before. She spent a fruitless hour there, watching the crowds pass without seeing the talisman seller. Eventually, she started to make her way along the High Street, looking down each side alley for her quarry. She had not gone far before she saw him emerging from Shidyerd Street and on to the High Street. It was early afternoon and there were plenty of people thronging the wide thoroughfare. Most were making their way from the churches that were scattered around the town and back to their homes for dinner. A few students, more used to being in schools during daylight, were strolling along towards Smith Gate in the northern stretch of the town walls. Outside were open fields where they could disport themselves in the hot sun. Saphira had a more serious task.
She began to follow Covele, who seemed not to have learned that his hat gave him away. Even in the crowd, the straw hat with the horn on top meant she would not lose him. It was only when they both passed through North Gate and into the quiet of the lanes to the west, that she realized he was following someone also. A familiar figure strode at the head of their little procession. And as the afternoon beat down on them, she understood where William Falconer was bound. The long straight track led only to Botley, and Ann Segrim.
It was hot, and Falconer felt uncomfortable as he approached the yellowed stone manor house that was the home of Ann Segrim. But it was not only the weather that was causing his discomfort. He did not know how Ann would receive him. At least she was not alone in the house. He had heard that Sir Humphrey had arranged for his half-brother, Alexander Eddington, to look after the estate while he had gone crusading. Falconer could not picture Segrim as a warrior for God, nor could he see Ann Segrim taking too kindly to another man meddling with her domain. She ran the estate perfectly well whether her husband was there or not. Still, no one could accuse either himself or Ann of impropriety if Eddington was present when they met. He suddenly wondered how he might excuse his presence if the half-brother asked. Perhaps an enquiry about a borrowed book might suffice. He need not have worried. When he approached the front door of Segrim’s dour manor, it flew open and Margery, Ann’s servant and shadow flew out.
‘Sir, can you help? The mistress is unwell and Master Eddington is… not available. I don’t know what to do.’
Falconer had never seen the ugly, little servant so flustered. He wondered what it was that prevented Eddington from taking charge. Was he simply not at home? The way Margery had expressed it, it didn’t seem so. He took the servant’s arm firmly and led her inside.
‘Show me where your mistress is.’
Margery’s nut-brown face paled.
‘She is in her bedchamber, sir.’
‘Then you must take me there, and stay in my presence.’
Falconer knew that Margery would respond to firm decisions, and to the suggestion that no impropriety would take place due to his being in a married woman’s bedroom. She nodded, regaining her composure, and led Falconer through the great hall and on up the staircase to the family’s private rooms.
The bedchamber, when they entered it, smelled of vomit. On the crumpled bed-linen lay Ann Segrim dressed in one of her familiar blue dresses that complemented her flaxen hair. She had obviously dressed for the day, before succumbing to sickness, but her hair was uncovered. It lay tangled, wet and limp around her head. Her face was almost as pale as the linen she lay on, but she managed to sit up when she saw Falconer enter the room.
‘William. What are you doing here?’
Her voice was low and shaky but she was still in possession of herself. And Falconer felt the same coolness that had characterized their recent meetings. He hesitated.
‘I… thought to speak to you on a private matter. But that can wait in the circumstances.’
Ann rose shakily from her bed and began to arrange her hair.
‘What circumstances? I have been a little sick, that is all. And somewhat hot. I shall soon recover.’
She turned to her servant, who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. Now that her mistress was apparently recovered, she was regretting allowing the Oxford master in the house. Her suspicious nature had returned and she was all for ushering Falconer out as soon as possible.
‘Margery. You will go to Robert Bodin and fetch a remedy that he suggests for sickness.’
‘Yes, mistress. I will go as soon as I have shown the master, here, out.’
Ann’s voice, though weak, still had a touch of steel to it.
‘You will go now.’
Margery gave her mistress a sulky look and backed unwillingly out of the room. Ann smiled, then clutched her head, which felt so delicate that it would shatter like crystal. She looked at Falconer, who stood uncertainly by the door. She patted the bed beside her.
‘Come and sit, William. I have a few matters to discuss with you.’
A relieved smile filled Falconer’s face, though Ann’s reddened eyes worried him. He crossed the room and sat on the bed. He was glad that the awkwardness between them was broken, and they began to talk with candour, as they had once done. Then suddenly, a loud, male voice echoed through the chamber.
‘I am glad you told me, Margery. What were you thinking, sister, allowing a man in your private room?’
Falconer observed the man who now entered Ann’s bedchamber with the smug Margery in tow. This had to be Alexander Eddington, Sir Humphrey’s half-brother. He now saw why Margery had said the man was unavailable during the crisis in Ann’s health. His words were slurred and he was swaying as if in a high wind, despite there being no breeze in this comfortable part of the house. The half-brother was drunk, though the sun was still high in the sky. He thought to argue with Eddington, but saw the hollow look in Ann’s eyes. With a nod, she indicated he should leave. Raising his hands in mock defeat, Falconer pushed past the drunken man, who clutched at the
doorpost to support himself.
As Falconer left the house and started back down the dusty road to Oxford, he failed to notice Covele, who had concealed himself behind bushes close by the gates. The talisman seller had been close enough behind Falconer when he had first arrived to hear the words of the squat monkey-faced servant. He had followed the Oxford master to learn something that he might use against him. What he had immediately found out was that the mistress of this big house meant much to the man. He had looked most anxious on hearing the servant girl’s words. And the fact that the mistress was sickening was doubly useful. He put on his extravagant hat, the pileum cornutum that Jews were made to wear in the German principalities as a sign of their origins, and strode up to the front door.
Falconer, meanwhile, was already crossing the causeway leading over the water meadows and past Oseney Abbey. The abbey sat low down in the meadow, but its twin towers soared heavenwards pointing the direction of the monks’ prayerful observances. Falconer could only think how much money, extracted in rents for properties in Oxford and its surroundings, it had taken to raise such a tribute to God. In the shade of a wind-bent tree on the causeway, he was surprised to find Saphira seated. He sat down beside her.
‘You followed me, then?’
Saphira shook her head, and a lock of flame-red hair fell out of her snood. Distracted, she poked it back.
‘No. I was following someone else, who happened to be following you.’
‘Me? Why? Who was it?’
‘You remember Covele?’
‘Indeed I do. I have him to thank for meeting you again.’
Saphira laughed at Falconer’s reference to the previous encounter with the Jew.
‘Hardly. I think we would have met anyway.’
Falconer was recalling that it was Covele’s actions, performing the forbidden ritual of qorban, that had sparked off the riot aimed at the Jews. It was during that riot that Falconer had nearly had his head split open. Saphira had dragged him into her house for safety. The charged atmosphere of the moment had led to the consummation of their relationship. Falconer now wondered if their new relationship would survive his visiting Ann Segrim secretly. Warily, he raised the matter of Ann’s sickness.
‘Ann is not well and I was concerned for her. She passed it off as a mere inconvenience but I think it is more than that.’
Saphira frowned and looked closely at William.
‘Tell me her symptoms. Exactly as you saw them.’
‘She had been sick more than once and complained of hot sweats. She looked pale and her eyes were red. I’m sorry but I observed nothing more.’
Saphira rose and brushed the dust off her skirt.
‘Come. I will prepare something that might help. You can take it to her.’
Falconer understood she meant the last words as an indication of her trust in him, and he felt refreshed.
‘What do you propose to give her?’
‘Samson drummed into me the basic principle of treating any sickness where you are unsure of the cause. It is to treat a disease with materials from injurious agents causing similar signs to those you observe.’
‘Similia similibus curentur.’
Saphira nodded in agreement with William’s Latin quotation.
‘Yes. Like cures like. I shall give you a tincture of opium, as opium itself causes vomiting.’
EIGHT
It took fully four days of hiding before Sir Humphrey Segrim plucked up the courage to emerge from his upper room in the Golden Ball Inn. Each day he sent out the innkeeper, Peter Halegod, to enquire if a Templar had been seen in Oxford. For his part, Halegod carried out his task with good will. After all, Segrim was paying good money to stay at the inn, when his own home was a few miles further down the road. And there were fewer travellers these days to occupy his room otherwise. Business was poor of late, which Halegod blamed on the drop in popularity of the relics held at St Frideswide’s Priory and Oseney Abbey. Didn’t those in charge realize that people wanted a new show every now and then? Even the strolling players avoided the place, preferring to go where the bones of new saints performed new miracles and drew large crowds. An innkeeper had a lot to complain about in the circumstances.
But Segrim’s persistent enquiries were now becoming tiresome. So perhaps it was not surprising that, soon after he had taken too much to drink with a bunch of his cronies on Sunday, he had shot his mouth off about his only paying guest. The gossip must have spread quickly, for the following day Mistress Segrim arrived in his courtyard. She looked pale and sickly, and sat upon a mild-mannered rouncy. Being astride a horse was what drew Halegod’s attention to the state of her health in the first place. Normally she was a strong and vital woman and would have walked into Oxford from Botley. He watched as his ostler held the horse’s reins and Mistress Segrim descended to the ground. Her face had a grim look to it, as she approached the entrance to the inn.
‘You’ve got trouble coming, Sir Humphrey,’ muttered Halegod to himself. ‘And it’s far worse than some ferocious Templar.’
He hurried to the door in order to meet the angry wife of his only customer. And at that moment, Sir Humphrey came down the stairs. He must have seen her from his upper window, or heard her voice in the yard. Whatever it was, he showed no signs of embarrassment and embraced her as though nothing were amiss.
‘My dearest Ann, I was just preparing to leave, when I saw you arrive. How sweet of you to meet me on the way home like this. Such a dutiful, loving wife.’
The show of affection did not convince Robert Halegod at all. If he hadn’t known the loveless nature of Segrim’s marriage, he would have deduced it from the lack of emotion in the display before him. No kisses were exchanged, and the embrace had been brief and one-sided. Ann stood stock-still and pale-faced, knowing now that her husband, who had been almost a year away from home, had delayed his return by four full days. For no obvious reason. But still Segrim babbled on, becoming more and more nervous by the moment. Sweat burst out on his brow, and he even cast a glance over Ann’s shoulder at the people passing the entrance to the inn. Halegod speculated on how this Templar had scared the knight so. Maybe Segrim had refused him his bum at some time. Those Templars were renowned buggerers. Why else did their emblem show two of them astride a horse together?
‘Halegod, fetch my bags. We are returning home. I just need to speak to my wife privately first.’
Grumbling at being ordered about, and wondering why, if Sir Humphrey was returning home, he needed this moment privately with his wife, Halegod went up the stairs. Segrim took his wife’s arm and led her to the corner of the inn furthest from the door. There, they could sit without being seen or overheard. Once settled, Segrim leaned conspiratorially towards his wife.
‘Ann, there is something I must tell you.’
Falconer would have taken the tincture of poppy essence the same day as he saw Ann in her bed chamber, but there was an unfortunate delay. Firstly, Saphira did not have the necessary ingredients and had to wait until Monday in order to visit Robert Bodin’s shop. Though he sold herbs and spices for culinary purposes, he also stocked certain medicinal drugs. Unbeknownst to Saphira, indeed, Margery had also gone to the spicer, as commanded by Ann. But, as the maidservant had only mentioned the sweats and headaches that afflicted her mistress, as instructed by Eddington, the spicer had simply given her a weak infusion of feverfew. Saphira’s needs were for something more powerful and she sought to obtain them from Robert Bodin. However, even then she had to reduce the poppy essence to a tincture, to which end she resorted to Samson’s kitchen. This took most of the rest of the day. Samson did offer to help her but she insisted she knew what she was doing. Besides it would be good practice. He retired to his solar and left her to it. Once she had finished what she intended to do, Saphira once again hurried round to Aristotle’s Hall. There, she gave the precious pot, sealed with wax and parchment at the top, to Falconer.
For his part, he resolved to take it to Botley first thing in
the morning. But fate was against him, as Peter Mithian woke up with a fever of his own. This Falconer attributed to the boy not drying out the old mattress properly before lying on it. Several nights spent on its damp, mouldy surface, aided by Mithian’s poor diet and weak chest, gave the boy a raging cough. He was barely able to breath, drawing each lungful of air in with painful rasping noises. Falconer, already feeling guilty over his neglect of the boy, moved his truckle bed to beside the fire in the hall. And then he hovered beside the bed until Peter breathed more easily. Only then did he remember the pot from Saphira that stood in the middle of his table. Fully two days had passed since he had seen Ann last. He hoped her sickness had not progressed in the meantime. Falconer rushed up the stairs and, grabbing hold of the tincture, he hurried off to Botley Manor. It was here his memory of the events of that day began to deceive him.
He wasn’t sure how he got there, but the next thing he knew was that he was sitting on the cold, wet floor of a dark cell. The only light was filtered through the bars set in the heavily studded door of the cell. It cast a series of oblongs on the slimy floor close to his feet. He knew this place. It was Bocardo. But why was he here? He had had small memory lapses in the past but had shrugged them off as part of growing old. This was a chasm of darkness. He racked his brain to piece some fragmentary memories together. And gradually the horror returned.
He remembered that when he reached the Segrims’ house, he was surprised to find the place in turmoil. Servants were running hither and thither, and at first they all ignored the visitor. He stood in the hallway leading to the great hall of the old manor house, uncertain what to do. Then he saw Margery enter from outside and scurry past. He grabbed her by the arm.
