Falconer's Trial

by Ian Morson

  Suddenly a shadow fell across the parchment, and he heard a tapping sound. Looking up at the window, he could see a face behind the small panes of glass. Somewhat distorted, it was still recognizable as Peter Bullock’s. The constable gesticulated through the glass, indicating that Thomas should let him in the hall. Hurrying to the door, Thomas wondered what had happened now. Had Falconer been freed before he could even begin his investigations? He sincerely hoped so, as he felt inadequate to press his mentor’s cause. But the news wasn’t good.

  Flinging the door open, he saw the expression of horror on Bullock’s face.

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Chancellor Bek means to try William himself before the Black Congregation. And the trial starts tomorrow.’

  PART TWO

  THE TRIAL

  ELEVEN

  At terce on that Thursday morning in April, a rare sight was seen in Oxford. Solemn men in black robes appeared from all corners of the town, and began converging on St Mildred’s Church in the northern quarter of Oxford. To the many onlookers, it would seem as though a dark mass of water flowed down the narrow lanes, pulled by gravity into an unseen deep pit situated somewhere below the church. The Congregation of Regent Masters of Oxford University’s Faculty of Arts met periodically to consider matters of relevance to the workings of the university. The seventy or so Masters of Arts jealously guarded their status and pre-eminence over all other masters, and they were familiarly known as the Black Congregation. But the issues coming before the Congregation were often tedious and not everyone attended. However, it was rumoured that today was to be an unusual occurrence. They had all been summoned by the chancellor for a most serious purpose and were required to attend at the ninth hour of the morning without fail. Rumours of their attending a murder trial had ensured that no one stayed away under any pretext, and had also made certain of their promptness. Soon, the church was filled with the black sea and the doors were closed on the curious outsiders.

  Three chairs had been set up just below the altar, one slightly raised above the other two, which flanked it either side. A group of senior masters placed themselves close before them to establish their precedence, though still not sure what was to take place. Others nodded to this pre-eminent group as they moved around, seeking a suitable place to sit. Amongst the senior group was the tall, angular figure of Master Gerald Halle, and the coarse features of one of the few foreign Masters, Heinrich Koenig. Ralph Cornish briefly spoke to both of these men before retiring to the side aisle of the church. He was still smarting from the humiliation meted out to him by Falconer and preferred to lurk on the fringes for the time being. He himself was not surprised that he could not find Falconer’s face in the crowd. Bek had already spoken to him privately and could guess what was about to develop. A deep-seated sense of revenge was bubbling within him.

  After an initial period of subdued conversation, when questions were bandied around from master to master but no answers supplied, the congregation began to arrange itself in the seats either side of the nave. All the masters wore a black tabard, over the top of which was arranged a black sleeveless cope, or a cloak with a hood bordered with fur. All knew how cold the interior of St Mildred’s could get, even in summer, and had ensured they wore something warm. It was likely to be a lengthy business they were summoned to sit through. No one knew at the time just how lengthy. Headgear saw a mixture of square birettas and simple round pileums. A few had already pulled up their hoods to keep warm, and no doubt in order to doze off beneath them should matters become tedious. The assembled crowd were not kept in uncertainty for long.

  As the conversation in the church lulled, Thomas Bek, with a deep sense of theatre, strode from the gloom of the side aisle towards the chairs arranged below the altar. He wore a scarlet cope trimmed with black over his robe and a scarlet biretta on his head. The two proctors scurried along either side of him and arranged themselves in the lower chairs flanking the chancellor’s chair. Bek sat regally on his raised throne and smoothed his cope over his rather lanky limbs. His entrance had ensured complete silence and he finally broke it with a sombre pronouncement. With Robert Plumpton looking embarrassed and Henry de Godfree grinning in clear satisfaction, Chancellor Bek explained why the Black Congregation had been summoned.

  ‘We are here today to deal with a most serious matter. One that has not been brought before this court before, but which it is my firm belief we are competent to examine.’

  His announcement caused a buzz of interest in the assembled masters. All wondered what was to follow except for Ralph Cornish. Would this outdo the case of Master Swallowe who had attached a new document to an old seal in order to ensure a living? Or had another student drawn a dagger on one of the proctors like young Hoghwel de Balsham? The chancellor allowed the murmur of curiosity to subside before continuing.

  ‘This very day, I bring before you for trial for murder, Regent Master William Falconer.’

  Amidst the cries of disbelief and shock, Bek detected a few satisfied sighs. He also saw Ralph Cornish lean forward eagerly in his seat. Bek had plans for the regent master, relying on Cornish’s hatred for Falconer to get him on his side. He waved an imperious arm into the shadows on the left of the church. The reluctant figure of the constable, Peter Bullock, emerged from the gloom leading a disconsolate Falconer by the arm. He led his friend to a small chair to the left of the chancellor and sat him down, ashamed of his part in this charade. But the chancellor wielded great power in the town and Bullock could not prevent Falconer from being tried by the university. He could only hope that any judgement, if it were against Falconer, would be found invalid in time to save his friend’s life. He looked down at the seated figure, worried that William appeared to be paying no attention to what was going on around him. In fact, he seemed as withdrawn as he had been since being incarcerated in the Bocardo. When the constable had the most need of Falconer’s skills to solve this extraordinary murder case, they weren’t available. It looked as though the regent master could not even help himself.

  The morning was proving to be just as anxious a time for Saphira as it was for Bullock. She was awoken by the sound of someone knocking urgently on her door. Wrapping a fur-lined cloak around her, she descended to the door and cautiously pulled it ajar. A boy stood there saying he had a message from the constable. Peter Bullock had told the boy to tell Mistress Le Veske that the chancellor of the university meant to try a certain person for murder that very day. The boy then ran off down the street, the richer by a small coin given him by Saphira.

  Once Saphira had been advised of this perilous state that Falconer found himself in, she hurriedly dressed. She immediately knew what she had to do, as a result of the information she had culled the previous evening. At that time, she had hoped to easily track Covele and his boy down. Upon enquiring around the Jewish community, she had discovered that someone resembling the talisman seller was camped out in the Jewish cemetery. She cursed herself for forgetting that was exactly where Covele had been the last time he came to Oxford. It should have been no surprise to her that he would use the same spot again. Having wasted a few hours finding out what she should have known already, she hurried across town and through East Gate. Though she had no real plan in her head other than confronting Covele, she sensed that speed was of the essence. Peter Pady at the gate warned her that, with dusk approaching, he would be closing the gate shortly.

  ‘If you wish to avoid being locked out, Mistress Le Veske, you will need to return soon.’

  ‘I hope I will not be long about my business, Peter.’

  ‘Very well. You can always try the wicket-gate, if the main gate is shut.’

  Saphira thanked the watchman, knowing that Pady appreciated the sight of a well-turned ankle when a lady lifted her skirt to step through the small gate set in the larger one. He would keep the wicket-gate open as long as he could. Even so, her business was briefer than she had expected. When she got to the cemetery there was no one there. Covele and
his son had fled.

  She retraced her steps to East Gate, which was now closed. Stepping through the wicket-gate, she smiled at old Pady. He was seated in his usual spot on a low stool by the entrance, where he had a better view of female legs.

  ‘Peter, have you seen the talisman seller recently? He wears a big conical-shaped hat with a spike on top and has a boy with him.’

  Pady nodded happily.

  ‘I don’t know about the boy, but…’

  So saying, he thrust a hand down inside the front of his tunic. From below the greasy collar he produced a stone on the end of a leather cord that encircled his neck. He held it between a grubby finger and thumb, showing the marks on its surface.

  ‘I bought this from him this very morning. It is protection against the joint pains I have been suffering from. It’s so hard getting out of bed these days, I’m so stiff. He told me this would stop all that.’

  Saphira doubted very much that the old man would be any better tomorrow for the wearing of a pebble. Except for his own mind telling him he was. But there was no point in disappointing him now. Covele relied on the credulous to buy his amulets and then wait for their effects to appear. In the meantime he moved on before they could complain of their failure. It looked as though that was what had happened now. Unless Covele was truly guilty of the murder of Ann Segrim and had fled the consequences. She had another question for Pady.

  ‘Where did you see him when you bought your talisman?’

  ‘Well that was a bit of luck, really. You see, my knees were aching something awful and I was thinking of seeing Old Mother Gertrude over in Beaumont. She has some wonderful recipes for pains. Though she charges the earth for them too…’

  Saphira almost broke into the old man’s ramblings to hurry him up. But she knew he might clam up on her if she did, so she contained her impatience. He would get to the point eventually.

  ‘. . . Anyway, I was just passing Robert Bodin’s shop, when I saw the Jew coming out. He wore that hat, just like you said, and had talismans and amulets hanging off his cloak. All sorts of silver cases and big stones with coloured lines running through them. But I could not afford anything like that. So I stopped him, and told him my neighbour had bought one of his smaller stones. Did he have another like it? He said, yes, and produced this from a pocket inside his cloak.’

  He held up the pebble again. The marks on it were not natural grains in the stone, but had been painted on. Saphira could see it was the Hebrew letter aleph. At least wearing it would do Pady no harm. Which is more than she could say for some of the preparations Gertrude concocted. Pady had saved himself from a bad stomach ache at the expense of a few pennies for a pebble with a hole in it. But what he had said about Covele intrigued her.

  ‘Coming out of the spicer’s shop, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Saphira thanked the gatekeeper by planting a kiss on his bald pate and rushed off along the High Street. Unfortunately, she had been too late. The spicer’s shop, along with many others, was already closed with the shutters up. She would have to wait till the morning to investigate further what Covele’s business had been in the shop.

  Now the morning had come, and the new urgency of the situation had driven Saphira round to the spicer’s shop a little too early. She was standing outside Robert’s door but the shop was not open. She waited impatiently, watching as the other shops around opened up. Shutters were lowered and goods laid out on display. The town was gradually waking up. However, there was no sign of the spice shop opening. Finally, she decided to knock on the door. In fact, she hammered on it ceaselessly before getting any response. Robert Bodin’s head popped out of an upstairs window and looked down. He seemed to be quite fearful of all the commotion.

  ‘What do you want, woman?’

  Saphira looked up, wondering why Robert had not opened his doors as usual, and why he looked so worried.

  ‘I just wanted to ask a question about one of your customers. A Jew – the talisman seller. He was here yesterday.’

  ‘Yes. What about him?’

  Robert looked very pale and his voice quavered. Others in the street were looking at the strange interchange with curiosity.

  ‘What was his business in your shop? Can you tell me what you sold him?’

  ‘I don’t think that it is any of your business. But I can see you won’t leave me in peace until I tell you. The Jew bought arsenic.’

  Bodin’s head then disappeared and his shutters slammed shut.

  In St Mildred’s Church the trial ground on. After establishing that the death of Ann Segrim had been by poisoning, with which Peter Bullock was made to reluctantly agree, Bek was now calling his first witness.

  ‘I begin the case by taking evidence of Regent Master William Falconer’s… relationship with Mistress Ann Segrim.’

  Thomas Bek deliberately hesitated in his sentence to suggest he knew more about the relationship than he really did. However, Falconer had annoyed so many of his fellows over the years that it had not been hard to find someone who would testify against him on the subject. And who would turn rumour into truth with pleasure. In fact, Master John Samon had responded with alacrity to the approaches of the Southern Proctor, Henry de Godfree. Bek had suggested him as a witness, as Samon still carried with him the burden of his reputation as a student troublemaker. He would therefore do anything to ingratiate himself with the hierarchy of the university. His disreputable past was largely centred on a hot-headed incident in 1264, when he and two other clerks had broken down Smith Gate in protest at its being locked against the students. Since becoming a regent master he had worked hard to change that perception, deliberately turning himself into the most conservative of teachers. This mantle had set him in opposition to Falconer on many an occasion. Bek knew Samon would happily slander Falconer, if he thought it would improve his standing with the chancellor.

  ‘I summon Regent Master John Samon to testify against the accused concerning his and Mistress Segrim’s behaviour.’

  John Samon rose from his place halfway down the nave and moved towards the altar. He was a sturdy man running a little to seed, as his healthy appetite now outdid his levels of physical exertion. The Smith Gate incident had come about because the locked gate had prevented Samon and his friends from exiting the town to desport themselves on the fields beyond. These days, his most strenuous labour was to climb the stairs to his solar in Vulp Hall. He was relishing his place as the centre of attention, under the approving gaze of the chancellor. He stood before the assembled congregation, tree-trunk legs spread wide, his hands nestled over his generous belly.

  ‘Chancellor, fellow regent masters, I know it for a truth that William Falconer…’ Here he cast a sidelong glance at the accused to emphasize his point. ‘. . . has on many an occasion met with the late Ann Segrim – God rest her soul – and touched her intimately.’

  There was a gasp of shock and disapproval from the other masters that Peter Bullock found hypocritical, and almost laughable. He could swear that he had seen most of those present in one or other of the bawdy houses down Grope Lane at one time or another. Even the stately Master Halle, sitting on the front row of seats with his face a picture of sour disgust, had recently been seen by one of his watchmen coming out of Agnes’s brothel, his patrician grey hair in disarray. To criticize improper conduct in William was ridiculous. But he was in no position to stop the vilification. All he could do was listen as Samon quoted chapter and verse concerning times he had observed William and Ann in compromising situations. It amounted to nothing more than a touching of hands together, or the friendly patting of a shoulder. But it was enough in the circumstances. Though no proof was offered of a more intimate relationship, Bullock knew what people would infer. He had long cautioned Falconer about how his dalliance with Ann might have seemed like to others. Now, the chickens were coming home to roost, and all Falconer could do was sit impassively and listen to it all. Samon rounded off his accusations with a final sally.


  ‘This man has corrupted the wife of an important local landowner and must be brought to book for his misdeeds.’

  A ripple of agreement ran through the black-robed masters and Samon stomped back to his seat. All eyes turned to the chancellor, wondering where this evidence might lead next. Bek did not keep them waiting.

  ‘I wish to call before you Alexander Eddington, half-brother to Sir Humphrey Segrim, and master of Botley Manor while Sir Humphrey was following the Cross in the Holy Land.’

  Bullock grimaced at the pronouncement. The chancellor was making every effort to paint a picture of the whole Segrim family being as pure as the driven snow. Speculative murmurs echoed through the church, as the masters waited for Eddington to be brought forward. As an outsider, he had had to wait outside the church until this moment. When the half-brother strode up the centre aisle, well-scrubbed and dressed in a sombre purple tunic, he looked very unlike the drunken wretch the constable had seen two days ago. With a deferential tone, Bek invited him to offer his testimony.

  ‘Sir, when did you last see Falconer and your sister-in-law together?’

  Eddington took a deep breath and turned to address the rows of eager faces that confronted him. They were agog with expectation.