Falconer's Trial

by Ian Morson

  ‘How can we prove any of this? It makes a good tale but it doesn’t save William.’

  Thomas looked at the constable.

  ‘Sir, Master Falconer told me you were once a Templar sergeant. Do you know anyone you can speak to who could help us?’

  Bullock had a grim look about him, but he knew he was their only lifeline at the moment. He pulled himself up out of his chair and began to pace the room.

  ‘I may be able to help. What was the name of this Templar? Did Segrim find it out?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. He says the man’s name is Odo de Reppes.’

  ‘Then, after I have delivered William to St Mildred’s Church today, I will go to the Temple at Cowley. There is a man there who owes Falconer a debt.’

  ‘Good. Then I will go now to Aristotle’s Hall and see if there are any clues there to this sorry business.’

  As Thomas rose to leave, Bullock took his arm.

  ‘I have already been to William’s solar and looked around.’

  Thomas frowned, thinking the constable had not seemed able to trust him with the task. But Bullock reassured him it was just a misunderstanding.

  ‘I thought you were going to do it yesterday, but when you didn’t come back to me with your findings, I decided to do it myself. I had no other clues to follow.’ He patted Thomas’s shoulder reassuringly. ‘It was good that you followed up the possibilities you did. You found out far more than I did at Aristotle’s.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  Bullock cast a furtive glance at Saphira.

  ‘Nothing at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And you, Saphira? Did you uncover any truths?’

  Thomas smiled at Saphira, unaware of the constable’s coldness towards their companion. He felt he had started them off on a new track which would lead eventually to Falconer’s vindication. But he was still curious to find out if Saphira knew anything that would be of use. She told him about Covele, the talisman seller, being at Botley, and his purchase of arsenic.

  ‘He may have resented both William’s and my actions some months ago, when we thought he might have been involved in a murder. But we will need more facts before we can decide if this leads anywhere. And Covele has disappeared. I was setting down what I know for Peter when you arrived.’

  She pointed at the parchment on the table and saw that Thomas barely gave it a glance. He was too interested in his own discovery to think about any other possibility. But Saphira knew that at this stage they should cast their net wide and not rely on one theory. Falconer’s own methods had taught her that. She resolved to pursue her own enquiry, even if the two men were seduced by what Thomas had uncovered. She got up from the table to leave, with the first excuse that came into her head.

  ‘I must go and make some purchases in the market or my maid will have nothing to prepare for dinner.’

  Neither man saw that she intended the words ironically. They merely smiled and allowed her to go about her womanly duties. She smiled ruefully, having fallen into the trap of playing the homely wife. Well, she would show them, as she had shown Falconer once before when she was doubted.

  After she had left, Bullock sighed with relief. Then he turned to Thomas, not certain how to proceed. He picked up the half-completed statement that Saphira had drafted and gave it to Thomas Symon.

  ‘Tell me what you think of this.’

  Thomas looked scornfully at the document.

  ‘You don’t think this Covele has any significance, do you? The Templar is…’

  ‘No, no. Not what she has written. Just look at the script and compare it with this.’

  He gave Thomas the scrap of parchment from Falconer’s room. Puzzled, Thomas took it from Bullock’s hand and compared the writing.

  ‘It looks the same. And this one is signed with an S. It has to be written by Saphira. What does she mean – she knows how to poison someone?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? It means just what it says. And look at the first two words. “Take care”. The very words Falconer used to you. He said, “Take care of Saphira.” We both thought he meant comfort her and look after her. What if he meant “Beware of Saphira”?’

  Thomas was aghast and stared at Bullock in astonishment.

  ‘You don’t think she killed Ann Segrim?’

  Bullock held his gaze.

  ‘I don’t know. But while we pursue your Templar, let us not ignore the possible snake in our midst. Just in case. Jealousy is a powerful force.’

  FIFTEEN

  At the start of a new morning, Falconer sat alone on his hard wooden seat, apparently not at all discomfited by the evidence against him so far. Close by him sat Alexander Eddington who, after giving witness the previous day, had insisted on being present as a representative of the murder victim. Bullock had excused himself from the proceedings and Thomas Bek assumed perhaps he had either given up on his friend, or was dashing around seeking fresh evidence. The chancellor didn’t care one way or the other. Until last night he had harboured doubts himself about the strength of the case against Falconer. If the regent master was a fornicator and had lain with Ann Segrim, why had he then killed her? It was enough to presage a sleepless night for Bek. Then someone had approached him with new information – a man of irreproachable probity, even though he might have had personal reasons for attacking Falconer. Bek waited for the Black Congregation to settle, then called his next witness.

  ‘I call before this court Regent Master Ralph Cornish.’

  A murmur of curiosity rippled through the church, mixed with a not inconsiderable strain of repressed laughter. Many still recalled how Falconer’s juvenile prank at Inception had embarrassed the man who now rose to give evidence before them. A little red in the face, but with a determined look, Ralph Cornish strode to his place in front of the chancellor. Taking a deep breath, he began.

  ‘After yesterday’s evidence many of you may have already made up your mind about William Falconer. I know I have. But some may still harbour doubts about his motive for killing Ann Segrim. I will tell you why I am convinced of his guilt. I am in possession of information that has not yet been revealed, but will sway the minds of those doubters.’

  There was tension in the air, and even Falconer himself leaned forward to hear Ralph Cornish’s revelation. For a while longer, the truculent master played the moment.

  ‘You are asking yourselves, why did he kill a woman who willingly allowed herself to be used by him? Their dalliance was carried out over a long period of time. Why now did he kill her?’ Once again he paused, milking the moment. ‘I can tell you… It was because he had found another woman to fornicate with. And moreover she is a Jew.’

  Ralph stared accusingly at Falconer, inordinately pleased to see his enemy’s face turn white with shock. His triumph was that he had known something Falconer thought a secret, and was able to use it against him so devastatingly. Over the hubbub of noise in the normally sepulchral church, he developed his theme.

  As he spoke, Alexander Eddington listened with interest for the first time during these proceedings. He had found the trial unexpectedly dull until this moment. Now, he had a juicy morsel of information to use to his advantage. He had insisted on being present in case any evidence was brought forward that implied he was involved in his sister-in-law’s death. The constable – Bullock – had intimated as such when he had been examining Ann’s dead body. And God knows what his half-brother had said to that young clerk yesterday. He had seen from his window as Humphrey had grabbed the youth by the arm and dragged him into the house. He had heard the slamming of his half-brother’s solar door and the dropping of the bolt. He had been powerless to intervene. And if the clerk had been talking to Margery about her trip to the spicer’s shop for Ann’s remedy, then he would be in trouble. But now he could divert attention from himself and on to this Jew. Ralph was concluding his vitriolic attack.

  ‘Yes, not content with besmirching the reputation of the wife of a local nobleman and breaking his holy vows of celiba
cy, he wallowed in filth with a Jew.’

  Suddenly, Cornish saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He felt his head explode in stars, as if a hammer blow had come from nowhere and hit his left ear. He fell to the ground, his head ringing and his senses stunned. He thought maybe another firecracker had exploded next to him. It hadn’t. Unrestrained by any gaoler, Falconer had angrily surged from his seat and landed a powerful blow on the side of Ralph Cornish’s head. If Roger Plumpton had not leapt from his chair beside the chancellor and held Falconer back, Cornish would have suffered further blows. The Black Congregation descended into chaos, and in the cries of outrage Bek was left unheard calling for the trial to be adjourned for the day.

  When the worried Saphira returned to her house on Fish Street, she found her maid kneeling on the floor in the kitchen poking at a crack in the stonework of the wall.

  ‘What are you doing, Rebekkah?’

  The girl was startled and jumped to her feet.

  ‘Oh, you surprised me, mistress. I didn’t expect you back so soon. It’s just that I thought I heard a scraping sound from somewhere down there. Like rats.’ She shuddered. ‘And there have been scraps of food missing from the larder recently, too.’

  Now it was Saphira’s turn to shudder. Rats were an everyday part of life, but she hated the thought of them in her larder.

  ‘We must lay some poison, Rebekkah.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  ‘I shall see to that. Now, I do not need you for the rest of the day, as I will be out. I won’t be having dinner, either, so there’s no need to return until tomorrow morning.’

  The girl beamed with pleasure, thanked her mistress and positively skipped out of the house. In truth, Saphira did not know what she would be doing today. But whatever it was she did, she preferred not to have her maid hanging around. Rebekkah was a little busybody, who revelled in knowing more than was good for her. With her out of the way, Saphira knew she should hunt for Covele, but was uncertain where to begin. Despite Thomas’s conviction that Ann’s death was related somehow to the Templar persecuting her husband, and Peter Bullock’s determination to assist in that line of enquiry, she was mindful that William often advocated against having all your eggs in one basket. His principle of two small truths, taken together, often revealing a greater one, meant digging out many little facts, even ones which often seemed unrelated. No, she would continue to follow up on Covele, and saw that she had two routes to follow. She had already decided that Robert Bodin could tell her more about the talisman seller’s purchase of arsenic. She should speak to him more. And now her dismissal of Rebekkah had inadvertently given her another course to follow. Servants were a good source of gossip. Ann’s own maid, Margery, probably knew more than she was admitting to about the events surrounding her mistress’s death. Margery might even have seen Covele at Botley. She reckoned she would have a busy day ahead of her.

  The Templar commandery outside Oxford was small by the standards of the Order, but Laurence de Bernere loved the old grey stone building that was its main hall. Over the doorway that led into the hall was a semi-circular tympanum, and carved on it was an ancient image. Worn smooth by time, it was a carving of a soldier on horseback in a pointed helmet with a nose guard and a chain mail hauberk of old design. In his hand the warrior held a spear. The point of the spear was thrust into the mouth of a snake-like beast and the horse’s hooves were trampling its coils. Like many fighting Templars, Laurence venerated George, the warrior saint. Early that morning, he had again gazed on it as he did almost every day on his way to the Temple chapel. It was a circular building that copied the layout of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

  Three young knights were to be admitted to the Order that morning, the ceremony starting as it always did at dawn. The chapel was cold and gloomy, lit only by tall candles, but the ceremony never failed to move him. Now, the three men were coming to their final vows and the chaplain asked them the ritual questions.

  ‘Are you willing to renounce the world?’

  All three replied in clear and strong voices.

  ‘I am willing.’

  ‘Are you willing to profess obedience according to canonical institution and according to the precept of the Lord Pope?’

  ‘I am willing.’

  ‘Are you willing to take upon yourself the way of life of our brothers?’

  ‘I…’ Each gave their own name at this point. ‘. . . am willing and I promise to serve the Rule of the Knights of Christ, so that from this day I shall not be allowed to shake my neck free of the yoke of the Rule. And, henceforth, I promise obedience to God and this house, and to live without property, and to maintain chastity according to the precept of the Lord Pope, and firmly to keep the way of life of the brothers of the house of the Knights of Christ.’

  As the three young knights then prostrated themselves on the cold stone flags before the altar, de Bernere was aware of a shadowy figure slipping on to the stone bench beside him. Irritated by this interruption, he nevertheless did not look to see who it was, but concentrated on the ceremony’s conclusion. All three men on the ground intoned their final prayer.

  ‘Receive me, Lord, in accordance with your word and let me live. And may you not confound me in my hope. The Lord is my light. The Lord is the protector of my life.’

  ‘As will be a strong, right arm.’

  That cynical comment came from the man who had just sat next to him and he was annoyed enough to turn and remonstrate with him. He recognized the old, grey-haired man immediately, his bent back obvious even when he was seated.

  ‘Sergeant Bullock. I might have known it was you, spoiling the mood of the ceremony.’

  He cast a mournful glance at the three young men prostrate on the stone floor. They were just beginning their service to the Order that had dominated his life for over twenty years now. And the life of the old man next to him, until he left its ranks due to doubts about his calling. Bullock had been a sergeant in the Order, and as such he had served the needs of the true knights of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of the Temple of Solomon, as the Templars were once called. Bullock would have worn a brown robe instead of white and had one horse instead of three. A sergeant was after all not a nobleman. Laurence de Bernere, however, respected the sergeant brothers. They were the backbone of the Order, often saving the life of the knight they served, when he allowed a sense of chivalry to overcome common sense. Bullock was no different from all the rough and ready sergeants of the Order. And if he was at the Temple so early in the morning, then something was afoot. And de Bernere owed Bullock and his friend, William Falconer, a debt of gratitude over the recovery of a precious relic, now stored safely in the Temple once again.

  ‘Come, I have seen enough. Tell me what is on your mind.’

  He rose, and led Peter Bullock out of the Temple and into the light and warmth of an English morning.

  It was not long before the rumours of what had happened in St Mildred’s Church spread around the students at the university. They would normally have been occupied with studies. But as the Black Congregation consisted of around seventy of the regent masters teaching at Oxford, few classes were taking place. Therefore, many of the students were at a loose end, bored, and open to the gossip coming out of the trial of William Falconer. Those few classes that were taking place, were soon disrupted by clerks breaking in on the studies of others to pass on the news. Thomas Symon was in charge of one such class, when a wild-eyed youth clattered through the door at the back of the school room. All heads turned towards the intruder.

  ‘Have you heard? Master Falconer has punched Master Cornish in the face, beaten him to a pulp, he has.’

  There was a communal gasp from the assembled students and then a buzz of chatter that Thomas knew he was not equal to stopping. The trial had everyone distracted anyway, and now this incident was the final straw. He might as well give up for the day. Besides, he wanted to find out the truth for himself.

  ‘Lessons are suspended. Learn your Prisci
an for tomorrow.’

  His instructions were hardly heard as the students scrambled for the exit from the small, stuffy room. Thomas waited for the scrum to disperse, and then hurried off towards St Mildred’s Church along the narrow alley that was called Cheyney Lane. He was in time to see the last of the regent masters leaving, and spotted the German, Heinrich Koenig. The man had been generous with his tuition when Falconer had been preoccupied by murder cases, and Thomas knew him to be unbiased and truthful.

  ‘Regent Master Koenig, may I speak with you.’

  The German stopped and looked back to see who had called him. When he recognized his former student, he smiled and stroked his luxuriant moustache.

  ‘Ahh. Thomas Symon, I suppose you want the gossip, eh?’

  His guttural, Bohemian accent was difficult for some to understand, and when an unwary student called him a German, he bristled and proceeded to give the poor youth a geography and history lesson. The King of Bohemia was one of seven German Electors of the Holy Roman Emperor. But Bohemia was not German to a proud Bohemian. However, beneath his prickly exterior, Koenig was a generous man, and a bit of a gossip.

  ‘You want to know what happened in the Black Congregation today. Whether the rumours are true.’ He chuckled, his moustache wobbling from side to side. ‘What do the rumours say? That Falconer has now murdered Ralph Cornish with his bare hands?’

  Thomas Symon gasped.

  ‘He hasn’t, has he?’

  ‘No, no. It’s just that I saw what really happened, and I know how the tales that circulate do tend to exaggerate as they pass from lips to lips. Don’t look so worried. There was only one blow landed, though it was a mighty one that floored the unfortunate Cornish.’ He smacked one fist into his palm as if to emphasize the impact. ‘Oh dear, there I go, embroidering the story myself now.’

  ‘But what made Master Falconer lash out like that?’

  ‘Oh, it was Cornish’s fault. He cast a slur on a lady friend of Falconer’s. He called her a Jew, in a most derogatory way.’