Falconer's Trial

by Ian Morson

  ‘He knows of Saphira?’

  A broad grin filled Koenig’s face.

  ‘Ach. So, it is true, then, that Falconer has been bedding a pretty, Jewish widow? Oh, dear, that will not play well with some in the congregation. If Cornish were merely stirring up trouble with unfounded rumours, it would not have mattered so much. But if he has spoken the truth, it will not go well with Falconer.’

  Koenig bowed his head and strode off with his hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought. Thomas cursed his loose tongue and went off to see if Bullock had returned from his trip to the Templar commandery.

  In fact, the constable was on his way back from the Temple, but was in no hurry. He let his old nag amble along the track that led back to Oxford, nibbling grass when it could, while he pondered what he had learned from Laurence de Bernere. It had all been a little inconclusive for Bullock, who liked his facts simple and straightforward. The first step had been identifying the Templar.

  ‘Odo de Reppes? Why, yes, he is staying at this commandery at the moment. Why do you ask?’

  De Bernere was curious about Bullock’s enquiry, especially as it concerned de Reppes. The man had a fine reputation as a warrior, but he also carried along with him some unsubstantiated, dark rumours. De Bernere had never delved far enough into them to know what they were about, but now it seemed he had a chance. Except the Oxford town constable was reticent to divulge the reasons for his question.

  ‘I would rather not pass on false rumours at this stage. I merely wish to know if this de Reppes has returned from Outremer recently.’

  The Templar played along with Bullock, hoping to learn more from him later.

  ‘Indeed he has – no more than a week ago, I would say. Unfortunately, the situation out there does not demand the services of a warrior. Both Tripoli and Acre have worked out truces with the Saracens. Even Prince Edward could do no more than help fortify Acre. De Reppes came back frustrated at what was going on.’

  ‘Frustrated, you say? About what?’

  ‘About the lack of action. And the disputes over who was rightly King of Jerusalem.’

  Bullock grimaced. Once again, high politics was getting in the way, and he could not see where all this led. He would have to talk to Thomas Symon later. In the meantime, he could at least find out about Odo de Reppes’s whereabouts.

  ‘Can you say if he has been into Oxford since he came back? Or elsewhere locally?’

  De Bernere frowned.

  ‘You will know, as a former sergeant of the Order, that any knight must ask permission of the master before leaving the commandery.’ When Bullock nodded, de Bernere sighed. ‘And you know I am temporarily the master of this commandery. So I can tell you what you wish to know.’ Another nod. ‘And you also know the rule on rumour – ne sis criminator et susurro in populo – do not malign the people of God.’

  ‘I said before that I am not interested in rumour. If there is any slur made against de Reppes, I know you will deal with it according to the rules of the Order.’

  It was Laurence de Bernere’s turn to nod. The rule said a brother who had sinned should be chastised privately by a fellow brother, and only if he refused to accept that chastisement from two brothers would he have to confess in public.

  ‘Then I can tell you that Odo de Reppes was granted permission to go to Oxford on private business last Saturday. As the rule demands, he went with a companion – his sergeant, Gilles Bergier.’

  Bullock now sat on his nameless nag, which had stopped to graze on the far edge of Cowley Marsh, trying to get his facts straight. He needed to find out what business de Reppes had in Oxford that day. But he didn’t want to confront the man at this stage and risk him fleeing before all the facts were known. That would not help William. He had thought of finding this Sergeant Gilles and finding out from him who his master had visited. But subtlety was not part of Bullock’s armoury, and he would no doubt have still given the game away by doing so. So he had been relieved when de Bernere offered to dig a little himself. The only problem was, knowing the secrecy of the Order of Poor Knights at first hand, Bullock could not be sure that de Bernere would share with him anything he discovered. Especially if it incriminated a fellow knight in murder. As it might well do, for by now Bullock had put the days in order. If he was remembering it correctly, it was the day after de Reppes visited Oxford that Ann had taken sick and soon after had died of arsenic poisoning.

  SIXTEEN

  By the end of the day, Saphira had only achieved half of the goals she had set herself. Her interview with Robert Bodin had been frustrating and inconclusive. She had arrived at the shop on the north side of the High Street late in the morning, but though the shutters were open, the shop seemed empty. No wares stood outside, as they normally did, and inside, the rear of the shop was in darkness. It was unlike the spicer not to be keeping a sharp eye on his valuable wares. She wandered uncertainly around the bags and barrels of sweet and pungent-smelling spices. After some time had elapsed with no sign of Robert, she took a pinch of cinnamon in her thumb and forefinger and touched it to her tongue.

  ‘What are you doing? I shall report you to the constable for stealing.’

  From the door at the back of the shop, hidden in shadows, loomed the bulky figure of the spicer. As he emerged into the shaft of sunlight that illuminated the front of the shop, Saphira could see his face had lost some of its roundness, and his normally red complexion seemed almost yellow. He looked scared.

  ‘I was merely sampling your goods. The cinnamon is excellent.’

  ‘It was more than a sample you took. I would say that was a pennyworth.’

  Saphira resolved to stay sweet. She needed to extract some information from this man, after all.

  ‘Then I shall pay you a penny. Do you by any chance have any arsenic powder, too?’

  Bodin’s jaws wobbled as he shook his head.

  ‘I recognize you now. You are the woman who asked me about the talisman seller. You wanted to know if he bought arsenic. Now here you are asking about it yourself. What are you up to, eh?’

  ‘I have rats in my house. I wanted to kill them before they ate all the food in my larder. Is that not reasonable?’

  Robert squinted at her suspiciously.

  ‘No, there’s something more on your mind. What have people been saying about me? The talisman seller said he just wanted the arsenic for killing flies. Now you want it to kill rats. Are you trying to trap me?’

  Saphira was shocked by the man’s onslaught, and backed off as he strode towards her, intimidating her with his large frame.

  ‘Get out of my shop.’

  She hurried out on to the street, only looking back when she realized that Bodin had not come further than the doorway of the shop. As she stared at him, he turned on his heels and disappeared inside once again. She decided to stay in the street for a while to see who else went into the spicer’s. Someone had frightened him and she wanted to see if whoever it was would return. In the hours before Robert Bodin closed his shop for the day, though, she saw few people go in. She did not know what she expected anyway. It was not as if a heavily disguised man in a black cloak would sneak through the door and murder Robert Bodin while she stood there. She laughed at her own foolishness. But she did persist with her watchfulness, and besides a beggar boy, who was shooed away before he could set foot in the shop, she saw only three customers. There were two sturdy women who looked like serving maids coming and going, and a black-garbed master of the university. He had a burgeoning bruise on his cheek and must have gone in for a remedy. With her new knowledge from Samson, she would have recommended oil of immortelle or everlast flower. After he had emerged, no one else went in, and by the time she had given up, it was too late to walk to Botley to speak to Margery. She made her way home thinking of rats and arsenic, knowing she needed someone other than Peter Bullock or Thomas Symon to share her ideas with.

  Thomas had to wait for Peter Bullock and he paced around the courtyard of the old castle
at the western end of town. The castle was in a ruinous state, and what buildings were left standing were used for a prison. But the old St George’s Tower still stood tall, close to the bulwark walls, its massive stone façade both forbidding and awesome. The constable had his quarters in this tower and Bullock insisted that the little lane close by was named for him. Thomas knew that Bullock Lane, however, was really Bulwark Lane, though he would not tell Peter so. With time to think, he was reminding himself of Falconer’s tenets when investigating murders. He knew he should not ignore other possibilities, just because one in particular seemed promising. But then, if he was to consider Saphira’s suggestion that the talisman seller was involved, should he not also include Saphira herself on the list of suspects? Bullock seemed to think so, even if that created a dilemma for them. How were they to discuss the case with her and suspect her at the same time? He even thought he should add Ralph Cornish to the list after talking to Master Koenig. Cornish’s evidence against Falconer, though true in a way, could have been aimed at diverting attention from himself. But when he had spoken earlier in the day to one of Ralph’s students, he had learned that Cornish had apparently been occupied when Ann died. He had a living outside Oxford, and divided his time between teaching and pastoral care. Thomas had to assume he could not have been anywhere near Botley at a suitable time to administer poisons to Ann Segrim. No, the main suspect had to be this mysterious Templar. When he heard the ringing of horse’s hooves on the cobbles of the castle courtyard, he was glad. With Bullock back, he would learn what the constable had discovered about Odo de Reppes. All other concerns could be put out of his mind.

  Laurence de Bernere was perturbed. After Peter Bullock’s visit, he had sought out Odo, and found him sweating away in the courtyard, swinging his blade at a wooden post. At his shoulder stood his sergeant, Gilles Bergier, clutching Odo’s shield and helm. The look on Bergier’s face was one of pure admiration. The knight was rhythmically gouging chunks out of each side of the post as he exercised his strong, right arm. The regular thud of the sharp sword hitting the post went on ceaselessly, and Laurence marvelled at Odo’s stamina. The man was truly a tireless fighter, who any brother would be pleased to have by his side in battle. But Laurence could see something in his face that worried him. Odo’s eyes were blank, almost glazed, yet seemingly fixed on the post in front of him. Sweat poured down into the bush of his black beard, and still he did not cease his assault on the post. De Bernere had seen a similar look on visages in the Holy Land – those of Saracen fanatics, especially those strange warriors called assassins. It was said they took drugs before carrying out their deeds. It scared him.

  He called for Odo to stop.

  The man carried on slashing expertly at the post as though making a point, before finally turning to de Bernere.

  ‘Yes, master.’

  The tone of his voice was low, and Laurence detected a mockery in the two simple words. But he did not let the man rile him into a confrontation and phrased his question carefully.

  ‘When you were in Oxford last week, were you aware of any undercurrents that might reflect on the Order? Only I have been subjected to a strange interrogation by the town constable. He wouldn’t say what it was about, so I thought you might have heard something yourself.’

  Odo exchanged a glance with his sergeant, who retreated to the far end of the courtyard at the unspoken command.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot help you, master. I passed quickly through Oxford on my way to Godstow, where I was to deal with a family matter. The town seemed its normal, hedonistic self with drunken clerks and excessive amounts of cheap goods for sale. It was a joy to return to the discipline of the Temple.’

  Once again Laurence detected that mocking tone. He grunted noncommittally in response, thanked Odo, and turned away. He was about to ask to speak to Gilles Bergier, but when he scanned the courtyard, the sergeant had disappeared.

  As darkness fell on the town, a woman clad in a black cloak with the hood pulled up, slipped out of her house in Fish Street. She kept discreetly to the shadows of the now closed up shops, making for Carfax. There, she waited in a doorway while a rowdy bunch of clerks ran past, punching each other playfully on the arm and shouting friendly abuse. When the din had died down, she swiftly crossed Carfax northwards, up Northgate Street, then left into Bocardo Lane. Saphira Le Veske had decided it was time to rouse William Falconer from his apparent lethargy. Standing at the grille in the prison door, she called urgently to the man incarcerated within. At first there was no sound, but then she heard a rustling sound that put her in mind of the rats Rebekkah said lurked in her larder. A pale face appeared on the other side of the grille.

  ‘Saphira! This is not safe for you.’

  Saphira smiled. It seemed that William was not entirely lost to the world.

  ‘Why? It is after curfew and the gates are locked against robbers and whores. Save for those inside the walls, of course. Here, I have brought you an apple stored in my cellar last autumn.’

  She pushed the sweet fruit through the bars and Falconer took it gratefully. He bit into the slightly soft flesh with relish and there was silence between them for a few moments. Saphira broached the subject on her mind.

  ‘William, why are you not defending yourself at the Black Congregation. Peter Bullock says you are silent while others blacken your name.’

  Falconer kept silent, chewing slowly on his apple, so Saphira pressed on.

  ‘Thomas Symon and Peter are doing their best to discover who really killed Ann Segrim. But they are no match for you. I too have some ideas but we all need you to guide us.’

  Again, there was an ominous silence from the other side of the grille. Then Saphira heard Falconer sigh. His reply, when it came, was brief.

  ‘I cannot speak.’

  Suddenly, she saw the quandary he was in. He was keeping silent because of her.

  ‘You think if you tell the truth, then they will discover that you took a tincture that was prepared by me. That I had usurped Ann Segrim in your affections, and that it would look like I killed her deliberately. But they would have no proof of that.’

  ‘They would not need proof. The Black Congregation thrives on rumour and innuendo, and you are a…’

  ‘Jew?’

  ‘Yes. For some no further proof is needed. You should not worry about me. The King’s Court will soon be here and will reverse any decision made by this illegitimate assembly of fools.’

  Saphira grasped the bars of the grille and pulled her face as close as she could to William’s.

  ‘I am not so sure of that. Peter Bullock thinks the chancellor is in a strong position. And though the right of the congregation to try a member of the university for murder has never been tested before, the verdict may hold. You must help us to save you.’

  William’s face looked grey in the gloom of his cell. He wrapped his fingers round Saphira’s.

  ‘Then tell me what you and the others have learned so far.’

  Sister Margaret was scared. The arrival of Odo de Reppes at the nunnery had brought back all the horrors of the last few days. And though he had been turned away, she feared for her life. She lay back on her narrow and uncomfortable bed staring through the darkness of her cell at the ceiling. She could not rid her mind of the images of her sister nun in the cell next to hers that now stood empty. She had first heard the voice of her neighbour praying fervently. She had tried to shut her ears, pressing her hands hard against either side of her head. But the voice chattered on, getting louder then softer, but always at a great speed. Finally Margaret had slipped off her bed and entered the next cell. For a moment she thought the sister was flying, only to realize that she was just leaping from the end of her bed with her arms wide open. Her eyes were wide and staring, her voice coming in great gales of prayerful Latin, but so fast Margaret could not understand it. The nun could not stand still, her arms fluttering around her head as if warding off invisible creatures. She once again climbed on her bed and leaped of
f it with her arms wide apart. Margaret grabbed her as she fell and held her companion tight. After what seemed like hours she calmed down, but Margaret was scared to see the life drain out of the young woman’s eyes right before her. She dropped her on the floor, cleared up and ran away. But every night since then it seemed as though she was being watched by those dead, fish eyes. She closed her own quite tight shut now, and prayed.

  Robert Bodin also could not sleep. When he had seen the Jew woman in his shop, and she asked about the purchase of arsenic again, his heart almost stopped. He wished he had not got involved in the sale of the powder. He had got rid of the woman and tried to reassure himself that no one would listen to her gossip. But now he was scared and lay in his bed staring at the roof beams above his head. Beside him, his wife Maggie lay on her back snoring peacefully as though she had not a care in the world. He was annoyed by her serenity as much as her snores, and thought about digging her in the ribs. If he was going to spend a sleepless night of worry, then she could share it with him. He was about to poke her with his elbow, when he heard a noise. It sounded like the cracking of a piece of timber. He started up in his bed, pulling the wool blanket off his wife. She merely snuffled and turned her back to him. All his senses alert, he waited for another sound. There was nothing to break the silence and he sighed in relief. Then he heard it. A scuffling noise was coming up through the timbers of the bedroom floor. The shop was directly below and it sounded like someone was moving around. Bodin had dealt with robbers before – his goods were valuable and only small quantities were required to make a good profit for a thief. He had a large wooden club beside his bed, carved from a single tree bough. Groping for it in the dark, he knocked over the candlestick that stood by the bed. It clattered across the floor. Maggie moaned and turned towards hm. He put a finger to his lips and hushed her, though in fact she was barely awake. She rolled back over and was soon snoring again. Swinging his legs out of the bed, he found the club and crept across the floor to the landing and stairs that led down to the shop. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and listened again. There was no sound, and he wondered if the thief had been scared off by the noise of his candlestick rolling across the floor above. He grasped his club firmly and moved into the back of the shop.