by Ian Morson
He was hardly aware of the shadow that flitted across the edge of his sight, before a heavy sack landed on his head. He tumbled to the floor, the sack on top of him, covering his face. He tried to push the sack away, but someone sat astride him, pinning him down. The sack pressed firmly against his face, smothering him and he could smell cinnamon. He drummed his bare heels on the floor, but felt weaker and weaker as his chest tightened. He couldn’t breath, and he drowned in the scent of cinnamon.
SEVENTEEN
Falconer had much to think about thanks to Saphira. She had laid out in detail not only her own concerns about Covele, but also Thomas’s revelations about the Templar, Odo de Reppes. He settled back on to the damp straw on the floor of his cell, tucking his legs up and circling them with his arms to keep warm. With his chin on his knees, he reviewed the known facts. Humphrey Segrim had told a convincing tale of a Templar who had slain King Henry’s nephew in Viterbo, his ailing brother in Berkhamsted, and had revelled in the news of the death of his grandson. It all spoke strongly of a conspiracy against the family of Henry, and Falconer had an inkling why Thomas was so convinced.
Seven years ago, when Thomas Symon had first arrived in Oxford as a raw, country boy he had stepped unwittingly into a series of murders perpetrated in the name of revenge. A single man had been consumed with so much hatred for the de Montforts that he had embarked on a series of killings that had culminated in an attempt on the life of Simon de Montfort, the Earl of Leicester. It was during the Barons War and had been foiled by Falconer. Though it had mattered little to Earl Simon, who a year later lay dead at the Battle of Evesham. Thomas Symon was therefore perhaps inclined to see parallels with the present situation. Falconer had to admit it was curious that the murder in Viterbo, witnessed by Segrim, contained an echo of that terrible time in England. The sons of Simon de Montfort had been guilty of the murder of Henry, nephew to the King, but it seems that among the other unidentified murderers had also been Odo de Reppes. What worried Falconer was why de Reppes, knowing Segrim had seen him, hadn’t disposed of Sir Humphrey on their journey to the Holy Land. Maybe he thought the old man was no danger until he saw him again in Berkhamsted. If he had started to track him down then, how had he lost sight of him so close to home? And had de Reppes really killed Ann because he thought she had learned too much from her husband? There was so much still to know, and Falconer was locked away. It was frustrating for him, and he jumped to his feet and began to pace his tiny prison.
The talk at the Golden Ball Inn was all about the murder trial. The regular bunch of drinkers sat around the fire had already consumed three jugs of Peter Halegod’s best ale, but as the speculation grew Harold Pennyverthing decided to call for another. Tom Peckwether, Saul Griffin and Peter Inge acceded to his generous offer. They knew Pennyverthing had been paid for a carpentry job that week and could afford to splash out. The jug was passed around, and when each man’s mug had been refilled, and the ale tasted to ensure Halegod had not watered it down, opinions on the murder of Ann Segrim were proffered. The trouble was that the killer was a university man, and the damned chancellor had taken it upon himself to try the case. This meant no town man was involved, and all they had to rely on was rumour and gossip. Of which there was plenty.
‘It’s said that this Falconer was a regular visitor to Botley while Segrim was in the Holy Land.’
Griffin offering to the debate was accompanied by a pointed wink of the eye. The others guffawed at the innuendo. Inge came in with a rejoinder.
‘Aye, and that he had a whole gaggle of women at his beck and call. And he made one of them sneak into Mistress Segrim’s house and stab her in the dead of night.’
‘I heard they acted together and tied her down first, so she was awake when they did the foul deed.’
The shock created by this assertion from Peckwether caused a clicking of tongues and a shaking of wise and disapproving heads. More ale was sucked while each thought of a scandalous titbit to top this last remark. From the shadows in the corner of the ale-house, far away from the warmth and red glow of the fire, came another voice.
‘For all I know Falconer had many whores, but I can tell you for a fact that Mistress Segrim was poisoned by his own hand with a preparation concocted by a certain Jewess who lives in fine style in Fish Street.’
The four gossips peered into the gloom of the far corner, but could only clearly discern the legs and feet of the speaker stretched out in front of him. He was well shod and his tunic was that of a gentleman. The mention of a rich Jewess struck a chord with all four men. They were all hard-working Englishmen and that race did precious little but lend money at extortionate interest rates, feeding off others’ need. Harold Pennyverthing spoke up for all of them.
‘A Jewess, you say, sir?’ He was not sure of the man’s station in life, but it did no harm to be polite to someone who could set them straight about the murder. ‘And she is lording it over us in all her finery, thinking she has got away with murder, you say?’
‘Oh, yes. The house is number eight – the one with the steps and opposite the end of Jewry Lane.’
The four outraged men, fired up with beer, threw the last of their drinks down their throats, and vowed to teach the Jewess a lesson right away. As they tumbled out of the inn door, Alexander Eddington leaned towards the light of the fire at last, and grinned evilly.
When Saphira returned to her house after talking to Falconer, she felt more optimistic than before. She was sure that William would now pay attention to what was happening around him, and come up with some sort of solution. Even from his prison cell. Her new cheerfulness was probably what prevented her from seeing the four men who were lurking under the eaves of the house opposite. As she slid the large key into the lock on the front door, there was a cry of triumph.
‘That’s her, the Jew tart.’
‘Yes. The murdering bitch.’
She turned in horror to see four sturdy men with clubs in their hands hurrying across the street, leaping the filthy drainage channel that ran down the centre. The key seemed to turn terribly slowly, and she jiggled it to get it to undo the lock. Finally it gave, and the door pushed open from the pressure of her leaning on it. The men were already at the bottom of the short flight of steps that led to the door. Their faces were contorted with rage. The few people who were passing looked away in horror and hurried on. There would be no help for Saphira from them. It was already dark, and the doors of the houses opposite were closed and probably barred. Jews lived a circumspect life after dark. She pushed through her own door and tried to swing it closed. In the fleeting seconds before the red face of the leading assailant appeared in the gap between door and lintel, she thought she saw a light flickering in Samson’s house on the other side of the road. A flicker of hope soon extinguished by her attackers, as she tried to force the door closed against the pressure of their bodies. She could smell the beery breath of the leading man, who was snarling like a beast. She spat in his face and he recoiled briefly. Enough time for her to slam the door and try to drop the bolt. But it was too late, and the bolt caught only halfway down. The thunder of the ensuing assault on her door convinced her that the bolt would not hold long.
She fled into the kitchen at the back of the house, swinging the door closed behind her. With a strength multiplied by fear, she dragged the heavy kitchen table across the door, knowing it would not stop the men for long. She hunted for a weapon and found a knife beside the hearth that must have been discarded by Rebekkah. Her chest heaving, she listened in horror as the front door splintered and the men rushed in. Soon they were pummelling on the kitchen door.
She was preparing herself for the worst, when the world seemed to tilt. She imagined the fear had made her dizzy, as the floor lurched beneath her. She stepped to one side and watched in amazement as one of the heavy stone flags tipped upwards. A pale face framed by grey locks appeared in the opening like some demon out of Hell. Except she suddenly recognized Samson’s anxious look. He beckoned with
his free hand, the other barely managing to hold up the heavy slab.
‘Come quickly, before they break in.’
Stunned, she gathered her skirts around her ankles and slid down into the opening. With a groan of relief, Samson let the slab fall back into place. In the gloom, he held a bony finger to his lips. Saphira sat on the steps that were under her feet, trying to hold her breath. Above, they could hear the kitchen door creak and the table being forced over the floor. Then the men were in her kitchen, and must have been amazed at her disappearance. She suppressed a giggle. Perhaps they would think she was a witch now. Their muffled cries of frustration gave her great pleasure, but the sound of smashing pots soon stifled it. Then she felt Samson grasp her arm and he began to lead her away into a subterranean world.
For the first time, she looked about her. The walls either side were built solidly of good ashlar, and arched over their heads. It could have been a simple cellar, but this was more than that. Samson led her through this first arched room, and on into another, and then into a low tunnel at a junction of arches. He held a small lamp in his hand to give them light. She stopped and looked around her in amazement. The air down here was cool and she could hear the sound of water dripping further off. Their voices echoed slightly.
‘Where is this?’
Samson’s brown eyes sparkled in the lamplight.
‘Right now you are underneath Fish Street. Many of the cellars in the houses on either side of the road are linked together, and joined by this tunnel. Rabbi Jacob even has a mikveh down here.’
Samson was referring to the ritual bath used by his faith for cleansing purposes. Saphira thought the only one in Oxford was by the river in the Jewish cemetery. Bodies, as well as women, needed ritual cleansing. It now seemed there was one in the heart of Jewry. And a convenient chain of escape routes in times of trouble. She grasped Samson by the arm, pulling him to her and hugging him.
‘Thank you for saving my life. I am sure those men would have beaten me to death if you hadn’t seen what was going on.’
In the lamplight, Samson blushed.
‘I heard them plotting to attack you from where they were hiding. Right under the eaves of my house. They seemed to think you were guilty of the murder of Mistress Segrim. Something to do with poisoning her for Falconer. Of course, I knew it was nonsense, but before I could think how to warn you, there you were at your door. All I could do was to come down these tunnels.’
‘It was enough. I don’t know why they got it into their heads that I was involved. I suppose I will have to be careful for the next few days.’
‘Come. You can stay with me for the time being. And I will talk to Peter Bullock tomorrow. He may be able to sort this out. He is a good man.’
Saphira wondered if Peter would be as amenable as Samson imagined. He had appeared to be uncommunicative with her lately, and she didn’t know why. Unless he too thought she was guilty of murder. The idea made her shiver. Samson took it simply as her feeling the cold down in the tunnel, and took her into his cellar, which led to the way out on the other side of Fish Street.
Falconer was unaware of the danger that Saphira had found herself in. Though he heard distant noises and shouting, he assumed it was no more than the normal disorderly behaviour of townsfolk and students after dark. After they had taken too much ale. He hoped none of his students lodged at Aristotle’s Hall were involved. Without his presence to keep them under control, they might be straying from the straight and narrow path. With Thomas Symon preoccupied by the Templar conspiracy, they had no one to stop them getting into trouble. Still, he was sure that Peter Bullock would keep any fracas well under control with a few swipes of the flat of his sword blade. He chuckled at the comfortable thought and squatted down on the straw bedding that Bullock had now thoughtfully supplied. He would apply his brain logically to the task in front of him, and enjoy the fact that he was not being pulled hither and thither by conflicting responsibilities.
There was something to be said for a spell of incarceration to concentrate the mind. His old mentor and friend, the Franciscan friar, Roger Bacon, had been locked away by his order in a convent in Paris for several years. He spent his time completing three treatises – Opus Majus, Opus Minus and Opus Tertium. Amazingly, despite their vast scope, they had been nothing more than an introduction to what Bacon saw as a comprehensive work on the whole of human knowledge. Pope Clement had approved them, but then had died before Roger could progress the project. Despite now being free, he had had impediments put in his way, and could not carry on with his life’s work. Imprisonment had worked for him in a way his order had not imagined. And if that was the case, then Falconer reckoned it could work for him. He began arranging the known truths in his mind, mentally lining them up in a way that was much neater than he could have put down on parchment. And it was not long before he saw a problem that had to do with chronology.
EIGHTEEN
Maggie Bodin woke to find her husband’s side of the bed empty and cold. She eased her legs over the side of the bed, grumbling about Robert.
‘What’s the silly bugger been and done now?’
She sat scratching the itchy thatch of her frizzy, brown hair, trying to remember what had happened the night before. She was sure they had gone to bed together. Yes, she recalled that all right, because he had moaned about her cold feet. And come to think of it, she had a vague idea that he had been moving about in the middle of the night. She knew it irritated Robert that she slept so soundly, and she could swear that he deliberately crashed around when he couldn’t sleep. Last night had been no exception. She was sure he had got up and knocked something over. Peering across the bed to her husband’s side, she saw that a candle lay on the floor by the wall. It must have rolled there after he had knocked it. But where was he now? It was not like him to have got up so early. It was still quite dark, after all. She yawned and pushed herself up. Swaying a little on her heavy legs, she stretched, and decided she urgently needed a piss. The bucket was full and had to be emptied in the midden in the street. So, with a sigh, she pulled on a threadbare cloak and hefted the bucket in her fist. She hobbled down the stairs and started to cross the floor of the shop. She stumbled against something that had been left right across the way to the front door, spilling some of the bucket’s contents on the floor.
‘Bodin, what have you been doing?’
Normally she could negotiate her way through the shop in the dark with ease. Every sack and barrel had its place in the shop, and Robert was most meticulous about his precious goods. She put the slop-bucket down and groped out in front of her until she encountered the obstruction. It felt like a leg. She dropped to her hands and knees and peered closely as her eyes began to adjust to the dark. Slowly she made out two sturdy, hairy legs and a patched linen nightshirt sticking out from under a brown sack. The legs were unmistakably those of her husband. She screamed.
Peter Bullock stood in the house in Fish Street and felt somewhat abashed. The attack on Saphira had been brought about by some scurrilous rumour bandied about at the Golden Ball Inn. This he already knew thanks to Samson’s clear recollection of the ringleader of the four men who broke in. The Jew knew most of the folks in Oxford, some of whom secretly came to him at one time or another for remedies. He had identified Harold Pennyverthing from his window last night, and early this morning had told the constable what had happened. Bullock now turned round to the grey-haired old man, who stood at his shoulder surveying the damage.
‘I have already spoken to Harold Pennyverthing, and he says a man he does not know told them about Saphira being guilty of helping Falconer kill Ann Segrim. But I have a description and will follow the matter up with Peter Halegod. The rumour was a vile and evil slur to cast out.’
In truth, that was why Bullock felt some shame himself. He had shared a similar suspicion of Saphira’s behaviour with Thomas Symon, guessing without substance that she might have poisoned Ann Segrim. He himself could have passed that suspicion on to another,
who then could have acted like Pennyverthing. So this mess might have been his fault in other circumstances. And though he still could not rid his mind of Saphira’s possible involvement in Ann’s death, to pass on a suspicion without recourse to the facts that Falconer so loved was dangerous in the extreme. With Samson, he looked at the results of the drunken rampage.
‘Pennyverthing will repair any damage caused. He is a carpenter and can repair the door and this table.’ He indicated the table that lay upside down on the kitchen floor, its legs broken and splintered. ‘As for the rest of the damage, they will all replace pots and pans with money from their own pockets.’
The kitchen was an unholy mess, brought about by the four drunken men in their rage of frustration. Broken pans and utensils lay scattered across the floor, and the stench of beery piss hung over the blackened hearth. They had obviously found their own way of putting out the fire. All four culprits now knew that they were lucky not to have found Saphira Le Veske, or they might have been waking from their hangovers to face charges as serious as Falconer’s. Their penitence would ensure their good behaviour for months to come. Bullock rubbed his hands through what hair remained on his head. How easy it was for this town to get out of hand. Behind him, Samson gave a little cough.
When Bullock turned round, he saw Saphira had crossed the street from the safety of Samson’s house, and now stood in the doorway of her kitchen. He felt like a fractious pupil brought before his dominy.
‘I will ensure that everything is restored, and that the men will be on their best behaviour in future. You have nothing to fear from them.’
Saphira smiled easily. The horror of the previous night had fled, and though she had experienced a momentary pang of fear when she stepped out beyond Samson’s safe and solid oak front door, she soon conquered it. She had experienced worse threats in Bordeaux when her husband had still been alive, and their son a vulnerable child. Now she was a widow with a grown son travelling between France and Canterbury, and could face up to whatever the world threw at her.
