Falconer and the Face of God

by Ian Morson

  ‘Bacchus loves to visit

  Always without count,

  The wooded slopes and hills On top of Venus' mount.’

  Simon Godrich's clear tones carried the song out on to the street. Like the spume on the crest of a wave, it seemed to ripple on top of the raucous cries of drunken men. Peter Bullock sighed and leaned back in the doorway across from the tavern. He supposed he might have to exercise his club-wielding arm this night, if matters got any further out of hand. Damned jongleurs, they always got people excited with their songs and acrobatic antics. A heady brew taken along with the beer that William Kepeharm sold. Bullock himself would not touch the ale that came out of Kepeharm's spigot. He knew how close his water supply was to the open sewer that ran out into the street.

  ‘Gaudeamus igitur Juvenes dum sumus.’

  The chorus was shouted rather than sung by the assembled gathering inside the tavern. For most it was the only bit of Latin they would ever know, outside of what they heard and rarely understood in church. Bullock eased his hunched back into the angle of the door and its frame, and ran his rough fingers through his tangled grey hair. The night was cold, and a mind-numbing drizzle was turning to sleet. His hair was wet and clung to his forehead; his clothes were wet and chafed uncomfortably against his frozen limbs. He remembered a time when he would have been in the tavern, or one like it, with his comrades-in-arms. He would have been thinking no further than his next drink and the possibility of taking the serving-girl somewhere quiet for some mutual pleasures. Now he resented those out to enjoy themselves, who could ruin a quiet night for a constable. Employed by the burghers of the town to take on their responsibility of maintaining the law, he wished for no more than a peaceful, sober, law-abiding citizenry. In Oxford, and around its walls, this was an impossible dream.

  He supposed that in a small measure the town only reflected the unhappy nature of England generally. The fortunate few with money at their disposal huddled together for comfort, taking their fleeting pleasures when they could. They employed men like himself to lock up the towns against the poor and the vagabonds, in the hope of creating a few islands of safety. The change in fortunes of the King and the unexpected defeat of Earl Simon a couple of years earlier had left the country crawling with dispossessed barons and starving soldiery. He had heard that this very year a group of landless barons had settled themselves on the isle of Ely and were pillaging the surrounding countryside. They had even kidnapped some rich Jews from Norwich and were holding them for ransom. It was all too close for comfort.

  For now, he must concentrate on the relatively easy task of keeping some drunken revellers under control. Stirring his stiffening limbs as the winter wind bit through his layers of clothes and drove the sleet at him afresh, he regretted his advancing years and wished he were indoors.

  Tucked warmly in a corner of the tavern, Stefano de Askeles was mining information from the rich deposits of idle chatter around him. Already he had learned that the Prior of St Frideswide was eager to mount a religious drama to cap the success of his miraculous blessing of the saint's limbs a few days earlier. The troupe's offer of its services must have been very timely. Now he was learning of an envious priest who desired some relics for himself in order to attract pilgrims of his own. The fat merchant in whose lap Margaret had first landed furnished him with all he needed to know.

  ‘Petysance is a fool. I mean, who has heard of St Aldate, and what sort of miracles would his bones perform if they existed? It would truly be a miracle if they could be found at all.’

  Even as he spoke, his eyes were glued to the spinning form of Margaret Peper, who was executing a perfect cartwheel in the confined space between the tables. His cronies pounded their fists in pleasure on the battered table around which they sat, causing a tankard of ale to bounce off and scatter its contents across the already slimy floor. De Askeles laughed with them, but behind the mask of merriment his mind was already working on a plan to furnish Edward Petysance with his heart's desire. His own training as a youth had furnished him with enough knowledge of the saints - major and minor - to be able successfully to swindle priests eager for relics.

  Margaret, her acrobatics completed, slumped next to the leader of the troupe. Holding a smile on her lips, she asked when they would be free of this lecherous crowd.

  ‘My thighs are black and blue from unwanted gropings. Haven't they seen a woman's legs before?’

  ‘Not as pretty as yours. Their wives probably have shanks like draft horses.’

  Margaret rubbed the mess of ale-soaked rushes from her hands, and forced a wider smile to her lips as the fat merchant squeezed her thighs yet again. De Askeles gently weighed the bag of coins he now held in his hand, and estimated that their work was done for the night. Besides, the sweet odours of the perspiring saltatore at his side was rousing his own passions. He slid his free hand to her much abused thigh and felt the animal warmth exuding from it. He also felt Margaret's body tighten under his hand.

  She wondered if this were the moment and her hand slipped behind her back to grasp the weapon Godrich had passed on to her that evening. It was the implement the robber had dropped - not a knife but some sort of workman's tool. She had begged it from Simon as a means of self-defence, never really admitting to herself whom she actually wanted to use it against till now. Now she knew she could kill him. As if guessing what she proposed to do, de Askeles pushed his body hard against hers and trapped her hand behind her back. The moment was gone and she submitted to his overpowering strength of will. Stefano smiled. Tonight John Peper would have to be entrusted with an urgent errand that kept him away from his wife.

  Peter Bullock returned to Kepeharm's inn after a brisk walk around the perimeter of the city. He had encountered little more than a youth vomiting his meagre supper into the dunghill at the rear of St Aldate's Church. The constable could not quibble at such considerate voidance, and left him to his misery. He sighed as he turned towards North Gate to encounter the cries of drunken revelry still emanating from the tavern he had left some time ago. He had hoped that matters would quieten down during his patrol, and not require him to act. As he propelled his hunchbacked body towards the seat of the noise, he saw a shadowy figure emerging from the narrow lane halfway along the street. Whoever it was did not see the constable, for he turned abruptly away from him and slunk towards the locked city gate. Bullock stopped and sought to hide his not inconsiderable frame in the nearest doorway. The man's furtive actions required some discreet observation. He might even be an accomplice of the robbers that plagued the countryside around, intent on letting them into the city. Peering round the shabby lintel, he saw, however, that the figure had stopped outside the still noisy tavern and was peering in at the window arch. The light from inside played briefly on the face and revealed a man with long dark hair and lean features. Whatever he saw caused him considerable anguish, for he angrily punched the rough daub wall of the tavern and averted his gaze. Bullock pulled back into the shallow doorway as the man's face turned towards him.

  Angry at being left with Will to secure their possessions and guard the wagon, John Peper waited until de Askeles, his wife and the others had gone in search of an audience, then hurriedly completed his tasks. He was fearful of what might happen between Margaret and de Askeles, indeed what had probably already happened. He knew he had only been left behind in order to give de Askeles an opportunity to paw his wife. He knew she had only married him because of his usefulness to her - he was adept at getting money out of people who stopped to watch her perform - and had no illusions about his own skills as a troubadour. But still she was his wife and he loved her in his own way. Now he seemed to be losing her to that shallow boaster de Askeles. He resolved to take some action immediately. He gave Will Plome the soft leather collar with a small metal loop attached that he had fashioned from an old jerkin.

  ‘Here, put this on Ham. And don't worry, it will be all right. The leather is soft and will not hurt him. As for Stefano, the animal has pro
bably had greater frights from wild beasts in its own land than it got from him today.’

  Will took the collar glumly, turning it over in his great fists, and went off towards the wagon. John decided he could leave the youth in charge and slip away. Will Plome might be simple, but he was quite capable of ensuring no one stole anything from them. Peper therefore hurried over his own repast, and made haste to prepare the root vegetables to feed Ham. The animal had been a lucky gambling win of de Askeles's, otherwise he would never have had enough money to purchase such a rare creature, said to have come from the Afric lands in the possession of a returning crusader. Because of its origin, de Askeles had named it Ham in remembrance of one of Noah's sons and his inheritance of that portion of the world. However, he clearly did not comprehend the true value of the creature, for he provided it with the meanest of provender.

  Peper went over to the wagon and passed the wooden bowl of blackened turnip and shrivelled apples to Will, who thrust it through the bars of Ham's cage, almost embarrassed at the offering. The monkey's black face with its white cheek tufts peered out at him, its eyes open wide and trusting. It seemed to care not a jot about the poor food, and chittered happily as it picked delicately through the fare as though it were the richest meal at the most princely of tables. John turned his attention to the simpleton, telling him to put the collar he was still holding reluctantly in his hand on Ham before de Askeles returned. Giving him the most strict of instructions not to leave the courtyard, and to challenge anyone who approached the wagon, Peper was at last able to seek to spy on de Askeles and his wife.

  He spent a fruitless time poking his head in the doorways of innumerable taverns and failing to discover the whereabouts of the rest of the troupe. Finally, he ran into a band of raucous students in the narrow lane behind St Mary's Church who were exchanging lascivious rejoinders about the ‘prettiest saltatore in Christendom’. Their description of her back somersault and where it might be expected to end lay in the realms of the fanciful, but Peper knew they must be referring to Margaret. As they jostled him and winked at each other, he managed to elicit the location of the tavern where she and her comrades were performing. Leaving the students to their lecherous imaginings, he scuttled down the narrow alley that ran to the north of the High Street. He did not want to attract the attention of any watchman, who might take him for a night-walker intent on robbery. Unfortunately his clandestine behaviour only served to achieve the effect he sought to avoid. His was the mystery figure Peter Bullock observed.

  He stepped cautiously out of the end of the lane and on to the street leading to North Gate. The riotous noise from the tavern to his right drew his notice, and he did not see Peter Bullock squeezing his bent body into the darkness further down the street. Sneaking up close to the window nearest him, he peered through the torn sacking that hung in the unglazed frame. His gaze was drawn inexorably to the slim figure of his wife, her face glowing red from her exertions, and the imposing form of de Askeles next to her. His hand was placed conspicuously on her thigh.

  John Peper tore his gaze away from the painful sight and punched the wall. He swore he would kill the man as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  Chapter Four

  GOD: For I must wend a path to trace

  To set this bliss in every tower

  Each one of you will keep his place

  And Lucifer, I make thee governor.

  The Fall of Lucifer

  With the appearance of the messenger at the Chancellor's lodgings, Thomas de Cantilupe knew that his gamble had begun to pay off. At first he had been full of anger when he was awoken by the insistent tugging on the sleeve of his hair shirt. He had consumed an enormous quantity of the present Chancellor's best Poitou the previous evening and did not expect to be roused so early. And certainly not before the sun had risen. A greyish dawn was barely sneaking through the shutters of the bedchamber, and there was that nuisance Halegod insisting he awaken. He pulled his arm back into the warmth under the coverlet, and felt the first admonitory prickle of the rough hair shirt he wore night and day in penance for sins and excesses past and future. But Halegod's persistent nagging continued unabated.

  ‘Master, there's a messenger says he must speak to the Chancellor immediately.’

  'then tell him to get on his way to Southampton, and to stop disturbing the innocent.’

  De Cantilupe's reply was muffled by the covers he had pulled over his head. After a few moments' silence, he assumed the servant had left and poked a bleary eye over the top of the bedclothes. Halegod was still hovering over his bed, his face framed by the early morning sun filtering through his wispy hair. It stood out like a halo around his head. Even in shadow, de

  Cantilupe detected a smug grin on his antique features. He groaned.

  'there is more to tell, is there not?’

  ‘Not if you wish me to send the King's messenger on his way.’

  With that parting shot, the old man left the ex-Chancellor's bedroom.

  'the King ...?’

  At the all-important word, the former Chancellor of Oxford and of England sat up abruptly, and swung his bare legs off the bed. The informant at the King's court who had told de Cantilupe that Henry planned to spend Christmas in Oxford that year had been correct. And de Cantilupe's forged message to de Cicestre, telling of the serious illness of his aged mother, had successfully cleared the way for him. He splashed his face with the icy water from the bowl that Halegod had thoughtfully placed by his bedside, then went to call the old man to bring his clothes. Halegod already stood in the doorway with suitable attire to meet the messenger - de Cantilupe had forgotten how infuriatingly good a servant the old man was.

  So without too much delay de Cantilupe found himself clad in a sombre brown robe with a fur-trimmed collar to drive away the winter chills, and ready to receive the message to the Chancellor from the King. What could be more natural, since he was present in Oxford when the incumbent appeared to be God-knows-where, than to act on the contents of the message, and prove his undying loyalty to the King?

  ‘Now Heaven and Earth is made by me,

  The earthly void is all I see,

  At my bidding is made the light,

  Divided from the blackest night.

  Great torches I shall make two,

  Both the sun and moon also.

  Stars I make upon the firmament,

  The Earth to light is mine intent.

  Now this is done all at my bidding,

  Beasts go crawling, flying, swimming,

  And all my works to my liking>br/> I do now find.’

  De Askeles's rich voice rose into the quiet void of the priory church of St Frideswide. It seemed to ascend on wings to the highest rafters of the lofty wooden ceiling, then echo off the dressed stone walls of nave and chancel. It was so compelling that the Prior could almost believe it truly was the word of God booming out. However, he had to bring himself back to earth - he could not allow the troupe of jongleurs to perform inside the church any more. The Bishop had expressly forbidden it since novice monks had been led to perform more secular interludes in counterpoint to the edifying dramatization of the liturgy. Interludes sometimes of doubtful rectitude. Regretfully, he took the leader of the troupe, who had performed so mightily as God, to the imposing south-west entrance of the church and out into the chilly morning air. But de Askeles was not going to give up so easily - he knew the priest would do almost anything to have the mystery plays presented. The inside of the church was no longer acceptable, and the back of his wagon was not grand enough for a site of such potential. There only remained one other possibility, and he raised it. Their breath came in great spouts of steam as they discussed the option of raising a stage in the open, using the massive church doors as a backdrop.

  ‘What more appropriate as the doors of heaven?’ wheedled the heavy-built de Askeles, throwing his long blond locks back with a flick of his hand. The Prior had to admit the prospect was tempting, and after but a moment's thoug
ht agreed.

  ‘Very well. But I must see the whole of the text you propose to use.’

  ‘Of course - you have nothing to fear there. I have translated it myself from the French, where it is knows as the “Passion des Jongleurs”. A truly Christian epic starting with the Creation ...’

  Here de Askeles waved his hand to indicate the performance he had given inside the church.

  ’... including the fall of Lucifer and Adam, and concluding with the Final Judgement. But of course the centrepiece is Christ's Passion and Ascension.’

  The Prior nodded in approval at de Askeles's reverent tones.

  'still, I would see the text.’

  De Askeles bowed extravagantly, and produced a sheaf of bound papers from a pouch at his side. He had anticipated the cleric's request and had prepared this copy for his perusal. There was nothing in it to which the Prior could object, especially as it did not contain the whole text. Once in performance it would be impossible for the cleric to raise any objections. The Prior took the text and shook the actor's hand. De Askeles made to leave, and then, as though having a sudden, further thought, he turned back to the Prior, a sad frown on his noble face.

  'there is the matter of constructing the stage. It must be sturdy, and with trap-doors to enable us to present the Harrowing of Hell . ’