Falconer's Trial (18 page)

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 off 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.

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

F
alconer 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.’