[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (19 page)

‘You mean, you don’t want to hear how I came to know these facts?’

‘Only if you wish to tell me.’

Bullock saw he had been outmanoeuvred, but still had a surprise up his sleeve that Falconer had never guessed in all their years of friendship.

‘I will tell you, but first I must tell you something about my own past. Then you will understand.’

1249, Outremer

The tents were arranged as always with the chapel tent in the centre of the encampment, and the knight-brothers’ tents around it. Henry of Cowley’s tent was part of that circle, and his sergeant busied himself checking his master’s kit just outside the tent opening. The Egyptian sun was hot, and the sergeant was dressed in full battle gear. He was sweating heavily, and feeling his age, though he would not admit that to anyone, least of all his fellow sergeant-brothers. He wiped the leather inner lining of Henry’s metal helm, and then worked carefully over the long-sleeved chain-mail hauberk, pouring a little oil on any rusty spots and easing it into the links. He made sure the chain-mail gloves attached to the sleeves were not tangled, and that the coif, or hood, was likewise not inside out. The work was irksome and fiddly, and as the sun beat down on his balding head, he pulled at the padded jerkin under his open sleeveless chain-mail shirt. It was already sticking to his back, and his brown surcoat with its red cross was no protection from the heat. It seemed to absorb the sun’s rays, where his master’s white surcoat only reflected them. His face and head were already a bright red from the sun, and his skin had begun peeling. He had a mind to put his own kettle-hat helmet on, but reckoned it would boil his brains all the quicker.

He turned to checking Henry’s shield for cracks in the leather straps.

In June, King Louis had led a successful landing on the shores of Egypt. The sergeant had fought on the beaches beside Henry of Cowley, and they had helped clear the Saracens out of Damietta. However, before they fled, the enemy had burned the bazaar to the ground. The town was in a mess, and partially uninhabitable, which is why the sergeant was camped out under the hot sun. Since that victory, Louis had been waiting for reinforcements from France, led by his brother Alfonso, Count of Poitou, and for the Nile to subside. Now it was November, and Louis had decided to press south, down the east bank, to Mansurah. The Templars were to be in the vanguard under the control of the Order’s Grand Master, William of Sonnac. Henry of Cowley saw it as the crowning moment of his short time as a Templar knight. The night before the campaign he dreamed of glory in battle, and went to pray before a relic the Templars carried with them.

The sergeant was an old veteran, and the prospect of another bloody encounter did not stir his blood to the same degree.

Besides, that very night his guts began to churn horribly until griping pains bent him double. He felt like a Saracen was sticking a knife in his belly and twisting it. Stumbling out of his tent into the pitch dark, he scurried over to the latrine pits bent in half like an old man. He had barely pulled his breeches down before a hot liquid stream spurted out of his aching arse. By morning he was vomiting too. It was the bloody flux.

His master was quite sanguine.

‘Sergeant, you must stay behind. You cannot keep up with our advance in your state.’

The sergeant protested, but it was a feeble effort as he felt so weak.

‘Sir, it is said that Saint Louis himself suffers chronic dysentery. He is not made to remain in his pit like a coward. Besides, you need me to keep you supplied, and your armour in good repair.’

‘Nonsense, man.’ Henry, young and easily stung by perceived criticism, made a great show of being offended. He was a Templar, could he not take care of himself? The sergeant doubted it, but said nothing.

‘Besides, we will be back in a matter of days, having driven the Saracen out of Egypt.’

Henry would have no more protest, and strode confidently out of the tent towards his string of sturdy destriers. The sergeant rolled over, and clutched his aching guts. It was the last time he saw Henry of Cowley.

The news came back to Damietta in dribs and drabs over the next week or so. At first, the reports were encouraging. A contingent under the control of Robert, Count of Artois crossed a ford shown them by a turncoat Bedouin, and attacked the Saracen camp while their commander Fakr-ad-Din was bathing.

There was wholesale slaughter, and Fakr-ad-Din was killed.

In Damietta those left behind caroused the night away. The sergeant was still too ill to take part, though he drank several flagons of ale simply to prevent his body becoming desiccated.

The flux still ruled his every waking moment, and most of his sleep-interrupted nights also. The smell of shit followed him everywhere, indeed it lurked deep inside his very nostrils.

Though there was no news of his master, there were no reports of significant casualties either. Maybe the carefree youth had survived against all the odds.

A few days later, the news wasn’t so good. Unconfirmed at first, there were reports of setbacks, until one night the worst was known. A ragtag handful of bloodied soldiers stumbled back to the camp. Then the bodies came back, swept down by the river, their spleens rotten and the bodies bloated.

They floated down until the bridge between the two camps trapped them. There were so many that the Nile was full, from one bank to the other. Then the facts emerged. It seemed the fiery Robert of Artois had pushed his luck too far. Chasing the retreating Saracens right into the city of Mansurah, he had dragged the reluctant Knights Templar with him. Their sense of chivalry had forced them to support his ill-advised pursuit.

They were all drawn into a trap, and in the narrow streets they were slaughtered. The count died, with two hundred and eighty Templars. Henry was among them, and his body was never found. Louis’s crusade never recovered from this blow, and by the early months of 1250, he had surrendered himself into captivity and Damietta was lost again.

Feast of St Giles, September 1271

‘By then, I was long gone, mind you. And a good job too, or I would have been slaughtered along with all the other common folk of no ransom value.’

Falconer was astonished by Peter Bullock’s story.

‘I have known you all these years, and never knew you were a Templar sergeant.’

Bullock straightened his bent back, and stared back at Falconer.

‘It’s not a thing I am ashamed of. It’s just that it was a time in my life that passed away, and I didn’t want to reflect on. Too many good men died around me, and too many young ones among them. Youths who deserved a shot at life more than I did.’

Falconer, once a mercenary soldier himself for a few years, understood the guilt of the survivor. As the years went by the sense of injustice didn’t fade; if anything, it got stronger as your own life unfolded into a comfortable old age while those who were hewn down in battle had lost their chance to eat, drink, fornicate and produce children of their own. He could see that Bullock’s eyes were clouded over with recollections of the legions of the dead, who at one time he had stood shoulder to shoulder with. With a great sigh, the constable pulled himself back to the present.

‘So now you will understand what I am about to tell you.’

Nineteen

Saphira Le Veske drew her brocaded gown around her and shivered. The greyness of the evening sky outside the window she stood at seemed to be seeping into the room despite the expensively glazed barrier. She had come to Oxford with a double purpose, and the lesser was now achieved. That very day, after her conversation with Hannah, Saphira had been surprised by a knocking at the door of the house. At first she had the pleasant thought that it was William Falconer, no doubt to apologize for his error concerning the calumny of child-murder. Blushing slightly, she hurried to the door, and pulled it open. To her disappointment, on her doorstep stood the young rabbi who was apparently taking on more of the onerous duties of the elderly Jehozadok. He had a stern, hawklike face that troubled Saphira. She did not think he would be as conciliatory as the man he was replacing. He would be a man more inclined to firm decisions based on strongly held principles than one who trod a thoughtful path through life’s problems. For herself, Saphira chose the second way, though she could be impetuous at times too.

‘Rabbi Jacob. Please come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

The fierce young man sucked in his breath, and followed Saphira down the broad hall into the back room, where a fire took the chill off the air. But not apparently off Jacob’s mood.

He was obviously having difficulty opening a conversation with a mere woman - and a woman alone at that - on a topic that had however to be broached.

‘Madam Le Veske, I am here purely at the behest of Rabbi Jehozadok. And I speak to you in your capacity as a representative of the chirographer of Canterbury Jews.’ She was puzzled for a moment, then realized he had come concerning the matter of the possible tallage to be levied against the Jews by the King’s son. In her pursuit of her other goal, and the excitement of the riot, she had quite forgotten the pretext she had used to come to Oxford.

‘Yes, Rabbi. Do I take it you are here to tell me how Oxford Jewry stands on the matter of resisting the tallage?’ The rabbi ground his teeth, and spat out his message.

‘You will find no support here, I’m afraid. Our position in the town, especially now with all the rumours of... misdeeds, is precarious. If I had my way, we would stand with our fellows in Canterbury, but Jehozadok is adamant. We cannot further enrage the Christians. Or the King.’

It was as Saphira feared - no one was ready to rebel. She had not said as much, but she knew the Jews of her adopted town were unsure of themselves too. If they had heard of resistance in Oxford, they might have stood firm. But they too feared the worst from refusing to pay up. Now it looked as though nothing could be done.

‘I understand. I will convey the message to the chirographer when I return to Canterbury.’

Jacob looked a little puzzled.

‘Do you not intend to start your journey immediately? Your business is at an end here with this reply. Surely it would be as well to tell our co-religionists as soon as possible.’

A slight redness began to creep up Saphira’s neck, and she turned away from the rabbi, and gazed out of the window.

She didn’t want him to see her face.

‘Indeed. But you see there is a small matter I still have to complete. A simple.., transaction that I as a mere woman have overlooked until now. The family business was so much more precisely run by my late husband.’

The lie spilled out of her mouth before she even considered it, its distasteful nature like sour milk on her tongue. Why was she confirming this rabbi’s prejudices, when she knew the opposite was true? Her business had prospered under her management once it was free of the shackles of her incompetent husband. Her lie meant her desire to remain just a little longer in Oxford, and complete her other purpose, was clearly quite powerful. She turned back to see the smirk on Jacob’s lips. Grimacing she dropped her eyes modestly, and led him back to the door. Once he was safely on the other side, she moaned in frustration and kicked the heavy and unyielding oak.

‘You think the Jews stole their own money back after giving it to this ...’

‘Michael le Saux,’ Bullock provided the name of the Templar priest once again. Falconer for once seemed incapable of retaining it in his memory. ‘And I’m not saying the Jews did it as a group, but that perhaps one of them did. One who knew the Templar had a large sum in his possession. He carried the first instalment of an even larger sum, which was provided by Lumbard selling those houses even though work had only just begun on them.’

To Bullock’s surprise, Falconer for once did not berate him for casting doubt on the honesty of the Jews. In fact he looked downcast, as though he himself harboured similar doubts. He did have one retort.

‘Houses bought by Sir Gilbert de Bois. You wonder where he got the money from to buy such a parcel of land in the town.’

‘It matters not where he got the money, it is finding where the money went to that will lead us to the killer.’ Falconer leaned back in his chair, tipping it precariously on the two back legs, and scratched at his tousled hair in frustration. In his eagerness to press home the advantage, the constable let out another secret from his past.

‘I met the priest, you know.’

‘Le Saux? Where? Here in Oxford?’

‘No, it was some while before I reached Oxford. It was on my journey back from the Holy Land. When Louis was taken, what was left of the army fled by ship to Cyprus, landing at Famagusta. It was chaos, with leaderless men, whose lords had been either killed or taken, fighting to get berths on ships leaving for home. Even the Order’s command structure was fractured. The Grand Master was dead, and Reginald was not yet appointed. The harbour was a mass of shifting humanity, each person like a pebble rolling on the shore with no purpose, and I was one of the stones. Then someone touched my arm, and gave my rank.’

The day before Epiphany, January 1250

‘Sergeant. Your services are required.’

I turned round, and there he stood. Though I didn’t know his name at the time. All I saw was a tall, slim Templar priest in immaculate green robes and wearing leather gloves. I couldn’t’ work out how he could be so neat and tidy, when all around him were dishevelled and covered in blood. His eyes were brown and calm, his face showing no sign of strain. A long straight nose sliced his features in two, stopping at his trim moustache and beard. I looked down at my own shabby brown mantle, stained with vomit and filth, and felt ashamed.