Falconer's Trial (13 page)

The morning was proving to be just as anxious a time for Saphira as it was for Bullock. She was awoken by the sound of someone knocking urgently on her door. Wrapping a fur-lined cloak around her, she descended to the door and cautiously pulled it ajar. A boy stood there saying he had a message from the constable. Peter Bullock had told the boy to tell Mistress Le Veske that the chancellor of the university meant to try a certain person for murder that very day. The boy then ran off down the street, the richer by a small coin given him by Saphira.

Once Saphira had been advised of this perilous state that Falconer found himself in, she hurriedly dressed. She immediately knew what she had to do, as a result of the information she had culled the previous evening. At that time, she had hoped to easily track Covele and his boy down. Upon enquiring around the Jewish community, she had discovered that someone resembling the talisman seller was camped out in the Jewish cemetery. She cursed herself for forgetting that was exactly where Covele had been the last time he came to Oxford. It should have been no surprise to her that he would use the same spot again. Having wasted a few hours finding out what she should have known already, she hurried across town and through East Gate. Though she had no real plan in her head other than confronting Covele, she sensed that speed was of the essence. Peter Pady at the gate warned her that, with dusk approaching, he would be closing the gate shortly.

‘If you wish to avoid being locked out, Mistress Le Veske, you will need to return soon.’

‘I hope I will not be long about my business, Peter.’

‘Very well. You can always try the wicket-gate, if the main gate is shut.’

Saphira thanked the watchman, knowing that Pady appreciated the sight of a well-turned ankle when a lady lifted her skirt to step through the small gate set in the larger one. He would keep the wicket-gate open as long as he could. Even so, her business was briefer than she had expected. When she got to the cemetery there was no one there. Covele and his son had fled.

She retraced her steps to East Gate, which was now closed. Stepping through the wicket-gate, she smiled at old Pady. He was seated in his usual spot on a low stool by the entrance, where he had a better view of female legs.

‘Peter, have you seen the talisman seller recently? He wears a big conical-shaped hat with a spike on top and has a boy with him.’

Pady nodded happily.

‘I don’t know about the boy, but…’

So saying, he thrust a hand down inside the front of his tunic. From below the greasy collar he produced a stone on the end of a leather cord that encircled his neck. He held it between a grubby finger and thumb, showing the marks on its surface.

‘I bought this from him this very morning. It is protection against the joint pains I have been suffering from. It’s so hard getting out of bed these days, I’m so stiff. He told me this would stop all that.’

Saphira doubted very much that the old man would be any better tomorrow for the wearing of a pebble. Except for his own mind telling him he was. But there was no point in disappointing him now. Covele relied on the credulous to buy his amulets and then wait for their effects to appear. In the meantime he moved on before they could complain of their failure. It looked as though that was what had happened now. Unless Covele was truly guilty of the murder of Ann Segrim and had fled the consequences. She had another question for Pady.

‘Where did you see him when you bought your talisman?’

‘Well that was a bit of luck, really. You see, my knees were aching something awful and I was thinking of seeing Old Mother Gertrude over in Beaumont. She has some wonderful recipes for pains. Though she charges the earth for them too…’

Saphira almost broke into the old man’s ramblings to hurry him up. But she knew he might clam up on her if she did, so she contained her impatience. He would get to the point eventually.

‘. . . Anyway, I was just passing Robert Bodin’s shop, when I saw the Jew coming out. He wore that hat, just like you said, and had talismans and amulets hanging off his cloak. All sorts of silver cases and big stones with coloured lines running through them. But I could not afford anything like that. So I stopped him, and told him my neighbour had bought one of his smaller stones. Did he have another like it? He said, yes, and produced this from a pocket inside his cloak.’

He held up the pebble again. The marks on it were not natural grains in the stone, but had been painted on. Saphira could see it was the Hebrew letter aleph. At least wearing it would do Pady no harm. Which is more than she could say for some of the preparations Gertrude concocted. Pady had saved himself from a bad stomach ache at the expense of a few pennies for a pebble with a hole in it. But what he had said about Covele intrigued her.

‘Coming out of the spicer’s shop, you say?’

‘That’s right.’

Saphira thanked the gatekeeper by planting a kiss on his bald pate and rushed off along the High Street. Unfortunately, she had been too late. The spicer’s shop, along with many others, was already closed with the shutters up. She would have to wait till the morning to investigate further what Covele’s business had been in the shop.

Now the morning had come, and the new urgency of the situation had driven Saphira round to the spicer’s shop a little too early. She was standing outside Robert’s door but the shop was not open. She waited impatiently, watching as the other shops around opened up. Shutters were lowered and goods laid out on display. The town was gradually waking up. However, there was no sign of the spice shop opening. Finally, she decided to knock on the door. In fact, she hammered on it ceaselessly before getting any response. Robert Bodin’s head popped out of an upstairs window and looked down. He seemed to be quite fearful of all the commotion.

‘What do you want, woman?’

Saphira looked up, wondering why Robert had not opened his doors as usual, and why he looked so worried.

‘I just wanted to ask a question about one of your customers. A Jew – the talisman seller. He was here yesterday.’

‘Yes. What about him?’

Robert looked very pale and his voice quavered. Others in the street were looking at the strange interchange with curiosity.

‘What was his business in your shop? Can you tell me what you sold him?’

‘I don’t think that it is any of your business. But I can see you won’t leave me in peace until I tell you. The Jew bought arsenic.’

Bodin’s head then disappeared and his shutters slammed shut.

In St Mildred’s Church the trial ground on. After establishing that the death of Ann Segrim had been by poisoning, with which Peter Bullock was made to reluctantly agree, Bek was now calling his first witness.

‘I begin the case by taking evidence of Regent Master William Falconer’s… relationship with Mistress Ann Segrim.’

Thomas Bek deliberately hesitated in his sentence to suggest he knew more about the relationship than he really did. However, Falconer had annoyed so many of his fellows over the years that it had not been hard to find someone who would testify against him on the subject. And who would turn rumour into truth with pleasure. In fact, Master John Samon had responded with alacrity to the approaches of the Southern Proctor, Henry de Godfree. Bek had suggested him as a witness, as Samon still carried with him the burden of his reputation as a student troublemaker. He would therefore do anything to ingratiate himself with the hierarchy of the university. His disreputable past was largely centred on a hot-headed incident in 1264, when he and two other clerks had broken down Smith Gate in protest at its being locked against the students. Since becoming a regent master he had worked hard to change that perception, deliberately turning himself into the most conservative of teachers. This mantle had set him in opposition to Falconer on many an occasion. Bek knew Samon would happily slander Falconer, if he thought it would improve his standing with the chancellor.

‘I summon Regent Master John Samon to testify against the accused concerning his and Mistress Segrim’s behaviour.’

John Samon rose from his place halfway down the nave and moved towards the altar. He was a sturdy man running a little to seed, as his healthy appetite now outdid his levels of physical exertion. The Smith Gate incident had come about because the locked gate had prevented Samon and his friends from exiting the town to desport themselves on the fields beyond. These days, his most strenuous labour was to climb the stairs to his solar in Vulp Hall. He was relishing his place as the centre of attention, under the approving gaze of the chancellor. He stood before the assembled congregation, tree-trunk legs spread wide, his hands nestled over his generous belly.

‘Chancellor, fellow regent masters, I know it for a truth that William Falconer…’ Here he cast a sidelong glance at the accused to emphasize his point. ‘. . . has on many an occasion met with the late Ann Segrim – God rest her soul – and touched her intimately.’

There was a gasp of shock and disapproval from the other masters that Peter Bullock found hypocritical, and almost laughable. He could swear that he had seen most of those present in one or other of the bawdy houses down Grope Lane at one time or another. Even the stately Master Halle, sitting on the front row of seats with his face a picture of sour disgust, had recently been seen by one of his watchmen coming out of Agnes’s brothel, his patrician grey hair in disarray. To criticize improper conduct in William was ridiculous. But he was in no position to stop the vilification. All he could do was listen as Samon quoted chapter and verse concerning times he had observed William and Ann in compromising situations. It amounted to nothing more than a touching of hands together, or the friendly patting of a shoulder. But it was enough in the circumstances. Though no proof was offered of a more intimate relationship, Bullock knew what people would infer. He had long cautioned Falconer about how his dalliance with Ann might have seemed like to others. Now, the chickens were coming home to roost, and all Falconer could do was sit impassively and listen to it all. Samon rounded off his accusations with a final sally.

‘This man has corrupted the wife of an important local landowner and must be brought to book for his misdeeds.’

A ripple of agreement ran through the black-robed masters and Samon stomped back to his seat. All eyes turned to the chancellor, wondering where this evidence might lead next. Bek did not keep them waiting.

‘I wish to call before you Alexander Eddington, half-brother to Sir Humphrey Segrim, and master of Botley Manor while Sir Humphrey was following the Cross in the Holy Land.’

Bullock grimaced at the pronouncement. The chancellor was making every effort to paint a picture of the whole Segrim family being as pure as the driven snow. Speculative murmurs echoed through the church, as the masters waited for Eddington to be brought forward. As an outsider, he had had to wait outside the church until this moment. When the half-brother strode up the centre aisle, well-scrubbed and dressed in a sombre purple tunic, he looked very unlike the drunken wretch the constable had seen two days ago. With a deferential tone, Bek invited him to offer his testimony.

‘Sir, when did you last see Falconer and your sister-in-law together?’

Eddington took a deep breath and turned to address the rows of eager faces that confronted him. They were agog with expectation.

‘Last Sunday. I was called to my sister’s bedchamber because that man…’ He pointed an accusing finger at the impassive, almost bowed figure of Falconer. ‘. . . that man had forced his way in. It did not take me long to eject the coward, however.’

The muttering that had broken out at the mention of Ann Segrim’s bedchamber now turned into a hubbub of protestations. Eddington threw a sly look at Falconer, triumph etched into his features as he carried on.

‘I did not see him the second time he came, or he would not have had the chance to murder my dear sister.’

Amidst the crescendo of noise, Bullock wondered if there was more to Alexander Eddington’s outrage than first appeared. Was he a little too eager to throw accusations of murder at William? The constable made a mental note to look closer into Eddington’s behaviour whilst at Botley. For now though, the damage was done. But the damning evidence didn’t stop with the half-brother. Bek banged the flat of his hand on the ornately carved arm of his chair until silence was restored in the church.

‘I now call to witness the maidservant of Ann Segrim. She is called…’ He leaned over to Henry de Godfree, who supplied the forgotten name. ‘. . . Margery of Botley.’

Eddington stepped away from the chancellor and walked back down the nave. When he came back, he was dragging a scared Margery by the arm. He positioned her where he had stood. She cast a fearful look around the assembled throng of black-robed masters. Their eyes seemed to bore deep into her soul, and she trembled. Bek attempted to reassure her with words but his tones were still imperious.

‘There is no need to be afraid, child. Tell us the truth and all will be well.’

Margery nodded and wrapped her arms around her ample waist as if to comfort herself.

‘He came that day, just like the master’s brother said, and made me take him to the mistress, God rest her soul. Even though I told him she was in her private bedchamber.’

Bek intervened for the benefit of clarity. He did not want any error made here.

‘
He
is Master William Falconer.’

Margery looked scornfully at the chancellor as though he were a dim child in her care.

‘Yes.
Him
.’

She pointed at Falconer, who still sat impassively on his small chair, his eyes fixed on some point in the roof of the church.

‘He pushed his way in and badgered the mistress when she was sick. He said he would cure her, but it was days before he came back. That shows how much he cared for her.’

Bullock thought he heard a quiet groan from Falconer’s lips. But when he looked at his friend, his eyes were once again empty and unfocussed. Margery carried on telling her story about how she went to the spicer’s shop to get a preparation of feverfew.