Falconer's Trial (4 page)

Still, the nag could not keep up with Humphrey’s more powerful destrier and they had arrived late in Berkhamsted, on the afternoon of the second day on the road. Here, the increasingly impoverished knight was lucky to find himself a room in the only inn in the town, as the place was crowded with people who were there for market day. Osbert had to settle for a bed of straw in the stables along with the horses. But Segrim knew he would still find his purse even emptier because of such accommodation.

His fear of the Templar drove him upstairs at the inn, where he spent a long hour staring out the unglazed window at the Norman castle opposite. Perched on the ancient mound across the river, the dark slits in the gloomy stones glowered at him menacingly. But finally he could stand it no more and he decided that he had evaded the man who had dogged him across Europe. He could safely show himself in the inn’s main room downstairs, if only for the sake of the fire that glowed there. His room, high under the thatched eaves of the inn, was icily cold and damp. He descended the rickety stairs and surveyed the long narrow room below. The rain had driven many farmers and cattle dealers into it, and the air was thick with damp clothes and animal smells. Segrim eased his way into a corner seat with a high back designed to keep out draughts. He waved an imperious arm at the innkeeper who scuttled over with a jug of sweet ale and some cold meats. Soon he was settled comfortably into the privacy of his secluded corner, and dozed off. But his sleep was disturbed by dreams of the Templar.

To Segrim’s fevered mind, the Templar took on proportions bigger than the man in real life. And even then he was tall and imposing. Now he loomed nightmarishly large over Sir Humphrey, who cowered in fear. In his seat in the Berkhamsted inn his sleeping self whined fearfully. Segrim dreamed he was in the Church of St Silvester in Viterbo once again, its nave stretching long and dreamlike away from him for leagues. At the end of this tunnel stood the altar, seemingly high and towering above the heads of the congregation, who were all baying in warlike fashion at the sight in front of them. Kneeling at the altar was the blood-drenched figure of a man dressed in crusader garb, his chain mail rent by long gashes. Still he tried to say his prayers. But his murderers were giving him no quarter. Three men rained blows down on this man and his tabard was made crimson by his own blood. One of the killers finally turned and strode towards the shivering form of Sir Humphrey. His legs ate up the huge distance between them in a trice. His voice bellowed out a threat, as he waved his bloodied sword.

‘It’s you next, Segrim.’

Sir Humphrey tried to move his limbs but they were frozen. He tried to cry out in fear. His whimpers caused the innkeeper, known by the name of Roger Brewer, to roughly shake him by the shoulder.

‘Are you all right, Master?’

Segrim woke up, swallowed the bitter bile that was rising in his throat, and shrugged off Roger’s hand. He covered his embarrassment with an angry rebuff.

‘Bad memories. If you had seen what I have in the Holy Land, you would understand.’

He left the man to create his own images of battles with the Saracens, of blood in the sand and lopped-off limbs. It clearly worked, for the innkeeper rushed off to bring him another jug of ale, returning to wave off the offer of payment. In truth, Roger Brewer, who had never travelled further than the manor boundary, probably knew as much about Outremer as his distinguished guest. Sir Humphrey Segrim, a man of around fifty years, had taken the cross in a moment of drunken bravado. He had wanted to prove to his cold and uncaring wife that he still had the spice in him for combat. He had soon regretted his actions.

Crossing the channel had been miserable enough, the contents of his last meal on dry land being heaved incautiously into the wind that had sprung up almost as soon as they had left the shelter of England’s coastline. He had then tremblingly splashed water from the drinking barrel over his face and clothes to wash his own vomit off him. The rest of the journey he had sat shivering on the heaving deck feeling both wet and miserable. Ahead of him he knew were weeks of travel. So he had been glad to fall in with a robust and well-built bearded man wearing the garb of a Templar. The man had been reluctant to give his name but Segrim felt sure the Templar liked his company. They were both Latins after all, and due to be travelling in foreign lands. Segrim determined to stick with his new companion.

Master Thomas Symon was drawing to the close of his uncontroversial lecture on Aristotle and the interpretation of his views by Aquinas. He had chosen this subject to please William Falconer, who was a devotee of Aristotle in all his aspects. Thomas was a little more circumspect than his mentor and thereby he hoped to stimulate William to expound his own views. But the interruption, when it came, was from another quarter. The crowd at the back of the congested school room moved apart and like a surge on the top of a wave, Ralph Cornish pushed forward. His robe was a sombre black but his cappa was trimmed with dark fur; the traditional biretta set square on his head. His opening words made it obvious where he was going to take this debate.

‘And where do you stand, Master Symon, on Averroism?’

There was a murmur of excitement in the throng. It was well known that the Church was perturbed by the spread of what it called radical Aristoteleanism and Averroism in the universities of Europe. There was a conviction that the ideas challenged the very foundations of faith. Thomas gulped and tried to marshal his thoughts. This was deep water for his fresh and unskilled mind. As he took a breath to speak – though he knew not what he would say – another voice, firm and strong, cut through the hubbub.

‘Perhaps I might be allowed, as Master Symon’s teacher, to elucidate his thoughts for him.’

It was Falconer who spoke and Thomas breathed a sigh of relief, while feeling cowardly at the same time. In the schools there was a hush as Falconer stepped forward. The gathering formed a circle, with the two protagonists in the centre and an open space between them. It was as if the crowd imagined the two regent masters were about to fight each other. And indeed they were – but the only blows landed would be verbal. This is what everyone present had come for, and after a pause, Falconer continued.

‘I would hope that Master Thomas, as an assiduous pupil of mine, understands Aristotle just as well as his namesake from Aquino, who learned his Aristotle from Albert of Cologne.’

Ralph snorted in contempt.

‘Albertus Magnus was no more than Aristotle’s ape.’

‘Yes, I have heard that criticism applied to him. If criticism it be. And there is much about Albert’s thinking with which I would disagree. But most of what we know of Aristotle comes from him. And from the writings of Averroës.’

‘From where we have the heresy of the beginninglessness of the universe.’

There was a hiss from the assembled crowd. Here was the heart of the matter. Ralph’s reference to ‘beginninglessness’ touched on a dangerous conundrum. If God had created the world, as He surely had, then how could the universe have no beginning? Falconer smiled and eased into an argument he had rehearsed many times.

‘But since the beginning of the world cannot be demonstratively proved, then the universe could have existed without beginning to exist. If you held an open mind, Ralph, you would perceive that. If you applied reason…’

Many of those present began to snigger as Falconer turned the tables. Ralph could contain his anger no longer.

‘What has reason to do with an article of faith? Two years ago in Paris, Bishop Tempier condemned the false belief that the world is eternal as to all the species contained in it; and that time is eternal. Or motion, matter, agent and recipient.’

He crossed his arms over his chest, puffed up with pride at quoting the bishop’s words exactly. He gazed in triumph at Falconer.

‘And as for reason, I know you as an alchemist and a refuter of the mystical in the natural world. As if the world had made itself and operated without God’s wisdom.’

‘On the contrary, I am inclined to the mystical and the beliefs of the good Abbot Joachim, who saw an age when the Just would rule and the hierarchy of the Church, exemplified by such fools as Tempier, would be unnecessary.’

Some present were now openly laughing at Cornish and Falconer could see that Ralph’s face was becoming redder and redder, as if he would explode. But he realized he had once again gone too far and said too much. He had just suggested that the church hierarchy was not needed. It was time to turn the serious debate on its head. He felt carefully in his pouch and positioned himself close to one of the lighted candles that illuminated the room. Ralph was pointing an accusatory finger.

‘I knew it. The Synod of Arles declared these ideas heretical. You are a Joachimite, like your fellow scientist, Friar Bacon.’

Falconer held the little paper tube close to the candle flame and watched it ignite. He held it for a few seconds longer.

‘And like Roger I understand the physical world. And can control it.’

He tossed the burning tube at Ralph’s feet and held his hands over his ears. The paper fizzed for a few seconds, then the package exploded with a green flash and a sound fit to burst the eardrums. Ralph reeled backwards, as grey smoke filled the room. The hem of his expensive robe was on fire and he hopped around trying to beat it out. After the initial shock, and stunned silence, wholesale laughter rang round the room, though few could hear it clearly. Everyone’s ears, save those of William Falconer, had been robbed of sound other than a dull ringing. Ralph saw he was the butt of the joke and pointed once again at Falconer.

‘Joachimite. Alchemist. Fornicator. You will pay for this.’

On which threat he stormed from the room.

FOUR

‘
I
t was merely what Roger calls a firecracker. He played the same trick himself some years ago. But memories are apparently short in Oxford and no one recalled it.’

Falconer was helping Thomas Symon clear up the school room in the aftermath of the celebration. A lot of food and ale had been consumed after Ralph Cornish’s disappearance. More than either William or Thomas could really afford, but jollity had ruled for some considerable while. Falconer scuffed his boot over the black mark on the floor where the firecracker had exploded. Thomas had rebuked him for his childish effort. His attitude to the prank had indeed made Falconer feel like a naughty boy and he was now beginning to regret what he had done.

‘Blame Roger Bacon. He left me two recipes for the powder. One lists saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal of hazelwood. But there is a more complicated one too. The trouble is he left half the ingredients as a code… Luru Vopo Vir Can Utriet.’

Thomas looked quizzically at Falconer.

‘What does that mean?’

Falconer shrugged.

‘I took it to give the amounts required. Seven parts to five to five. From the strength of the explosion, it looks as though I was wrong.’

The two masters looked at each other and then burst into laughter. Thomas was jubilant.

‘Did you see the way Master Ralph danced? Just like he was possessed by the Devil.’

Falconer’s face turned quite solemn.

‘Let us hope that is not truly so. It is Aristotle’s view that evil can be defined as the lack of, or reduced presence, of God. Ralph is a fool but he is not evil.’

Thomas was now surprised at his mentor’s mention of God. Just as he had been when during the debate, Falconer had expressed his adherence to the mystic Abbot Joachim. Though he never dared broach the subject, he had always assumed Falconer lacked any true faith. Now it seemed he was wrong and Falconer had surprised him once again. Quietly, the two Masters, old and new, finished tidying the school room and left for Aristotle’s Hall.

The spicer’s shop was a great attraction to Saphira. Before coming to England in her search for an errant son who had run off when her husband died, she had lived in France. There, spices from the East were particularly relished when mixed with the red wines of Bordeaux. England was a dour place in comparison, especially Canterbury and London, where she had stayed for a while when first arriving on these shores. It was only when she had met William Falconer, and then had rashly found herself pursuing him to Oxford, that the cold, wet weather seemed to get less burdensome. To find a treasure house of spices in the market in Oxford had been particularly welcome. The spicer, Robert Bodin by name, was a large, red-faced man, whose joviality hid a sharp acquisitive nature. No one would cheat him out of the tiniest part of a pennyworth when he weighed out his precious goods.

Whenever Saphira entered his shop, her eyes roved greedily over his expensive wares. All sorts of goods brought from Syria and Cyprus and the East were on display in sacks and barrels. She sniffed the air and recognized the pungent aromas of cumin, ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. But the barrels were also stuffed with almonds, liquorice, figs and dates. Though Saphira had now settled in Oxford and employed a maidservant to see to her immediate needs, she still liked to make her own purchases. Especially at the spicer’s, when her newly acquired knowledge of medicinal herbs and remedies for poisons still buzzed in her head.

Today, Robert was dealing with a tall lady whose long blonde hair was bound tightly under a modest snood. Much as Saphira’s own flame-red hair was when in public. Though her back was to Saphira, she could tell the lady, dressed in a rich, blue robe, was calm to the extent of coolness. And this was all in spite of her short, stocky maid who fidgeted unmercifully and touched everything that the lady made a move to sample. Aware someone else had come into the shop, the servant turned to stare boldly back at Saphira. The dark hairs on her upper lip and chin unfortunately gave her the appearance of one of those monkeys the men returning from the Holy Lands liked to bring home. Saphira suddenly realized she knew her. Her name was Margery, which meant the other woman in Robert’s shop had to be Ann Segrim, who she knew was a former intimate of William’s. She had briefly met her in the street when walking with William after the end of the bad business over an ancient body found in a demolished building. That original meeting had not been pleasant, as Ann had suggested that Saphira was no more than a strumpet. Saphira, for her part, had responded in kind. They had parted on bad terms. For William’s sake, she resolved to try better this time.