Falconer's Trial (8 page)

She had spent three days gathering all the information she could at the nunnery, each day talking to the nuns and taking some sustenance there, then going back to Botley to think. Her encounters with the drunken Alexander had not disturbed her thinking in the least. But she had left it until today before returning to Godstow to deliver her conclusions to the prioress. She had learned enough to know what the poor nun had done, but didn’t know if she would tell the whole truth to the prioress. But speak she must. So, though she felt ill, she knew she could not put it off any longer and rode the short distance to Godstow. Shown the same hospitality as before, Ann swallowed her nausea and ate and drank a little. Meanwhile, Gwladys looked at her expectantly, with the wrinkled visage of Sister Hildegard peering over her shoulder. Ann took a deep breath.

‘I do not think you have anything to worry about, other than to feel sorrow for a lost soul. If what I have learned is so, no one could have got into Marie’s cell the night she died. Every nun is accounted for, and no one else other than Hal Coke can have gained access. And I rule him out, as I was assured he had had too much to drink that night to even stand, let alone walk into the cloisters unnoticed.’

Hildegard’s tongue clicked in disapproval at the behaviour of their gatekeeper. Then she realized she was supposed to be deaf to what Ann was saying, and blushed. Ann chose her words before continuing.

‘Of course, people – even young people – die naturally in their sleep from time to time. But…’

The prioress held up her hand, not wishing to make Ann Segrim state the obvious. Ann breathed a sigh of relief and stood up to go. Gwladys managed a grim smile of thanks, and, by way of recompense for Ann’s inconvenience, offered the rest of the dried fruit that Sister Margaret had brought as usual. Ann accepted the gift and left.

The prioress sat down in her room and pondered her choices. The matter was resolved, but in a most unsatisfactory way. Ann had tried to soften the blow, but the conclusion was clear. The implication of Ann’s enquiries was that Sister Margaret had knowingly killed herself. And self-murder was just as shocking as a killing by another person. One way or another, the matter would have to be buried. Along with the young nun.

SEVEN

‘
I
t’s henbane, you idiot. You were lucky you only tasted a little.’

Saphira sat on the end of Falconer’s bed looking at his prone form. He groaned and began to sit up. His vision blurred and the room swam. He lay back again. Saphira had arrived at Aristotle’s Hall late that morning to find the students who boarded there in a quandary. Their master had apparently not risen at his normal time that morning. And though it was Sunday, it was very unusual for him to miss the first meal of the day. Even though it could often only be pottage, or bread and ale. The trouble was, they were all afraid to waken him. Then one of their number, Peter Mithian by name, returned from church to tell them that he had spoken to Master Falconer that morning early. He had been awake then, and checking on the potions he kept up in his room.

Much to the consternation of the students, who were used to their master’s solitude not being disturbed – and least of all by a woman – Saphira rushed up the stairs to Falconer’s solar. She had found him apparently dead on his bed. It was only when she felt for a pulse, she realized he was still alive. She had sent the boy Mithian, who had followed her up the stairs, to fetch some vinegar. She would have liked an infusion of mulberry bark too, but vinegar would have to suffice. She trickled it between Falconer’s lips, and was relieved when he coughed, and then vomited a little fluid. He would feel vile for a while but he would live.

While he was still recovering, she found a piece of parchment that had been scraped for reuse. In her flourishing hand, she wrote a stern warning and set it by the pot. But then, seeing his hand move with curiosity towards the offending henbane, she snatched the pot up anyway and stuffed it in her purse. She was determined to remove it once and for all from William’s unbridled and dangerous curiosity. He sat up again, this time more successfully.

‘I remember now. Roger Bacon was experimenting with soporifics that he had read about in Arabic texts summarizing Galen’s work. Just imagine – hundreds of years ago Galen was performing surgery on eyes and the brain. We both were sure he must have dulled the feelings of his patients first. So we were looking at what he might have used. It was all a bit hit and miss, though.’

Saphira shuddered at the thought of cutting into human flesh. She wasn’t squeamish, but preferred the idea of intervening in a patient’s illness with natural herbs. It all seemed less brutal and she resolved to stick to what she knew.

‘Well, you would have been very successful in dulling a patient with this pot.’ She patted her purse, where the offending article now safely nestled. ‘More than four leaves would lead you by the hand into an eternal sleep.’

‘Hmmm. You don’t think, as Albertus Magnus did, that the effects of henbane were due to the influence of the planet Jupiter?’

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Saphira laughed out loud.

‘You must feel better already.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You are applying your enquiring mind to the effects you have felt. It cannot be all that dulled.’

Falconer leaned towards her, placing his hand on her knee.

‘And it is not only my mind that is being revived by your presence.’

Saphira laughed again, but firmly removed his hand from its position on her leg.

‘William! Not here, and certainly not in such close proximity to your students. We agreed, did we not, that our pleasures should be undertaken discreetly. For both our reputations.’

William pulled a face.

‘It is ironic, is it not, that we have preserved our secret of intimacy. And yet I am wrongly reckoned to have broken my vows of celibacy with another lady whose reputation should be spotless.’

‘Ah, yes. Mistress Segrim. I saw her the other day at Robert Bodin’s shop. It did not go well.’

Falconer forbore from telling her that he had guessed as much when he had seen the aftermath of their encounter. He might not have been able to explain how he had done so, and not shown himself, but rather scuttled away to avoid a confrontation. He did not think Saphira would appreciate his actions. Besides, he still wished to make his peace with Ann without letting Saphira know he was doing so. Once again, it crossed his mind he would prefer to enter into a battle skirmish without a shield and chain mail than come between two wronged women.

‘Are you sure you are fully recovered, William?’

He saw that Saphira was looking into his eyes with some concern and realized he had drifted off for a moment.

‘Hmmm. Perhaps I am not as well as I thought. Do you think you should nurse me a little longer?’

She put on a stern look and poked him in the chest.

‘No. What you need is to immerse that fevered brain of yours in cold water and take a refreshing walk. Besides, I have other matters to attend to rather than look after a fool who swallows henbane for a hobby.’

She was wondering if she could trace Covele, the renegade rabbi turned amulet seller. She was sure he was up to no good in Oxford. Rising from the end of Falconer’s bed, she straightened her dress, and tucked a stray red lock under her snood.

‘I will go. Before you have ruined my reputation as well as Ann Segrim’s.’

Falconer winced, but bowed before the reprimand. Saphira’s comment, however, made him doubly determined to speak to Ann as soon as he could. If Saphira recommended a brisk walk, then he would obey. It was a fair distance to Botley and back.

The Jews’ cemetery stood just outside the walls of Oxford at East Gate. The flat slabs were carved with the names of those interred within and other significant symbols. Covele sat on a slab that had a deer carved in it, denoting the deceased as belonging to the tribe of Naphthali. He passed a piece of bread to his son who sat at his feet. The gardens of the cemetery were a pleasant place to camp, with shady trees hiding them from the hot sun, and the gaze of anyone passing along over East Bridge and into the town. Neither he, nor his son, was disconcerted by the presence of the dead. Despite Covele’s professing to be a rabbi, and practiser of ancient rituals banned by his more orthodox brethren, he cared little for appearances. That morning he had even filled his water container from the small
mikveh
that stood at the end of the cemetery. This stone-built ritual bath was fed by the Crowell stream that ran on into the Cherwell, and was a bath three cubits by one cubit by one cubit for immersion and purification. To Covele it was a convenient reservoir. He passed the water jug to his son.

‘Here, drink.’

The nameless boy took the jug and drank deeply. The morning was already bright and threatened to herald another hot, dry day.

‘Do you remember, dad, when we were here last?’

Covele nodded.

‘Indeed I do, son. It rained and rained, and we got stranded on the top of this very grave slab. It was like an island in a great sea that stretched for miles in every direction.’

The boy liked his father. He told tales that expanded on the mundane truth until he could believe his life was lived in a magical land. He listened with rapt attention as Covele continued.

‘We might have starved to death, if I had not braved the elements and hunted for food. The fish were snapping at our heels where now all you can see is dry grass.’ He waved his arms to encompass their surroundings. To the boy, their shabby, patched tent became a multicoloured caravanserai in a painted desert. His father’s voice hardened. ‘Then
they
came and spoiled our idyll.’

The boy knew who he meant. The tall, grizzle-haired man in the black robe, whose piercing blue eyes seemed to look into your very soul. And the pretty lady with red hair, who held on to his arm as though she was his wife, even though she was a Jew and he a Christian. After they had spoken to his father, they had been forced to flee. His father hadn’t been accused of anything in the end, but Jews were guilty whether it could be proved or not. Since then, the boy and his father had been scraping a living selling talismans and amulets. It had been a surprise to the boy, therefore, to find his father leading them down the dusty road back to Oxford. And now he still wasn’t sure why they had come.

‘What are we doing here, dad?’

Covele looked down into the boy’s innocent, brown eyes.

‘Revenge.’

The black pudding had been particularly appreciated in Colcill Hall that dinner time. Thomas Symon now resided there temporarily while he sought a permanent living, or some other means of sustaining himself. He could no longer live at Aristotle’s Hall, as he was now a master himself and Falconer kept hall for only students. Nevertheless, Thomas had not moved far. Colcill was a tiny hall tucked in between Aristotle’s and Little Merton Hall. Five impoverished masters shared the cost of renting and putting food on the table. This Sunday, due to Thomas’s involvement with Falconer’s unseasonal slaughter of the pig that had become his teaching aid a week ago, Thomas had provided dinner. The blood and oatmeal mixture, spiced with cumin, savory and rue, and stuffed into a length of the pig’s own intestines, had been delicious. Thomas wanted to thank Falconer again for his generosity. But at the same time he resolved to stop relying on his former master and to stand on his own two feet. He rose from the communal table and walked over to the narrow window looking out on the lane beyond. Just at that moment, he saw someone pass. The figure was distorted by the rough diamonds of glazing in the window, but it was unmistakably that of the regent master himself. Thomas hurried to the street door and swung it open. Stepping into the lane to call out for Falconer to wait, he bumped into another person also walking down the lane.

‘Oh, excuse me, sir.’

Thomas grasped the man’s arm as he stumbled sideways, seeking to prevent him from falling. The man cursed and wrenched his arm away from Thomas’s grip.

‘Let me go.’

Thomas flinched and stepped back from the violence of the reaction. Had he not merely bumped into the man by accident? Before he could repeat his apology, though, the man was hurrying off along the street in the same direction as William Falconer. Thomas stared after him, marvelling at his strange brown garb and broad-brimmed hat topped with a sort of spike. In the confusion, he utterly forgot his wish to speak to his mentor, who by now had turned the corner of the lane and disappeared.

Saphira thought she might spot Covele trading his wares at Carfax as he had done before. She spent a fruitless hour there, watching the crowds pass without seeing the talisman seller. Eventually, she started to make her way along the High Street, looking down each side alley for her quarry. She had not gone far before she saw him emerging from Shidyerd Street and on to the High Street. It was early afternoon and there were plenty of people thronging the wide thoroughfare. Most were making their way from the churches that were scattered around the town and back to their homes for dinner. A few students, more used to being in schools during daylight, were strolling along towards Smith Gate in the northern stretch of the town walls. Outside were open fields where they could disport themselves in the hot sun. Saphira had a more serious task.

She began to follow Covele, who seemed not to have learned that his hat gave him away. Even in the crowd, the straw hat with the horn on top meant she would not lose him. It was only when they both passed through North Gate and into the quiet of the lanes to the west, that she realized he was following someone also. A familiar figure strode at the head of their little procession. And as the afternoon beat down on them, she understood where William Falconer was bound. The long straight track led only to Botley, and Ann Segrim.

It was hot, and Falconer felt uncomfortable as he approached the yellowed stone manor house that was the home of Ann Segrim. But it was not only the weather that was causing his discomfort. He did not know how Ann would receive him. At least she was not alone in the house. He had heard that Sir Humphrey had arranged for his half-brother, Alexander Eddington, to look after the estate while he had gone crusading. Falconer could not picture Segrim as a warrior for God, nor could he see Ann Segrim taking too kindly to another man meddling with her domain. She ran the estate perfectly well whether her husband was there or not. Still, no one could accuse either himself or Ann of impropriety if Eddington was present when they met. He suddenly wondered how he might excuse his presence if the half-brother asked. Perhaps an enquiry about a borrowed book might suffice. He need not have worried. When he approached the front door of Segrim’s dour manor, it flew open and Margery, Ann’s servant and shadow flew out.