[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (14 page)

The voice was now nothing more than a whisper on the wind, and Falconer had to press his ear against the door to catch what Bonham said.

‘Indeed he was, though I had hoped I could have surprised you with that revelation. The remnants of his garb were green, and the red cross on his breast was just still discernible. As was the glove on his buried hand. But you must read my notes. Do you see them? I left them outside the door for you.’ Falconer looked again at the bundle in his hand.

‘Yes, I have them here, Richard. But I wish you would open the door, and we could discuss this more sensibly.’ Bonham’s voice suddenly mustered a strength it had previously lacked.

‘No! I... er, just need to rest. I am fearful that if I open the door, it will not be safe...’

The man’s voice had once again tailed off.

‘Richard?’

Falconer heard the slow scratchings of Bonham’s departure along the passage. Wondering why everyone was behaving so oddly all around him, he trudged back to Aristotle’s Hall and his chilly, damp solar. There, after the topsy-turvy night of exhilaration and despair, tiredness overcame him. He threw the half-forgotten bundle he had picked up from Bonham’s doorstep on to the pile of papers on his big oak table. Slumping on the simple bed, he fell asleep almost immediately, the silent, ghostly form of Balthazar, his owl, keeping unblinking watch over him.

Fourteen

Deudone had failed to find Covele, and he was scared. The riot the previous night had not only been all about a ritual sacrifice such as he had been involved with, it had also served to remind him of the time some twenty years earlier when the same accusations had been flung about. He had been only a boy then, but the events were emblazoned on his mind nevertheless.

Particularly because he had much to feel guilty about.

May: two days after Shavuot, 1250

It was a bright sunny day, and nine-year-old Deudone would have preferred to be out running through the water meadows beyond Grandpont causeway. But Jed Stokys was scared to go beyond the walls of the town. His father was the town constable, and would come down hard on his son if the boy so much as put a foot out of line. Deudone had seen Jed after Matt Stokys had dealt with one of Jed’s infractions. His arms and legs had been covered in livid bruises. And poor Jed had been cowed into submission by his father. It was a continuing source of surprise to Deudone that Jed even dared play with him, a Jew. But then Jed had precious few other friends, all because of his father’s temper and his job. So it was that today the best Deudone could expect with scrawny, snivelling Jed in tow would be to lurk around the darker corners of Oxford’s back streets. And find some sort of trouble to get into that would entail them not being caught. Deudone did try his luck one more time, though.

‘Come on, Jed. Your dad will never know. No one will see us if we sneak through the gate when old John Kepeharm is asleep. We can go fishing for eels in the causeway stream by Trill Mill.’

Deudone, despite his age, was the senior partner in their gang of two. And reckoned he could be quite persuasive when it came down to it. But Jed, a year older but more timid, shook his head. He was slumped on the cobbled ground behind St Frideswide’s Church, his back against its warm stones.

‘We’ve still got to get back in. And if I’m seen, I’m for it.’ He shivered at the thought of another beating. He had thought he was going to die the last time, and couldn’t bear to suffer another punishment like that.

‘Very well. Let’s go round to where they’re building those new houses. We can hide in the piles of timber, and when the men have finished, we can climb the scaffolding and look down in the back yards behind.’

Deudone resented not going eeling, but he could see the Christian boy was too scared to go on the proposed fishing expedition. So, aware he had lost the argument, he decided he would win the day somehow. Pretending to lean nonchalantly against the venerable stones of St Frideswide’s, he mentally set himself for a race.

‘So, Little Jewry Lane it is, then. Last one there’s a sissy.’ And he sped off across the cobbles of the courtyard before Jed had even picked himself off the ground. Beating the older boy by several yards, Deudone swung under the stack of timbers on the edge of the building site, where he was out of sight of the masons working on the new row of houses. Jed scrambled after him, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Both of them laughed, punched each other’s arm, and then sank back in silence on to an empty hessian sack.

That was how Deudone happened to hear the Christian priest in earnest conversation with the two Jews, without him or Jed being seen. The first they knew someone was close by was from the sound of boots passing in the lane, and the buzz of a conversation that was at first inaudible. But it was soon clear the talk was more an argument than the pleasantries of people passing the time of day. There were three distinct voices, and Deudone could tell from their accents that two were Jews like him. He might not still have known what they were talking about, if the men hadn’t stopped close to where the boys were hiding. One of the Jews - Deudone thought from his Bristolian accent it was Aaron, Cresselin’s son - suddenly raised his voice in astonishment.

‘Ten thousand marks! You must be joking. We don’t have that sort of money.’

The third man chuckled, and then spoke with a sneer in his voice.

‘You are Jews, aren’t you? Isn’t it your business to make money? A privilege you owe to the King, I remind you. Are you trying to tell me you won’t now assist the King in his time of need?’

The other Jew chipped in. Deudone guessed it was probably Hayim, who was always at Aaron’s side when it came down to matters of business.

‘The ransom money was paid to free the French king, not Henry, our king.’

‘And it is your king who has dictated that you should pay your share of the ransom to rescue his fellow crusader. To deny him what you owe is nothing short of treasonous. But then what should I expect from you Jews?’

At that jibe, Deudone poked his head out of the stack of timbers, ready to attack the man. He was held back by a frightened Jed, who pulled him down. But not before he saw who had been talking. The two Jews were indeed Hayim and Aaron, and they were being confronted by a tall, bearded man dressed in dark green robes with a soft cap on his head.

The cloak he wore was pulled back over his shoulders, and Deudone could discern a red Christian cross positioned over his left breast. The man was waving his hands at the other two, and Deudone could see they were gloved, even though the weather was warm. A big gold ring glinted on his left hand.

‘See that you come up with the money, and soon. I will be back to collect it, and don’t want to waste my time in Oxford. Now off with you, I have other business here.’ Deudone huddled down in the wood pile, his back to Jed Stokys. He couldn’t look at the other boy while his own face was flushed red with embarrassment over the way his fellows had been dismissed by the supercilious priest. But he had already resolved to have his revenge on behalf of his fellow Jews. As he sat simmering, the afternoon was turning into evening, and Jed nudged his back.

‘I have to go home soon, or my father will be angry.’ Deudone grudgingly agreed, and the boys crawled out of their hiding place. The idea of climbing the scaffolding didn’t seem so exciting any more. Besides, the priest was still hovering around. Deudone could see him talking with one of the workmen from the building site at the end of the lane.

The workman had a felt hat pulled down over his curly hair, no doubt, to keep it free of dust from the site, so his face was obscured, and the brim masked his eyes. From the agitated way the priest was waving his arms once again, Deudone guessed that he was not pleased with the workman any more than he had been with Hayim and Aaron. Jed Stokys grabbed his arm, and began to pull him away.

‘Come on, Deudone. We should go before we are seen.’
 

‘Before you are seen, you mean,’ hissed Deudone angrily.

Jed blushed and turned away. Deudone saw an opportunity to get his revenge on the priest, and Jed’s timidity wasn’t going to stop him. He picked up some fist-sized stones from the pile next to him, and crept towards the two men, ignoring Jed’s plaintive whispers to come away. Soon he reckoned he was within range, and he took aim. As he pulled his arm back, he was aware of someone else watching the altercation between the priest and the workman. Standing nonchalantly under the wooden scaffolding that enveloped the partially built houses, was a swarthy, bearded man in ragged clothes. His long sidelocks identified him as a Jew, though he did not wear the yellow tablets on his breast that he should. Deudone did not recognize him as anyone who lived in Oxford, but dropped his arm nevertheless. He expected to be chided for his childish impulse by the adult stranger. But the man pierced him with a sharp stare, and then slowly winked. Deudone grinned, knowing he was being encouraged to act. The stone flew with unerring accuracy. The sickening crack as it hit the priest on the back of his head made Deudone flinch. What had he done? The priest’s cap flew off, and he pitched forwards into the arms of the workman, crumpled there like a dead weight.

Deudone turned to look at the stranger, but he had disappeared.

The boy fled without a backward glance, and Jed scurried after him. Though he had not seen the effect of Deudone’s missile, the Jew’s pale face was enough to scare the Christian boy to death. It was very unfortunate that both boys ran straight into the arms of Matt Stokys when they emerged on to the High Street.

‘What the hell are you doing with this little Jew boy, Jed’! Come here right now.’

31 August, 1271

Deudone could still remember how ashen-faced Jed had gone that day as Matt Stokys led him away. The boy’s father had grabbed Jed’s arm in a pincer-like grip, and dragged him off down the thoroughfare. Jed looked back at Deudone even as his father rained blow after blow on his tender back with the hefty stick he always carried. The boy shot him a look of pleading and horror, mixed with regret. The next time Deudone had seen Jed’s face, the features were still and placid, his eyes sightless, as he lay dead on the side altar in St Frideswide’s Church.

Deudone had grown into a man, but Jed Stokys had never had that chance. He hadn’t even had the chance to become a martyr, when that traveller uncovered the truth about his death.

Deudone now knew the man as William Falconer, and somehow resented his uncovering the fact that Jed had been thrashed to death by his father. A thrashing that Deudone had long felt guilty of causing. Now, with the discovery of the body in the wall, it seemed he might have been guilty more directly of another death. That was why he was once again trying to find Covele. The renegade rabbi was the stranger who had encouraged his action all those years ago. He had turned up every now and then in Oxford since that terrible day, a man reviled by his own kind. The boy had been puzzled by the cold looks that the more respectable Jews of Oxford gave Covele. Being a community virtually shunned by the Christians surrounding them meant other Jews, even strangers, were taken in and protected. But not Covele.

Once Deudone grew older, Jehozadok had finally told the young man why Covele was unwelcome. It seemed he not only practised forbidden rituals that other Jews had avoided since the fall of the Temple, but he did so in a way that aroused the suspicions of Christians. Far from turning him away from Covele, this revelation intrigued Deudone. With a burden still on his conscience, that he reckoned he shared with the renegade, he finally approached Covele. Thus it was that he partook of the ritual the other night. During the ceremony he feared to come fight out and ask the rabbi if the stone he had thrown had killed the priest outright, and Covele hurried away afterwards, not allowing Deudone an opportunity to talk. Now he was resolved that he would get Covele to tell him what might have transpired after he had fled. But he could not be found.

And Deudone could only think of one other man who might be able to help him.

When Falconer woke up it was late afternoon, and a weak and watery sun was shining in through the solar’s windows.

It was the beam of unaccustomed sunlight angled into his eyes that had woken him. Above his bed, the owl had wisely swivelled his head away from the sun’s rays and was sleeping.

The light shimmered redly on his ghostly white feathers.

Falconer was reminded of the trail of blood and death that lay across Oxford. Then he thought of the strange turn of events with Saphira.

For years his slow and careful affair with Ann Segrim had been pleasing and unsatisfying by degrees. It had not led to a physical consummation, but at the time that seemed fight to Falconer. Then Saphira Le Veske had intruded into his life.

Where Ann was fair-skinned and coolly controlled in all she did, Saphira was dark and as elemental as a lightning storm.

He and she had been drunk last night, but he doubted that the outcome would have been different if they had been sober.

Somehow, from when he first met Saphira, shinning down a drainpipe, he had envisaged the inevitable conclusion of their liaison. So, it seemed, had she. He just didn’t know how to deal with it now. Especially as he had ruined everything apparently imagining there might be some truth in the slander of ritual murder of children. How could he have been so crass? He rose from his bed, and tried to press the creases out of his grubby black robe, to little effect. Thoughts of Bonham’s odd behaviour next washed over him. The little grey man had been afraid to open his door. Did that mean he really feared that someone wished him dead? Or had Falconer misunderstood? He stepped across to the oaken table that dominated the centre of his private room, and touched the dirty bundle that he had picked up from Bonham’s doorstep. Suddenly he was aware of angry cries coming from the stairwell, the voices of young men in conflict. Flinging his door open, he peered down the stairs.