[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (10 page)

Nevertheless, their presence was now required at the hastily convened display of the church’s latest martyr. Brother Thomas suddenly realized he didn’t even know the name of the boy, and began to walk towards the prior to rectify the omission.

His progress was abruptly halted, though, by an unprecedented occurrence.

‘What have we here, good prior?’

The strong and confident voice resonated down the nave of the church, and everyone present turned to look at who had spoken out of turn. The reverent hush had been cleaved apart.

The sombre canons in their black hooded cloaks and the pompous townsmen alike wanted to know who dared perpetrate such an outrage. Striding up the nave came a tall, well-built man, dressed in a shabby black robe covered in the dust of recent travelling. He strode straight up to the group of prelates next to the boy’s body.

‘Is this the poor child? Where was he found?’ Prior John was almost dumbfounded by the stranger’s presumption. Huffing and puffing, he finally spat out his words.

‘He was found in the ditch outside North Gate, next to Broken Hays.’ He named an area of dubious merit consisting of ramshackle houses and stinking piggeries. ‘Though what concern that is of yours, master...’

‘Falconer. William Falconer, newly appointed regent master of the University. And formerly of the University of Bologna.’ It was not usual for Falconer to boast of his achievements, but he knew time was of the essence, and he needed to assert his authority in the face of this gaggle of priests.

‘Well, Regent Master Falconer, I ask again, what concern is it of yours? This poor child has been murdered as part of some foul ritual perpetrated by the Jews, and they will be brought to book.’

The murmured assent from the great and the good of the town fluttered upwards inside the dome of the church like a flight of frightened pigeons. The regent master was not intimidated. He snorted with derision, and yanked the lily-white covering off the boy’s body. The assembled canons gasped and stepped backwards as one. Even the prior was shocked by his actions, but Falconer noticed out of the corner of his eye that the Templar priest was not similarly taken aback. He stood his ground, a faint smile lifting the corner of his lips.

He made the sign of the cross with his gloved hands. Falconer bent over the body.

‘And these are the marks that are supposed to be Hebrew letters, are they? They look more like marks made by a stout branch to me, applied to the poor child’s body with excessive force. Look how this curved mark is repeated as the switch was brought down time and again.’ He mimed the action to emphasize his words, bringing his arm up and down over the dead boy’s torso. ‘And look here where there are old bruises and scars under the scarification. This boy has been beaten more than once, probably by his brute of a father, only this time the beating was more than he could bear, and he died under it.’

One of the townspeople stepped forward, an old man with a freckled; bald head and whiskery face.

‘It’s true. This is Matt Stokys’ boy. I have often heard the poor mite being beaten by his father.’

Others joined in the general condemnation now.

‘What? Stokys, the town constable? I always knew he was a brute.’

‘And I have often seen his wife with a black eye too.’
 

Falconer quietly breathed a sigh of relief. He had spoken confidently - more confidently than he had actually been. He had been uncertain of his deductions based on the pattern of scarification, but it seemed he had hit the mark. He just hoped the sheriff examined the accusation carefully before condemning this Stokys out of hand. He would not want to be the cause of an innocent person being accused. But at least he had succeeded in avoiding a bloodbath involving innocent Jews. As the townsfolk began hurrying out of the church, he too turned to leave. He was not unaware of the enmity in the eyes of the old prior, and the hard look he got from one of the younger Austin canons who was standing a little apart from his fellows in the shadows of one of the soaring columns along the nave. He didn’t know Brother Thomas then, of course.

And by the time the priest himself became Prior of St Frideswide’s, Falconer had long forgotten this first encounter.

But Thomas Brassyngton never did.

Eleven

30 August, 1271

Master Richard Bonham was excited by his new discoveries. He could now see the fascination that drove William Falconer to pursue the matter of unresolved murders.

At his first acquaintance with him, he did not see why the simple hue and cry that followed the discovery of a body did not satisfy Falconer. Now he perceived the intellectual attraction of applying a logical approach to uncovering a murderer.

He had moved from merely eviscerating fresh bodies to finding out how the body worked. Now he had applied the rigours of logic in order to tease out the evidence that lay locked within the remains from the building site that were all of twenty years old. Firstly, the skeleton had offered an insight into how the man died, if not the actual cause of death. Whether he had been decapitated pre- or post-mortem remained a mystery.

But the marks on the bones of his hands and arm spoke eloquently of a mortal struggle.

But Bonham had delved deeper than that. Substantial remnants of the man’s clothing had remained encased in the muck that had covered the lower part of the body. The part that had degenerated into white, slippery fat. The material he eventually exposed still retained its colouring, which was a significant find. Moreover a leather glove encased the left hand, which had remained under the rubble. The right hand had been exposed and all that was left of that was bones. But these other clues were enough to give Bonham reason to believe that he could at least identify the calling of the man when alive, if not his name. He was so pleased with himself that once he had finished his morning lectures, the attendance at which was satisfactory despite the weather, he rushed back to his house to set down on paper everything that he had deduced.

Once he had done that meticulously to his own satisfaction, and despite the worsening of the cold that had dogged him for days, he also took another look at the body of the girl. As a suicide, she was shortly to be consigned to the oblivion of a potter’s field burial. This second examination proved significant. What he found made him resolve to seek out William Falconer immediately. He wrapped himself in a heavy, hooded cloak and plunged into the light drizzle of the Oxford afternoon.

Meanwhile, the man he was seeking had been learning a great deal from his friend, Jehozadok. Falconer’s arrival at the rabbi’s home had occasioned a great deal of fuss on the part of Jehozadok. The blind man’s senses told him that his visitor’s clothes were soaked from the continuing downpour. So, despite Falconer’s protests, the rabbi had caused his fire to be built up, and warmed wine to be served. This achieved and the pleasantries of two old friends meeting after a gap of a few weeks being over, Falconer came to the point.

‘You will no doubt have heard, rabbi, of the discovery of a body in the walls of one of the buildings in Little Jewry Lane.’ Falconer knew little escaped the rabbi even though he was largely confined to his room. Many of his flock would call in to ensure Jehozadok was well, and in passing convey all the news they had of the goings-on in Oxford.

Acknowledging the statement, Jehozadok nodded his bald and liver-spotted head.

‘Indeed I have, and it is obviously preying on your mind. There is something I need to tell you. But it can wait for the moment. Please, go on.’

‘It will come as no surprise to you that the body has lain there for twenty years. That is, since the buildings were constructed.’

‘Yes. I cannot believe the profligacy that has caused them to be pulled down so soon. Lumbard will be turning in his grave at the thought.’

‘Lumbard?’

‘Of Cricklade. He owned several tracts in this part of town many years ago. His son still does, though we see precious little of him now. It was Lumbard who caused the old wooden tenements to be pulled down, and the houses in Little Jewry to be built in stone. It was a wise precaution in those days when persecutions could result in houses being set on fire.

Jehozadok’s head sank briefly into his chest as he recalled the bad times of yesteryear. ‘Mercifully, those times are gone, by and large.’

Falconer, sitting close to the crackling fire, and feeling his robes warming as the heat drove the damp out of them, took the opportunity to ask about those times while they were still on Jehozadok’s mind.

‘What can you recall of the time Lumbard had the houses built? Do you remember stories of anyone going missing without trace? I had only just arrived in Oxford, and was unaware of such matters at the time.’ Falconer looked over at the old man, who once again had his head bowed. William was not even sure if the rabbi had fallen asleep or not. He gently prompted his memory. ‘It was the thirty-fourth year of Henry of Winchester’s reign.’

Jehozadok breathed a heavy sigh, and turned his face towards the warmth of the fire. It looked as if his blind old eyes were stating deeply into the past.

‘Yes, it was shortly after Shavuot, that you call Pentecost.’

May: two days after Shavuot, 1250

Hayim, and Aaron, son of Cresselin, came to Jehozadok early in the afternoon. They were distraught, and to them it seemed like one punishment after another had been burdened on them. Jehozadok, already well beyond his fiftieth year, had known them both since their births. He didn’t want to disparage their sense of fear and persecution. But let them live through what he had, and they would know about real suffering.

His father had brought him to England as a baby in 1192 to escape the massacres that were sweeping France and Germany after the Third Holy War. Crusaders had all debts to Jews cancelled, who were then driven out of France as being of no worth. In March of that year a massacre took place at Bray, which was too close for comfort for Jehozadok’s father. His wife died giving birth to the boy who was to grow up in England. Alone together, the father and baby fled. In Bristol, the Jews formed a small community, whose sole means of support was dealing in moneylending. The port of Bristol was a centre for trade, and the Jews thrived. Following in his father’s footsteps, Jehozadok became a rabbi and eventually moved to Oxford where the community had need of his calling.

Though he had a respected position in his own community, Jehozadog was not a stranger to the riots that sometimes threatened his life and those of his people. Indeed, in this strange year of 1250, one such incident apparently had been brewing only a day earlier.

He had heard rumours of a boy found murdered near Broken Hays, and as usual Jews had been accused. It was once again the nonsense of ritual slaughter, which would make him laugh if it was not so serious in its implications. He had quickly warned everyone in Jewry to keep indoors, only risking his own neck on the street to discover the truth. He had hurried from house to house, finally finding out that the accusation rested on information provided by poor half-witted Hak, now called John. The fool had submitted himself to the tender mercies of the Grey Friars because he thought he would get free meals in the House of Converts. And so he had, at the risk of losing his immortal soul. Now apparently on pain of death, Hak had read the Hebrew words inscribed on the boy’s body for the Christians. Which in itself was a miracle, as Hak was too dim-witted to read any form of words. It did not look good for the Jews of Oxford, so when Jehozadok saw young Deudone come skipping up to him in the street, he was angry with the boy.

‘Deudone, child, what are you doing out of doors? Have you not been told that it is dangerous to be on the streets just now? We are accused of evil deeds.’

The boy, aged nine, and beginning to show the rebelliousness that would plague him later in life, curled his lower lip and sneered at the rabbi.

‘Don’t you know that they’ve changed their tune? They say it was the father killed him now.’

‘Who are they? And how do you know?’

Deudone’s face suddenly betrayed a sense of guilt. For him to tell what he knew, he would have to admit being where he shouldn’t have been. But he brazened it out, knowing he had important news. It made him feel grown-up.

‘I wanted to see.., the boy.’ He almost said body, but thought better of it. The rabbi was too old to understand Deudone’s desire to see a real, dead body. So he made up a reason. ‘I wanted to see who it was, and if I knew him. I went into the church when no one was looking. It’s easy because it’s so big.’

‘Hmmm.’ Jehozadok knew the boy was comparing the Christian church with the tiny synagogue on the upper floor of the very house where Jehozadok lived. It was clearly nothing compared to the magnificence of St Frideswide’s, which might have encompassed the Jews’ house of religion in any one of its many small side chapels. ‘Go on, boy.’

‘The black priests were all standing in one of the rooms off the southern side of the church. The... boy must have been there, because they sounded all excited. Then some other people came in. There was Master Bodin and Master Inges, but I didn’t know the others. They were all going to blame us for the death.’ Deudone paused, not wishing to tell Jehozadok that at that point he had felt afraid for his life, and wanted to run off. He had begun to sidle back down the far side of the church. ‘Then this man came in. A traveller, he was, all covered in dust. He uncovered the body, just like that.’ There, he had said the word at last and felt very grownup about it. The body. He didn’t say that he had been too scared to look, in case the dead boy laid a curse on him. He shivered involuntarily.