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Read Online [William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death by Ian Morson - Free Book Online
Authors: Ian Morson
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a reply, and went on his way. He cut down St John’s Lane to avoid the noisiest of the revels that tumbled out of the drinking rooms and taverns close by St Frideswide’s Church. Still the strains of a bunch of drunken students echoed down the lane behind him.
‘Bacchus saepe visitans
Mulierum genus
Facit eas subditas
Tibi, O tu Venus!’
He contented himself with the thought that at least they were singing their profane songs in Latin. Crossing Grope Lane, he almost bumped into a couple of workmen, one tall and burly, the other short and wiry. The stench of ale pervaded their clothes and their breaths when they remonstrated with Falconer over interrupting their erratic course up the lane. The wiry one was the more belligerent.
‘Watch out, you old sodomite. Go and swive one of your students, and leave the whores to real men.’
He staggered off before the startled Falconer could think of a smart retort. The burly one shrugged his shoulders, and apologized for his friend.
‘Sorry, master. Only Peter has come into some money tonight, and he means to enjoy himself. He did not mean to offend you.’
Falconer smiled ruefully.
‘That is fine. Though I must say that I have many sins on my conscience, but buggery is not one of them. Watch out
for your friend. I see he is intent on visiting Agnes’ brothel.
There are light fingers at work in there.’
The man called Peter was leaning on the doorway of a whorel!ouse, and beckoning to his friend to come. Every time he waved his arm, he swayed and almost fell over. Finally he clutched at the door frame, and vomited into the mud at his feet. ‘ "
‘I suggest you take him home. He will regret this tomorrow when he rises for work.’
The big man grinned sheepishly, and slung the two sacks he was carrying over his shoulder. The metallic clank as he did so suggested he and his friend were carpenters or masons.
Falconer hoped that the sonorous note of a well-swung hammer hitting a chisel would teach Peter a lesson the next day about drinking too much.
‘Yes, master. I will get him home safely, never fear. Good night, and sorry again.’
Falconer nodded, and watched as the burly workman lumbered up the lane towards his drunken companion, who was now on his knees retching. He sighed, and carried on towards Aristotle’s Hall.
‘This is grave news you bring me, Simon.’
Thomas Brassyngton, Prior of St Frideswide’s, was a fussy man with an inflated sense of his own importance. Truth to tell, he held a significant post in the town of Oxford. St Frideswide’s Priory was a major ecclesiastical foundation, but it was still outmatched by Oseney Abbey outside the town walls to the west, and struggled to draw in as many pilgrims to see its various reliquaries. Brassyngton smarted under the shadow cast by Oseney, and in consequence did everything possible to outdo his bigger rival whenever he’could. When the curate of St Aldate’s had come to his door with tales of blood sacrifice, he had swallowed his annoyance at being importuned so late at night. Normally, after the large meal he had already consumed, he would have retired to sleep off the copious amounts of good red wine he had drunk along with the heavy repast. He had almost refused to see Simon. But the urgency of his pleas had struck a chord, and he had finally agreed.
As Simon told his story of unearthly screams, sinister Jews, and bodies being dragged bloodily indoors, the prior began to calculate the benefits to himself and his church if he personally was to uncover evil in the town. It was scarce fifteen years since poor Hugh of Lincoln had been discovered, and they were already calling him Little Saint Hugh. Lincoln Cathedral was profiting mightily from the incident, so the sacrifice of children in Oxford could create a similarly lucrative opportunity for a pilgrimage. Especially if he could obtain the child’s body. Brassyngton narrowed his eyes.
‘Have you told anyone else of this matter,
‘Bacchus saepe visitans
Mulierum genus
Facit eas subditas
Tibi, O tu Venus!’
He contented himself with the thought that at least they were singing their profane songs in Latin. Crossing Grope Lane, he almost bumped into a couple of workmen, one tall and burly, the other short and wiry. The stench of ale pervaded their clothes and their breaths when they remonstrated with Falconer over interrupting their erratic course up the lane. The wiry one was the more belligerent.
‘Watch out, you old sodomite. Go and swive one of your students, and leave the whores to real men.’
He staggered off before the startled Falconer could think of a smart retort. The burly one shrugged his shoulders, and apologized for his friend.
‘Sorry, master. Only Peter has come into some money tonight, and he means to enjoy himself. He did not mean to offend you.’
Falconer smiled ruefully.
‘That is fine. Though I must say that I have many sins on my conscience, but buggery is not one of them. Watch out
for your friend. I see he is intent on visiting Agnes’ brothel.
There are light fingers at work in there.’
The man called Peter was leaning on the doorway of a whorel!ouse, and beckoning to his friend to come. Every time he waved his arm, he swayed and almost fell over. Finally he clutched at the door frame, and vomited into the mud at his feet. ‘ "
‘I suggest you take him home. He will regret this tomorrow when he rises for work.’
The big man grinned sheepishly, and slung the two sacks he was carrying over his shoulder. The metallic clank as he did so suggested he and his friend were carpenters or masons.
Falconer hoped that the sonorous note of a well-swung hammer hitting a chisel would teach Peter a lesson the next day about drinking too much.
‘Yes, master. I will get him home safely, never fear. Good night, and sorry again.’
Falconer nodded, and watched as the burly workman lumbered up the lane towards his drunken companion, who was now on his knees retching. He sighed, and carried on towards Aristotle’s Hall.
‘This is grave news you bring me, Simon.’
Thomas Brassyngton, Prior of St Frideswide’s, was a fussy man with an inflated sense of his own importance. Truth to tell, he held a significant post in the town of Oxford. St Frideswide’s Priory was a major ecclesiastical foundation, but it was still outmatched by Oseney Abbey outside the town walls to the west, and struggled to draw in as many pilgrims to see its various reliquaries. Brassyngton smarted under the shadow cast by Oseney, and in consequence did everything possible to outdo his bigger rival whenever he’could. When the curate of St Aldate’s had come to his door with tales of blood sacrifice, he had swallowed his annoyance at being importuned so late at night. Normally, after the large meal he had already consumed, he would have retired to sleep off the copious amounts of good red wine he had drunk along with the heavy repast. He had almost refused to see Simon. But the urgency of his pleas had struck a chord, and he had finally agreed.
As Simon told his story of unearthly screams, sinister Jews, and bodies being dragged bloodily indoors, the prior began to calculate the benefits to himself and his church if he personally was to uncover evil in the town. It was scarce fifteen years since poor Hugh of Lincoln had been discovered, and they were already calling him Little Saint Hugh. Lincoln Cathedral was profiting mightily from the incident, so the sacrifice of children in Oxford could create a similarly lucrative opportunity for a pilgrimage. Especially if he could obtain the child’s body. Brassyngton narrowed his eyes.
‘Have you told anyone else of this matter,
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