[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death by Ian Morson Page B

from a distance as his prior, John Ufford, fussed over the body of the child. It had been laid out in one of the side chapels of St Frideswide’s Church, and decorously covered with a white linen cloth, leaving only the boy’s face on view. There had been some debate amongst the canons as to whether the marks of his martyrdom should be displayed or not. Modesty had prevailed, and they had been Covered up. Thomas thought it just as well, as not only were the marks on the body unpleasant, but in life he had been a scruffy street urchin seething with lice. One of the lay brothers had at least washed his face, and its deathly stillness gave it an angelic appearance.
    Standing next to Prior John was a priest clad in a green robe with gloved hands that marked him out as a Templar.
    Thomas didn’t know his name, but was aware that his business in Oxford was gathering funds for the ransom of Louis, King of the Franks. The Holy War being waged in the Middle East, the seventh of its kind, was going badly. Louis had been captured at the Battle of Fariskur, and a million besants was requir’ed to effect his and his army’s return. Damietta was also to be ceded to the Muslims. The Templar priest was here principalty to screw money out of the Jews, who were effectively King Henry’s property. As long as he kept away from raiding the funds of St Frideswide’s, Brother Thomas didn’t care. Let the Jews scream and wail - no one would have any sympathy for them in the present circumstances. The dead boy bore witness to that. He watched as the Templar priest leaned across to his prior, and whispered something into his ear. Whatever it was, it pleased John Ufford, who smiled, and squeezed the green-clad arm of the other priest.
    Soon, townsfolk started assembling as the news of the outrage began to be spread. Reverently clutching their headgear in their hands, a handful of merchants with nothing better to do with their time shuffled down the aisle towards the side chapel. Thomas recognized them as aldermen of the town, who were wealthy enough to pay others to do their work.
    Even down to the employment of crook-backed Peter Bullock as their town constable. John Bodin and William Inges were at the head of the delegation, ensuring as usual that they were in a position to take credit for anything that happened in Oxford.
    Brother Thomas was inclined to remind them that they had not, however, been in the forefront of the cowed congregation when he had last delivered his oration on the impending end of the world. Maybe because that was something Masters Bodin and Inges did not want to claim as their responsibility.
    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