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

parts of the world he had explored in his travels, and though it was true to say they could be equally as charming or as vindictive as men of any other race, he had always found them generous with their hospitality. And so profoundly fond of scholarship that William had struggled to learn enough Hebrew to understand some of their texts. But today was not the day to set the watchman right.
    ‘Why? What has happened?’
    The watchman cast a fearful glance over Falconer’s shoulder, almost as if he was afraid some Jew might hear his vicious complaints and lay an awful curse on him. He lowered his voice, and whispered in conspiratorial tones in Falconer’s ear.
    ‘There was a child found somewhere beyond St Michael’s churchyard. Horribly tortured, and crucified too, they say.’
    ‘And what has this to do with the Jews?’ Falconer had heard these tales too often before, and they never convinced him of any foul deed other than uncaring parents or an owner thrashing his young labourer a little too vigorously. But the old man had more invective to spew out.
    ‘There were marks on his legs and arms, and on his chest, they do say. Hebrew letters carved on him.’
    ‘How were they identified as Hebrew?’
    ‘The constable brought out the wretch who lives in the Converts’ House. John they call him now, but once a Jew always a Jew, says I. The constable told him that as he feared for his life and limbs he should read the letters on the boy, and tell them what they said in Hebrew. This John said he couldn’t read them, as they were so distorted by the stretching of the boy’s skin. But after the constable gave him a good thrashing, he made them out aright. They told a tale of boy being sold to the Jews for sacrifice. By whom it is not known.’
    Falconer grimaced, and could imagine the fear and shame that had forced whoever this poor John was to make up such a story. He had saved his own skin, but had called down fierce revenge on his quondam fellows. He wondered if there was anything he could do stop this potential carnage.
    ‘Where is the boy’s body now?’
    The watchman pointed towards St Frideswide’s Church.
    ‘He lies in the side chapel there. The priests say his death is such at the hands of the Jews that the Lord may wreak miracles in his favour. They plan to bury him near the great altar.’

Ten

    30 August, 1271

    Peter Pawlyn’s head throbbed unmercifully, and the hammering of the rain on the wooden coveting over the masons’ heads was like a drumbeat prior to battle. He had woken up that morning to find himself sprawled amongst the grubby rushes strewn on the floor of the chamber he shared with John Trewoon and the other apprentice workers. He didn’t recall how he had got there, but assumed the big ox had something to do with it. The last he remembered was standing outside the brothel in Grope Lane. He wondered if he had managed to lie with a whore. He hoped not, because if he had, he would have spent some money, and he would want to remember it in all its lascivious glory. As it was, his mind was a blank. Trewoon had been snoring still, when their foreman had banged on the door to get them up. The sound had echoed round Pawlyn’s skull as if it was an empty cupola.
    He had cursed Wilfrid Southo then. Maybe he would jack in the job, now that he had two weeks’ wages filling his purse.
    But then he would never be a master mason, or even a journeyman - the next stage of masonry open to him. Groaning he had shaken John Trewoon’s arm, and grabbed his tools.
    Now they both sat in a huddle with their comrades sheltering from the rain, and unable to work anyway. Southo was away over in Thorpe’s lodge, nice and dry, poring over the details of the building that was going to go up. Once they had cleared the debris of the houses they had knocked down yesterday.
    ‘Who do you think that was, Peter?’
    Pawlyn shrugged his shoulders at John Trewoon’s question.
    He knew the big man was talking about the