Free Falconer's Trial by Ian Morson Page B

to enter into a battle skirmish without a shield and chain mail than come between two wronged women.
    ‘Are you sure you are fully recovered, William?’
    He saw that Saphira was looking into his eyes with some concern and realized he had drifted off for a moment.
    ‘Hmmm. Perhaps I am not as well as I thought. Do you think you should nurse me a little longer?’
    She put on a stern look and poked him in the chest.
    ‘No. What you need is to immerse that fevered brain of yours in cold water and take a refreshing walk. Besides, I have other matters to attend to rather than look after a fool who swallows henbane for a hobby.’
    She was wondering if she could trace Covele, the renegade rabbi turned amulet seller. She was sure he was up to no good in Oxford. Rising from the end of Falconer’s bed, she straightened her dress, and tucked a stray red lock under her snood.
    ‘I will go. Before you have ruined my reputation as well as Ann Segrim’s.’
    Falconer winced, but bowed before the reprimand. Saphira’s comment, however, made him doubly determined to speak to Ann as soon as he could. If Saphira recommended a brisk walk, then he would obey. It was a fair distance to Botley and back.
    The Jews’ cemetery stood just outside the walls of Oxford at East Gate. The flat slabs were carved with the names of those interred within and other significant symbols. Covele sat on a slab that had a deer carved in it, denoting the deceased as belonging to the tribe of Naphthali. He passed a piece of bread to his son who sat at his feet. The gardens of the cemetery were a pleasant place to camp, with shady trees hiding them from the hot sun, and the gaze of anyone passing along over East Bridge and into the town. Neither he, nor his son, was disconcerted by the presence of the dead. Despite Covele’s professing to be a rabbi, and practiser of ancient rituals banned by his more orthodox brethren, he cared little for appearances. That morning he had even filled his water container from the small mikveh that stood at the end of the cemetery. This stone-built ritual bath was fed by the Crowell stream that ran on into the Cherwell, and was a bath three cubits by one cubit by one cubit for immersion and purification. To Covele it was a convenient reservoir. He passed the water jug to his son.
    ‘Here, drink.’
    The nameless boy took the jug and drank deeply. The morning was already bright and threatened to herald another hot, dry day.
    ‘Do you remember, dad, when we were here last?’
    Covele nodded.
    ‘Indeed I do, son. It rained and rained, and we got stranded on the top of this very grave slab. It was like an island in a great sea that stretched for miles in every direction.’
    The boy liked his father. He told tales that expanded on the mundane truth until he could believe his life was lived in a magical land. He listened with rapt attention as Covele continued.
    ‘We might have starved to death, if I had not braved the elements and hunted for food. The fish were snapping at our heels where now all you can see is dry grass.’ He waved his arms to encompass their surroundings. To the boy, their shabby, patched tent became a multicoloured caravanserai in a painted desert. His father’s voice hardened. ‘Then they came and spoiled our idyll.’
    The boy knew who he meant. The tall, grizzle-haired man in the black robe, whose piercing blue eyes seemed to look into your very soul. And the pretty lady with red hair, who held on to his arm as though she was his wife, even though she was a Jew and he a Christian. After they had spoken to his father, they had been forced to flee. His father hadn’t been accused of anything in the end, but Jews were guilty whether it could be proved or not. Since then, the boy and his father had been scraping a living selling talismans and amulets. It had been a surprise to the boy, therefore, to find his father leading them down the dusty road back to Oxford. And now he still wasn’t sure why they had