Falconer's Trial Read Online Free PDF

above the heads of the congregation, who were all baying in warlike fashion at the sight in front of them. Kneeling at the altar was the blood-drenched figure of a man dressed in crusader garb, his chain mail rent by long gashes. Still he tried to say his prayers. But his murderers were giving him no quarter. Three men rained blows down on this man and his tabard was made crimson by his own blood. One of the killers finally turned and strode towards the shivering form of Sir Humphrey. His legs ate up the huge distance between them in a trice. His voice bellowed out a threat, as he waved his bloodied sword.
    ‘It’s you next, Segrim.’
    Sir Humphrey tried to move his limbs but they were frozen. He tried to cry out in fear. His whimpers caused the innkeeper, known by the name of Roger Brewer, to roughly shake him by the shoulder.
    ‘Are you all right, Master?’
    Segrim woke up, swallowed the bitter bile that was rising in his throat, and shrugged off Roger’s hand. He covered his embarrassment with an angry rebuff.
    ‘Bad memories. If you had seen what I have in the Holy Land, you would understand.’
    He left the man to create his own images of battles with the Saracens, of blood in the sand and lopped-off limbs. It clearly worked, for the innkeeper rushed off to bring him another jug of ale, returning to wave off the offer of payment. In truth, Roger Brewer, who had never travelled further than the manor boundary, probably knew as much about Outremer as his distinguished guest. Sir Humphrey Segrim, a man of around fifty years, had taken the cross in a moment of drunken bravado. He had wanted to prove to his cold and uncaring wife that he still had the spice in him for combat. He had soon regretted his actions.
    Crossing the channel had been miserable enough, the contents of his last meal on dry land being heaved incautiously into the wind that had sprung up almost as soon as they had left the shelter of England’s coastline. He had then tremblingly splashed water from the drinking barrel over his face and clothes to wash his own vomit off him. The rest of the journey he had sat shivering on the heaving deck feeling both wet and miserable. Ahead of him he knew were weeks of travel. So he had been glad to fall in with a robust and well-built bearded man wearing the garb of a Templar. The man had been reluctant to give his name but Segrim felt sure the Templar liked his company. They were both Latins after all, and due to be travelling in foreign lands. Segrim determined to stick with his new companion.
    Master Thomas Symon was drawing to the close of his uncontroversial lecture on Aristotle and the interpretation of his views by Aquinas. He had chosen this subject to please William Falconer, who was a devotee of Aristotle in all his aspects. Thomas was a little more circumspect than his mentor and thereby he hoped to stimulate William to expound his own views. But the interruption, when it came, was from another quarter. The crowd at the back of the congested school room moved apart and like a surge on the top of a wave, Ralph Cornish pushed forward. His robe was a sombre black but his cappa was trimmed with dark fur; the traditional biretta set square on his head. His opening words made it obvious where he was going to take this debate.
    ‘And where do you stand, Master Symon, on Averroism?’
    There was a murmur of excitement in the throng. It was well known that the Church was perturbed by the spread of what it called radical Aristoteleanism and Averroism in the universities of Europe. There was a conviction that the ideas challenged the very foundations of faith. Thomas gulped and tried to marshal his thoughts. This was deep water for his fresh and unskilled mind. As he took a breath to speak – though he knew not what he would say – another voice, firm and strong, cut through the hubbub.
    ‘Perhaps I might be allowed, as Master Symon’s teacher, to elucidate his thoughts for him.’
    It was Falconer who spoke