Falconer and the Death of Kings

by Ian Morson

  ‘You can mock us medical people and our obsessions with the waste products of the body. But be careful. When next you want a corpse examined for a cause of death, I shall leave it up to you to delve inside the carcass.’

  Falconer shuddered at the thought, as did the monk who was following their banter with horror.

  ‘You are right, Thomas. You butchers do have your uses.’

  Falconer’s reference to Thomas’s facility with knives reminded him of the monk who had set him on the wrong track that morning. He still owed the man a trick in return for his misleading guidance to Butchery Street. The medical school could have been easily found with the right directions, but at least Thomas’s confusion had resulted in his striking up a friendship with Jack Hellequin.

  After Adam’s lectures had finished, he had walked with him down to the bottom of the street. There, the narrow houses, stacked cheek by jowl, ended, and a view opened up of the River Seine. A few small rowing boats were drawn up on the muddy bank, and he and Jack sat on an upturned one. It was the first time that Thomas had realized that right across on the opposite bank was the massive bulk of Notre-Dame Cathedral. From the back of the school, it was clearly possible to see the towers, from one of which Paul Hebborn had fallen to his death.

  ‘You are thinking of Paul.’

  Jack’s observation startled Thomas for a moment. Was he that obvious? If he was to be anywhere as good as William in winkling out truths relating to murder, he would have to wear a more veiled visage. Still, he could use the situation to find out more about the dead youth.

  ‘Yes, I was. Was it true what Geoffrey Malpoivre said, that Paul was a misfit?’

  Jack looked at the muddy earth at their feet, poking it with a stick he had picked up.

  ‘Don’t believe everything that Geoffrey tells you. He likes to think of himself as the leader of our little group. And, God knows, he has the money to permit him the right. Most of the others fawn over him in the hope of a free drink at the tavern every night.’

  ‘But you don’t.’

  Jack shook his head sadly.

  ‘Don’t imagine I’m a paragon of virtue, either. I am poor enough to be grateful for Geoffrey’s beneficence too. And I can fawn with the best of them to gain that. But I don’t blind myself to his overbearing manner. As for Paul, he didn’t fall under Geoffrey’s spell, either. And it’s true that he was outside the magical circle somewhat. You must understand that the university is divided into four nations. The French Nation predominates, but those from Rouen make up the Norman Nation, while those in the north who speak Flemish and some French are the Picard Nation.’

  ‘And the fourth is the English Nation?’

  ‘Yes, including German and Slavic speakers. They are very much in the minority, and I suppose that is how Paul felt. One among many. But to get back to my original point, don’t imagine that Geoffrey Malpoivre is all generosity and understanding. He was just as capable as any of us of teasing Hebborn unmercifully for his stammer. Only Master Adam seemed to sympathize with his difficulties.’

  Thomas looked at Jack, who was still scratching the mud into random shapes with his stick. The young man sometimes seemed very old to him.

  ‘Your master is a generous man, then?’

  ‘Adam? Oh, yes, he is generous. If he takes to you.’

  Thomas had wanted to tell Falconer all that he had learned. But after dinner William seemed distracted and full of his own concerns. Thomas lit a candle in their shared room and sat on the end of his bed.

  ‘I could tell you something about Paul Hebborn, but you look as if you are bursting to tell a story of your own, master.’

  Falconer sat on one of the low stools and looked at Thomas with surprise.

  ‘Either I am getting more obvious with age, or you are becoming more perspicacious, Thomas Symon. I will allow that it is your greater wisdom, if only because it then does not mean I am weakening as I grow older. And less of the master, if you please. You are Master Thomas in your own right now, and an equal. Almost.’

  ‘Then, William, tell me what is on your mind.’

  Falconer pulled his stool closer to Thomas, causing the legs to screech on the stone flags.

  ‘You will not believe who I spoke to today. But our conversation was an uncanny echo of a tale told us last year in Oxford.’

  Thomas was lost already, and his puzzled look pleased Falconer no end. He could still perplex his young and eager companion, despite his apparent mental decline over the years. He decided to stretch out the agony a little more first.

  ‘But you are right. Your investigations into the death of Paul Hebborn take precedence. Tell me what you have found out. Oh, and did you arrange for Roger Bacon to meet you at the school of Adam Morrish?’

  ‘I did speak to Master Adam about using a room in his school, and that in return I could arrange for a very great scholar to teach there. He was curious as to who it could be, but said I could use the room anyway. There is a downstairs room at the back that is too small to teach in, but I could use it. I looked it over. It was dirty and damp – the house backs on to the river. But it will serve.’ Thomas paused enough from his outpouring to say what was really on his mind. ‘Now for God’s sake tell me who you have been speaking to, and what your reference to a tale from last year is all about before I burst with curiosity.’

  Falconer burst out laughing.

  ‘Then I will tell you. Do you remember the strange story Sir Humphrey Segrim told us?’

  ‘About the Templar knight who pursued him across the world to the Holy Lands and back?’

  ‘That is it. He thought the death of Ann, his wife, was because he knew of a complex conspiracy to murder. And the Templar was trying to make sure Segrim and his wife, whom he might have told, never revealed the truth.’

  ‘But we found that to be a fantasy when we uncovered who really killed Mistress Segrim.’ Thomas paused uncertainly. ‘Didn’t we?’

  ‘We revealed that it had nothing to do with Ann’s death, yes. But we didn’t prove either way that what Segrim believed as true was not the case. It simply became irrelevant.’

  Falconer pulled the flagon of beer that stood on the table towards him. He poured two generous servings in pewter jugs and drank deep from one before continuing. Thomas took the other jug, sipped, and returned it to the table as Falconer spoke again.

  ‘Strangely enough, Sir Humphrey came to me before we left Oxford and begged me to find out if there was any truth in the tale. And to find out about the fate of the Templar.’

  ‘Odo de Reppes? He just disappeared, didn’t he? The Templars are good at that. Dealing with their own.’

  Falconer nodded and drank from his jug again.

  ‘You are right. He did disappear. But we do not know the reason why he did. After all, we do not know if he committed any crime or not.’

  Thomas pushed his tankard around the table and wiped the wet circle the base had left on the bare oak with the sleeve of his robe.

  ‘What has this to do with what is happening now? Surely you do not intend to pursue the matter on Segrim’s behalf? It was a crazy idea then, and it remains so.’

  Thomas was more vehement than he needed to be, partly because it was he who had been taken in by Segrim’s story in the first place. It had diverted him from the trail that led to Ann Segrim’s real killer. The gleam in Falconer’s eyes told him, however, that his former teacher was not going to leave the matter alone. Falconer began to explain why.

  ‘Today I spoke to someone who cast doubt on our assessment of Sir Humphrey’s tale. He suggested that there might be a link between several deaths over the last three years, including those that Segrim mentioned.’

  Thomas was still unconvinced.

  ‘But how can that be? We know who killed his wife and why, and it bore no relation to any of the deaths he witnessed. It was just coincidence that he was present when Earl Richard of Cornwall died, and when Henry of Almain was slaughtered in Viterbo. And we know who did that.
It was down to the de Montfort brothers, Guy and Simon. And they paid for it. Didn’t Simon die soon after?’

  ‘Yes, and Guy was excommunicated and his lands confiscated. But it was the Templar who Segrim reckoned he saw in both locations.’

  ‘Odo de Reppes? What happened to him anyway?’

  ‘He just disappeared. But if I am to follow up these old cases, I shall have to find out where he is now. And by the way, that will serve also the promise I made to Segrim before I left England.’

  ‘That you would find the Templar?’

  ‘And ask him if he had intended to kill Segrim or his wife.’

  ‘And if he was really involved in this mad conspiracy. That is a question he will no doubt answer honestly.’

  The contempt in Thomas’s voice was palpable. But Falconer remained calm.

  ‘Even if he lies, what he says and how he says it can provide evidence for me.’

  ‘Of this great conspiracy? Who in his right mind thinks such a plot exists?’

  Falconer smiled.

  ‘Only the madman who has just inherited the throne of England.’

  Thomas gasped, and his face turned red in embarrassment.

  ‘King Edward believes it? You have spoken to the king?’

  ‘He has his suspicions, let us say. And he wants me to examine these cases, and two more he imagines may be connected.’

  ‘What cases are these?’ Thomas wanted to express his deep doubts about the whole affair. ‘More deaths of kings?’

  ‘In a way, yes. Richard was King of Germany, and his son could have acceded to the throne. In the same way that the young Prince John was heir to the throne of England before he too died.’

  ‘John was five years old, and died… oh… three years ago, as I recall. How are you going to investigate such an old, cold affair?’

  ‘As I always do, by talking to witnesses and people who knew him. But that is for much later. And we may have to leave it until we return to England. What interests me more at the moment is the attempt on Edward’s own life in the Holy Lands.’

  Thomas groaned in exasperation. How could William expect to examine a crime that took place thousands of miles away? And one where again the perpetrator was known and had been punished already? Falconer read the disbelief on his young companion’s face well.

  ‘You think I am wasting my time. But even those cases where we think we know what happened can tell us a lot. Remember Aristotle’s principles from Prior Analytics. The syllogism states one supposition can be inferred from two other premises. For example, suppose all men are mortal, and all Athenians are men. Therefore…’

  ‘Yes, yes. Therefore all Athenians are mortal. William, this is me, Thomas Symon. I know this. You taught me. Besides, the youngest clerk knows this.’

  Falconer waved his arms by way of apology.

  ‘You must forgive me, Thomas. But I often find I need to convince others of the deductive methods I use to solve murders. And there is no harm in being reminded of principles now and again. Assemble the truths and compare one with the other until…’

  Thomas broke in on the lecture, trying to suppress his laughter. He added his own conclusion.

  ‘Until you are overpowered with a plethora of facts, and use your intuition instead.’

  Falconer threw a playful slap at the younger man and rocked precariously on his low stool.

  ‘Until the greater truth appears,’ he stated firmly, then paused dramatically. ‘It’s then that you use your intuition.’

  Both men now laughed, and Falconer urged Thomas to finish his beer so he could pour another one.

  TEN

  The candle was now burning low, soon to be no more than a stump in a heap of congealed wax. The ale mugs were empty – Falconer’s sitting in a pool of spilled beer. But still the two men talked deep into the night. It was now Thomas’s turn to put before his mentor what he had learned about the death of Paul Hebborn. It was precious little so far.

  ‘Though he had no particular friends, there are four students with whom he associated most. All centred on Geoffrey Malpoivre.’

  ‘The rich one.’

  ‘Yes. He is the one with money, and he makes use of the power it gives him. He denigrated Paul and made fun of his stammer. He can be cruel, but cruel enough to kill is another matter.’

  ‘And the other three?’

  ‘Peter de la Casteigne is a joker, always ready with a jest. I can imagine him hurting Paul’s feelings without realizing it. But as for having a reason for killing him? Who knows? Then we have Jack Hellequin. I like him, and I can’t see him having killed. He seemed so concerned about Paul’s death, but for now he must remain on the list.’

  ‘And the fourth one?’

  ‘That is John Fusoris. He is a Picard, but I have not yet spoken to him as he has not returned to the medical school since Paul died.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Thomas picked up on the suspicion in Falconer’s tones.

  ‘Not yet. The others say he had been drinking heavily the night Paul fell – or was pushed – from the tower.’ Thomas automatically corrected himself as he saw Falconer lift a warning finger. ‘He may be recovering from a hangover… or…’

  ‘From a deep sense of guilt.’

  ‘Yes. But let us not jump to conclusions too rapidly. Guilt is not yet an axiom – a self-evident truth – in his case.’

  Falconer peered closely at Thomas in the gloom caused by the guttering of the single candle that stood on the table beside them.

  ‘I am glad you explained the meaning of an axiom for me, Master Symon.’

  Thomas blushed, but he held his own.

  ‘In the same way you explained a syllogism earlier.’

  ‘I think we are both tired and fractious, Thomas. The impending doom of our solitary candle suggests it is time to retire. I shall bid you a good night.’

  ‘Goodnight, William.’

  Both men retreated to their respective beds, pulled off their outer robes and lay back on the narrow pallets provided for them at the Abbey of St Victor. Falconer could soon hear the regular breathing of his young companion, but his mind still spun, going over the events of the day. He recalled Thomas’s derisory remark about the death of kings and, smiling, murmured to himself.

  ‘How appropriate.’

  Falling asleep himself, he dreamed of corruption – both of the body, with a vision of maggots crawling out of eye sockets, and of the soul.

  ‘You can’t see the king. He is busy.’

  Falconer was being frustrated by Sir John Appleby, who today had changed into a pale-blue surcoat, slit up the sides to reveal red leggings. He was bareheaded, being indoors, but his favoured sugarloaf hat sat conspicuously on the table between the two men. As he turned his head away from Falconer, the master noted that he was balding and his locks had been artfully arranged to cover the growing patch of bare skin. No wonder he wore his hat more often than not. When he turned back to face Falconer, he did have a suggestion.

  ‘I can take you to see the men-at-arms who served Edward all the time he was in Outremer. They were in Acre at the time of the attack, and they could tell you what happened.’

  Falconer raised a hand.

  ‘That is all I ask. That someone who knew this… Assassin can speak to me.’

  The mention of this word – Assassin – brought a sneer to Appleby’s lips.

  ‘Ah, yes. The hashish eaters of the Old Man of the Mountain. Who could have known that Anzazim was one of them? They were supposed to have been wiped out years ago by those other demons from the East, the Tartars.’

  ‘So I understood. But then it is said these agents lived normal lives and remained incognito for years only to be awoken for a special task. What would be interesting is to discover who woke Anzazim up.’

  Appleby shook his head, suggesting he had no idea and cared even less. So Falconer merely asked to be taken to see these men-at-arms. He refrained from pointing out that they had served Edward so well that t
hey had failed to protect him from a poisoned dagger. Sir John led him out of the royal apartments and down a winding stone staircase that led into the lower levels of the palace. Here was the functional heart of the king’s court, or more accurately and literally its bowels. The stone chambers that made up the armoury and soldiers’ quarters were partially below river level, as could be seen by the damp on the walls. The stonework was made up of heavy blocks that bore the weight of the palace above. And its every surface was home to a green slime that covered it like some plaguey growth. In this unsavoury atmosphere was a large crypt of a space with criss-crossing arches supported by hefty stubs of pillars. At one end a fire burned, but its heat barely penetrated the long room. Bed pallets lined the chamber either side, and at the rough table beside the fire lounged two equally rough-looking soldiers with bushy beards and shaggy manes of hair. They looked at first like two peas in a pod to Falconer. As Sir John and Falconer approached them, one nudged the other, and they both sat up, alert and wary as if on a battlefield.

  ‘Here we are, Master Falconer. This is John Clisby and Thomas Cloughe.’

  As Appleby announced each man, he stood up, both of them almost having to remain stooped because of the low ceiling. They wore stained white surcoats over sturdy chain mail, the hooded part of which hung over their backs. Their swords remained buckled around their waists, and each man’s left hand rested easily on the pommel. Falconer recognized the stance of a warrior, ready for anything. They were not relaxed in his presence. Though it might have been Appleby’s effete and courtly manner that had made them wary of these intruders on their private space. Falconer looked Appleby in the eye.

  ‘Thank you, Sir John. You may leave us now. I am sure I can find my own way back.’

  The courtier began to demur but, catching Falconer’s steely blue gaze, gave up. With a flap of his hand, he dismissed himself from the other three and retreated into the far gloom of the crypt. Falconer turned his gaze on the two men-at-arms and sighed.