by Ian Morson
Both she and Thomas looked expectantly at Falconer now, imagining he had some revelation to offer concerning the coincidence. Falconer, however, simply shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t look at me like that. I cannot make any more of the information than you can. I merely mentioned it in case it has some significance to Thomas’s investigations. It surely has no bearing on mine.’
‘What conclusions have you come to concerning your travels down those cold trails?’
Thomas was reminding Falconer what he had said when first he had been asked to look into the assaults on Edward’s family, scattered as they were throughout the world and time, the oldest being already some years in the past. Falconer smiled ruefully.
‘That it is far more difficult to determine the cause of death of an old rotting corpse than one that is still warm. The Assassin Anzazim may have been in de Montfort’s employ, but I have no way of proving that as I have only hearsay to go on. And the words of a soldier to boot who owes his allegiance to Edward and may therefore have fed me lies.’
Saphira poured them all another goblet of wine and asked the obvious question.
‘Why should he lie to you, when it was his master who set you on your course in the first place?’
Falconer drank deep of the good wine and wiped a dribble of it off his chin.
‘That is a good question, Saphira. But let me go on a little further first. My next nuggets of information came from Odo de Reppes and concerned his part in the murder of Henry of Almain. He too implicated the de Montforts, and more specifically Amaury, hinting he egged his brothers on in some way. But I saw the Templar only by courtesy of his Grand Master, who himself once fought with Edward in the Holy Lands.’
‘But you say that Guillaume de Beaujeu is your friend.’
‘Yes, Saphira. But he is no longer just my friend. He is Grand Master, and obliged to consider the good of his order over all other things. And he was more uneasy with me yesterday than I have ever seen him.’
Saphira sat back down and stared pensively into her goblet of wine. Falconer continued his story.
‘Odo also told me of the death of King Henry’s brother, Richard, in Berkhamsted.’
‘Which Sir Humphrey Segrim said de Reppes was the cause of.’
‘Yes, Thomas. Segrim says he saw Odo at Berkhamsted Castle, and that he was pursued by the Templar all the way to Oxford. De Reppes, on the other hand, has another story. He claims barely to remember Segrim and that he didn’t even know he lived at Botley. He also reminded me that Richard was half dead anyway, being paralysed down one side.’
Thomas was indignant.
‘That does not excuse him from guilt. He killed the old man, even if he was near death already.’
‘And it seems Amaury was implicated in it as the prime mover. Whoever I speak to tells me to seek out Amaury de Montfort.’
‘Then your case is proven, and you can go to the king and tell him so.’
Thomas was emphatic, but Saphira still had a question for Falconer.
‘And what of the king’s son, John? Have you learned anything of his death? After all, it was that death that seemed to have affected Edward most strongly from what you have told me. That is what started off this enquiry of yours.’
Falconer pointed a finger at Saphira in triumph.
‘Exactly. Everyone I have spoken to has given me just what I wanted in the case of the other three murders – or attempted murder, in Edward’s case – but no one has yet spoken a word about Prince John. I should like to learn more about his death, and whether Amaury was involved in that too, before I go to Edward. And where is Amaury now? I have never before been unable to speak to the chief suspect in a murder. If I could trace him, I might learn the truth finally.’
Thomas was hesitant about speaking up now. He had a dread that the seed that had been growing in his mind was nothing more than a fantasy. But then he could not ignore it, could he? What if he didn’t say what he thought and it turned out to be true? He had been leaning back in his chair, almost in shadow, while Falconer and Saphira eagerly debated points about the other killings. He was deeply involved with Paul Hebborn’s death, and more recently John Fusoris’. Did he now see a link between them and the heady matter of the death of kings that obsessed Falconer so much? William had begun by asking him about his enquiries, but he had soon enough got sidetracked back on to his own investigation. As if the deaths of a few noble-born men were more important than those of a couple of simple students. A few years ago, William would not have thought so, but it seemed to Thomas as though his mentor’s head had been turned by his association with kings. He resolved to determine the truth of his growing fears before he risked Falconer’s derision if he were wrong. So he just smiled when Falconer spoke to him.
‘Thomas, you are very quiet. Thinking about what you will do next about your own case, I would guess. Listen to Roger; he will come up with something, I am sure. And when I have unburdened myself of Edward’s case, I will help you too. Saphira has persuaded me to tell the king what I have learned so far, so that I can find out more about his son from him. So we are going to the Royal Palace tomorrow.’
Saphira sat up with a start.
‘We? I didn’t say I would come with you. Don’t you recall what happened last time I met the King of England? I almost got accused of murder myself.’
Falconer waved his hand dismissively.
‘That was Henry. His son is younger and more open-minded. Besides, I need you to talk to Eleanor, if it can be arranged.’
Saphira laughed out loud at Falconer’s nerve.
‘So we are to walk into the palace of the French king and ask to have a word with their royal guest from England. And while you chat with Edward, I am to get up and say, “Just going to have a gossip with your wife”?’
Falconer looked at her with wide, innocent eyes.
‘What a good idea. I wish I had thought of that.’
TWENTY-THREE
The next day the sun was shining brightly, and the streets of Paris were teeming with people. Last night Thomas had returned to the abbey to sleep, leaving Falconer and Saphira in Pletzel. Now he wished he had remained in the city, for it was well-nigh impossible to negotiate the crowded and narrow lanes. At least the flow of people was in the direction he was going. If he had had to force his way against the crowd, he reckoned he would have failed to make headway. Everyone was funnelling on to the Petit Pont, and he was glad to turn down the quieter tributary of Rue de la Bûcherie. But when he got there, he found Friar Bacon and a small huddle of students standing uncertainly outside the medical school. Bacon strode up to him.
‘I am glad to see you, Thomas Symon. It seems that Master Morrish has abandoned us for the market.’
Thomas’s puzzled look drew a response from Peter de la Casteigne, who had followed the friar.
‘It is market day in Les Halles today. That is why everyone is anxious to cross the bridge and get to the Right Bank, where the markets are to be found. It is one of the days when the Flanders weavers come to sell their wares.’ He grinned sneeringly. ‘Perhaps the master has gone to buy some scarlet.’
Thomas glanced down at his own drab robe, knowing that Morrish too invariably wore black. In contrast to de la Casteigne and some of his noble compatriots, who favoured particoloured surcoats and bright stockings. He had no reply to the youth’s jibe, but walked over to the group of students, noticing that Hellequin was not among them. He suggested they take the day off from their studies.
‘It seems that Master Adam is indisposed. But I suggest you pay close attention to the next section of Johannitius, so that you are ready to…’
He was unable to finish his discourse before Malpoivre and his hangers-on took him at his word and began to walk away. Thomas heard a few disparaging comments about the unlikelihood of Johannitius being opened and sighed at his apparent lack of authority. Bacon patted him on the shoulder.
‘Never mind, Thomas, they are a lost cause. Besid
es, we have much to do today. I reckon our best defence is attack.’
Thomas watched as the last of the students filtered into the crowds of people passing the end of the lane, obviously intent on enjoying their unexpected free day. He turned to the friar.
‘Yes. I had the idea that we could confront Adam today, but it seems he has anticipated me. If he is hiding from us, then we shall have to go and seek him out.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
Thomas shook his head.
‘No. I followed him as far as the Ile de la Cité, but then lost him. However, I am sure the rector of the university knows. Or Master Gérard de Osterwiic, dean of the medical schools. We will start with him, as he knows me already.’
It turned out that locating Adam Morrish was not going to be as simple as Thomas thought. In fact, having met de Osterwiic, the mystery of his whereabouts began to get stranger. The dean explained that a master who had the right to teach could open a school wherever he pleased, and there were several schools on the Ile and the Left Bank.
‘But how does a master get the right to teach?’
De Osterwiic answered Thomas’s question in the vaguest of terms.
‘There are age limits and courses of study to be undertaken to teach arts or theology, and the courses must be under the tuition of an existing master. Of course, purity of morals is just as important in issuing a licence.’
‘But what about medicine?’
Thomas was becoming more and more exasperated as de Osterwiic prevaricated.
‘A licence is granted gratuitously without oath or condition. Masters’ rights are defended strongly in Paris.’
Thomas wondered about students’ rights to be taught well. He was about to press Gérard to be more specific about Morrish, but Bacon touched his arm. He fell silent, and the friar bowed courteously, thanking the dean for his clarity of explanation. Once they had left the room, Thomas could contain his anger no longer.
‘Clarity? He told us nothing.’
Bacon nodded.
‘Exactly, and there must have been a reason for that, don’t you think? There is something he wanted to keep secret concerning Adam Morrish.’
Thomas’s doubts and concerns from yesterday began to rise to the surface again.
‘I was thinking that Adam Morrish is not who he claims to be.’
‘Then hold on to that thought, for we may be able to discover more about him from a friend of mine. If he had not been a proponent of Aristotle like Falconer, he would have prevailed in his battle to be rector of the university here. But he was defeated in the elections by Alberic de Rheims, who was a much more convenient nonentity of a scholar. And therefore more suited to the way of thinking of the Church, which is in control here.’
Siger of Brabant was a tall, stooping individual in his middle years. When they entered his solar, he was bent over a parchment carefully colouring a manuscript. Physically, he gave Thomas the impression of being weak and doddering. But mentally he proved to be sharp and sure of himself. After a little badinage with Bacon over the interfering Bishop Tempier, he came straight to the point.
‘You want to know about Adam Morrish, then. I am certain that Gérard de Osterwiic has given you the runaround, or you would not have come to me.’
Both Thomas and Bacon nodded their agreement.
‘What is the mystery surrounding him?’
Siger chortled.
‘The mystery is who he claimed to be in order to get his licence to teach.’
Bacon held up his hand to stop his friend revealing the truth immediately.
‘Is it safe for us to know?’
He was looking at Thomas at this point, and the object of his attention knew the friar was trying to protect him. But he could not bear to be excluded from the divulging of the secret. He blurted out what was on his mind. What had in fact been boiling in his brain for some time.
‘It is a person whose family name carries opprobrium with it, isn’t it? Someone who has studied and earned the right to teach medicine, but who needs to keep his identity secret. Especially from King Edward.’
Siger of Brabant, while giving nothing away, indicated with a turn of his wrist that Thomas should continue.
‘It is Amaury de Montfort, isn’t it?’
Again Siger said nothing but simply looked at Thomas in a way that told the young man that his guess was correct. Thomas pressed on with his next question.
‘And do you know where Amaury lives?’
Siger pulled a face.
‘That I cannot say.’ Then his face lit up. ‘But I can tell you that Adam Morrish lives on the Ile de la Cité. His house sits between two churches and faces directly on to the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral.’
‘From where Paul Hebborn fell to his death recently.’
Thomas’s comment was made under his breath, but its import caused the old man’s face to cloud over.
‘I can tell you no more. In fact, I have told you too much already. You must go – both of you. And Brother Bacon, I would appeal to you as an older man to hold your young friend’s zeal in check. The de Montforts are not a family to meddle with lightly.’
Bacon gave Siger a sideways look that revealed his own stubbornness.
‘But we are not seeking out a de Montfort, Siger. We merely wish to ask Adam Morrish – a simple scholar – a few questions.’
Siger shook his head sadly and, picking up his brush, began to fill an ornate letter ‘O’ with red ink. The friar and Oxford master retired from his solar and returned to the thronging streets of Paris. Many people had already been to the market and were now returning with their purchases. Thomas was almost knocked over as a merchant bustled past, followed by his servant carrying a large bolt of scarlet cloth under his arm. His angry cry brought no apology but just the sight of the rich man’s opulently clad, fur-trimmed back disappearing down the narrow lane. Thomas was tiring of the rudeness of the denizens of this city, where business took precedence over courtesy.
‘I shall be glad to return to Oxford.’
‘But I have barely begun my compendium, Thomas Symon. We have much to set down yet. So let’s get on and see what Adam or Amaury has to say for himself. Then I can turn my attention to the study of optics.’
Thomas groaned but followed Bacon towards the Petit Pont and the island that stood at the heart of the city.
Falconer and Saphira Le Veske had already crossed to the Ile and were on their way to the Royal Palace. He had sent word ahead that he wished to speak to the king on urgent business. So when they arrived at the gates, Sir John Appleby already awaited them. He scowled at the sight of the woman accompanying Falconer, however.
‘You did not say you had a… companion. She cannot come into the presence of the king, you know.’
Saphira took Appleby’s meaning as it was intended, and scowled. She was getting tired of being taken for a whore when on William’s arm. She was about to storm off, but Falconer held her firmly by the elbow and reprimanded the garishly dressed courtier.
‘Mistress Le Veske is an important woman of business in both France and England. Many nobles are indebted to her, and if she cannot be introduced to the king then I have no time today to speak to him. Good day.’
Appleby gasped at Falconer’s audacity, but as the master turned to go he stayed him with an outstretched hand. He could not afford to anger his lord and master. Let Falconer himself earn the king’s wrath by bringing a strange woman before him – he would not be held responsible.
‘Not so hasty, Master Falconer. I am sure the king will be glad to make the acquaintance of one of his loyal subjects. And one so pretty too.’
Saphira smiled sweetly, while still feeling sick to her stomach at being brought before the English king. This popinjay of a courtier nauseated her too, but in another way. She could not stand the obsequiousness of such individuals. Oblivious to her reaction, Sir John made a vague, loose-wristed sign in the air with his hand.
‘Follow me, please.
’
Falconer and Saphira were led to the same tapestried room where he had met the king before. The room was empty this time, and they were asked to wait by Appleby, who hurried away to warn the king of Saphira’s presence. They waited patiently, and Saphira examined one of the tapestries closely. She was just about to touch the intricately stitched image of a unicorn when a man entered. She was immediately struck by the aura that surrounded him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered and good-looking man with a droopy eyelid that somehow attracted her to him. She gasped, suddenly realizing who he was. Swiftly curtseying to the king, she felt a hot blush creep over her face. He was quite unconcerned, probably used to the effect he had on women. He took her hand.
‘Mistress Le Veske. I am told you are a woman who runs her own business, and that it is a success. My wife would like to meet you.’
Saphira looked at Falconer and would have burst out laughing but for the situation. What had they been talking about before? Her meeting with the king and asking to go and chat with the queen. Edward, unaware of the sideways look, went on.
‘She is jealous of independent women who manage their own affairs. She complains to me that all she does is produce children. I have told her it is a queen’s fate, but still she rails against it.’
Saphira swallowed and spoke out.
‘It is the fate of most women in this world, sire.’
Edward nodded his head, his hair flopping across his eyes.
‘Yes, and I love my wife for her sacrifice. She is heavy with child right now. I have forbidden her to travel to Castile to see her family, but she is determined. Eleanor is a very determined woman. Would you talk to her, mistress, and try to dissuade her? Appleby will show you the way.’
Saphira knew she was being dismissed, but with such gentleness she could not resist. Besides, she was intrigued that what Falconer had mockingly suggested had come about. She was being given a chance to ‘gossip’ with the queen, and would tease him with it later.
‘Sire, I will try, but if she is as determined as you say, I may have to agree with her.’