Falconer and the Death of Kings

by Ian Morson

As it turned out, Falconer and Thomas Symon had no need to hide away when they reached Notre-Dame. The great arched entrance to the cathedral, topped with the new rose window, was thronging with people. Thomas wondered if it was because of the trouble at the gates to the city. Would the angry crowd turn into an uncontrollable mob? But the mood of those passing in and out of the cathedral was of joy and calm, not anger. Falconer stopped a cheerful-looking matron, who was bustling towards Notre-Dame, and asked her in French what the occasion of all the activity was. She grinned broadly and replied in an English that placed her as coming from the Essex marshes, east of the English capital.

  ‘Bless you, sir. Haven’t you heard? Our king, Edward, has another child. I am going like all these others to pray for his soul. Poor Eleanor has lost children before. We must ensure this little boy survives.’

  As she scurried away to light a candle for Alfonso, Falconer turned to Thomas.

  ‘Then Saphira truly has had her hands full today. The boy is born, and Edward will be mightily pleased.’

  A voice called out from behind them.

  ‘Another English prince, then, Master Falconer. Your king is hedging his bets over breeding an heir.’

  Falconer and Thomas looked around and saw a figure outlined against the yellow glow of the candles inside the cathedral. As he stepped towards them, his features resolved themselves. It was the youthful face of Jack Hellequin, and his eyes seemed quite on fire.

  ‘This is his second male child.’

  Falconer nodded in agreement.

  ‘A king cannot be too careful when it comes to ensuring his line. One day, we may have a King Alfonso.’

  Hellequin cocked his head to one side.

  ‘He is to be called Alfonso? After Eleanor’s half-brother, I suppose. Let us hope he will be as wise.’

  Alfonso of Castile was known as ‘the Wise’ and had indeed wisely ceded Gascony to the feisty Edward, along with his half-sister, Eleanor, in an arranged marriage. Which unusually had become a love match. Hellequin spoke to Thomas.

  ‘Are you here to seek out Master Adam?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Do you really think he will return? Is he not far away by now?’

  Falconer smiled.

  ‘Not if King Philip’s soldiers have had their way. All the gates to the city are barred to all but the elderly and women.’

  Hellequin looked as though the information was news to him.

  ‘Really? Then would you mind if I waited with you? We students are keen to recover our money from our former master.’

  Falconer held out a hand in welcome, which Hellequin grasped.

  ‘You are welcome to share our vigil. Though it may not be a long one after all. Look.’

  Falconer pointed to a shadowy figure skulking in the darkness cast by one of the churches opposite. His eyesight was not of the best, but even he could see whoever it was did not want to be spotted. If they had not been on the lookout, the man may have been able to gain access to the narrow-fronted house that was Adam Morrish’s without being seen. The three observers moved gently back into the crowd milling around the entrance to the cathedral and watched as the figure slid across the front of the church and into the house next to it by the front door. Falconer whispered in Hellequin’s ear.

  ‘There is no other way out?’

  The young man shook his head.

  ‘Then I want you to go to the Royal Palace and alert King Edward to this man’s presence.’

  Hellequin’s eyes widened in shock and surprise.

  ‘I am to go to King Philip’s palace and speak to your English king? How am I to do that? And why should he want to know about Master Adam anyway?’

  Falconer calmed him down immediately.

  ‘They will listen to you. You have only to say that you have been sent by me, William Falconer, and that I know where the man we seek is to be found.’

  ‘Can’t Thomas Symon go in my stead?’

  ‘No. I need Thomas here to bear witness to what we may find in the house. We will not let the man go until you have returned.’

  Hellequin had a worried look on his face but did not see how he could refuse Falconer. Reluctantly, he left the precincts of the cathedral and made for the river bank and the palace at the other end of the island. Thomas looked puzzled as they watched Hellequin leave.

  ‘Are we going to go into the house and confront Amaury? What if he resists us, as he surely will if he knows he is cornered?’

  Falconer patted Thomas’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry. We are not going to go in until Edward or his men arrive. I just did not want Jack Hellequin to become directly embroiled in a confrontation. That is all. Now let us settle down and wait.’

  Falconer tucked himself into the corner of one of the grand doorway arches, leaning unceremoniously on the feet of one of the apostles. Thomas began to pace anxiously backwards and forwards, until Falconer grasped his sleeve and pulled him into the shadow of the arch alongside him.

  ‘You will give the game away, Thomas. Now relax and wait for the endgame to start.’

  The time slipped by, and Falconer was beginning to wonder whether Hellequin had carried out his task or not. A beam of candlelight had flared briefly behind one of the window shutters of the house opposite. But that had been the only sign of anyone being inside. Falconer was getting anxious. If Amaury escaped by another route, he would look a fool. Worse than that, he would appear incompetent in the eyes of the king, who might not tolerate such a failure. But just as he was about to suggest to Thomas that they enter the house after all, a familiar figure appeared on the pathway beside the river. Despite the black cloak Sir John Appleby was wearing, his gaudy clothes stood out in the gathering gloom. And his jaunty stride made him look like a cockerel in a pen of dowdy scratching hens. Behind him loomed four heavily armed English soldiers.

  Falconer groaned and told Thomas to wait where he was. He hurried across the open square that was now emptying of people. In the developing circumstances, he did not want the occupant of the house alerted by such obvious and unusual activity. He managed to stop the small invasion before it could come into view from one of the loopholes in the shuttered windows. He hissed at the courtier.

  ‘Sir John, I see you have come prepared. But we must not alert our quarry, in case he flees.’ He cast a glance around. ‘Is the king not with you?’

  One of the men-at-arms tilted his helm back off his face, and Falconer recognized the droopy-eyed visage of Edward. The king put his finger to his lip to silence Falconer.

  ‘I could not resist being present at such an event as the capture of Amaury de Montfort. But it is safer for me to be unrecognized, don’t you think?’

  Falconer nodded and beckoned for the group to follow him. Across the square he could see Thomas nervously hovering by the cathedral doors. He held his hand up to indicate that the young man should stay where he was. And out of any danger. Unfortunately, Thomas must have misunderstood his signal, for he ran over towards Falconer and the little knot of soldiers. A few people in the square glanced with curiosity at the group. But as soon as they saw the weaponry being wielded by the men-at-arms, they soon scuttled away. Falconer realized that if Amaury-Adam was looking out through the shuttered windows, he would now be aware that something was wrong. There was no more time left.

  He led the soldiers up to the door of the house, leaving Appleby and Thomas Symon in his wake. He pushed at the door, but it resisted his effort. It must have been barred since the occupant had gone inside. One of the soldiers – Falconer thought it might have been Edward himself, but he could not be sure – eased him aside. He charged the door with his shoulder, and the wooden bolt gave, splintering the door in the process. The soldier winked at Falconer and forced the door open on its broken hinges. All four large men squeezed through the gap created and pushed into the house. Falconer clambered over the shattered door after them.

  Inside, the dark hall was eerily silent except for the sound of heavy breat
hing coming from the soldier who had forced the door. He turned back to Falconer and lifted his helmet. It was Edward, and his face was contorted in a grimace.

  ‘I swear my shoulder must be broken, it aches so much. I should leave this sort of work to those who are better built for it. However, now we are in…’

  He drew his sword and swung it experimentally. Satisfied that his sword arm was not as hurt as he first thought, he motioned for his three companions to search the house. With a swish of steel three more swords were drawn, and the men crossed the darkened hall, poking under tables and toppling chairs with the tips of their weapons. Edward laughed quietly, then called out.

  ‘Amaury? Come out now. We will find you.’

  The men moved into the back of the house, where the kitchen was located. Soon, the sound of breaking pottery suggested that their search out there was unsuccessful too. The three men returned, shaking their heads. Edward sighed and slashed at a water jug standing on the table in the centre of the room. It shattered, and water splashed over the tabletop. Falconer felt a hand clutch at his arm, and he spun around only to be confronted by a wide-eyed Thomas. He had slipped in through the door just in time to see Edward’s petulant swordplay. Though he was used to the sight of dead bodies, and had cut several open to examine them, he wasn’t so used to the violence that usually caused them. Falconer gave a whispered reassurance.

  ‘Just stay back and let them get on with it.’

  Edward was pointing grimly at the staircase that led up to the upper part of the house. The steps creaked as the chain mail-clad men crept up them. Falconer stood in the hall for a moment, then he could not resist it. He crept up the stairs too, followed closely by a frightened Thomas. They got to the top of the stairs just in time to hear a wail and scuffle from the solar at the top of the house. The triumphant Edward came out on to the landing, followed by a soldier dragging a body across the floor by one leg. If the prostrate figure had not been wriggling, Falconer might have thought that Edward had had Amaury dispatched there and then. But he was very much alive, though he was face down, and his cries of fear were muffled. Edward smiled at Falconer.

  ‘We have him. The coward was hiding under the bed. Now let us see him face to face.’

  One of the other soldiers emerged from the room with a lighted candlestick in his fist. Edward kicked out with his leather boot, rolling the captive over, as his fellow soldier thrust the candle in the man’s face. Edward groaned.

  ‘Damn it all. This is not Amaury de Montfort.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Adam Morrish lay pinned down on the table in the ground-floor hall of the house in Paris. His tearful face was bloated with fear, and Edward was pacing up and down beside his prostrate figure. Falconer leaned over him and asked him to tell the truth about himself.

  ‘The rector of the university, and the Church authorities who pay you, think you are secretly Amaury de Montfort. Why do they think that, Adam?’

  Morrish sucked in a deep breath, but, before he could reply, Edward grabbed his right arm and extended it over the side of the table. He forced it down, making tears start in Morrish’s eyes. Edward pushed his face into Morrish’s.

  ‘I swear I will break your arm, and then I will have one of these men with me chop it off, if you do not speak.’

  Morrish looked wide-eyed at the soldier who stood at Edward’s shoulder. He was grinning and lifting his double-edged sword into the air. The captive wailed.

  ‘I meant no harm. I was a student of medicine at Padua when de Montfort became a master. I was envious of him despite his family history. I did not have the money to continue, you see.’

  Edward snorted in derision.

  ‘You did not have the brains, you mean. So you stole his credentials and purported to be him here in Paris. The Pope and the Church, which pays your wages, were taken in. You knew they favoured his family over mine, so were inclined to keep the secret, weren’t they?’

  Morrish nodded, his features contorted with fear and pain. Edward did not release the pressure on his arm, however.

  ‘But the Church didn’t know what secret they were keeping, eh? They thought they were hiding Amaury from me, when in reality they were colluding with a charlatan. A faker who passed himself off as a master for his own vanity.’

  Edward bore down on Morrish’s arm, and the man shrieked in agony.

  ‘Yes, yes. It’s true.’

  Falconer stepped in and lifted Edward’s hand from the defeated Morrish.

  ‘This is pointless, Majesty. If you should punish anyone, it should be me. I said I had found Amaury right under your nose, and I was wrong. All we had was Adam Morrish after all.’

  Edward kicked the table in his frustration, and Morrish flinched, nursing his aching right arm. Thomas drew Falconer to one side and whispered in his ear.

  ‘William, do you think we could ask Master… er, well… Morrish whether he was responsible for giving his students potions, or if they stole them?’

  Falconer frowned and glanced at the angry figure of the king, who was now conferring with Appleby. The courtier had stood in the background while Morrish had been savagely interrogated, and even now had a greenish cast to his face.

  ‘I am not sure this is the right time, Thomas.’

  ‘But look at him. He still has something to hide. He looks so shifty.’

  At Thomas’s insistence, Falconer took another look at Morrish. The man’s agonized face did indeed look strained, and he could not bear to look his captors in the eyes. Was it because he was merely in fear for his life, though? He shrugged.

  ‘Go ahead. There can be no harm in it. And he may be afraid enough to confess.’

  Thomas walked over to the table and stared hard at the cowering figure of the spurious master.

  ‘I want to ask you a question on a different matter.’

  Morrish looked up, his eyes dulled with pain.

  ‘What could matter now?’

  ‘I just want to know the truth about Paul Hebborn.’

  Suddenly, Morrish’s eyes were not as dulled as before. Thomas could see a glint in them, and a shiftiness that suggested there was more to find out about Adam Morrish. Thomas pressed him on the matter.

  ‘How did the students get their hands on the opium? And why was Hebborn at Notre-Dame in such a state?’

  A groan was wrenched out of Morrish’s throat.

  ‘It was not my idea.’

  Falconer stepped up behind Thomas’s shoulder.

  ‘No one said it was. You were being asked if you gave your students opium, or if they took it for themselves. And what that had to do with Hebborn’s death.’

  By now, all the eyes in the room were on Morrish, and he looked fearfully around. But there was no escape for him. He put his head in his hands and rocked backwards and forwards on the tabletop.

  ‘You know, don’t you? I overheard you and Friar Bacon talking, and I knew the game was up.’ He paused and drew a deep breath. ‘He made me do it. I could not stop him. He knew, you see.’

  Thomas was puzzled, not understanding anything that Morrish was saying.

  ‘Hebborn was responsible for the theft of the opium?’

  ‘Noooo. He took it reluctantly in order to be one of the group. That night at Notre-Dame, he didn’t know where he was. He should have fallen, but he didn’t. So I had to give him a little push.’

  A hush fell over the room at Morrish’s confession. But he had more to say, pouring out his wretched soul.

  ‘John Fusoris was harder work. I had to hold him under the water until he stopped moving.’

  He looked up at Falconer, pleading with him but knowing his fate was sealed.

  ‘He made me. He knew who I really was.’

  Falconer finally made the connection.

  ‘It was one of the other students, wasn’t it?’ He stared coldly at Morrish. ‘Someone who knew you weren’t who you said you were, and played on it.’

  Thomas broke in on Falconer’s questioning.

&n
bsp; ‘It was Malpoivre who passed out the opium. I found that out myself. He is the guilty one.’

  Falconer frowned.

  ‘No. It could not have been Malpoivre; he hasn’t got the brains or the nous to plan such an evil act. Nor could it be de la Casteigne and the rest of the hangers-on. They are followers, not instigators. Nor can I see any of them actually causing Hebborn’s death, or that of Fusoris. Baiting him and being cruel maybe, but not murdering him. There is only one man who could take pleasure in leading others astray and stand by to watch the consequences. His name has made fools of us all along.’

  Thomas gasped, recalling the meaning of the name of the person Falconer was talking about.

  ‘The demon who pursues the damned to hell.’

  ‘Yes. Jack Hellequin.’

  The man of whom Falconer was speaking was at that moment strolling along one of the passages in the French king’s Royal Palace. On his way to the palace on the errand for Falconer, he had stopped off at the medical school by the Petit Pont. Inside the upper room, he had retrieved the key to the potions chest from the ledge up the chimney where Morrish habitually hid it. He had picked out some harmless pots of unguents and pills, and added arsenic and a paste made from laurel berries. These he put in a large pouch, which he hid under his cloak. Once at the palace, he put on the appearance of a distraught young man with an urgent task to perform. He begged the guard at the gate to convey a message to the English king from Master William Falconer. He even slipped a coin into the guard’s hand to ensure the message was passed on.

  When the overdressed courtier came to the gate, he reiterated his story, emphasizing how urgent and important it was. It did not take much to convince the old man, who clearly was expecting such a tale. He ushered Hellequin inside the palace, asking him to wait in a side room. In the hubbub that ensued, it was not difficult for him to slip away and hide. He’d seen the courtier looking briefly for him, but then he had rushed away, obviously with more important tasks to attend to. Hellequin had been forgotten.

  Now he had produced the pouch from under his cloak and tied it prominently around his waist. From within the pouch, he pulled out a pair of eye-lenses and perched them on his nose. The glasses were plain, but they gave him a look older than his years. With the dark cloak disguising his youthful and colourful surcoat, he was now every inch the physician he wanted to appear. No one gave him a second look as he walked freely around the palace. He had once in a former life been in the palace, but now he could not recall precisely where the guest quarters were located. He finally had to admit to himself that he was lost, and he stood at a crossing of two passages wondering what to do next. Hearing someone approaching, he put on his most severe mien and waited. When a maidservant came around the corner, he stopped her.