Falconer and the Death of Kings

by Ian Morson

  They hurried along the labyrinth of corridors in the Royal Palace and out into the street. There they stopped, realizing the enormity of their search. Boats lined both sides of the Seine, though it was from the Right Bank that most of the craft plied their trade. The area around La Grève was where many seagoing vessels loaded and unloaded. Falconer suggested that would be where Hellequin would make for. But Thomas disagreed.

  ‘True, it is busy, and he may be able to hide in the crowd. But the Left Bank is more familiar to him, and fewer boats mean fewer people are likely to see him. He also knows some of the sailors who drink in the Withered Vine, which is close by where they moor up.’

  Saphira agreed.

  ‘Thomas is right. A hunted animal will always run to ground in familiar territory.’

  Falconer flung up his hands in defeat.

  ‘We have no more time to debate this. You are probably right. Let’s try the Left Bank.’

  They crossed the Petit Pont, pushing past the two men-at-arms on the southern side. The soldiers, taxed with looking for Amaury, gazed suspiciously at Thomas. But they let him pass when Saphira smiled and professed that the boy was her son, and not who they were looking for. Thomas blushed in embarrassment, mumbling to Saphira that she needn’t have said that. She pinched his cheek.

  ‘Are you ashamed to be taken for my son, Thomas?’

  ‘If that makes me in some way William’s stepson too, yes I am.’

  Falconer aimed a swipe at Thomas, who quickly led them along the narrow lane running parallel to the river and past Morrish’s one-time medical school. They first tried the tavern where the ships’ captains often passed their time waiting for the right time to sail down to Rouen and catch the tidal flow. The Withered Vine was unusually quiet, so Falconer asked the landlord if he had seen Jack Hellequin recently. The landlord was a cheery, red-faced man, who obviously imbibed too much of his own stock. It also made him incautious with his knowledge.

  ‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact. But you have missed him. He went with Georges Fouarre on La Sylvie some time ago. That is why there’s hardly anyone in here. He and his crew have set sail for the coast and Antwerp.’

  All three companions rushed down to the sandy river bank, close to where the body of John Fusoris had been found. But when they got there the strand was bare, and the river empty of craft. Amaury de Montfort had flown the city.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Falconer sat on the quayside at Honfleur staring across the water that separated France from England. The compensation of his short-sightedness was that his long vision was good. But still he could not see the cliffs of his native land. His shoulders slumped, and he peered at the rough cobbles at his feet. He felt that his time in France had been wasted. Not only had he signally failed to understand the attack on Aristotle initiated by Bishop Tempier, which had been supported by the lily-livered tutors at the University of Paris, but he felt he had failed in bringing the true killer of the king’s family members to justice. He had caused the apprehension of the perpetrator of the Paris murders – Adam Morrish – and the unfortunate man had been hanged for his crimes. But Amaury de Montfort had escaped, and it was now rumoured that he was under the protection of the Pope. So he was also beyond the grasp of King Edward. Falconer’s only consolation was that he had found Saphira again.

  Arriving like a mummer picking up a cue in a miracle play, Saphira came up behind him. He knew it was she because he could smell her scent. She placed her warm, soft hands on his dejected shoulders and squeezed.

  ‘You have done all you could, William. One killer is hanged and another is only safe courtesy of your Christian Pope. He is as good as in prison, and should he dare to venture beyond the papal reach he will suffer the consequences.’

  Falconer was not consoled. Amaury had been made a papal chaplain, and he had even persuaded the Pope to withdraw the sentence of excommunication that had been passed on his father, Simon, Earl of Leicester, for his rebellion against King Henry. It would take a bold monarch to stand up against the Church. Saphira tried to rouse William from his torpor. She pointed along the quay at a sturdy, round-bellied cog that bobbed eagerly on the lines that held it to the quayside. The boat looked anxious to be on its way.

  ‘Look, the ship is ready and waiting. It is loaded with good red wine from Bordeaux. And it will soon carry us both across the Channel and back home.’

  Falconer smiled, liking the sound of that. It would be good to get back to Oxford, especially as Saphira was accompanying him thence. He was missing Thomas, though.

  ‘Do you think Thomas will be safe in Paris?’

  Saphira laughed heartily with that strong, bubbling laugh that had first attracted Falconer to her. That and her shapely figure that he had first been able to admire coming down a drainpipe. The girlish act had been carried out to escape from a locked room in Bermondsey Abbey, and the wind had caused her dress to cling close to her curves. Her pretty calves had been on view too. The breeze off the sea caught her dress now and flattened it against her belly and hips. She stared at William, knowing what was going on in his mind.

  ‘Thomas is a grown man now and is quite capable of finding his own way in the world without your help. In fact, you have not been much of an example to him, breaking your vows of celibacy as you frequently do.’

  Falconer grinned.

  ‘Yes, but I blame this temptress with red hair for my frequent falls from grace.’

  As if summoned by his comment, the wind caught Saphira’s hair and tugged it loose.

  ‘Thomas Symon will learn much from Friar Bacon and will probably make a finer scholar than you ever could be, William Falconer. You chase your dreams too much to be a serious scholar.’

  ‘You are right. Thomas will do very well. And he has promised to return to Oxford, should Roger ever be allowed to come back to the university.’

  He saw the black-bearded captain of the ship waving at them.

  ‘Look, it is time to go.’

  Eleanor was finally able to leave Paris for Castile and her family. Edward still did not like the idea, however. His fussing was beginning to annoy her.

  ‘First, you do not want me to travel because I am about to give birth. Now you do not want me to travel because I have given birth. Edward, dear, I have been giving you children year after year since we married, and in that time we have travelled to the Holy Lands and back.’

  Edward stroked his wife’s face with the back of his hand.

  ‘I don’t want to be apart from you.’

  ‘Don’t become all silken-tongued now, my dear. You go away when it suits your warrior instincts. Tell me exactly where you will be going soon whether I stay or not.’

  Edward grinned sheepishly.

  ‘I must go and put down this revolt by Gaston de Béarn in Gascony. If I do not show my face, we stand to lose the territory. And I can tie it closer to us by making treaties for the future marriages of our children.’ He chucked the baby on his wife’s lap under the chin. ‘Even for little Alfonso here.’

  Eleanor was not to be diverted from her argument.

  ‘And may I remind you that, if I had travelled to Castile before your new son’s birth, I would not have been here and at the mercy of Amaury de Montfort. So I am going before anything else goes wrong.’

  Edward paced anxiously back and forth across the chamber. The shaft of morning sunlight coming through the window sparkled on the chain mail shirt that he still wore. He was in warlike mood and found it difficult to be countermanded by his own wife. But in the end he sighed and gave in.

  ‘Very well. But you must take care. Amaury may have scuttled off to hide under the Pope’s skirts, but he is quite capable of having others carry out his tasks. As we have seen so clearly.’

  Having triumphed, Eleanor now looked a little wistfully at her husband.

  ‘I will take care, my darling. I just wish Saphira was still here. I felt so safe in her company.’

  She was thinking of the dagger hidden up the wom
an’s sleeve that had sent Amaury scurrying off. But Edward was of a different opinion about Mistress Le Veske.

  ‘She is a Jew, and Falconer’s bed companion. Such a woman at your court would be unseemly. When we reach England, we shall both be under scrutiny.’

  Eleanor squirmed at her darling’s dislike of the Jews. It was one of his faults that set her teeth on edge. But she knew he was right about one thing. They would have to fit into other people’s ideas of what made a king and queen when they landed on England’s shores.

  ‘When shall we be there, Edward?’

  ‘Oh…’ Edward was already thinking about his forthcoming campaign in Gascony and how long that might take. ‘Next year some time. A king no longer has a need to fight for his birthright, and the Archbishop of York and Robert Burnell are both coping well in my absence. The coronation can wait a while.’

  The Feast of St Henry the Pious, the Thirteenth Day of July 1273

  The journey towards Oxford had taken a lot of time. It was a wet summer, and the roads were muddy and difficult to negotiate, even on horseback. Having landed at Dover, Falconer and Saphira Le Veske had broken their journey for a while in Canterbury. Saphira, who had friends in the large Jewish community in the town, had once thought of settling there. Then she had met Falconer, and her plans had changed.

  Having spent a few days in Canterbury, refreshed they had struggled along the road towards London. Crossing the Thames by London Bridge was a struggle. The bridge had buildings and shops cluttering both sides, and this narrowed each of the two lanes to no more than six feet. Crowds of people on foot were pushing to get from one side to the other, while others were lingering in front of the shops examining the wares on offer. The shop signs in the form of the articles sold within were hung just high enough for Falconer and Saphira on horseback to clear them. They followed the north shore of the river west and out beyond the city walls. They rode down the Strand to pick up the old Roman road called Akeman Street, and the route took them close by the Royal Palace on the river bank.

  Around the Palace of Westminster there was already building work going on. Masons and carpenters were busy constructing temporary halls around the sides of the palace. When Falconer asked them what they were doing, one of the masons briefly stopped his chiselling of a piece of stone.

  ‘This is for the coronation of the new king. Extra rooms for the princes and nobles to banquet in.’

  Falconer and Saphira thanked him and rode off on their hired rounceys, not wanting to tell the mason that he could take his time about the building. When they had left France, Edward had been on his way to Gascony, not England.

  They stayed only one night just outside London, preferring to reach Oxford and home as soon as possible. But further along Akeman Street, approaching a hamlet unknown to Saphira, Falconer pulled up his horse and stared across the river valley and marshes to their right. Looming over the little town they were approaching was an old Norman motte-and-bailey castle. It gave the impression that little had changed in this neck of the woods since the arrival of William two hundred years ago. Saphira didn’t know why William had suddenly become so pensive. She wheeled her horse around and trotted back to where he sat on his horse.

  ‘Where is this, William? And what on earth is going through that cluttered mind of yours?’

  Falconer pointed at the old castle.

  ‘Thomas Becket once held this castle. It is said to have bankrupted him.’

  ‘Very interesting. Shall we get going?’

  Falconer remained stock-still.

  ‘Eventually, Richard of Cornwall took it over.’

  ‘The king’s uncle?’

  ‘Yes, and he died here.’ He paused. ‘And so did young Prince John.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Saphira now knew what was on William’s mind. She knew how he hated loose ends and unresolved puzzles. It was not enough that he had pulled together all the facts about the other deaths connected with Amaury de Montfort. He would have to resolve the mystery around Edward’s son John or it would be like a worm nibbling at his brain forever.

  Falconer kicked his rouncey’s flanks and trotted into the hamlet of Berkhamsted looking for an inn. He wanted to stay in the same place Sir Humphrey had told him about. He only knew that it overlooked the River Bulbourne and had a view of the castle, and that the innkeeper’s name was Roger Brewer. Saphira followed him, knowing better than to ask William any questions at this stage. He would only become taciturn and clam up. She knew that, if she let him brood, he would explain everything to her eventually. But she did wonder why he rode past three perfectly good and clean-looking inns, only to settle on a drab and ramshackle place hard by the river. It promised to be a damp, uncomfortable night.

  Falconer knew it was the inn because of its location, with the keep of the castle looming over it just as Segrim had said. For propriety’s sake, they took two rooms high in the eaves of the inn. But Saphira soon bustled into the dark, damp cupboard that was William’s quarters. She sat expectantly on the low pallet covered with a straw mattress, watching Falconer look out of the unglazed window at the castle opposite. Eventually, he turned back into the tiny room.

  ‘This is where Segrim saw Odo de Reppes pass by on the night that Richard of Cornwall died. The interesting thing is that the Templar didn’t use the main highway…’ He pointed to Akeman Street that ran beyond the wall on the opposite side of the room. ‘Instead, he sneaked down there… the back lane between the inn and the river.’

  ‘But as he had killed Richard, would that not be the normal way of a murderer?’

  Falconer frowned, something niggling at his memory.

  ‘Perhaps. Though I don’t see de Reppes as one who skulks. And there is another problem.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I am not sure he did kill Richard.’

  ‘But did he not admit himself, when you questioned him, that Amaury had commanded him to murder Richard?’

  Falconer fidgeted from one foot to the other. The room was too small to accommodate both him and Saphira, and he loved to pace when thinking. He moved to the door.

  ‘Let us go outside and walk along the lane. There is a thought in my head, and it won’t come out when I am so confined.’

  The grass along the back lane, which was no more than a rough path along the river bank, was wet, and the hem of Saphira’s dress was soon soaked. But she bore it in order to hear what William had to say. He pursed his lips, as if trying to force out the hidden fact that worried at his brain.

  ‘Odo told me that when he got to Berkhamsted, Richard was as good as dead. He said he had no need to do anything himself.’

  ‘Surely he said that Richard was as good as dead because he had suffered a stroke?’

  Falconer shook his head.

  ‘That is what I took him to mean at first. But then I got to thinking. Richard was stricken by the half-dead disease around the Feast of St Mawes of Falmouth in December. He didn’t die until April, so Odo could not have imagined his victim was near death. He had already survived four months. I now think that Odo meant that when he entered the castle to kill Richard, he found him already dead. By another’s hand.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  After an uneasy night, Falconer and Saphira Le Veske met the next morning in the gloomy parlour of Brewer’s Inn to break their fast. They had slept in separate rooms as neither of their pallets was wide enough to accommodate more than one body. In fact, in Falconer’s case it did not even achieve that, and he spent the night with his feet sticking out over the end of the bed. Saphira sipped on the weak ale in the battered goblet set before her, thinking longingly of sweet red wine. A wooden bowl of dry bread was placed in front of them by a surly young lass with crossed eyes and boils. Falconer eagerly dipped the bread in his ale to soften it and began to eat. With a sigh, Saphira proposed that William explain himself further.

  ‘What evidence do you have for supposing someone else killed Richard? And who do you think it would be?’
r />   Falconer put a finger to his lips and hissed.

  ‘We should keep our voices down. Richard was the lord of the manor here, and some may not take kindly to suggestions that he was murdered.’

  Saphira looked pointedly around the parlour. It was empty of people other than themselves and an old man snoring loudly beside the ashes of the previous night’s fire. It was just as well that the fire had died, because his feet, wrapped in rags, were stretched out perilously close to the heap of ashes that had once been a cheerful blaze.

  ‘We should have to shout very loud to be heard in this place. Though I dare say, if you asked for the bill in a whisper, the landlord would be here soon enough.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Shall we try?’

  Falconer knew better than to cross Saphira when she was sounding so reasonable. It had been almost disastrous once. He did not want to annoy her again.

  ‘It may be a good idea to call for Roger Brewer. He might be able to tell us about the night Richard died, and something of what the people thought of him when he was alive.’

  Saphira was correct in her assumption. As soon as Falconer called for the bill, Roger was bustling around collecting the leavings of their sparse breakfast. Whisking the coins Falconer offered into his purse, he seemed at first amenable to Falconer’s questions.

  ‘Poor Lord Richard. Yes, I remember the day he died. We were all in this very parlour when Paul Crouch came in and broke the news.’ He hooked a thumb in the direction of the castle across the little river. ‘That place was a curse to him and his family. It’s a good job his son, Edmund, stays away.’

  ‘A curse? In what way?’

  Roger pulled up a three-legged stool and sat leaning close to Saphira and William, his beery breath wafting over them.

  ‘He had three wives, and two of them were soon dead. First there was Isabel Marshal, who died giving birth right there in the castle. That must be thirty years ago now. Then there was Cynthia of Provence, who died about twelve years ago. Also in the castle. Then not so long ago he married that Beatrice, who was barely sixteen to his sixty.’