Falconer and the Death of Kings

by Ian Morson

  ‘You forget his mistress, Roger Brewer.’

  The hoarse, throaty voice was that of the old man seated by the embers. Falconer looked across the room at him. He had barely stirred, his eyes still gazing absently into the fireplace, as if recalling the warmth of the fire that was no longer there.

  ‘You can hold your tongue, Guy Fordbridge.’

  Brewer was clearly incensed that the old yeoman should speak so harshly of the old lord of the manor. But the old man merely hawked and spat into the embers.

  ‘Joan de Valletort gave him three kids and lasted longer than all his prissy noble wives. Earl Edmund takes after his mother – all foreign and full of airs and graces. He wouldn’t live in that shitheap of a castle if you paid him.’

  Brewer was about to apologize for the old man’s crude tongue, but Falconer cut off his protests.

  ‘Fetch the old man some ale, and the best red wine you have for Mistress Le Veske.’

  Falconer had noticed that Saphira had hardly touched her ale and prayed the wine would be better. He produced another coin from his dwindling supply, and the landlord sloped off, mumbling curses under his breath. Falconer beckoned to Guy Fordbridge.

  ‘Come and join us. The fire is cold, so you will not be missing much.’

  The old man heaved himself up and tottered over to the table where Falconer and Saphira sat. He slumped down on the stool Brewer had vacated, wheezing after his exertions. He took the pot of ale that Roger banged down at his elbow and stared at him until the landlord took the hint and left. He took a swig and wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve.

  ‘Roger’s all right, as landlords go. He feels he needs to be polite about the lord’s family to strangers, that’s all.’

  Saphira posed a question for the old man.

  ‘What do you think killed Richard?’

  Fordbridge took a deep draught of ale before he replied.

  ‘Some say it was the half-dead disease as got him at last. Others that it doesn’t matter what he died of – he was better off dead. He couldn’t speak, you know, after he was struck down. And he had been such a vigorous man.’ He chuckled. ‘He would have had to have been with three wives, the last one only sixteen, and a mistress or two tucked away. One of his sons by Joan is a priest hereabouts – Philip Cornwall he’s called.’

  Falconer was anxious to keep Fordbridge on track and to learn more about Richard alive than dead.

  ‘A vigorous man. And was he liked?’

  ‘Liked? How does that signify? He was the lord; he didn’t have to be liked. And he knew it, as he was fearsome harsh sometimes. He had a temper on him, you know. He would lash out at anyone near him, if they angered him in any way. There was a story…’

  The landlord, who must have been eavesdropping, came in with a goblet of wine for Saphira.

  ‘That’s enough, Guy. You’ve abused my hospitality too much already. Besides, your son will want to know where you are. There’s work to do in the fields.’

  Grumbling, Fordbridge prised himself off the low stool and shambled out of the room. Saphira took a sniff of the wine that Brewer had brought and studiously pushed it to one side. The landlord apologized for the old man’s behaviour.

  ‘He likes to run down the earl’s family. They take a high rent off him for his farm. Don’t pay any attention to him. Now, if you are ready, sir and mistress, I have your horses in the yard for you.’

  There seemed to be nothing more they could learn in the inn, so Falconer and Saphira gathered up their simple belongings and went out to the horses. Once on horseback, they turned them through the arch and on to Akeman Street once again. Falconer had one final question for Brewer.

  ‘Is there anyone living in the castle now?’

  Brewer shook his head.

  ‘No, sir. Only some caretaker sort sent by the old king to look after the property for Earl Edmund while he is in France.’ He laughed. ‘He must have done something awful bad at court to be exiled over there. He’s a young chap too, by the name of John Zellot.’

  Falconer thanked him and urged his horse on with a jab of his heels. Once on Akeman Street, he turned back south. Saphira called after him.

  ‘That’s the wrong way, William.’

  ‘No, it’s not. This is the way to the castle.’

  Saphira gave a deep sigh and followed him down the lane towards the river. A low wooden bridge took them over the river and led them towards the castle. Both the outer and inner drawbridges over the two moats were lowered, and they rode straight into the heart of the castle unchallenged. In the bailey, which was split in two sections, there were apartments, chapels, workshops and stables. But the big, open space was devoid of servants, save for two men digging down the side of a flint-stone wall. They seemed to care nothing for the two intruders, studiously continuing their labours. Falconer descended from his rouncey and called over to them.

  ‘Where is John Zellot? I wish to speak to him.’

  One of the men looked up from his trench and gave Falconer an odd sideways glance.

  ‘He’s in the hall over there.’

  He pointed briefly to the large building on the western side of the bailey then returned to his work. He said something, and they both laughed. As he turned, Falconer saw that his left eye was clouded completely over and as white as a boiled egg. Saphira had dismounted and was at his side as Falconer walked across the muddy courtyard.

  ‘I knew as soon as you heard the name Zellot that you would not be able to let matters lie.’

  John Zellot was a young courtier, who had been eagerly making his way in King Henry’s court a few years ago. He had been sent to bring Falconer to the king with a rare stone that the king coveted. Falconer had taken Saphira with him, and Zellot had earned due reward for services rendered. But now it looked as though he had fallen out of favour with the old king and his son, Edward. Banished to this backwater, he had lost some of his shine. When they entered the dark, dusty hall in search of Zellot, they heard the clatter of metal on metal and an accompanying curse. Beyond the fireplace, they found a rather drunken figure swinging his sword at an array of battered goblets standing on a long oak table. Some lay on the floor and had obviously been hit by the swinging sword. The rather bloated-looking man’s next effort, however, missed and took a gouge out of the already savaged table. Another curse rent the air.

  Falconer called out to him.

  ‘John Zellot, you are ruining the edge on an otherwise perfectly serviceable sword.’

  The figure turned and almost fell over. He clutched at a chair, then slumped into its embrace. Zellot peered drunkenly at the two intruders.

  ‘Why, it’s the Oxford sage and his paramour.’

  Falconer took a step towards the young man.

  ‘Have a care how you speak of Mistress Le Veske, Zellot. I am not too old to tip you up and spank you, especially when you are in this state.’

  Zellot waved a tipsy arm at Saphira, who was finding the male posturing quite amusing.

  ‘My apologies, sweet mistress. You are evidently not who I thought you were. I did not see you clearly.’

  John Zellot had not fared well in his new role. Boredom had turned him into a drunkard, who was beginning to neglect himself. When he and Falconer had first met, he had been elegantly dressed and trim around the waist. His clothes were now grubby and torn in places. And his waist had expanded, stretching his shirt and surcoat to their limits. His once-trimmed beard was long and straggly. Nervously, he began to pull at it, twisting strands of it around his fingers.

  ‘I must apologize for my appearance. I rarely see anyone these days. You see me reduced to the role of a caretaker who has nothing to take care of.’

  ‘Hence your game with the goblets.’

  ‘Yes, Master Falconer. But now you are here, I shall tidy myself up and provide you with the hospitality you deserve. And you too, Mistress Le Veske. See, I do remember your name. How could I forget one so beautiful, after all?’

  Saphira laughed gently
at Zellot’s tipsy attempt at chivalry and at righting the wrong of his earlier comment.

  ‘Unless you can supply me with some decent red wine, I think I must say no to your invitation, John Zellot.’

  Zellot leaped to his feet and begged his visitors to stay a while, a pleading look in his red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Good wine is the one comfort I can supply. Don’t go away.’

  Falconer and Saphira stood for a while, and then a while longer. Zellot was taking a long time, and they were uncertain what to do next.

  ‘William, what are we doing here? Zellot will know nothing about Richard’s death, or John’s. He could not have been here then.’

  Falconer grimaced.

  ‘I had hoped that we could speak to some of the servants who might have been around at the time. But there does not appear to be any.’

  There was no sound from outside the hall, no noise of the normal bustle you would expect at a lord’s castle. No sound of horses being cared for and saddled, or the smells of food being prepared. The only sound was the dull and monotonous thud as the two men outside dug their hole. It was a dead, brutish noise that made them both imagine that the castle was indeed cursed. They were about to give up their quest and leave, when Zellot came hurrying back into the hall followed by two old women, one bearing a flagon of wine and the other some cuts of cold meat on a large trencher.

  ‘Forgive me, but I had to tidy up, and it took longer than I expected. Meg, Annie, serve our guests.’

  The two women, happy to have something to do for once, cleared the battered goblets from the table and laid out the food and drink. Saphira could see that Zellot had indeed taken care with his appearance, even to the extent of wetting down his formerly tangled hair and beard. He waved them to the table, and they sat down together. To Saphira’s surprise, the wine was sweet and full of flavour. The women fussed around like mother hens, sharing the cold meat out on pieces of the bread trencher. Zellot would have sent them away, but Falconer stayed his hand.

  ‘With your permission, John Zellot, I would like to ask a question or two of Meg and Annie.’ The two women blushed and giggled, exposing their toothless mouths. Zellot looked puzzled, but he acquiesced.

  ‘By all means, Master Deductive.’

  Falconer recalled the name he had been saddled with at Henry’s court, and he nodded his head in wry acknowledgement. He was indeed going to play the part of deductive, seeking facts and comparing them in order to come to the greater truth. The two old servants gaped open-mouthed at him, not at all sure what the title he was given meant, but certain it was very significant.

  ‘Meg, Annie, I want to talk to you about Lord Richard.’

  Their looks suddenly became very solemn, and their eyes flickered between the two men and the red-haired woman. Falconer thought they looked scared.

  THIRTY

  John Zellot ran his fingers through his thick, unruly hair, teasing away nervously at the tangles. He stared at Falconer and drew his tongue slowly across his lips.

  ‘What are you going to do with this information?’

  Falconer laughed softly and exchanged a look with Saphira.

  ‘Why, nothing, of course. It is meaningless without corroboration. And I strongly suggest you do nothing with it either.’

  He could imagine Zellot making use of what they had learned from the two old women in order to further his career at court. But it was a very dangerous piece of information that might explode in his own face like one of Roger Bacon’s gunpowder firecrackers. Falconer had once nearly lost his fingers with one of the real items, mixed from a recipe provided by Bacon. Zellot could lose his life, if he misused the story the women had told. Somehow, though, Falconer knew he would have to delve further. And if he ascertained the truth, he would be obliged to tell Edward. Saphira looked at him, knowing what was going on in his head, and gave her tacit approval for what he was bound to do.

  ‘What else can we do, William?’

  It was Zellot who cut in with a warning.

  ‘You must leave well alone, Falconer. God knows what you will learn if you delve any further.’

  Falconer ignored the advice, speaking instead only to Saphira.

  ‘The king must know the truth. He charged me with investigating the instigator of several murders and attempted murders. But the start of all this was the death of his son, John. That is what began the cycle of events I was supposed to look into. And my conclusions led to the accusation of Amaury de Montfort as being the guiding hand. Now it looks as though he had nothing to do with the act we supposed was the first in the sequence.’

  A gloomy silence descended over the room as all three people reconsidered the testimony of the two old serving women.

  It had begun quite innocently with Meg being bold enough to suggest that their former lord had been a hard taskmaster. Annie had screwed up her wrinkled face and snorted in disgust.

  ‘Hard? He was unfair, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, Annie.’

  ‘The truth is the truth.’

  Annie saw that neither Zellot nor the two visitors were about to reprimand her, and she was emboldened enough to go on.

  ‘Lord Richard had a temper on him. If he didn’t get his own way, he would lash out. And not at just the servants neither. Family members got it in the neck too. Many’s the time I’ve seen bruises on poor young Beatrice’s face. And her barely sixteen. It seemed the younger they were the less well they fared, as if he couldn’t stand the children’s playfulness. Look at poor John…’

  There was an awful silence at this point, and Annie’s red face suddenly went very pale. Falconer urged her to continue.

  ‘What about John?’

  Annie backed away a little and looked pleadingly at Meg, wanting her to come to her aid. Meg, the shorter and fatter of the two women, pulled at Annie’s arm.

  ‘Now look what you’ve gone and said.’

  Zellot broke in, speaking sternly to the servants.

  ‘Whatever it is you meant to say, Annie, it is too late now to stop. Nothing will come back on you concerning what you say. I promise you.’

  But Annie was too fearful to continue, hiding her face in her hands. It was Meg who broke their silence, staring defiantly at Falconer and ignoring Zellot. He was no more than an upstart caretaker, and she didn’t respect him. But the grey-haired man in black looked like someone with authority. Someone she could trust.

  ‘It is only a story, mind, spoken of between the servants. We didn’t see it happen.’

  Falconer nodded.

  ‘I understand. Tell me what you have heard.’

  There followed a tale involving enmity and unjust punishment meted out by Richard to his nephew, John. Despite his great wealth – he was said to be the wealthiest man in Europe – and his title of King of the Germans, Richard was jealous of the little five-year-old. The boy’s grandfather, Richard’s brother, was King of England. His father Edward would be the next king, and then John would be king in his turn. None of Richard’s offspring could aspire to be King of England, and it rankled. The boy was chastised for the merest slight, and given a cuff with the back of Richard’s hand. A hard and calloused hand that was used to fighting in battle. And more than that – the child was pushed into training as a knight, performing exercises that were far beyond the capabilities of a small child. Richard justified his acts by maintaining that the child needed to be hardened up for the tasks that lay ahead of him. And when he inevitably failed – in lifting the smallest of swords and completing a set of thrusts and parries most adults would tire doing – Richard would beat him.

  ‘And then he took it too far.’ Meg now had a determined look on her face. Nothing would stop her now. ‘The Lord Richard was set on putting poor John on horseback.’

  But it had not been a quiet rouncey he had selected, but Richard’s own skittish and enormously powerful destrier. The massive horse he himself rode into battle. All the servants present could see the fea
r in the little boy’s eyes, but there was nothing they could do. The destrier had been brought from the stables by one of the stable-hands, and it stood in the centre of the courtyard. As it danced nervously on the end of its rein, its iron hoofs struck sparks off the hard stone slabs under it. Richard himself lifted the boy on to the horse’s back, where for a while he perched like a wart on an old man’s face. Then it happened. The horse reared and threw John to the ground. Everyone could see he was dead, for his neck was horribly twisted, broken by the fall. Richard just walked away in silence.

  Annie was weeping, and Meg’s voice had broken in the telling. Falconer was a little disappointed. Saphira had already told him the story Eleanor had told her about John’s death. This just seemed to confirm a sad accident, caused by Richard’s foolishness. But then Meg had a final thing to say.

  ‘It was put down as a terrible accident. But Tom the stable-hand swears that he saw Lord Richard rake the pommel of his sword across the horse’s flank just after he put John in the saddle. It was deliberate, he says.’

  A deathly silence had followed this revelation, and the women were swiftly dismissed. As Zellot and his guests considered their next actions, the sky darkened and large drops of rain began to fall. The castle felt cold, damp and gloomy, as if it had been in mourning for the dead for years. Falconer knew he had to check the women’s story in case it was just rumour.

  ‘Is Tom still a servant here?’

  Zellot looked up at Falconer, his eyes reddened from the wine he had consumed since hearing the terrible tale. He nodded his head.

  ‘He is the only one left in the stables. There are not many horses to look after now. And yes, before you ask, you can speak to him. Offer him some reward, if you have to. God knows he needs some help in the stables. But don’t tell me the result of your interrogation. I don’t want to know. Then I can pretend what I heard was all servants’ gossip.’

  ‘We will leave immediately after we have spoken to Tom.’ Falconer patted Zellot’s arm. ‘You are a good man, John Zellot. Stick to your task, and you will be rewarded.’