Falconer and the Death of Kings (11 page)

Falconer nodded politely and went on.

‘Thank you, Your… My Lady, what caused you to enter the chamber just after the attempt on your husband’s life?’

Eleanor frowned and sat a little forward in the chair, clasping her hands around her right knee. For a moment she looked like a young girl eager to please her old uncle.

‘I heard a commotion. A cry from my husband, I think. My instinct was to go to him, so I did.’

‘Not to run and hide in fear of your life?’

Eleanor smiled, and involuntarily Falconer found himself captivated by this pretty woman. He had to remind himself she was the queen, a mother several times over and fast approaching her thirtieth birthday.

‘I am not a shrinking violet, Master Falconer. Nor do I live in fear for my life. Besides, if there had been any danger, I am sure the men-at-arms surrounding my husband would have held me back.’

Worldy-wise as well as beautiful, then.

‘I am sure they would have. Please, tell me what you saw and heard when you entered the king’s chamber. Any fact, no matter how small, could be of significance.’

‘I am not sure I registered much. My eyes were mainly for my husband. He was standing by the window on the other side of the room, clutching his hand into a fist. The room was in a mess. A table had been tipped over and the marble top shattered. Two guards were dragging a body out of the room. I did not see at the time who it was. All I could see was blood everywhere. I did not know if it was that of my husband or the other man’s. I just ran to Edward’s side. He tried to convince me he was all right, but then he collapsed at my feet.’

By now, Eleanor’s grip on her knee was so tight that her knuckles were white. Her voice suddenly sounded strained.

‘Of course, you must dismiss from your mind the romantic myth of my sucking the poison from his wounds.’ She smiled fleetingly. ‘That was made up as a jest by Edward much later. You know, I only found out the next day that the man being dragged away was Anzazim. The trusted Anzazim, whom I had quite liked. So despite what he did to Edward, I still prayed they did not hurt him too much before he died.’

Falconer’s heart lurched in his chest.

‘He was not already dead when he was taken from the chamber?’

‘No. He must have been alive, because I was told that he cursed Edward before he succumbed. They fed his body to the dogs, you know.’

The fact that Anzazim had still been alive after the attack was just the sort of information Falconer had hoped for by interviewing Eleanor. He now knew he would have to speak to Clisby and Cloughe again. Before he could take his leave, though, Eleanor asked him something.

‘Have I answered the question you were proposing to ask just before I came in?’

‘I don’t know, My Lady. Can you think of any reason why Anzazim should have acted as he did? It is said the Assassins are motivated not by principles but by money. That they will perform their deeds at the behest of those who can pay. Can you think of anyone who would have paid Anzazim or his masters to try to kill your husband?’

Eleanor didn’t hesitate this time, her answer coming pat.

‘Many people had reason to hate Edward, Master Falconer. As a result of the Barons’ War several families were dispossessed and enmities created. The Earl of Derby hated Edward for breaking the terms of a truce during the conflict. And of course the de Montfort family had more reason than most to seek revenge for the defeat of Earl Simon.’

Falconer refrained from suggesting that ‘defeat’ was more than a polite euphemism for what Simon de Montfort had suffered. At the Battle of Evesham, the earl went down under a relentless attack. But it did not stop there. His body was mutilated and his head cut off and displayed on a lance. His own son, Simon, witnessed the grisly sight. Falconer thanked Eleanor for her patience and bowed out of the now cold and gloomy chamber. He did not therefore see Edward entering by another door, which had been kept ajar so that he could hear Falconer’s entire conversation with his wife. Eleanor looked up at him and smiled.

‘Did I do well, Edward?’

The king nodded.

‘Perfectly. You have set him on the right track, my dearest.’

Falconer found his own way back to the subterranean world that was the soldiers’ quarters. With any luck, Clisby and Cloughe would still be off duty, as little must be required of them in the French king’s palace. If not, he was determined to find them at their post, wherever that may be. But as he entered the crypt-like chamber, he saw he was in luck. There was a gaggle of men-at-arms lounging on their pallets. Most had their heavy chain mail off and were relaxing in their undershirts and breeches. There was a smell of stale sweat in the air that reminded Falconer of any number of billets he had experienced from Bologna to Vienna. His own past rose up in his mind and reminded him that, even though these men looked at ease, they would still be alert to intrusion or impending danger. Predictably, several sharp eyes turned his way. One grey-haired old veteran, his hands clasped behind his head, called out pleasantly.

‘Are you lost, master? This den of iniquity is surely not where you aimed to be.’

Falconer smiled easily, casting his eyes around the room for the two men he sought. He cursed his poor eyesight, but did not wish to show his weakness by putting on his eye-lenses.

‘Indeed it is, my friend. I am looking for John Clisby and Thomas Cloughe. Can you tell me if they are here?’

There was a brief lull in the general chatter that had filled the room before it began again, though in a more tense, artificial manner. Everyone seemed to be covering up something they would rather hide from this intruder. Falconer felt a cold shiver of apprehension run down his spine. Only the old soldier appeared unperturbed by his question.

‘I am afraid you are too late, master. They have gone.’

‘Well, if they are on duty somewhere, can you tell me where that is? I spoke to them earlier today and would like to ask them for some more information.’

The old man eased himself up from his prone position, turning to lean on one elbow.

‘You misunderstand me, friend. Thomas and John have left. They have been sent on ahead to Gascony to prepare the ground for the king when he travels there to see to his holdings. It is said Gaston de Béarn is in revolt again and needs his arse tanning.’

The soldiers near to the man burst out in coarse laughter at his jest. They were obviously absorbing every word that was said between him and Falconer despite their apparent lassitude. Falconer felt sorry for this Gaston de Béarn, if these rough English soldiers were to be set on him. Even so, he was suspicious at the sudden departure of the main witnesses to Edward’s attempted assassination. Firstly, he had almost missed speaking to Eleanor, who no doubt by now was on her way to Castile. And now the two soldiers had been spirited away. He wondered if Sir John Appleby was interfering for some reason in his investigations. Was he envious of Falconer’s private access to the king? He could not be sure. He threw out a question to the room generally anyway, more in hope than expectation.

‘Is there anyone else here who was present in Acre when Anzazim was interrogated?’

His enquiry brought forth another roar of laughter, and Falconer stood still, puzzled by the reaction. It was the old soldier who set him to rights.

‘Everyone here was present when the bastard was
interrogated
as you put it. Though I am not sure I would call it such. Everyone wanted a piece of him, so we all crowded into the cell where he had been thrown by John Clisby, and we all gave him a good kicking.’ He waggled the heavy, studded boots that he still had on his feet. ‘He didn’t say much before he died.’

Falconer sighed. Another dead end, then. Almost literally. As he turned to go, though, the old man called after him.

‘He did beg a lot, mind you. And cursed both the king and those who had put him up to it.’

Falconer paused, hardly daring to ask the question that he burned to know the answer to.

‘And who did he say had put him up to it?’

The old man winked.

‘One of us lot, he said. A Latin, he said. Though those infidel bastards don’t know one Latin from another. As far as they are concerned, we all look alike. So he could have meant an Englishman, he could have meant a Frenchie, a Hungarian or a Slav. Who knows? Anyway, I stopped his foul mouth with my boot, and that was that.’

The rest of the soldiers cheered in approval of their comrade’s actions. Falconer was simply sad that Anzazim did not have the easy end that Eleanor had hoped for. But now the mood of the men around him had changed, and Falconer saw he had learned all he would be able to from them. But he was not that discontented. He now had some inkling of who might have paid the Assassin to act. That was more than he had had at the start of his day. He had a positive trail to follow, and tomorrow he would take it further. He already knew where he had to go.

TWELVE

D
arkness had fallen on Paris, but the streets still bustled with life. A few wealthy merchants had servants rushing ahead of them with blazing torches, but most people strode boldly out in the centre of the main thoroughfares. They took care to keep away from the shadows of the overhanging buildings. Not only because they feared robbers might lurk in them, but to avoid tripping over the beggars who sat, often with starving curs curled at their feet, along the edges of the streets. Starvation was an ever-present curse that drove poor families off the land and into the city in hope of feeding themselves. Their plight made Thomas shiver, because it could so easily have been his own. If a benevolent local priest had not paid for his journey to Oxford and the university, he might have dragged his own family into penury. He was the fourth child that Peggy and Jack Symon had produced, and they could barely support three. Of course, Thomas could have worked on the land when he grew up and helped in that way. But the priest saw in the bright and eager child something worth fostering. He had gambled his stipend on Thomas and had been proved right. The eager farm boy was now Master Thomas Symon of Oxford with prospects before him.

As Thomas strode into the open space of the Place Maubert, he clutched the satchel he had slung over his shoulder. It contained the first part of Roger Bacon’s proposed compendium, and he needed to keep it safe. He couldn’t help thinking of what the friar had dictated. His hand had trembled at Roger Bacon’s words, and he had been half afraid to write them down. Even Pope Gregory had been criticized by the fearless Franciscan in words that still shone clearly in Thomas’s mind.

‘Everywhere we shall find boundless corruption, and first of all in the Head. The Holy See is torn by the deceit and fraud of unjust men. The whole Papal Court is defamed of lechery… the prelates run after money, neglect the cure of souls and promote their nephews and other carnal friends…’

He had tried to temper Bacon’s outpourings.

‘Master, do you think it is proper to condemn the Pope in such terms? It is not surely safe.’

Bacon had turned on him with a look of scorn on his face.

‘We are scholars, Thomas.
Proper
and
safe
are not scientific terms I understand. Facts and truth are what we seek, and when we find them we must proclaim their shining brightness. Shall we carry on?’

Thomas lowered his head in embarrassment. He had thought Falconer a hard taskmaster. He was beginning to think that Friar Bacon was going to be infinitely worse.

‘Yes, master. I am ready.’

He had buried his head in the work of a scribe and tried not to think of the meaning of the words.

‘Master Symon. Thomas.’

He realized someone was calling him from across the big open space that was the Place Maubert. Looking back, he saw Jack Hellequin beckoning him from the doorway of a down-at-heel building on the corner. It looked as though it had been squeezed unceremoniously between the two sturdier structures either side of it. Both of which probably wished they could elbow it out of the way. A withered branch with drooping leaves hung over the door. It was a tavern, and a poor one by the look of it. Thomas wasn’t sure what to do, but Hellequin gesticulated urgently again, and he walked over to him.

‘What is it, Jack? I am tired and I must speak to my fellow master before he retires.’

‘No, you must drink with us. Geoffrey is buying.’

Thomas hesitated, but he wasn’t sure if Falconer would even be at the Abbey of St Victor to listen to his tales of Bacon’s madness. William had been preoccupied by the task the king had set him and would surely no longer be interested in Thomas. He made a quick decision. After all, he needed to learn more, if he could, about Paul Hebborn. Then perhaps Falconer would listen to him. He smiled, and let Jack take him by the arm and guide him into the noisy tavern.

Inside was a scene of debauchery to Thomas’s eyes. He was used to drunken behaviour from his time as a student in Oxford. Though he rarely got involved with them himself, as he felt too strongly his duty to the village priest who had funded his tuition. He sometimes wished he could have bent a little, but his conscience always pricked him. So he had been a somewhat sober observer of the excesses of his fellows. In this low, mean tavern on the south bank of the river, sobriety had not dared enter. The predominance of young men, some in garish garb, suggested it was a place frequented by students of the university. But there were solid knots of simply clad artisans drinking hard amid the swirl and eddies of the more agitated student imbibers. Thomas swallowed hard and followed Hellequin to a group of young men, some of whom he recognized as Adam Morrish’s students. A goblet was thrust in his hand, and someone filled it from a jug of red wine, splashing the contents over his neat black robe in the process. He made an ineffectual effort to wipe the stain away.

‘Is there no ale?’

Thomas would have preferred weak beer to this French wine that always went to his head. But Jack chastised him for his caution.

‘Drink up. You are in Paris now. None of your English ways here.’

Thomas took a deep breath and gulped the wine down. As he spluttered and coughed, his goblet was filled again. And the group of young men cheered. Jack clapped him on the back, encouraging him to take another draught. He did so, and prayed he would stay sober enough to remember anything he was told about Hebborn. He looked around.