Falconer and the Death of Kings (27 page)

‘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 woman’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

A
fter 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?’

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.’

‘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.