Falconer and the Death of Kings (7 page)

SEVEN

W
illiam Falconer was never an early riser, and at Aristotle’s Hall in Oxford he relied on the students lodging in the hall to have drawn him a bowl of water in the morning. With it he would refresh his face and wake himself up. In the abbey in Paris where he and Thomas were staying, the seemingly incessant chant of the monks at prayer woke him early and kept him awake. It seemed that, no sooner had they completed nocturnes, they were intoning lauds. And hard on the heels of lauds came prime. By then the abbey was already buzzing with activity, and Falconer could not blank out the sound by burying his head. What made it worse was that young Thomas fitted into the routine of the monks so easily. Dawn had barely sneaked its way into their chamber, and Symon was already up and dressed. He cheerfully called out that he was on his way to see Dean Osterwiic, and would then ask around Paul Hebborn’s former fellows for information.

‘And then I will start my work for Friar Bacon. What do you intend to do with your time, William?’

Falconer groaned.

‘I did intend to dissect open a young master of Oxford University. But unfortunately he is still alive.’ He grabbed the nearest object to throw at Thomas Symon. He launched it before realizing it was Hebborn’s purse. ‘Get out of here, and leave me in peace.’

From under his bedclothes, Falconer heard the muffled laughter of his young companion and the slamming of the door. He couldn’t sleep, however, because he could think only of the flame-headed Saphira Le Veske. His lover had plagued his thoughts ever since he had arrived in Paris. Even though they were no longer separated by the Channel, he felt as far away from her as ever. Their final disagreement returned again and again in his head. Right from the moment he expressed his concern about her travelling alone, and her indignant retort. She had said he was overbearing, and he had knowingly walked right into the trap.

‘And I am just a celibate teacher in holy orders who has no rights over you, I suppose.’

That had made Saphira see red and come up with a heated reply.

‘Of course you have no rights over me, William.’

His next thoughtless sentence had sealed his fate. Repeating it over and over in his head did not alleviate the stupidity of it. Nor could it cause it to be retracted.

‘Why can’t you just do as I say for once?’

For Falconer, the words fell to the ground with just as leaden a weight this morning as they had done months before. He groaned again, understanding at last just what he had done, and swung his bare legs out of the bed. Reaching for his black robe, he pulled it on over his linen undershirt and scrubbed his unshaven face with his calloused hands. Just as he bent down to pick up the purse he had tossed at Thomas, there was a knock at the door. He stuffed the scrip in his own purse and opened the door.

Before him stood a stocky man in his middle years, accoutred in the dress of the English court. He wore a dark-blue cloak over his deep-red surcoat, which was slit up the front to reveal yellow cross-garters over the man’s red hose. His greying hair was topped with a blue sugarloaf hat, the brim being turned up in the latest fashion. Falconer smiled at the sight. The man was dressed more gaudily than any of his rich students back in Oxford, but he was far too old to be so garbed. The peacock smiled, and spoke with a West Country accent.

‘Regent Master William Falconer? My name is Sir John Appleby, and I am the servant of King Edward. May I speak?’

‘Well, sir, it seems you already have.’

The man ignored Falconer’s terse rejoinder, and the master could see that this vision in red and blue was not going to be put off by his manner. He stepped aside and beckoned the man in to his cluttered quarters. He was glad that he had at least risen and had not been caught abed. King Edward’s messenger entered the cell and cast a judicious eye around the interior. His gaze, when it returned to Falconer, did not betray anything but a bland pleasantness. Falconer asked him his business.

‘Why, the king’s business, of course. I have a message from His Majesty.’

Appleby gazed around again, looking for somewhere to sit. But discerning no place that was not piled high with books and papers other than the dishevelled bed, he remained standing. He began the speech that Edward had taxed him with learning that very morning.

Edward, as it turned out, was an earlier riser than even Sir John. A result no doubt of his time as a warrior for Christ in the Holy Lands. He had insisted that his messenger should frame his call for Falconer in the form of a request, not a command.

‘He must come of his own free will, Sir John, and feel there is no compulsion. He must do what I ask as if he himself wishes it.’

Appleby bowed low.

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

He conned his part in the deception, and was about to leave and carry out his task. But Edward grasped his arm in a vice-like grip. He stared Appleby hard in the eyes, his drooped eyelid appearing to wink.

‘But be in no doubt, Sir John, that you must ensure he comes.’

Now Appleby stood before the regent master whom Edward so wanted to see, and wondered why. He saw a tall, powerful-looking man who had gone a little to seed. His broad shoulders, hidden under the loose black robe of an academic, hinted at a past involving the swinging of a broadsword. And his face still had strength in its lined features. But the hair was thinning and grey, and he detected a little rounding to his backbone. Besides, this Falconer looked as though he had just dragged himself out of bed, though it was already terce. Not a man Sir John would employ. But the king knew best, and Appleby had a message to deliver. He did so to the best of his ability, weaving a tale of Edward’s desire to know of the last days of his father. But he finished with the words that Edward specifically told him to say.

‘Between you and me, Master Falconer, the king has double cause to mourn, what with the death of his father following on from that of his son in somewhat suspicious circumstances. He is troubled in mind and needs reassurance. You can do that for him.’

He rose to leave at that point, but he had already seen the flicker in Falconer’s eyes at the mention of suspicious death. He allowed a small smile to play across his face. He felt he had hooked the man for the king. When he reached the door of the miserable chamber, Falconer spoke up.

‘Tell the king I am his servant and will attend him at his pleasure.’

Appleby turned back to the academic.

‘Come to the palace this afternoon, and be at the gate close by Ste-Chapelle. I will meet you there.’ He extended a hand. ‘And thank you, Master Falconer. You will not regret this.’

Falconer inclined his head non-committally and closed the door behind the gaudy courtier. After the man had gone, a big smile lit up his face.

Thomas Symon only found the medical school after a little difficulty. He had first asked one of the monks in the abbey where the school of Adam Morrish the Englishman might be found. Solemnly, the monk had told him in his native French that it was in one of the streets running out from the Petit Pont.

‘You cannot miss it, for it is appropriately named for a medical school. The butchery.’

Thomas had thanked him, but didn’t see the monk’s mischievous smile when he turned his back on him. He made his way up the winding lane that led through the Place Maubert towards the bridge that linked the south bank of Paris with the island on the River Seine. Close by, and not certain which way to turn, he had stopped a passer-by and asked for Butchery Street. The man, carrying a bundle of sticks on his back, took one look at Thomas and spat on the ground at his feet. Puzzled, Thomas found the bridge before he dared ask again. This time he enquired of a rich-looking merchant who was hurrying to cross the bridge on his way north.

‘Excuse me, sir. Do you know where Butchery Street is?’

Once again he was waved away with a peremptory gesture. Not sure what he had done wrong, he stopped on the end of the bridge, gazing down at the muddy waters that flowed swiftly beneath. Further along, houses clustered on both sides of the bridge, obscuring the view. A shabbily dressed young man was seated on the parapet, swinging his legs idly over the void. He grinned at Thomas.

‘I couldn’t help overhear your question, friend. Why do you seek a street that doesn’t exist in Paris?’

Thomas frowned, sure that the monk could not have deliberately misled him.

‘No, it surely exists. A man called Adam teaches medicine there.’

The shabby youth tilted his head back and roared with laughter, threatening to fall off the parapet with the violence of his seizure. He flicked his long hair out of his eyes and, swivelling round, dropped to the safety of the bridge’s floor. He stuck his hand out for Thomas to take.

‘You Englishmen may be part Norman, but you mangle our language something awful. My name is Jacques Hellequin. But you may call me Jack.’

He made a great show of speaking the last sentence in what he fancied was courtly English. Thomas took his hand and squeezed it firmly. It was good to meet someone in Paris who did not turn his nose up at the sight of an Englishman.

‘It is good to meet you, Jack. I am Thomas Symon from Oxford. But what do you mean about mangling your language?’

Jack’s eyes twinkled.

‘There is a world of difference between
boucherie
and
bûcherie
. One is indeed an abattoir, but the other is a woodcutter’s shed. Master Adam’s medical school is in the street named after the latter. Though, come to think about it, it would be more appropriate if it were in the other. In fact, I can’t wait to tell my fellow students of your unintentional pun.’

Thomas silently vowed he would have his revenge in some way on the monk who had set him up to appear a fool.

‘You are a student at the school?’

‘Yes, I am. You have fallen on your feet with me, Master Symon. I will show you where the school is. But first you must know of the difficult situation that exists there.’

Thomas feigned ignorance of any problem, hoping that his new friend was referring to the very death that he wished to investigate. His young and innocent face, usually an embarrassment to him when he wished to appear wise and knowing, sometimes was an advantage.

‘What is that, Jack?’

Jack Hellequin grimaced.

‘One of our numbers died the day before yesterday.’

Thomas expressed horror at what might have caused death in a medical school.

‘He did not contract some deadly disease that I might catch too?’

‘No, indeed.’ Jack squeezed Thomas’s arm reassuringly. ‘You could not die of the same cause. Unless you too threw yourself off the tower of Notre-Dame.’

‘Ah, yes. I heard tell of that poor unfortunate. Threw himself off, you say? I heard it said he was pushed.’

Jack’s brow clouded over, and he seemed to stumble a little in his progress down Rue de la Bûcherie.

‘Who told you that? That is a foul thing to say. No, the truth was that Paul was a tortured soul who did not fit in well with the rest of us. He was English, and the rest of us are either French, Norman or Picard. And though our master is English too, Paul kept to himself a lot. He was a misfit.’

Thomas was about to question this analysis of the dead youth’s behaviour while alive, but his guide stopped in the street in front of a nondescript house in the row of tenements that made up Rue de la Bûcherie, each with its back to the river. Jack Hellequin made an extravagant gesture towards the crumbling façade.

‘And here is that great seat of learning – Master Adam Morrish’s medical school.’

Thomas held back his eagerness for more information and followed Jack through the portal.

EIGHT

T
he gateway giving access to Ste-Chapelle and the Royal Palace was closely guarded. And the Frenchman in his royal livery stared suspiciously at William Falconer when he presented himself. He was even more surly when he heard the master’s English accent. But finally he was persuaded to send a message to the English court sojourning in the guest quarters of King Philip’s palace. From the fixed stare he got from the guard, Falconer could only imagine the man disbelieved such a shabby individual as himself had any business with the glittering courts of the two kings. However, he had to allow Falconer through the gate when the gaudily clad Appleby came to meet him. Though the guard’s puzzlement was only increased by the apparently friendly exchange between such opposites. Who could fathom the English and their wardrobes?

Falconer was led into the palace by Sir John Appleby and through a maze of rooms and corridors. All the time, Sir John prattled on about how remarkable the king was, and how he admired his maturity and good sense. Falconer nodded politely, only half listening to the courtier. He had met his sort before, when he had been summoned into the presence of the old king, Henry, who had died last year. The ailing monarch had been surrounded by men who jumped at his every whim, and doctors who were afraid to tell him he was dying. The powerful very rarely heard the truth from those in their presence. Falconer had been an exception, and Henry had seemed to relish the cut and thrust of their arguments over who had killed the king’s wardroper, and why. The Oxford master resolved he would behave exactly the same when he met Henry’s son, the new king. Then he realized Appleby had asked him a question.

‘I’m sorry, Sir John, my hearing must be getting as bad as my eyesight. What did you say?’

‘I was saying that you should show respect in the king’s presence and refer to him as Your Majesty. He is only just growing into his new role, and he is not as secure in it as his father was. After all, Henry of Winchester ruled for more than fifty-six years, and…’

Falconer abruptly interrupted.

‘And saw off a rebellion of his barons. Yes, I know. But Edward himself was a canny operator. He was clever enough to switch sides back and forth in the Barons’ War. I doubt he is as vulnerable as you think.’

Appleby pulled a face.

‘Hmm. Be that as it may. He is your monarch, so don’t remind him of his switching of allegiance. He now professes to love his father.’ He stopped to eye up Falconer’s appearance. ‘What a pity you could not bring yourself to dress more appropriately. Still, he may appreciate your humble garb for what it is.’