Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘Listen, young Thomas,’ said Bacon, ‘and I will tell you about the boundless corruption everywhere. Even the Court of Rome is torn by the deceit and fraud of unjust men. The whole Papal Court is defamed of lechery, and gluttony is lord of all.’

Thomas had gone pale at such words being spoken out loud, and he was not surprised that the Franciscan order had kept Bacon under lock and key so long. He had been anxious to test Falconer with his friend’s words. But William was more intent on examining Paul Hebborn’s scrip. He was already pulling the drawstring and tipping the contents out on to a space he had cleared on the small table in the centre of the room.

‘Hmm.’

Falconer rummaged in his own purse, extracted his eye-lenses and put them on. Peering down at the tabletop, he poked at the scattering of items with a bony finger. There was a horn spoon, three small coins, a broken comb and a tattered copy of Priscian’s grammar book.

‘Not much to go on, is there?’

Thomas agreed.

‘It was not worth stealing, after all.’

‘I wish you would stop referring to it as stealing. I merely borrowed the scrip in order to help trace what happened to the boy.’

‘Yes, but it hasn’t helped, has it?’

Reluctantly, Falconer had to agree, and he shovelled the items back into the leather purse.

‘I shall have to talk to his master and fellow students somehow. Though without any authority here, I am not sure how they will receive me.’

‘He was studying medicine, under an Englishman called Adam Morrish near the Petit Pont.’ Thomas named the bridge that linked the Ile de la Cité to the university quarter on the south bank of the river. ‘I could talk to the students, if you wish. The faculty of medicine has what they call here a dean as its head. He is called Gérard de Osterwiic. I have met him, and he is a most amenable man. He will know all about the individual schools of medicine. And if we are to set up this subterfuge of Friar Bacon teaching at a faculty outside the order’s building, it might as well be at the Petit Pont.’

Falconer frowned, seeing that this might cut him out of the process altogether.

‘Will you have time to do that, and act as scribe for Roger? That will be your primary task, after all. Perhaps I should speak to this dean.’

But Thomas would not have it. He felt for the first time that he was at the centre of things in Paris, where before he was scurrying at Falconer’s shabby boot-heels. And, though neither man knew it then, Falconer would soon find his burden greater than Thomas’s. Sir John Appleby was already reckoning to be at the Abbey of St Victor soon after prime on the very next day. Edward was chafing at the bit to speak to the regent master who had served his father in his last days. And to present him with a complex puzzle that he had been thinking about all day. He knew he could make use of this Falconer to serve his own ends. It was just a matter of how he would arrange to have Falconer do his bidding.

William 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.’