Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘Thank you, Sir John. You may leave us now. I am sure I can find my own way back.’

The courtier began to demur but, catching Falconer’s steely blue gaze, gave up. With a flap of his hand, he dismissed himself from the other three and retreated into the far gloom of the crypt. Falconer turned his gaze on the two men-at-arms and sighed.

‘What a popinjay.’

The men grinned and one, perhaps Thomas Cloughe — Falconer could not remember — spat on the earthen floor. He ground the phlegm in with a heavy boot and returned Falconer’s stare. There was a moment’s silence while Falconer and the two men assessed each other, then Falconer spoke.

‘Shall we take the weight off our feet? I see you have a flagon there. Is there some ale left in it?’

The other man — presumably Clisby — grunted and pushed the flagon over to their unwelcome guest. Falconer was beginning to tell them apart now, for he could see a scar under this man’s left eye. So, he was scarface John. And one of Cloughe’s eyes was turned slightly inwards, making him boss-eyed Thomas. Grudgingly, Cloughe wiped the rim of a goblet on his surcoat and passed it to Falconer. It must have been the one he had been drinking from, for there were only two goblets in evidence on the table, but even so Falconer took it and poured some beer into it. He let the silence hang for a while more, until he could see the wariness in the soldiers’ eyes turn to worry. Falconer was an adversary they could not figure out, and as soldiers that was a life-threatening situation.

Having got them nervous, he flung out a question.

‘Tell me about Anzazim.’

Relieved to be given a lifeline, both men began speaking at the same time. They stopped, looked at each other and, with a small nod of the head from the boss-eyed man, Clisby took the lead. Falconer put down Cloughe as the follower then.

‘That was a surprise to us all. I mean, even the king himself trusted the bastard. He was in and out of the prince’s… king’s… well, still prince then…’

‘Just call him Edward,’ offered Falconer.

‘Yes, master. As I was saying, he was in and out of Edward’s quarters like a rat up a hole. And a rat he turned out to be — a murderous rat.’

‘Did you know him well?’

It was Cloughe who spoke now. He leaned forward, and his sword tip dug a scar in the earth as he pushed it back. Forming his words, he clasped his hands together almost as if he was at prayer. He didn’t look Falconer in the eye, but kept his cross-eyed gaze on the ground between his knees.

‘I spoke to him more than once. He was bringing letters from a Saracen lord who had taken a shine to Edward. He passed himself off as a Christian convert, so despite his black face and heathen robes eventually he had almost free passage of the castle at Acre. He was just another familiar face, who came and went. Harmless.’ He raised his gaze to Falconer. ‘How were we to know he was a Hassatut?’

He was using a name Falconer had heard little of before, but he knew it to mean a secret agent of the Nizari sect. An Assassin, in other words. He looked the troubled man in his good eye.

‘The day he tried to kill Edward, did you see a change in him?’

Cloughe looked puzzled, exchanging glances with Clisby.

‘What do you mean — a change? What sort of change?’

Falconer shrugged.

‘A wild look in his eye, perhaps. A nervousness about his movements. They do say these agents — these Hassatuts — eat opium. He would have a wide, staring look.’

Clisby leaned over his companion’s shoulder and took up the story.

‘You could be right there, master. I saw him that day, and he had eyes like deep pools. Dark and evil.’

Falconer realized he had fed these men too much information, and they were giving him what they thought he wanted to hear. Besides, how reliable was their information after all this time? He tried another tack.

‘Who else was present when you showed the… man into Edward’s chamber?’

Clisby frowned and glanced at Cloughe. An unspoken exchange took place between them, then Cloughe answered for them both.

‘Why, no one, sir. Though the Lady Eleanor arrived soon after the commotion. She was there as we dragged that cursed Anzazim away, bleeding his life away like a pig.’

While Falconer was struggling to extract information from illiterate soldiers, Thomas Symon was having the same problems with the altogether smarter students of medicine. Even Jack Hellequin seemed to have clammed up on him. Only the youthful Adam Morrish was free with his information. But then he was the teacher. In the morning, Thomas patiently sat through Morrish’s lecture on the humours, and how each element was related to bodily fluids — fire to yellow bile, earth to black bile and so on. He had nothing to learn about these standard approaches to curing illness in men. But he squirmed a little when Morrish began to expound the Greek physician Galen’s views on blood carrying the pneuma, or life spirit.

‘It is this which gives the blood its red colour. And the blood passes through a porous wall in the chambers of the heart to reach all parts of the body.’

Thomas knew this to be erroneous. He had opened up enough hearts — perhaps five in the last two years — to know there was no porous wall inside but a clever muscly set of openings. But he could say nothing in the presence of these young students. Anatomy was forbidden except in the case of the bodies of murderers. He stoically sat through the rest of Morrish’s lecture, his stomach rumbling through lack of sustenance. At the end, he decided to try his luck again with the taciturn students, grabbing a bite to eat in the process, before he met Friar Bacon in the dank rear room of the school. It would be the first time they would sit down together to begin the mammoth task of recording Bacon’s compendium of all things. But before Thomas could escape the school, Morrish took his arm and, smiling, asked to speak to him. Reluctantly, Symon watched the other young men leave for the nearby tavern, where no doubt Geoffrey Malpoivre would stump up for wine or ale. When the last student had left, and peace had descended once again on the schoolroom, Morrish guided him to one of the benches and sat down beside him.

The man had the look of someone who was relaxed and confident, something that seemed to elude Thomas. Though Morrish’s face was youthful, his eyes were deep pools that spoke of knowledge and wisdom. He stared into Thomas’s eyes, and he had to look away. Morrish’s voice was mellifluous and confident too.

‘You did not agree with me — or should I say, Galen — about the movement of blood around the body.’

Thomas shrugged, uncertain what to say. Morrish patted him on the knee and invited his response.

‘You can speak openly. I am not a follower of Bishop Tempier and his thirteen Condemnations.’

Thomas looked up, and Morrish nodded encouragingly.

‘You have some experience of anatomy, don’t you? Please, tell me. I should like to know.’

Thomas felt he could trust the man and began to explain what he had learned from anatomizing several bodies. He became so enthusiastic about his subject, and in impressing Adam Morrish, that he almost forgot the time. It was only when he saw Morrish look away towards the door to the schoolroom that Thomas realized they were being listened to by someone else. His heart lurched, imagining what might happen if the Church got to hear of his illicit forays into the inner workings of the human body. It was only when the person at the door spoke that he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Roger Bacon, come for their appointment.

‘Ah, Friar, it’s you. I was just… I was…’

Bacon raised a hand to stop Thomas’s uncertain flow of evasions.