Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

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.

Darkness 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.