Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

She faltered in her reassurances, recalling that young Henry was at the very same age at which John had died. Edward was always convinced that there was some mystery surrounding his death. And she knew that was part of the reasoning behind his appointing the Oxford master to look into the deaths that had come thick and fast in his family recently. She also knew who Edward suspected of being behind those deaths.

‘Do you think Master Falconer is on the right track?’

Edward smiled quietly.

‘Oh, yes. We have pointed him in the right direction, and he will winkle the bastard out. He will run from cover soon like a startled stag, I am sure of it. And when he does, I shall be ready with my bow and arrow.’

Not knowing his actions were being discussed at that moment, Falconer had risen early in order to make time to get across Paris. He was bound for the Marais — the northern marshes outside the city wall — where the Templars had established their great commandery. But before he left the abbey he roused a sleepy Thomas. The young man groaned and held his head.

‘Leave me alone, I am dying.’

Falconer laughed.

‘Of thirst, no doubt. When I recall my early days of excessive wine drinking, I can sympathize with how you are feeling. I recommend that you find a barrel of water, dunk your head in it and then try to drink your way out of it.’

‘What hour of the day is it?’

‘The monks have already held the prime service, so I would suggest you think about checking on John Fusoris before you have to be at Master Adam’s medical school for your tryst with Roger. You have a busy day ahead of you. And so do I.’

Thomas raised his head gingerly, holding it in his hands to make sure it did not spin off his shoulders. He could not believe what he saw. William was already up and dressed, and it was not yet terce.

‘Where are you bound that has dragged you out of bed so early?’

Thomas had hoped that Falconer would assist him to get the truth from the young student. He was still inexperienced in interviewing witnesses to crimes, much preferring the inert form of a dead body. Truth could be extracted from that at his own pace, and without protest from the victim. Falconer shrugged his shoulders.

‘I have to follow up the trail of this Latin connection with the attempt on Edward’s life. I believe he thinks the de Montforts were responsible for it. In the same way they were of course responsible for the murder of his nephew. And the only real source I have for that is Odo de Reppes.’

‘But he has been missing for almost two years.’

‘And if he is to be found again, the Grand Master of the Templars should know how and where. But Thomas Bérard, the last Grand Master, has been dead these last four months. So the Paris Temple and the Province Master is my best hope of finding anyone who can help, and it’s not far to the north, just outside the city walls. You will do fine with Fusoris, as long as you can keep the monks from punching him on the nose again.’

Thomas grinned from under his bedlinen, recalling the way the youth had been subdued yesterday.

‘Yes. I have heard of robust Christianity, but never seen it in action until yesterday. Good luck with your search, William.’

Falconer waved a hand in farewell and left Thomas to rouse himself. He had a fair idea how to find the Temple, though he had never crossed the Seine to the north bank since arriving in Paris. But once across the Petit Pont, he found it easy to cross the island in the middle of the river by the wide road that divided the Royal Palace from the cathedral of Notre-Dame. Straight ahead was a narrow plank bridge that barely allowed one person to pass another once on it. Wary of its dizzying setting high above the river, he set about negotiating it with some care. On more than one occasion he stepped cautiously to one side to allow others coming in the opposite direction to pass him. They seemed unconcerned by the narrowness of the crossing, however. Safely on the north bank of the river, which locals called the Right Bank, he walked eastwards along the strand to a big open square that shelved down to the river. Here, there were scores of labourers in rough clothes, some carrying farm implements, others with sacks draped over their shoulders against the weather. Prosperous-looking merchants strode boldly from one group to another, and on inspecting each individual critically would tip one man on the shoulder and walk away. It was some sort of hiring fair, and Falconer felt sorry for the scrawny, ill-favoured ones who were left from this cull of workmen. They would be hard-pressed to find other work in Paris.

Having made his way through a maze of narrow streets, aiming always in what he hoped was a northerly direction, he emerged on another broad avenue. To make sure he was still going towards the Temple, he asked a passer-by if this was the Rue du Temple. The man nodded briefly without breaking his stride, hardly even looking at his questioner. Falconer threw an ironic thank you to his disappearing back, annoyed by the apparent curtness of the denizens of this great city. He had a passing thought that perhaps London felt the same to foreigners too. Once through the narrow and well-fortified Temple gate in the city walls, he could see his goal. Not far away there reared the high and forbidding walls of the Paris Temple of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, the order more simply known as the Templars. Above the crenellated wall, he could see the roofs of several substantial buildings. But the most impressive, climbing higher even than the spires of the church, was the louring, multi-turreted presence of the Temple tower — at once a meeting place, treasury and donjon. The entire complex of buildings was set somewhat apart from the rest of Paris on what had once been barren marshes, and gave the impression of aloofness. It was an example of the Templar order setting itself apart from the rest of the world, and a little above the common herd. Falconer walked along the causeway built up to cross the marshland that the Temple stood on and onwards up to the closely guarded entrance to the complex.

When he asked to speak with the Province Master of the order, he was met by a rebuff. Apparently, the last Paris Master had been Amaury de la Roche, but no one had been appointed since his departure.

‘Then I will speak to anyone in authority.’

The sergeant-at-arms to whom he was speaking looked him up and down and made no move to find anyone. Falconer realized that he was not the most impressive of arrivals at this portal. Coming on foot from Paris had covered his boots in mud. And dressed as he was in his usual drab black academic robe, he did not present the most powerful or authoritative of images. He sighed and produced Edward’s letter from his purse.

‘Tell whoever is in charge here that I am on the business of Edward, King of England.’

The stocky sergeant raised a sceptical eyebrow but apparently recognized the wax seal on the letter. It would have been no use his looking at the letter, as he could not read. He turned away and walked across the inner courtyard. Falconer called after him.

‘Tell him my name is William Falconer, Regent Master of Oxford.’

Whatever he had said must have had its effect, for it was not long before the sergeant came scurrying back, a grim look on his red face. He cocked a thumb over his shoulder and spoke through gritted teeth.

‘Come with me. Sir.’

He had obviously been reprimanded over delaying the man from Oxford in his task for the English king. Grinning, Falconer followed the soldier back across the courtyard and past a high wall. He faltered only a little when he saw they were approaching the dreaded donjon tower. But before they reached it, the sergeant turned to the right and entered an imposing building next to the tower. It looked like private quarters and was presumably where the Province Master normally lodged. Falconer wondered who was living there now, and who he was being brought to see. He entered a grand hall with arching beams high above his head spanning the vast space. Slit-like windows afforded little light, the only glow coming from the blazing fire at the far end of the hall. He could just make out the silhouette of a tall, well-built man standing before the fire. Even if he squinted, his short-sightedness would allow him no better image. He looked enquiringly towards the sergeant, but the man, having led him into the hall, had retreated, his task complete. The figure by the fire turned around and raised his hand, beckoning Falconer. His resonant voice carried down the hall.