Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘Come, Master William Falconer.’

There was something familiar about the voice, but Falconer could not place it. He started to walk down the long room, his boots thudding on the stone slabs. It was only when he was close to the man that he could make out his features. His hair was a little greyer than when he had last seen it, and his face a little more lined. But it was him.

‘Guillaume. Guillaume de Beaujeu, by God!’

Thomas sat at the back of the schoolroom and listened in silence as Adam Morrish elucidated a text from Theophilus on urines. He was familiar with the text, and so his mind was wandering. Back at the abbey where he and Falconer were staying, he had looked in on John Fusoris after breaking his fast. The cell holding him was still locked, but Thomas could peer through the grille set in the door. The youth was huddled in one corner of his pallet, his knees pulled up to his chest. But he appeared to be sleeping, so Thomas decided Falconer’s advice had been wise. He should leave Fusoris to allow the toxins of the khat leaves to exit his body before making any attempt to question him. In a way, it struck him that he had not been so far wrong to think of the youth as possessed by the Devil. In this case, the possession had been by the medium of the drug, and time would exorcize it from his body. Now, as Adam’s voice droned on, he felt himself dozing off.

‘He learned his medicine in Padua.’

For a moment Thomas thought the voice was inside his head. But then he realized it was in the form of a whisper, close to his ear. He glanced to one side, and saw that Friar Bacon had slipped into the back of the room and was listening to the exposition of Theophilus. Bacon leaned over to him again.

‘There, they reply heavily on the articella — the little art — and not so much on Johannitius. They are in error, of course.’

As though he heard Bacon’s criticism, the teacher out front gave the two other Englishmen a hard stare, hardly pausing in his textual analysis. Bacon and Symon grinned at each other like naughty children and sat quietly through the rest of the lecture. Afterwards, as the rest of the class made their way out, calling out jibes and barging into each other, Morrish walked over to the two of them, his face now glowing with pleasure. It seemed he had forgotten, or at least forgiven, their whispered asides. He took Bacon’s hand and shook it vigorously.

‘Friar Roger, welcome again to my school. I hope you have not forgotten your promise to lecture to my students at some point. I myself would value your erudition. On any subject you care to expound upon.’ He threw a glance at Thomas. ‘You are very lucky to be involved with such a celebrated scholar, Thomas. Are you recording his ideas for the benefit of us all?’

Before Thomas could reply, Bacon cut in.

‘Just some notes on the present state of teaching in Paris. Nothing exceptional. My order prevents me from being… controversial.’

Thomas almost burst out laughing at the pious and humble expression on Bacon’s face. Only he knew how controversial the text he had begun to scribe really was. Yet in the presence of a master of the University of Paris, and with Bishop Tempier winkling out those who he thought carried heretical ideas in their heads, it was wise to be moderate and modest. He spoke up to support Bacon’s deception.

‘Indeed, Master Morrish, it will be a contribution to the bishop’s clearance of all suspicious concepts from the university.’

Morrish stared at him closely, unsure if he was being mocked or not. But he took Thomas at his word.

‘And your fellow master from Oxford, Master…’

‘Falconer.’

‘Yes, Falconer. How fares his task of collecting information on Bishop Tempier’s Condemnations and their effect on teaching?’

Thomas was a little taken aback by Morrish’s question.

‘I did not know you were aware of that.’

Morrish smiled, pleased at having disconcerted the young Englishman.

‘Oh, the university is a small world to itself. Word travels fast, especially of visiting scholars. I am sure Oxford is the same, is it not?’

Thomas shrugged his shoulders, knowing the man was correct. The academic world in Oxford was parochial and prone to gossip more than a small English village.

‘I think you are right. But to answer your question, Master Falconer has gathered all he needs. He is now on another task, set him by our new king, Edward.’ Foolishly, he revelled in impressing Morrish with his association with Falconer, wanting to surprise him much as Morrish had done to him. ‘He moves in elevated circles now. Today he is on his way to the Paris Temple to speak to the Grand Master.’

As soon as he spoke, he knew he was exaggerating merely for effect like some child. He knew William had told him the Grand Master was dead. But he liked the pallor that came to Morrish’s face at his pronouncement, and he smiled sweetly.

‘Now the friar and I must get on.’

They went through to the back room and sat down together across the table. While Thomas got out his clean parchments and ink, Roger Bacon sat looking pensive before he spoke.

‘I don’t care if you link my name and that cursed Tempier in one breath. It all adds to the mist of obscurity and conformism I would like to hide inside for the time being. But I don’t think you should discuss William’s affairs so openly. This town, even more so than Oxford, is a mare’s nest of rumour, gossip and envy. Particularly envy.’

Thomas hung his head in shame at his boastfulness. He hoped it wouldn’t get Falconer into trouble. Bacon patted his hand consolingly.

‘Now take this down.’ He took a deep breath. ‘As all may read in the works of Aristotle, Seneca, Alfarabius, Plato, Socrates… and others, the ancient philosophers attained to the secrets of wisdom, and found out all knowledge. But we Christians have discovered nothing worthy of them, for our morals are worse than theirs.’

Thomas sighed and began to scratch away on the virgin surface of the parchment.

The two men sat either side of the fire grinning at each other, each with a goblet of wine in their hand. One was well built, with a neat white tunic covering his broad shoulders and slim waist. He exuded power and self-confidence even though his greying hair betrayed his advancing years. The other was somewhat older still, and a little more down at heel, his dowdy black robe hiding a shape that had once been that of a fighter but was now softer, more generous around the waist. The second man stared at the other in mock astonishment.

‘ You are the new Grand Master, Guillaume?’

De Beaujeu laughed, raising his glass to toast his own success.

‘Yes, William. Who would have thought it when we met all those years ago?’

Falconer cast his mind back some dozen years to a time when the Papal Legate was in Oxford. An attempt had been made on Bishop Otho’s life, and someone else had got killed. Falconer had at first suspected de Beaujeu, who had appeared in the town just at the right time. His shadowy presence had attracted both Falconer’s attention and that of the town constable, Peter Bullock. In fact, the Templar had been on a mission on behalf of the former Grand Master, Thomas Bérard, concerning the appointment of the next Pope to succeed Alexander. He was a killer of men in wars, but not a murderer. Once Falconer’s mistake had been rectified, the two men had struck up a friendship based on mutual respect. It had lasted the years, even though they rarely encountered each other. Each had gone his own way and pursued different goals. It seemed that de Beaujeu had achieved his, and Falconer was not surprised.

‘Actually, I had no doubt you would be the Grand Master eventually. Even if you had had to eliminate all the opposition on the way, you would have got there.’