Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

He remembered the Templar’s extraordinary skill in silent death. De Beaujeu was more like a Muslim Assassin than he probably dared to admit to himself. Now the Templar saluted his companion and old friend.

‘And you, Master William Falconer, you come before me as emissary of King Edward of England, no less. Or was that merely a ruse to gain admittance to the Temple?’

Falconer’s face took on a more serious look, as he recalled the task that had led him here.

‘Indeed it was not. I can show you a letter from the king, if you don’t believe me.’

De Beaujeu held up his hand.

‘That is not necessary between old friends. What is it you seek?’

‘Something you can help me with, actually. It concerns a Templar who got himself into trouble in England a couple of years ago. He then disappeared from view, and I don’t know if he is alive still. But I would dearly like to talk to him, if he is.’

De Beaujeu frowned. He may be the Grand Master of the Templar Knights and could wield great power. But the order took seriously the protection of its own. It would be a dangerous game to expose another Templar to the scrutiny of an outsider. Even one as respected as William Falconer. And he had a good idea who it was whom Falconer was hunting. He had to play the game through, however.

‘Who is this man you are seeking?’

‘He is called Odo de Reppes.’

It was as de Beaujeu thought. He knew all about de Reppes — had been advised by Thomas Bérard on his deathbed what deadly affair the Templar had been involved in. What he did not know was why his friend needed to talk to de Reppes. And so he now wanted some time to consider his options. He played dumb, though he did not like doing so with Falconer.

‘I am the new man, you understand. There is much for me to find out concerning the affairs of the order. Matters that only each Grand Master would know about, and some facts die with him. Let me ask around and see if de Reppes can be unearthed. Only then can I consider your request — whether I can allow you to see him or not.’

‘I understand that, Guillaume. I know your allegiance always has been and always will be to the order. I can expect nothing less of you, especially now. I can assure you of one thing, though. If what I have heard of de Reppes’ actions is true, then I can do him no more harm than he has already done to himself. And if they are untrue, then it is as well to set the facts right. How much time do you need?’

He was so relieved at Falconer’s retreat that de Beaujeu spoke without thought.

‘A day or two will suffice, I am sure. Come back the day after tomorrow, and I will hope to have news for you.’

Falconer nodded and took his leave of his old friend. He was escorted back to the gateway of the Temple by the same sergeant-at-arms, who must have waited patiently outside the great hall until the Grand Master’s visitor left. Walking across the marshy land between the Temple and Paris’s city walls, Falconer glanced back at the Temple tower. Its many turrets jutted up into the cloudy sky like arrows aimed at the very heavens. He grimaced, as a few drops of rain fell.

‘What sort of game are you playing now, Guillaume? What do you know about Odo de Reppes that you would hide from me?’

Falconer had seen through de Beaujeu’s hasty assessment of his ability to trace Odo de Reppes. If he had truly not known where he was, it would surely have been impossible to say he could tell Falconer in only a day or two. He had expected to be delayed by weeks while the man was sought. And even then he might have been dead already, or far away in Outremer. But the new Grand Master had promised a response much more quickly than that. Nor had he directly said he did not know where de Reppes was located, choosing the words of his reply with care. Falconer therefore knew that the Templar’s location was almost certainly already known to Guillaume. He had just needed time to work out what his friend wanted him for. Well, Falconer would let de Beaujeu have the time, if in the end he let him speak to the man. In the meantime, he would see how Thomas Symon was doing with his hunt for the murderer of Paul Hebborn.

Reaching the banks of the Seine, Falconer stepped cautiously on to the narrow plank bridge called the Planche Milbray that he had crossed on his way to the Temple. The wooden surface was now made even more slippery by the drizzle. He trod carefully, and was halfway across when he heard a cry from behind him. Looking back, he saw that an old man was clutching on to the handrail. He was clearly complaining about someone who had pushed past him in his haste to cross the bridge. The figure, now approaching Falconer, was enveloped in a black cloak with its hood pulled up over his head. Nothing unusual in that, thought Falconer; it was raining, after all. Which also probably explained the person’s need to hurry. He turned back and walked on, planting his feet firmly on the planks. Suddenly, the speeding figure was upon him, having closed the gap between them extremely quickly. Falconer turned aside to let him pass, but the figure hit him hard with his shoulder, deliberately barging into him. As Falconer lost his balance, he was aware of a pale, youthful face staring at him from under the hood. Then he slid between the handrail and the planks and could see only the swift-flowing river looming up below him.

Thomas Symon was in a hurry to return to the Abbey of St Victor and John Fusoris, but Roger Bacon had detained him long past the time when he should have left. The friar had been in full flow and reluctant to finish, even though he could see that his scribe was itching to go. He had concluded on a flourish that still rang in Thomas’s head.

‘ Many wise men — considering the predictions of the Sibyls and Merlin and Aquila and Festo — have reckoned that the times of Antichrist are at hand in these days of ours. ’

As he strode through the streets of Paris, he shivered again at the words and clutched the satchel that contained them. The bag was stuffed once more with parchment pages, and Thomas’s collection at the abbey was growing. He thought the material so inflammatory that he wondered if the building might be struck by the hand of God and destroyed. It was as though the freeing of his words from the confines of the Franciscan friary had released Bacon from his holy shackles. But the outpouring was not the friar’s only way of recording the truth as he saw it. Thomas knew Bacon was still writing in a private book using his peculiar ciphered hand. He always carried it with him when he left the friary for fear of its being confiscated. Thomas had sneaked a look once when Bacon had gone to piss out of the back of the school building into the river. As he flicked through the pages, his eye was caught by a vivid illustration of a woman, naked save for a headdress, standing in a bath shaped like a flower. Each of her arms was extended into a tube with junctions off it. The tubes made Thomas think of the veins he had seen in anatomized bodies, or perhaps the pipework of the female generative organ. He had blushed at the explicit nature of the drawing, and then quickly closed the book as he heard Bacon returning. He had not had time to consider what the mysterious book meant as Bacon had continued his discourse immediately.

Moreover, he now had other pressing business to pursue. Before he spoke to John Fusoris, he wanted to speak to Hellequin. He was sure the young man knew more about Morrish’s students, and their behaviour, than he was letting on. He was determined to confront him with it. Entering the Place Maubert, he sought out the inn with the withered vine hanging over the door and entered. Looking around the bustling interior of the tavern for any sign of Hellequin, de la Casteigne or the other students, he was shocked to see Falconer seated at a table drinking deeply from a large goblet. He pushed through a crowd of revellers, who behaved as though they had been drinking all afternoon, to stand before Falconer.