Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘Thomas Symon, are you here?’

He had thought guiltily that it was Morrish and that he would be caught in the act of prying into the master’s affairs. But it was Doctor Mirabilis come to record more of the information from his compendious mind. Thomas pushed the chest back under the table and hurried downstairs, his face red with embarrassment. When he had sat down in their damp, dark room, quill poised, Bacon had carried on from where he had left off the previous day.

‘Experimental science is at the heart of everything we do, testing by personal experience all the conclusions of all other sciences.’

It was as if he had never broken off from yesterday’s train of thought at all.

Sitting in the Grand Master’s house in the Paris Temple, the present incumbent was thinking deeply about his interview with the English king. Guillaume de Beaujeu was a thoughtful man as well as a warrior. He was as used to biding his time and thinking through a problem as he was to making instantaneous decisions on the battlefield. He had once been captured by the infidel and had waited months in prison to be ransomed. During that time he had developed the ability to look at issues from all sides before coming to a conclusion. He knew too that Edward was a canny strategist not easily given to revealing his motives concerning a matter. So it had been no surprise to him that the English king had spent a while reminiscing about their mutual past in Outremer. The reminder of their abortive skirmish against Krak des Moabites castle had only been a preliminary sortie into that history. He had warmed to his task with more wine.

‘Do you remember taking Nazareth?’

Guillaume grimaced to himself. Indeed he did. Edward had slaughtered all the inhabitants in an orgy of blood.

‘Yes, Your Majesty, I do.’

Edward smiled at the recollection of his bloody deed.

‘If the Mongols had come down on our side, I believe we would have taken Jerusalem. Or if Hugh of Cyprus had stirred his lazy arse and helped.’ He looked de Beaujeu in the eye and quaffed more wine. ‘I believe you, like me, supported Charles of Anjou’s claim to the throne of Jerusalem.’

Guillaume, only sipping at his goblet, nodded. Edward knew very well the Templar stood with Charles and against King Hugh’s claim to Jerusalem. And that both men were close friends of Tedaldo Visconti, the man who was now Pope Gregory X. He waited patiently for the next words that he felt sure would get to the crux of Edward’s ramblings. The king laid his goblet down and leaned forward in his chair.

‘So it was a shock to me when I heard rumblings of a plot from within your order against me and mine.’

Ah, so this was all about Odo de Reppes. How curious that William Falconer should raise the matter in Edward’s name only the day before. Guillaume put on his solemn face, the one he used to use when gaming with dice which he knew was inscrutable. He nodded his head and stroked his beard with his strong yet elegant fingers.

‘A single renegade who has been dealt with already.’

‘He is… dead, then?’

Guillaume did some quick thinking and reckoned that Edward already knew that de Reppes was not dead. He was being tested.

‘No. But he is suffering in a way worse than a quick death. He is imprisoned here in Paris.’

‘In the donjon tower.’

It was a flat statement carrying all the horror associated with the great turreted building that loomed over the northern marshes. The Templar donjon was not a pleasant place to be. Guillaume affirmed the statement.

‘He will never emerge alive. Nor will I give him up to any other authority.’

Edward understood the implicit warning. The Templars dealt with their own, and no one else — even a monarch — was allowed to interfere. He raised a hand to ward off the Grand Master’s threat.

‘I am not seeking to play any part in his punishment. Merely that you allow someone to see him, and to talk to him.’

Guillaume smiled to himself, knowing he had information not even the king was aware of.

‘Master Falconer, you mean?’

The king looked startled for a moment, but he recovered well, hiding his confusion in his wine goblet. After he had drunk another mouthful, he continued.

‘Then Falconer has already spoken to you. I must compliment him on his tenacity and speed of investigation when I see him next. Yes, it is Falconer I would like to be allowed to speak to de Reppes. He can tell Falconer who was behind the murder of my cousin Henry by the de Montfort brothers. And that may lead the master to uncover something about other matters I have asked him to look into.’ He grimaced. ‘The de Montforts are like the Hydra, sprouting more heads as each one is cut off.’

Guillaume knew that, of the two brothers implicated with de Reppes in Henry of Almain’s murder, Simon had died while holed up somewhere. But Guy was still at large. There was a youngest brother too, called Amaury. But he lived in pious obscurity God knows where, and was reputed not to be involved in the trail of revenge following in his older brothers’ wake. Edward’s weakness over the de Montfort family was useful information for a Grand Master in any possible future power struggle between the order and the various monarchs of the West envious of its power. He reassured Edward of his cooperation.

‘Master Falconer is an old friend of mine, and he is returning to see me tomorrow. I will allow him access to de Reppes on your behalf.’

Edward grinned broadly and lifted his goblet by way of a toast to their mutual enterprise.

Friar Roger Bacon took the quill from between Thomas’s fingers and laid it down on his desk. Thomas looked startled, then embarrassed at his apparent distraction.

‘Forgive me, Master Bacon. I had another matter on my mind. Please continue.’

He made to pick up the quill, but Bacon’s slender fingers closed over his own. The friar smiled at him, his deep-set eyes boring into the younger man.

‘No. If I cannot hold your attention with my discourse on mathematics, then this other matter must be of great importance.’ He suddenly looked rueful. ‘Or my teaching skills have diminished considerably during my incarceration.’

Thomas was about to protest, but Bacon shook his head.

‘It is surely the latter, for I know from William that you are an eager and receptive pupil. Perhaps I should take up teaching again and hone my skills once more. It was what you suggested to Master Morrish, after all, when we began this task. And from what I saw of his lecture the other day, he is in need of some support.’

Thomas laughed quietly. He too saw flaws in Morrish’s teaching but had refrained from saying anything.

‘You are right, sir. And there is something else you could do to help me, if you did lecture his students. Master Falconer and I have been discussing it.’

Bacon’s eyes widened in curiosity.

‘Do tell me. I am sorely bored at present and could do with a little excitement.’

Until now, Thomas had imagined that the friar was a serious fellow with only great thoughts in his brain. Now he could see that he shared with Falconer a playful side to his nature. For the first time since they had met, Bacon’s eyes sparkled. Thomas told him all about the two deaths in the ranks of the students, and how he thought they had been dabbling with the demonic nature of some of the powerful drugs at a physician’s disposal.

‘William has warned me that if I press too hard trying to find out what has been happening, then maybe my life might be in danger too. But if you were to talk to the students, Master Bacon, perhaps it would not seem so troublesome.’

Pensively, Bacon tapped the leather-bound notebook he always carried with him.