Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘I have been occupied with those forces myself. That is why I keep this record in cipher. Some of what I have written here is too dangerous for those who cannot control their natures.’

Thomas did not admit that he had peeked inside the covers of Bacon’s book and seen some of his diagrams. The sketches of plants certainly tallied with what the friar was now saying. But the stranger drawings more resembled dreams than anatomical renderings. He wondered if Bacon himself tested the effects of such cure-alls as opium on his own body. He shivered at what might have resulted if he had eaten the hashish stone in Paul Hebborn’s scrip. Bacon, meanwhile, had made up his mind. He was rubbing his tonsured head and pacing the room with excitement.

‘Yes, I will do it. I will help you find out from the students about their… extra-curricular habits. I am sure I can be at least as wily as William when it comes to this deductive business he seems to so love. Now, Thomas, gather up those sheets of parchment and be on your way. It is quite dark outside, and we cannot afford to waste any more of this candle today.’

He snuffed the wick with a pinch of his fingers and helped Thomas slide the pile of papers into his capacious satchel. Once outside the building, he watched while Thomas locked the door, then the two conspirators took their leaves of each other and went their separate ways. Thomas, on an impulse, turned aside from the straight route back to the Abbey of St Victor. Instead, he cut through the back alleys to stand before the convent of the Mathurins.

Falconer eased the shutter open and gazed out of the window. Even in the darkness of the night, he could see down the narrow lane opposite as it wound towards the river. He fancied he could just make out the glimmer of moonlight on the water. Leaning out of the window, and looking to his right, he could see the very tops of the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral. They formed a dark and louring bulk on the skyline.

‘Close the shutter, William, I can feel the cold.’

Falconer turned back into the room and looked at Saphira lying on the bed. The moonlight turned her shock of red curls to copper, and her skin to pearl. She slid her bare arm out from under the bedclothes and held out her hand.

‘Come and warm me up.’

‘I will if you promise not to gut me with that knife you keep secreted up the sleeve of your gown.’

He had noticed when she had undressed earlier. Saphira waggled her arm to show she was free of all weaponry.

‘It is well to have a little security in Paris’s streets, but I find it is unnecessary in my bed.’

He closed the shutter and returned to the warmth of Saphira’s bed. After they had met on the bridge, she had brought him back to the area she called Pletzel. It was the Jewish quarter of Paris, and, despite the many expulsions of Jews over the years, the community had survived. It was a discrete collection of houses in a few narrow lanes huddled under the walls of the city, and not far from the square — La Grève — where they had been watching the hiring of labourers.

‘We keep ourselves to ourselves, even more so than in England,’ explained Saphira, as they had turned into the most unobtrusive of alleys. ‘Here, we are largely overlooked even when times get bad. This is my cousin Melka’s house.’

She had opened the door and led him inside. Falconer had never seen such a meticulously well-kept property. Melka had to be more house-proud than Saphira ever was. He held back from saying so, however. He wanted to confirm their newly forged truce before testing its mettle. Saphira had sat him down at a well-scrubbed table and brought him a freshly baked flat-bread and some wine. She sat next to him, breaking the bread.

‘The wine is mine, but the bread has been baked by my cousin. But then you could have guessed that, knowing how undomesticated I am.’

He tasted the bread. It was delicious compared with the rough, harsh loaves he was used to in Oxford.

‘Maybe Melka can teach you to bake. Where is she, by the way?’

Saphira cast him a sidelong glance.

‘She is visiting her sister for a few days. That is why I am able to stay here. It is a small house with only one bedroom. Shall I show you?’

Falconer had found the bedroom as neat as the rest of the house. It had not stayed neat for long. Now, in the early hours of the morning, he was glad to have Saphira back at his side. And that was not simply for her obvious charms. He stroked her warm flank pensively, and she turned over to face him. Her thick red locks fell across her face, and she flicked them out of her eyes.

‘Tell me what is on your mind, William. Our truce is holding, isn’t it?’

Falconer grinned.

‘Oh, it surely is, Saphira. But that is not what concerns me. It’s what I might learn soon from a certain Templar who figured largely in our recent past.’

Saphira sat up abruptly, the linen falling from her full breasts in a way that disconcerted Falconer.

‘I knew you were up to something. You could not be in Paris long without winkling out some murder or other. Do tell.’

He pointed at Saphira’s pale breasts.

‘I will if you cover those up, or I shall be sorely distracted.’

Saphira did his bidding and listened hard while Falconer rehearsed the facts of his latest investigation. She frowned over his involvement with King Edward. She had been placed in danger when Falconer had taken her innocently to the court of his father, Henry, just before his death. Being a Jew in Europe involved keeping out of trouble, and being around a dying king was not a good idea. Now William was working for the son, about whom there were rumours that he disliked Jews so much he might expel them from England. She shivered at the thought, fleetingly wondering what both of them would do then.

‘Are you cold?’

Falconer had noted her involuntary shiver and misinterpreted it.

‘Yes, somewhat. Come a little closer.’

She felt some comfort from the closeness of Falconer’s large, warm frame. He had some extra flesh on him, but she could still feel the muscles of a fighting man underneath. She would put off facing the problem of expulsion if ever it came. In the meantime, she would enjoy every day with her lover. He continued his story.

‘So, tomorrow… no… today, I am to speak to Odo de Reppes.’

Saphira was startled.

‘Is he still alive? I had thought after the events around that farcical trial you had to face, that he had been done away with.’

Falconer shook his head.

‘No, merely incarcerated. Segrim’s story may have been wild and fanciful, but it appears there were some elements of truth in it. De Reppes was probably involved in the murder of Henry of Almain, and may have killed Edward’s uncle, Richard of Cornwall and King of Germany. Edward wants to know who instigated the killings, if anyone. I hope for Guillaume’s sake it is no one in the Templar hierarchy.’

He had told Saphira of his friendship with the man who was now elevated to Grand Master of the Order of Poor Knights. She had marvelled at his celebrated acquaintances, but he had merely put it down to chance. She now put the question that had been on Falconer’s mind for a while.

‘Do you think you will get the truth from de Reppes in that case? Might the Grand Master not have set him up to implicate whoever he wants to suit his own ends?’

Falconer shook his head.

‘No, Guillaume would not do that. He is a very clever man, but he is honest. And straight with those he trusts. He was not very adept at trying to conceal from me that he knew where de Reppes was being held. Dissimulation does not come easy to him. I am banking on the fact that de Reppes is being held in the tower at the Temple. I shall know soon enough.’