Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

Daylight was beginning to steal through the shutters, and for the first time Falconer thought of Thomas Symon. He sat up, throwing the bedclothes aside.

‘I should go. Thomas will be worried about me, especially as I warned him about the dangers of his own investigations. He will probably think I have been murdered for sure this time.’

He paused, remembering he had taken care not to tell Saphira about his dangerous encounter on the Planche Milbray. But glancing at her now, he saw that she had not picked up on his slip of the tongue. She was too intrigued by his reference to Thomas’s affairs, which he had so far refrained from mentioning.

‘A double enquiry? How does what he is looking into relate to yours?’

‘It doesn’t. It is merely coincidental.’

Saphira snorted in derision.

‘How many times have I heard you say that two deaths in close proximity do not make a coincidence but a reason for investigation?’

Falconer began to pull on his undershirt. His voice was muffled for a moment as he pulled it over his head, then he emerged from the folds and explained.

‘That is the point. These deaths in Paris are recent, so they are therefore not related to a series of murders or attempted murders on Edward’s family. They have happened long ago and in different locations.’

‘Even though the student deaths happened when Edward arrived in Paris?’

Falconer shook his head.

‘No. Totally unrelated, I can assure you.’

He climbed into his old black robe and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. A worm of doubt was beginning to enter his brain. Saphira leaned forward, letting the linen drop from her breasts again, and laid her hand on his thigh.

‘I believe you, William. Now let me just wish you farewell before you return to your celibate bed in the abbey.’

Falconer groaned but did not resist.

The sun silhouetted a windmill on the hill to the east of the Abbey of St Victor. Its arms were stilled, not yet ready for the work of the day ahead. Thomas, on the other hand, was already up and dressed. He was standing at the main doorway of the abbey, uncertain whether to leave or to wait for Falconer. He had spent a restless night, constantly staring at the empty bed across the room. He had finally dozed off in the early hours but had been abruptly awoken by the sound of the monks passing his lodgings on the way to nocturns. He looked instinctively at Falconer’s bed, fully expecting him to be there. But he wasn’t, and the bed was untouched. He lay back but could find no rest as lauds came and went, and then prime. At that point he rose and dressed, taking only a quick breakfast before stationing himself at the entrance to the abbey. His satchel with writing materials stowed in it was over his shoulder. But somehow he couldn’t make himself leave the abbey without knowing something of what might have happened to Falconer. As he waited, the windmill began to lazily turn its arms.

Finally, just as prime was ending in the chapel behind him, he saw a familiar figure sauntering up the road from the easternmost gateway through the city walls. Slightly stooped and shading his eyes from the low morning sun, Falconer called out.

‘Thomas. See, I got up earlier than you today.’

The young man was not in the mood for jests. He hurried towards Falconer.

‘Where have you been? I was afraid you had been killed by this maniac who has done for two people already.’

Falconer crushed Thomas in a bear hug of a welcome.

‘I have been somewhere quite safe. But anyway, why should our killer want to murder me?’

Thomas extricated himself angrily from Falconer’s grasp.

‘Well, someone tried to push you off the bridge. Have you already forgotten?’

‘No. But I reckon that had more to do with what I am trying to uncover for the king rather than the deaths you are pursuing.’

‘Either way, you could have ended up dead.’

Falconer grasped Thomas firmly by the shoulders, almost shaking him.

‘But I have not done so.’ He smiled a little ruefully. ‘I can look after myself, you know. But forgive me for causing you worry.’

Thomas shook his head in disbelief. His friend was oblivious to the dangers that stalked Paris, it seems.

‘Where were you, anyway, that was so safe? And why did you not return last night?’

Falconer now looked embarrassed, and even somewhat shifty.

‘I… er… met someone. We got talking, and it was too late to return. The city gates would have been closed. And the abbey gates too. They gave me a bed for the night. Now, let’s work out what we are doing today.’

Falconer made to walk back towards the abbey. But Thomas would not give up.

‘Who do you know in Paris who would give you a bed? The only people you know are ones you have argued with over the Condemnations. None of those would willingly spend the evening debating with you and then offer you hospitality. There is no one else you know in the whole of France apart from Friar Bacon. And I can’t see you being accommodated in the Franciscan friary. You would be too afraid you might be locked in like Roger was.’

Falconer shrugged his shoulders and was on the verge of blushing. Thomas suddenly had an inkling as to why.

‘No one except Mistress Le Veske, that is. But she is in Honfleur. Isn’t she?’

Falconer was now red-faced and embarrassed, and he didn’t know why. The boy knew how things were with him and Saphira from way back in Oxford. Why did he always feel like a naughty boy in the presence of one who had been no more than a child himself when they had first met?

‘Well, she was in Honfleur. But no longer. Not since yesterday.’

It was now Thomas’s turn to blush and to stumble over his words. He disapproved of his mentor breaking his vow of celibacy. Not once, but with regularity. But he equally knew his disapproval was tinged with a hint of jealousy. He had never had a woman, except for a brief encounter with one of the girls working on his father’s farm before he went to Oxford. And even that was losing clarity in his memory.

‘I… didn’t mean to…’

Falconer smiled and patted his shoulder.

‘Thomas. We must all find our own way in this world. And it would be a better place if we did not censure others who do not match up to our own standards. Now tell me, did Roger bite on the tempting worm you offered him?’

Thomas nodded, eager to forget their disagreement over Falconer’s absence all night.

‘Yes, he has agreed to do some teaching at the medical school and find out what he can about the habits of some of the students there. Master Morrish took ill yesterday, so he should have the opportunity to do so. I will… pursue my own lines of enquiry.’

For some reason, he did not want to tell Falconer that he intended to try to open the chest in Morrish’s upper room. His friend might say it was too precipitate and risky. Fortunately, Falconer’s mind seemed to be more on his stomach than on what Thomas might be doing during the day. He stretched and yawned.

‘Now I shall have to beg for some food to break my fast, as the normal mealtime is long past. And then I must go to the Temple.’

They shook hands, and Thomas strode off towards the city, while Falconer ambled towards the abbey kitchens. The monotonous creak of the windmill’s arms began its daily call across the valley.

Falconer’s second visit to the Paris Temple gate produced a quicker response than his first. It was the same sergeant who stood under the archway as Falconer crossed the drawbridge from the road. This time, however, it appeared that he knew the Oxford man was expected, for he merely cocked his head and turned around. Falconer followed him into the Temple complex and towards the Paris Master’s house. His eyes were drawn to the huge Temple tower, its bulk looming over the order’s enclave much as the cathedral towers of Notre-Dame did over the Ile de la Cité. Secular and spiritual power expressed in separate buildings imposing themselves on the surroundings. Falconer had an uneasy feeling about the tower and paused to look up at it. He had an idea that Odo de Reppes was incarcerated in one of the four turrets of the donjon. If so, he was held in the same place the order was reputed to store its treasures. Was there a pair of sad eyes staring down at him even now?