Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘Master.’

The sergeant was impatient to bring Falconer into the presence of his Grand Master. He did not want to appear foolish again the way he had done the first time this Englishman had arrived. Who could have imagined then that such a shabby figure was not only an emissary of King Edward but a close friend of the new Grand Master? Falconer tore his gaze away from the tower and followed the stocky man into the great hall of the Province Master’s house, temporary home of Guillaume de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the order. Guillaume was on his feet, pacing the width of the hearth, in which there was a blazing fire. He looked nervous, and that shocked Falconer. His old friend was normally so self-contained and confident. He took the hand that was offered him and felt the strength in Guillaume’s grasp.

‘Have you any news for me, Guillaume?’

‘Yes. Good news. The one you seek is in this very Temple — has been here for over a year. He was brought here from Oxford after the events with which you are familiar.’

Falconer forbore from suggesting that de Beaujeu must have known that already. He did not want to embarrass his friend, the Grand Master.

‘And can I speak to him?’

Guillaume still could not look him squarely in the eye, but he nodded his head.

‘Of course you may. The order has nothing to hide. Odo de Reppes has committed a grievous crime, no one is denying that. But we do reserve the right to deal with our own in our own way.’

Falconer raised his hands in acknowledgement.

‘I merely wish to talk — to ask him some questions about how he got involved in the death of Henry of Almain.’

De Beaujeu did finally look at Falconer, giving him a hard stare.

‘And that is all you wish to examine him about?’

Falconer frowned, wondering what was behind Guillaume’s question. Did he know more?

‘That should be all, I think… though it may lead on to other matters.’

‘Other matters?’

De Beaujeu was clearly groping around in the dark for information that might serve his own purpose in the future. Falconer guessed Guillaume didn’t yet fully know the extent of de Reppes’ perversity any more than he did. He didn’t care about sharing what he learned, but would Edward want him to? Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable too, and didn’t like the feeling of being pressed like cider apples between these two great men. He prevaricated.

‘There’s nothing specific that I know of. But if there were, I don’t want to be limited to that issue alone. I have your permission to dig deeper?’

Guillaume shrugged his broad shoulders, as if suggesting there could be nothing that had not already been unearthed by the Templars themselves.

‘Feel free. If there is more iniquity in de Reppes’ frame, then you may extract it. He cannot sink lower than he has already.’ He clapped his hands together by way of ending the conversation. ‘Shall we go?’

Falconer nodded, and Guillaume led him out of the Master’s house and towards the dark and depressing tower close by it with its four turrets, one set on each corner of the square building. Once again, Falconer imagined a set of eyes following him across the courtyard and up to the very doors of the donjon. Access was by way of a portal in the north side of the tower. From there, de Beaujeu led him to one of the turrets, inside which was a spiral staircase. They climbed upwards.

At the very top of the turret, under what Falconer realized was one of the cone-shaped roofs, stood a sturdy, metal-studded door with a large iron locking mechanism embedded in it. De Beaujeu produced a key from his purse and turned it in the lock. As he swung the door open inwards, a noxious stench assailed Falconer’s nostrils and he reeled backwards, almost plunging back down the steep spiral staircase he had just come up. Guillaume grasped his arm and steadied him.

‘I should have warned you.’

He stepped into the room ahead of Falconer, his boots crunching on the straw scattered on the floor. Falconer held his nose and followed. It was a dark and stinking cell, the only light piercing it through a tiny slit set high in the curved wall. So much for de Reppes spying on him as he approached. The man would have to be seven feet tall to even get his eye to the slit. And though the Templar had been a big man when Falconer had last seen him, he was not that tall. In fact, as Falconer’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he didn’t think he could see de Reppes in the room at all. What was Guillaume playing at? Then he saw him.

Huddled against the far wall was a shape that was no more than a bag of bones. Odo de Reppes had shrunk from a tall and powerful fighting man to a bent and broken skeleton wrapped in chains. Only the eyes that looked up at Falconer blazed with something approaching their original ferocity. They peered out from a face scabbed and hairy and gaunt beyond measure. Falconer would hardly have recognized him. He turned to stare at de Beaujeu. The Grand Master tilted his head to one side in a gesture of defeat.

‘It is not of my doing. Bérard, my predecessor, had him tortured to extract what confession he could out of the man. This is what is left. That is why I said you were free to question him but should not expect too much. Myself, I would have dispatched him by now.’

When de Beaujeu spoke these words, a rumbling noise escaped from the grotesque figure on the floor, and a grin broke through the thick and bushy beard. Falconer was regaled with a row of broken and blackened teeth. The thought of being sent to meet his maker clearly pleased de Reppes. Falconer was inclined to assist him all he could. But first he needed to ask some questions of this wreck of a man. And hope he could get some sense out of him. Perhaps his mind was as broken as his body.

‘Can I speak to him alone?’

Guillaume waved a hand at the prisoner.

‘Of course. He is chained by the arms and legs to the floor, so he cannot be a danger to you. Even if he had the strength to be so. I will wait outside.’

After de Beaujeu had exited the stinking room, Falconer pulled the door closed behind him. The smell from de Reppes’ body and the dirty hole in the floor that must serve as his toilet became more palpable. But Falconer swallowed hard and steeled himself. Some of the things he had to say were not for the Grand Master’s ears. He squatted down beside the skeleton that was hunkered down on the floor and looked into the man’s eyes.

‘Odo de Reppes, do you remember me? My name is William Falconer, and I am from Oxford. It was but a year ago that our paths crossed. I need to ask you about that time, and the earlier events leading up to the murder in Viterbo. I need to know the truth, not for myself, but for others.’

The prisoner’s eyes closed, and for a moment Falconer thought he had died or at least fallen asleep. But then they opened again. This time they had no spark in them, though. Falconer feared he had lost his chance, but he urged the man on.

‘There is an old man in Oxford whose wife died, and he thinks you were somehow involved. I need to convince him otherwise.’ He waved a hand to encompass de Reppes’ plight. ‘Surely the truth can do you no harm now.’

The skeleton before him stirred, and the chains clanked, scraped on the floor and resettled. De Reppes attempted to clear his throat. It was a painful rasping sound, and it took Falconer a few moments to make out what he was saying.

‘Water.’

Falconer cast a glance around the room, but there was obviously no barrel or jug in the cell. He rose, his knees aching, and went to the door. Pulling it slightly open, he peered out at de Beaujeu.

‘Can he have water?’

Guillaume looked exasperated at being taxed with such a menial chore and sighed.