Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘Sire, I will try, but if she is as determined as you say, I may have to agree with her.’

She bowed gracefully and left the room with a sour-faced Sir John in attendance. Edward turned to Falconer.

‘An intelligent and beautiful woman, Master Falconer. You are a lucky man for a celibate scholar, if I guess rightly. A pity she is a Jew, though.’

Falconer didn’t like the implication of Edward’s tone of voice. But before he could say anything, the king taxed him about his investigations.

‘Now you have found who was responsible for the attacks on my family?’

Falconer patiently explained the evidence he had gathered around the deaths he had investigated. How the attack on Edward himself could have been commissioned by a Latin, which may have been a de Montfort, though he had no direct evidence. And what he had learned from the Templar, Odo de Reppes, concerning the scandalous murder in the church in Viterbo. And then he described Odo’s subsequent visit to Berkhamsted, where he probably killed Edward’s uncle. He had one caveat, however.

‘I have not been able to look into the circumstances of your son’s death yet, sire. I would have to go back to England to puzzle the evidence out about that one.’

Edward waved his hand dismissively.

‘There is clearly no need to take this further, Master Falconer. I think you have come to a conclusion about who is responsible, have you not? He will no doubt also be guilty of causing the death of poor little John. A boy who would have been king after me, if he had not died so young. You have a name?’

Falconer nodded, a little surprised that Edward had dismissed the investigation of his son’s death so abruptly. But then, he was probably keen to know what Falconer had concluded and needed no further evidence of treason.

‘Everything points to Amaury de Montfort being the prime mover behind all the deaths, and the attack on yourself.’

Edward’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

‘Amaury? Surely it was the older brothers who were responsible? I know Simon is dead now of a tertian fever, but Guy still lives. He has protected himself by marrying the Tuscan Red Count’s daughter, but I can ask the Pope to intervene. He cannot hide behind the skirts of Margherita Aldobrandesca forever. Surely he is more likely to have perpetrated the murders than little Amaury? The boy is barely old enough to be such a villain. And he is a more a scholar like yourself, is he not, than a warrior?’

‘Sire, he is already thirty, though I am told his face barely shows his years. It is perhaps because he looks so young that you cannot believe he is so evil. But everything I have learned points at him. He has no need to be a fighter — he uses others to carry out his wishes.’

Edward looked pensive, stroking his beard and pacing up and down by the window.

‘Amaury, eh? And have you located where he might be? Does anyone know?’ Edward struck his right fist into his palm decisively. ‘If not, please keep searching, Master Falconer. I would not be surprised if he were in Paris right now, plotting against me once again. You have been so persistent so far, I am certain you will find him, if you carry on.’

Falconer shook his head.

‘I am afraid I cannot say where he is at this time. No one seems to know. And I may only drive him back into hiding if I carry on.’

‘No.’ Edward was insistent. He strode over to Falconer and grasped his arm. ‘I will speak to Philip and turn Paris into a trap for him. No one will sneak out.’

Falconer wondered for a moment who this Philip was, until he realized Edward was talking of the French king. Such was the familiarity of great men. Edward, meanwhile, had more to say to him.

‘In the meantime, you will dig deeper, and you will find him.’

With that command, he exited the room, leaving Falconer to wonder what he might do next. He did not yet know that Thomas Symon had the very information he was charged with uncovering.

The great sturdy blocks of the two towers on the western façade of Notre-Dame cast a shadow over Thomas Symon and Friar Bacon. Thomas could not tear his eyes off the tops way above, as he pictured the unfortunate Paul Hebborn plunging to his death from one of them. For a moment his head spun, and he closed his eyes tight. Bacon touched his arm gently.

‘I prefer the towers of Oseney Abbey for their grace and charm.’

He was referring to the abbey just outside the walls of Oxford town. It also had two towers, the western one housing a ring of bells. Thomas could hear them now in his head — the peals of Hauteclere, Douce, Clement, Austyn, Marie, Gabriel and John. It brought back a flood of homesickness. He clenched his teeth and turned his back on the dark towers. Opposite stood the home of Adam Morrish, squeezed in between two churches. It seemed an inappropriate place for a Devil-like Amaury de Montfort — if that’s who Adam really was. The house’s windows were shuttered and all appeared silent. Determined to find out the truth, Thomas strode over to the front door and banged on it with his clenched fist. The sound of it echoed inside the house. Bacon’s mild, calm voice spoke from behind his shoulder.

‘It would seem the bird has flown. It was probably Morrish who spied on us at the school when we were tinkering with the medicine chest. He has been forewarned.’

Thomas’s shoulders slumped, but just as he was about to turn away the door sprung open. But the person revealed was not Adam Morrish, though he was very familiar to Thomas.

‘Jack Hellequin! What are you doing here?’

Jack grinned in that laconic way of his, his young face creasing in wrinkles.

‘I may ask the same of you, Master Symon. And I would guess we were seeking the same fellow. I came here to see if my education — and that of my fellow students — was to progress any further. Most of them have paid what few shillings they could afford to be taught for the year by Adam. Now it appears he has skipped with their money.’

Thomas turned to the friar in disappointment.

‘I think we are too late. He has gone. And we now have nothing to tell Falconer.’

Hellequin pricked up his ears at the mention of the name.

‘How is the master? Recovered from his close call on the bridge, I hope?’

Thomas nodded his head.

‘Oh, yes. It would take much more than almost falling to his death to shake William off his pursuit of justice.’

‘And I thought he was a simple scholar. Who has he been pursuing, then?’

Thomas winked conspiratorially.

‘The same person we have been seeking, as it turns out. His enquiries have taken him to the Royal Palace and the prison inside the Paris Temple. But he doesn’t yet know about Adam Morrish, or to be more precise…’

Thomas was about to reveal what they had learned about Morrish’s true identity but felt Bacon tap him on the sleeve of his robe. He looked quizzically at the friar, who intervened smoothly.

‘Thomas has a theory that Adam was responsible somehow for Paul Hebborn’s death. But it is too fanciful for my liking. But tell me, young man, do you know if some of your friends were stealing from your tutor? I am thinking of pleasant substances that it may on the surface appear harmless to dabble in.’

Hellequin looked down at his well-worn shoes. They were scuffed, but of the finest leather. He appeared to be examining them minutely before he found a response.

‘I am embarrassed to tell you. But you are correct in part of what you say. Yes, they have been… dabbling, as you suggest. I too have… dabbled. But the opium was not stolen. Master Adam gave it to Geoffrey Malpoivre to distribute only to his favourite pupils and in secret. He actually encouraged them to try it. He said it was a necessary part of learning about poisons and drugs. It got a little out of hand, that’s all. I think Paul fell…’ He looked up at the towers looming over them. ‘He must have fallen when too drugged to know where he was.’