Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

Thomas winced at the thought of stepping off a tower into space, imagining the ground was still under your feet. It was a gruesome end to contemplate.

Saphira had been fearful of meeting Eleanor when she had been led into the woman’s private chamber. But once they had begun speaking, she had lost all her inhibitions. The dark-haired queen, very big with child, had motioned for Saphira to come closer to her chair. She had been hovering uncertainly in the doorway. But when she saw Eleanor’s swollen ankles, lifted up on a footstool in front of her, she behaved like any woman would.

‘My dear, what we women must go through for our men.’

She knelt at the queen’s feet and slowly massaged her legs. At first, Eleanor had protested, but, as she felt the relief, she relented.

‘That is so good. Are you trained in medicines?’

Saphira dipped her head.

‘I am following the ways of a wise man called Samson, who is teaching me all he knows.’

Eleanor accepted the obvious conclusion to be drawn from the man’s name, but did not bridle at Saphira being a Jew. She knew her own husband’s prejudices but did not share them. Instead, she spoke gently of the perils of childbirth, patting her stomach.

‘This will be my ninth.’

Saphira feigned astonishment.

‘Really? And you barely out of your teens.’

Eleanor giggled, aware of her own beauty but knowing too that she was beginning to show her thirty years. It was true she had been a child bride at ten years, when Edward was fifteen. But they had waited until she was eighteen before conceiving. And had supplied almost a child a year since. Saphira smiled too, and carried on rubbing the queen’s ankles.

‘Alas, I have only one son. Menahem looks after the family business and is a good boy. I did have a daughter, but she was stillborn.’

As she spoke, she could not believe she had said that. Not even William knew about that little sadness in Saphira’s life. Eleanor patted her arm.

‘My first three were either stillborn or died before they reached their first birthday. And another one the same when we were in Acre. I was beginning to feel we were cursed, until John came along.’ She sighed. ‘And then he died aged only five.’

It seemed natural for Saphira to ask her about the death of John, though she felt a little pang at doing so. She was motivated mainly by wanting to help William’s investigations. But she didn’t want to cause Eleanor to fall into a melancholy. She bit her lip, not daring to look at the queen, as she asked her about her dead son.

‘What happened? Do you know?’

‘We were told it was a fall from a horse. John was in the care of his uncle Richard at the time. He had probably badgered the old man to let him ride a horse too big for him. Richard gave in and was leading the horse by the rein with John up on its back. Apparently, the horse shied at some noise or other, and John fell. Even then he might have survived, but he was hit by one of the hooves.’ She shuddered. ‘Richard never forgave himself. His guilt must have contributed to his own illness, for it was not long after that he got the half-dead disease. He was paralysed down one side of his body, and he died four months later.’

‘Your husband must have been devastated.’

Eleanor winced and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

‘The strange thing was he didn’t show any emotion. Not like when his father died. When Charles of Anjou asked him about that, Edward shrugged it off, suggesting that a father was irreplaceable, but a son was not. And talking of sons…’

Eleanor gave a moan and clutched at Saphira’s hand.

‘You must help me, Mistress Le Veske, and employ some of that medical skill you claim. I think my baby is coming.’

Saphira rose and made to go to the door, saying that she would call a midwife. But Eleanor grasped her arm in a grip of steel such as only a warrior and gravid mother might possess.

‘Too late. The midwife and nurse have been sent on to Castile. I was to follow them but got delayed.’

Saphira knew what had caused the delay — the matter of Falconer’s investigation. Now it seemed that she was to reap the consequences. She took Eleanor’s arm and led her over to her bed. The queen slumped back on the beautifully embroidered coverlet. Saphira prayed such a marvel would not be ruined by the blood and waters of childbirth. She must have looked anxious, because Eleanor raised her head and smiled.

‘Don’t worry, mistress. You may not have attended the birth of a child before, but I have done it eight times before. I think I can remember what to do. Now, if you look in that chest by the fire, you will find a vial with a preparation of birthwort in it. That will ease the child out.’

Saphira knew of birthwort as both an aid to birth and a means of getting rid of an unwanted child. She rummaged in the chest until she found what she was looking for. It was a green glass vial with a fluid in it. She pulled out the stopper and held the vial to Eleanor’s lips, praying she did not exceed the safe measure. Next, carefully but with determination, she slid the embroidered cover from under Eleanor and eased her back on clean white linen. Then, with a moan from the queen, the birthing began in earnest.

Thomas decided he had to inform Falconer of his uncovering of Adam Morrish’s identity as soon as he could. Knowing Falconer was probably seeking a de Montfort in connection with his own mission, he saw they were on converging pathways. His first instinct was to make for the abbey and hope William was not with Saphira in the Jewish quarter. But when he reached the St Victor Gate, Thomas was confronted with a peculiar sight. Instead of there being a steady flow of people in and out of the gate, there was total confusion. Crowds of angry citizens milled around the archway, pushing and shoving each other in their desire to pass through. It was apparent, however, that no one was being allowed out of the gate. Thomas could not see what the obstruction was until he too had elbowed his way closer.

Four soldiers stood impassively under the arch, blocking it completely, while a sergeant-at-arms argued with those pressing to leave the city. One by one, people were being permitted to pass, but only after close scrutiny by the sergeant. And only if they were elderly men, or women of any age. Men of Thomas’s age were being turned back, and most of them were becoming increasingly angry at the situation. One young man, his age evidenced by the wispy hair that grew on his upper lip and chin, forced his way red-faced through the throng. Thomas ventured a question.

‘What is going on?’

The youth spat on the ground.

‘You tell me. They will not let us out of the gate. And I have tried the Ste-Geneviève Gate too. It’s the same thing.’

Someone piped up from just behind Thomas.

‘And at St-Germain, and St-Michel also. We are locked in the city.’

The two speakers seemed ready for a fight, and Thomas discreetly slipped away from the growing angry mob. He decided to head for Saphira’s house, hoping that the bridges over the Seine were not similarly blocked and that he might find Falconer there. He had no need. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed him and pulled him free of the milling crowd and up a side alley that was quieter than the main thoroughfare. It was Falconer, who had been waiting for him for some time.

‘Thomas. Where have you been? I have been hanging around here for ages in order to waylay you. Come with me to Saphira’s, and we can talk in safety. Paris will be like a tinderbox tonight.’

As they hurried through the streets and across the Ile de la Cité, Falconer explained the reason for the closing of the city’s gates. Edward had persuaded King Philip to undertake it in order to trap Amaury de Montfort. He thought Edward’s efforts would prove to be in vain.