Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘What evidence do you have for supposing someone else killed Richard? And who do you think it would be?’

Falconer put a finger to his lips and hissed.

‘We should keep our voices down. Richard was the lord of the manor here, and some may not take kindly to suggestions that he was murdered.’

Saphira looked pointedly around the parlour. It was empty of people other than themselves and an old man snoring loudly beside the ashes of the previous night’s fire. It was just as well that the fire had died, because his feet, wrapped in rags, were stretched out perilously close to the heap of ashes that had once been a cheerful blaze.

‘We should have to shout very loud to be heard in this place. Though I dare say, if you asked for the bill in a whisper, the landlord would be here soon enough.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Shall we try?’

Falconer knew better than to cross Saphira when she was sounding so reasonable. It had been almost disastrous once. He did not want to annoy her again.

‘It may be a good idea to call for Roger Brewer. He might be able to tell us about the night Richard died, and something of what the people thought of him when he was alive.’

Saphira was correct in her assumption. As soon as Falconer called for the bill, Roger was bustling around collecting the leavings of their sparse breakfast. Whisking the coins Falconer offered into his purse, he seemed at first amenable to Falconer’s questions.

‘Poor Lord Richard. Yes, I remember the day he died. We were all in this very parlour when Paul Crouch came in and broke the news.’ He hooked a thumb in the direction of the castle across the little river. ‘That place was a curse to him and his family. It’s a good job his son, Edmund, stays away.’

‘A curse? In what way?’

Roger pulled up a three-legged stool and sat leaning close to Saphira and William, his beery breath wafting over them.

‘He had three wives, and two of them were soon dead. First there was Isabel Marshal, who died giving birth right there in the castle. That must be thirty years ago now. Then there was Cynthia of Provence, who died about twelve years ago. Also in the castle. Then not so long ago he married that Beatrice, who was barely sixteen to his sixty.’

‘You forget his mistress, Roger Brewer.’

The hoarse, throaty voice was that of the old man seated by the embers. Falconer looked across the room at him. He had barely stirred, his eyes still gazing absently into the fireplace, as if recalling the warmth of the fire that was no longer there.

‘You can hold your tongue, Guy Fordbridge.’

Brewer was clearly incensed that the old yeoman should speak so harshly of the old lord of the manor. But the old man merely hawked and spat into the embers.

‘Joan de Valletort gave him three kids and lasted longer than all his prissy noble wives. Earl Edmund takes after his mother — all foreign and full of airs and graces. He wouldn’t live in that shitheap of a castle if you paid him.’

Brewer was about to apologize for the old man’s crude tongue, but Falconer cut off his protests.

‘Fetch the old man some ale, and the best red wine you have for Mistress Le Veske.’

Falconer had noticed that Saphira had hardly touched her ale and prayed the wine would be better. He produced another coin from his dwindling supply, and the landlord sloped off, mumbling curses under his breath. Falconer beckoned to Guy Fordbridge.

‘Come and join us. The fire is cold, so you will not be missing much.’

The old man heaved himself up and tottered over to the table where Falconer and Saphira sat. He slumped down on the stool Brewer had vacated, wheezing after his exertions. He took the pot of ale that Roger banged down at his elbow and stared at him until the landlord took the hint and left. He took a swig and wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve.

‘Roger’s all right, as landlords go. He feels he needs to be polite about the lord’s family to strangers, that’s all.’

Saphira posed a question for the old man.

‘What do you think killed Richard?’

Fordbridge took a deep draught of ale before he replied.

‘Some say it was the half-dead disease as got him at last. Others that it doesn’t matter what he died of — he was better off dead. He couldn’t speak, you know, after he was struck down. And he had been such a vigorous man.’ He chuckled. ‘He would have had to have been with three wives, the last one only sixteen, and a mistress or two tucked away. One of his sons by Joan is a priest hereabouts — Philip Cornwall he’s called.’

Falconer was anxious to keep Fordbridge on track and to learn more about Richard alive than dead.

‘A vigorous man. And was he liked?’

‘Liked? How does that signify? He was the lord; he didn’t have to be liked. And he knew it, as he was fearsome harsh sometimes. He had a temper on him, you know. He would lash out at anyone near him, if they angered him in any way. There was a story…’

The landlord, who must have been eavesdropping, came in with a goblet of wine for Saphira.

‘That’s enough, Guy. You’ve abused my hospitality too much already. Besides, your son will want to know where you are. There’s work to do in the fields.’

Grumbling, Fordbridge prised himself off the low stool and shambled out of the room. Saphira took a sniff of the wine that Brewer had brought and studiously pushed it to one side. The landlord apologized for the old man’s behaviour.

‘He likes to run down the earl’s family. They take a high rent off him for his farm. Don’t pay any attention to him. Now, if you are ready, sir and mistress, I have your horses in the yard for you.’

There seemed to be nothing more they could learn in the inn, so Falconer and Saphira gathered up their simple belongings and went out to the horses. Once on horseback, they turned them through the arch and on to Akeman Street once again. Falconer had one final question for Brewer.

‘Is there anyone living in the castle now?’

Brewer shook his head.

‘No, sir. Only some caretaker sort sent by the old king to look after the property for Earl Edmund while he is in France.’ He laughed. ‘He must have done something awful bad at court to be exiled over there. He’s a young chap too, by the name of John Zellot.’

Falconer thanked him and urged his horse on with a jab of his heels. Once on Akeman Street, he turned back south. Saphira called after him.

‘That’s the wrong way, William.’

‘No, it’s not. This is the way to the castle.’

Saphira gave a deep sigh and followed him down the lane towards the river. A low wooden bridge took them over the river and led them towards the castle. Both the outer and inner drawbridges over the two moats were lowered, and they rode straight into the heart of the castle unchallenged. In the bailey, which was split in two sections, there were apartments, chapels, workshops and stables. But the big, open space was devoid of servants, save for two men digging down the side of a flint-stone wall. They seemed to care nothing for the two intruders, studiously continuing their labours. Falconer descended from his rouncey and called over to them.

‘Where is John Zellot? I wish to speak to him.’

One of the men looked up from his trench and gave Falconer an odd sideways glance.

‘He’s in the hall over there.’

He pointed briefly to the large building on the western side of the bailey then returned to his work. He said something, and they both laughed. As he turned, Falconer saw that his left eye was clouded completely over and as white as a boiled egg. Saphira had dismounted and was at his side as Falconer walked across the muddy courtyard.

‘I knew as soon as you heard the name Zellot that you would not be able to let matters lie.’