Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘But that is my only source of income. If I am not earning it, how am I to fund my journey and sojourn at the university, sir?’

De Bosco waved a dismissive hand and leaned forward with the air of a conspirator. He gleefully whispered in Falconer’s ear, obviously loving his new-found powers.

‘I have plundered the university chest to pay for you and another master to carry out your task.’

Falconer frowned. Another master? Pecham had not told him that he was to have a companion. Was he then to be spied on?

‘Why do I have to have someone travelling with me?’

De Bosco waved his hand again in a gesture that he obviously found quite satisfying.

‘It’s nothing. I just need someone to… erm… ensure that no errors are made in the collection of facts concerning the Condemnations. Someone who can act as your scribe.’

And your spy, thought Falconer. Maybe de Bosco was not as dull as he appeared.

‘And who is this secretary to be?’

De Bosco grinned broadly.

‘I have already spoken to a young man, newly qualified as master of the university, who would benefit from such a post. He has no living at the moment, so he is more than eager to assist you. He is fresh, and with a sound if rather conventional brain that will suit the purpose perfectly.’

Falconer was beginning to get worried about who this companion might be. It sounded as though he would be saddled with a conservative drudge who would dog his every step and prevent him seeking out Roger Bacon.

‘Who is this paragon of virtue, may I ask?’

‘Pecham recommended him. He is one of your former students, Master Thomas Symon.’

Falconer had a spring in his step despite the icy conditions as he returned to Aristotle’s Hall after his interview with the chancellor. Pecham had manipulated the entire project. He had ensured that Falconer would have no impediment to his meeting with Roger Bacon by suggesting Thomas Symon to de Bosco. The chancellor, new to Oxford, was completely unaware that the young man was more than a student of Falconer’s. He was learning to assist Falconer with the more medical aspects of the murder cases that came the regent master’s way. His cool brain could handle the dissection of bodies to try to understand what caused the person’s death, where Falconer shied away from this gruesome task of cutting up flesh.

‘Let’s hope that your skills will not be needed in Paris, though, Thomas,’ muttered Falconer to himself as he skipped over the steaming open channel in the middle of the High Street that was the sewer for the town. A mangy cur foraged at the debris that ran down the channel, and even Falconer’s passing by did not deter it from its task. ‘On the other hand, you had better hone your writing skills, if you are to record what Roger tells me.’

Having hurried down Grope Lane, and past the brothels that lined the narrow passage, he turned left into St John Street and was soon outside the narrow frontage of Aristotle’s Hall. Next to it stood the dingier and more ramshackle Colcill Hall. Here, Thomas Symon lodged with a handful of other impecunious masters still seeking a place in the university and a living of their own. Before returning home, Falconer decided to call in at Thomas’s abode and speak to his newly appointed travelling companion. He found him seated at a table in the shabby hall, soaking stale bread in ale to make it more toothsome.

‘You will have no more need of such plain fare, Master Symon. We shall soon be living off the fat of the land. French land.’

The young man beamed happily at Falconer, already knowing of his appointment. But still he exercised a note of caution.

‘Will there be a stipend from the chancellor?’

‘A small one. Perhaps enough to allow a little goose dripping to be spread on your stale bread.’

Symon asked Falconer when they might begin their journey, and whether the bad weather might hamper them. Falconer, looking around the gloomy hall and noting the absence of a fire to take the chill off the air, suggested they had best start soon.

‘Before you freeze to death trying to break the ice on the top of your ale. I had forgotten how an impecunious master begins his tenure at the university.’

Symon nodded gravely.

‘I will not have much in my saddlebags besides a few texts, and pen and parchment. All the clothes I have you see on my back.’ He paused, and with an innocent look asked another question of Falconer. ‘Shall I also pack my knives?’

Falconer thought of the cruelly sharp instruments that the young man used to dissect bodies. He had inherited them from Richard Bonham when the quiet little master had died of typhus after being careless with one of his dissections. He had also inherited the man’s obsession with studying how the human body worked. Falconer nodded briefly.

‘There is, after all, a medical school in Paris. You may learn a lot while we are there.’

Symon did not say that he had suggested he take the knives because murder and the need to examine bodies seemed to follow William Falconer around. He saw no reason why the University of Paris should be any different. Falconer continued developing their plans.

‘We will spend a day or two settling our affairs here, and then begin. Monday will be a good day.’

Symon ruefully thought that his affairs would take less than a day or two to arrange. His absence would be hardly noted. But he agreed to Monday as a start for their journey to Paris. It would give him time to hone his knives.

The Feast Day of St Adrian of Canterbury, the Ninth Day of January 1273

It was the day to begin their journey, and Falconer had arranged for the horses to be readied by the innkeeper Halegod at the Golden Ball Inn. He was relieved to see that the dirty, close-packed snow in the streets of Oxford was beginning to melt. Their journey would be long and arduous enough without having to plough through snowdrifts. But as he hurried back towards Aristotle’s to collect his saddlebags, the skies turned grey, and a new sprinkling of snow began to fall. He made haste to avoid being caught in another blizzard.

Pushing through the door, he was surprised to find a heavily built figure hunched over the fire in the communal hall. Falconer might have been worrying about travelling through snow, but the large man, whose back was now turned to Falconer, had clearly made his way through it easily enough. A scattering of flakes was thawing off the thick fur collar of his cloak, and his boots were caked with melting snow. Peter Mithian and Tom Youlden, two of his clerks who would now be under the tutelage of John Pecham, stood on the other side of the fire, clearly overawed by the visitor. The bulky figure, enveloped in his cloak and fur hat, which also had its share of the latest snowfall stuck to it, turned to face Falconer. From the furry depths a drawn and ageing face peered out. Falconer was surprised.

‘Sir Humphrey Segrim! What brings you here?’

Falconer thought it unusual that Segrim had made this effort to call on him. After all, the man who now stood before him had long believed that Falconer’s relationship with his late wife had been more than a friendly one. And Ann’s refusal to dispel his doubts, claiming her husband’s suspicion was too base to refute, had not improved matters. When Falconer had then been accused of her murder, Segrim must have assumed the worst about their relationship. Even to have a man other than Falconer found guilty of the deed had not cleared his doubts away.

Falconer had not seen Sir Humphrey since the day of Ann’s death. Rumour had it that he had buried himself in his manor, the snowstorms only putting the final icy seal on his self-incarceration. Now he stood in Aristotle’s Hall facing the very man he could never bring himself to speak to during his wife’s life. Falconer observed that his visage, too long hidden indoors, was the colour of uncooked pastry, and just as flaccid and soft. His eyes were dark pools showing no spark of emotion. But his furrowed brow, half hidden by the fur bonnet he wore, betrayed an uncommon level of unease and uncertainty. His lips flapped soundlessly a few times before he could form the words he needed.