Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘I need to know more about Ann’s death.’

Falconer waved his arms at the bunch of students who hovered behind his visitor, agog at what might now be said. Reluctantly, they retired into the cubicles at the rear of the hall which formed their sleeping quarters. The fire did not heat these small boxes so well, and they would be cold. But Falconer sensed that the conversation he was to have with Segrim would best be in private. His clerks would have to get their warmth from hiding under the coverings on their truckle beds. He invited Segrim to sit on one of the rickety chairs beside the open hearth, but the old man chose to pace restlessly around the room. Falconer sat anyway, and asked Segrim what more did he want to know about the matter.

‘I know what was said about the man who it is believed murdered my wife, but I cannot put out of my head that damned Templar.’

Falconer sighed. So that was what all this was about. The Templar — Odo de Reppes. Segrim had travelled to the Holy Lands recently with a Templar, who the old man thought had been involved in an intricate plot to murder members of King Henry’s family. Odo de Reppes had indeed shared in the crazy murder a year or so earlier of Henry, son of Richard, King of Germany, and nephew to the old King of England, while he was at prayer in Viterbo. On the infamous day, Sir Humphrey had found himself at the back of the church, packed out with noblemen who were seeking to speak to Henry. So all Segrim got to see was the back of a distant figure, kneeling before the altar. Then all Hell had broken loose.

A group of armed men had stormed up the aisle, swords in hand. They had hacked Henry to pieces. Three of the men were later identified as Simon and Guy de Montfort and Count Rosso, father-in-law to Guy. It was assumed then that the deed was revenge for the death of the de Monforts’ father, Simon de Montfort, at the Battle of Evesham, seven years before. But as the murderers left the church, running out the way they had come, one of them turned to briefly stare at Sir Humphrey. A pair of cold green eyes shone from behind the full-face helm. Segrim had been convinced it was the Templar. Now he embellished his story.

‘On my return journey from the Holy Lands, the Templar pursued me by sea and land for months on end, until I thought I had eluded him at Honfleur.’

The mention of the French port hit a nerve with Falconer. It was there he assumed Saphira Le Veske still resided. She had gone there on business and had not returned. It had been some months now, and Falconer hoped to be able to track her down once he was in France. If Roger Bacon gave him the time to do so. He tried to get his mind back on Segrim’s story, as the old man went on.

‘Then, after crossing the Channel, I next saw him in Berkhamsted the very day young Henry’s father — Richard, King of Germany — died. And the Templar saw me . That is why I went into hiding in Oxford town before daring to return home. And why I still think Ann was murdered by or at the behest of the Templar because he was afraid she had been told of the conspiracy by me.’

Segrim’s face was ashen, and he groaned.

‘It was my fault Ann was killed.’

Falconer stood up and grasped Segrim by his shoulder.

‘No, Sir Humphrey, it was not your fault. If anything, it was mine. It was an act of revenge against me.’

Sir Humphrey’s dark and troubled eyes gazed into Falconer’s. He shook his head.

‘No. I cannot rid myself of the idea of the great conspiracy. I have tried to find Odo de Reppes, but the commander at Temple Cowley is tight-lipped about the man. You know how the Templars close ranks and protect their own. It leaves me with a feeling of deep suspicion.’

‘But what can I do for you, Sir Humphrey?’

‘I have heard that you plan to travel to Paris. Talk to the Grand Master of the order for me. Find out the truth.’

Falconer would have protested that he was unable to carry out this request. He was supposed to be in Paris to learn about the implications for the teaching in Oxford of Bishop Tempier’s Condemnations. And secretly he was to talk to Roger Bacon — something which would be very difficult to arrange in itself. On top of all that, he had a personal desire to find Saphira. Now Segrim was asking him to meet Brother Thomas Bérard, Grand Master of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. He hesitated, but not for long. Segrim’s face showed a deep yearning for the truth, and Falconer could not deny it to him. Besides, he might not know the Grand Master, but he did have a close friendship with Guillaume de Beaujeu, Templar and Preceptor of the Kingdom of Sicily. If Falconer could not get the truth from the Grand Master, then he might from one who was almost as important a man in the order. As long as Guillaume was in Paris also.

‘I will do as you ask, Sir Humphrey. But what I learn may have no bearing on Ann’s death. Nor relieve any sense of guilt you feel.’

Segrim took Falconer’s hand and shook it.

‘That will be for me to decide when you tell me what you have found out. Thank you.’

Falconer watched as the old man stumbled, stoop-shouldered, out into the snow. He had had precious little sympathy for the man when Ann had been alive, knowing how badly he treated her. Now he felt nothing but pity for the lonely figure returning to an empty manor lost in the snow. But he had no more time to ponder on Segrim’s request, for the ever-exuberant Thomas Symon burst through the door of Aristotle’s.

‘Was that Sir Humphrey Segrim I saw? What did he want here?’

Falconer bent down to pick up his saddlebags.

‘Yes, it was Sir Humphrey, and I will tell you what he wanted as we ride for Dover. We had better make a start before the weather becomes too bad. We have at least a week of travel before we reach the coast. Ten days, perhaps, if the snow gets any worse. And then the crossing will depend on the state of the weather. We may have to wait a long time, but you can use it to learn some Dutch, which you will need in Calais. And from there to Paris could take as much as another month.’

Thomas made a quick calculation in his head.

‘Then we may get to Paris by the Feast Day of St Albinus of Brittany. That would be appropriate.’

‘Hmm. The beginning of March. Perhaps, if we are lucky. If not, it may even be the Feast of St Hugh. All Fools’ Day.’

The two travellers laughed, hoisted their bags on their shoulders and began their long pilgrimage.

Paris, May 1273

Edward finally reached Paris, where he came to do homage to the French King Philip for the lands he held in Gascony. He stood at the window of his guest apartments in the Royal Palace on the island that sat in the middle of the River Seine. He watched as the waters were split by the end of the Ile de la Cité. It felt like standing in the prow of an enormous ship barging its way downstream to the English Channel. He sighed deeply. The burdens of kingship were beginning to feel heavier on his shoulders the closer he came to England. Which might begin to explain why his progress from the Holy Lands had been so slow. He had spent some carefree and pleasure-filled months in Sicily and Italy, and had taken joy in fostering the myth of Eleanor’s part in his rescue from the Assassin in Acre. It had begun at the banquet laid on by Charles of Anjou in Sicily.

After sampling some of the crane bird meat suggested by his wife, Edward had turned to her and whispered in her delicate ear.

‘Why do we have to sit with this man? He was diverted by a mere storm from continuing the Crusade after Louis’ death. He left me to campaign on my own.’

Eleanor stroked his hand.

‘You should feel sorry for him. Look at his wife.’