Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

The Feast Day of St Cyr of Quiricus and St Julitta, the Sixteenth Day of June 1272

Edward stared moodily out of the narrow window of his Outremer fortress in Acre. The brightness of the Holy Land sunlight contrasted starkly with the gloom of his private room high above the arid lands that rolled away to the horizon beyond his gaze. He squinted, and around his eyes the lines that were now permanently etched in his otherwise young-looking face were furrowed deeper. His holy campaign had been a failure. It irked him that petty feuding, greed and treachery had marked the behaviour of his fellow Christian fighters. Even his position as King Henry of England’s son and heir had failed to work in his favour. In despair, he had resorted to sending an embassy to the Tartar khan to the north. Advisers told him these Tartars, who some called Mongols, were the very forces of Prester John, the great Christian lord of the East who it was said would save the Latin Christians at a time of their greatest need. God knows, that need was now. The Tartar hordes had scared the very Devil out of the West some years back, but even they had been turned aside by the forces of Baibars, leader of the Mohammedans. The situation had been so desperate a month ago that King Hugh of Cyprus and Jerusalem had signed a ten-year truce with Baibars. Edward had remained defiant, but he now found himself bottled up in Acre, the last Christian stronghold in the Holy Land.

He sighed and turned from the window, his eyes momentarily unable to penetrate the gloom of the chamber. Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings again. The drab stone walls and flagged floor reminded him of a prison cell. In fact, it might as well have been a cell for all the freedom he had. Suddenly, he was aware of a shadowy presence in the furthest corner of the room. He could discern two people and instinctively felt for his sword, but then remembered he carried no weapon. He was safe in his own chamber deep inside the fortress of Acre — his own prison cell. Still he tensed, ready for a fight, until one of the shadows spoke.

‘Prince, it is Anzazim. He has a letter from the Emir of Joppa for you.’

Edward immediately relaxed. The guard who spoke was referring to an Arab who was a trusted go-between. He often bore letters from the emir addressed to him. The Saracen professed an affection for Edward on account of his reputation for valour. He indicated that the guard should go, and held out his hand for the letter. Anzazim stepped forward out of the shadows. The wiry young man was dark-skinned, and his hair was long and oiled. But he claimed to be a Christian convert, and often dressed in Western clothes. Today he was clad in the cool, clean white robes of his race, though the hem where it touched the floor was soiled with red dust. His long sleeves almost covered the hand in which he held the letter. Edward took it and turned back towards the window, where he might have some light to read the message.

He had barely broken the seal on the letter when he was aware of the rustle of robes behind him. But before he could turn he felt a sharp pain in his right arm followed by another. He was being stabbed. He lifted the arm up to defend himself, only to feel another dagger thrust go in under his armpit. Fully turned to his assailant, he could not believe it. Anzazim, with a snarl of pure hatred on his face, was slashing at him with a knife he must have secreted up his long and loose sleeve. Edward swung a foot out and swept the killer off his feet in a manoeuvre he had used more than once in battle. But this time his opponent was not encumbered with chain mail and a shield. The lithe Arab leaped back upright and lunged at Edward again. He grabbed the only weapon he had to hand — the tripod stand of a small marble-topped table close to him. The top fell to the stone floor and shattered. Edward swung the metal tripod back and forth in front of him, protecting himself from the knife thrusts. Where was the guard who had left him alone with this maniac? Anzazim suddenly feinted to the left only to alter his balance and thrust at Edward from the right. There was nothing else for him to do but grab the knife blade in his left hand. It sliced through the skin of his palm, but he held on, blood squirting between his fingers. He landed a blow with the clumsy tripod on Anzazim’s head, and his assailant fell, the blade released from his hand. Edward turned the knife round, and, using his right hand, he stabbed Anzazim in the chest, sliding the thin blade between his ribs. By the time the guards had responded to the sound of the commotion, Anzazim was lying at Edward’s feet. They stood aghast as their prince stood before them, his chest heaving and blood dripping from his hand. He roared at them to get the body out of his sight.

‘Take it to the city walls and hang it there by the side of a dog that everyone might see and be afraid.’

As the two men bustled to bear Anzazim away, Eleanor ran into the chamber. Edward’s wife and constant companion, she gasped when she saw him, and rushed to his side. He held her with his good arm, wishing to show her he was strong and well. It was barely a month since his wife had given birth to a daughter, and no more than a year since another girl child had been born and died within days. The child they had called Joan must survive, or Eleanor would not bear the agony. And Edward would forever regret bringing her to this arid and unforgiving land. He hugged her.

‘See. I am fine. The killer is gone, and I have no more than a scratch on my palm.’

He held his left hand firmly closed so she might not see the nasty gash the blade had inflicted. Suddenly, he felt dizzy and was glad of having Eleanor at his side. He shook his head to clear his brain. How could he be so weak, when he had lost so little blood? The room began to swim around him, and he was aware of small, slim Eleanor attempting to support his manly bulk. The gash in his palm and the pinpricks in his arm began to throb. He realized what was happening to him, and felt cold. The Assassin’s knife had been poisoned.

He fell into a black pit.

Westminster. The Feast Day of St Edmund Rich of Abingdon, the Sixteenth Day of November 1272

The old man lay dying, his breath coming erratically with the desperate heaving of his sunken chest. He was but a shadow of the powerfully built man he had been in his prime. Now he was gaunt, his skin yellow and resembling parchment. His skeletal hands lay limply on top of the ornate cover that was draped over his shrivelled body. Another painful breath rattled in his chest as he sucked air in, only to expel it soon after in a long deep sigh. By the side of his bed stood three anxious physicians, none of whom were able any longer to suggest a remedy. What cure was there for the ravages of old age? But still they argued among themselves.

Master Roger Megrim stood inches taller than his fellow physicians, a stature that emphasized his precedence. At least in his own eyes. Megrim’s height made it seem as though he had been stretched on the rack. His limbs were unusually long, his chest concave and his stomach protuberant. He hunched over to disguise his height, and his beak of a nose poked forward like a bird’s bill. He was once again pontificating on the causes of his patient’s illnesses, though in more uncertain tones than normal. Brother Mark, a Dominican monk of medium height and nondescript features, had adopted his usual pose of dark disdain, half-turned away from the voluble Megrim. The third member of the group, however, was apparently hanging on to Megrim’s every word. John Rixe, short, fat and of a jolly aspect, fawned on the Cambridge-educated man. But then he would as easily denigrate Megrim to the Dominican once out of the Cambridge master’s hearing. As a mere guild apothecary, Rixe depended on the approval of the educated clerics for his very existence. But that did not mean he was not ready with a strong recommendation for his own pills and potions.