Falconer and the Death of Kings

TEN

The candle was now burning low, soon to be no more than a stump in a heap of congealed wax. The ale mugs were empty — Falconer’s sitting in a pool of spilled beer. But still the two men talked deep into the night. It was now Thomas’s turn to put before his mentor what he had learned about the death of Paul Hebborn. It was precious little so far.

‘Though he had no particular friends, there are four students with whom he associated most. All centred on Geoffrey Malpoivre.’

‘The rich one.’

‘Yes. He is the one with money, and he makes use of the power it gives him. He denigrated Paul and made fun of his stammer. He can be cruel, but cruel enough to kill is another matter.’

‘And the other three?’

‘Peter de la Casteigne is a joker, always ready with a jest. I can imagine him hurting Paul’s feelings without realizing it. But as for having a reason for killing him? Who knows? Then we have Jack Hellequin. I like him, and I can’t see him having killed. He seemed so concerned about Paul’s death, but for now he must remain on the list.’

‘And the fourth one?’

‘That is John Fusoris. He is a Picard, but I have not yet spoken to him as he has not returned to the medical school since Paul died.’

‘Do you know why?’

Thomas picked up on the suspicion in Falconer’s tones.

‘Not yet. The others say he had been drinking heavily the night Paul fell — or was pushed — from the tower.’ Thomas automatically corrected himself as he saw Falconer lift a warning finger. ‘He may be recovering from a hangover… or…’

‘From a deep sense of guilt.’

‘Yes. But let us not jump to conclusions too rapidly. Guilt is not yet an axiom — a self-evident truth — in his case.’

Falconer peered closely at Thomas in the gloom caused by the guttering of the single candle that stood on the table beside them.

‘I am glad you explained the meaning of an axiom for me, Master Symon.’

Thomas blushed, but he held his own.

‘In the same way you explained a syllogism earlier.’

‘I think we are both tired and fractious, Thomas. The impending doom of our solitary candle suggests it is time to retire. I shall bid you a good night.’

‘Goodnight, William.’

Both men retreated to their respective beds, pulled off their outer robes and lay back on the narrow pallets provided for them at the Abbey of St Victor. Falconer could soon hear the regular breathing of his young companion, but his mind still spun, going over the events of the day. He recalled Thomas’s derisory remark about the death of kings and, smiling, murmured to himself.

‘How appropriate.’

Falling asleep himself, he dreamed of corruption — both of the body, with a vision of maggots crawling out of eye sockets, and of the soul.

‘You can’t see the king. He is busy.’

Falconer was being frustrated by Sir John Appleby, who today had changed into a pale-blue surcoat, slit up the sides to reveal red leggings. He was bareheaded, being indoors, but his favoured sugarloaf hat sat conspicuously on the table between the two men. As he turned his head away from Falconer, the master noted that he was balding and his locks had been artfully arranged to cover the growing patch of bare skin. No wonder he wore his hat more often than not. When he turned back to face Falconer, he did have a suggestion.

‘I can take you to see the men-at-arms who served Edward all the time he was in Outremer. They were in Acre at the time of the attack, and they could tell you what happened.’

Falconer raised a hand.

‘That is all I ask. That someone who knew this… Assassin can speak to me.’

The mention of this word — Assassin — brought a sneer to Appleby’s lips.

‘Ah, yes. The hashish eaters of the Old Man of the Mountain. Who could have known that Anzazim was one of them? They were supposed to have been wiped out years ago by those other demons from the East, the Tartars.’

‘So I understood. But then it is said these agents lived normal lives and remained incognito for years only to be awoken for a special task. What would be interesting is to discover who woke Anzazim up.’

Appleby shook his head, suggesting he had no idea and cared even less. So Falconer merely asked to be taken to see these men-at-arms. He refrained from pointing out that they had served Edward so well that they had failed to protect him from a poisoned dagger. Sir John led him out of the royal apartments and down a winding stone staircase that led into the lower levels of the palace. Here was the functional heart of the king’s court, or more accurately and literally its bowels. The stone chambers that made up the armoury and soldiers’ quarters were partially below river level, as could be seen by the damp on the walls. The stonework was made up of heavy blocks that bore the weight of the palace above. And its every surface was home to a green slime that covered it like some plaguey growth. In this unsavoury atmosphere was a large crypt of a space with criss-crossing arches supported by hefty stubs of pillars. At one end a fire burned, but its heat barely penetrated the long room. Bed pallets lined the chamber either side, and at the rough table beside the fire lounged two equally rough-looking soldiers with bushy beards and shaggy manes of hair. They looked at first like two peas in a pod to Falconer. As Sir John and Falconer approached them, one nudged the other, and they both sat up, alert and wary as if on a battlefield.

‘Here we are, Master Falconer. This is John Clisby and Thomas Cloughe.’

As Appleby announced each man, he stood up, both of them almost having to remain stooped because of the low ceiling. They wore stained white surcoats over sturdy chain mail, the hooded part of which hung over their backs. Their swords remained buckled around their waists, and each man’s left hand rested easily on the pommel. Falconer recognized the stance of a warrior, ready for anything. They were not relaxed in his presence. Though it might have been Appleby’s effete and courtly manner that had made them wary of these intruders on their private space. Falconer looked Appleby in the eye.

‘Thank you, Sir John. You may leave us now. I am sure I can find my own way back.’

The courtier began to demur but, catching Falconer’s steely blue gaze, gave up. With a flap of his hand, he dismissed himself from the other three and retreated into the far gloom of the crypt. Falconer turned his gaze on the two men-at-arms and sighed.

‘What a popinjay.’

The men grinned and one, perhaps Thomas Cloughe — Falconer could not remember — spat on the earthen floor. He ground the phlegm in with a heavy boot and returned Falconer’s stare. There was a moment’s silence while Falconer and the two men assessed each other, then Falconer spoke.

‘Shall we take the weight off our feet? I see you have a flagon there. Is there some ale left in it?’

The other man — presumably Clisby — grunted and pushed the flagon over to their unwelcome guest. Falconer was beginning to tell them apart now, for he could see a scar under this man’s left eye. So, he was scarface John. And one of Cloughe’s eyes was turned slightly inwards, making him boss-eyed Thomas. Grudgingly, Cloughe wiped the rim of a goblet on his surcoat and passed it to Falconer. It must have been the one he had been drinking from, for there were only two goblets in evidence on the table, but even so Falconer took it and poured some beer into it. He let the silence hang for a while more, until he could see the wariness in the soldiers’ eyes turn to worry. Falconer was an adversary they could not figure out, and as soldiers that was a life-threatening situation.

Having got them nervous, he flung out a question.

‘Tell me about Anzazim.’

Relieved to be given a lifeline, both men began speaking at the same time. They stopped, looked at each other and, with a small nod of the head from the boss-eyed man, Clisby took the lead. Falconer put down Cloughe as the follower then.

‘That was a surprise to us all. I mean, even the king himself trusted the bastard. He was in and out of the prince’s… king’s… well, still prince then…’

‘Just call him Edward,’ offered Falconer.

‘Yes, master. As I was saying, he was in and out of Edward’s quarters like a rat up a hole. And a rat he turned out to be — a murderous rat.’

‘Did you know him well?’

It was Cloughe who spoke now. He leaned forward, and his sword tip dug a scar in the earth as he pushed it back. Forming his words, he clasped his hands together almost as if he was at prayer. He didn’t look Falconer in the eye, but kept his cross-eyed gaze on the ground between his knees.

‘I spoke to him more than once. He was bringing letters from a Saracen lord who had taken a shine to Edward. He passed himself off as a Christian convert, so despite his black face and heathen robes eventually he had almost free passage of the castle at Acre. He was just another familiar face, who came and went. Harmless.’ He raised his gaze to Falconer. ‘How were we to know he was a Hassatut?’

He was using a name Falconer had heard little of before, but he knew it to mean a secret agent of the Nizari sect. An Assassin, in other words. He looked the troubled man in his good eye.

‘The day he tried to kill Edward, did you see a change in him?’

Cloughe looked puzzled, exchanging glances with Clisby.

‘What do you mean — a change? What sort of change?’

Falconer shrugged.

‘A wild look in his eye, perhaps. A nervousness about his movements. They do say these agents — these Hassatuts — eat opium. He would have a wide, staring look.’

Clisby leaned over his companion’s shoulder and took up the story.

‘You could be right there, master. I saw him that day, and he had eyes like deep pools. Dark and evil.’

Falconer realized he had fed these men too much information, and they were giving him what they thought he wanted to hear. Besides, how reliable was their information after all this time? He tried another tack.

‘Who else was present when you showed the… man into Edward’s chamber?’

Clisby frowned and glanced at Cloughe. An unspoken exchange took place between them, then Cloughe answered for them both.

‘Why, no one, sir. Though the Lady Eleanor arrived soon after the commotion. She was there as we dragged that cursed Anzazim away, bleeding his life away like a pig.’

While Falconer was struggling to extract information from illiterate soldiers, Thomas Symon was having the same problems with the altogether smarter students of medicine. Even Jack Hellequin seemed to have clammed up on him. Only the youthful Adam Morrish was free with his information. But then he was the teacher. In the morning, Thomas patiently sat through Morrish’s lecture on the humours, and how each element was related to bodily fluids — fire to yellow bile, earth to black bile and so on. He had nothing to learn about these standard approaches to curing illness in men. But he squirmed a little when Morrish began to expound the Greek physician Galen’s views on blood carrying the pneuma, or life spirit.

‘It is this which gives the blood its red colour. And the blood passes through a porous wall in the chambers of the heart to reach all parts of the body.’

Thomas knew this to be erroneous. He had opened up enough hearts — perhaps five in the last two years — to know there was no porous wall inside but a clever muscly set of openings. But he could say nothing in the presence of these young students. Anatomy was forbidden except in the case of the bodies of murderers. He stoically sat through the rest of Morrish’s lecture, his stomach rumbling through lack of sustenance. At the end, he decided to try his luck again with the taciturn students, grabbing a bite to eat in the process, before he met Friar Bacon in the dank rear room of the school. It would be the first time they would sit down together to begin the mammoth task of recording Bacon’s compendium of all things. But before Thomas could escape the school, Morrish took his arm and, smiling, asked to speak to him. Reluctantly, Symon watched the other young men leave for the nearby tavern, where no doubt Geoffrey Malpoivre would stump up for wine or ale. When the last student had left, and peace had descended once again on the schoolroom, Morrish guided him to one of the benches and sat down beside him.

The man had the look of someone who was relaxed and confident, something that seemed to elude Thomas. Though Morrish’s face was youthful, his eyes were deep pools that spoke of knowledge and wisdom. He stared into Thomas’s eyes, and he had to look away. Morrish’s voice was mellifluous and confident too.

‘You did not agree with me — or should I say, Galen — about the movement of blood around the body.’

Thomas shrugged, uncertain what to say. Morrish patted him on the knee and invited his response.

‘You can speak openly. I am not a follower of Bishop Tempier and his thirteen Condemnations.’

Thomas looked up, and Morrish nodded encouragingly.

‘You have some experience of anatomy, don’t you? Please, tell me. I should like to know.’

Thomas felt he could trust the man and began to explain what he had learned from anatomizing several bodies. He became so enthusiastic about his subject, and in impressing Adam Morrish, that he almost forgot the time. It was only when he saw Morrish look away towards the door to the schoolroom that Thomas realized they were being listened to by someone else. His heart lurched, imagining what might happen if the Church got to hear of his illicit forays into the inner workings of the human body. It was only when the person at the door spoke that he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Roger Bacon, come for their appointment.

‘Ah, Friar, it’s you. I was just… I was…’

Bacon raised a hand to stop Thomas’s uncertain flow of evasions.

‘You have no need to explain to me, Thomas Symon. I have indulged in similar adventures, and equally have no desire for anyone in authority to know.’ He stepped forward and held a hand out to the other man in the room. ‘You must be Master Adam Morrish.’

Morrish, his eager face beaming, took the friar’s hand and shook it vigorously.

‘And you, sir, are Roger Bacon, if I am not mistaken. It is a privilege to meet you.’

Bacon lowered his eyes modestly to the ground.

‘Well, I do not know about that. I admit I have a certain reputation, but you, sir, though new to Paris, are carving out a reputation too.’

For a moment Thomas thought he saw a look of alarm cross Morrish’s face. But then it was gone, to be replaced by a wide grin. Perhaps he had imagined the reaction. The two men were exchanging compliments, and he was excluded from their circle. Until Bacon broke off and beckoned to him to come forward.

‘Thomas, we forget our manners. You are a busy young man, and I must not waste any more of your time than I must in order to carry out our task. You must excuse us, Master Morrish, but Thomas and I have an appointment with some parchment and ink.’

Morrish’s brow furrowed with a look of curiosity, but he contented himself with one question only.

‘You will find time, will you not, to speak to my students? They are a bunch of dunderheads, but you may be able to knock some sense into them.’

Bacon seemed disconcerted by Morrish’s easy charm, but he nodded briefly.

‘Yes, I will gladly do as you say. I must, after all, earn my keep in your school. Payment in kind is all I can offer for the use of your back room. Now, come Thomas, we shall begin.’

Soon the two of them were settled in the damp back room, Thomas with a quill in his hand and a fresh piece of parchment staring blankly up at him on the table. He had ruled the sheet with lines, but there was nothing else on it for now. Soon, it was to be covered with black marks that would capture the ideas of Doctor Mirabilis in some miraculous way. Thomas stared nervously at the page, while Bacon gazed out across the river to the two looming towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral.

The friar took a deep breath and sighed.

‘I have the stink of corruption in my nostrils, so that is where we will begin. Write this down, Thomas.’