Falconer and the Death of Kings

TWENTY-SIX

Adam Morrish lay pinned down on the table in the ground-floor hall of the house in Paris. His tearful face was bloated with fear, and Edward was pacing up and down beside his prostrate figure. Falconer leaned over him and asked him to tell the truth about himself.

‘The rector of the university, and the Church authorities who pay you, think you are secretly Amaury de Montfort. Why do they think that, Adam?’

Morrish sucked in a deep breath, but, before he could reply, Edward grabbed his right arm and extended it over the side of the table. He forced it down, making tears start in Morrish’s eyes. Edward pushed his face into Morrish’s.

‘I swear I will break your arm, and then I will have one of these men with me chop it off, if you do not speak.’

Morrish looked wide-eyed at the soldier who stood at Edward’s shoulder. He was grinning and lifting his double-edged sword into the air. The captive wailed.

‘I meant no harm. I was a student of medicine at Padua when de Montfort became a master. I was envious of him despite his family history. I did not have the money to continue, you see.’

Edward snorted in derision.

‘You did not have the brains, you mean. So you stole his credentials and purported to be him here in Paris. The Pope and the Church, which pays your wages, were taken in. You knew they favoured his family over mine, so were inclined to keep the secret, weren’t they?’

Morrish nodded, his features contorted with fear and pain. Edward did not release the pressure on his arm, however.

‘But the Church didn’t know what secret they were keeping, eh? They thought they were hiding Amaury from me, when in reality they were colluding with a charlatan. A faker who passed himself off as a master for his own vanity.’

Edward bore down on Morrish’s arm, and the man shrieked in agony.

‘Yes, yes. It’s true.’

Falconer stepped in and lifted Edward’s hand from the defeated Morrish.

‘This is pointless, Majesty. If you should punish anyone, it should be me. I said I had found Amaury right under your nose, and I was wrong. All we had was Adam Morrish after all.’

Edward kicked the table in his frustration, and Morrish flinched, nursing his aching right arm. Thomas drew Falconer to one side and whispered in his ear.

‘William, do you think we could ask Master… er, well… Morrish whether he was responsible for giving his students potions, or if they stole them?’

Falconer frowned and glanced at the angry figure of the king, who was now conferring with Appleby. The courtier had stood in the background while Morrish had been savagely interrogated, and even now had a greenish cast to his face.

‘I am not sure this is the right time, Thomas.’

‘But look at him. He still has something to hide. He looks so shifty.’

At Thomas’s insistence, Falconer took another look at Morrish. The man’s agonized face did indeed look strained, and he could not bear to look his captors in the eyes. Was it because he was merely in fear for his life, though? He shrugged.

‘Go ahead. There can be no harm in it. And he may be afraid enough to confess.’

Thomas walked over to the table and stared hard at the cowering figure of the spurious master.

‘I want to ask you a question on a different matter.’

Morrish looked up, his eyes dulled with pain.

‘What could matter now?’

‘I just want to know the truth about Paul Hebborn.’

Suddenly, Morrish’s eyes were not as dulled as before. Thomas could see a glint in them, and a shiftiness that suggested there was more to find out about Adam Morrish. Thomas pressed him on the matter.

‘How did the students get their hands on the opium? And why was Hebborn at Notre-Dame in such a state?’

A groan was wrenched out of Morrish’s throat.

‘It was not my idea.’

Falconer stepped up behind Thomas’s shoulder.

‘No one said it was. You were being asked if you gave your students opium, or if they took it for themselves. And what that had to do with Hebborn’s death.’

By now, all the eyes in the room were on Morrish, and he looked fearfully around. But there was no escape for him. He put his head in his hands and rocked backwards and forwards on the tabletop.

‘You know, don’t you? I overheard you and Friar Bacon talking, and I knew the game was up.’ He paused and drew a deep breath. ‘He made me do it. I could not stop him. He knew, you see.’

Thomas was puzzled, not understanding anything that Morrish was saying.

‘Hebborn was responsible for the theft of the opium?’

‘Noooo. He took it reluctantly in order to be one of the group. That night at Notre-Dame, he didn’t know where he was. He should have fallen, but he didn’t. So I had to give him a little push.’

A hush fell over the room at Morrish’s confession. But he had more to say, pouring out his wretched soul.

‘John Fusoris was harder work. I had to hold him under the water until he stopped moving.’

He looked up at Falconer, pleading with him but knowing his fate was sealed.

‘He made me. He knew who I really was.’

Falconer finally made the connection.

‘It was one of the other students, wasn’t it?’ He stared coldly at Morrish. ‘Someone who knew you weren’t who you said you were, and played on it.’

Thomas broke in on Falconer’s questioning.

‘It was Malpoivre who passed out the opium. I found that out myself. He is the guilty one.’

Falconer frowned.

‘No. It could not have been Malpoivre; he hasn’t got the brains or the nous to plan such an evil act. Nor could it be de la Casteigne and the rest of the hangers-on. They are followers, not instigators. Nor can I see any of them actually causing Hebborn’s death, or that of Fusoris. Baiting him and being cruel maybe, but not murdering him. There is only one man who could take pleasure in leading others astray and stand by to watch the consequences. His name has made fools of us all along.’

Thomas gasped, recalling the meaning of the name of the person Falconer was talking about.

‘The demon who pursues the damned to hell.’

‘Yes. Jack Hellequin.’

The man of whom Falconer was speaking was at that moment strolling along one of the passages in the French king’s Royal Palace. On his way to the palace on the errand for Falconer, he had stopped off at the medical school by the Petit Pont. Inside the upper room, he had retrieved the key to the potions chest from the ledge up the chimney where Morrish habitually hid it. He had picked out some harmless pots of unguents and pills, and added arsenic and a paste made from laurel berries. These he put in a large pouch, which he hid under his cloak. Once at the palace, he put on the appearance of a distraught young man with an urgent task to perform. He begged the guard at the gate to convey a message to the English king from Master William Falconer. He even slipped a coin into the guard’s hand to ensure the message was passed on.

When the overdressed courtier came to the gate, he reiterated his story, emphasizing how urgent and important it was. It did not take much to convince the old man, who clearly was expecting such a tale. He ushered Hellequin inside the palace, asking him to wait in a side room. In the hubbub that ensued, it was not difficult for him to slip away and hide. He’d seen the courtier looking briefly for him, but then he had rushed away, obviously with more important tasks to attend to. Hellequin had been forgotten.

Now he had produced the pouch from under his cloak and tied it prominently around his waist. From within the pouch, he pulled out a pair of eye-lenses and perched them on his nose. The glasses were plain, but they gave him a look older than his years. With the dark cloak disguising his youthful and colourful surcoat, he was now every inch the physician he wanted to appear. No one gave him a second look as he walked freely around the palace. He had once in a former life been in the palace, but now he could not recall precisely where the guest quarters were located. He finally had to admit to himself that he was lost, and he stood at a crossing of two passages wondering what to do next. Hearing someone approaching, he put on his most severe mien and waited. When a maidservant came around the corner, he stopped her.

‘Child, tell me where Queen Eleanor is to be found. I am a physician called urgently to her bedside. The child will be in danger if I do not reach her in time.’

The girl looked a little puzzled. She had been outside the queen’s room when the boy had been born. The red-haired woman had been present and had said everything had gone well. She herself had been sent for clean sheets. She shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps something had gone wrong in the meantime. The doctor seemed most anxious by the look on his face. She pointed back the way she had come.

‘The room is just at the end of this passage, master. You cannot miss it. I am to fetch clean linen for the queen’s bed.’

‘Then go about your business, child.’ He waved her away and called after her as she fled. ‘There is no rush for linen, though. Take your time, for I will need to examine the queen first.’

The girl slowed her pace, glad not to have to rush after all, and disappeared around the corner. Hellequin grinned and walked off the way she had first come, sure the servant would not hurry back now. It would give him some extra time for what he had in mind. He paused momentarily outside the chamber door, adjusted his glasses and walked abruptly in. Before him in the bed Eleanor, Edward’s queen, sat propped up by cushions. She looked tired but well, and the new child lay snuggled against her bosom. Eleanor looked up at him, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

‘Ah, doctor. You are too late, I fear. The baby is delivered, and I am quite well. Saphira has gone to…’

Hellequin was not interested in the maidservant’s whereabouts. He knew she had gone on her errand for linen and would take longer than the queen imagined. He quickly interrupted.

‘Majesty, let me be the judge of your well-being. It is what I have trained all these years for.’

Eleanor was amused by the physician’s severity. He looked so young, but she assumed, if Philip or Edward had sent him, he must be competent. There would be no harm in him making sure she was well.

‘Please. Carry on, master.’

The doctor fussed around, peering close into her eyes through his eye-lenses and enquiring after her bodily functions. He then lifted the child up, noting it was a small but healthy boy. For a moment, while he had the boy in his hands, he wondered about dispatching it there and then. He could just dash its brains out on the floor. But he knew he would then be unlikely to escape from the palace without being caught. Self-preservation demanded a subtler approach. He gave the child back to Eleanor, who settled him down on her stomach again. Laying his glasses on the bed, he rubbed the bridge of his nose where they had pinched.

‘I would like to examine a sample of your urine as soon as possible, Majesty. In the meantime, I want you to take these pills regularly, as they will give you strength.’ He lay the pot with the arsenic pills on the bed at Eleanor’s elbow. ‘And this paste you can put on the end of your finger and let the baby suck. He is a little thin, and this will help his growth.’

The pot of laurel berry paste was placed beside the arsenic. Hellequin rose from where he had perched on the edge of the bed and stared solicitously at the baby.

‘In fact, you could try him with a little now. I can see he is desirous of suckling.’

Eleanor dipped her finger in the paste and held it up before her face. She thought the concoction looked most unpleasant. But the doctor smiled encouragingly. Saphira, who had been discreetly clearing the mess caused by the birth, came back just as Eleanor was easing the baby into a position where it could suck her finger. She paused and looked up at her new friend.

‘Saphira. This is the doctor sent by Philip to see if I was well. Have you located Edward yet?’

Saphira nodded an acknowledgement to the young physician and stepped towards the bed.

‘Not yet, Eleanor. It would seem he has been called away on an urgent matter.’ She went to sit on the bed and moved the eye-lenses that lay there. Then she spotted the two pots. ‘What are these?’

The physician smiled indulgently.

‘Mistress, it is nothing to bother your head about. I have suggested some potions for the mother and child.’

Saphira, who had learned much about herbs and medicinal preparations from a fellow Jew, was not to be put off by the man’s supercilious nature. Besides, she was suspicious of him for another reason. The eye-lenses were fakes. William Falconer had need of lenses for his poor eyesight, and the curved glass distorted things when she looked through them. These lenses were clear glass. She picked up the pot of paste and held it to her nose.

‘This is laurel berry.’ She looked at Eleanor. ‘You have not taken this, have you? It’s poisonous.’

Eleanor paled and drew her finger sharply from the child’s lips. Fortunately, little Alfonso had not sucked it yet, and she wiped her finger clean on the edge of the bedlinen. Hellequin snarled and took a step towards the bed, but Saphira stood in his way, preventing him from reaching Eleanor and her newborn. She slid the little knife that she kept hidden up her sleeve from its sheath and brandished it in the doctor’s face. When Hellequin saw it, he backed off towards the door. Opening it, he spun around and fled the room, leaving Eleanor trembling and clutching Alfonso so tightly to her that he began to bawl.