Falconer and the Death of Kings Page 10

  ‘John, look at me, John. I am not here to harm you.’

  Slowly, the youth turned his face from the wall and looked sideways at Thomas. His face was thin, and so his eyes looked unusually large in his gaunt skull. They looked like deep, dark pools of horror to Thomas. Black pools reflecting the yellow flame of the candle. Fusoris flinched and looked away again. He spoke in a broken voice.

  ‘Go away. You are the Devil come for me. You are his agent.’

  ‘Why should you think I am the Devil, John?’

  ‘You have come for me like you came for Paul.’

  ‘Did Paul get taken by the Devil, John? How do you know?’

  Fusoris shivered and clutched his arms closer around his thin body.

  ‘Because Paul is dead. The Devil killed him… threw him off the tower of Notre-Dame.’

  Thomas was troubled. Was this just an insane fantasy or a twisted version of the truth? Either way, he had to help John in order to find out more. But what was wrong with the boy? Was he possessed by demons, which had caused his insanity? And if so, could he be saved and brought back to reality? John might have actually witnessed the death of Paul Hebborn. If it were possible to get him to talk about it rationally, Thomas might learn who killed Paul Hebborn. But his fear was that the boy might be telling the truth now, and that the Devil may come for Thomas too.

  Suddenly, the room felt very cold, and Thomas wished Falconer were here. William was so much more rational than he was, and more sceptical when it came to the realities of Satan and Hell. Thomas was yet to be convinced that such punishments did not await the sinner. He looked into the youth’s eyes, and what he saw made his mind up. Gently, he touched the tense figure of John Fusoris and began to coax him out of his corner.

  Falconer blew out the candle and lay in the darkness, his mind spinning fantasies. He had been expecting to talk to Thomas Symon about what he had uncovered during the day. Without Saphira to test his ideas on, he had become reliant on the young man. The thought of Saphira sidetracked him for a while, and he dreamed up fanciful encounters with her. He would travel to Honfleur and find her in the first tavern he entered. Or he would be walking through Paris, and there she would be in the street. Of course, whatever he imagined always resulted in the happiest of meetings. There would be no awkwardness or necessity to apologize on either side. When he had come back to his senses, he realized that it was late and that he had dozed off. Something had roused him. Looking across at the other bed, he also saw that there was still no sign of Thomas Symon. He thought he heard a sound in the abbey cloisters that was not like the sound of monks going to pray. That was more a soporific slapping of sandals on stone. He had heard the sound of voices. Raised voices.

  He got up from his bed and crossed the room in the dark. He cursed as he bumped his shin against a stool that stood in an unexpected place, and grabbed the door handle. Looking out, he could see lights flickering from inside the cloisters, with big shadows sliding down the walls and across the floor. He walked barefoot down the corridor from the guest quarters towards the disturbance, the slabs striking cold on the soles of his feet. As he got closer, he was surprised to hear Thomas’s voice raised in anger. The young man was usually so measured and temperate that he wondered what was agitating him so. The candlelight and voices were now coming from one of the small cells that lined that side of the cloister. Falconer peered in through the open doorway.

  Lit by two candles, the scene was confusing. Two monks were restraining a skinny youth on a bed. The youth, with his lank, dark hair plastered across his skull, was wriggling under the monks’ grasp. His wail was in counterpoint to Thomas’s staccato call for calm and understanding. One monk turned his head from his task and replied breathlessly.

  ‘He has the Devil in him and should be restrained. We shall have to drive the demons from him, but in the meantime he must be tied down.’

  Thomas tugged at the monk’s arm.

  ‘He is merely overexcited. If you left him alone, he would recover. That is why I brought him here. For some calm and reflection. With you here that is not possible.’

  The monk turned away from Thomas and uncharitably punched the boy in the face. He slumped into silence. His assailant stood up, a look of triumph on his face.

  ‘This is our abbey, and you are merely a guest here. You should not have brought this filthy creature to us. But seeing as you have, then we will deal with him. Now if you will please go, I will lock him in.’

  Thomas groaned and, seeing Falconer for the first time, rushed over to him.

  ‘Thank God. William, you must help me. This is John Fusoris – he can help us with Hebborn’s murder.’

  Looking back into the room, where the youth lay prostrate on the bed, and the two monks stood over him menacingly, Falconer drew Thomas aside.

  ‘Let them get on with it, Thomas.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘The boy is in no fit state to answer any questions now. If it is peace you want for him, then it will do no harm for him to be locked in the room for a while. Come away and tell me what you have found out. Anyway, my feet are freezing on these slabs and I could do with warming them up. Bring one of those candles.’

  They left the monks to their task and retreated to the privacy of their chamber. Falconer tucked his legs under his bedclothes to warm his feet, while Thomas slumped down exhausted on his bed. The wine and his encounter with the mad youth suddenly began to tell on him. He felt drained of all energy. But Falconer wanted to know what he had learned while it was still fresh in his mind.

  ‘If you go to sleep now, you will forget something, or you will embellish the facts to fit your opinion of what did happen.’

  Thomas groaned but sat up. This is what he had wanted, wasn’t it? William’s attention? He began to tell Falconer all about the medical school and the students who gathered themselves around Geoffrey Malpoivre and his groaning purse. About their drinking, and regular teasing of Paul Hebborn for being English and having a stammer.

  ‘But not all of them were cruel to Hebborn. I get the impression that Jack Hellequin, whom I know the best, had a regard for the outsider.’

  ‘Hmm. The name of the Devil’s horseman.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You are perhaps not familiar with French passion plays. In them, the hellequin is a black-faced emissary of the Devil. Mind you, his role is to roam the countryside chasing the damned souls of evil people to Hell. So your Jack may be a useful ally.’

  Thomas ignored Falconer’s jest and carried on.

  ‘Then I was told of John Fusoris, who had befriended Hebborn. But I could not speak to him at the school because, since Hebborn’s death, he had locked himself away in his lodgings. That is why I sought him out. He lives close by the river, across from the towers of Notre-Dame.’

  ‘Not a happy presence for the friend of someone who fell from that very spot.’

  ‘Or was pushed.’

  Falconer leaned forward, interest etched on his lined face.

  ‘You have new evidence?’

  Thomas hesitated.

  ‘I may have.’ Hearing Falconer sigh, he pressed on eagerly. ‘That is why I brought John Fusoris here. Though his story was confused, he insisted that the Devil came for Hebborn, tempted him and led him to his death.’

  ‘But you only have the words of a mad boy to base your opinions on.’

  ‘No.’ Thomas was emphatic, and rummaged in his purse. He drew out some dry leaves of an oval shape. ‘I have these. I found them in his room, scattered on the floor. They look to me like bay leaves, which do have magical properties and are said to be emetic. Fusoris had fouled himself.’

  Falconer took the leaves, sniffing them and rolling them in his fingers. He was assailed by a half-forgotten memory of involuntarily eating these leaves himself. He had descended into a mental Hell due to them. He shook his head.

  ‘No. These are not bay leaves. They are Catha edulis, known as khat in Arabia, where they are eaten to produce
feelings of euphoria. It is said the ancient Egyptians used them to release human divinity. If Fusoris ate these, it is no surprise he is unstable and fearful. They can affect you in that way.’ He shuddered at his own experience of descending into a cellar that became a hallucinatory Hell due to the leaf. ‘Were his pupils dilated?’

  ‘Yes, they were.’ Thomas was excited, forgetting his exhaustion. ‘I knew he wasn’t possessed. There had to be another explanation for his behaviour.’

  He remembered the thoughts he had had about Fusoris being mad or owned by the Devil, and blushed at his naivety. It was something he would not admit to the sceptical Falconer. Instead, he brought one of the leaves to his lips and sucked it. Falconer pulled his hand away, though, before he could experiment further.

  ‘Don’t. It is not easy to stop once you have started. I know I recommend practical experimentation. But take it from me, in this case leave it to second-hand knowledge to inform you. If Fusoris has been eating these leaves, then I suggest we leave him to recover from their effect. Get some sleep and you can tackle him in the morning, when his mind will be a little sounder.’

  Thomas gladly lay back on his bed.

  ‘You are right, William. I will sleep well tonight.’ He closed his eyes as Falconer snuffed the candle out. ‘Oh, and remind me never to drink unwatered French wine again.’

  FOURTEEN

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t journey to Castile, darling. You are, after all, heavy with child.’

  Edward was holding his wife’s hand and gazing anxiously into her beautiful eyes. She patted his hand and reassured him, a pert smile playing across her lips.

  ‘My dear husband. As you well know – for you were responsible for them all – this will be my ninth child. He or she will slip out hardly without me knowing.’

  Edward ignored her sauciness this time. He so loved their sexual banter, but this was important to him.

  ‘Yes, and of the eight you have brought into the world, only three are still alive. So many have died so soon after their birth that I wonder if it is wise for you to be travelling at such a time.’

  ‘You have no cause to be worried so. Oh, I know you were downcast by the death of little Johnny. It is natural to mourn the loss of your firstborn son and heir. But you have Henry now, and he is five already…’

  She faltered in her reassurances, recalling that young Henry was at the very same age at which John had died. Edward was always convinced that there was some mystery surrounding his death. And she knew that was part of the reasoning behind his appointing the Oxford master to look into the deaths that had come thick and fast in his family recently. She also knew who Edward suspected of being behind those deaths.

  ‘Do you think Master Falconer is on the right track?’

  Edward smiled quietly.

  ‘Oh, yes. We have pointed him in the right direction, and he will winkle the bastard out. He will run from cover soon like a startled stag, I am sure of it. And when he does, I shall be ready with my bow and arrow.’

  Not knowing his actions were being discussed at that moment, Falconer had risen early in order to make time to get across Paris. He was bound for the Marais – the northern marshes outside the city wall – where the Templars had established their great commandery. But before he left the abbey he roused a sleepy Thomas. The young man groaned and held his head.

  ‘Leave me alone, I am dying.’

  Falconer laughed.

  ‘Of thirst, no doubt. When I recall my early days of excessive wine drinking, I can sympathize with how you are feeling. I recommend that you find a barrel of water, dunk your head in it and then try to drink your way out of it.’

  ‘What hour of the day is it?’

  ‘The monks have already held the prime service, so I would suggest you think about checking on John Fusoris before you have to be at Master Adam’s medical school for your tryst with Roger. You have a busy day ahead of you. And so do I.’

  Thomas raised his head gingerly, holding it in his hands to make sure it did not spin off his shoulders. He could not believe what he saw. William was already up and dressed, and it was not yet terce.

  ‘Where are you bound that has dragged you out of bed so early?’

  Thomas had hoped that Falconer would assist him to get the truth from the young student. He was still inexperienced in interviewing witnesses to crimes, much preferring the inert form of a dead body. Truth could be extracted from that at his own pace, and without protest from the victim. Falconer shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I have to follow up the trail of this Latin connection with the attempt on Edward’s life. I believe he thinks the de Montforts were responsible for it. In the same way they were of course responsible for the murder of his nephew. And the only real source I have for that is Odo de Reppes.’

  ‘But he has been missing for almost two years.’

  ‘And if he is to be found again, the Grand Master of the Templars should know how and where. But Thomas Bérard, the last Grand Master, has been dead these last four months. So the Paris Temple and the Province Master is my best hope of finding anyone who can help, and it’s not far to the north, just outside the city walls. You will do fine with Fusoris, as long as you can keep the monks from punching him on the nose again.’

  Thomas grinned from under his bedlinen, recalling the way the youth had been subdued yesterday.

  ‘Yes. I have heard of robust Christianity, but never seen it in action until yesterday. Good luck with your search, William.’

  Falconer waved a hand in farewell and left Thomas to rouse himself. He had a fair idea how to find the Temple, though he had never crossed the Seine to the north bank since arriving in Paris. But once across the Petit Pont, he found it easy to cross the island in the middle of the river by the wide road that divided the Royal Palace from the cathedral of Notre-Dame. Straight ahead was a narrow plank bridge that barely allowed one person to pass another once on it. Wary of its dizzying setting high above the river, he set about negotiating it with some care. On more than one occasion he stepped cautiously to one side to allow others coming in the opposite direction to pass him. They seemed unconcerned by the narrowness of the crossing, however. Safely on the north bank of the river, which locals called the Right Bank, he walked eastwards along the strand to a big open square that shelved down to the river. Here, there were scores of labourers in rough clothes, some carrying farm implements, others with sacks draped over their shoulders against the weather. Prosperous-looking merchants strode boldly from one group to another, and on inspecting each individual critically would tip one man on the shoulder and walk away. It was some sort of hiring fair, and Falconer felt sorry for the scrawny, ill-favoured ones who were left from this cull of workmen. They would be hard-pressed to find other work in Paris.

  Having made his way through a maze of narrow streets, aiming always in what he hoped was a northerly direction, he emerged on another broad avenue. To make sure he was still going towards the Temple, he asked a passer-by if this was the Rue du Temple. The man nodded briefly without breaking his stride, hardly even looking at his questioner. Falconer threw an ironic thank you to his disappearing back, annoyed by the apparent curtness of the denizens of this great city. He had a passing thought that perhaps London felt the same to foreigners too. Once through the narrow and well-fortified Temple gate in the city walls, he could see his goal. Not far away there reared the high and forbidding walls of the Paris Temple of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, the order more simply known as the Templars. Above the crenellated wall, he could see the roofs of several substantial buildings. But the most impressive, climbing higher even than the spires of the church, was the louring, multi-turreted presence of the Temple tower – at once a meeting place, treasury and donjon. The entire complex of buildings was set somewhat apart from the rest of Paris on what had once been barren marshes, and gave the impression of aloofness. It was an example of the Templar order setting itself apart from the rest of the world, and a little
above the common herd. Falconer walked along the causeway built up to cross the marshland that the Temple stood on and onwards up to the closely guarded entrance to the complex.

  When he asked to speak with the Province Master of the order, he was met by a rebuff. Apparently, the last Paris Master had been Amaury de la Roche, but no one had been appointed since his departure.

  ‘Then I will speak to anyone in authority.’

  The sergeant-at-arms to whom he was speaking looked him up and down and made no move to find anyone. Falconer realized that he was not the most impressive of arrivals at this portal. Coming on foot from Paris had covered his boots in mud. And dressed as he was in his usual drab black academic robe, he did not present the most powerful or authoritative of images. He sighed and produced Edward’s letter from his purse.

  ‘Tell whoever is in charge here that I am on the business of Edward, King of England.’

  The stocky sergeant raised a sceptical eyebrow but apparently recognized the wax seal on the letter. It would have been no use his looking at the letter, as he could not read. He turned away and walked across the inner courtyard. Falconer called after him.

  ‘Tell him my name is William Falconer, Regent Master of Oxford.’

  Whatever he had said must have had its effect, for it was not long before the sergeant came scurrying back, a grim look on his red face. He cocked a thumb over his shoulder and spoke through gritted teeth.

  ‘Come with me. Sir.’

  He had obviously been reprimanded over delaying the man from Oxford in his task for the English king. Grinning, Falconer followed the soldier back across the courtyard and past a high wall. He faltered only a little when he saw they were approaching the dreaded donjon tower. But before they reached it, the sergeant turned to the right and entered an imposing building next to the tower. It looked like private quarters and was presumably where the Province Master normally lodged. Falconer wondered who was living there now, and who he was being brought to see. He entered a grand hall with arching beams high above his head spanning the vast space. Slit-like windows afforded little light, the only glow coming from the blazing fire at the far end of the hall. He could just make out the silhouette of a tall, well-built man standing before the fire. Even if he squinted, his short-sightedness would allow him no better image. He looked enquiringly towards the sergeant, but the man, having led him into the hall, had retreated, his task complete. The figure by the fire turned around and raised his hand, beckoning Falconer. His resonant voice carried down the hall.