Falconer and the Death of Kings Page 5

  Crossing the broad Rue de la Harpe, he turned abruptly down the narrow lane almost opposite the one from which he had emerged. His target was the convent of the Mathurins, an order of monks dedicated to the task of the redemption of captives, particularly those in the Holy Lands. The monks were derisively known as the ‘Friars of the Ass’, as their rule forbade the monks to travel on horseback. But the Order of the Trinitarians, to give them their proper name, was much favoured by popes and kings. The convent in Paris had eventually become their headquarters, and, as their founder had been a doctor of the university, Paris’s medical schools – and corpses – gravitated towards the convent. If the body was to be found anywhere, it would be in the hall of the Convent of St Mathurin. Just before Falconer reached the convent entrance, the heavens opened again, soaking his sturdy black robe thoroughly. He stood in the rounded archway of the main door, shaking the rainwater off his grizzled curls.

  ‘You had better come in and dry off, sir.’

  Though Falconer was more used to English vernacular, enough French was spoken in higher circles in England that he could still comprehend the invitation. He peered through the gloomy doorway at the figure silhouetted in the open entrance to the convent. The man was tall and wore the habit of a Trinitarian – a white robe emblazoned with a cross of which the upright was red and the crossbar blue. He ducked through the archway out of the rain.

  ‘Many thanks, Brother. It seems that Paris is as wet as Oxford, though I am thankful for the lack of mud in the streets.’

  The monk closed the door behind him.

  ‘Ah, you are a master at Oxford, then, that other hotbed of Averroism.’

  He made reference to an interpretation of Aristotle’s theories now disapproved of but close to Falconer’s own heart. He was about to argue with the monk when he spotted the hint of a smile on the man’s lips. He was being teased and refrained from rising to the bait, returning the jibe.

  ‘Not if your bishop has his way.’

  The monk laughed and waved his hand dismissively, stepping through a small door set in the thickness of the convent’s wall. He quickly re-emerged with a coarse cloth in his hand.

  ‘Here, take this and dry yourself.’ He handed the cloth to Falconer, who began to dry himself as the monk carried on talking. ‘There are many serious false assertions made by Aristotle, but they will matter little to you if you catch a chill and die.’

  Falconer vigorously towelled off his wet hair and face, and replied.

  ‘I could debate with you long and hard about the doctrine of souls and monopsychism, but I fear my errand is more mundane. And not a little melancholy.’

  ‘You have come about the boy.’

  It was a statement, not a question, from the monk, who took the wet cloth back from Falconer. William quickly saw that the monk had assumed he had some official status as he was of the same nation as Paul Hebborn. He didn’t bother to correct the mistake. It would make seeing the body all the easier, and, after all, he was not lying. He had come to see the boy.

  He nodded sadly.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘He is in the side chapel. Follow me.’

  Falconer followed the white-robed monk into the church, his wet boots squelching on the tiled floor. The interior rose high above his head in a series of round arches set on sturdy pillars. Nothing disturbed the silence except the sound of their respective footsteps. They entered one of the side chapels, an ill-lit chamber where the cold made it quite suitable for the storage of a dead body. When the monk stepped aside, Falconer saw the corpse on a bier before the altar. The greyish shaft of light – heavy with dust motes – that filtered through the small circular window above only added to the melancholy scene. The body was shrouded in a white sheet that bore ominous dark stains on it. Reluctantly, Falconer drew the sheet aside. The sight made his gorge rise.

  The poor boy’s skull had been smashed and his face was distorted by the impact with the ground. But even so, Falconer could discern a look of horror in the bulging eyes, the pupils nothing but dark pools. Mercifully, the broken body was still clad in a particoloured surcoat over a white tunic, held tight by a belt from which hung the boy’s purse. The brightness of the surcoat and the red woollen hose that were on Hebborn’s legs suggested he was of noble birth. In Paris, as in Oxford, wealthy clerks were at pains to show off their station in life. But still, all his family’s wealth had not saved him from a terrible death.

  The patient monk whispered something that Falconer did not catch.

  ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

  ‘I was asking if you had seen enough. Only it will soon be nones, and I must go and pray for his soul.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Falconer paused for a moment, as if moved by the sight of the boy who in fact he had never met. ‘I wonder if I may have a moment alone with… Paul.’

  The white-clad monk bowed his head in acquiescence and silently glided from the chapel. A short while later, Falconer followed him out. In response to the monk’s enquiry about the disposition of the body, he hesitated. The Trinitarian monk clearly still imagined he was somehow related to the boy, or acting on behalf of the family.

  ‘I am sure his family will be in touch very soon. Thank you for your time, Brother.’

  He hustled out of the convent before any more embarrassing questions could be asked of him. Hidden in his sleeve was the purse that had hung at Paul Hebborn’s waist.

  ‘You stole a dead person’s scrip?’

  Thomas, back from his long session noting down Roger Bacon’s thoughts, was sitting opposite Falconer at the long refectory table in St Victor’s Abbey. They were taking a modest supper, and though no one else sat close to them his tones were low. But he could still hardly believe what William had said that had caused his outburst. Falconer, for his part, soaked his crust in some ale and shovelled the sweet softness into his mouth. He smiled and swallowed before replying.

  ‘He no longer had any use for it, and it may yet tell us something about his death. I have not yet had chance to look inside it, but we can do that after vespers.’

  Symon paled.

  ‘We? So I am to be involved in this sacrilege, am I?’

  Falconer leaned across the scarred oak table and took the stale bread that his former student had left in front of him. He held it up questioningly. And when Thomas, with a sigh, ceded the scrap to him, Falconer repeated his previous manoeuvre, and chewed on another ale-soaked crust.

  ‘You know you are as curious as I am about this. You just don’t have the nerve to do what I did.’

  Thomas shook his head wearily and watched as Falconer rose from the table, wiping his fingers down the front of his shabby black robe.

  ‘Come. Let us return to the abbey guest house and see what we have recovered.’

  They left the refectory and walked along the south side of the cloister to the passage that gave out on to the separate buildings that made up the abbey’s infirmary and guest quarters. The two of them shared a room there, which in barely two months Falconer had cluttered with all sorts of curiosities and texts. Indeed, it had begun to resemble his own solar back in Aristotle’s Hall in Oxford. Thomas, who preferred tidiness around him, guessed that it made the regent master feel more at home in his temporary sojourn in Paris. As for himself, he felt like an interloper. But he fancied he was such an ascetic that it shouldn’t matter. He could make his home wherever he could lay his head. And now he was so fired up with his new task of recording Doctor Mirabilis’s thoughts that any discomfort seemed to pale into insignificance. But he would have liked to have discussed what the friar had said to him today after Falconer had left.

  ‘Listen, young Thomas,’ said Bacon, ‘and I will tell you about the boundless corruption everywhere. Even the Court of Rome is torn by the deceit and fraud of unjust men. The whole Papal Court is defamed of lechery, and gluttony is lord of all.’

  Thomas had gone pale at such words being spoken out loud, and he was not surprised that the Franciscan o
rder had kept Bacon under lock and key so long. He had been anxious to test Falconer with his friend’s words. But William was more intent on examining Paul Hebborn’s scrip. He was already pulling the drawstring and tipping the contents out on to a space he had cleared on the small table in the centre of the room.

  ‘Hmm.’

  Falconer rummaged in his own purse, extracted his eye-lenses and put them on. Peering down at the tabletop, he poked at the scattering of items with a bony finger. There was a horn spoon, three small coins, a broken comb and a tattered copy of Priscian’s grammar book.

  ‘Not much to go on, is there?’

  Thomas agreed.

  ‘It was not worth stealing, after all.’

  ‘I wish you would stop referring to it as stealing. I merely borrowed the scrip in order to help trace what happened to the boy.’

  ‘Yes, but it hasn’t helped, has it?’

  Reluctantly, Falconer had to agree, and he shovelled the items back into the leather purse.

  ‘I shall have to talk to his master and fellow students somehow. Though without any authority here, I am not sure how they will receive me.’

  ‘He was studying medicine, under an Englishman called Adam Morrish near the Petit Pont.’ Thomas named the bridge that linked the Ile de la Cité to the university quarter on the south bank of the river. ‘I could talk to the students, if you wish. The faculty of medicine has what they call here a dean as its head. He is called Gérard de Osterwiic. I have met him, and he is a most amenable man. He will know all about the individual schools of medicine. And if we are to set up this subterfuge of Friar Bacon teaching at a faculty outside the order’s building, it might as well be at the Petit Pont.’

  Falconer frowned, seeing that this might cut him out of the process altogether.

  ‘Will you have time to do that, and act as scribe for Roger? That will be your primary task, after all. Perhaps I should speak to this dean.’

  But Thomas would not have it. He felt for the first time that he was at the centre of things in Paris, where before he was scurrying at Falconer’s shabby boot-heels. And, though neither man knew it then, Falconer would soon find his burden greater than Thomas’s. Sir John Appleby was already reckoning to be at the Abbey of St Victor soon after prime on the very next day. Edward was chafing at the bit to speak to the regent master who had served his father in his last days. And to present him with a complex puzzle that he had been thinking about all day. He knew he could make use of this Falconer to serve his own ends. It was just a matter of how he would arrange to have Falconer do his bidding.

  SEVEN

  William Falconer was never an early riser, and at Aristotle’s Hall in Oxford he relied on the students lodging in the hall to have drawn him a bowl of water in the morning. With it he would refresh his face and wake himself up. In the abbey in Paris where he and Thomas were staying, the seemingly incessant chant of the monks at prayer woke him early and kept him awake. It seemed that, no sooner had they completed nocturnes, they were intoning lauds. And hard on the heels of lauds came prime. By then the abbey was already buzzing with activity, and Falconer could not blank out the sound by burying his head. What made it worse was that young Thomas fitted into the routine of the monks so easily. Dawn had barely sneaked its way into their chamber, and Symon was already up and dressed. He cheerfully called out that he was on his way to see Dean Osterwiic, and would then ask around Paul Hebborn’s former fellows for information.

  ‘And then I will start my work for Friar Bacon. What do you intend to do with your time, William?’

  Falconer groaned.

  ‘I did intend to dissect open a young master of Oxford University. But unfortunately he is still alive.’ He grabbed the nearest object to throw at Thomas Symon. He launched it before realizing it was Hebborn’s purse. ‘Get out of here, and leave me in peace.’

  From under his bedclothes, Falconer heard the muffled laughter of his young companion and the slamming of the door. He couldn’t sleep, however, because he could think only of the flame-headed Saphira Le Veske. His lover had plagued his thoughts ever since he had arrived in Paris. Even though they were no longer separated by the Channel, he felt as far away from her as ever. Their final disagreement returned again and again in his head. Right from the moment he expressed his concern about her travelling alone, and her indignant retort. She had said he was overbearing, and he had knowingly walked right into the trap.

  ‘And I am just a celibate teacher in holy orders who has no rights over you, I suppose.’

  That had made Saphira see red and come up with a heated reply.

  ‘Of course you have no rights over me, William.’

  His next thoughtless sentence had sealed his fate. Repeating it over and over in his head did not alleviate the stupidity of it. Nor could it cause it to be retracted.

  ‘Why can’t you just do as I say for once?’

  For Falconer, the words fell to the ground with just as leaden a weight this morning as they had done months before. He groaned again, understanding at last just what he had done, and swung his bare legs out of the bed. Reaching for his black robe, he pulled it on over his linen undershirt and scrubbed his unshaven face with his calloused hands. Just as he bent down to pick up the purse he had tossed at Thomas, there was a knock at the door. He stuffed the scrip in his own purse and opened the door.

  Before him stood a stocky man in his middle years, accoutred in the dress of the English court. He wore a dark-blue cloak over his deep-red surcoat, which was slit up the front to reveal yellow cross-garters over the man’s red hose. His greying hair was topped with a blue sugarloaf hat, the brim being turned up in the latest fashion. Falconer smiled at the sight. The man was dressed more gaudily than any of his rich students back in Oxford, but he was far too old to be so garbed. The peacock smiled, and spoke with a West Country accent.

  ‘Regent Master William Falconer? My name is Sir John Appleby, and I am the servant of King Edward. May I speak?’

  ‘Well, sir, it seems you already have.’

  The man ignored Falconer’s terse rejoinder, and the master could see that this vision in red and blue was not going to be put off by his manner. He stepped aside and beckoned the man in to his cluttered quarters. He was glad that he had at least risen and had not been caught abed. King Edward’s messenger entered the cell and cast a judicious eye around the interior. His gaze, when it returned to Falconer, did not betray anything but a bland pleasantness. Falconer asked him his business.

  ‘Why, the king’s business, of course. I have a message from His Majesty.’

  Appleby gazed around again, looking for somewhere to sit. But discerning no place that was not piled high with books and papers other than the dishevelled bed, he remained standing. He began the speech that Edward had taxed him with learning that very morning.

  Edward, as it turned out, was an earlier riser than even Sir John. A result no doubt of his time as a warrior for Christ in the Holy Lands. He had insisted that his messenger should frame his call for Falconer in the form of a request, not a command.

  ‘He must come of his own free will, Sir John, and feel there is no compulsion. He must do what I ask as if he himself wishes it.’

  Appleby bowed low.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  He conned his part in the deception, and was about to leave and carry out his task. But Edward grasped his arm in a vice-like grip. He stared Appleby hard in the eyes, his drooped eyelid appearing to wink.

  ‘But be in no doubt, Sir John, that you must ensure he comes.’

  Now Appleby stood before the regent master whom Edward so wanted to see, and wondered why. He saw a tall, powerful-looking man who had gone a little to seed. His broad shoulders, hidden under the loose black robe of an academic, hinted at a past involving the swinging of a broadsword. And his face still had strength in its lined features. But the hair was thinning and grey, and he detected a little rounding to his backbone. Besides, this Falconer looked as though he had just dragg
ed himself out of bed, though it was already terce. Not a man Sir John would employ. But the king knew best, and Appleby had a message to deliver. He did so to the best of his ability, weaving a tale of Edward’s desire to know of the last days of his father. But he finished with the words that Edward specifically told him to say.

  ‘Between you and me, Master Falconer, the king has double cause to mourn, what with the death of his father following on from that of his son in somewhat suspicious circumstances. He is troubled in mind and needs reassurance. You can do that for him.’

  He rose to leave at that point, but he had already seen the flicker in Falconer’s eyes at the mention of suspicious death. He allowed a small smile to play across his face. He felt he had hooked the man for the king. When he reached the door of the miserable chamber, Falconer spoke up.

  ‘Tell the king I am his servant and will attend him at his pleasure.’

  Appleby turned back to the academic.

  ‘Come to the palace this afternoon, and be at the gate close by Ste-Chapelle. I will meet you there.’ He extended a hand. ‘And thank you, Master Falconer. You will not regret this.’

  Falconer inclined his head non-committally and closed the door behind the gaudy courtier. After the man had gone, a big smile lit up his face.

  Thomas Symon only found the medical school after a little difficulty. He had first asked one of the monks in the abbey where the school of Adam Morrish the Englishman might be found. Solemnly, the monk had told him in his native French that it was in one of the streets running out from the Petit Pont.

  ‘You cannot miss it, for it is appropriately named for a medical school. The butchery.’

  Thomas had thanked him, but didn’t see the monk’s mischievous smile when he turned his back on him. He made his way up the winding lane that led through the Place Maubert towards the bridge that linked the south bank of Paris with the island on the River Seine. Close by, and not certain which way to turn, he had stopped a passer-by and asked for Butchery Street. The man, carrying a bundle of sticks on his back, took one look at Thomas and spat on the ground at his feet. Puzzled, Thomas found the bridge before he dared ask again. This time he enquired of a rich-looking merchant who was hurrying to cross the bridge on his way north.