Falconer and the Death of Kings Read online

  ‘Are you lost, master? This den of iniquity is surely not where you aimed to be.’

  Falconer smiled easily, casting his eyes around the room for the two men he sought. He cursed his poor eyesight, but did not wish to show his weakness by putting on his eye-lenses.

  ‘Indeed it is, my friend. I am looking for John Clisby and Thomas Cloughe. Can you tell me if they are here?’

  There was a brief lull in the general chatter that had filled the room before it began again, though in a more tense, artificial manner. Everyone seemed to be covering up something they would rather hide from this intruder. Falconer felt a cold shiver of apprehension run down his spine. Only the old soldier appeared unperturbed by his question.

  ‘I am afraid you are too late, master. They have gone.’

  ‘Well, if they are on duty somewhere, can you tell me where that is? I spoke to them earlier today and would like to ask them for some more information.’

  The old man eased himself up from his prone position, turning to lean on one elbow.

  ‘You misunderstand me, friend. Thomas and John have left. They have been sent on ahead to Gascony to prepare the ground for the king when he travels there to see to his holdings. It is said Gaston de Béarn is in revolt again and needs his arse tanning.’

  The soldiers near to the man burst out in coarse laughter at his jest. They were obviously absorbing every word that was said between him and Falconer despite their apparent lassitude. Falconer felt sorry for this Gaston de Béarn, if these rough English soldiers were to be set on him. Even so, he was suspicious at the sudden departure of the main witnesses to Edward’s attempted assassination. Firstly, he had almost missed speaking to Eleanor, who no doubt by now was on her way to Castile. And now the two soldiers had been spirited away. He wondered if Sir John Appleby was interfering for some reason in his investigations. Was he envious of Falconer’s private access to the king? He could not be sure. He threw out a question to the room generally anyway, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘Is there anyone else here who was present in Acre when Anzazim was interrogated?’

  His enquiry brought forth another roar of laughter, and Falconer stood still, puzzled by the reaction. It was the old soldier who set him to rights.

  ‘Everyone here was present when the bastard was interrogated as you put it. Though I am not sure I would call it such. Everyone wanted a piece of him, so we all crowded into the cell where he had been thrown by John Clisby, and we all gave him a good kicking.’ He waggled the heavy, studded boots that he still had on his feet. ‘He didn’t say much before he died.’

  Falconer sighed. Another dead end, then. Almost literally. As he turned to go, though, the old man called after him.

  ‘He did beg a lot, mind you. And cursed both the king and those who had put him up to it.’

  Falconer paused, hardly daring to ask the question that he burned to know the answer to.

  ‘And who did he say had put him up to it?’

  The old man winked.

  ‘One of us lot, he said. A Latin, he said. Though those infidel bastards don’t know one Latin from another. As far as they are concerned, we all look alike. So he could have meant an Englishman, he could have meant a Frenchie, a Hungarian or a Slav. Who knows? Anyway, I stopped his foul mouth with my boot, and that was that.’

  The rest of the soldiers cheered in approval of their comrade’s actions. Falconer was simply sad that Anzazim did not have the easy end that Eleanor had hoped for. But now the mood of the men around him had changed, and Falconer saw he had learned all he would be able to from them. But he was not that discontented. He now had some inkling of who might have paid the Assassin to act. That was more than he had had at the start of his day. He had a positive trail to follow, and tomorrow he would take it further. He already knew where he had to go.

  TWELVE

  Darkness had fallen on Paris, but the streets still bustled with life. A few wealthy merchants had servants rushing ahead of them with blazing torches, but most people strode boldly out in the centre of the main thoroughfares. They took care to keep away from the shadows of the overhanging buildings. Not only because they feared robbers might lurk in them, but to avoid tripping over the beggars who sat, often with starving curs curled at their feet, along the edges of the streets. Starvation was an ever-present curse that drove poor families off the land and into the city in hope of feeding themselves. Their plight made Thomas shiver, because it could so easily have been his own. If a benevolent local priest had not paid for his journey to Oxford and the university, he might have dragged his own family into penury. He was the fourth child that Peggy and Jack Symon had produced, and they could barely support three. Of course, Thomas could have worked on the land when he grew up and helped in that way. But the priest saw in the bright and eager child something worth fostering. He had gambled his stipend on Thomas and had been proved right. The eager farm boy was now Master Thomas Symon of Oxford with prospects before him.

  As Thomas strode into the open space of the Place Maubert, he clutched the satchel he had slung over his shoulder. It contained the first part of Roger Bacon’s proposed compendium, and he needed to keep it safe. He couldn’t help thinking of what the friar had dictated. His hand had trembled at Roger Bacon’s words, and he had been half afraid to write them down. Even Pope Gregory had been criticized by the fearless Franciscan in words that still shone clearly in Thomas’s mind.

  ‘Everywhere we shall find boundless corruption, and first of all in the Head. The Holy See is torn by the deceit and fraud of unjust men. The whole Papal Court is defamed of lechery… the prelates run after money, neglect the cure of souls and promote their nephews and other carnal friends…’

  He had tried to temper Bacon’s outpourings.

  ‘Master, do you think it is proper to condemn the Pope in such terms? It is not surely safe.’

  Bacon had turned on him with a look of scorn on his face.

  ‘We are scholars, Thomas. Proper and safe are not scientific terms I understand. Facts and truth are what we seek, and when we find them we must proclaim their shining brightness. Shall we carry on?’

  Thomas lowered his head in embarrassment. He had thought Falconer a hard taskmaster. He was beginning to think that Friar Bacon was going to be infinitely worse.

  ‘Yes, master. I am ready.’

  He had buried his head in the work of a scribe and tried not to think of the meaning of the words.

  ‘Master Symon. Thomas.’

  He realized someone was calling him from across the big open space that was the Place Maubert. Looking back, he saw Jack Hellequin beckoning him from the doorway of a down-at-heel building on the corner. It looked as though it had been squeezed unceremoniously between the two sturdier structures either side of it. Both of which probably wished they could elbow it out of the way. A withered branch with drooping leaves hung over the door. It was a tavern, and a poor one by the look of it. Thomas wasn’t sure what to do, but Hellequin gesticulated urgently again, and he walked over to him.

  ‘What is it, Jack? I am tired and I must speak to my fellow master before he retires.’

  ‘No, you must drink with us. Geoffrey is buying.’

  Thomas hesitated, but he wasn’t sure if Falconer would even be at the Abbey of St Victor to listen to his tales of Bacon’s madness. William had been preoccupied by the task the king had set him and would surely no longer be interested in Thomas. He made a quick decision. After all, he needed to learn more, if he could, about Paul Hebborn. Then perhaps Falconer would listen to him. He smiled, and let Jack take him by the arm and guide him into the noisy tavern.

  Inside was a scene of debauchery to Thomas’s eyes. He was used to drunken behaviour from his time as a student in Oxford. Though he rarely got involved with them himself, as he felt too strongly his duty to the village priest who had funded his tuition. He sometimes wished he could have bent a little, but his conscience always pricked him. So he had been a somewhat sober observer of the
excesses of his fellows. In this low, mean tavern on the south bank of the river, sobriety had not dared enter. The predominance of young men, some in garish garb, suggested it was a place frequented by students of the university. But there were solid knots of simply clad artisans drinking hard amid the swirl and eddies of the more agitated student imbibers. Thomas swallowed hard and followed Hellequin to a group of young men, some of whom he recognized as Adam Morrish’s students. A goblet was thrust in his hand, and someone filled it from a jug of red wine, splashing the contents over his neat black robe in the process. He made an ineffectual effort to wipe the stain away.

  ‘Is there no ale?’

  Thomas would have preferred weak beer to this French wine that always went to his head. But Jack chastised him for his caution.

  ‘Drink up. You are in Paris now. None of your English ways here.’

  Thomas took a deep breath and gulped the wine down. As he spluttered and coughed, his goblet was filled again. And the group of young men cheered. Jack clapped him on the back, encouraging him to take another draught. He did so, and prayed he would stay sober enough to remember anything he was told about Hebborn. He looked around.

  ‘Where is John Fusoris? Is he still not recovered yet?’

  Geoffrey Malpoivre, who had been the man filling Thomas’s goblet, snorted in derision.

  ‘John is weak-willed, and a namby-pamby. He could not stand the thought of Hebborn squashed on the pavement at the foot of Notre-Dame’s tower. When I described the mess to him, he threw up. He will never make a doctor, if he can’t stand the sight of a dead body. What about you, Master Thomas? Do you have a strong stomach?’

  By now, Thomas’s stomach felt quite queasy, but not from any thoughts of a broken body. The wine was having its effect. He swallowed hard and spoke with unaccustomed bravado.

  ‘I have seen the insides of plenty of broken bodies, Geoffrey. Some of them murderers whose internal organs I could legally dissect. But I have carved up others too. Perhaps I could explain to you the texture and feel of a man’s bowels when they are still hot and steaming. They are quite slippery, in fact, and when they spill out of the body cavity they are very hard to restrain.’

  Malpoivre went a nasty shade of green and thrust the half-empty jug of wine at Thomas before rushing towards the door of the tavern. When the sound of his heaving penetrated the din, the bunch of roughly dressed labourers by the door cheered and slapped each other on the back. Thomas looked at the wide eyes of the students around him and smiled. He lifted up the jug.

  ‘Anyone else for wine?’

  Hellequin held out his goblet.

  ‘I will take what’s left. I applaud your taking Geoffrey down a peg or two. But I wish you had done it some other time. He was the only one of us with money for drink, and now he won’t dare show his face in here again for a while.’

  The other students groaned at the loss of their purse-holder, and a couple began to drift away from the group. Hellequin drank the wine carefully that Thomas had poured, not wishing to swallow the lees at the bottom of the jug. He cast a quizzical look at his new companion.

  ‘Have you really cut open human bodies, Thomas?’

  Despite the wine clouding his brain, Thomas still had his wits about him. The Church condemned anatomy, even of hanged murderers. He was aware also that the remaining students were agog to hear his every word. He decided to tell a partial lie and crossed his fingers.

  ‘To tell the truth, I am a farmer’s son. What I know of anatomy and the feel of entrails is based on killing beasts of the field. Slippery stuff – cows’ innards.’

  The other youths looked disappointed by his confession, but Jack Hellequin squinted at Thomas, evidently disbelieving him. He sat back in his seat and toyed with his empty goblet, twirling it in his fingers. Thomas, a little dizzy with the wine and the noise of the tavern, looked around him. He ought to leave now, but he wanted to find out about John Fusoris and his mysterious illness. Had the boy simply been upset by Malpoivre’s boasting? Or had he either seen Hebborn’s body after the fall from Notre-Dame, or caused it to fall in the first place? Thomas did not know that, or if he was allowing himself to be misled by his own fancy. The only way to find out was to talk to Fusoris, and for that to happen he needed someone to tell him where he lodged. He decided to ask Hellequin.

  As he turned to do so, he saw across the gloomy room the two students who had sloped off sitting on their own in a corner. One was Peter de la Casteigne, the other one a sandy-haired and freckled youth he did not know. They were chewing on something, though how they had afforded food he did not know. They looked even more soporific than before, when they had been drinking wine. Peter lifted a lazy gaze to Thomas and sniggered sleepily. But before he could think any more of the incident, Hellequin rose up, cutting off his view of the youths, and offered to help him home. Arm in arm they made their way to the door. The cold air of evening hit Thomas, but he stood still and took a deep breath of it.

  ‘I can find my own way back, Jack. Thank you all the same. But what you can help me with is to guide me to John Fusoris’ lodgings.’

  ‘Why would you want to go there?’

  ‘I am concerned for him, even if none of you are.’

  ‘You have never met him.’

  ‘That’s as may be. Think of me as the good Samaritan, then. I will cross this road for a stranger.’

  He waved his hand at the broad, triangular-shaped space before them, a little embarrassed at his effusive speech. But if Hellequin was only half as drunk as he felt, then he wouldn’t have noticed. The Frenchman shrugged and took Thomas’s arm again.

  ‘Whatever you wish. It’s this way.’

  It was not far to a ramshackle row of tall tenements that, like the medical school, backed on to the River Seine. Even in the dark, Thomas was aware that the bulk of Notre-Dame loomed menacingly over this quarter of the city. Were none of the students free of the shadow of Hebborn’s death? Hellequin pointed at a narrow house, which had a flicker of light evident in one of the upper windows.

  ‘That’s John’s room. As you can see, he can’t stand the dark any more. What he will do when he runs out of candles I don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Jack. You can go now.’

  Thomas stepped up to the door, leaving Hellequin in the lane. But the student still called after him.

  ‘He won’t let you in. He thinks the Devil is after him.’

  Thomas felt an icy chill as he listened to Hellequin’s laughter drifting eerily down the lane as he walked off. The dullness in his brain was wearing off, and he checked that Fusoris’ window still showed a light. Then he knocked on the door. No one came. He stepped back into the lane and called nervously up to the window.

  ‘John Fusoris. John? It is a friend. Come down and let me in.’

  There was no reply. Pressing his ear to the door, he could hear nothing inside. But he felt the door give. It was not locked, and gingerly he pushed it open. It was dark inside and, when he poked his head over the portal, smelled damp. Just like the room he was using to take down Bacon’s words. The river seemed to be seeping into everything along its bank. He clutched the satchel to his side reflexively and thought of Bacon’s warning of corruption in the air. He stepped over the threshold.

  ‘John?’

  A rustling noise startled him, causing his heart to beat fast in his chest. Then he saw a rat scurrying away into the darkness at the back of the house. He swallowed and called louder.

  ‘John Fusoris? Are you there?’

  A shape appeared at the top of the staircase that clung to the side of the chamber where Thomas stood. The figure of a man was outlined by yellowish candlelight behind it. The flickering flame cast long shadows that wavered on the steps below the figure. A high-pitched voice, cracked and fearful, piped up.

  ‘Go away. Don’t come for me now. I am not ready.’

  Thomas frowned. If this was John Fusoris, what had scared the youth so?

  ‘I have not c
ome to harm you, John. My name is Thomas Symon. I am a master of Oxford University, come to study in Paris. Can I talk to you about Paul Hebborn?’

  A thin, almost inhuman wail split the air, and the figure on the stairs retreated. Thomas heard a door slam, and cursed his insensitive words. He was always rushing into things without considering. Now he had no other option but to blunder on. He ran up the stairs and turned to the right, where the upper room overlooking the street had to be located. The door was closed firmly against him.

  THIRTEEN

  Thomas pressed gently against the door, and it gave slightly before slamming closed again in its frame. He pushed harder, and again it gave a little before closing. He heard a whimper from behind the door. The scared youth must have been putting all his weight behind the door, resisting Thomas’s efforts. He tried to persuade Fusoris to let go, but to no avail. It became a trial of strength, which the more resilient Thomas eventually won. His final push opened the door wide, as the pressure behind it gave way. In the half-light of the room he was aware of a low shape scrabbling across the floor. Thomas was reminded of the rat that had scuttled away from him in the deserted room downstairs. But this was a human being, not a rat, even if he was frightened of his presence. He let his eyes adjust to the poor light from the flickering stub of a candle before stepping fully into the room. When he did move, his nostrils were assailed with the stench of an unwashed body and human excrement. John Fusoris had besmirched himself. Stifling his disgust, he knelt down close to where the sad figure of the student huddled.

  Fusoris had squeezed himself into a dark corner, making himself smaller than Thomas could have imagined a human being could have done. He was naturally quite slight, but his body looked emaciated. Thomas wondered when he had last eaten. Not since Hebborn’s plunge from the tower? He reached out to touch Fusoris, but the youth squealed, and Thomas drew his hand back.