Falconer and the Death of Kings

by Ian Morson

  Further Titles by Ian Morson

  The Falconer Mysteries

  FALCONER’S CRUSADE

  FALCONER’S JUDGEMENT

  FALCONER AND THE FACE OF GOD

  A PSALM FOR FALCONER

  FALCONER AND THE GREAT BEAST

  FALCONER AND THE RITUAL OF DEATH *

  FALCONER’S TRIAL *

  FALCONER AND THE DEATH OF KINGS *

  The Mediaeval Murderers

  THE TAINTED RELIC

  SWORD OF SHAME

  HOUSE OF SHADOWS

  The Niccolo Zuliani Mysteries

  CITY OF THE DEAD *

  * available from Severn House

  FALCONER AND THE DEATH OF KINGS

  A Master William Falconer Mystery

  Ian Morson

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and in 2011 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Ian Morson.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Morson, Ian.

  Falconer and the death of kings. – (A Master William

  Falconer mystery)

  1. Falconer, William (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

  2. Bacon, Roger, 1214?–1294 – Fiction. 3. Edward I, King of

  England, 1239–1307 – Fiction. 4. Paris (France) – History –

  To 1515 – Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9′14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-183-5 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6977-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-310-6 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being

  described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this

  publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons

  is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  This book is dedicated to

  Clare Morson, 1921–2008

  PROLOGUE

  The Feast Day of St Cyr of Quiricus and St Julitta, the Sixteenth Day of June 1272

  Edward stared moodily out of the narrow window of his Outremer fortress in Acre. The brightness of the Holy Land sunlight contrasted starkly with the gloom of his private room high above the arid lands that rolled away to the horizon beyond his gaze. He squinted, and around his eyes the lines that were now permanently etched in his otherwise young-looking face were furrowed deeper. His holy campaign had been a failure. It irked him that petty feuding, greed and treachery had marked the behaviour of his fellow Christian fighters. Even his position as King Henry of England’s son and heir had failed to work in his favour. In despair, he had resorted to sending an embassy to the Tartar khan to the north. Advisers told him these Tartars, who some called Mongols, were the very forces of Prester John, the great Christian lord of the East who it was said would save the Latin Christians at a time of their greatest need. God knows, that need was now. The Tartar hordes had scared the very Devil out of the West some years back, but even they had been turned aside by the forces of Baibars, leader of the Mohammedans. The situation had been so desperate a month ago that King Hugh of Cyprus and Jerusalem had signed a ten-year truce with Baibars. Edward had remained defiant, but he now found himself bottled up in Acre, the last Christian stronghold in the Holy Land.

  He sighed and turned from the window, his eyes momentarily unable to penetrate the gloom of the chamber. Slowly, he became aware of his surroundings again. The drab stone walls and flagged floor reminded him of a prison cell. In fact, it might as well have been a cell for all the freedom he had. Suddenly, he was aware of a shadowy presence in the furthest corner of the room. He could discern two people and instinctively felt for his sword, but then remembered he carried no weapon. He was safe in his own chamber deep inside the fortress of Acre – his own prison cell. Still he tensed, ready for a fight, until one of the shadows spoke.

  ‘Prince, it is Anzazim. He has a letter from the Emir of Joppa for you.’

  Edward immediately relaxed. The guard who spoke was referring to an Arab who was a trusted go-between. He often bore letters from the emir addressed to him. The Saracen professed an affection for Edward on account of his reputation for valour. He indicated that the guard should go, and held out his hand for the letter. Anzazim stepped forward out of the shadows. The wiry young man was dark-skinned, and his hair was long and oiled. But he claimed to be a Christian convert, and often dressed in Western clothes. Today he was clad in the cool, clean white robes of his race, though the hem where it touched the floor was soiled with red dust. His long sleeves almost covered the hand in which he held the letter. Edward took it and turned back towards the window, where he might have some light to read the message.

  He had barely broken the seal on the letter when he was aware of the rustle of robes behind him. But before he could turn he felt a sharp pain in his right arm followed by another. He was being stabbed. He lifted the arm up to defend himself, only to feel another dagger thrust go in under his armpit. Fully turned to his assailant, he could not believe it. Anzazim, with a snarl of pure hatred on his face, was slashing at him with a knife he must have secreted up his long and loose sleeve. Edward swung a foot out and swept the killer off his feet in a manoeuvre he had used more than once in battle. But this time his opponent was not encumbered with chain mail and a shield. The lithe Arab leaped back upright and lunged at Edward again. He grabbed the only weapon he had to hand – the tripod stand of a small marble-topped table close to him. The top fell to the stone floor and shattered. Edward swung the metal tripod back and forth in front of him, protecting himself from the knife thrusts. Where was the guard who had left him alone with this maniac? Anzazim suddenly feinted to the left only to alter his balance and thrust at Edward from the right. There was nothing else for him to do but grab the knife blade in his left hand. It sliced through the skin of his palm, but he held on, blood squirting between his fingers. He landed a blow with the clumsy tripod on Anzazim’s head, and his assailant fell, the blade released from his hand. Edward turned the knife round, and, using his right hand, he stabbed Anzazim in the chest, sliding the thin blade between his ribs. By the time the guards had responded to the sound of the commotion, Anzazim was lying at Edward’s feet. They stood aghast as their prince stood before them, his chest heaving and blood dripping from his hand. He roared at them to get the body out of his sight.

  ‘Take it to the city walls and hang it there by the side of a dog that everyone might see and be afraid.’

  As the two men bustled to bear Anzazim away, Eleanor ran into the chamber. Edward’s wife and constant companion, she gasped when she saw him, and rushed to his side. He held her with his good arm, wishing to show her he was strong and well. It was barely a month since his wife had given birth to a daughter, and no more than a year since another girl child had been born and died within days. The child they had called Jo
an must survive, or Eleanor would not bear the agony. And Edward would forever regret bringing her to this arid and unforgiving land. He hugged her.

  ‘See. I am fine. The killer is gone, and I have no more than a scratch on my palm.’

  He held his left hand firmly closed so she might not see the nasty gash the blade had inflicted. Suddenly, he felt dizzy and was glad of having Eleanor at his side. He shook his head to clear his brain. How could he be so weak, when he had lost so little blood? The room began to swim around him, and he was aware of small, slim Eleanor attempting to support his manly bulk. The gash in his palm and the pinpricks in his arm began to throb. He realized what was happening to him, and felt cold. The Assassin’s knife had been poisoned.

  He fell into a black pit.

  ONE

  Westminster. The Feast Day of St Edmund Rich of Abingdon, the Sixteenth Day of November 1272

  The old man lay dying, his breath coming erratically with the desperate heaving of his sunken chest. He was but a shadow of the powerfully built man he had been in his prime. Now he was gaunt, his skin yellow and resembling parchment. His skeletal hands lay limply on top of the ornate cover that was draped over his shrivelled body. Another painful breath rattled in his chest as he sucked air in, only to expel it soon after in a long deep sigh. By the side of his bed stood three anxious physicians, none of whom were able any longer to suggest a remedy. What cure was there for the ravages of old age? But still they argued among themselves.

  Master Roger Megrim stood inches taller than his fellow physicians, a stature that emphasized his precedence. At least in his own eyes. Megrim’s height made it seem as though he had been stretched on the rack. His limbs were unusually long, his chest concave and his stomach protuberant. He hunched over to disguise his height, and his beak of a nose poked forward like a bird’s bill. He was once again pontificating on the causes of his patient’s illnesses, though in more uncertain tones than normal. Brother Mark, a Dominican monk of medium height and nondescript features, had adopted his usual pose of dark disdain, half-turned away from the voluble Megrim. The third member of the group, however, was apparently hanging on to Megrim’s every word. John Rixe, short, fat and of a jolly aspect, fawned on the Cambridge-educated man. But then he would as easily denigrate Megrim to the Dominican once out of the Cambridge master’s hearing. As a mere guild apothecary, Rixe depended on the approval of the educated clerics for his very existence. But that did not mean he was not ready with a strong recommendation for his own pills and potions.

  Their patient took another deep and painful breath, and his eyelids fluttered. He had been recognizable by a lazy, drooping left eyelid that gave him the appearance of always winking conspiratorially with his fellows. Now both eyelids, dark and bruised-looking, were closed, only briefly fluttering at each drawn-in breath. Megrim made a suggestion.

  ‘I could bleed him. Using the phlebotomic method of revulsion – tapping the patient’s blood vessel at an extremity – I could relieve the black bile of melancholy.’

  For once John Rixe expressed his disagreement.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man. He is barely alive as it is. To bleed him would be catastrophic. No, I have a parchment here with some powerful names written on it. He should wear it around his neck.’

  Brother Mark merely sighed at the bickering of his fellow physicians and fell to his knees in fervent prayer. The bedroom’s air was thick with the rank and oppressive smell of death and with the sweat of other men’s bodies. The room had become crammed with earls and nobles, and not a few prelates in heavy brocaded robes. In its furthest corner, separate and alone, stood another witness to the dying man’s struggle to stave off eternity. A grizzle-haired man, in a plain black robe that contrasted starkly with the splendour of those others in the room, hung back in the dust-laden shadows as though trying to distance himself from the events playing out before him. For a time he held his own breath, waiting for the old man to catch another himself. It seemed forever before it came, and it was shallower this time. It was as if the old man was now resigned to his fate, slowly drifting down the darkened vale towards his death. An elderly prelate began to murmur words of absolution, his ear pressed close to the old man’s lips to catch his dying confession. The plainly dressed man did not bother to strain his ears to hear what might be said. History would provide the text. Regent Master William Falconer stood silently in the Palace of Westminster and caught his own breath again, as King Henry, the third of that name to rule England, finally gave up his struggle and died.

  It would be fully a week before William Falconer found himself back in Oxford. The snow lay heavily on the ground, hampering his journey back to his duties as regent master at the university. And he was to return alone. Saphira would not return with him. She had received a message from her son Menahem urgently requesting her presence in France to sort out a problem with the Le Veske wine business. As Jews, Saphira Le Veske and her son had a rather precarious existence in a Christian world. In England, Jews were supposed to deal only with the lending of money at interest, a business proscribed to Christians and therefore conveniently foisted on to the Jews. In France, matters were a little more relaxed, and when Saphira had taken over her dead husband’s finance house in Bordeaux, she had changed the emphasis of the business. Wine shipping became the undercurrent of transferring financial resources between England and France.

  When her errant son had been finally convinced to take over the family business, Saphira had been able to concentrate on what had tied her to England recently. Master William Falconer. They had met, and, despite his vows of celibacy, she had made her home in Oxford. Now a simple problem with a ship’s captain in Honfleur had ruined everything. The letter demanded she take passage to France. She passed the message to William, who read it in silence. Glumly, he looked at Saphira, her glorious cap of red hair crowning her head like a fiery halo.

  ‘Can’t Menahem sort this out himself?’

  Saphira pulled a face.

  ‘Don’t make this harder than it already is, William. You can see he says that he must stay in La Réole at present. And I am closer to Honfleur than he is.’

  ‘And a whole dangerous stretch of water stands in your way.’

  Saphira tilted her head back and laughed out loud, the chimes of her voice echoing down the gloomy corridors of the palace.

  ‘You are being like a protective and overbearing husband.’

  Falconer was getting angry without realizing it. Simply because Saphira spoke the truth, it did not make her chiding any more bearable. He returned truth for unpalatable truth.

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

  Now Saphira was seeing red.

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

  Suddenly, the natural chill of the room seemed to strike to Falconer’s heart. The woman was correct. He was a regent master of Oxford University in holy orders. He could not marry without losing his position and everything he had cherished for twenty years. True, each new bunch of students that had arrived in recent years seemed to annoy him more and more with their ignorance. But he still loved his role as their teacher and mentor, didn’t he? When Saphira had put in an appearance and diverted him from his daily tasks, he had managed to find a place for her. They met when they could, and were discreet about their amorous activities. What more could he offer?

  He looked over at her as she began to pack her chest with her best dresses. She was worth every risk he took with the security of his post at the university. And their time away from Oxford over the last few weeks had been… exceptional. It had all come about because she had given Falconer a curiosity: a skystone with reputed healing powers. King Henry had got to know about it and had summoned Falconer to his court at Westminster. Falconer had persuaded Saphira to accompany him, and they had taken lodgings together. Perhaps that had been the problem. He thought maybe she now expected him to live with her permanently. Something that was an im
possibility. Though she had said nothing more, and these thoughts had been all in his own mind, he found he was ever more annoyed with her. The trouble was he had already forgotten what the original argument was about. In fact, he got everything back to front.

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

  Saphira looked at him, her emerald eyes shafting him like daggers. But she said nothing, merely sighing and returning to her packing. Falconer stormed out of the room in disgust. It was only when he was halfway down the gloomy corridor that led towards the king’s chamber that he began to feel like one of his own students after a prank had gone wrong. Foolish and contrite, but with no way back without being humiliated. He stood beside one of the tall candles that barely lit the passageway, picking at the runnels of wax, and groaned.

  Sicily

  Edward sat at the banqueting table, staring disconsolately at the lavish spread before him. His host, Charles of Anjou, King of Sicily, had laid on an extravagant feast, served in the highest of modern style. Each person at the table had their own page standing behind each chair. After Edward had sat down, the page had placed the salt at his right hand and a trencher of dry bread at his left. Then a knife had appeared at his left elbow, along with a spoon wrapped in a linen cloth. Edward had disgraced himself. When the soup bowls had been served, he had raised his to his lips and drunk in the old manner. It was only when he looked around that he saw that everyone else, including Eleanor, was using the spoon to ladle the soup up to their lips. He had blushed, but no one professed to have noticed his mistake. Charles eventually clapped, and the servants brought cooked heron and crane. Then their host had thrown up his hands in delight at the arrival of the central feature of the table. It was greyish meat that Charles had proudly explained was porpoise. Edward’s stomach had heaved at the thought, but he had smiled politely, if a little wanly.

  He had still not recovered fully from the attack of the Assassin months earlier. He had been close to death for days, as the poison had slowly entered his body. The places where the blade had entered his body had gradually turned black, and finally his physician had insisted that he must cut away the poisoned flesh. Edward had groaned and acquiesced. The pain had been excruciating, and he would have rather faced the slashes of a horde of attacking Mohammedans than the probing slices of the surgeon. He had been bound up, and laid in a daze on his bed for weeks.