Falconer and the Death of Kings

by Ian Morson

  ‘Come, Master William Falconer.’

  There was something familiar about the voice, but Falconer could not place it. He started to walk down the long room, his boots thudding on the stone slabs. It was only when he was close to the man that he could make out his features. His hair was a little greyer than when he had last seen it, and his face a little more lined. But it was him.

  ‘Guillaume. Guillaume de Beaujeu, by God!’

  Thomas sat at the back of the schoolroom and listened in silence as Adam Morrish elucidated a text from Theophilus on urines. He was familiar with the text, and so his mind was wandering. Back at the abbey where he and Falconer were staying, he had looked in on John Fusoris after breaking his fast. The cell holding him was still locked, but Thomas could peer through the grille set in the door. The youth was huddled in one corner of his pallet, his knees pulled up to his chest. But he appeared to be sleeping, so Thomas decided Falconer’s advice had been wise. He should leave Fusoris to allow the toxins of the khat leaves to exit his body before making any attempt to question him. In a way, it struck him that he had not been so far wrong to think of the youth as possessed by the Devil. In this case, the possession had been by the medium of the drug, and time would exorcize it from his body. Now, as Adam’s voice droned on, he felt himself dozing off.

  ‘He learned his medicine in Padua.’

  For a moment Thomas thought the voice was inside his head. But then he realized it was in the form of a whisper, close to his ear. He glanced to one side, and saw that Friar Bacon had slipped into the back of the room and was listening to the exposition of Theophilus. Bacon leaned over to him again.

  ‘There, they reply heavily on the articella – the little art – and not so much on Johannitius. They are in error, of course.’

  As though he heard Bacon’s criticism, the teacher out front gave the two other Englishmen a hard stare, hardly pausing in his textual analysis. Bacon and Symon grinned at each other like naughty children and sat quietly through the rest of the lecture. Afterwards, as the rest of the class made their way out, calling out jibes and barging into each other, Morrish walked over to the two of them, his face now glowing with pleasure. It seemed he had forgotten, or at least forgiven, their whispered asides. He took Bacon’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  ‘Friar Roger, welcome again to my school. I hope you have not forgotten your promise to lecture to my students at some point. I myself would value your erudition. On any subject you care to expound upon.’ He threw a glance at Thomas. ‘You are very lucky to be involved with such a celebrated scholar, Thomas. Are you recording his ideas for the benefit of us all?’

  Before Thomas could reply, Bacon cut in.

  ‘Just some notes on the present state of teaching in Paris. Nothing exceptional. My order prevents me from being… controversial.’

  Thomas almost burst out laughing at the pious and humble expression on Bacon’s face. Only he knew how controversial the text he had begun to scribe really was. Yet in the presence of a master of the University of Paris, and with Bishop Tempier winkling out those who he thought carried heretical ideas in their heads, it was wise to be moderate and modest. He spoke up to support Bacon’s deception.

  ‘Indeed, Master Morrish, it will be a contribution to the bishop’s clearance of all suspicious concepts from the university.’

  Morrish stared at him closely, unsure if he was being mocked or not. But he took Thomas at his word.

  ‘And your fellow master from Oxford, Master…’

  ‘Falconer.’

  ‘Yes, Falconer. How fares his task of collecting information on Bishop Tempier’s Condemnations and their effect on teaching?’

  Thomas was a little taken aback by Morrish’s question.

  ‘I did not know you were aware of that.’

  Morrish smiled, pleased at having disconcerted the young Englishman.

  ‘Oh, the university is a small world to itself. Word travels fast, especially of visiting scholars. I am sure Oxford is the same, is it not?’

  Thomas shrugged his shoulders, knowing the man was correct. The academic world in Oxford was parochial and prone to gossip more than a small English village.

  ‘I think you are right. But to answer your question, Master Falconer has gathered all he needs. He is now on another task, set him by our new king, Edward.’ Foolishly, he revelled in impressing Morrish with his association with Falconer, wanting to surprise him much as Morrish had done to him. ‘He moves in elevated circles now. Today he is on his way to the Paris Temple to speak to the Grand Master.’

  As soon as he spoke, he knew he was exaggerating merely for effect like some child. He knew William had told him the Grand Master was dead. But he liked the pallor that came to Morrish’s face at his pronouncement, and he smiled sweetly.

  ‘Now the friar and I must get on.’

  They went through to the back room and sat down together across the table. While Thomas got out his clean parchments and ink, Roger Bacon sat looking pensive before he spoke.

  ‘I don’t care if you link my name and that cursed Tempier in one breath. It all adds to the mist of obscurity and conformism I would like to hide inside for the time being. But I don’t think you should discuss William’s affairs so openly. This town, even more so than Oxford, is a mare’s nest of rumour, gossip and envy. Particularly envy.’

  Thomas hung his head in shame at his boastfulness. He hoped it wouldn’t get Falconer into trouble. Bacon patted his hand consolingly.

  ‘Now take this down.’ He took a deep breath. ‘As all may read in the works of Aristotle, Seneca, Alfarabius, Plato, Socrates… and others, the ancient philosophers attained to the secrets of wisdom, and found out all knowledge. But we Christians have discovered nothing worthy of them, for our morals are worse than theirs.’

  Thomas sighed and began to scratch away on the virgin surface of the parchment.

  FIFTEEN

  The two men sat either side of the fire grinning at each other, each with a goblet of wine in their hand. One was well built, with a neat white tunic covering his broad shoulders and slim waist. He exuded power and self-confidence even though his greying hair betrayed his advancing years. The other was somewhat older still, and a little more down at heel, his dowdy black robe hiding a shape that had once been that of a fighter but was now softer, more generous around the waist. The second man stared at the other in mock astonishment.

  ‘You are the new Grand Master, Guillaume?’

  De Beaujeu laughed, raising his glass to toast his own success.

  ‘Yes, William. Who would have thought it when we met all those years ago?’

  Falconer cast his mind back some dozen years to a time when the Papal Legate was in Oxford. An attempt had been made on Bishop Otho’s life, and someone else had got killed. Falconer had at first suspected de Beaujeu, who had appeared in the town just at the right time. His shadowy presence had attracted both Falconer’s attention and that of the town constable, Peter Bullock. In fact, the Templar had been on a mission on behalf of the former Grand Master, Thomas Bérard, concerning the appointment of the next Pope to succeed Alexander. He was a killer of men in wars, but not a murderer. Once Falconer’s mistake had been rectified, the two men had struck up a friendship based on mutual respect. It had lasted the years, even though they rarely encountered each other. Each had gone his own way and pursued different goals. It seemed that de Beaujeu had achieved his, and Falconer was not surprised.

  ‘Actually, I had no doubt you would be the Grand Master eventually. Even if you had had to eliminate all the opposition on the way, you would have got there.’

  He remembered the Templar’s extraordinary skill in silent death. De Beaujeu was more like a Muslim Assassin than he probably dared to admit to himself. Now the Templar saluted his companion and old friend.

  ‘And you, Master William Falconer, you come before me as emissary of King Edward of England, no less. Or was that merely a ruse to gain admittance to the Temple?’

&nb
sp; Falconer’s face took on a more serious look, as he recalled the task that had led him here.

  ‘Indeed it was not. I can show you a letter from the king, if you don’t believe me.’

  De Beaujeu held up his hand.

  ‘That is not necessary between old friends. What is it you seek?’

  ‘Something you can help me with, actually. It concerns a Templar who got himself into trouble in England a couple of years ago. He then disappeared from view, and I don’t know if he is alive still. But I would dearly like to talk to him, if he is.’

  De Beaujeu frowned. He may be the Grand Master of the Templar Knights and could wield great power. But the order took seriously the protection of its own. It would be a dangerous game to expose another Templar to the scrutiny of an outsider. Even one as respected as William Falconer. And he had a good idea who it was whom Falconer was hunting. He had to play the game through, however.

  ‘Who is this man you are seeking?’

  ‘He is called Odo de Reppes.’

  It was as de Beaujeu thought. He knew all about de Reppes – had been advised by Thomas Bérard on his deathbed what deadly affair the Templar had been involved in. What he did not know was why his friend needed to talk to de Reppes. And so he now wanted some time to consider his options. He played dumb, though he did not like doing so with Falconer.

  ‘I am the new man, you understand. There is much for me to find out concerning the affairs of the order. Matters that only each Grand Master would know about, and some facts die with him. Let me ask around and see if de Reppes can be unearthed. Only then can I consider your request – whether I can allow you to see him or not.’

  ‘I understand that, Guillaume. I know your allegiance always has been and always will be to the order. I can expect nothing less of you, especially now. I can assure you of one thing, though. If what I have heard of de Reppes’ actions is true, then I can do him no more harm than he has already done to himself. And if they are untrue, then it is as well to set the facts right. How much time do you need?’

  He was so relieved at Falconer’s retreat that de Beaujeu spoke without thought.

  ‘A day or two will suffice, I am sure. Come back the day after tomorrow, and I will hope to have news for you.’

  Falconer nodded and took his leave of his old friend. He was escorted back to the gateway of the Temple by the same sergeant-at-arms, who must have waited patiently outside the great hall until the Grand Master’s visitor left. Walking across the marshy land between the Temple and Paris’s city walls, Falconer glanced back at the Temple tower. Its many turrets jutted up into the cloudy sky like arrows aimed at the very heavens. He grimaced, as a few drops of rain fell.

  ‘What sort of game are you playing now, Guillaume? What do you know about Odo de Reppes that you would hide from me?’

  Falconer had seen through de Beaujeu’s hasty assessment of his ability to trace Odo de Reppes. If he had truly not known where he was, it would surely have been impossible to say he could tell Falconer in only a day or two. He had expected to be delayed by weeks while the man was sought. And even then he might have been dead already, or far away in Outremer. But the new Grand Master had promised a response much more quickly than that. Nor had he directly said he did not know where de Reppes was located, choosing the words of his reply with care. Falconer therefore knew that the Templar’s location was almost certainly already known to Guillaume. He had just needed time to work out what his friend wanted him for. Well, Falconer would let de Beaujeu have the time, if in the end he let him speak to the man. In the meantime, he would see how Thomas Symon was doing with his hunt for the murderer of Paul Hebborn.

  Reaching the banks of the Seine, Falconer stepped cautiously on to the narrow plank bridge called the Planche Milbray that he had crossed on his way to the Temple. The wooden surface was now made even more slippery by the drizzle. He trod carefully, and was halfway across when he heard a cry from behind him. Looking back, he saw that an old man was clutching on to the handrail. He was clearly complaining about someone who had pushed past him in his haste to cross the bridge. The figure, now approaching Falconer, was enveloped in a black cloak with its hood pulled up over his head. Nothing unusual in that, thought Falconer; it was raining, after all. Which also probably explained the person’s need to hurry. He turned back and walked on, planting his feet firmly on the planks. Suddenly, the speeding figure was upon him, having closed the gap between them extremely quickly. Falconer turned aside to let him pass, but the figure hit him hard with his shoulder, deliberately barging into him. As Falconer lost his balance, he was aware of a pale, youthful face staring at him from under the hood. Then he slid between the handrail and the planks and could see only the swift-flowing river looming up below him.

  SIXTEEN

  Thomas Symon was in a hurry to return to the Abbey of St Victor and John Fusoris, but Roger Bacon had detained him long past the time when he should have left. The friar had been in full flow and reluctant to finish, even though he could see that his scribe was itching to go. He had concluded on a flourish that still rang in Thomas’s head.

  ‘Many wise men – considering the predictions of the Sibyls and Merlin and Aquila and Festo – have reckoned that the times of Antichrist are at hand in these days of ours.’

  As he strode through the streets of Paris, he shivered again at the words and clutched the satchel that contained them. The bag was stuffed once more with parchment pages, and Thomas’s collection at the abbey was growing. He thought the material so inflammatory that he wondered if the building might be struck by the hand of God and destroyed. It was as though the freeing of his words from the confines of the Franciscan friary had released Bacon from his holy shackles. But the outpouring was not the friar’s only way of recording the truth as he saw it. Thomas knew Bacon was still writing in a private book using his peculiar ciphered hand. He always carried it with him when he left the friary for fear of its being confiscated. Thomas had sneaked a look once when Bacon had gone to piss out of the back of the school building into the river. As he flicked through the pages, his eye was caught by a vivid illustration of a woman, naked save for a headdress, standing in a bath shaped like a flower. Each of her arms was extended into a tube with junctions off it. The tubes made Thomas think of the veins he had seen in anatomized bodies, or perhaps the pipework of the female generative organ. He had blushed at the explicit nature of the drawing, and then quickly closed the book as he heard Bacon returning. He had not had time to consider what the mysterious book meant as Bacon had continued his discourse immediately.

  Moreover, he now had other pressing business to pursue. Before he spoke to John Fusoris, he wanted to speak to Hellequin. He was sure the young man knew more about Morrish’s students, and their behaviour, than he was letting on. He was determined to confront him with it. Entering the Place Maubert, he sought out the inn with the withered vine hanging over the door and entered. Looking around the bustling interior of the tavern for any sign of Hellequin, de la Casteigne or the other students, he was shocked to see Falconer seated at a table drinking deeply from a large goblet. He pushed through a crowd of revellers, who behaved as though they had been drinking all afternoon, to stand before Falconer.

  ‘William. What are you doing here?’

  Falconer looked up at Thomas wearily.

  ‘Recovering my equilibrium, Thomas.’

  Before he could ask what Falconer meant, Thomas felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Jack Hellequin with a fresh flagon of wine in his fist.

  ‘Stand aside, Master Symon. Your friend is in need of further refreshment. He almost fell from the plank bridge.’

  ‘Fell from the bridge?’

  Falconer held out his empty goblet for Hellequin to fill.

  ‘Yes. And if it wasn’t for this young man here, I would have landed up in the Seine and got carried away downstream. I would no doubt have ended up crossing the English Channel sooner than I had expected.’

  Falconer shivered at the thoug
ht and took another deep draught of the wine. Hellequin sat beside him and took up the story.

  ‘I was crossing to the Right Bank and saw someone in difficulties. A woman was screaming, and I ran. The man, whom I now know as your friend Master Falconer, was hanging on to the planks of the footway with his fingernails. I managed to grab his wrists and haul him back, or he would have been lost.’

  ‘But how… ?’

  Thomas was so shocked that he couldn’t even frame his question. Falconer quickly explained.

  ‘It was raining, and the planks of the bridge were slippery. I was careless, that’s all.’

  Thomas dropped down on to the bench opposite Hellequin and dragged a goblet towards him. Forgetting his resolve of that very morning, he poured some wine from the flagon and drank it off. Falconer laughed and rested his hand on Thomas’s.

  ‘You look more scared than I was as young Hellequin pulled me to safety, Thomas. But take it steady with the wine. We do have other matters to attend to back at the abbey.’

  Thomas took the hint and put his goblet down. In truth, the wine was rough, and its acid nature reminded him of his sore head from that morning. He belched.

  ‘You are right. But I am glad you are safe, and I thank you, Jack, for plucking William from a certain death.’