by Ian Morson
‘Forgive me, Master Bacon. I had another matter on my mind. Please continue.’
He made to pick up the quill, but Bacon’s slender fingers closed over his own. The friar smiled at him, his deep-set eyes boring into the younger man.
‘No. If I cannot hold your attention with my discourse on mathematics, then this other matter must be of great importance.’ He suddenly looked rueful. ‘Or my teaching skills have diminished considerably during my incarceration.’
Thomas was about to protest, but Bacon shook his head.
‘It is surely the latter, for I know from William that you are an eager and receptive pupil. Perhaps I should take up teaching again and hone my skills once more. It was what you suggested to Master Morrish, after all, when we began this task. And from what I saw of his lecture the other day, he is in need of some support.’
Thomas laughed quietly. He too saw flaws in Morrish’s teaching but had refrained from saying anything.
‘You are right, sir. And there is something else you could do to help me, if you did lecture his students. Master Falconer and I have been discussing it.’
Bacon’s eyes widened in curiosity.
‘Do tell me. I am sorely bored at present and could do with a little excitement.’
Until now, Thomas had imagined that the friar was a serious fellow with only great thoughts in his brain. Now he could see that he shared with Falconer a playful side to his nature. For the first time since they had met, Bacon’s eyes sparkled. Thomas told him all about the two deaths in the ranks of the students, and how he thought they had been dabbling with the demonic nature of some of the powerful drugs at a physician’s disposal.
‘William has warned me that if I press too hard trying to find out what has been happening, then maybe my life might be in danger too. But if you were to talk to the students, Master Bacon, perhaps it would not seem so troublesome.’
Pensively, Bacon tapped the leather-bound notebook he always carried with him.
‘I have been occupied with those forces myself. That is why I keep this record in cipher. Some of what I have written here is too dangerous for those who cannot control their natures.’
Thomas did not admit that he had peeked inside the covers of Bacon’s book and seen some of his diagrams. The sketches of plants certainly tallied with what the friar was now saying. But the stranger drawings more resembled dreams than anatomical renderings. He wondered if Bacon himself tested the effects of such cure-alls as opium on his own body. He shivered at what might have resulted if he had eaten the hashish stone in Paul Hebborn’s scrip. Bacon, meanwhile, had made up his mind. He was rubbing his tonsured head and pacing the room with excitement.
‘Yes, I will do it. I will help you find out from the students about their… extra-curricular habits. I am sure I can be at least as wily as William when it comes to this deductive business he seems to so love. Now, Thomas, gather up those sheets of parchment and be on your way. It is quite dark outside, and we cannot afford to waste any more of this candle today.’
He snuffed the wick with a pinch of his fingers and helped Thomas slide the pile of papers into his capacious satchel. Once outside the building, he watched while Thomas locked the door, then the two conspirators took their leaves of each other and went their separate ways. Thomas, on an impulse, turned aside from the straight route back to the Abbey of St Victor. Instead, he cut through the back alleys to stand before the convent of the Mathurins.
Falconer eased the shutter open and gazed out of the window. Even in the darkness of the night, he could see down the narrow lane opposite as it wound towards the river. He fancied he could just make out the glimmer of moonlight on the water. Leaning out of the window, and looking to his right, he could see the very tops of the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral. They formed a dark and louring bulk on the skyline.
‘Close the shutter, William, I can feel the cold.’
Falconer turned back into the room and looked at Saphira lying on the bed. The moonlight turned her shock of red curls to copper, and her skin to pearl. She slid her bare arm out from under the bedclothes and held out her hand.
‘Come and warm me up.’
‘I will if you promise not to gut me with that knife you keep secreted up the sleeve of your gown.’
He had noticed when she had undressed earlier. Saphira waggled her arm to show she was free of all weaponry.
‘It is well to have a little security in Paris’s streets, but I find it is unnecessary in my bed.’
He closed the shutter and returned to the warmth of Saphira’s bed. After they had met on the bridge, she had brought him back to the area she called Pletzel. It was the Jewish quarter of Paris, and, despite the many expulsions of Jews over the years, the community had survived. It was a discrete collection of houses in a few narrow lanes huddled under the walls of the city, and not far from the square – La Grève – where they had been watching the hiring of labourers.
‘We keep ourselves to ourselves, even more so than in England,’ explained Saphira, as they had turned into the most unobtrusive of alleys. ‘Here, we are largely overlooked even when times get bad. This is my cousin Melka’s house.’
She had opened the door and led him inside. Falconer had never seen such a meticulously well-kept property. Melka had to be more house-proud than Saphira ever was. He held back from saying so, however. He wanted to confirm their newly forged truce before testing its mettle. Saphira had sat him down at a well-scrubbed table and brought him a freshly baked flat-bread and some wine. She sat next to him, breaking the bread.
‘The wine is mine, but the bread has been baked by my cousin. But then you could have guessed that, knowing how undomesticated I am.’
He tasted the bread. It was delicious compared with the rough, harsh loaves he was used to in Oxford.
‘Maybe Melka can teach you to bake. Where is she, by the way?’
Saphira cast him a sidelong glance.
‘She is visiting her sister for a few days. That is why I am able to stay here. It is a small house with only one bedroom. Shall I show you?’
Falconer had found the bedroom as neat as the rest of the house. It had not stayed neat for long. Now, in the early hours of the morning, he was glad to have Saphira back at his side. And that was not simply for her obvious charms. He stroked her warm flank pensively, and she turned over to face him. Her thick red locks fell across her face, and she flicked them out of her eyes.
‘Tell me what is on your mind, William. Our truce is holding, isn’t it?’
Falconer grinned.
‘Oh, it surely is, Saphira. But that is not what concerns me. It’s what I might learn soon from a certain Templar who figured largely in our recent past.’
Saphira sat up abruptly, the linen falling from her full breasts in a way that disconcerted Falconer.
‘I knew you were up to something. You could not be in Paris long without winkling out some murder or other. Do tell.’
He pointed at Saphira’s pale breasts.
‘I will if you cover those up, or I shall be sorely distracted.’
Saphira did his bidding and listened hard while Falconer rehearsed the facts of his latest investigation. She frowned over his involvement with King Edward. She had been placed in danger when Falconer had taken her innocently to the court of his father, Henry, just before his death. Being a Jew in Europe involved keeping out of trouble, and being around a dying king was not a good idea. Now William was working for the son, about whom there were rumours that he disliked Jews so much he might expel them from England. She shivered at the thought, fleetingly wondering what both of them would do then.
‘Are you cold?’
Falconer had noted her involuntary shiver and misinterpreted it.
‘Yes, somewhat. Come a little closer.’
She felt some comfort from the closeness of Falconer’s large, warm frame. He had some extra flesh on him, but she could still feel the muscles of a fighting man underneath. She would put off facing the
problem of expulsion if ever it came. In the meantime, she would enjoy every day with her lover. He continued his story.
‘So, tomorrow… no… today, I am to speak to Odo de Reppes.’
Saphira was startled.
‘Is he still alive? I had thought after the events around that farcical trial you had to face, that he had been done away with.’
Falconer shook his head.
‘No, merely incarcerated. Segrim’s story may have been wild and fanciful, but it appears there were some elements of truth in it. De Reppes was probably involved in the murder of Henry of Almain, and may have killed Edward’s uncle, Richard of Cornwall and King of Germany. Edward wants to know who instigated the killings, if anyone. I hope for Guillaume’s sake it is no one in the Templar hierarchy.’
He had told Saphira of his friendship with the man who was now elevated to Grand Master of the Order of Poor Knights. She had marvelled at his celebrated acquaintances, but he had merely put it down to chance. She now put the question that had been on Falconer’s mind for a while.
‘Do you think you will get the truth from de Reppes in that case? Might the Grand Master not have set him up to implicate whoever he wants to suit his own ends?’
Falconer shook his head.
‘No, Guillaume would not do that. He is a very clever man, but he is honest. And straight with those he trusts. He was not very adept at trying to conceal from me that he knew where de Reppes was being held. Dissimulation does not come easy to him. I am banking on the fact that de Reppes is being held in the tower at the Temple. I shall know soon enough.’
Daylight was beginning to steal through the shutters, and for the first time Falconer thought of Thomas Symon. He sat up, throwing the bedclothes aside.
‘I should go. Thomas will be worried about me, especially as I warned him about the dangers of his own investigations. He will probably think I have been murdered for sure this time.’
He paused, remembering he had taken care not to tell Saphira about his dangerous encounter on the Planche Milbray. But glancing at her now, he saw that she had not picked up on his slip of the tongue. She was too intrigued by his reference to Thomas’s affairs, which he had so far refrained from mentioning.
‘A double enquiry? How does what he is looking into relate to yours?’
‘It doesn’t. It is merely coincidental.’
Saphira snorted in derision.
‘How many times have I heard you say that two deaths in close proximity do not make a coincidence but a reason for investigation?’
Falconer began to pull on his undershirt. His voice was muffled for a moment as he pulled it over his head, then he emerged from the folds and explained.
‘That is the point. These deaths in Paris are recent, so they are therefore not related to a series of murders or attempted murders on Edward’s family. They have happened long ago and in different locations.’
‘Even though the student deaths happened when Edward arrived in Paris?’
Falconer shook his head.
‘No. Totally unrelated, I can assure you.’
He climbed into his old black robe and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. A worm of doubt was beginning to enter his brain. Saphira leaned forward, letting the linen drop from her breasts again, and laid her hand on his thigh.
‘I believe you, William. Now let me just wish you farewell before you return to your celibate bed in the abbey.’
Falconer groaned but did not resist.
The sun silhouetted a windmill on the hill to the east of the Abbey of St Victor. Its arms were stilled, not yet ready for the work of the day ahead. Thomas, on the other hand, was already up and dressed. He was standing at the main doorway of the abbey, uncertain whether to leave or to wait for Falconer. He had spent a restless night, constantly staring at the empty bed across the room. He had finally dozed off in the early hours but had been abruptly awoken by the sound of the monks passing his lodgings on the way to nocturns. He looked instinctively at Falconer’s bed, fully expecting him to be there. But he wasn’t, and the bed was untouched. He lay back but could find no rest as lauds came and went, and then prime. At that point he rose and dressed, taking only a quick breakfast before stationing himself at the entrance to the abbey. His satchel with writing materials stowed in it was over his shoulder. But somehow he couldn’t make himself leave the abbey without knowing something of what might have happened to Falconer. As he waited, the windmill began to lazily turn its arms.
Finally, just as prime was ending in the chapel behind him, he saw a familiar figure sauntering up the road from the easternmost gateway through the city walls. Slightly stooped and shading his eyes from the low morning sun, Falconer called out.
‘Thomas. See, I got up earlier than you today.’
The young man was not in the mood for jests. He hurried towards Falconer.
‘Where have you been? I was afraid you had been killed by this maniac who has done for two people already.’
Falconer crushed Thomas in a bear hug of a welcome.
‘I have been somewhere quite safe. But anyway, why should our killer want to murder me?’
Thomas extricated himself angrily from Falconer’s grasp.
‘Well, someone tried to push you off the bridge. Have you already forgotten?’
‘No. But I reckon that had more to do with what I am trying to uncover for the king rather than the deaths you are pursuing.’
‘Either way, you could have ended up dead.’
Falconer grasped Thomas firmly by the shoulders, almost shaking him.
‘But I have not done so.’ He smiled a little ruefully. ‘I can look after myself, you know. But forgive me for causing you worry.’
Thomas shook his head in disbelief. His friend was oblivious to the dangers that stalked Paris, it seems.
‘Where were you, anyway, that was so safe? And why did you not return last night?’
Falconer now looked embarrassed, and even somewhat shifty.
‘I… er… met someone. We got talking, and it was too late to return. The city gates would have been closed. And the abbey gates too. They gave me a bed for the night. Now, let’s work out what we are doing today.’
Falconer made to walk back towards the abbey. But Thomas would not give up.
‘Who do you know in Paris who would give you a bed? The only people you know are ones you have argued with over the Condemnations. None of those would willingly spend the evening debating with you and then offer you hospitality. There is no one else you know in the whole of France apart from Friar Bacon. And I can’t see you being accommodated in the Franciscan friary. You would be too afraid you might be locked in like Roger was.’
Falconer shrugged his shoulders and was on the verge of blushing. Thomas suddenly had an inkling as to why.
‘No one except Mistress Le Veske, that is. But she is in Honfleur. Isn’t she?’
Falconer was now red-faced and embarrassed, and he didn’t know why. The boy knew how things were with him and Saphira from way back in Oxford. Why did he always feel like a naughty boy in the presence of one who had been no more than a child himself when they had first met?
‘Well, she was in Honfleur. But no longer. Not since yesterday.’
It was now Thomas’s turn to blush and to stumble over his words. He disapproved of his mentor breaking his vow of celibacy. Not once, but with regularity. But he equally knew his disapproval was tinged with a hint of jealousy. He had never had a woman, except for a brief encounter with one of the girls working on his father’s farm before he went to Oxford. And even that was losing clarity in his memory.
‘I… didn’t mean to…’
Falconer smiled and patted his shoulder.
‘Thomas. We must all find our own way in this world. And it would be a better place if we did not censure others who do not match up to our own standards. Now tell me, did Roger bite on the tempting worm you offered him?’
Thomas nodded, eager to forget their disagreement
over Falconer’s absence all night.
‘Yes, he has agreed to do some teaching at the medical school and find out what he can about the habits of some of the students there. Master Morrish took ill yesterday, so he should have the opportunity to do so. I will… pursue my own lines of enquiry.’
For some reason, he did not want to tell Falconer that he intended to try to open the chest in Morrish’s upper room. His friend might say it was too precipitate and risky. Fortunately, Falconer’s mind seemed to be more on his stomach than on what Thomas might be doing during the day. He stretched and yawned.
‘Now I shall have to beg for some food to break my fast, as the normal mealtime is long past. And then I must go to the Temple.’
They shook hands, and Thomas strode off towards the city, while Falconer ambled towards the abbey kitchens. The monotonous creak of the windmill’s arms began its daily call across the valley.
TWENTY
Falconer’s second visit to the Paris Temple gate produced a quicker response than his first. It was the same sergeant who stood under the archway as Falconer crossed the drawbridge from the road. This time, however, it appeared that he knew the Oxford man was expected, for he merely cocked his head and turned around. Falconer followed him into the Temple complex and towards the Paris Master’s house. His eyes were drawn to the huge Temple tower, its bulk looming over the order’s enclave much as the cathedral towers of Notre-Dame did over the Ile de la Cité. Secular and spiritual power expressed in separate buildings imposing themselves on the surroundings. Falconer had an uneasy feeling about the tower and paused to look up at it. He had an idea that Odo de Reppes was incarcerated in one of the four turrets of the donjon. If so, he was held in the same place the order was reputed to store its treasures. Was there a pair of sad eyes staring down at him even now?
‘Master.’
The sergeant was impatient to bring Falconer into the presence of his Grand Master. He did not want to appear foolish again the way he had done the first time this Englishman had arrived. Who could have imagined then that such a shabby figure was not only an emissary of King Edward but a close friend of the new Grand Master? Falconer tore his gaze away from the tower and followed the stocky man into the great hall of the Province Master’s house, temporary home of Guillaume de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the order. Guillaume was on his feet, pacing the width of the hearth, in which there was a blazing fire. He looked nervous, and that shocked Falconer. His old friend was normally so self-contained and confident. He took the hand that was offered him and felt the strength in Guillaume’s grasp.
