Falconer and the Death of Kings

by Ian Morson

  ‘Have you any news for me, Guillaume?’

  ‘Yes. Good news. The one you seek is in this very Temple – has been here for over a year. He was brought here from Oxford after the events with which you are familiar.’

  Falconer forbore from suggesting that de Beaujeu must have known that already. He did not want to embarrass his friend, the Grand Master.

  ‘And can I speak to him?’

  Guillaume still could not look him squarely in the eye, but he nodded his head.

  ‘Of course you may. The order has nothing to hide. Odo de Reppes has committed a grievous crime, no one is denying that. But we do reserve the right to deal with our own in our own way.’

  Falconer raised his hands in acknowledgement.

  ‘I merely wish to talk – to ask him some questions about how he got involved in the death of Henry of Almain.’

  De Beaujeu did finally look at Falconer, giving him a hard stare.

  ‘And that is all you wish to examine him about?’

  Falconer frowned, wondering what was behind Guillaume’s question. Did he know more?

  ‘That should be all, I think… though it may lead on to other matters.’

  ‘Other matters?’

  De Beaujeu was clearly groping around in the dark for information that might serve his own purpose in the future. Falconer guessed Guillaume didn’t yet fully know the extent of de Reppes’ perversity any more than he did. He didn’t care about sharing what he learned, but would Edward want him to? Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable too, and didn’t like the feeling of being pressed like cider apples between these two great men. He prevaricated.

  ‘There’s nothing specific that I know of. But if there were, I don’t want to be limited to that issue alone. I have your permission to dig deeper?’

  Guillaume shrugged his broad shoulders, as if suggesting there could be nothing that had not already been unearthed by the Templars themselves.

  ‘Feel free. If there is more iniquity in de Reppes’ frame, then you may extract it. He cannot sink lower than he has already.’ He clapped his hands together by way of ending the conversation. ‘Shall we go?’

  Falconer nodded, and Guillaume led him out of the Master’s house and towards the dark and depressing tower close by it with its four turrets, one set on each corner of the square building. Once again, Falconer imagined a set of eyes following him across the courtyard and up to the very doors of the donjon. Access was by way of a portal in the north side of the tower. From there, de Beaujeu led him to one of the turrets, inside which was a spiral staircase. They climbed upwards.

  At the very top of the turret, under what Falconer realized was one of the cone-shaped roofs, stood a sturdy, metal-studded door with a large iron locking mechanism embedded in it. De Beaujeu produced a key from his purse and turned it in the lock. As he swung the door open inwards, a noxious stench assailed Falconer’s nostrils and he reeled backwards, almost plunging back down the steep spiral staircase he had just come up. Guillaume grasped his arm and steadied him.

  ‘I should have warned you.’

  He stepped into the room ahead of Falconer, his boots crunching on the straw scattered on the floor. Falconer held his nose and followed. It was a dark and stinking cell, the only light piercing it through a tiny slit set high in the curved wall. So much for de Reppes spying on him as he approached. The man would have to be seven feet tall to even get his eye to the slit. And though the Templar had been a big man when Falconer had last seen him, he was not that tall. In fact, as Falconer’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he didn’t think he could see de Reppes in the room at all. What was Guillaume playing at? Then he saw him.

  Huddled against the far wall was a shape that was no more than a bag of bones. Odo de Reppes had shrunk from a tall and powerful fighting man to a bent and broken skeleton wrapped in chains. Only the eyes that looked up at Falconer blazed with something approaching their original ferocity. They peered out from a face scabbed and hairy and gaunt beyond measure. Falconer would hardly have recognized him. He turned to stare at de Beaujeu. The Grand Master tilted his head to one side in a gesture of defeat.

  ‘It is not of my doing. Bérard, my predecessor, had him tortured to extract what confession he could out of the man. This is what is left. That is why I said you were free to question him but should not expect too much. Myself, I would have dispatched him by now.’

  When de Beaujeu spoke these words, a rumbling noise escaped from the grotesque figure on the floor, and a grin broke through the thick and bushy beard. Falconer was regaled with a row of broken and blackened teeth. The thought of being sent to meet his maker clearly pleased de Reppes. Falconer was inclined to assist him all he could. But first he needed to ask some questions of this wreck of a man. And hope he could get some sense out of him. Perhaps his mind was as broken as his body.

  ‘Can I speak to him alone?’

  Guillaume waved a hand at the prisoner.

  ‘Of course. He is chained by the arms and legs to the floor, so he cannot be a danger to you. Even if he had the strength to be so. I will wait outside.’

  After de Beaujeu had exited the stinking room, Falconer pulled the door closed behind him. The smell from de Reppes’ body and the dirty hole in the floor that must serve as his toilet became more palpable. But Falconer swallowed hard and steeled himself. Some of the things he had to say were not for the Grand Master’s ears. He squatted down beside the skeleton that was hunkered down on the floor and looked into the man’s eyes.

  ‘Odo de Reppes, do you remember me? My name is William Falconer, and I am from Oxford. It was but a year ago that our paths crossed. I need to ask you about that time, and the earlier events leading up to the murder in Viterbo. I need to know the truth, not for myself, but for others.’

  The prisoner’s eyes closed, and for a moment Falconer thought he had died or at least fallen asleep. But then they opened again. This time they had no spark in them, though. Falconer feared he had lost his chance, but he urged the man on.

  ‘There is an old man in Oxford whose wife died, and he thinks you were somehow involved. I need to convince him otherwise.’ He waved a hand to encompass de Reppes’ plight. ‘Surely the truth can do you no harm now.’

  The skeleton before him stirred, and the chains clanked, scraped on the floor and resettled. De Reppes attempted to clear his throat. It was a painful rasping sound, and it took Falconer a few moments to make out what he was saying.

  ‘Water.’

  Falconer cast a glance around the room, but there was obviously no barrel or jug in the cell. He rose, his knees aching, and went to the door. Pulling it slightly open, he peered out at de Beaujeu.

  ‘Can he have water?’

  Guillaume looked exasperated at being taxed with such a menial chore and sighed.

  ‘Very well, I will go back down and send someone up to you with a jug.’

  Falconer watched until his back had disappeared around the curve of the stairs, then he returned to the filthy cell.

  ‘Has he gone?’

  Falconer was surprised by the firm tones of the man on the floor. Perhaps Odo was not as far gone as he seemed. He had asked for water merely to get rid of the spy at the door.

  ‘Yes, he has gone. You can speak freely.’

  ‘Where do you want to start?’

  ‘That day in Viterbo, when the brothers murdered Henry of Almain in church, were you there too?’

  Falconer recalled Humphrey Segrim’s insistence that he had seen de Reppes with bloodied hands in the church. The Templar nodded, his eyes fiercely shining once again.

  ‘Yes. I helped them kill him. We had all drunk much wine together, and we were excited and driven by passion. Strangely so, in a way I had never been in battle before.’

  De Reppes hawked and spat on the floor.

  ‘I curse the day I fell in with the de Montfort brothers. They were an intemperate bunch after their father’s death with nothing to lose. And wild-eyed too, as if they were possessed by dem
ons.’

  Falconer wondered if de Reppes also had been possessed by the same demons. He was reminded of the demons that had controlled John Fusoris. Not Devils but drugs. He shrugged off the distraction and pressed on with de Reppes’ witnessing of events. It would not be long before Guillaume or one of his minions came back, and the man might then clam up.

  ‘Why did you get involved with them?’

  ‘My family. King Hugh of Cyprus was of the line of the Counts of Poitiers, and my family has always served his family.’

  He groaned and shifted his long legs, causing the chains to clank again. His story came in short bursts as his voice faded with the effort of speaking. He had probably not had the chance to talk to anyone for months on end.

  ‘The order has turned against Hugh, and is for Charles of Anjou as King of Jerusalem. The de Montforts played on my divided loyalties over this. They convinced me that King Henry of England also lined up with the Templar hierarchy. That I should ally myself with them. Of course, they really planned to kill him and his family in revenge for what had happened to theirs. The Barons’ War in England was a bad time, and many enmities were made between families that last still.’

  His voice tailed off as he spouted a litany of Norman-French family names who had become the disinherited – a legion of families who lost everything because they had sided with Simon de Montfort in his abortive battle against Henry of Winchester for the soul of England. Some of the names surprised Falconer, but he needed to keep Odo on track.

  ‘And Segrim, did you pursue him back to England in order to dispatch him?’

  De Reppes opened his mouth, and an awful sound emanated from between the rotten teeth. Falconer realized he was laughing.

  ‘That old duffer who pretended to be on Crusade? Why should I be scared of him? He never even got to the Holy Lands, staying on instead in Cyprus. Did he return to England so soon?’

  ‘Yes, he did. Did you never see him there?’

  Falconer recalled Segrim’s story of being dogged by the Templar and being seen by him in Berkhamsted the day Richard of Cornwall died. He was not surprised that it was all a fantasy in Segrim’s fearful mind.

  ‘No. I went to England for another reason, concerning my sister. And no, I did not see the old man there.’

  Falconer decided to give Segrim’s story one last trial.

  ‘And the death of Richard of Cornwall at Berkhamsted? Was that down to you too?’

  De Reppes glanced slyly at Falconer.

  ‘I did go there to kill him at the behest of the de Montforts. He was King Henry’s brother, after all, and part of the same nest of vipers. But when I got there, I found I had no need to do anything. No, God will not punish me for that death.’

  Both men heard the sound of someone ascending the stone staircase up to the cell. De Reppes grabbed Falconer’s arm with a bony hand and pulled him closer. Falconer could see a tear in the corner of his sunken eye. The Templar whispered in his ear with a breath that stank of death.

  ‘The de Montfort brothers are Devils incarnate – beware of them.’

  Falconer shook his head.

  ‘I have no need to fear them. Simon is already dead, and Guy is long missing, so I am safe.’

  De Reppes shook his head, and Falconer could see the lice crawling through his hair.

  ‘No. They are not the ones to fear. The runt of the litter is the worst – the pious one. You would think that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he is the very Devil.’ He hissed out his final warning. ‘Look out for Amaury.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The shadows were lengthening in the upper room of the medical school, driving the sunlight into the furthest corners. The precious books still lay untouched where they had been yesterday, when Thomas Symon had sneaked into Adam Morrish’s solar for a search. This evening, he was accompanied by Roger Bacon, who observed, as he had done, that the master of the school had scant regard for the value of his texts. He bent down to pick up the book on the floor.

  ‘This is ibn Ridwan’s commentary on Galen, and he treats it like rubbish.’

  Thomas was nervous.

  ‘Should we not leave it where it is so that he does not learn that we have been here?’

  Bacon snorted.

  ‘From the look of the room, he doesn’t know where anything is to be found. And I must save Galen from neglect.’ He wiped the book over with his palm and laid it gently down on the edge of the table. ‘What we can see here does not surprise me. His lecture was so poor that I feel his mind is as untidy as this room.’

  It was true, thought Thomas. They had arrived at Morrish’s school that morning to begin their agreed plan. Thomas would stay in the background, and Roger Bacon would get to know the students and see if he could discover anything about misuse of drugs. Both he and the friar had sat at the back of the schoolroom as the fresh-faced Morrish had taken the students through one of the standard medical works. Galen’s commentaries on three Hippocratic treatises should have been meat and drink to him. But he had seemed nervous at the presence of Roger Bacon, eventually stopping his own lecture and inviting the friar to lecture to the clerks instead.

  It had been just in time, for those assembled in the room, which had included Hellequin, de la Casteigne and Malpoivre, had become restless. Fidgeting in their seats, they had looked as though they could not wait for the end of the lecture. Bacon walked to the front and changed all that. He was not a tall man, and looked quite unassuming in his Franciscan robes, but the moment he stood up before the unruly students he had their attention.

  ‘Medicine, astrology and alchemy are special sciences. But the greatest of these is scientia experimentalis. Experiment and personal experience of knowledge.’

  He winked, and the students leaned forward eagerly, ready for what he had to tell them. Thomas saw Adam Morrish slink out of the room and wondered where he might be going. He followed and watched him leave by the front door. Thomas heard laughter from the schoolroom and knew that the friar had his audience in the palm of his hand. He slipped out of the front door himself and began to follow Morrish.

  Unfortunately, his efforts proved useless. He managed to hide in the throngs of people in Paris’s bustling lanes as Morrish made his way towards the Ile de la Cité. Thomas wondered if he was making for the Royal Palace, or perhaps the cathedral. But first his quarry had to cross the Petit Pont. The bridge was quite narrow, and there were few people crossing just at that moment. Thomas knew he would be exposed if Morrish happened to look behind him as he crossed. So he decided to wait, and watched as Morrish wended his way over the bridge. Once the man was on the far bank, Thomas chanced his arm and started to cross too. But his way was barred by a sudden flurry of people coming in the opposite direction, and by the time Thomas had stood to one side and allowed them to pass, Morrish was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared into the maze of streets on the island. He wandered around for a while but could not see the man anywhere. He must have gone into one of the houses, or carried on over the plank bridge that Falconer had almost been tossed off and across to the Right Bank. He wandered back to the medical school, deep in thought, and climbed up to the top room to hunt some more.

  His search had centred on the chest, but look as he might he had not been able to find a key to fit the lock. Its contents remained firmly hidden from him. In fact, he had been so absorbed in his task of discovery that he had lost track of time. Fortunately, Morrish had not returned to catch him trying to open the chest. In the end he had given up and waited for Bacon to finish his lecture. It had taken all morning and part-way into the afternoon. But eventually the students had dispersed, and Bacon had joined him in the upper room, there rescuing Ridwan from its ignominious position on the floor.

  Now the friar was continuing to deprecate Morrish’s skill as a teacher.

  ‘His students are sorely ignorant, and know little beyond the Trivium and Quadrivium. And those subjects they would have graduated in under someone else at the university in orde
r to progress to medicine. I don’t know what he has been teaching them this last year.’

  Thomas was more anxious to know if the second part of their plan had borne fruit. Whether Bacon had learned anything from the students about Hebborn’s and Fusoris’ behaviour that suggested the misuse of potions and preparations.

  ‘Did you speak to any of them after you had finished your lecture?’

  Bacon patted Thomas’s arm and smiled.

  ‘I did indeed. I avoided the ones you mentioned to me – Jack Hellequin and the hangers-on around young Malpoivre. You were right about him, by the way. Geoffrey Malpoivre is no more than a lazy scion of a noble family, idling his life away and buying friends with his largesse. He is the very sort that corrupts Paris and Oxford, making them stink.’

  Thomas had rarely seen the friar so angry. But Bacon soon regained his calm and carried on with his tale.

  ‘Forgive me. His type annoys me. But I am digressing. I avoided that dissolute bunch on the principle that the two dead boys were part of it. Even though Hebborn had been bullied by most of them. I didn’t think I was likely to get the truth from their own mouths. But I did ask a couple of the more studious pupils to stay and talk to me. Eventually, they told me some very interesting things about Malpoivre and his coterie.’

  Thomas listened hard as Bacon related the story he had been told. It seems that Malpoivre had become the source of preparations from the school’s pharmacy. His close group of friends had begun to enjoy the sensations provided by misusing these purloined drugs. Particularly popular were khat leaves and small stones of opium.