Falconer and the Death of Kings (10 page)

‘Here we are, Master Falconer. This is John Clisby and Thomas Cloughe.’

As Appleby announced each man, he stood up, both of them almost having to remain stooped because of the low ceiling. They wore stained white surcoats over sturdy chain mail, the hooded part of which hung over their backs. Their swords remained buckled around their waists, and each man’s left hand rested easily on the pommel. Falconer recognized the stance of a warrior, ready for anything. They were not relaxed in his presence. Though it might have been Appleby’s effete and courtly manner that had made them wary of these intruders on their private space. Falconer looked Appleby in the eye.

‘Thank you, Sir John. You may leave us now. I am sure I can find my own way back.’

The courtier began to demur but, catching Falconer’s steely blue gaze, gave up. With a flap of his hand, he dismissed himself from the other three and retreated into the far gloom of the crypt. Falconer turned his gaze on the two men-at-arms and sighed.

‘What a popinjay.’

The men grinned and one, perhaps Thomas Cloughe – Falconer could not remember – spat on the earthen floor. He ground the phlegm in with a heavy boot and returned Falconer’s stare. There was a moment’s silence while Falconer and the two men assessed each other, then Falconer spoke.

‘Shall we take the weight off our feet? I see you have a flagon there. Is there some ale left in it?’

The other man – presumably Clisby – grunted and pushed the flagon over to their unwelcome guest. Falconer was beginning to tell them apart now, for he could see a scar under this man’s left eye. So, he was scarface John. And one of Cloughe’s eyes was turned slightly inwards, making him boss-eyed Thomas. Grudgingly, Cloughe wiped the rim of a goblet on his surcoat and passed it to Falconer. It must have been the one he had been drinking from, for there were only two goblets in evidence on the table, but even so Falconer took it and poured some beer into it. He let the silence hang for a while more, until he could see the wariness in the soldiers’ eyes turn to worry. Falconer was an adversary they could not figure out, and as soldiers that was a life-threatening situation.

Having got them nervous, he flung out a question.

‘Tell me about Anzazim.’

Relieved to be given a lifeline, both men began speaking at the same time. They stopped, looked at each other and, with a small nod of the head from the boss-eyed man, Clisby took the lead. Falconer put down Cloughe as the follower then.

‘That was a surprise to us all. I mean, even the king himself trusted the bastard. He was in and out of the prince’s… king’s… well, still prince then…’

‘Just call him Edward,’ offered Falconer.

‘Yes, master. As I was saying, he was in and out of Edward’s quarters like a rat up a hole. And a rat he turned out to be – a murderous rat.’

‘Did you know him well?’

It was Cloughe who spoke now. He leaned forward, and his sword tip dug a scar in the earth as he pushed it back. Forming his words, he clasped his hands together almost as if he was at prayer. He didn’t look Falconer in the eye, but kept his cross-eyed gaze on the ground between his knees.

‘I spoke to him more than once. He was bringing letters from a Saracen lord who had taken a shine to Edward. He passed himself off as a Christian convert, so despite his black face and heathen robes eventually he had almost free passage of the castle at Acre. He was just another familiar face, who came and went. Harmless.’ He raised his gaze to Falconer. ‘How were we to know he was a Hassatut?’

He was using a name Falconer had heard little of before, but he knew it to mean a secret agent of the Nizari sect. An Assassin, in other words. He looked the troubled man in his good eye.

‘The day he tried to kill Edward, did you see a change in him?’

Cloughe looked puzzled, exchanging glances with Clisby.

‘What do you mean – a change? What sort of change?’

Falconer shrugged.

‘A wild look in his eye, perhaps. A nervousness about his movements. They do say these agents – these Hassatuts – eat opium. He would have a wide, staring look.’

Clisby leaned over his companion’s shoulder and took up the story.

‘You could be right there, master. I saw him that day, and he had eyes like deep pools. Dark and evil.’

Falconer realized he had fed these men too much information, and they were giving him what they thought he wanted to hear. Besides, how reliable was their information after all this time? He tried another tack.

‘Who else was present when you showed the… man into Edward’s chamber?’

Clisby frowned and glanced at Cloughe. An unspoken exchange took place between them, then Cloughe answered for them both.

‘Why, no one, sir. Though the Lady Eleanor arrived soon after the commotion. She was there as we dragged that cursed Anzazim away, bleeding his life away like a pig.’

While Falconer was struggling to extract information from illiterate soldiers, Thomas Symon was having the same problems with the altogether smarter students of medicine. Even Jack Hellequin seemed to have clammed up on him. Only the youthful Adam Morrish was free with his information. But then he was the teacher. In the morning, Thomas patiently sat through Morrish’s lecture on the humours, and how each element was related to bodily fluids – fire to yellow bile, earth to black bile and so on. He had nothing to learn about these standard approaches to curing illness in men. But he squirmed a little when Morrish began to expound the Greek physician Galen’s views on blood carrying the pneuma, or life spirit.

‘It is this which gives the blood its red colour. And the blood passes through a porous wall in the chambers of the heart to reach all parts of the body.’

Thomas knew this to be erroneous. He had opened up enough hearts – perhaps five in the last two years – to know there was no porous wall inside but a clever muscly set of openings. But he could say nothing in the presence of these young students. Anatomy was forbidden except in the case of the bodies of murderers. He stoically sat through the rest of Morrish’s lecture, his stomach rumbling through lack of sustenance. At the end, he decided to try his luck again with the taciturn students, grabbing a bite to eat in the process, before he met Friar Bacon in the dank rear room of the school. It would be the first time they would sit down together to begin the mammoth task of recording Bacon’s compendium of all things. But before Thomas could escape the school, Morrish took his arm and, smiling, asked to speak to him. Reluctantly, Symon watched the other young men leave for the nearby tavern, where no doubt Geoffrey Malpoivre would stump up for wine or ale. When the last student had left, and peace had descended once again on the schoolroom, Morrish guided him to one of the benches and sat down beside him.

The man had the look of someone who was relaxed and confident, something that seemed to elude Thomas. Though Morrish’s face was youthful, his eyes were deep pools that spoke of knowledge and wisdom. He stared into Thomas’s eyes, and he had to look away. Morrish’s voice was mellifluous and confident too.

‘You did not agree with me – or should I say, Galen – about the movement of blood around the body.’

Thomas shrugged, uncertain what to say. Morrish patted him on the knee and invited his response.

‘You can speak openly. I am not a follower of Bishop Tempier and his thirteen Condemnations.’

Thomas looked up, and Morrish nodded encouragingly.

‘You have some experience of anatomy, don’t you? Please, tell me. I should like to know.’

Thomas felt he could trust the man and began to explain what he had learned from anatomizing several bodies. He became so enthusiastic about his subject, and in impressing Adam Morrish, that he almost forgot the time. It was only when he saw Morrish look away towards the door to the schoolroom that Thomas realized they were being listened to by someone else. His heart lurched, imagining what might happen if the Church got to hear of his illicit forays into the inner workings of the human body. It was only when the person at the door spoke that he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Roger Bacon, come for their appointment.

‘Ah, Friar, it’s you. I was just… I was…’

Bacon raised a hand to stop Thomas’s uncertain flow of evasions.

‘You have no need to explain to me, Thomas Symon. I have indulged in similar adventures, and equally have no desire for anyone in authority to know.’ He stepped forward and held a hand out to the other man in the room. ‘You must be Master Adam Morrish.’

Morrish, his eager face beaming, took the friar’s hand and shook it vigorously.

‘And you, sir, are Roger Bacon, if I am not mistaken. It is a privilege to meet you.’

Bacon lowered his eyes modestly to the ground.

‘Well, I do not know about that. I admit I have a certain reputation, but you, sir, though new to Paris, are carving out a reputation too.’

For a moment Thomas thought he saw a look of alarm cross Morrish’s face. But then it was gone, to be replaced by a wide grin. Perhaps he had imagined the reaction. The two men were exchanging compliments, and he was excluded from their circle. Until Bacon broke off and beckoned to him to come forward.

‘Thomas, we forget our manners. You are a busy young man, and I must not waste any more of your time than I must in order to carry out our task. You must excuse us, Master Morrish, but Thomas and I have an appointment with some parchment and ink.’

Morrish’s brow furrowed with a look of curiosity, but he contented himself with one question only.

‘You will find time, will you not, to speak to my students? They are a bunch of dunderheads, but you may be able to knock some sense into them.’

Bacon seemed disconcerted by Morrish’s easy charm, but he nodded briefly.

‘Yes, I will gladly do as you say. I must, after all, earn my keep in your school. Payment in kind is all I can offer for the use of your back room. Now, come Thomas, we shall begin.’

Soon the two of them were settled in the damp back room, Thomas with a quill in his hand and a fresh piece of parchment staring blankly up at him on the table. He had ruled the sheet with lines, but there was nothing else on it for now. Soon, it was to be covered with black marks that would capture the ideas of Doctor Mirabilis in some miraculous way. Thomas stared nervously at the page, while Bacon gazed out across the river to the two looming towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral.

The friar took a deep breath and sighed.

‘I have the stink of corruption in my nostrils, so that is where we will begin. Write this down, Thomas.’

ELEVEN

F
alconer’s attempt to speak to Queen Eleanor might have failed dismally, if she hadn’t walked in on his conversation with Sir John Appleby. He had sought out the dandified courtier soon after nones in the afternoon. The knight appeared to have dined well and looked soporific. But when Falconer asked to see Eleanor, he immediately bristled.

‘You may have been asked by the king to investigate some unexplained deaths. But that does not give you the right to come here demanding to see the queen.’

Falconer’s attempt to point out that he had ‘demanded’ no such thing was brushed aside.

‘Did not your interview with Clisby and Cloughe satisfy you? Did they not tell you the truth?’

‘Yes and no, Sir John. I have no doubt that they were entirely truthful in so far as they knew the facts. But they could not help on the crucial issue of who told the Assassin to act.’

‘And why do you think the queen can answer that?’ He snorted derisively. ‘The lady can have no idea what caused Anzazim to betray the trust placed in him. Besides, she cannot speak to you as she has left the palace and is already on the way to visit her family in Castile.’

‘That is a pity. I was told she was present immediately after the murder attempt. I thought she may be able to recall something that was said by Anzazim. I dare say that no one has asked her such a question before.’

Falconer looked at Appleby, and was suddenly aware of a look of surprise in Sir John’s eyes. He realized the man’s gaze was fixed, however, not at Falconer but over his shoulder. But before he could turn around, there was the sound of silk rustling and a pleasant voice spoke out.

‘What question might that be, sir?’

Falconer had heard tell that Eleanor was beautiful, but he was not prepared for the person who now stood in the doorway of the chamber. Her figure was well shaped, made more attractive by the swell of pregnancy. Her thick mane of loose hair reminded him of Saphira’s tresses. But Eleanor’s locks were dark and glossy where Saphira’s were flame-red. Her face was pleasant and well proportioned, no more. But what made it exceptional were the eyes. They were bright and intense, showing Eleanor to be a very confident and intelligent woman. It was her eyes that raised her above the common crowd, as well as her breeding. Falconer replied to her query, taking his chance before Sir John could intervene.

‘Your Majesty, I am William Falconer, taxed by the king to investigate the attempt on his life. I merely wished to talk to you about the unpleasant incident with your husband in Acre.’

Eleanor shivered and crossed her arms around herself, as though trying to protect herself from the evil memory of that day. Falconer immediately regretted his blunt approach.

‘Of course, if it is too painful a memory, I will understand.’

Eleanor pulled herself upright, lifting her chin high. She was visibly growing into her role as the Queen of England.

‘No, Master Falconer, I can speak of it, and tell you all I know. But it will be little, I’m afraid.’

She waved a hand, and Appleby hurried out of the room, no doubt on his way to inform Edward of this turn of events. Eleanor, meanwhile, crossed to the large and comfortable chair that stood beside the empty hearth and sat down, smoothing her gravid belly. Falconer remained standing and formed his first question carefully.

‘Did Your Majesty think that Anzazim was a reliable servant before this incident?’

Eleanor paused, making clear that she was giving the question fair and full consideration.

‘I saw him several times, bringing communications from the Emir of Joppa to my husband, and I even spoke to him once or twice. He appeared to be a very courteous and charming young man. My husband trusted him, so I see no reason why I should not have. Oh, and before we continue, Master Falconer, please no more Y
our Majesties
, or this will be a very long and tedious conversation.’