Falconer and the Death of Kings (22 page)

‘Never mind, Thomas, they are a lost cause. Besides, we have much to do today. I reckon our best defence is attack.’

Thomas watched as the last of the students filtered into the crowds of people passing the end of the lane, obviously intent on enjoying their unexpected free day. He turned to the friar.

‘Yes. I had the idea that we could confront Adam today, but it seems he has anticipated me. If he is hiding from us, then we shall have to go and seek him out.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

Thomas shook his head.

‘No. I followed him as far as the Ile de la Cité, but then lost him. However, I am sure the rector of the university knows. Or Master Gérard de Osterwiic, dean of the medical schools. We will start with him, as he knows me already.’

It turned out that locating Adam Morrish was not going to be as simple as Thomas thought. In fact, having met de Osterwiic, the mystery of his whereabouts began to get stranger. The dean explained that a master who had the right to teach could open a school wherever he pleased, and there were several schools on the Ile and the Left Bank.

‘But how does a master get the right to teach?’

De Osterwiic answered Thomas’s question in the vaguest of terms.

‘There are age limits and courses of study to be undertaken to teach arts or theology, and the courses must be under the tuition of an existing master. Of course, purity of morals is just as important in issuing a licence.’

‘But what about medicine?’

Thomas was becoming more and more exasperated as de Osterwiic prevaricated.

‘A licence is granted gratuitously without oath or condition. Masters’ rights are defended strongly in Paris.’

Thomas wondered about students’ rights to be taught well. He was about to press Gérard to be more specific about Morrish, but Bacon touched his arm. He fell silent, and the friar bowed courteously, thanking the dean for his clarity of explanation. Once they had left the room, Thomas could contain his anger no longer.

‘Clarity? He told us nothing.’

Bacon nodded.

‘Exactly, and there must have been a reason for that, don’t you think? There is something he wanted to keep secret concerning Adam Morrish.’

Thomas’s doubts and concerns from yesterday began to rise to the surface again.

‘I was thinking that Adam Morrish is not who he claims to be.’

‘Then hold on to that thought, for we may be able to discover more about him from a friend of mine. If he had not been a proponent of Aristotle like Falconer, he would have prevailed in his battle to be rector of the university here. But he was defeated in the elections by Alberic de Rheims, who was a much more convenient nonentity of a scholar. And therefore more suited to the way of thinking of the Church, which is in control here.’

Siger of Brabant was a tall, stooping individual in his middle years. When they entered his solar, he was bent over a parchment carefully colouring a manuscript. Physically, he gave Thomas the impression of being weak and doddering. But mentally he proved to be sharp and sure of himself. After a little badinage with Bacon over the interfering Bishop Tempier, he came straight to the point.

‘You want to know about Adam Morrish, then. I am certain that Gérard de Osterwiic has given you the runaround, or you would not have come to me.’

Both Thomas and Bacon nodded their agreement.

‘What is the mystery surrounding him?’

Siger chortled.

‘The mystery is who he claimed to be in order to get his licence to teach.’

Bacon held up his hand to stop his friend revealing the truth immediately.

‘Is it safe for us to know?’

He was looking at Thomas at this point, and the object of his attention knew the friar was trying to protect him. But he could not bear to be excluded from the divulging of the secret. He blurted out what was on his mind. What had in fact been boiling in his brain for some time.

‘It is a person whose family name carries opprobrium with it, isn’t it? Someone who has studied and earned the right to teach medicine, but who needs to keep his identity secret. Especially from King Edward.’

Siger of Brabant, while giving nothing away, indicated with a turn of his wrist that Thomas should continue.

‘It is Amaury de Montfort, isn’t it?’

Again Siger said nothing but simply looked at Thomas in a way that told the young man that his guess was correct. Thomas pressed on with his next question.

‘And do you know where Amaury lives?’

Siger pulled a face.

‘That I cannot say.’ Then his face lit up. ‘But I can tell you that Adam Morrish lives on the Ile de la Cité. His house sits between two churches and faces directly on to the towers of Notre-Dame Cathedral.’

‘From where Paul Hebborn fell to his death recently.’

Thomas’s comment was made under his breath, but its import caused the old man’s face to cloud over.

‘I can tell you no more. In fact, I have told you too much already. You must go – both of you. And Brother Bacon, I would appeal to you as an older man to hold your young friend’s zeal in check. The de Montforts are not a family to meddle with lightly.’

Bacon gave Siger a sideways look that revealed his own stubbornness.

‘But we are not seeking out a de Montfort, Siger. We merely wish to ask Adam Morrish – a simple scholar – a few questions.’

Siger shook his head sadly and, picking up his brush, began to fill an ornate letter ‘O’ with red ink. The friar and Oxford master retired from his solar and returned to the thronging streets of Paris. Many people had already been to the market and were now returning with their purchases. Thomas was almost knocked over as a merchant bustled past, followed by his servant carrying a large bolt of scarlet cloth under his arm. His angry cry brought no apology but just the sight of the rich man’s opulently clad, fur-trimmed back disappearing down the narrow lane. Thomas was tiring of the rudeness of the denizens of this city, where business took precedence over courtesy.

‘I shall be glad to return to Oxford.’

‘But I have barely begun my compendium, Thomas Symon. We have much to set down yet. So let’s get on and see what Adam or Amaury has to say for himself. Then I can turn my attention to the study of optics.’

Thomas groaned but followed Bacon towards the Petit Pont and the island that stood at the heart of the city.

Falconer and Saphira Le Veske had already crossed to the Ile and were on their way to the Royal Palace. He had sent word ahead that he wished to speak to the king on urgent business. So when they arrived at the gates, Sir John Appleby already awaited them. He scowled at the sight of the woman accompanying Falconer, however.

‘You did not say you had a… companion. She cannot come into the presence of the king, you know.’

Saphira took Appleby’s meaning as it was intended, and scowled. She was getting tired of being taken for a whore when on William’s arm. She was about to storm off, but Falconer held her firmly by the elbow and reprimanded the garishly dressed courtier.

‘Mistress Le Veske is an important woman of business in both France and England. Many nobles are indebted to her, and if she cannot be introduced to the king then I have no time today to speak to him. Good day.’

Appleby gasped at Falconer’s audacity, but as the master turned to go he stayed him with an outstretched hand. He could not afford to anger his lord and master. Let Falconer himself earn the king’s wrath by bringing a strange woman before him – he would not be held responsible.

‘Not so hasty, Master Falconer. I am sure the king will be glad to make the acquaintance of one of his loyal subjects. And one so pretty too.’

Saphira smiled sweetly, while still feeling sick to her stomach at being brought before the English king. This popinjay of a courtier nauseated her too, but in another way. She could not stand the obsequiousness of such individuals. Oblivious to her reaction, Sir John made a vague, loose-wristed sign in the air with his hand.

‘Follow me, please.’

Falconer and Saphira were led to the same tapestried room where he had met the king before. The room was empty this time, and they were asked to wait by Appleby, who hurried away to warn the king of Saphira’s presence. They waited patiently, and Saphira examined one of the tapestries closely. She was just about to touch the intricately stitched image of a unicorn when a man entered. She was immediately struck by the aura that surrounded him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered and good-looking man with a droopy eyelid that somehow attracted her to him. She gasped, suddenly realizing who he was. Swiftly curtseying to the king, she felt a hot blush creep over her face. He was quite unconcerned, probably used to the effect he had on women. He took her hand.

‘Mistress Le Veske. I am told you are a woman who runs her own business, and that it is a success. My wife would like to meet you.’

Saphira looked at Falconer and would have burst out laughing but for the situation. What had they been talking about before? Her meeting with the king and asking to go and chat with the queen. Edward, unaware of the sideways look, went on.

‘She is jealous of independent women who manage their own affairs. She complains to me that all she does is produce children. I have told her it is a queen’s fate, but still she rails against it.’

Saphira swallowed and spoke out.

‘It is the fate of most women in this world, sire.’

Edward nodded his head, his hair flopping across his eyes.

‘Yes, and I love my wife for her sacrifice. She is heavy with child right now. I have forbidden her to travel to Castile to see her family, but she is determined. Eleanor is a very determined woman. Would you talk to her, mistress, and try to dissuade her? Appleby will show you the way.’

Saphira knew she was being dismissed, but with such gentleness she could not resist. Besides, she was intrigued that what Falconer had mockingly suggested had come about. She was being given a chance to ‘gossip’ with the queen, and would tease him with it later.

‘Sire, I will try, but if she is as determined as you say, I may have to agree with her.’

She bowed gracefully and left the room with a sour-faced Sir John in attendance. Edward turned to Falconer.

‘An intelligent and beautiful woman, Master Falconer. You are a lucky man for a celibate scholar, if I guess rightly. A pity she is a Jew, though.’

Falconer didn’t like the implication of Edward’s tone of voice. But before he could say anything, the king taxed him about his investigations.

‘Now you have found who was responsible for the attacks on my family?’

Falconer patiently explained the evidence he had gathered around the deaths he had investigated. How the attack on Edward himself could have been commissioned by a Latin, which may have been a de Montfort, though he had no direct evidence. And what he had learned from the Templar, Odo de Reppes, concerning the scandalous murder in the church in Viterbo. And then he described Odo’s subsequent visit to Berkhamsted, where he probably killed Edward’s uncle. He had one caveat, however.

‘I have not been able to look into the circumstances of your son’s death yet, sire. I would have to go back to England to puzzle the evidence out about that one.’

Edward waved his hand dismissively.

‘There is clearly no need to take this further, Master Falconer. I think you have come to a conclusion about who is responsible, have you not? He will no doubt also be guilty of causing the death of poor little John. A boy who would have been king after me, if he had not died so young. You have a name?’

Falconer nodded, a little surprised that Edward had dismissed the investigation of his son’s death so abruptly. But then, he was probably keen to know what Falconer had concluded and needed no further evidence of treason.

‘Everything points to Amaury de Montfort being the prime mover behind all the deaths, and the attack on yourself.’

Edward’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

‘Amaury? Surely it was the older brothers who were responsible? I know Simon is dead now of a tertian fever, but Guy still lives. He has protected himself by marrying the Tuscan Red Count’s daughter, but I can ask the Pope to intervene. He cannot hide behind the skirts of Margherita Aldobrandesca forever. Surely he is more likely to have perpetrated the murders than little Amaury? The boy is barely old enough to be such a villain. And he is a more a scholar like yourself, is he not, than a warrior?’

‘Sire, he is already thirty, though I am told his face barely shows his years. It is perhaps because he looks so young that you cannot believe he is so evil. But everything I have learned points at him. He has no need to be a fighter – he uses others to carry out his wishes.’

Edward looked pensive, stroking his beard and pacing up and down by the window.

‘Amaury, eh? And have you located where he might be? Does anyone know?’ Edward struck his right fist into his palm decisively. ‘If not, please keep searching, Master Falconer. I would not be surprised if he were in Paris right now, plotting against me once again. You have been so persistent so far, I am certain you will find him, if you carry on.’

Falconer shook his head.

‘I am afraid I cannot say where he is at this time. No one seems to know. And I may only drive him back into hiding if I carry on.’

‘No.’ Edward was insistent. He strode over to Falconer and grasped his arm. ‘I will speak to Philip and turn Paris into a trap for him. No one will sneak out.’

Falconer wondered for a moment who this Philip was, until he realized Edward was talking of the French king. Such was the familiarity of great men. Edward, meanwhile, had more to say to him.

‘In the meantime, you will dig deeper, and you will find him.’

With that command, he exited the room, leaving Falconer to wonder what he might do next. He did not yet know that Thomas Symon had the very information he was charged with uncovering.

TWENTY-FOUR

T
he great sturdy blocks of the two towers on the western façade of Notre-Dame cast a shadow over Thomas Symon and Friar Bacon. Thomas could not tear his eyes off the tops way above, as he pictured the unfortunate Paul Hebborn plunging to his death from one of them. For a moment his head spun, and he closed his eyes tight. Bacon touched his arm gently.