Falconer and the Death of Kings (23 page)

‘I prefer the towers of Oseney Abbey for their grace and charm.’

He was referring to the abbey just outside the walls of Oxford town. It also had two towers, the western one housing a ring of bells. Thomas could hear them now in his head – the peals of Hauteclere, Douce, Clement, Austyn, Marie, Gabriel and John. It brought back a flood of homesickness. He clenched his teeth and turned his back on the dark towers. Opposite stood the home of Adam Morrish, squeezed in between two churches. It seemed an inappropriate place for a Devil-like Amaury de Montfort – if that’s who Adam really was. The house’s windows were shuttered and all appeared silent. Determined to find out the truth, Thomas strode over to the front door and banged on it with his clenched fist. The sound of it echoed inside the house. Bacon’s mild, calm voice spoke from behind his shoulder.

‘It would seem the bird has flown. It was probably Morrish who spied on us at the school when we were tinkering with the medicine chest. He has been forewarned.’

Thomas’s shoulders slumped, but just as he was about to turn away the door sprung open. But the person revealed was not Adam Morrish, though he was very familiar to Thomas.

‘Jack Hellequin! What are you doing here?’

Jack grinned in that laconic way of his, his young face creasing in wrinkles.

‘I may ask the same of you, Master Symon. And I would guess we were seeking the same fellow. I came here to see if my education – and that of my fellow students – was to progress any further. Most of them have paid what few shillings they could afford to be taught for the year by Adam. Now it appears he has skipped with their money.’

Thomas turned to the friar in disappointment.

‘I think we are too late. He has gone. And we now have nothing to tell Falconer.’

Hellequin pricked up his ears at the mention of the name.

‘How is the master? Recovered from his close call on the bridge, I hope?’

Thomas nodded his head.

‘Oh, yes. It would take much more than almost falling to his death to shake William off his pursuit of justice.’

‘And I thought he was a simple scholar. Who has he been pursuing, then?’

Thomas winked conspiratorially.

‘The same person we have been seeking, as it turns out. His enquiries have taken him to the Royal Palace and the prison inside the Paris Temple. But he doesn’t yet know about Adam Morrish, or to be more precise…’

Thomas was about to reveal what they had learned about Morrish’s true identity but felt Bacon tap him on the sleeve of his robe. He looked quizzically at the friar, who intervened smoothly.

‘Thomas has a theory that Adam was responsible somehow for Paul Hebborn’s death. But it is too fanciful for my liking. But tell me, young man, do you know if some of your friends were stealing from your tutor? I am thinking of pleasant substances that it may on the surface appear harmless to dabble in.’

Hellequin looked down at his well-worn shoes. They were scuffed, but of the finest leather. He appeared to be examining them minutely before he found a response.

‘I am embarrassed to tell you. But you are correct in part of what you say. Yes, they have been… dabbling, as you suggest. I too have… dabbled. But the opium was not stolen. Master Adam gave it to Geoffrey Malpoivre to distribute only to his favourite pupils and in secret. He actually encouraged them to try it. He said it was a necessary part of learning about poisons and drugs. It got a little out of hand, that’s all. I think Paul fell…’ He looked up at the towers looming over them. ‘He must have fallen when too drugged to know where he was.’

Thomas winced at the thought of stepping off a tower into space, imagining the ground was still under your feet. It was a gruesome end to contemplate.

Saphira had been fearful of meeting Eleanor when she had been led into the woman’s private chamber. But once they had begun speaking, she had lost all her inhibitions. The dark-haired queen, very big with child, had motioned for Saphira to come closer to her chair. She had been hovering uncertainly in the doorway. But when she saw Eleanor’s swollen ankles, lifted up on a footstool in front of her, she behaved like any woman would.

‘My dear, what we women must go through for our men.’

She knelt at the queen’s feet and slowly massaged her legs. At first, Eleanor had protested, but, as she felt the relief, she relented.

‘That is so good. Are you trained in medicines?’

Saphira dipped her head.

‘I am following the ways of a wise man called Samson, who is teaching me all he knows.’

Eleanor accepted the obvious conclusion to be drawn from the man’s name, but did not bridle at Saphira being a Jew. She knew her own husband’s prejudices but did not share them. Instead, she spoke gently of the perils of childbirth, patting her stomach.

‘This will be my ninth.’

Saphira feigned astonishment.

‘Really? And you barely out of your teens.’

Eleanor giggled, aware of her own beauty but knowing too that she was beginning to show her thirty years. It was true she had been a child bride at ten years, when Edward was fifteen. But they had waited until she was eighteen before conceiving. And had supplied almost a child a year since. Saphira smiled too, and carried on rubbing the queen’s ankles.

‘Alas, I have only one son. Menahem looks after the family business and is a good boy. I did have a daughter, but she was stillborn.’

As she spoke, she could not believe she had said that. Not even William knew about that little sadness in Saphira’s life. Eleanor patted her arm.

‘My first three were either stillborn or died before they reached their first birthday. And another one the same when we were in Acre. I was beginning to feel we were cursed, until John came along.’ She sighed. ‘And then he died aged only five.’

It seemed natural for Saphira to ask her about the death of John, though she felt a little pang at doing so. She was motivated mainly by wanting to help William’s investigations. But she didn’t want to cause Eleanor to fall into a melancholy. She bit her lip, not daring to look at the queen, as she asked her about her dead son.

‘What happened? Do you know?’

‘We were told it was a fall from a horse. John was in the care of his uncle Richard at the time. He had probably badgered the old man to let him ride a horse too big for him. Richard gave in and was leading the horse by the rein with John up on its back. Apparently, the horse shied at some noise or other, and John fell. Even then he might have survived, but he was hit by one of the hooves.’ She shuddered. ‘Richard never forgave himself. His guilt must have contributed to his own illness, for it was not long after that he got the half-dead disease. He was paralysed down one side of his body, and he died four months later.’

‘Your husband must have been devastated.’

Eleanor winced and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

‘The strange thing was he didn’t show any emotion. Not like when his father died. When Charles of Anjou asked him about that, Edward shrugged it off, suggesting that a father was irreplaceable, but a son was not. And talking of sons…’

Eleanor gave a moan and clutched at Saphira’s hand.

‘You must help me, Mistress Le Veske, and employ some of that medical skill you claim. I think my baby is coming.’

Saphira rose and made to go to the door, saying that she would call a midwife. But Eleanor grasped her arm in a grip of steel such as only a warrior and gravid mother might possess.

‘Too late. The midwife and nurse have been sent on to Castile. I was to follow them but got delayed.’

Saphira knew what had caused the delay – the matter of Falconer’s investigation. Now it seemed that she was to reap the consequences. She took Eleanor’s arm and led her over to her bed. The queen slumped back on the beautifully embroidered coverlet. Saphira prayed such a marvel would not be ruined by the blood and waters of childbirth. She must have looked anxious, because Eleanor raised her head and smiled.

‘Don’t worry, mistress. You may not have attended the birth of a child before, but I have done it eight times before. I think I can remember what to do. Now, if you look in that chest by the fire, you will find a vial with a preparation of birthwort in it. That will ease the child out.’

Saphira knew of birthwort as both an aid to birth and a means of getting rid of an unwanted child. She rummaged in the chest until she found what she was looking for. It was a green glass vial with a fluid in it. She pulled out the stopper and held the vial to Eleanor’s lips, praying she did not exceed the safe measure. Next, carefully but with determination, she slid the embroidered cover from under Eleanor and eased her back on clean white linen. Then, with a moan from the queen, the birthing began in earnest.

Thomas decided he had to inform Falconer of his uncovering of Adam Morrish’s identity as soon as he could. Knowing Falconer was probably seeking a de Montfort in connection with his own mission, he saw they were on converging pathways. His first instinct was to make for the abbey and hope William was not with Saphira in the Jewish quarter. But when he reached the St Victor Gate, Thomas was confronted with a peculiar sight. Instead of there being a steady flow of people in and out of the gate, there was total confusion. Crowds of angry citizens milled around the archway, pushing and shoving each other in their desire to pass through. It was apparent, however, that no one was being allowed out of the gate. Thomas could not see what the obstruction was until he too had elbowed his way closer.

Four soldiers stood impassively under the arch, blocking it completely, while a sergeant-at-arms argued with those pressing to leave the city. One by one, people were being permitted to pass, but only after close scrutiny by the sergeant. And only if they were elderly men, or women of any age. Men of Thomas’s age were being turned back, and most of them were becoming increasingly angry at the situation. One young man, his age evidenced by the wispy hair that grew on his upper lip and chin, forced his way red-faced through the throng. Thomas ventured a question.

‘What is going on?’

The youth spat on the ground.

‘You tell me. They will not let us out of the gate. And I have tried the Ste-Geneviève Gate too. It’s the same thing.’

Someone piped up from just behind Thomas.

‘And at St-Germain, and St-Michel also. We are locked in the city.’

The two speakers seemed ready for a fight, and Thomas discreetly slipped away from the growing angry mob. He decided to head for Saphira’s house, hoping that the bridges over the Seine were not similarly blocked and that he might find Falconer there. He had no need. Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed him and pulled him free of the milling crowd and up a side alley that was quieter than the main thoroughfare. It was Falconer, who had been waiting for him for some time.

‘Thomas. Where have you been? I have been hanging around here for ages in order to waylay you. Come with me to Saphira’s, and we can talk in safety. Paris will be like a tinderbox tonight.’

As they hurried through the streets and across the Ile de la Cité, Falconer explained the reason for the closing of the city’s gates. Edward had persuaded King Philip to undertake it in order to trap Amaury de Montfort. He thought Edward’s efforts would prove to be in vain.

‘He will never find Amaury in this way. In fact, he has probably warned him off, and the man will lie low for a while in a safe place. Heaven knows where that will be.’

Thomas grinned in delight at knowing something William didn’t.

‘I think I can help you with that conundrum, William.’

He began to explain his suspicions about Adam Morrish’s identity. How his history matched up with that of the youngest de Montfort brother through his education at Padua medical schools, and his disdain of the value of books.

‘It was your remark about his not caring about returning those medical texts that put me in mind of the discarded books in Adam’s solar. And Friar Bacon and I were able to confirm my suspicion with a man called Siger of Brabant. He had been rector of the university when Adam proposed opening up his school. It seems it was known to only a few that using the name Adam Morrish was a way of Amaury concealing himself.’

As the two of them entered Pletzel, Falconer became quite excited by the revelations.

‘Perhaps he was not just hiding away from Edward but lying in wait for him. It was inevitable that the king would come to Paris on his way back from Outremer. It would offer Amaury another chance to attempt to kill him.’ He stopped abruptly in the little alley that led to Saphira’s house. ‘You said you might know where he could be hiding. Where would that be?’

‘I know where Adam… Amaury… is living.’ His face fell. ‘But he was not there when Bacon and I went round.’

‘We have to assume that Edward’s closing of the gates has kept him in the city, though. He doesn’t know yet that we have discovered who he is pretending to be. He is most likely to have gone back to the house to wait for the hue and cry to die down.’ He grasped Thomas’s shoulder in a firm grip. ‘We have to try it. Show me where this house is.’

‘It is close by Notre-Dame. But shouldn’t we speak to Mistress Le Veske first?’

Thomas pointed at the house before he realized it was in darkness.

‘Or at least leave a message.’

Falconer waved his hand dismissively.

‘I am afraid Saphira has other more important matters to attend to. It appears she is assisting in the birthing of a child for Edward. If it is a boy, he is to be called Alfonso.’

Thomas stood stock-still, dumbfounded at this unusual turn of events. But Falconer was already walking back down the winding lane. He beckoned impatiently at Thomas.

‘Come, Thomas, show me where this house is. We will loiter in the precincts of the cathedral and see if our quarry turns up.’

TWENTY-FIVE

A
s it turned out, Falconer and Thomas Symon had no need to hide away when they reached Notre-Dame. The great arched entrance to the cathedral, topped with the new rose window, was thronging with people. Thomas wondered if it was because of the trouble at the gates to the city. Would the angry crowd turn into an uncontrollable mob? But the mood of those passing in and out of the cathedral was of joy and calm, not anger. Falconer stopped a cheerful-looking matron, who was bustling towards Notre-Dame, and asked her in French what the occasion of all the activity was. She grinned broadly and replied in an English that placed her as coming from the Essex marshes, east of the English capital.