Falconer and the Death of Kings (30 page)

As silence descended downstairs, Falconer became aware of the creaking of the old timbers of the house. And of his own solitude. He thought of Saphira only a few minutes’ walk away in Jewry. Convincing himself that he should consult her about Guillaume’s letter – that she would see through the text to the core of it – he scooped it up and went out into St John Street. Avoiding the already noisy taverns lining Shidyerd Street and Grope Lane, he crossed Vine Hall Lane and hurried down the dark narrow alley of Jewry Lane. Saphira’s house was just across Fish Street, and he let himself in. As he quietly closed the door, she called out from the back of the house.

‘William. I thought you might come. I have just taught Rebekkah how to make charoset. We are in the kitchen.’

Used to Saphira’s acute hearing and uncanny way of knowing his every move, Falconer made his way to the rear of the house. In the kitchen, sectioned off in the proper Jewish way, stood Saphira and her servant girl. Both had their sleeves rolled up, and Rebekkah had something stuck to the tip of her nose where she had rubbed it as she worked. Saphira spotted it and wiped it off, causing the girl to descend into a fit of the giggles. Sternly, Saphira told her she could go home now, as she would no longer be needed. Rebekkah looked at Falconer and started giggling again, before running off. The slam of the front door announced her departure. Saphira sighed.

‘One day I will teach her to be quiet in all things. Now sit down, William, and eat while you tell me what you have come here concerning.’

Falconer grinned and took a wooden spoon and dipped into the bowl of the delicious-looking dark concoction. He swallowed the sweetness and enquired what it was made of.

‘Nuts and apples chopped up, cinnamon, sweet wine and honey. The honey is for you, as the great Maimonides says honey is good for old people.’

Falconer took a swipe at her with the sticky spoon. But she was too quick for him, and he contented himself with taking another big helping from the bowl. Relieved to be back in favour with Saphira, and with their former relationship restored, he produced the letter and passed it over to her.

‘What do you make of this?’

Sitting across the table from him, she read it by the light of the candle that stood between them. She sighed.

‘Odo was your main hope for enlightenment about Richard’s death, wasn’t he?’

Falconer nodded.

‘Yes. And I have once again spoken to Sir Humphrey Segrim since returning home. He tells me the same story. Of seeing the Templar sneak out of Berkhamsted under cover of darkness on the very night Richard died. Why would he have done that other than because he had killed him?’

‘Did you reassure Segrim that Odo hadn’t been aware of his presence in Berkhamsted also on that night? That that could not then have been the reason Segrim’s wife Ann was killed – as some form of warning?’

‘Yes, he now accepts that he was not unwittingly the cause of her death.’

‘Good. Now tell me again what Odo told you when you spoke to him in the Templar prison.’

Falconer closed his eyes in concentration, picturing that horrible cell and the ragged skeleton that was all that was left of the once-strong and powerful Templar. He could see again how the man had been chained down to the floor apparently without the strength to lift up his burden. He strived to recall the words Odo had spoken.

‘He said he did go there to kill Richard at the behest of the de Montforts. He explained that he was King Henry’s brother after all, and what he called that same nest of vipers. Then he said… that when he had got there, he found he had no need to do anything. That God would not punish him for that death.’

Falconer opened his eyes and looked at Saphira.

‘I took him to mean that Richard’s stroke had already done that for him. But now I think he intended me to know that he had been beaten to it. That someone else had killed Richard, who up to then had apparently survived the stroke quite well.’

Now something else was trying to wriggle to the surface of Falconer’s mind, a piece of information Saphira had almost caused to surface. She looked at the letter again.

‘I wonder why he added the line at the end about praying for Edward’s success?’

‘I suppose because it is a formal letter, not a personal one. That is what I found odd in the first place. It is so unlike Guillaume.’

‘But now he is Grand Master of his order, he has so great a responsibility that personal friendships may not survive it. It is also odd that he says he prayed for Odo’s soul, and that he thought he was now free. Is it not a sin in Christian eyes to commit self-murder?’

Falconer suddenly saw again the picture in his mind of Odo on the floor of his cell, and he knew what Guillaume had been trying to tell him. What a fool he was – it had been in front of his eyes all the time. He leaned across the table and gave Saphira a honey-laden kiss.

‘Thank you, Mistress Le Veske. You have solved the case.’

THIRTY-TWO

The Feast of St Magnus Martyr, the Nineteenth Day of August 1274

T
he Palace of Westminster was abuzz with activity. Every kitchen available had been commandeered to prepare a feast of swans, peacocks, cranes, oxen, swine, sheep, goats, chickens and rabbits. A silken canopy hung with silver bells had been set up above carpeted paths running from the palace to the Abbey Church. It was the day of Edward’s coronation, and yet among all this bustle he had found a moment for himself. Away even from Eleanor, his queen. Only a short while ago, a harassed Sir John Appleby had come to him with a message. The courtier was gaudier than ever on this auspicious day, but his face was ashen.

‘Majesty, I am truly sorry to disturb you at such a time. But Master Falconer says he must see you as a matter of urgency. I tried to put him off, insisting that you could not be interrupted in your preparations for the coronation. But he said to tell you it was about… Prince John.’

Edward’s face had fallen, and he had told Appleby to bring Falconer to him in his private chamber. Now he awaited the meeting wondering what information the Oxford master had concerning the death of his child. He did not have long to wait, as almost immediately footsteps could be heard outside his chamber. They stopped outside the door, and there was a brief silence, presumably while Appleby plucked up the courage to knock. Edward spared him the anguish and called out his command.

‘Send Master Falconer in, Sir John. We will get this over with, and then we can concentrate on the coronation ceremony.’

The door opened, and Falconer stepped in the room, his normal shabby black robe in marked contrast to the king. Edward wore a deep-blue, voluminous cloak clipped with a golden brooch on one shoulder so it hung on him like an ecclesiastical cope. Under it was a white linen shirt, which was edged with motifs embroidered in gold thread. He was newly clean-shaven, and his hair was carefully arranged. He beckoned for Falconer to enter and called out to the hovering Appleby.

‘Sir John, go and see if the queen is ready. You may close the door.’

With a palpable sense of humiliation in the air, the door was closed behind Falconer. Smiling, the king waited until he heard Appleby’s footsteps retreating down the passage. Only then did he turn back to Falconer and ask him to begin.

‘We will keep what is said between ourselves I think, Master Falconer. What have you to tell me that could not wait until after my coronation?’

‘Sire, I wished to complete the task you set me in Paris last year.’

‘But you did all I could ask of you. You identified Amaury’s involvement in the attempt on my life, in the conspiracy that killed my cousin Henry, and in the murder of my uncle. It was no reflection on your skills that Amaury slipped through the net. And you did help foil his attempt on the life of Eleanor and Alfonso.’

‘Well, that was thanks to Saphira more than myself. And I never did connect de Montfort with the death of your son John.’

Edward looked at the floor, sadness in his eyes.

‘Ah, well, that is a forgivable omission, when you were in Paris and the events had taken place in England. We shall say no more of that. Sons, after all, can be replaced.’

The king was ready to dismiss him, but Falconer was not going to be diverted from the path he had chosen to tread. A path he had determined on months earlier in Oxford. Pursuit of the truth and its revelation held sway over all other considerations. Even his own personal safety. He took a deep breath and continued relentlessly.

‘Yes. That may well be. But as I returned to England soon after failing to locate Amaury, I could not fail in my duty again. I took the opportunity of passing through Berkhamsted to see if I could uncover anything about his death. And that of your uncle, Richard.’

Edward lifted his gaze from the floor and fixed it on Falconer. But he said nothing, and Falconer went on.

‘You see, I had doubts anyway about Richard’s death. In fact, on reflection I was uneasy about the whole investigation I conducted in Paris.’

‘In what way?’

‘The paths that all led to Amaury de Montfort were all too easy to follow. I had the feeling I was being led by the nose.’

Edward smiled wistfully.

‘You are no fool, are you, Master Falconer? I think I underestimated you. It is true I aided your investigations by pointing you at the right people – my own men-at-arms, and my wife. But I made a mistake when I led you towards Odo de Reppes. I did not know then what he knew about my uncle. Still, that has all been rectified.’

Falconer knew he had just had his suspicion – his greatest fear – confirmed. His friendship with Guillaume de Beaujeu was shattered to pieces. The Grand Master must have agreed with Edward to silence Odo in return for future influence in worldly affairs. He could imagine what had happened in Odo’s cell.

Guillaume took the key of the tower from his sergeant and dismissed him. He climbed alone up the narrow spiral staircase to the top and unlocked the heavy cell door. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door. Odo stirred under his burden of chains, which pinned him to the floor. He was weak and parched from lack of food and water, which had been deliberately withheld for days. Still his eyes sparkled, and when he saw the Grand Master alone, he knew. He parted his cracked lips.

‘It is time. Thanks be to God.’

Guillaume stepped swiftly over to him, turning him so Odo’s back was towards him, and grabbed a loop of the chains on his wrists. He looped the chain around Odo’s windpipe and pulled it tight. Odo emitted a stifled choking sound, and his feet drummed on the floor of the cell. Guillaume held on long after the body had gone limp, then let it fall. Feeling sick inside, he left the chamber with the door ajar; de Reppes was not going anywhere but to meet his Maker.

Falconer knew Odo had not killed himself, because in his letter to Falconer Guillaume had referred to a loop high on the wall that the Templar had been chained to. There had been no such loop, and Falconer knew that only too well once he had envisioned the scene at Saphira’s instigation. And she had been right about the other matter. Guillaume would not have prayed for the soul of a self-murderer who was condemned to Hell. The missive had been a sort of confession by Guillaume to salve his own conscience.

Falconer stared calmly back at Edward. He was not intimidated and laid out what he knew.

‘You got de Beaujeu to dispatch Odo, but it was too late. The Templar had already told me that he was not responsible for the death of Richard. So I had to ask myself who was. Who had the best reason to kill him? Then I saw it. It all came back to the death of your son, didn’t it?’

Edward suddenly flew into a rage, stomping around the room and scattering gilded goblets from the table in the corner with a sweep of his arm.

‘The bastard killed my son. He was supposed to be caring for him while Eleanor and I were in Outremer. So he stuck him on a horse too powerful for John, and then made the animal shy and throw the boy off. The beast trampled John underfoot, and Richard just walked away. He was always jealous of his brother, my father, knowing he would never be king. Even that petty courtesy title of his didn’t help. King of the Germans was not enough for him. He had to have his revenge. Well, I made him pay for what he did.’

Falconer’s blue eyes bored into the king’s visage.

‘You had your uncle killed, didn’t you? You couldn’t do it with your own hand, but you arranged it to happen. Strangely, it was on the very night that Odo de Reppes turned up in Berkhamsted to kill him on behalf of Amaury de Montfort.’

Edward snarled in frustration.

‘Yes, damn him. If I had waited another day or two, I would not have needed to kill him myself. Still, it was sweet to be the cause of his death. That was my revenge. For John.’

The rage that had flooded over Edward was as suddenly gone, and the king was once again calm. He rearranged his cloak and ran his fingers through his thick black hair.

‘Now, Master Falconer, I must thank you for your persistence, but I have a coronation to attend.’

Falconer sat brooding over a goblet of sweet red wine that Saphira had put before him. They were lodging in London’s Jewry in a house on the corner of Milk Street and Cheapside. The streets outside were quiet, as almost everyone was thronged around Westminster Hall, where Edward and Eleanor were feasting. The coronation had been a great event, and everyone had welcomed Edward as a great and noble king. Falconer groaned.

‘I have failed completely. I unearth one murderer in Jack Hellequin, who turns out to be Amaury de Montfort. And he disappears into the protective folds of the Pope’s skirts. And then I unmask another murderer in the shape of the new King of England, who is far out of my reach.’

Saphira put an arm around his shoulders.

‘You did catch Adam Morrish, and he has been hanged for the murders of Paul Hebborn and John Fusoris. And you were brave enough to confront the king with the truth. I know of no other man who would dare do that.’

Falconer picked up the goblet and drank deep.

‘Tomorrow we escape this mad city and return to the small and safe world of Oxford, where all that matters is the debate over the number of angels on the head of a pin.’