‘I’m sorry, Sir John, my hearing must be getting as bad as my eyesight. What did you say?’
‘I was saying that you should show respect in the king’s presence and refer to him as Your Majesty. He is only just growing into his new role, and he is not as secure in it as his father was. After all, Henry of Winchester ruled for more than fifty-six years, and…’
Falconer abruptly interrupted.
‘And saw off a rebellion of his barons. Yes, I know. But Edward himself was a canny operator. He was clever enough to switch sides back and forth in the Barons’ War. I doubt he is as vulnerable as you think.’
Appleby pulled a face.
‘Hmm. Be that as it may. He is your monarch, so don’t remind him of his switching of allegiance. He now professes to love his father.’ He stopped to eye up Falconer’s appearance. ‘What a pity you could not bring yourself to dress more appropriately. Still, he may appreciate your humble garb for what it is.’
Though making the best of Falconer’s one and only outer garment, the courtier could not resist flicking away some of the grime on his shoulder. He then pulled the jaunty sugarloaf hat off his own head, straightened his surcoat and knocked on the studded oak door that they stood before. A voice ushered them in, and Sir John opened the door, leading Falconer into the room.
Falconer’s first impression of Edward was of his height. But he was broad-shouldered too. His time in the Holy Lands had developed him as a fighter, and even Falconer had heard the tale of his recent exploits at the tourney in Châlons. Having stared at the king for some time, while Sir John announced him, Falconer realized Edward was assessing him too. He felt embarrassed, knowing his age was beginning to tell and that he was more than a little ragged around the edges. But when Edward spoke, he was reassured.
‘I can see there is a fighting man under that dowdy scholar’s robe, Master Falconer. Your shoulders tell me that you once wielded a sword, and you have not allowed the years to deprive you of your strength.’
Falconer felt childishly pleased by Edward’s recognition of his former life as a mercenary soldier. He had indeed spent his youth fighting wars across Europe. Until he had become sickened by the carnage. A horror that had grown to be greater than he had revelled in the chance being a mercenary had given him to see the world. The University of Bologna had been the turning point in his life, where he had begun again to devote himself to the world of scholarship. But the king was correct in his second surmise. He had tried to keep himself fit, considering it important to keep his body as sharp as his brain. However, he shook his head in regret.
‘Sadly, Majesty, the years are beginning to take their toll, and I am not as vigorous as I was.’
‘And yet your mind is not affected. Sir John tells me you have solved many intractable cases of murder in and around Oxford. Please sit.’
Falconer had the presence of mind to allow the king to sit before taking up the invitation to be seated himself. Sir John snapped his fingers, and a servant materialized with a jug of the best Rhenish, which he proceeded to pour into two goblets. Falconer thought of Saphira Le Veske, and her task in Honfleur of sorting out the family wine business. But his distracted thought was only fleeting, as the king was already embarking on a story of strange and terrible deaths that drew Falconer in. As he drank the red wine, Falconer listened closely to the tale. Then he had some questions to ask.
‘You say the attempt on your life was in June of 1272?’
‘Yes, by a servant called Anzazim, who was a local man but one who had proved himself loyal to me until that moment.’
‘And your uncle Richard, King of Germany, died in the April of the same year.’ Edward nodded, and Falconer continued. ‘But it could not have been the same person involved, as the two incidents were thousands of miles apart.’
‘I understand that. But I was not thinking of the person carrying out the deed when I asked you to investigate. Anzazim and whoever else it was were merely weapons wielded by someone in the shadows.’
‘But was Richard’s death murder? He had had a stroke and had been suffering from the half-dead disease for months. Could his demise not have been entirely natural?’
‘Yet all the reports I had later said he was recovering. Why did he suddenly die at that particular time, and so close to the attempt on my life? And as both were only a year since the outrage in Viterbo that involved the de Montforts, it leaves me deeply suspicious.’
‘Yes. I agree that the death of Henry of Almain, Richard’s son, was clearly a case of murder, and one where the perpetrators are known. Everyone in the Church of St Silvester witnessed it. Guy and Simon de Montfort are known to be the killers. So what can I add to that case?’
Edward sighed.
‘Nothing more, I suppose. But isn’t it an indication of who might have been involved in the other murders? Including that of my eldest son?’
‘Ah, yes. John, who died in Berkhamsted in the August of the same year, 1271.’
Falconer detected a wavering in Edward’s voice as he mentioned his one-time son and heir, John. Though he had no children of his own, Falconer could guess how cruel the death of a child could be. Even in a time when death was the natural bedfellow of birth. It was known that Edward and Eleanor had lost three daughters before John had been born. But they had all died either stillborn or as tiny infants. Life was precarious in the first years of any child’s existence. John had lived to a robust five years before his untimely death. And while in the care of his uncle Richard too. Could all these cases have a common thread? Falconer chose his next words carefully.
‘Majesty, I know this is hard for you, but you must realize in each of these cases the corpse is a long time cold in the ground.’ He heard Sir John wince at his apparent harshness, but he pressed on. ‘And the threads of truth that will need to be picked out are equally cold and buried deep. Where do you think I could possibly start?’
Edward sat upright in his chair, drawing on a mantle of majesty.
‘You can dig wherever you wish, Master Falconer. Sir John has a letter signed by me that gives you authority to question who you will from the highest to the lowest. Many of the men who surround me will have been present during at least one of these… incidents. And you may have as long as it takes to uncover the truth. Do it for John’s sake, if no one else’s.’
The king clicked his fingers, and Appleby gave Falconer a folded parchment that was to be his pass to all areas of the king’s life. Edward then rose from his chair and held out his hand. Falconer too got up and took his king’s hand, before retiring from the room. After the regent master had gone, Edward looked at Appleby, a big grin on his face.
‘I think that went well, don’t you, Sir John?’
Appleby nodded eagerly.
‘Indeed, sire. I think you pointed him in the right direction.’
Thomas was making good progress in his search for information about Paul Hebborn. While the students of Adam Morrish sat in the gloomy schoolroom waiting for their master, they chatted idly with him. Three of them had known Hebborn quite well, even though the boy had been quite stand-offish. Geoffrey Malpoivre, a stocky but elegantly dressed individual, suggested that Hebborn had been encumbered by his stammer.
‘He could hardly get a single word out without tripping over it. It made him awkward and reluctant to mix with the rest of us. I tried to draw him into our circle, but to no avail.’
‘So you are of the opinion that he took his own life.’
Malpoivre shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in a Gallic gesture Thomas was beginning to recognize. It suggested a fatal resignation.
‘What other conclusion could you come to?’
A lively youth called Peter de la Casteigne could not resist chipping in.
‘The story is that he was pushed, though. You all know how John Fusoris teased him. He made Paul’s life a misery.’