‘Did I do well, Edward?’
The king nodded.
‘Perfectly. You have set him on the right track, my dearest.’
Falconer found his own way back to the subterranean world that was the soldiers’ quarters. With any luck, Clisby and Cloughe would still be off duty, as little must be required of them in the French king’s palace. If not, he was determined to find them at their post, wherever that may be. But as he entered the crypt-like chamber, he saw he was in luck. There was a gaggle of men-at-arms lounging on their pallets. Most had their heavy chain mail off and were relaxing in their undershirts and breeches. There was a smell of stale sweat in the air that reminded Falconer of any number of billets he had experienced from Bologna to Vienna. His own past rose up in his mind and reminded him that, even though these men looked at ease, they would still be alert to intrusion or impending danger. Predictably, several sharp eyes turned his way. One grey-haired old veteran, his hands clasped behind his head, called out pleasantly.
‘Are you lost, master? This den of iniquity is surely not where you aimed to be.’
Falconer smiled easily, casting his eyes around the room for the two men he sought. He cursed his poor eyesight, but did not wish to show his weakness by putting on his eye-lenses.
‘Indeed it is, my friend. I am looking for John Clisby and Thomas Cloughe. Can you tell me if they are here?’
There was a brief lull in the general chatter that had filled the room before it began again, though in a more tense, artificial manner. Everyone seemed to be covering up something they would rather hide from this intruder. Falconer felt a cold shiver of apprehension run down his spine. Only the old soldier appeared unperturbed by his question.
‘I am afraid you are too late, master. They have gone.’
‘Well, if they are on duty somewhere, can you tell me where that is? I spoke to them earlier today and would like to ask them for some more information.’
The old man eased himself up from his prone position, turning to lean on one elbow.
‘You misunderstand me, friend. Thomas and John have left. They have been sent on ahead to Gascony to prepare the ground for the king when he travels there to see to his holdings. It is said Gaston de Béarn is in revolt again and needs his arse tanning.’
The soldiers near to the man burst out in coarse laughter at his jest. They were obviously absorbing every word that was said between him and Falconer despite their apparent lassitude. Falconer felt sorry for this Gaston de Béarn, if these rough English soldiers were to be set on him. Even so, he was suspicious at the sudden departure of the main witnesses to Edward’s attempted assassination. Firstly, he had almost missed speaking to Eleanor, who no doubt by now was on her way to Castile. And now the two soldiers had been spirited away. He wondered if Sir John Appleby was interfering for some reason in his investigations. Was he envious of Falconer’s private access to the king? He could not be sure. He threw out a question to the room generally anyway, more in hope than expectation.
‘Is there anyone else here who was present in Acre when Anzazim was interrogated?’
His enquiry brought forth another roar of laughter, and Falconer stood still, puzzled by the reaction. It was the old soldier who set him to rights.
‘Everyone here was present when the bastard was interrogated as you put it. Though I am not sure I would call it such. Everyone wanted a piece of him, so we all crowded into the cell where he had been thrown by John Clisby, and we all gave him a good kicking.’ He waggled the heavy, studded boots that he still had on his feet. ‘He didn’t say much before he died.’
Falconer sighed. Another dead end, then. Almost literally. As he turned to go, though, the old man called after him.
‘He did beg a lot, mind you. And cursed both the king and those who had put him up to it.’
Falconer paused, hardly daring to ask the question that he burned to know the answer to.
‘And who did he say had put him up to it?’
The old man winked.
‘One of us lot, he said. A Latin, he said. Though those infidel bastards don’t know one Latin from another. As far as they are concerned, we all look alike. So he could have meant an Englishman, he could have meant a Frenchie, a Hungarian or a Slav. Who knows? Anyway, I stopped his foul mouth with my boot, and that was that.’
The rest of the soldiers cheered in approval of their comrade’s actions. Falconer was simply sad that Anzazim did not have the easy end that Eleanor had hoped for. But now the mood of the men around him had changed, and Falconer saw he had learned all he would be able to from them. But he was not that discontented. He now had some inkling of who might have paid the Assassin to act. That was more than he had had at the start of his day. He had a positive trail to follow, and tomorrow he would take it further. He already knew where he had to go.
TWELVE
Darkness had fallen on Paris, but the streets still bustled with life. A few wealthy merchants had servants rushing ahead of them with blazing torches, but most people strode boldly out in the centre of the main thoroughfares. They took care to keep away from the shadows of the overhanging buildings. Not only because they feared robbers might lurk in them, but to avoid tripping over the beggars who sat, often with starving curs curled at their feet, along the edges of the streets. Starvation was an ever-present curse that drove poor families off the land and into the city in hope of feeding themselves. Their plight made Thomas shiver, because it could so easily have been his own. If a benevolent local priest had not paid for his journey to Oxford and the university, he might have dragged his own family into penury. He was the fourth child that Peggy and Jack Symon had produced, and they could barely support three. Of course, Thomas could have worked on the land when he grew up and helped in that way. But the priest saw in the bright and eager child something worth fostering. He had gambled his stipend on Thomas and had been proved right. The eager farm boy was now Master Thomas Symon of Oxford with prospects before him.
As Thomas strode into the open space of the Place Maubert, he clutched the satchel he had slung over his shoulder. It contained the first part of Roger Bacon’s proposed compendium, and he needed to keep it safe. He couldn’t help thinking of what the friar had dictated. His hand had trembled at Roger Bacon’s words, and he had been half afraid to write them down. Even Pope Gregory had been criticized by the fearless Franciscan in words that still shone clearly in Thomas’s mind.
‘Everywhere we shall find boundless corruption, and first of all in the Head. The Holy See is torn by the deceit and fraud of unjust men. The whole Papal Court is defamed of lechery… the prelates run after money, neglect the cure of souls and promote their nephews and other carnal friends…’
He had tried to temper Bacon’s outpourings.
‘Master, do you think it is proper to condemn the Pope in such terms? It is not surely safe.’
Bacon had turned on him with a look of scorn on his face.
‘We are scholars, Thomas. Proper and safe are not scientific terms I understand. Facts and truth are what we seek, and when we find them we must proclaim their shining brightness. Shall we carry on?’
Thomas lowered his head in embarrassment. He had thought Falconer a hard taskmaster. He was beginning to think that Friar Bacon was going to be infinitely worse.