Having spent a few days in Canterbury, refreshed they had struggled along the road towards London. Crossing the Thames by London Bridge was a struggle. The bridge had buildings and shops cluttering both sides, and this narrowed each of the two lanes to no more than six feet. Crowds of people on foot were pushing to get from one side to the other, while others were lingering in front of the shops examining the wares on offer. The shop signs in the form of the articles sold within were hung just high enough for Falconer and Saphira on horseback to clear them. They followed the north shore of the river west and out beyond the city walls. They rode down the Strand to pick up the old Roman road called Akeman Street, and the route took them close by the Royal Palace on the river bank.
Around the Palace of Westminster there was already building work going on. Masons and carpenters were busy constructing temporary halls around the sides of the palace. When Falconer asked them what they were doing, one of the masons briefly stopped his chiselling of a piece of stone.
‘This is for the coronation of the new king. Extra rooms for the princes and nobles to banquet in.’
Falconer and Saphira thanked him and rode off on their hired rounceys, not wanting to tell the mason that he could take his time about the building. When they had left France, Edward had been on his way to Gascony, not England.
They stayed only one night just outside London, preferring to reach Oxford and home as soon as possible. But further along Akeman Street, approaching a hamlet unknown to Saphira, Falconer pulled up his horse and stared across the river valley and marshes to their right. Looming over the little town they were approaching was an old Norman motte-and-bailey castle. It gave the impression that little had changed in this neck of the woods since the arrival of William two hundred years ago. Saphira didn’t know why William had suddenly become so pensive. She wheeled her horse around and trotted back to where he sat on his horse.
‘Where is this, William? And what on earth is going through that cluttered mind of yours?’
Falconer pointed at the old castle.
‘Thomas Becket once held this castle. It is said to have bankrupted him.’
‘Very interesting. Shall we get going?’
Falconer remained stock-still.
‘Eventually, Richard of Cornwall took it over.’
‘The king’s uncle?’
‘Yes, and he died here.’ He paused. ‘And so did young Prince John.’
‘Ah.’
Saphira now knew what was on William’s mind. She knew how he hated loose ends and unresolved puzzles. It was not enough that he had pulled together all the facts about the other deaths connected with Amaury de Montfort. He would have to resolve the mystery around Edward’s son John or it would be like a worm nibbling at his brain forever.
Falconer kicked his rouncey’s flanks and trotted into the hamlet of Berkhamsted looking for an inn. He wanted to stay in the same place Sir Humphrey had told him about. He only knew that it overlooked the River Bulbourne and had a view of the castle, and that the innkeeper’s name was Roger Brewer. Saphira followed him, knowing better than to ask William any questions at this stage. He would only become taciturn and clam up. She knew that, if she let him brood, he would explain everything to her eventually. But she did wonder why he rode past three perfectly good and clean-looking inns, only to settle on a drab and ramshackle place hard by the river. It promised to be a damp, uncomfortable night.
Falconer knew it was the inn because of its location, with the keep of the castle looming over it just as Segrim had said. For propriety’s sake, they took two rooms high in the eaves of the inn. But Saphira soon bustled into the dark, damp cupboard that was William’s quarters. She sat expectantly on the low pallet covered with a straw mattress, watching Falconer look out of the unglazed window at the castle opposite. Eventually, he turned back into the tiny room.
‘This is where Segrim saw Odo de Reppes pass by on the night that Richard of Cornwall died. The interesting thing is that the Templar didn’t use the main highway…’ He pointed to Akeman Street that ran beyond the wall on the opposite side of the room. ‘Instead, he sneaked down there… the back lane between the inn and the river.’
‘But as he had killed Richard, would that not be the normal way of a murderer?’
Falconer frowned, something niggling at his memory.
‘Perhaps. Though I don’t see de Reppes as one who skulks. And there is another problem.’
‘What is that?’
‘I am not sure he did kill Richard.’
‘But did he not admit himself, when you questioned him, that Amaury had commanded him to murder Richard?’
Falconer fidgeted from one foot to the other. The room was too small to accommodate both him and Saphira, and he loved to pace when thinking. He moved to the door.
‘Let us go outside and walk along the lane. There is a thought in my head, and it won’t come out when I am so confined.’
The grass along the back lane, which was no more than a rough path along the river bank, was wet, and the hem of Saphira’s dress was soon soaked. But she bore it in order to hear what William had to say. He pursed his lips, as if trying to force out the hidden fact that worried at his brain.
‘Odo told me that when he got to Berkhamsted, Richard was as good as dead. He said he had no need to do anything himself.’
‘Surely he said that Richard was as good as dead because he had suffered a stroke?’
Falconer shook his head.
‘That is what I took him to mean at first. But then I got to thinking. Richard was stricken by the half-dead disease around the Feast of St Mawes of Falmouth in December. He didn’t die until April, so Odo could not have imagined his victim was near death. He had already survived four months. I now think that Odo meant that when he entered the castle to kill Richard, he found him already dead. By another’s hand.’
TWENTY-NINE
After an uneasy night, Falconer and Saphira Le Veske met the next morning in the gloomy parlour of Brewer’s Inn to break their fast. They had slept in separate rooms as neither of their pallets was wide enough to accommodate more than one body. In fact, in Falconer’s case it did not even achieve that, and he spent the night with his feet sticking out over the end of the bed. Saphira sipped on the weak ale in the battered goblet set before her, thinking longingly of sweet red wine. A wooden bowl of dry bread was placed in front of them by a surly young lass with crossed eyes and boils. Falconer eagerly dipped the bread in his ale to soften it and began to eat. With a sigh, Saphira proposed that William explain himself further.
‘What evidence do you have for supposing someone else killed Richard? And who do you think it would be?’
Falconer put a finger to his lips and hissed.
‘We should keep our voices down. Richard was the lord of the manor here, and some may not take kindly to suggestions that he was murdered.’
Saphira looked pointedly around the parlour. It was empty of people other than themselves and an old man snoring loudly beside the ashes of the previous night’s fire. It was just as well that the fire had died, because his feet, wrapped in rags, were stretched out perilously close to the heap of ashes that had once been a cheerful blaze.
‘We should have to shout very loud to be heard in this place. Though I dare say, if you asked for the bill in a whisper, the landlord would be here soon enough.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Shall we try?’
Falconer knew better than to cross Saphira when she was sounding so reasonable. It had been almost disastrous once. He did not want to annoy her again.
‘It may be a good idea to call for Roger Brewer. He might be able to tell us about the night Richard died, and something of what the people thought of him when he was alive.’
Saphira was correct in her assumption. As soon as Falconer called for the bill, Roger was bustling around collecting the leavings of their sparse breakfast. Whisking the coins Falconer offered into his purse, he seemed at first amenable to Falconer’s questions.