‘And then he took it too far.’ Meg now had a determined look on her face. Nothing would stop her now. ‘The Lord Richard was set on putting poor John on horseback.’
But it had not been a quiet rouncey he had selected, but Richard’s own skittish and enormously powerful destrier. The massive horse he himself rode into battle. All the servants present could see the fear in the little boy’s eyes, but there was nothing they could do. The destrier had been brought from the stables by one of the stable-hands, and it stood in the centre of the courtyard. As it danced nervously on the end of its rein, its iron hoofs struck sparks off the hard stone slabs under it. Richard himself lifted the boy on to the horse’s back, where for a while he perched like a wart on an old man’s face. Then it happened. The horse reared and threw John to the ground. Everyone could see he was dead, for his neck was horribly twisted, broken by the fall. Richard just walked away in silence.
Annie was weeping, and Meg’s voice had broken in the telling. Falconer was a little disappointed. Saphira had already told him the story Eleanor had told her about John’s death. This just seemed to confirm a sad accident, caused by Richard’s foolishness. But then Meg had a final thing to say.
‘It was put down as a terrible accident. But Tom the stable-hand swears that he saw Lord Richard rake the pommel of his sword across the horse’s flank just after he put John in the saddle. It was deliberate, he says.’
A deathly silence had followed this revelation, and the women were swiftly dismissed. As Zellot and his guests considered their next actions, the sky darkened and large drops of rain began to fall. The castle felt cold, damp and gloomy, as if it had been in mourning for the dead for years. Falconer knew he had to check the women’s story in case it was just rumour.
‘Is Tom still a servant here?’
Zellot looked up at Falconer, his eyes reddened from the wine he had consumed since hearing the terrible tale. He nodded his head.
‘He is the only one left in the stables. There are not many horses to look after now. And yes, before you ask, you can speak to him. Offer him some reward, if you have to. God knows he needs some help in the stables. But don’t tell me the result of your interrogation. I don’t want to know. Then I can pretend what I heard was all servants’ gossip.’
‘We will leave immediately after we have spoken to Tom.’ Falconer patted Zellot’s arm. ‘You are a good man, John Zellot. Stick to your task, and you will be rewarded.’
Zellot was not so sure, but he stood and shook Falconer’s hand and kissed Saphira’s. She had one bit of advice for him as they departed.
‘Don’t drink too much, Master Zellot. And practise your swordplay at the lists, not on defenceless goblets.’
As she and Falconer walked across the courtyard, heads bent against the relentless rain, she asked him a question.
‘Do you really think Zellot will be rewarded for babysitting this old castle?’
‘I’m afraid not. Poor man, he was so ambitious when we last saw him at Westminster. I fear he will now be forgotten in this arsehole of a place.’
Entering the run-down stable that stank of horse piss and rotting straw, Falconer spotted a bent-backed old man lovingly rubbing down their two rounceys. He called out.
‘Tom?’
The old man straightened his back with a wince of pain and peered at the two people who had entered his domain. He was ashamed of its state, but he was too old to look after it properly by himself. In its heyday, the castle had a dozen stable-lads running around.
‘I am Tom, sir. What is it you might want? I have looked after your mounts as well as I could, sir.’
‘You have done a good job, Tom. As I am told you have for many years for Master Zellot, Lord Edmund and his father Richard before him.’
Tom squinted suspiciously at the black-clad man. He was not used to flattery, and when it came he was sure something awkward was to follow. He shuffled his feet waiting for it. He did not have to wait long. The red-haired woman hung back in the shadows, and the man asked the question Tom had been fearing for the last two years.
‘Meg and Annie have been telling us about the death of poor Prince John. They said you told them something about it. Something you saw.’
Tom poked at the dirty straw with his sandal.
‘Those two blabbermouths should keep their traps shut. I saw nothing.’
Saphira stepped forward, touching Tom’s arm gently.
‘There is nothing to fear. No one will know it was you who told us. And John Zellot will reward your honesty. He might even be persuaded to find a stable-lad to make your work here a little lighter.’
She could sense that the old man was weakening. He wanted to tell his tale to someone. She held her breath, and finally it tumbled out.
‘I did see something. It was unmistakeable, especially when I tell you that the boy used to argue with the master all the time. And Richard hated being crossed by anyone. But even more so by young John, who never stopped reminding the master that he would be king one day. Even so, the master shouldn’t have put the little lad on such a wild and large animal. He had no hope of controlling it. Then I saw Lord Richard hold the scabbard of his sword at the top and poke the pommel in the horse’s flank and rake it down. He must have intended the boy some harm, but God alone knows if he meant to kill him. But kill him he did.’
Saphira thanked the old stable-hand and took the reins of her rouncey from his hand. She and Falconer led their horses out into the rain and mounted, gathering their cloaks around them. It would be a miserable journey onwards to Oxford. As they plodded towards the castle’s inner drawbridge, Tom called out after them.
‘I think he was remorseful afterwards — Lord Richard. I reckon that is what brought on the attack that led to him suffering from the half-dead disease. And his eventual death.’
Falconer checked the progress of his horse, thinking of how to ask his question.
‘Did you expect Richard’s death, when it came? Was he too ill to survive?’
‘No, that’s the funny thing. Master hated the state he was in, but that had made him even more cantankerous. He wasn’t frail, or near death. So it came as a surprise when he died in his sleep like that.’
The rain beat down, and Falconer and Saphira bowed their heads and rode off westwards.
THIRTY-ONE
The Feast of St Edward the Confessor, the Fifth Day of January 1274
Falconer had been waiting months for some news from Paris. It was a reply to an enquiry he had sent for the attention of Grand Master Guillaume de Beaujeu. He had expected and hoped that it would come soon, for it would have concluded his long-drawn-out enquiry into the lethal activities of Amaury de Montfort. Once known to him as Jack Hellequin. Falconer wanted Guillaume to question Odo de Reppes once again about the night Richard of Cornwall died. He was still convinced that Odo had meant him to understand he was not responsible for Richard’s death. That Amaury had desired it, but that the Templar had been too late to carry out his task. Someone had beaten him to it. Falconer needed Odo to tell him all he knew about that night. But in lieu of travelling once again to the Paris Temple at the Marais, where Odo was incarcerated, he had to rely on Guillaume being his agent. Now months had passed without a reply to his letter, and he felt very frustrated. His only consolation was that King Edward was still tied up in Gascony and had not returned to England to be crowned.