Falconer and the Death of Kings by Ian Morson

the side chapels, an ill-lit chamber where the cold made it quite suitable for the storage of a dead body. When the monk stepped aside, Falconer saw the corpse on a bier before the altar. The greyish shaft of light – heavy with dust motes – that filtered through the small circular window above only added to the melancholy scene. The body was shrouded in a white sheet that bore ominous dark stains on it. Reluctantly, Falconer drew the sheet aside. The sight made his gorge rise.
    The poor boy’s skull had been smashed and his face was distorted by the impact with the ground. But even so, Falconer could discern a look of horror in the bulging eyes, the pupils nothing but dark pools. Mercifully, the broken body was still clad in a particoloured surcoat over a white tunic, held tight by a belt from which hung the boy’s purse. The brightness of the surcoat and the red woollen hose that were on Hebborn’s legs suggested he was of noble birth. In Paris, as in Oxford, wealthy clerks were at pains to show off their station in life. But still, all his family’s wealth had not saved him from a terrible death.
    The patient monk whispered something that Falconer did not catch.
    ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’
    ‘I was asking if you had seen enough. Only it will soon be nones, and I must go and pray for his soul.’
    ‘Indeed.’ Falconer paused for a moment, as if moved by the sight of the boy who in fact he had never met. ‘I wonder if I may have a moment alone with… Paul.’
    The white-clad monk bowed his head in acquiescence and silently glided from the chapel. A short while later, Falconer followed him out. In response to the monk’s enquiry about the disposition of the body, he hesitated. The Trinitarian monk clearly still imagined he was somehow related to the boy, or acting on behalf of the family.
    ‘I am sure his family will be in touch very soon. Thank you for your time, Brother.’
    He hustled out of the convent before any more embarrassing questions could be asked of him. Hidden in his sleeve was the purse that had hung at Paul Hebborn’s waist.
    ‘You stole a dead person’s scrip?’
    Thomas, back from his long session noting down Roger Bacon’s thoughts, was sitting opposite Falconer at the long refectory table in St Victor’s Abbey. They were taking a modest supper, and though no one else sat close to them his tones were low. But he could still hardly believe what William had said that had caused his outburst. Falconer, for his part, soaked his crust in some ale and shovelled the sweet softness into his mouth. He smiled and swallowed before replying.
    ‘He no longer had any use for it, and it may yet tell us something about his death. I have not yet had chance to look inside it, but we can do that after vespers.’
    Symon paled.
    ‘We? So I am to be involved in this sacrilege, am I?’
    Falconer leaned across the scarred oak table and took the stale bread that his former student had left in front of him. He held it up questioningly. And when Thomas, with a sigh, ceded the scrap to him, Falconer repeated his previous manoeuvre, and chewed on another ale-soaked crust.
    ‘You know you are as curious as I am about this. You just don’t have the nerve to do what I did.’
    Thomas shook his head wearily and watched as Falconer rose from the table, wiping his fingers down the front of his shabby black robe.
    ‘Come. Let us return to the abbey guest house and see what we have recovered.’
    They left the refectory and walked along the south side of the cloister to the passage that gave out on to the separate buildings that made up the abbey’s infirmary and guest quarters. The two of them shared a room there, which in barely two months Falconer had cluttered with all sorts of curiosities and texts. Indeed, it had begun to resemble his own solar back in Aristotle’s Hall in Oxford. Thomas, who preferred tidiness around him, guessed that it made the regent master feel more at home in his temporary