Falconer and the Death of Kings by Ian Morson Page B

buzzing with activity, and Falconer could not blank out the sound by burying his head. What made it worse was that young Thomas fitted into the routine of the monks so easily. Dawn had barely sneaked its way into their chamber, and Symon was already up and dressed. He cheerfully called out that he was on his way to see Dean Osterwiic, and would then ask around Paul Hebborn’s former fellows for information.
    ‘And then I will start my work for Friar Bacon. What do you intend to do with your time, William?’
    Falconer groaned.
    ‘I did intend to dissect open a young master of Oxford University. But unfortunately he is still alive.’ He grabbed the nearest object to throw at Thomas Symon. He launched it before realizing it was Hebborn’s purse. ‘Get out of here, and leave me in peace.’
    From under his bedclothes, Falconer heard the muffled laughter of his young companion and the slamming of the door. He couldn’t sleep, however, because he could think only of the flame-headed Saphira Le Veske. His lover had plagued his thoughts ever since he had arrived in Paris. Even though they were no longer separated by the Channel, he felt as far away from her as ever. Their final disagreement returned again and again in his head. Right from the moment he expressed his concern about her travelling alone, and her indignant retort. She had said he was overbearing, and he had knowingly walked right into the trap.
    ‘And I am just a celibate teacher in holy orders who has no rights over you, I suppose.’
    That had made Saphira see red and come up with a heated reply.
    ‘Of course you have no rights over me, William.’
    His next thoughtless sentence had sealed his fate. Repeating it over and over in his head did not alleviate the stupidity of it. Nor could it cause it to be retracted.
    ‘Why can’t you just do as I say for once?’
    For Falconer, the words fell to the ground with just as leaden a weight this morning as they had done months before. He groaned again, understanding at last just what he had done, and swung his bare legs out of the bed. Reaching for his black robe, he pulled it on over his linen undershirt and scrubbed his unshaven face with his calloused hands. Just as he bent down to pick up the purse he had tossed at Thomas, there was a knock at the door. He stuffed the scrip in his own purse and opened the door.
    Before him stood a stocky man in his middle years, accoutred in the dress of the English court. He wore a dark-blue cloak over his deep-red surcoat, which was slit up the front to reveal yellow cross-garters over the man’s red hose. His greying hair was topped with a blue sugarloaf hat, the brim being turned up in the latest fashion. Falconer smiled at the sight. The man was dressed more gaudily than any of his rich students back in Oxford, but he was far too old to be so garbed. The peacock smiled, and spoke with a West Country accent.
    ‘Regent Master William Falconer? My name is Sir John Appleby, and I am the servant of King Edward. May I speak?’
    ‘Well, sir, it seems you already have.’
    The man ignored Falconer’s terse rejoinder, and the master could see that this vision in red and blue was not going to be put off by his manner. He stepped aside and beckoned the man in to his cluttered quarters. He was glad that he had at least risen and had not been caught abed. King Edward’s messenger entered the cell and cast a judicious eye around the interior. His gaze, when it returned to Falconer, did not betray anything but a bland pleasantness. Falconer asked him his business.
    ‘Why, the king’s business, of course. I have a message from His Majesty.’
    Appleby gazed around again, looking for somewhere to sit. But discerning no place that was not piled high with books and papers other than the dishevelled bed, he remained standing. He began the speech that Edward had taxed him with learning that very morning.
    Edward, as it turned out, was an earlier riser than even Sir John. A result no