Free Falconer and the Death of Kings by Ian Morson Page A

Falconer too got up and took his king’s hand, before retiring from the room. After the regent master had gone, Edward looked at Appleby, a big grin on his face.
    ‘I think that went well, don’t you, Sir John?’
    Appleby nodded eagerly.
    ‘Indeed, sire. I think you pointed him in the right direction.’
    Thomas was making good progress in his search for information about Paul Hebborn. While the students of Adam Morrish sat in the gloomy schoolroom waiting for their master, they chatted idly with him. Three of them had known Hebborn quite well, even though the boy had been quite stand-offish. Geoffrey Malpoivre, a stocky but elegantly dressed individual, suggested that Hebborn had been encumbered by his stammer.
    ‘He could hardly get a single word out without tripping over it. It made him awkward and reluctant to mix with the rest of us. I tried to draw him into our circle, but to no avail.’
    ‘So you are of the opinion that he took his own life.’
    Malpoivre shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in a Gallic gesture Thomas was beginning to recognize. It suggested a fatal resignation.
    ‘What other conclusion could you come to?’
    A lively youth called Peter de la Casteigne could not resist chipping in.
    ‘The story is that he was pushed, though. You all know how John Fusoris teased him. He made Paul’s life a misery.’
    Jack Hellequin raised a cautionary hand.
    ‘You can’t go around saying things like that. Fusoris is not here to defend himself, and to all intents and purposes you are accusing him of murder.’
    ‘Who is being accused of murder?’
    The tone of the voice was commanding, and all, including Thomas, turned to look at who had spoken. In the doorway of the room stood a slight figure of a man, silhouetted by the daylight filtering in from outside. Thomas could not make out his features as only one candle burned in the room itself. But his guess that this was Master Adam Morrish was confirmed when Jack Hellequin stepped forward and spoke up.
    ‘Master Adam, we were merely having an exchange of views about Paul’s death. Idle speculation on our part. Nothing serious.’
    Adam Morrish stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. As he stood in the light cast by the flickering candle, Thomas was able to make out his features better. His hair was short and cut in a clerical tonsure, which, added to his thin and boyish features, gave him the appearance of someone no older than his students. But Thomas knew that, if this man had obtained a degree in medicine, he had to be at least in his late twenties. And observing the knowing and curious look that was now cast his way, Thomas guessed Adam was actually older than he seemed. He took a step towards the man, his hand extended.
    ‘Master Adam, I am Thomas Symon from the University of Oxford. If you will allow it, I would like to listen to your lectures on medicine. It is a subject I am most interested in myself.’
    The man took Thomas’s hand in the lightest of grips, and the contact was so fleeting that Thomas was unsure whether he had grasped a man of flesh or a wraith. A secretive smile crossed Morrish’s face.
    ‘It will be good to have another Englishman present.’ He turned towards his students. ‘Here, I am plagued by Picards, Normans and French.’
    The young men in the room sniggered and nudged each other. Morrish clearly held his class in the palm of his hand. While the mood was still genial, Thomas decided to test out Morrish’s opinion on his late student’s demise.
    ‘Do you think it was idle speculation… to suggest Paul Hebborn’s death was murder?’
    The smile on Morrish’s lips froze for a moment, and Thomas was aware of an icy look in the other man’s deep-set eyes. Then, as suddenly as it came, the cold look disappeared. Morrish was all geniality again.
    ‘Master Symon, you must know how students like to gossip. I dare say it is not long since you were a student yourself.’
    Thomas Symon blushed at the