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Paris, the streets had been paved with stones at the order of the old king, Philip Augustus. It made getting about so much easier. The same monarch had built the city walls that loomed over them right now. Once through the gates at Porte St-Victor, Falconer turned towards the Place Maubert with Thomas Symon in hot pursuit of his gangling gait.
    The Franciscan friary was across the other side of the quarter that housed the schools and lodgings that made up the university. Paris was more or less split in two by the River Seine, which ran east to west. To the north of the river the commercial city huddled within Philip Augustus’s walls. On the south bank sprawled the tentacles of the university. And in the centre of the river lay the beating heart of the city, dominated by the Royal Palace and the great cathedral of Notre-Dame. It was from the top of the cathedral that the boy – Paul Hebborn – had plummeted yesterday.
    As Falconer reached the square and turned west towards the convent of the Mathurins, he asked Thomas about the incident.
    ‘The English boy – Hebborn – what do the rumours say about his fall?’
    Rendered breathless by the pace of their walk, Thomas did his best to summarize what the students he had spoken to had said.
    ‘For many it is just an accident, though why he came to be at the top of the tower no one could say. But there are some who say he was lured there and pushed off.’
    ‘And did they give any justification for his murder?’
    Thomas stopped and shrugged even though it was a pointless gesture as Falconer wasn’t looking at him. He was way ahead of Thomas and already crossing the Rue de la Harpe towards St-Cosmé. Thomas lifted the hem of his black robe and scurried on. He had to shout to make himself heard over the bustle and noise of the great avenue.
    ‘Now as for the cause of the murder, you can have as many theories as there are stars in the firmament. Some of them quite gory.’
    He had to shoulder his way through a knot of men standing around a game of knuckle bones being played out at their feet. Money was changing hands, and one ruffian elbowed Thomas away, cursing him in such coarse French that the educated clerk hardly understood a word. Thomas held his hands up to the red-faced gambler in a palm-out gesture of peace, and hurried on. Falconer, meanwhile, had reached their destination – the great edifice of the house of the Friars Minor, wherein Friar Roger Bacon was incarcerated. It stood hard by the western wall of the city and was as severe and stark a building as the order could build. The church stood on the road, but it was down the side lane that Falconer went, followed by Thomas Symon, to knock on the door of the friary itself. They were admitted by a solemn-faced friar in a brown robe, who had barred their passage before. Now he did not seem at all surprised that they had come to see Roger Bacon. He simply led them through the cloister to where the friars’ individual cells were arrayed. It seemed that, after being stonewalled for two months, the door was to be opened with no explanation for the delay. The friar did indeed indicate a door that already stood ajar on the far side of the cloister, and simply walked away. Falconer walked over, his heart in his mouth, pushed on the door and called out.
    ‘Roger?’

FIVE
    S ir John Appleby, fresh from England, was ushered into the presence of his new king. He had not seen Edward for nearly four years, and he was pleased by the manly bearing his monarch seemed to have acquired. Edward had always been tall – hence his nickname ‘Longshanks’ – but to Appleby’s eyes he now had that intangible attribute: presence. The king was standing when Appleby entered the chamber he occupied in the French king’s palace on the Ile de la Cité. And his wife Eleanor stood by his side. She too looked every inch a queen – long and slender, but with the shapeliness of a woman who had borne children. He lingered for a moment on