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her full lips, and thought of the story of them sucking the poison from her husband’s wounds. Almost reluctantly, Appleby’s eyes turned back on the king. His black hair hung in full swathes either side of his tanned face. The sign of a crusader, who had spent time under the blazing sun in the Holy Lands. His symmetrical features were marred only by that droopy eyelid, which was the mark of his family. The old king had had the same feature also. Edward held his muscular and long right arm out towards Sir John, and when he spoke Appleby detected a slight lisp that he had been unaware of before. But then he had not been this close to the new king when he had been prince.
    ‘Welcome, Sir John. I understand the Archbishop of York and Robert Burnell are anxious to see my return.’
    ‘Indeed, sire, they are keen to shuffle off the responsibilities they have so readily assumed.’
    The two men Edward mentioned had assumed the regency of England on the death of Henry of Winchester, and were ensuring a smooth transition of monarchy to his son. In the past, there might have been a power struggle with the one who was to inherit out of the country. Edward had felt confident, though, that all would be well, and he was in no hurry to return. Philip of France had hinted that there was trouble in Edward’s holdings in Gascony, and he meant to sort it out first. The king sat, and indicated that Sir John could do so too. He was growing in confidence in his new role.
    ‘I am sure they do. But first, tell me of the court and the goings-on in England. Four years is a very long time.’ As Eleanor poured Sir John some Rhenish wine, Edward leaned closer to the knight. ‘Tell me about my father’s death.’
    Appleby put on a suitably solemn face and talked of Henry’s last days.
    ‘He bore his illness nobly, sire, and was much distracted by an Oxford master, who had your father play the part of a coroner. His late majesty discovered, in the most marvellous manner, who it was had murdered his wardroper. Of course, he was guided by this master, who it is said is clever at solving that most heinous of crimes.’
    Thoughtful, Edward leaned back in his chair.
    ‘I would know this man. I may have some business for him, if he is still at court when I return to England.’
    ‘Oh, you may speak to him sooner than that, sire. The new chancellor of Oxford University sought leave of the archbishop to send him to the university here. It was on matters of philosophy that I cannot begin to understand. But what I do know is that Master William Falconer has been here these two months already.’
    The cell that Falconer and Symon entered was dimly lit by a single candle, and made even gloomier by the lack of a window. As Thomas’s eyes adjusted to the low light, he slowly became aware of what was around him. He gasped in astonishment. The tiny cell was filled with books and parchments stacked floor to ceiling, and every surface was covered with the same clutter. Thomas had never seen so many books outside of one of the monastic libraries in Oxford. In the centre of this chaos, at a small table where the solitary candle flickered, sat a tonsured man hunched over a manuscript. He was busily scribbling and seemed to be ignorant of their presence. Falconer was less surprised than his young scribe at such a scene.
    ‘Roger, have you no time to greet an old friend?’
    The Franciscan friar paused in his feverish scribbling, laid down his quill and turned on his stool.
    ‘William, they told me you were in Paris. What took you so long to come and visit? Did I not make it clear to Pecham how urgent the matter in hand was?’
    Falconer looked at his old friend, whom he had not seen for some years. Time has been less kind to Roger Bacon than it has been to me, he thought. The friar’s hair was completely white, and his features were drawn and of a pasty hue. He had clearly spent too much time locked in a windowless cell. But behind the pallor, Bacon’s eyes