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doubt of his time as a warrior for Christ in the Holy Lands. He had insisted that his messenger should frame his call for Falconer in the form of a request, not a command.
    ‘He must come of his own free will, Sir John, and feel there is no compulsion. He must do what I ask as if he himself wishes it.’
    Appleby bowed low.
    ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
    He conned his part in the deception, and was about to leave and carry out his task. But Edward grasped his arm in a vice-like grip. He stared Appleby hard in the eyes, his drooped eyelid appearing to wink.
    ‘But be in no doubt, Sir John, that you must ensure he comes.’
    Now Appleby stood before the regent master whom Edward so wanted to see, and wondered why. He saw a tall, powerful-looking man who had gone a little to seed. His broad shoulders, hidden under the loose black robe of an academic, hinted at a past involving the swinging of a broadsword. And his face still had strength in its lined features. But the hair was thinning and grey, and he detected a little rounding to his backbone. Besides, this Falconer looked as though he had just dragged himself out of bed, though it was already terce. Not a man Sir John would employ. But the king knew best, and Appleby had a message to deliver. He did so to the best of his ability, weaving a tale of Edward’s desire to know of the last days of his father. But he finished with the words that Edward specifically told him to say.
    ‘Between you and me, Master Falconer, the king has double cause to mourn, what with the death of his father following on from that of his son in somewhat suspicious circumstances. He is troubled in mind and needs reassurance. You can do that for him.’
    He rose to leave at that point, but he had already seen the flicker in Falconer’s eyes at the mention of suspicious death. He allowed a small smile to play across his face. He felt he had hooked the man for the king. When he reached the door of the miserable chamber, Falconer spoke up.
    ‘Tell the king I am his servant and will attend him at his pleasure.’
    Appleby turned back to the academic.
    ‘Come to the palace this afternoon, and be at the gate close by Ste-Chapelle. I will meet you there.’ He extended a hand. ‘And thank you, Master Falconer. You will not regret this.’
    Falconer inclined his head non-committally and closed the door behind the gaudy courtier. After the man had gone, a big smile lit up his face.
    Thomas Symon only found the medical school after a little difficulty. He had first asked one of the monks in the abbey where the school of Adam Morrish the Englishman might be found. Solemnly, the monk had told him in his native French that it was in one of the streets running out from the Petit Pont.
    ‘You cannot miss it, for it is appropriately named for a medical school. The butchery.’
    Thomas had thanked him, but didn’t see the monk’s mischievous smile when he turned his back on him. He made his way up the winding lane that led through the Place Maubert towards the bridge that linked the south bank of Paris with the island on the River Seine. Close by, and not certain which way to turn, he had stopped a passer-by and asked for Butchery Street. The man, carrying a bundle of sticks on his back, took one look at Thomas and spat on the ground at his feet. Puzzled, Thomas found the bridge before he dared ask again. This time he enquired of a rich-looking merchant who was hurrying to cross the bridge on his way north.
    ‘Excuse me, sir. Do you know where Butchery Street is?’
    Once again he was waved away with a peremptory gesture. Not sure what he had done wrong, he stopped on the end of the bridge, gazing down at the muddy waters that flowed swiftly beneath. Further along, houses clustered on both sides of the bridge, obscuring the view. A shabbily dressed young man was seated on the parapet, swinging his legs idly over the void. He grinned at Thomas.
    ‘I couldn’t help overhear your question, friend. Why do you seek