Falconer's Trial Read Free Page A

showed little interest in the esoteric art. Saphira could not bear to let the knowledge lodged in Samson’s brain be lost and had spent weeks learning the basics. Now she was entering the next stage of her studies and had become an eager student. She saw the look of disappointment on William’s face and squeezed his arm discreetly.
    ‘Come later tonight, if you can. But beware, for I am learning about poisons. Today Samson is telling me how to concoct the most lethal of brews.’
    She grinned at him and with a swirl of her favourite green gown, strode off down Jewry Lane.

TWO
    S ir Humphrey Segrim had instantly regretted his decision to disembark secretly at Shadwell. Only after the sturdy little cog that had brought him safely across the Channel had drifted away from the dock on the tide, did he look round. There was nothing but a rickety wharf and stinking tan yards. The smell of piss was overwhelming and no one was in sight. He had slumped down on his oak chest that contained all his armour and spare clothes and stared disconsolately over the mud flats towards London. In evading the Templar, he had landed himself in the middle of nowhere. He was safe for now, but could see nothing for it except to trust his worldly goods to luck, and to walk along the bank of the Thames towards Wapping. At least there would be someone there who could arrange his passage to Oxford. He had wearily hauled himself to his feet and trudged off into the mud.
    Now, he sat in a dark, low-ceilinged inn perilously perched over the banks of the river Thames, drinking weak ale and eating an unidentifiable chunk of burned meat. All around him sat rough-looking workmen with big beefy hands that bore the scars of heavy rope and manual labour. They eyed Segrim with curiosity. He was a man well advanced in years, with long grey hair and a beard he had cultivated in the East. His skin was reddened by his journey, but he had the unmistakeable bearing of a nobleman. His tunic, though caked with mud along its hem, was of fine cloth. He clutched his purse nervously and cursed the fact he had left all his weapons except a dagger in the oak chest in Shadwell.
    ‘I have arranged a cart, Master. Jed will collect your chest and be back in no time.’
    Segrim was startled by the sudden appearance of the scrawny man at his shoulder. He reckoned the fellow must be a thief to be able to pad around so quietly. He had seen Segrim looking lost on Wapping quay and offered his services. With no alternative, Sir Humphrey had given him a small coin and enlisted him in the recovery of his chest. Now, it seemed the rescue party was swollen by another man called Jed, who would no doubt also want paying. Segrim wondered if his purse would stand it, and if he would ever see his property again. Or his home and estate in Botley. He appeared to have fallen from one hot pan into another. Though he acknowledged that Osbert Smith – as the scrawny thief called himself – was to be preferred to the Templar. It might be like having to choose between facing either a slippery snake or a wild boar head on, but Segrim knew which he preferred. Chances are a snake like Osbert would slither into the undergrowth if threatened with a stick.
    ‘Sir, would you like another jug of ale?’
    Segrim observed the man, who stood before him wringing a shabby felt hat in his calloused hands. He shuddered at the thought of drinking any more of the stale beer, that he was sure was just dipped directly out of the Thames. It had the same muddy brown appearance as the river.
    ‘No, Osbert. But you can take one for yourself.’
    The little thief grinned as another coin was pressed into his palm, and waved his hand imperiously at the innkeeper.
    Segrim stepped out of the inn, leaving the odour of sweat and stale clothes, and stood inhaling the less dank airs of the marshy river. As he stood at the quay, he saw a large sailed vessel, its sides black with pitch, drift by. It looked grand and yet at the same