Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

As Thomas strode into the open space of the Place Maubert, he clutched the satchel he had slung over his shoulder. It contained the first part of Roger Bacon’s proposed compendium, and he needed to keep it safe. He couldn’t help thinking of what the friar had dictated. His hand had trembled at Roger Bacon’s words, and he had been half afraid to write them down. Even Pope Gregory had been criticized by the fearless Franciscan in words that still shone clearly in Thomas’s mind.

‘Everywhere we shall find boundless corruption, and first of all in the Head. The Holy See is torn by the deceit and fraud of unjust men. The whole Papal Court is defamed of lechery… the prelates run after money, neglect the cure of souls and promote their nephews and other carnal friends…’

He had tried to temper Bacon’s outpourings.

‘Master, do you think it is proper to condemn the Pope in such terms? It is not surely safe.’

Bacon had turned on him with a look of scorn on his face.

‘We are scholars, Thomas. Proper and safe are not scientific terms I understand. Facts and truth are what we seek, and when we find them we must proclaim their shining brightness. Shall we carry on?’

Thomas lowered his head in embarrassment. He had thought Falconer a hard taskmaster. He was beginning to think that Friar Bacon was going to be infinitely worse.

‘Yes, master. I am ready.’

He had buried his head in the work of a scribe and tried not to think of the meaning of the words.

‘Master Symon. Thomas.’

He realized someone was calling him from across the big open space that was the Place Maubert. Looking back, he saw Jack Hellequin beckoning him from the doorway of a down-at-heel building on the corner. It looked as though it had been squeezed unceremoniously between the two sturdier structures either side of it. Both of which probably wished they could elbow it out of the way. A withered branch with drooping leaves hung over the door. It was a tavern, and a poor one by the look of it. Thomas wasn’t sure what to do, but Hellequin gesticulated urgently again, and he walked over to him.

‘What is it, Jack? I am tired and I must speak to my fellow master before he retires.’

‘No, you must drink with us. Geoffrey is buying.’

Thomas hesitated, but he wasn’t sure if Falconer would even be at the Abbey of St Victor to listen to his tales of Bacon’s madness. William had been preoccupied by the task the king had set him and would surely no longer be interested in Thomas. He made a quick decision. After all, he needed to learn more, if he could, about Paul Hebborn. Then perhaps Falconer would listen to him. He smiled, and let Jack take him by the arm and guide him into the noisy tavern.

Inside was a scene of debauchery to Thomas’s eyes. He was used to drunken behaviour from his time as a student in Oxford. Though he rarely got involved with them himself, as he felt too strongly his duty to the village priest who had funded his tuition. He sometimes wished he could have bent a little, but his conscience always pricked him. So he had been a somewhat sober observer of the excesses of his fellows. In this low, mean tavern on the south bank of the river, sobriety had not dared enter. The predominance of young men, some in garish garb, suggested it was a place frequented by students of the university. But there were solid knots of simply clad artisans drinking hard amid the swirl and eddies of the more agitated student imbibers. Thomas swallowed hard and followed Hellequin to a group of young men, some of whom he recognized as Adam Morrish’s students. A goblet was thrust in his hand, and someone filled it from a jug of red wine, splashing the contents over his neat black robe in the process. He made an ineffectual effort to wipe the stain away.

‘Is there no ale?’

Thomas would have preferred weak beer to this French wine that always went to his head. But Jack chastised him for his caution.

‘Drink up. You are in Paris now. None of your English ways here.’

Thomas took a deep breath and gulped the wine down. As he spluttered and coughed, his goblet was filled again. And the group of young men cheered. Jack clapped him on the back, encouraging him to take another draught. He did so, and prayed he would stay sober enough to remember anything he was told about Hebborn. He looked around.

‘Where is John Fusoris? Is he still not recovered yet?’

Geoffrey Malpoivre, who had been the man filling Thomas’s goblet, snorted in derision.

‘John is weak-willed, and a namby-pamby. He could not stand the thought of Hebborn squashed on the pavement at the foot of Notre-Dame’s tower. When I described the mess to him, he threw up. He will never make a doctor, if he can’t stand the sight of a dead body. What about you, Master Thomas? Do you have a strong stomach?’

By now, Thomas’s stomach felt quite queasy, but not from any thoughts of a broken body. The wine was having its effect. He swallowed hard and spoke with unaccustomed bravado.

‘I have seen the insides of plenty of broken bodies, Geoffrey. Some of them murderers whose internal organs I could legally dissect. But I have carved up others too. Perhaps I could explain to you the texture and feel of a man’s bowels when they are still hot and steaming. They are quite slippery, in fact, and when they spill out of the body cavity they are very hard to restrain.’

Malpoivre went a nasty shade of green and thrust the half-empty jug of wine at Thomas before rushing towards the door of the tavern. When the sound of his heaving penetrated the din, the bunch of roughly dressed labourers by the door cheered and slapped each other on the back. Thomas looked at the wide eyes of the students around him and smiled. He lifted up the jug.

‘Anyone else for wine?’

Hellequin held out his goblet.

‘I will take what’s left. I applaud your taking Geoffrey down a peg or two. But I wish you had done it some other time. He was the only one of us with money for drink, and now he won’t dare show his face in here again for a while.’

The other students groaned at the loss of their purse-holder, and a couple began to drift away from the group. Hellequin drank the wine carefully that Thomas had poured, not wishing to swallow the lees at the bottom of the jug. He cast a quizzical look at his new companion.

‘Have you really cut open human bodies, Thomas?’

Despite the wine clouding his brain, Thomas still had his wits about him. The Church condemned anatomy, even of hanged murderers. He was aware also that the remaining students were agog to hear his every word. He decided to tell a partial lie and crossed his fingers.

‘To tell the truth, I am a farmer’s son. What I know of anatomy and the feel of entrails is based on killing beasts of the field. Slippery stuff — cows’ innards.’

The other youths looked disappointed by his confession, but Jack Hellequin squinted at Thomas, evidently disbelieving him. He sat back in his seat and toyed with his empty goblet, twirling it in his fingers. Thomas, a little dizzy with the wine and the noise of the tavern, looked around him. He ought to leave now, but he wanted to find out about John Fusoris and his mysterious illness. Had the boy simply been upset by Malpoivre’s boasting? Or had he either seen Hebborn’s body after the fall from Notre-Dame, or caused it to fall in the first place? Thomas did not know that, or if he was allowing himself to be misled by his own fancy. The only way to find out was to talk to Fusoris, and for that to happen he needed someone to tell him where he lodged. He decided to ask Hellequin.

As he turned to do so, he saw across the gloomy room the two students who had sloped off sitting on their own in a corner. One was Peter de la Casteigne, the other one a sandy-haired and freckled youth he did not know. They were chewing on something, though how they had afforded food he did not know. They looked even more soporific than before, when they had been drinking wine. Peter lifted a lazy gaze to Thomas and sniggered sleepily. But before he could think any more of the incident, Hellequin rose up, cutting off his view of the youths, and offered to help him home. Arm in arm they made their way to the door. The cold air of evening hit Thomas, but he stood still and took a deep breath of it.