Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘I can find my own way back, Jack. Thank you all the same. But what you can help me with is to guide me to John Fusoris’ lodgings.’

‘Why would you want to go there?’

‘I am concerned for him, even if none of you are.’

‘You have never met him.’

‘That’s as may be. Think of me as the good Samaritan, then. I will cross this road for a stranger.’

He waved his hand at the broad, triangular-shaped space before them, a little embarrassed at his effusive speech. But if Hellequin was only half as drunk as he felt, then he wouldn’t have noticed. The Frenchman shrugged and took Thomas’s arm again.

‘Whatever you wish. It’s this way.’

It was not far to a ramshackle row of tall tenements that, like the medical school, backed on to the River Seine. Even in the dark, Thomas was aware that the bulk of Notre-Dame loomed menacingly over this quarter of the city. Were none of the students free of the shadow of Hebborn’s death? Hellequin pointed at a narrow house, which had a flicker of light evident in one of the upper windows.

‘That’s John’s room. As you can see, he can’t stand the dark any more. What he will do when he runs out of candles I don’t know.’

‘Thank you for your help, Jack. You can go now.’

Thomas stepped up to the door, leaving Hellequin in the lane. But the student still called after him.

‘He won’t let you in. He thinks the Devil is after him.’

Thomas felt an icy chill as he listened to Hellequin’s laughter drifting eerily down the lane as he walked off. The dullness in his brain was wearing off, and he checked that Fusoris’ window still showed a light. Then he knocked on the door. No one came. He stepped back into the lane and called nervously up to the window.

‘John Fusoris. John? It is a friend. Come down and let me in.’

There was no reply. Pressing his ear to the door, he could hear nothing inside. But he felt the door give. It was not locked, and gingerly he pushed it open. It was dark inside and, when he poked his head over the portal, smelled damp. Just like the room he was using to take down Bacon’s words. The river seemed to be seeping into everything along its bank. He clutched the satchel to his side reflexively and thought of Bacon’s warning of corruption in the air. He stepped over the threshold.

‘John?’

A rustling noise startled him, causing his heart to beat fast in his chest. Then he saw a rat scurrying away into the darkness at the back of the house. He swallowed and called louder.

‘John Fusoris? Are you there?’

A shape appeared at the top of the staircase that clung to the side of the chamber where Thomas stood. The figure of a man was outlined by yellowish candlelight behind it. The flickering flame cast long shadows that wavered on the steps below the figure. A high-pitched voice, cracked and fearful, piped up.

‘Go away. Don’t come for me now. I am not ready.’

Thomas frowned. If this was John Fusoris, what had scared the youth so?

‘I have not come to harm you, John. My name is Thomas Symon. I am a master of Oxford University, come to study in Paris. Can I talk to you about Paul Hebborn?’

A thin, almost inhuman wail split the air, and the figure on the stairs retreated. Thomas heard a door slam, and cursed his insensitive words. He was always rushing into things without considering. Now he had no other option but to blunder on. He ran up the stairs and turned to the right, where the upper room overlooking the street had to be located. The door was closed firmly against him.

Thomas pressed gently against the door, and it gave slightly before slamming closed again in its frame. He pushed harder, and again it gave a little before closing. He heard a whimper from behind the door. The scared youth must have been putting all his weight behind the door, resisting Thomas’s efforts. He tried to persuade Fusoris to let go, but to no avail. It became a trial of strength, which the more resilient Thomas eventually won. His final push opened the door wide, as the pressure behind it gave way. In the half-light of the room he was aware of a low shape scrabbling across the floor. Thomas was reminded of the rat that had scuttled away from him in the deserted room downstairs. But this was a human being, not a rat, even if he was frightened of his presence. He let his eyes adjust to the poor light from the flickering stub of a candle before stepping fully into the room. When he did move, his nostrils were assailed with the stench of an unwashed body and human excrement. John Fusoris had besmirched himself. Stifling his disgust, he knelt down close to where the sad figure of the student huddled.

Fusoris had squeezed himself into a dark corner, making himself smaller than Thomas could have imagined a human being could have done. He was naturally quite slight, but his body looked emaciated. Thomas wondered when he had last eaten. Not since Hebborn’s plunge from the tower? He reached out to touch Fusoris, but the youth squealed, and Thomas drew his hand back.

‘John, look at me, John. I am not here to harm you.’

Slowly, the youth turned his face from the wall and looked sideways at Thomas. His face was thin, and so his eyes looked unusually large in his gaunt skull. They looked like deep, dark pools of horror to Thomas. Black pools reflecting the yellow flame of the candle. Fusoris flinched and looked away again. He spoke in a broken voice.

‘Go away. You are the Devil come for me. You are his agent.’

‘Why should you think I am the Devil, John?’

‘You have come for me like you came for Paul.’

‘Did Paul get taken by the Devil, John? How do you know?’

Fusoris shivered and clutched his arms closer around his thin body.

‘Because Paul is dead. The Devil killed him… threw him off the tower of Notre-Dame.’

Thomas was troubled. Was this just an insane fantasy or a twisted version of the truth? Either way, he had to help John in order to find out more. But what was wrong with the boy? Was he possessed by demons, which had caused his insanity? And if so, could he be saved and brought back to reality? John might have actually witnessed the death of Paul Hebborn. If it were possible to get him to talk about it rationally, Thomas might learn who killed Paul Hebborn. But his fear was that the boy might be telling the truth now, and that the Devil may come for Thomas too.

Suddenly, the room felt very cold, and Thomas wished Falconer were here. William was so much more rational than he was, and more sceptical when it came to the realities of Satan and Hell. Thomas was yet to be convinced that such punishments did not await the sinner. He looked into the youth’s eyes, and what he saw made his mind up. Gently, he touched the tense figure of John Fusoris and began to coax him out of his corner.

Falconer blew out the candle and lay in the darkness, his mind spinning fantasies. He had been expecting to talk to Thomas Symon about what he had uncovered during the day. Without Saphira to test his ideas on, he had become reliant on the young man. The thought of Saphira sidetracked him for a while, and he dreamed up fanciful encounters with her. He would travel to Honfleur and find her in the first tavern he entered. Or he would be walking through Paris, and there she would be in the street. Of course, whatever he imagined always resulted in the happiest of meetings. There would be no awkwardness or necessity to apologize on either side. When he had come back to his senses, he realized that it was late and that he had dozed off. Something had roused him. Looking across at the other bed, he also saw that there was still no sign of Thomas Symon. He thought he heard a sound in the abbey cloisters that was not like the sound of monks going to pray. That was more a soporific slapping of sandals on stone. He had heard the sound of voices. Raised voices.