Falconer and the Death of Kings (15 page)

‘William. What are you doing here?’

Falconer looked up at Thomas wearily.

‘Recovering my equilibrium, Thomas.’

Before he could ask what Falconer meant, Thomas felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Jack Hellequin with a fresh flagon of wine in his fist.

‘Stand aside, Master Symon. Your friend is in need of further refreshment. He almost fell from the plank bridge.’

‘Fell from the bridge?’

Falconer held out his empty goblet for Hellequin to fill.

‘Yes. And if it wasn’t for this young man here, I would have landed up in the Seine and got carried away downstream. I would no doubt have ended up crossing the English Channel sooner than I had expected.’

Falconer shivered at the thought and took another deep draught of the wine. Hellequin sat beside him and took up the story.

‘I was crossing to the Right Bank and saw someone in difficulties. A woman was screaming, and I ran. The man, whom I now know as your friend Master Falconer, was hanging on to the planks of the footway with his fingernails. I managed to grab his wrists and haul him back, or he would have been lost.’

‘But how… ?’

Thomas was so shocked that he couldn’t even frame his question. Falconer quickly explained.

‘It was raining, and the planks of the bridge were slippery. I was careless, that’s all.’

Thomas dropped down on to the bench opposite Hellequin and dragged a goblet towards him. Forgetting his resolve of that very morning, he poured some wine from the flagon and drank it off. Falconer laughed and rested his hand on Thomas’s.

‘You look more scared than I was as young Hellequin pulled me to safety, Thomas. But take it steady with the wine. We do have other matters to attend to back at the abbey.’

Thomas took the hint and put his goblet down. In truth, the wine was rough, and its acid nature reminded him of his sore head from that morning. He belched.

‘You are right. But I am glad you are safe, and I thank you, Jack, for plucking William from a certain death.’

He stuck his hand out and Hellequin took it, even though he scoffed at his words.

‘You exaggerate. I am sure I just saved the master from a dunking. Are you sure you will not stay? It is Master Falconer’s coin that has purchased this flagon, and it is only half empty.’

Falconer rose from the table, shaking his head.

‘Share it with your friends, Jack. Thomas and I have much to talk about. And I am in need of some rest. This day has been altogether too exciting.’

He made for the door. Thomas began to follow him before remembering why he had come to the Withered Vine. He had wanted to ask Jack about the khat that Fusoris had taken. And where he thought he might have got it from. But Falconer was already out of the door, and a couple of the other students had appeared as if from nowhere. They had a good nose for free supplies and were ready to partake of Falconer’s wine. He left them to it and followed Falconer out into the busy square.

As they walked towards the Porte St-Victor, Falconer said something that shook Thomas to the core.

‘It was no accident on the bridge. I was deliberately pushed off the planks by someone who didn’t want me to know who he was. He was hooded, and I got only a glimpse of his face. And then I was over the edge.’

‘Why would someone do that?’

‘Perhaps because I had been asking the wrong questions. Or maybe the right questions of the wrong people.’

Thomas glanced nervously over his shoulder, fearing that whoever had been Falconer’s assailant might still be lurking. If he knew he had failed, he would surely try again. He also was reminded of Bacon’s admonition over telling Adam Morrish too much of Falconer’s affairs. Could his indiscretion have resulted in the attack on his friend? He sincerely hoped not. Then a thought occurred to him.

‘If Jack Hellequin saved you, did he not see the attacker? If the attacker came at you from behind – from the Right Bank – and ran past, and Jack was coming from the Left Bank, he should have seen him. Or did the man run in the opposite direction?’

As they passed under the arch of the gateway, Falconer smiled.

‘I see I have taught you well. He could have seen him, for he said he was crossing towards the Right Bank when he saw the commotion. The attacker came up behind me, and barged me over. But I was rather too busy hanging on to know what he did then. The next thing I knew, Hellequin was pulling on my wrists, and I was lying down on the bridge and giving thanks for my luck. When I asked him about the incident, he said he saw no one suspicious, though several people passed him walking towards the Left Bank. My attacker may have thrown his hood back and slowed his pace, of course, in order to appear inconspicuous.’

By now they had entered the cloisters of the abbey, and the sound of vespers could be heard from within the chapel. The calm of their surroundings was in sharp contrast to the turmoil of both their days. And though it was unlikely that they would be overheard, they retreated to the sanctuary of their shared room before continuing their conversation. Falconer slumped on his bed, unwilling to admit even to himself that the experience had shaken him. He took a few deep breaths before daring to speak to Thomas. He was afraid that a tremor in his voice might betray his state, and scare Thomas more than he already had been.

‘And did your day go well, Thomas?’

The younger man nodded from where he stood, arranging the stack of parchments on the table.

‘The friar is as scathing as ever concerning the Church, and yet we have hardly begun to record his store of knowledge.’ He sighed, patting the newly written texts. ‘I had hoped to learn more.’

‘Have patience. Roger has always moved at his own pace, but he will get to the point. You will learn from him.’ He sat up, having cleared his head a little. ‘Now shall we see if we can get some food from the kitchens? Then we can talk to John Fusoris without our stomachs rumbling.’

They were in luck. The cook, a lay servant who did not care for the fourth pillar of the Rule of St Benedict – diet – gave them each a bowl of stew that had been prepared for the sick in the infirmary. It had been flavoured with garlic, and pepper and cumin, and was delicious. A crust of bread wiped around the wooden bowl ensured that none of the stew was wasted. Falconer would have lingered by the fire, but Thomas was now anxious to speak to John Fusoris. Grumbling, Falconer rose and brushed the breadcrumbs off his robe.

‘Come, then, let’s get on with it.’

They returned to the cloister and walked around its perimeter to where the cell holding the student was located. When they got there, they found the door ajar. Thomas, his newly filled stomach churning with apprehension, called out.

‘John, are you there?’

There was no reply, and he pushed the door wide open. The cell was newly cleaned, with fresh rushes on the floor, and it was quite empty. Thomas groaned.

‘Oh, John, what has happened to you?’

Grim-faced, Falconer spun around and marched off towards the chapel. Thomas, fearing William might burst into the church and cause mayhem in the middle of the service, raced after him and grabbed his arm.

‘William, stop. Think what you are doing.’

‘I know what I am doing, Thomas. There is a stink of corruption here, and I mean to winkle it out.’

He pulled away from Thomas’s grip and carried on his purposeful march to the chapel doors. Fortunately, the service had just ended, and the monks were emerging. Falconer caught sight of one of the monks who had subdued Fusoris when Thomas had brought him in last night. He stuck out an accusatory finger.

‘You. I want a word with you.’

The other monks who surrounded the one accused shied away in fear of this angry figure. The monk himself stopped in his tracks, struck dumb by the verbal onslaught. Then, as his companions scuttled away, he saw who it was had shouted at him, and he put on a truculent face.

‘If you want the boy, you are too late. He has gone of his own volition.’

Falconer stepped up close, thrusting his face into the other man’s.

‘I don’t believe you. He was afraid for his own soul, so why would he choose to leave the sanctuary of the abbey?’

The monk backed off, no longer sure of himself. He glanced around to see if anyone would come to his rescue. But the three men were alone. Everyone else had disappeared. He broke down.

‘Someone came for him. A friend, he said. And the boy was calmer this morning. It was as though the demon that possessed him had been driven out, thank the Lord.’

He made to sidle past Falconer, but William grabbed the long, pointed hood that hung down his back. Choking, the monk begged him to let go.

‘You can go when you have told me what this friend looked like.’

‘He was young. Well, young-looking, and of average height. Normal. And dressed in a dark cloak with a hood. He had the hood up, so I could not see his face properly. It was raining.’

Falconer let the hood go, and the monk hurried off into the darkness of the cloister aisle clutching his throat. Falconer looked at Thomas, concern brewing in his heart.

‘I have a bad feeling about this, Thomas. If I were more religious than I am, I would think the Devil was stalking Paris in the shape of a young man in a black cloak. First he pushes me off the bridge, then he comes to collect poor John Fusoris and carry him off to hell.’

Thomas frowned.

‘Do you believe the two incidents are connected in some way? And what about Paul Hebborn? Perhaps this same person pushed him off Notre-Dame.’

‘I am afraid you may be right. I think we had better try to find John before some harm comes to him. Though I don’t know where we can start.’

‘We can try his lodgings. He may have gone back there.’

‘Show me the way.’

In the end they found John Fusoris quite quickly. Leading Falconer directly towards the river bank, Thomas took the narrow lane to the right past the convent of the Bernardins. Emerging from the other end of the lane, they saw lanterns bobbing about further along the river bank. Getting closer, they could hear the sound of men’s voices calling out to each other. One rough accent carried the loudest.

‘Over here. He’s here.’

The lanterns converged on the outflow into the Seine of a stinking, turgid stream. Falconer got there ahead of Thomas, his long legs eating up the ground.

‘What have you found, friends?’

A ring of coarse-looking faces, half-lit by the yellow lamps the men were holding high, stared at him. The man with the rough accent spoke up.

‘Another drunk drowned in the river, master. It needn’t bother you. We can take care of him.’

The men’s faces betrayed nervousness, and the swinging lamps cast eerie shadows over them. Thomas guessed that they were scavengers, living off the misery of others. A dead body would be good pickings for them. For it was a body he could see at their feet. Whoever it was lay face down in the mud of the river bank, the clothes soaked from being immersed in the river. Thomas was fearful that his and Falconer’s lives were at risk in such company. But his companion seemed unconcerned. He leaned over the body, discerning that the clothes were too stained with mud to be sure if they were those of a labourer or a man of quality.

‘Shine your light over here, friend. Let me get a good look.’

The leader of the scavengers was so surprised at Falconer’s taking charge that he obeyed instinctively. He held the lantern closer to the body. Falconer hefted it by the shoulders and turned the body over. Thomas groaned. It was John Fusoris, and there could be no doubt that he was dead.

SEVENTEEN

M
uch later, they were leaning on the parapet of the Petit Pont watching the reddish light of dawn creep along the river towards them. It had taken the rest of the night to arrange the proper disposition of John Fusoris. Falconer had guarded Fusoris’ remains, while Thomas had made arrangements for the Mathurin convent, which had housed the body of Paul Hebborn, to take the new corpse. Mud from the river bank stained the slab on which Fusoris was laid. But the same self-effacing monk who had spoken to Falconer about Hebborn had gently cleansed his features and straightened his hair. The dead youth still looked fearful, however. His eyelids were now closed, but before the monk had dealt with them he had had a wide-eyed look about him. His stare reminded Falconer of Hebborn’s look when he had come to see the first dead youth.

Now, breathing in the freshness of the new day as the river flowed below them, Falconer passed this information on to his young companion.

‘I remember Hebborn’s eyes were wide when I examined him. Just like Fusoris.’

Thomas frowned in concentration, squinting into the dawning light. The sun was beginning to flood the river’s surface with gold.

‘You mean his stare, or his pupils?’

‘His pupils, I suppose. I recall thinking Hebborn’s eyes were like deep dark pools. Does that signify something?’

Falconer knew Thomas’s knowledge of anatomy and the physical reactions of the body to poisons or drink already far outstretched his own. Thomas could not say for sure, though.

‘If you saw his eyes when he was alive, there could be some significance. Some drugs make the pupils dilate. But after death the pupils relax and open wide anyway.’

Falconer grunted in frustration. It seemed his observations on Paul Hebborn’s body were useless.

‘Then the fact that Fusoris’ pupils were wide open when I spoke to him only serves to confirm he was eating khat leaves. But then we knew that.’

Thomas paused, a little confused by Falconer’s statement.

‘When you spoke to him? When did you do that? You didn’t speak to him when he was incarcerated in the first place. I remember that because I was there.’

‘Oh, didn’t I say? Last night I couldn’t sleep. Kept tossing and turning on that infernal pallet they call a bed at the abbey. So I got up and walked around the cloister. There was a candle burning in one of the cells. When I looked through the grille, I saw that Fusoris was awake too and kneeling in prayer. I asked him how he felt.’

Thomas couldn’t believe that William had not already told him this.