‘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 a street that doesn’t exist in Paris?’
Thomas frowned, sure that the monk could not have deliberately misled him.
‘No, it surely exists. A man called Adam teaches medicine there.’
The shabby youth tilted his head back and roared with laughter, threatening to fall off the parapet with the violence of his seizure. He flicked his long hair out of his eyes and, swivelling round, dropped to the safety of the bridge’s floor. He stuck his hand out for Thomas to take.
‘You Englishmen may be part Norman, but you mangle our language something awful. My name is Jacques Hellequin. But you may call me Jack.’
He made a great show of speaking the last sentence in what he fancied was courtly English. Thomas took his hand and squeezed it firmly. It was good to meet someone in Paris who did not turn his nose up at the sight of an Englishman.
‘It is good to meet you, Jack. I am Thomas Symon from Oxford. But what do you mean about mangling your language?’
Jack’s eyes twinkled.
‘There is a world of difference between boucherie and bûcherie. One is indeed an abattoir, but the other is a woodcutter’s shed. Master Adam’s medical school is in the street named after the latter. Though, come to think about it, it would be more appropriate if it were in the other. In fact, I can’t wait to tell my fellow students of your unintentional pun.’
Thomas silently vowed he would have his revenge in some way on the monk who had set him up to appear a fool.
‘You are a student at the school?’
‘Yes, I am. You have fallen on your feet with me, Master Symon. I will show you where the school is. But first you must know of the difficult situation that exists there.’
Thomas feigned ignorance of any problem, hoping that his new friend was referring to the very death that he wished to investigate. His young and innocent face, usually an embarrassment to him when he wished to appear wise and knowing, sometimes was an advantage.
‘What is that, Jack?’
Jack Hellequin grimaced.
‘One of our numbers died the day before yesterday.’
Thomas expressed horror at what might have caused death in a medical school.
‘He did not contract some deadly disease that I might catch too?’
‘No, indeed.’ Jack squeezed Thomas’s arm reassuringly. ‘You could not die of the same cause. Unless you too threw yourself off the tower of Notre-Dame.’
‘Ah, yes. I heard tell of that poor unfortunate. Threw himself off, you say? I heard it said he was pushed.’
Jack’s brow clouded over, and he seemed to stumble a little in his progress down Rue de la Bûcherie.
‘Who told you that? That is a foul thing to say. No, the truth was that Paul was a tortured soul who did not fit in well with the rest of us. He was English, and the rest of us are either French, Norman or Picard. And though our master is English too, Paul kept to himself a lot. He was a misfit.’
Thomas was about to question this analysis of the dead youth’s behaviour while alive, but his guide stopped in the street in front of a nondescript house in the row of tenements that made up Rue de la Bûcherie, each with its back to the river. Jack Hellequin made an extravagant gesture towards the crumbling façade.
‘And here is that great seat of learning — Master Adam Morrish’s medical school.’
Thomas held back his eagerness for more information and followed Jack through the portal.
EIGHT
The gateway giving access to Ste-Chapelle and the Royal Palace was closely guarded. And the Frenchman in his royal livery stared suspiciously at William Falconer when he presented himself. He was even more surly when he heard the master’s English accent. But finally he was persuaded to send a message to the English court sojourning in the guest quarters of King Philip’s palace. From the fixed stare he got from the guard, Falconer could only imagine the man disbelieved such a shabby individual as himself had any business with the glittering courts of the two kings. However, he had to allow Falconer through the gate when the gaudily clad Appleby came to meet him. Though the guard’s puzzlement was only increased by the apparently friendly exchange between such opposites. Who could fathom the English and their wardrobes?
Falconer was led into the palace by Sir John Appleby and through a maze of rooms and corridors. All the time, Sir John prattled on about how remarkable the king was, and how he admired his maturity and good sense. Falconer nodded politely, only half listening to the courtier. He had met his sort before, when he had been summoned into the presence of the old king, Henry, who had died last year. The ailing monarch had been surrounded by men who jumped at his every whim, and doctors who were afraid to tell him he was dying. The powerful very rarely heard the truth from those in their presence. Falconer had been an exception, and Henry had seemed to relish the cut and thrust of their arguments over who had killed the king’s wardroper, and why. The Oxford master resolved he would behave exactly the same when he met Henry’s son, the new king. Then he realized Appleby had asked him a question.