Falconer and the Death of Kings

THIRTEEN

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.

He got up from his bed and crossed the room in the dark. He cursed as he bumped his shin against a stool that stood in an unexpected place, and grabbed the door handle. Looking out, he could see lights flickering from inside the cloisters, with big shadows sliding down the walls and across the floor. He walked barefoot down the corridor from the guest quarters towards the disturbance, the slabs striking cold on the soles of his feet. As he got closer, he was surprised to hear Thomas’s voice raised in anger. The young man was usually so measured and temperate that he wondered what was agitating him so. The candlelight and voices were now coming from one of the small cells that lined that side of the cloister. Falconer peered in through the open doorway.

Lit by two candles, the scene was confusing. Two monks were restraining a skinny youth on a bed. The youth, with his lank, dark hair plastered across his skull, was wriggling under the monks’ grasp. His wail was in counterpoint to Thomas’s staccato call for calm and understanding. One monk turned his head from his task and replied breathlessly.

‘He has the Devil in him and should be restrained. We shall have to drive the demons from him, but in the meantime he must be tied down.’

Thomas tugged at the monk’s arm.

‘He is merely overexcited. If you left him alone, he would recover. That is why I brought him here. For some calm and reflection. With you here that is not possible.’

The monk turned away from Thomas and uncharitably punched the boy in the face. He slumped into silence. His assailant stood up, a look of triumph on his face.

‘This is our abbey, and you are merely a guest here. You should not have brought this filthy creature to us. But seeing as you have, then we will deal with him. Now if you will please go, I will lock him in.’

Thomas groaned and, seeing Falconer for the first time, rushed over to him.

‘Thank God. William, you must help me. This is John Fusoris — he can help us with Hebborn’s murder.’

Looking back into the room, where the youth lay prostrate on the bed, and the two monks stood over him menacingly, Falconer drew Thomas aside.

‘Let them get on with it, Thomas.’

‘But…’

‘The boy is in no fit state to answer any questions now. If it is peace you want for him, then it will do no harm for him to be locked in the room for a while. Come away and tell me what you have found out. Anyway, my feet are freezing on these slabs and I could do with warming them up. Bring one of those candles.’

They left the monks to their task and retreated to the privacy of their chamber. Falconer tucked his legs under his bedclothes to warm his feet, while Thomas slumped down exhausted on his bed. The wine and his encounter with the mad youth suddenly began to tell on him. He felt drained of all energy. But Falconer wanted to know what he had learned while it was still fresh in his mind.

‘If you go to sleep now, you will forget something, or you will embellish the facts to fit your opinion of what did happen.’

Thomas groaned but sat up. This is what he had wanted, wasn’t it? William’s attention? He began to tell Falconer all about the medical school and the students who gathered themselves around Geoffrey Malpoivre and his groaning purse. About their drinking, and regular teasing of Paul Hebborn for being English and having a stammer.

‘But not all of them were cruel to Hebborn. I get the impression that Jack Hellequin, whom I know the best, had a regard for the outsider.’

‘Hmm. The name of the Devil’s horseman.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You are perhaps not familiar with French passion plays. In them, the hellequin is a black-faced emissary of the Devil. Mind you, his role is to roam the countryside chasing the damned souls of evil people to Hell. So your Jack may be a useful ally.’

Thomas ignored Falconer’s jest and carried on.

‘Then I was told of John Fusoris, who had befriended Hebborn. But I could not speak to him at the school because, since Hebborn’s death, he had locked himself away in his lodgings. That is why I sought him out. He lives close by the river, across from the towers of Notre-Dame.’

‘Not a happy presence for the friend of someone who fell from that very spot.’

‘Or was pushed.’

Falconer leaned forward, interest etched on his lined face.

‘You have new evidence?’

Thomas hesitated.

‘I may have.’ Hearing Falconer sigh, he pressed on eagerly. ‘That is why I brought John Fusoris here. Though his story was confused, he insisted that the Devil came for Hebborn, tempted him and led him to his death.’

‘But you only have the words of a mad boy to base your opinions on.’

‘No.’ Thomas was emphatic, and rummaged in his purse. He drew out some dry leaves of an oval shape. ‘I have these. I found them in his room, scattered on the floor. They look to me like bay leaves, which do have magical properties and are said to be emetic. Fusoris had fouled himself.’

Falconer took the leaves, sniffing them and rolling them in his fingers. He was assailed by a half-forgotten memory of involuntarily eating these leaves himself. He had descended into a mental Hell due to them. He shook his head.

‘No. These are not bay leaves. They are Catha edulis, known as khat in Arabia, where they are eaten to produce feelings of euphoria. It is said the ancient Egyptians used them to release human divinity. If Fusoris ate these, it is no surprise he is unstable and fearful. They can affect you in that way.’ He shuddered at his own experience of descending into a cellar that became a hallucinatory Hell due to the leaf. ‘Were his pupils dilated?’

‘Yes, they were.’ Thomas was excited, forgetting his exhaustion. ‘I knew he wasn’t possessed. There had to be another explanation for his behaviour.’

He remembered the thoughts he had had about Fusoris being mad or owned by the Devil, and blushed at his naivety. It was something he would not admit to the sceptical Falconer. Instead, he brought one of the leaves to his lips and sucked it. Falconer pulled his hand away, though, before he could experiment further.

‘Don’t. It is not easy to stop once you have started. I know I recommend practical experimentation. But take it from me, in this case leave it to second-hand knowledge to inform you. If Fusoris has been eating these leaves, then I suggest we leave him to recover from their effect. Get some sleep and you can tackle him in the morning, when his mind will be a little sounder.’

Thomas gladly lay back on his bed.

‘You are right, William. I will sleep well tonight.’ He closed his eyes as Falconer snuffed the candle out. ‘Oh, and remind me never to drink unwatered French wine again.’