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Authors: Ian Morson
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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
T he 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.
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
T he 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.
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