Falconer and the Death of Kings by Ian Morson Read Free Book Online Page B

with the friar. Falconer was short-sighted, and to see anything of significance on the body he would have to don his eye-lenses. He had had these fashioned a number of years ago now, refining the armature that held them on his nose and ears himself. But they were still a cumbersome appurtenance, and he was embarrassed about wearing the device in the presence of strangers. He hoped that the signs on the body would be so obvious that he would have no need of lenses.
    Crossing the broad Rue de la Harpe, he turned abruptly down the narrow lane almost opposite the one from which he had emerged. His target was the convent of the Mathurins, an order of monks dedicated to the task of the redemption of captives, particularly those in the Holy Lands. The monks were derisively known as the ‘Friars of the Ass’, as their rule forbade the monks to travel on horseback. But the Order of the Trinitarians, to give them their proper name, was much favoured by popes and kings. The convent in Paris had eventually become their headquarters, and, as their founder had been a doctor of the university, Paris’s medical schools – and corpses – gravitated towards the convent. If the body was to be found anywhere, it would be in the hall of the Convent of St Mathurin. Just before Falconer reached the convent entrance, the heavens opened again, soaking his sturdy black robe thoroughly. He stood in the rounded archway of the main door, shaking the rainwater off his grizzled curls.
    ‘You had better come in and dry off, sir.’
    Though Falconer was more used to English vernacular, enough French was spoken in higher circles in England that he could still comprehend the invitation. He peered through the gloomy doorway at the figure silhouetted in the open entrance to the convent. The man was tall and wore the habit of a Trinitarian – a white robe emblazoned with a cross of which the upright was red and the crossbar blue. He ducked through the archway out of the rain.
    ‘Many thanks, Brother. It seems that Paris is as wet as Oxford, though I am thankful for the lack of mud in the streets.’
    The monk closed the door behind him.
    ‘Ah, you are a master at Oxford, then, that other hotbed of Averroism.’
    He made reference to an interpretation of Aristotle’s theories now disapproved of but close to Falconer’s own heart. He was about to argue with the monk when he spotted the hint of a smile on the man’s lips. He was being teased and refrained from rising to the bait, returning the jibe.
    ‘Not if your bishop has his way.’
    The monk laughed and waved his hand dismissively, stepping through a small door set in the thickness of the convent’s wall. He quickly re-emerged with a coarse cloth in his hand.
    ‘Here, take this and dry yourself.’ He handed the cloth to Falconer, who began to dry himself as the monk carried on talking. ‘There are many serious false assertions made by Aristotle, but they will matter little to you if you catch a chill and die.’
    Falconer vigorously towelled off his wet hair and face, and replied.
    ‘I could debate with you long and hard about the doctrine of souls and monopsychism, but I fear my errand is more mundane. And not a little melancholy.’
    ‘You have come about the boy.’
    It was a statement, not a question, from the monk, who took the wet cloth back from Falconer. William quickly saw that the monk had assumed he had some official status as he was of the same nation as Paul Hebborn. He didn’t bother to correct the mistake. It would make seeing the body all the easier, and, after all, he was not lying. He had come to see the boy.
    He nodded sadly.
    ‘Yes, I have.’
    ‘He is in the side chapel. Follow me.’
    Falconer followed the white-robed monk into the church, his wet boots squelching on the tiled floor. The interior rose high above his head in a series of round arches set on sturdy pillars. Nothing disturbed the silence except the sound of their respective footsteps. They entered one of