Chapter 6

The Circle of Friends

 

 

 

 

Journal Entry 22 May, 1557

 

“That’s when things started to look up for me and when I began to feel that this new life had superseded the memories and horrors that had come before. My days were filled with new experiences, new learning, new friends and always something in the magnificent city to see. The nights, too, now opened new possibilities for expanding my knowledge and experience of the pleasures, as well as the perils, of my new life. Back in rural Sussex, I could never have imagined that these kinds of experiences were there for the taking, but now the fellowship, the wine and the plump tavern girls were at my beck and command, and command them I did.

“Even Madame Beber, the Amazon innkeeper whose breath, that first night, had visited both the smell of garlic and the fear of God upon me, turned out to be more bellow than blow. More often than not, she would help my older, more “worldly” room mate guide me, in my inebriated state, up the twisted stairs, around which the hall seemed to be spinning under the influence of the ale that I, a neophyte drinker, had consumed that night. In my stupor, I noticed solicitude, even maternal tenderness in the old lady’s face.

“‘This is Claude Dormoy’ said Gaudin with a magnanimous wave of his hand in the direction of a morose looking young man sitting hunched over a pewter tankard of ale into which the youth was staring, as if in meditation. We were assembled in Gaudin’s favourite tavern, next to the stables which belonged to the curé of Sainte-Geneviève, directly across from the Faculty of Law. We had come to wash from our throats the feeling of dry dust which was all that remained of an afternoon reading from the Codex Juris Canonici by the distinguished Father Eusebius Berdelini, O.F.M., of the Law Faculty. This was one of the requirements in the scope of our course in rhetoric, to introduce us to the stylistic peculiarities of ecclesiastical Latin. As the only known antidote to Father Eusebius was a tankard of ale from Picardy, we had decided to take the cure at the Ecurie, as the tavern was called, where a large student population had also gathered, to drown the memory of the venerable Franciscan’s voice with the raucous laughter of Marie Blanchard, the Ecurie’s ebullient innkeeper.

“The public room, at the Ecurie, was only accessible by descending a narrow, winding staircase, at the bottom of which stretched a long and vaulted cave of exposed beams and mortared stones. I had arranged to meet Gaudin there, and the latter wasted no time introducing me to what he referred to as his ‘inner circle’ of friends.

“The older students, it seemed, had had a head start on Father Eusebius’ latest batch of initiates, having already partaken of several rounds of reddish amber ale from the Abbey of St Linus, near Lille. The noise in the place was deafening. Much of the ruckus centred around the bar stool of the morose looking young man whom Gaudin was attempting to present to me, in between the rounds of riotous laughter.

“‘Dormoy, this is the Worthy Henry Howard, from England. You two have a lot in common,’ jeered Gaudin, to the delight of the small crowd that was pressing closer to the bar stool where Dormoy sat, transfixed by the contents of his tankard. ‘He can’t speak French worth a damn, either.’ Gaudin delivered his punch line in a ‘stage whisper,’ while looking all around him for approval. At his queue, half the room, it seemed, roared its approval with guffaws, whistles and catcalls, as everyone enjoyed another laugh at the hapless Dormoy’s expense.

“For his part, Dormoy, still pretending that his ale was more captivating than the gaggle of youths all around him, raised his dark dog-like eyes to my face, offered one hand and signalled with the other to a barmaid, pointing first to his tankard and then to me, his new friend. ‘I come from Cavaillon, in Provence,’ said Dormoy in a thickly Italianate Latin, by way of explaining what all the commotion was about. ‘We speak Provençal down there,’ he added, ‘and those of us who do speak French, have, so they tell me, a very heavy accent.’

“‘Hey Dormoy’ called a voice from the crowd, ‘Where is your DOG?’ (‘Ou est votre CHIEN?’).

“Dormoy, no longer ignoring them in his ale, took the bait. ‘Je n’est pas de CHIANG!’ (‘ I don’t have a dog!’).

“This provoked another round of laughter and a chorus of voices repeating: ‘CHIANG … CHIANG … CHIANG! ‘ followed by a refrain of hoots and whistles.

“‘You see what I mean?’ asked Dormoy, laughing quietly as his own mispronunciation.

“Now Gaudin, the self-appointed master of the revels, raised his hands in a mock-magnanimous gesture, as if to say that he, for one, was above all of this sophomoric banter. He motioned to Dormoy and me to join him at a more distant table, away from the boisterous multitudes, the better to pursue the more serious business of getting drunk and meeting that barmaid with the magnificent breasts.

“I inspected the worry lines and the furrowed brow on the hang-dog face of my newest acquaintance. ‘Don’t give them the satisfaction of taking their mockery thus to heart.’

“‘Oh, he’s not worried about them!’ Gaudin interrupted, his finger high in the air, as he appraised the situation from his all-knowing vantage point. ‘Our Dormoy, you see, has just returned from burying his mother in Cavaillon. Plague, it was, that took her with deadly swiftness. I think he’s still angry with God about it.’

“‘Dormay looked away, the wound being too fresh for him to trust a reply to words. He would have gotten up to leave them, at this point, except that his escape was blocked by a remarkably beautiful young waitress who was angling toward their table, deftly juggling five tankards of ale.

“‘Haec puella est pulcherima in urbe! ‘(‘This one’s the prettiest girl in the city!’), proclaimed Gaudin in conspiratorial Latin, punching me lightly on the shoulder. He nodded with emphasis at the red haired beauty who, at that moment, was bending to place one of the brimming tankards before me. Her seemingly unconscious action drew my uninitiated eyes to the low laced bodice, pulled tight to the point of bursting over her ample bosom.

“She looked at me, then at the smirking Gaudin. Turning back to me she said, nodding disdainfully at the master of ceremonies: ‘Hic puer canis salus est!’ (‘This boy is a filthy cur!’).

“Both Dormoy and I roared with laughter, as the deflated master shrunk on his stool. Quickly, Gaudin recovered his composure and started to laugh, as well.

“‘I thought you said that we can talk about these barmaids in Latin because they won’t have any idea about what we are saying,’ I commented, when I finally caught my breath.

“‘I told you’” answered Gaudin. ‘This one is different. She’s heard all of the “puella” lines that have ever been thought of, and she has some stock come-back phrases of her own, as well. You might call it self-defense Latin.’ The three of us laughed again, in genuine admiration of this clever and comely girl.

“While the three of us continued to enjoy our own wit, the bar maid had moved on to a nearby table to serve up a tankard to a heavy set young man with an unruly mass of dark, curly hair and thick bushy eyebrows, which gave him the appearance of having an unusually large head. The stocky youth not only accepted his ale but was deep in conversation with the young serving wench. I could tell immediate from the animated manner with which the curly haired fellow was gesturing and slicing the air with his index finger that the boy was Italian.

“This provided more intelligence about the bar maid, based on the evident fact that there was no language barrier between him and the girl. Dormoy noted, as well, that the girl was being as pleasant to this Italian as she had been contemptuous toward Gaudin. For his part, Gaudin merely tipped back his stool so that his feet were elevated and his back was wedged against the stone wall. He smiled knowingly and, once the girl had moved on, he called in a loud and commanding voice: ‘Giambelli, come over here and tell us all about the mysteries of women.’

“The Italian youth nodded acknowledgement and, theatrically easing back his stool by pushing the table in front of him, rose and sauntered over to us three companions with an air of complete self-assurance. Dormoy went over to a nearby table and returned with a stool which he proffered the Italian. Giambelli bowed his acceptance, sat down and brought his tankard of ale to rest in formation with the other three. Gaudin launched his back from the wall, bringing the front legs of his stool back down to the floor. Leaning across the table, he pointed at me and said: ‘Bernardo Giambelli, I present the Worthy Henry Howard, from England. Of course, you know Claude Dormoy, the Provençal who speaks French like a Spanish cow.’

“Gaudin smiled to himself again as he volunteered some more of his sardonic advice. ‘Don’t call him “Giambelli” in front of his countrymen, though. Bernardo, here, comes from Portecorvo, where his schoolmates used to refer to him as “Testagrossa”. So, to make him feel more at home, we mostly call him “Father Testagrossa.” Everyone laughed at Gaudin’s latest witticism, even Giambelli, who bowed to the company, as if he had just been offered a title of particular honour.

“‘Why FATHER Testagrossa?’ In my puzzlement, I was oblivious to the general approval being given to Gaudin as Master of Revels.

“‘Because,’ answered the Italian, ‘unlike the rest of this profane gathering, I intend to go on to the priesthood and plumb the depths of theology, as did my ancient countryman, Tommaso d’Aquino.’

“‘Yes,’ added Gaudin. ‘And in two years, he’ll become a sub-deacon. Then they’ll have to tie his big head in a knot, because he won’t be using it any more.’

“‘Much to the loss of that barmaid who evidently vastly prefers Testagrossa’s company to yours,’ added Dormoy, relishing a chance to strike a retaliatory blow. This merited another round of laughter and ale.

“Whether he was speaking Latin or French, Testagrossa’s pronunciation was as full and rounded as his hand gestures, and he rolled his ‘r’s in the same manner as Dormoy – not at all in the Parisian fashion.

“‘So what’s your secret for charming the girls’ I asked, still thinking of the buxom waitress.

“‘Oh, you mean Caterina!’ said Testagrossa, raising his hands in the air as if he were about to give a blessing. ‘Well, these pigs treat her like a kitchen slut, but I treat her like a ‘Bella Signorina,’ which I assure you she is,’ concluded the young Italian with a flourish, his large head sitting straight upon his shoulders and his jaw fixed and firm as a marble statue, his aquiline nose slightly elevated like a bust of Lorenzo the Magnificent. ‘A woman,’ he continued, ‘is a vessel of beauty and grace, a work of perfection by means of which we glimpse the magnificence of God Himself.’

“‘I think Howard, here, got a good glimpse of Caterina’s magnificence a moment ago,’ observed Dormoy, glancing over at Gaudin, who had not gotten anything memorable from the aforementioned experience.

“We would have continued to wax rhapsodic about Caterina’s virtues and attributes had we not been distracted by a boisterous explosion of singing starting from the far end of the room nearest the staircase. ‘Je vous salut, Marie,’ rang the mock prayerful voices, greeting first the skirts and then the whole form of the inn keeper, Marie Blanchard, who had just come from the kitchen with hot trays of food to spread before the multitudes to stave off drunkenness and vomiting in her respectable establishment. Marie and a heavy set man with a sauce stained apron and a vacant expression on his face struggled to hoist a huge copper cauldron onto a long table at the front of the vaulted cave. The steaming pot vented the intoxicating fragrance of a savoury mutton stew which Caterina and the portly kitchen menial began to ladle into wooden bowls while passing the bowls to the waiting hands of the famished boys. Each recipient then pulled a handful of bread from one of the loaves that were piled on an adjacent platter and used his bread to soak up the stew and convey the bowl’s contents to his mouth.

“Gaudin, Dormoy, Testagrossa and I found a table off to one side, where we could enjoy our free meal away from the clamouring throngs. We ate as if this were the first meal we had had and the last good meal we were likely to get for several days. Dormoy was grateful that Gaudin talked less so that he could eat more. The combination of food, noise and the free flow of ale added to the rising tide of good spirits and camaraderie.”