‘What use was the answer of the courtier? His son was dead. There was nothing more to say. So beware, my friend, how you deal with kings and lords. Just say, “If it please you, sir” or “I will do whatever I can for you, sir.” You can tell a poor man what you think of him, vices and all, but you cannot berate your master. Even if he seems to be going straight to hell, say nothing.

‘Think of that other Persian king, Cyrus, who in his anger destroyed the river Gyndes because one of his sacred white horses had drowned in it on the way to Babylon. He drained the river by diverting it into various channels, so that in the end women could cross it without getting their skirts wet. What did wise Solomon tell us? “Never make friends with an angry man. Never walk in company with a madman. You will be sorry.” I will say no more on that matter, Thomas.

‘So swallow your anger. You will find me as straight and firm as a carpenter’s square. Don’t thrust the knife of the devil into your heart. Your anger will do you infinite harm. Come now, Thomas. Give me your full confession.’

‘No way,’ Thomas replied. ‘I have already confessed to the curate this morning. I have told him everything. There is no need to repeat it all.’

‘In any case, give me some of your money. Give us gold to build a cloister for the Lord. We friars have been forced to live off oysters and mussels while people like you have drunk and eaten well. Think of what we have suffered to raise that cloister. Yet God knows that we still have not completed the foundations. The pavement is not laid. Not a tile has been put in place. We owe forty pounds alone for building materials. Can you believe it? So help us, Thomas, in the name of He who harrowed hell! Otherwise we will have to sell our books. If we cannot preach, then the whole world will suffer. To take us from our pulpits and our preaching crosses will be to take the sun out of the sky. I am being serious. Who can preach and do good works as we can? We are not some novelty. There have been friars around since the time of Elijah. And that was a very long time ago. There are records mentioning us. I need your charity, Thomas! For God’s sake, charity!’ And at that the friar fell down upon his knees, and crossed himself.

Thomas himself was already in a very bad temper. He realized well enough that the friar was full of shit. He was a liar and a hypocrite. If he had had the strength, he would have tossed him into the fire. ‘I can only give you,’ he said, ‘what I possess on my person now. Did you say that I had become a lay brother?’

‘Yes. Of course. I have brought the letter of fraternity with me. I was going to give it to your wife for safe-keeping.’

‘That is good. Thank you. I will make a donation to your convent, while I still live. You will hold it in your hand. I promise you. But there is one condition. You have to swear to me that every other friar in your convent has an equal share of what I am about to give you. Swear to that, on your holy brotherhood, without cavil or hesitation.’

‘I swear it,’ the friar replied, ‘on the blood and bones of Christ.’ He shook hands with Thomas. ‘You can have trust in me.’

‘All right then,’ Thomas said. ‘Just put your hand down my back. Down there. If you grope just behind my buttocks, you will find something that I have hidden away for your benefit.’

‘Aha,’ the friar thought. ‘This is going with me. This is my prize.’

So he plunged his hand under the sheets and started feeling the man’s arse to find some treasure. He put his fingers up his cleft in case there was a small package. When Thomas felt the fingers of the friar groping around his bum, he suddenly let out a great fart. A farmhorse, pulling a cart, could not have let out a greater fart. A ploughman’s ox could not have made a smellier one. The noise was terrific.

Friar John was so startled that he jumped up. ‘You bastard!’ he shouted. ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you! God help you! You’ll pay for that fart, I promise you! Just you wait!’

The servants of the house, hearing the uproar, came scurrying into the room and chased out the friar. So he left with a scowl on his face, and went in search of the comrade who always followed him about. He looked like an old boar in pain; he was grinding his teeth or, rather, his tusks. Then he set out for the manor house of the village, where lived a gentleman of great distinction to whom he sometimes gave confession. This worthy man was, naturally, lord of the manor. He was sitting at dinner, in his hall, when Friar John approached him in a fearful rage. The friar was so angry that he could not get his words out. Then he finally managed, ‘God be with you!’

The lord looked up at him and greeted him. ‘Friar John,’ he said, ‘what on earth is the matter with you? I can see that something has happened. You look as if the wood were full of thieves. Sit down. Tell me all about it. If I can help you, I will.’

‘I have been insulted,’ the friar replied. ‘Humiliated. In your village. There is no one so poor, so lowly, so despised, who would not feel that he had been degraded by the treatment I have received. Here. Just now. Of course I do not complain on my own account. I am a mere friar. But I do mind that this – this fool – this knave – this white-haired old clown – should blaspheme against my convent.’

‘Now master friar -’

‘No, sir, not master. Never master. I am a mere servant. I know that I have been made a master of divinity, but I never use the title. It is not modest. It is not seemly, here or anywhere else.’

‘That’s up to you. But please tell me what has happened.’

‘Sir, today my order and myself have been dealt a shameful wrong. It is too dreadful to contemplate. The whole of the Holy Church – all its degrees from pope to priest – has been insulted. God help us all.’

‘I am sure,’ the lord of the manor said, ‘that you know the best way to proceed. Don’t get into a state about it. You are my confessor, after all. You are the salt of the earth. Be calm, for God’s sake. And tell me what happened.’

So the friar sat down and told him the whole story. There is no need for me to repeat it to you. The lady of the house had come in, and heard what the friar had to say. ‘Mother of God,’ she said. ‘Holy Virgin! Is there anything else? Tell me.’

‘That’s it,’ Friar John replied. ‘What do you think?’

‘What do I think? God help me, I say that a common man has done a common deed. What else am I supposed to say? He will end up in trouble, I know that much. His sickness must be affecting him. He may be having some kind of seizure. He doesn’t know what he is doing.’

‘Ma dame,’ the friar said. ‘I will not lie to you. I will be revenged upon him one way or another. I will denounce him from the pulpit. I will defame him. I will shame him. How dare he tell me to divide a thing that cannot be divided? You know what I am talking about. How can I give a portion of you-know-what to all the friars? God damn him and his fart!’

The lord listened to all this in amazement, and asked himself how it was possible for this wretched man to have the wit to put such a problem to the friar? Who could solve such a conundrum? ‘I never heard anything like it,’ he said out loud to no one in particular. ‘The devil must have put it in his mind. I don’t think that any master of arithmetic has ever asked the question. Who could demonstrate the proper method by which every friar should have a part of the sound, and the smell, of a fart? Is this man, this invalid, fiendishly clever? Or what? He is too clever for his own good. That’s for sure. Who ever heard of such a thing? One divisible part to every man alike? Tell me how. It is impossible. It cannot be done. The rumbling of a fart, well, it is just reverberation of the air. It is a hollow sound, fading ever so slowly away. No man can judge if it has been divided properly. Who would have thought that one of my own villagers would come up with something so – so problematic. And he put it to my confessor, too! He must be a madman. Eat your supper, Friar John, and forget all about it. Let the churl go hang himself!’