Falconer's Judgement

by Ian Morson

  If only Otho could be sure that it would be used to promote his own cause. He had not been able to see the King again after the incident at the banquet. Still, the King had been most flattering before the idiot jester spoiled things, and people said Henry was incapable of duplicity. Even if that avenue failed him, as Legate he was in a position to require a procuration of dues to the Pope from all abbots and bishops. He could demand at least four marks from each and every ecclesiastical establishment in the land, and take the first coin for himself. It would not be the first time such an action had been taken. That would serve to swell his bribery funds. A satisfied smile broke across his florid features and he rubbed his fat hands together.

  ‘Excellent. I feel a small celebration is in order. Tell Sinibaldo to prepare something special for me for tomorrow's meal.’

  The Bishop's secretary bowed and scurried from the room to pass on his master's wishes to the Legate's master of cooks.

  The night was proving long and hard for the Frenchman. It was two days since Guillaume de Beaujeu had presented his credentials to the master of the commanderie in London. Although he could not reveal his true purpose, he knew the papers had included a message from the Grand Master, and he had expected a level of respect that was not being offered. The master had claimed he had a matter of discipline on his mind, but that he would address the Frenchman's needs for funds and a horse as soon as possible. In the meantime, he was left fuming at the delay. He had resolved to force the issue this evening, after his shared meal with the brother knights in the Temple commanderie. But barely had he finished the simple repast that was offered him in the kitchens, than the master demanded he and the others be present in the Templar church.

  He followed the other knights who were stationed in the commanderie across the stone courtyard, the sound of their feet strangely deadened by the darkness. They were guided by a stream of yellow light that poured out of the main doors of the church across the cobbled yard.

  The church was circular in reflection of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, and the interior was crowned by the large domed ceiling raised on tiers of squat pillars around its circumference. The centre of the bare floor was dominated by a stark and forbidding central altar. Although many torches blazed from braziers high on the walls, the pillars threw deep shadows, which shifted back and forth in the unsteady light. A stone seat ran round the whole outer edge of the edifice and the knights, tight-lipped, took their places in this gloomy vault. The Frenchman was one of the last to be seated and almost immediately the chaplain scurried to the central altar, his gloved hands clutching an ornate cross. His droning voice drifted up with the smoke from the torches to a grey fog that obscured the apex of the dome. The newly arrived Templar's tired eyes began to droop.

  He was awoken by an angry buzz from the lips of the other knights. In the entrance to the church stood two burly sergeants of the order with a hunched bundle between them. The bundle was a man who could barely stand. The sergeants had to support him as they dragged him forward. The Frenchman realized he must have been shut up in the commanderie prison for some time. The cell was a box barely four feet in each of its dimensions. The pain of not being able to stretch was excruciating, and resulted in a man being unable to support himself. He wondered what the man had done.

  The master of the commanderie stepped forward, his shadow cast like a cloak over the figure of the prisoner. The unfortunate wretch had to kneel at the feet of his commander as he was accused of fornicating with another man in the common dormitory. The Frenchman shuddered at the thought of the deed and the punishment to come. He suddenly realized his name was being called.

  ‘Guillaume de Beaujeu, please step forward.’

  Wearily, the Frenchman stood, knowing he could not refuse the command. His reputation preceded him, and sometimes it was a nuisance. He crossed the cold stone floor aware that every eye in the church was upon him. Pushing aside the dagger that was offered him by the master, he paused in front of the kneeling figure. The poor wretch stared up with fear-filled eyes at de Beaujeu, who whispered a brief prayer in his native French and crossed himself. He then leaned close to the condemned man and spoke softly in his ear, like a lover whispering endearments. This seemed to calm the other man, and once again de Beaujeu felt a sense of communion between this, his next victim, and himself.

  He slipped round behind the kneeling figure, drawing a silken cord from his robe as he did so. With an expert flick of his wrists the cord was around the man's neck and his powerful hands administered the Silent Death he had learned in the Holy Lands.

  * * *

  Ralph Harbottle, the Abbot of Oseney, was a man of uncommon piety. He liked to run the affairs of the abbey with an eye for firm monastic discipline. That is not to say he was an ascetic. The abbey was, after all, wealthy and continued to earn significant incomes from the buildings in its possession in the streets of Oxford, outside the walls of which the abbey stood. No, Ralph believed in strict monastic order - an enthusiasm unusual in these times - but he still shared in the fruits of the abbey's riches. To satisfy his conscience, he left all those secular matters to his bursar, Brother Peter Talam. The man frightened the Abbot with his severe nature and constant invocation of the Lord in all his doings. He avoided Brother Peter when he could, and felt inadequate in his presence despite having travelled to Rome to see the Pope.

  He far preferred the companionship of his prior, John Darby, who took care of all the claustral affairs for the Abbot. Brother John was the antithesis of Brother Peter. They were of the same height, but where the bursar was thin and brooding, with dark eyes that seemed to suck your very soul from your body, the prior was chubby and rubicund. The one was cold and mannered in his actions, the other cheerful and given to indiscretion. The Abbot wondered, not for the first time, that their roles were an apparent reversal of their natures. He might have thought the bursar more inclined to matters of claustral discipline, and the prior more at home in the kitchen and the collection of rents.

  However, Peter Talam managed the external affairs of the abbey with scrupulous attention to detail. Nor did he seek to profit himself from the transactions he carried out, as many a less honest monk was inclined to do. As for John Darby, it was his pleasure to keep the chronicles of the abbey. He spent much time chattering with visitors and the other monks, relying on his open nature to encourage frankness. When he was not exchanging opinions with someone, he spent most of his time in the Scriptorium, carefully recording events as they unfolded in the wider world. And more importantly for the Abbot, recording the history of the abbey itself. Ralph hoped he occupied a favourable place in the chronicles. One day, he would summon the courage to ask to see his prior's writings. In the meantime, he would ensure the man had nothing adverse to record about him.

  This very thought brought him back to the matter that had kept him awake most of the previous night. The presence in Oseney Abbey of the Papal Legate confronted him with a dilemma. The man was too powerful to offend, but the realization that before he left he would press for a significant part of the abbey's wealth filled Ralph with dread. It was not in his nature to dispossess the abbey of any of its assets. Perhaps he could arrange for the Bishop to see Brother Peter. He would not wish to wager on the outcome of a match between those two.

  Both Brother Peter and Brother John were already busy that damp and cloudy morning. After matins and lauds they went about their duties while their lesser brethren contemplated the day in the chapter house, which for some meant dozing until dawn rose. Neither monk was aware of the other's activity as their cells were on different floors of the abbey. Brother John had arranged for living quarters near to the Scriptorium, which was located high on the southern face of the abbey. This lofty perch ensured that the brothers occupied with the copying of manuscripts could work until the sun almost dropped below the horizon. From dawn till dusk the large arched windows gathered in the natural light and ensured a long and profitable day for the copyists. John Darby worked on an ele
vated podium next to the largest window from where he supervised the brothers and was able to make best use himself of the sun's rays.

  Today did not bode well for natural light, however, and John contemplated the expense of lighted candles, which would no doubt be needed for part of the day. He stood at his window looking south across the River Thames at the wooded land which bordered that side of Oxford. From where he stood he could not see the town, and indeed his thoughts were less of it and more of the King and his capital city which lay off to the east.

  Peter Talam's view, from his ground-floor cell, was precisely of the town which furnished much of the income for the abbey. His damp and gloomy room symbolized not only his denial of any worldly comforts, but reminded him constantly of how the abbey retained its powerful position. He would be occupied today with collecting rents and arranging the purchase of provisions to replace those used up by the massive consumption of the Papal Legate and his retinue. He was contemptuous of the excesses of the Lord Bishop, whose sybaritic indulgence was betrayed on his florid, puffed-up features. Brother Peter consoled himself with the thought that if the plans he had worked, then he would shortly not need to worry about the man.

  William Falconer awoke with an ache in his neck. He was sprawled across the table that stood in the centre of his room, and the friar's papers lay scattered around him. He had obviously dozed off at some early hour of the morning, his mind crammed with a bewildering array of concepts. Most of all, he recalled the instrument for human flight described by his friend. He cautiously raised his head and winced as a stab of pain shot into his shoulders. The room was cold and damp, his clothes clinging to him as though he had slept in the rain. He rued once again the strategic reason for the location of the town. The fact that it had been possible to ford the Thames at this point may have been good cause to locate a settlement here, but the marshy nature of the low-lying land meant that even the summers in Oxford were dank affairs, plagued with insects. March would soon be sliding into April and any daytime warmth served only to raise heavy mists from the boggy land surrounding the town. On windless days this curtain hemmed in the noxious humours of the daily life of the more than two thousand souls who inhabited Oxford.

  The town itself was now long established as a university town first and foremost. The traders resented the primacy of the University, but lived from servicing the learned community. William Falconer was only one of many Regent Masters who taught the Seven Liberal Arts of antiquity. The foundation for all students was the Trivium - Grammar, Rhetoric and Logic. After that, and of greater importance at Oxford than other centres of learning such as Paris, the edifice of knowledge was raised with the Quadrivium - Music, Arithmetic, Geometry and Astronomy. Four years of study would lead to a Bachelor's degree in Arts. But this had to be followed by another three years of study, reading and disputing, before the scholar could call himself a Master. He was then under some obligation to teach others, but many left a year or two later for lucrative ecclesiastical posts. Although this meant there was a large body of young men teaching at the University, some were of more mature years. Falconer ruefully put himself in this category. Many of his contemporaries were travelling the long road that led to Doctor of Medicine or Divinity - a journey of twenty years staying in one place.

  Falconer's own youth had been spent on more active journeys across the world, lengthening his route even to the humble level of teaching Master. The further labour of a Doctorate was not for him now. Now he satisfied himself with a personal approach to study, and was content to teach the endless procession of youths who passed through his hall, Aristotle's by name. His income from the hall was supplemented by a meagre benefice from the owners of Aristotle's, to whom he paid rent. Like many houses and inns in Oxford, Aristotle's Hall was owned by Abbot Ralph of Oseney Abbey.

  Falconer knew that today he must visit the abbey and pay his long overdue rent. If he did not do so, then the pittance the Abbot gave him to support his teaching would not be forthcoming. And Falconer needed it for the bare necessities of his life. Putting aside further consideration of Friar Bacon's texts, he blew on the cinders in his grate and roused the embers of the fire to something that would dry his damp robes. He did not relish the thought of negotiating what was his by right from the hands of the bursar at the abbey. The man was parsimonious and self-righteous also, an intolerable combination for Falconer. Perhaps he could put off the evil deed until after dinner. He had, after all, a duty to his students first. Pleased to have justified a delay until the early afternoon, Falconer began to gather together the valuable store of knowledge on his table. He would deposit it safely in the chest at the foot of his bed, where it would lie on the top of his best gown and surcoat, clothes he rarely had occasion to wear.

  As he shuffled the documents, his eyes fell on the treatise on the waking trance and he sank down on to the stool beside his fireplace. As his clothes gently steamed he once again read through Bacon's assertion of the strange technique, wondering if it could be possible. He sat oblivious to the encroaching light as the day that was to prove so fateful to many and fatal to one in particular reluctantly dawned.

  The Second Seal

  In the year 1244 a great battle was fought between the Christians and Khorazmians near Gaza. It happened on the 12th of December, on the vigil of the Feast of St Lucy. Many Christians, along with the whole army of the King of Syria, were obliterated by the Khorazmian horde. In this way was the Second Seal broken, and we still see the effect in England now with the ruled fighting against the ruler. For Revelation says that when the Second Seal was broken another horse appeared, its rider having the power to take peace from the earth and cause men to murder one another.

  From the Chronica Oseneiensis

  Chapter Three

  Guillaume de Beaujeu had travelled through the night to reach his destination, and saw the sun rise from horseback. The last few days had been exhausting for him, but he showed little of it on his stoic features. His order demanded poverty, chastity and obedience, and he found at least the first simple to observe. He had little desire to own material things when his order would furnish all he needed. It also pleased him to give his life obediently to the order. However, he sometimes followed his own instincts, rather than obeying slavishly the instructions of the Grand Master. But he could discipline himself to be obedient, especially when he was instructed to play the intricate games of chess with people at which he was so adept. The notion of chastity was most difficult for him to contain, especially when he found himself surrounded by desirable forms. He thought of the gross deeds of the knight he had recently despatched, and grimaced. In the end, sublimation of his own desires became merely another game he played with himself.

  He stirred in his saddle, the leather creaking under him, and he spurred his horse across the sturdy bridge over the Thames. The road was the main southern approach to Oxford, and the soft stone walls of the city glowed like gold in the watery morning sun. He turned his head to the west, and could just make out Oseney Abbey, a squat shape catching the light on its own outer walls. Momentarily, the sun sparkled off a window in the distant building and the Templar squinted. The purpose of his trip across that damned Channel slumbered in those buildings, but there was plenty of time to plan the game in hand. His first step was to find the Golden Cross Inn at Oxford and take a room. Then he would contact the Bishop's master of cooks and carry out his task. The inn belonged to Oseney Abbey and it would be a fine irony for him to achieve his goal from there.

  As the morning progressed Bishop Otho was well pleased with what he achieved. Admittedly, it could have started poorly due to his audience with the Abbot's bursar. The man had proved particularly obstinate in his insistence on knowing the specific uses to which the monies demanded were to be put. The Bishop was used to fawning and obsequious monks, and pompous and blustering abbots. He had never encountered a man both unimpressed by his position and yet so apparently willing to comply once his questions had been answered. Otho was ultimat
ely forced to admire the man, and reckoned he would be eminently suited to the political intrigues of the Curia in Rome. Both knew the abbey would have to bow to the wishes of the King and Pope. Both knew a game was being played to save face. It had been a truly Roman duel, which the Bishop relished. In the best traditions of Rome, the interruption of good food left the matter unresolved. For the Papal Legate nothing was more important than an excellent repast, and he was anticipating the best from his master of cooks.

  It had proved to be so, thanks to the fact that the Bishop travelled with his own cooks from Rome. This meant he was not subject, in his own residence at least, to the awful stews that the English prepared with spices drowning out the flavour of the meat, and fruits boiled down to liquids fit only for feeding toothless old men. This afternoon he dined on the most delicate pollo from the abbey's own farm, flavoured with basil and cooked in olive oil from the jars that travelled everywhere with the Legate.

  As he settled on his couch, the aroma of the meal seemed to waft again under his nose. He half opened his drooping eyelids, and saw his master of cooks hovering at the door. The man's large frame filled the doorway and he appeared uncertain whether to enter or not, unaware the Bishop had seen him. Otho spoke sleepily.

  ‘Sinibaldo, what do you want? Either come in and speak, or leave. But don't hover.’

  Sinibaldo wrung his fat hands, and opened his mouth to say something. Then clearly changed his mind, shaking his head.

  ‘Oh, it's nothing. I just wanted to be sure your meal was satisfactory.’

  As the man retreated from the entrance, the Bishop muttered his approbation.

  ‘Indeed it was. Indeed it was.’

  His mouth almost watered anew at the recollection as he settled his gross frame on the couch for a short sleep. Later he would have the burdensome task of being polite to some local dignitaries.