“God with you, friend,” replied the professor, stepping away.
Douglas waited a moment, then crossed the square and proceeded to the Star Inn, where he had taken rooms. He spoke to the matron and requested food and drink to be brought to him. He and Snipe returned to their upstairs lodgings, Douglas to study some more Latin in preparation for the evening’s conversation—an activity he expected to tax his linguistic powers to their utmost—and Snipe to sleep in preparation for tonight’s vigil.
Then, just after sunset, the two ley travellers donned their outer robes once more and went out to meet Master Bacon at the Bear. They crossed an all-but-deserted square—now occupied only by a few old women gleaning morsels from the detritus and garbage heaped at the street corners, and some mongrel dogs snuffling through the refuse in the gutters. Ignoring their beggarly imprecations, Douglas hurried to the inn, paused beneath the torch above the door, and with a last warning to Snipe to be on his best behaviour, lowered the hood of his cowl and went inside. The interior was a fog of smoke and steam and the scent of the beeswax candles that lit the room, casting everything in a warm amber glow. He stepped to the serving hatch and procured a pie, then turned to get the measure of the place. There were tables of assorted sizes scattered about the large central dining area served by a wide, deep, and glowing hearth where spitted meat roasted, cauldrons gurgled, and bread baked; three smaller rooms opened off the main room, each containing a single long table and benches. In one of these snugs they found Roger Bacon, surrounded by a bevy of students—sallow-faced striplings with straggly beards and long tousled hair, some wearing their scholars’ robes, others dressed more informally in dark satin jerkins and tunics. All clutched jars of ale, and they rose as one to greet the newcomers.
“Pray you, do not stand on our account,” Douglas told them. “Please, sit and take your ease.” Posting Snipe at the door with the pie, he took the seat offered him at the end of the table.
“Our friend is visiting from Tyndyrn Abbey,” the professor informed his audience. He poured another jar and pushed it along the table to Douglas. “He comes seeking enlightenment. Is this not so?”
“Verily, that is the purpose of my visit,” replied Douglas. He noticed the twitch of the students’ eyes as they darted glances to one another when he spoke. He guessed the cause and swiftly moved to disarm any mistrust, adding, “Before we converse further, I will apologise for my lack of learning and the crudeness of my speech. I was not brought up to the Latin of my betters. I was born and raised on the Isle of Man. Whatever learning I possess, I acquired late in life and through the instruction of those but little better informed than myself.” He gazed steadily around the table and concluded, “I am sorry if my speech offends you, brothers. I humbly beg your indulgence.”
“Nonsense!” cried Roger Bacon. “All scholars are pilgrims on the same journey. Some may have set foot to the path the sooner, and so have advanced a little further.” He, too, passed his gaze around the gathering. “As a pilgrim people, we do not presume to hold judgement over one another, but accept all like-minded travellers in our company as friends for the journey.”
The students, subtly chastised, ratified this sentiment with hearty cheers and thirsty quaffs of beer, hailing the newcomer in their midst.
“My thanks,” said Douglas, wiping his mouth on his sleeve in imitation of his companions. “I am your servant.”
“Since our company is complete,” said the master, “let us break bread together and commend our converse to the Almighty, may our erudition bring him glory.”
“Amen!” cried the students. “To supper!”
Three of the more junior members were dispatched to the kitchen to collect the food and bring it to the table. They trooped off noisily, returning shortly with a collection of crockery filled with roast meats, small loaves of bread, and a variety of vegetable porridges. Wooden spoons were passed around, and they all fell to with a will. Douglas was glad he had remembered to bring along a knife of his own since, in an age where everyone was expected to furnish his own cutlery, the hospitality of the inn did not extend past the communal wooden spoons.
The meal soon settled into a convivial hum presided over by Master Bacon, and Douglas observed the manners and culture of his fellow diners. The camaraderie was genuine and seemed deep, as was the esteem in which they held their renowned professor. When Friar Bacon spoke, all eyes turned to him, as all thoughts yielded to his guidance. His was the last word in all discussions. As might have been expected of academics, the talk around the table was a heady stew: chemistry, mechanics, mathematics, astronomy, all mixed together with heavy dollops of philosophy and theology—much of it beyond Douglas’ ability to digest. However rich, the master was always able to elucidate any matter further, or expound in greater or finer degree. Douglas sensed that the scope and sophistication of the man’s thoughts were staggering, and though he could not follow the intricacies of expression, he could marvel at the suppleness of mind that produced it.
When, long after the dishes had been cleared and the ale jars filled once and again and again, the students were dismissed to their evening prayers and the master at last turned to his newest guest. “Now, my friend, we have some time to ourselves. Will you accompany me to my laboratory, where we can speak more privately?”
“Of course, I would be honoured.”
Leaving the inn, they went out into the night, passing through the city only intermittently illumined by torches and braziers set up at the street corners and tended by the town’s bailiffs—the local militia who acted as peacekeepers and enforcers of the king’s law. Tonight the old town was quiet, and the two men—accompanied by a truculent shadow in the form of Snipe—walked easily and unmolested down the wide street leading to the bridge and its imposing tower. Upon reaching the base of the tower, Master Bacon produced a large iron key and proceeded to unlock his laboratory, which occupied the ground floor.
While the professor worked his key in the lock, Douglas turned to Snipe. “Stay here and guard this door,” he told him, bending near. “I do not wish to be disturbed. Understand?”
By means Douglas did not perceive, the professor lit candles with a mere snap of his fingers. As soon as it was light enough to see the interior, Douglas observed that it was a single large square room, its stone walls unadorned, its floors bare. Two long board tables set up on trestles side by side ran the length of the room, their surfaces covered with books and parchments at one end and bottles, vials, jars, and mixing bowls on the other. In a nearby corner stood a brick oven something like a small blacksmith forge; smouldering coals sent a thin tendril of smoke rising towards a hole in the ceiling. Surrounded by arcane tools and vessels of copper, iron, tin, and bronze, it gave that corner of the room the appearance of a combination foundry and chemist’s laboratory.
Near to the oven was a large wooden chair piled high with fleeces and coverings. A large iron candle tree stood to one side of the chair, and a contraption resembling a cantilevered drafting table stood on the other. From this Douglas surmised that it was the place where the eminent professor did his reading and thinking and writing.
“Welcome, my friend,” said Master Bacon, waving out the reed he used to light the candles. “Every creature has its true home. This is mine. Here I have everything I need for the sustenance of the inner life.”
“A most commodious dwelling,” agreed Douglas. Indicating the collection of bottles and jars on the table, he said, “Am I right in thinking that you are engaged in alchemical investigations?”
“You are perceptive,” replied the master. “For some years, I have been pursuing the promise of alchemy. Alas, it is proving a very elusive prize. It is with no small regret that I confess I seem no closer to achieving the goal I have set for myself—although I have made many discoveries and enjoyed some small success along the way.”
“Nothing is wasted,” said Douglas.
“Verily.” Roger Bacon smiled indulgently. “For the scholar no effo
rt is ever wasted.” He moved to the end of the table covered by his manuscripts. “I believe,” he said, rolling up one of the parchments to clear a space, “you have brought something for me to examine. Let us be about our business.”
“I am your servant,” said Douglas. Reaching into the inner pocket of his robe, he brought out the small, linen-wrapped parcel; he removed the cloth and placed the book on the board. “I would be most grateful, sir, to receive your erudite opinion, for I confess its contents are wholly mysterious to me.”
“Not sir,” corrected Bacon, “but brother only. We are fellow priests, are we not?”
Douglas merely smiled and pushed the book nearer. Roger Bacon’s gaze fell onto the volume, his dark eyes suddenly agleam with the excitement of the chase. “Let us see what we have.” Taking up the book, he carefully opened the leather cover and stared for a long moment at the first page, then turned it, glanced at another, and then three more in quick succession.
“How did this come into your possession?” he asked, his voice trembling. His gaze turned fierce. He stabbed a finger at the text. “This . . . this book—how was it obtained?”
“Is there some difficulty?” replied Douglas slowly. Unable to read the meaning behind Bacon’s words, he stalled for time to think.
“Do not be offended, I pray thee,” Bacon said. “But I must know. It is of utmost importance to me.”
“It belonged to the previous abbot, I believe. As I have it, the book was found among his things when he died last spring,” Douglas lied. He had practised the story so often, he almost believed it himself. “How it came into the dear man’s possession, I cannot say. The present abbot could no doubt tell you more, but as he is too old and infirm to make the journey here, I was deputed to the task.” Douglas offered a smile of wan sincerity. “Beyond that, I can offer nothing. I am sorry.”
“A very pity.” The eminent scholar shook his head gently. “It may be that certain questions must remain unanswered until another day. In the meantime, we shall proceed with the task before us.”
Roger Bacon opened the book again, and Douglas breathed an inward sigh of relief as he watched the scholar brushing his fingers lightly over the close-written lines of abstruse symbols, his lips moving all the while.
“Can you read it?” Douglas asked, trying to affect a scholarly disinterest.
“For a truth, I can,” confirmed the master. “You see, my friend, I am the one who devised it.”
“Devised?” wondered Douglas, uncertain he had heard correctly. “Do you mean that you wrote this?”
“Oh, no,” Bacon replied with a quick shake of his head. “I did not compose this book, but I transcribed the script in which it is written.”
“Pray, what language is represented here? I confess neither I nor anyone else I know has ever seen the like.”
Here the master scholar allowed himself a bemused smile. “That does not surprise me in the least,” he said gently. “Few mortals will have ever seen it.” He lowered his gaze to the text once more, brushing a line of the flowing script with his long fingers. “It is the language of the angels.”
CHAPTER 22
In Which Blood Tells
Pay strict attention now, Archibald,” instructed Lord Gower. “Use that clever brain of yours. Think!” He turned to the table behind him, which was covered by a sheet. “We will try this test again. Are you ready?”
Archie, dark brow furrowed with concentration, nodded. “Ready, my lord.”
The earl whipped away the cloth. “Now, tell me—which among these items are the genuine articles, and which are the imitations?” He indicated a spread of small objects arranged on a rectangle of blue velvet. “Take your time,” he urged. “And concentrate. Remember all I’ve told you.”
Hands folded beneath his chin, the young man stepped forward and gazed at the array of objects on display: a brooch with a cameo surrounded by a ring of tiny sapphires, a cat carved of ebony, a silver owl with jet eyes, a golden ring in the shape of a scarab with a shell inset with lapis and carnelian, an alabaster statue of a crocodile fighting a hippopotamus, and a pair of pendant earrings of blue, green, red, and yellow glass beads. These objects had been pulled from the Earl of Sutherland’s extensive collection of antiquities, and all were fine specimens of their kind.
“You may look, but do not touch,” cautioned the earl. “An expert must be able to tell from the very first glance. Concentrate. Which are the fakes, and which the authentic creations?”
Archie Burley reached a tentative finger towards the cat figurine, then pulled back his hand. He went on to the ring, and then, after havering between the owl and the crocodile statuette, chose the gold ring and earrings instead. “The scarab and the pendant earrings,” he announced. “These are genuine.”
Lord Gower raised his eyebrows questioningly. “The little scarab and the earrings? Are you absolutely certain?”
Archie gave a curt nod.
“Not the owl? Not the brooch?” His Lordship tapped the cameo, making the sapphires sparkle. “This is a valuable piece.” He indicated the alabaster statuette. “Why not the crocodile? It is very beautiful.”
“The question was not which is the most beautiful or costly,” declared Archie. “You asked which were the genuine artefacts and which the fakes. I choose the scarab and the earrings.”
“Well done, Archibald!” The earl began clapping his hands very slowly. “You are correct. Those are genuine Egyptian antiques. You have the talent, lad. You will get on.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But tell me,” continued Lord Gower, picking up the brooch. “Why did you not choose this pretty bauble, or the hippo and crocodile?”
“The brooch is too . . .” Archie hesitated, then offered a shrug. “Too shiny. Real gemstones are more subtle. I think the setting is real, but the stones must be imitation. And the hippo is wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong? Explain.”
“The hippo is too small, and it looks like a pig. I suspect the object was made by someone who had never seen the real animal. Or perhaps the craftsman simply copied this piece from another figurine.” He waved a hand at the cat and owl. “The cat is of good design and workmanship, but the material is not authentic. An Egyptian artist would have used stone. Likewise the owl.”
“What is wrong with the owl?”
“The figure is cast in silver—again, not a material an Egyptian artist of the classical period would have used.” He glanced at his instructor for approval. “Am I right?”
“You are entirely correct.” Gower beamed at his pupil. “My boy, you have learned your lessons well. I think you are ready to accompany me to the sales room.”
“I am honoured, sir.” Archie felt a quiver of excitement at the thought. Although inwardly spinning cartwheels of joy, he maintained a calm and disinterested manner—the way His Lordship had taught him: a shrewd trader never revealed his true emotions. An unguarded gush of enthusiasm could easily drive up the price of a bargain, or worse, ruin an acquisition altogether. “I will do my best not to betray the trust you have placed in me.”
“I am certain you will acquit yourself in a right worthy manner.” The earl began picking up the valuables to return them to their respective cases in the hall. “Tomorrow,” he said, fingering the brooch, “we will begin your education on the floor of Sotheby’s Auction House.”
The next day they rode by carriage along the Strand, disembarking at the end of Wellington Street and proceeding on foot the last few hundred yards so that the earl might view some of his London properties. His holdings in the city were by some measures modest, but provided a steady income that to Archie seemed positively astronomical. Not that the young man was in any position to complain; Lord Gower provided him with a weekly allowance as well as a yearly stipend, a fair portion of which he passed along to his mother.
During his time in Lord Gower’s employ, Archie had risen from the humblest of beginnings as menial dogsbody, ascending rung by rung in
the earl’s estimation as greater trust and responsibility were conferred upon him. From odd job and errand boy, Archie had become, in turn, scullion help, groom, assistant footman, footman, second under-butler, assistant valet, and so on, to arrive at what amounted to the role of personal private secretary. When the earl went upcountry, Archie went with him; when the earl travelled on the Continent, Archie was there to help with all and sundry arrangements; when the earl and his entourage decamped for the earl’s northern estate, Archie was sent on ahead to make ready the house and grounds for His Lordship’s arrival. And nowadays, whenever the earl was summoned to Windsor, or attended the House of Lords, Archie went too.
All the while the young man was learning the manners and customs of the elite, biding his time until he could strike out on his own to make his fortune. “A man must have an occupation,” the earl had advised him years ago. “What will be yours, I wonder?”
“Can I not remain in your service, sir?” he had asked. Archie was twelve years old at the time and could conceive of nothing better than being a member of the earl’s household staff.
“As long as you like,” answered Lord Gower. “But, my dear boy, I shall not live forever. Much as I might regret it, when I go, my lands and titles will pass to a cousin whom I have not seen in twenty years. That is a fact of law. In any case, I do not wish to leave you without a way to make a living in the world. You cannot be a servant forever. You are made of finer stuff.”
“I do not care to leave you, sir.”
“Nor I you. But blood tells, Archibald.” The earl smiled and put a fatherly hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “There is aristocratic blood in you, and that cannot be denied.”
The earl had long since discovered the circumstances of Archie’s birth and ancestry. Moreover, through his various connections he had succeeded in orchestrating a reconciliation of sorts between Lord Ashmole and Gemma Burley, extracting a tidy settlement for Archie’s mother. Yet, with a steady eye on the future, Lord Gower was determined to provide Archie with an occupation he could take up in years to come. To this end, he had decided to teach his fosterling the ins and outs of the burgeoning trade in antiques and ancient artefacts that had taken the British aristocracy by storm, and in which vast sums of money were to be made by one who knew the business well.
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