by Ian Morson
‘Your bishop also denies Aristotle’s proposition that human acts are not ruled by the providence of God. Do you agree with him?’
D’Angers, with a face like thunder, stood his ground.
‘Naturally.’
Falconer smiled sweetly at the springing of his trap.
‘Then tell me if the death of that young student yesterday was an act to be found within God’s providence.’
It was fortunate that, at that very moment, Thomas Symon came scurrying along the covered cloister of the abbey. Or Falconer may have said something that got him further into trouble. D’Angers wasn’t above passing on this conversation to those who would be less tolerant of this English master’s intemperance. Even though Thomas Symon, as scribe to Falconer’s meetings with the Paris masters, had not been present at this informal dispute, its content could still be reported. But now it seemed that Thomas had news for his master, and he drew Falconer away from d’Angers. As they retreated along the cloister, the French master tossed his head and stormed off in the opposite direction. For his part, Falconer did not regret the intervention.
‘Tell me. What have you learned about the dead student?’
He had been unable to resist finding out about the incident as soon as he had been told of it. Though he was in a foreign country, and had no authority at the University of Paris, a suspicious death aroused all the usual instincts in him. He had required Thomas to ask around, and to listen to the gossip that no doubt already filled the narrow alleys of the university quarter. But Thomas was now waving away his enquiry.
‘William, it is not the murder that I have come to tell you about. It’s Friar Bacon. He has sent a message. He can see you now.’
‘Roger? Then let us go to him’
The streets of the university quarter, which took up most of the city south of the river, were narrow. And the houses’ upper floors hung out either side, making the streets like tunnels. Falconer was reminded of the back lanes to the south and east of the main thoroughfares of his home town, Oxford. Except for one specific difference. The streets of Oxford could be muddy and clinging when it had rained. In Paris, the streets had been paved with stones at the order of the old king, Philip Augustus. It made getting about so much easier. The same monarch had built the city walls that loomed over them right now. Once through the gates at Porte St-Victor, Falconer turned towards the Place Maubert with Thomas Symon in hot pursuit of his gangling gait.
The Franciscan friary was across the other side of the quarter that housed the schools and lodgings that made up the university. Paris was more or less split in two by the River Seine, which ran east to west. To the north of the river the commercial city huddled within Philip Augustus’s walls. On the south bank sprawled the tentacles of the university. And in the centre of the river lay the beating heart of the city, dominated by the Royal Palace and the great cathedral of Notre-Dame. It was from the top of the cathedral that the boy – Paul Hebborn – had plummeted yesterday.
As Falconer reached the square and turned west towards the convent of the Mathurins, he asked Thomas about the incident.
‘The English boy – Hebborn – what do the rumours say about his fall?’
Rendered breathless by the pace of their walk, Thomas did his best to summarize what the students he had spoken to had said.
‘For many it is just an accident, though why he came to be at the top of the tower no one could say. But there are some who say he was lured there and pushed off.’
‘And did they give any justification for his murder?’
Thomas stopped and shrugged even though it was a pointless gesture as Falconer wasn’t looking at him. He was way ahead of Thomas and already crossing the Rue de la Harpe towards St-Cosmé. Thomas lifted the hem of his black robe and scurried on. He had to shout to make himself heard over the bustle and noise of the great avenue.
‘Now as for the cause of the murder, you can have as many theories as there are stars in the firmament. Some of them quite gory.’
He had to shoulder his way through a knot of men standing around a game of knuckle bones being played out at their feet. Money was changing hands, and one ruffian elbowed Thomas away, cursing him in such coarse French that the educated clerk hardly understood a word. Thomas held his hands up to the red-faced gambler in a palm-out gesture of peace, and hurried on. Falconer, meanwhile, had reached their destination – the great edifice of the house of the Friars Minor, wherein Friar Roger Bacon was incarcerated. It stood hard by the western wall of the city and was as severe and stark a building as the order could build. The church stood on the road, but it was down the side lane that Falconer went, followed by Thomas Symon, to knock on the door of the friary itself. They were admitted by a solemn-faced friar in a brown robe, who had barred their passage before. Now he did not seem at all surprised that they had come to see Roger Bacon. He simply led them through the cloister to where the friars’ individual cells were arrayed. It seemed that, after being stonewalled for two months, the door was to be opened with no explanation for the delay. The friar did indeed indicate a door that already stood ajar on the far side of the cloister, and simply walked away. Falconer walked over, his heart in his mouth, pushed on the door and called out.
‘Roger?’
FIVE
Sir John Appleby, fresh from England, was ushered into the presence of his new king. He had not seen Edward for nearly four years, and he was pleased by the manly bearing his monarch seemed to have acquired. Edward had always been tall – hence his nickname ‘Longshanks’ – but to Appleby’s eyes he now had that intangible attribute: presence. The king was standing when Appleby entered the chamber he occupied in the French king’s palace on the Ile de la Cité. And his wife Eleanor stood by his side. She too looked every inch a queen – long and slender, but with the shapeliness of a woman who had borne children. He lingered for a moment on her full lips, and thought of the story of them sucking the poison from her husband’s wounds. Almost reluctantly, Appleby’s eyes turned back on the king. His black hair hung in full swathes either side of his tanned face. The sign of a crusader, who had spent time under the blazing sun in the Holy Lands. His symmetrical features were marred only by that droopy eyelid, which was the mark of his family. The old king had had the same feature also. Edward held his muscular and long right arm out towards Sir John, and when he spoke Appleby detected a slight lisp that he had been unaware of before. But then he had not been this close to the new king when he had been prince.
‘Welcome, Sir John. I understand the Archbishop of York and Robert Burnell are anxious to see my return.’
‘Indeed, sire, they are keen to shuffle off the responsibilities they have so readily assumed.’
The two men Edward mentioned had assumed the regency of England on the death of Henry of Winchester, and were ensuring a smooth transition of monarchy to his son. In the past, there might have been a power struggle with the one who was to inherit out of the country. Edward had felt confident, though, that all would be well, and he was in no hurry to return. Philip of France had hinted that there was trouble in Edward’s holdings in Gascony, and he meant to sort it out first. The king sat, and indicated that Sir John could do so too. He was growing in confidence in his new role.
‘I am sure they do. But first, tell me of the court and the goings-on in England. Four years is a very long time.’ As Eleanor poured Sir John some Rhenish wine, Edward leaned closer to the knight. ‘Tell me about my father’s death.’
Appleby put on a suitably solemn face and talked of Henry’s last days.
‘He bore his illness nobly, sire, and was much distracted by an Oxford master, who had your father play the part of a coroner. His late majesty discovered, in the most marvellous manner, who it was had murdered his wardroper. Of course, he was guided by this master, who it is said is clever at solving that most heinous of crimes.’
Thoughtful, Edward leaned back in his chair.
‘I would know this man. I may have some business for
him, if he is still at court when I return to England.’
‘Oh, you may speak to him sooner than that, sire. The new chancellor of Oxford University sought leave of the archbishop to send him to the university here. It was on matters of philosophy that I cannot begin to understand. But what I do know is that Master William Falconer has been here these two months already.’
The cell that Falconer and Symon entered was dimly lit by a single candle, and made even gloomier by the lack of a window. As Thomas’s eyes adjusted to the low light, he slowly became aware of what was around him. He gasped in astonishment. The tiny cell was filled with books and parchments stacked floor to ceiling, and every surface was covered with the same clutter. Thomas had never seen so many books outside of one of the monastic libraries in Oxford. In the centre of this chaos, at a small table where the solitary candle flickered, sat a tonsured man hunched over a manuscript. He was busily scribbling and seemed to be ignorant of their presence. Falconer was less surprised than his young scribe at such a scene.
‘Roger, have you no time to greet an old friend?’
The Franciscan friar paused in his feverish scribbling, laid down his quill and turned on his stool.
‘William, they told me you were in Paris. What took you so long to come and visit? Did I not make it clear to Pecham how urgent the matter in hand was?’
Falconer looked at his old friend, whom he had not seen for some years. Time has been less kind to Roger Bacon than it has been to me, he thought. The friar’s hair was completely white, and his features were drawn and of a pasty hue. He had clearly spent too much time locked in a windowless cell. But behind the pallor, Bacon’s eyes sparkled with intelligence. It was the Roger of old, as driven and opinionated as ever. Falconer strode across the small room and hugged Bacon, who had risen stiffly from his stool. Falconer saw that the friar had added a stoop to his catalogue of ageing, but his demeanour was as bright and lively as before. He pushed Falconer out to arm’s length and surveyed his friend.
‘You have aged, William. I hope your brain has not suffered as much as your face over the years.’
He laughed, and shook Falconer’s hand vigorously. Then he saw Thomas hovering in the doorway.
‘Who is this? Do you have an acolyte now? He is too young to be anything other than a fresh student.’
Falconer laughed.
‘This is Thomas Symon, and he is old enough to be a master of Oxford University. Do not let his boyish looks deceive you. He is well versed in the Quadrivium and Trivium. And he is now broadening his knowledge of medicine here in Paris.’
Thomas blushed as the famous Roger Bacon – Doctor Mirabilis to those who admired his works – examined him closely.
‘So William has you dissecting bodies, does he?’
Thomas gasped. His pursuit of understanding how the body worked by means of cutting it open had to be a well-kept secret. Dissecting corpses was strictly forbidden by the Church, except in very specific circumstances.
‘How did you… ?’
Falconer waved a dismissive hand.
‘Roger is prone to wild guesses and speculation in his hunt for knowledge. Tell him nothing, and he will only construct a life history about you from looking deep into your soul.’
Bacon grinned at Thomas.
‘If what William says is true, then you might as well tell me the truth in the first place.’
Falconer patted the friar on his shoulder, helping Symon out of his dilemma.
‘Thomas is here to help me carry out the task you set me through Pecham. So, to answer your earlier questions, yes, I have been here two months and was despairing of carrying out what you wanted of me. I have been bored stiff having circular debates with scholars too scared to listen to the truth, and Thomas has whiled away his time in one medical school or another. They stopped me seeing you until today, and now they act as if there was no impediment in the first place. What is going on, Roger?’
Bacon grimaced.
‘This has been going on since my old comrade, Guy de Foulques, died. When they made him Pope Clement, he took an interest in my work. Eight years ago he asked to see my writings. This was the result.’
He pointed at a cupboard with openwork doors. Inside, Falconer could just make out stacks of parchments that had been roughly stitched together to form three books.
‘The first is the Opus Maius, covering causes of error, Christian philosophy, languages, mathematics, perspective, experimental science and moral philosophy.’
Bacon pulled a face and indicated the thickness of this first tome.
‘It became rather a large work, and I then thought that Clement would not have the time or the patience to read it. So I wrote the Opus Minus. A sort of summary.’
Thomas stared at the second tome, which seemed to him almost as thick as the first. Falconer simply laughed out loud.
‘You haven’t changed, Roger. You could never sift out the essential from the merely interesting.’ He then pointed to the last weighty tome. ‘And the third book?’
‘The Opus Tertium.’
‘Let me guess. There was so much you omitted from the first and second books, you just had to write it all down in this third volume.’
Bacon looked rueful.
‘You are exactly right, as ever, William. I sent them all to the Papal Curia through the agency of one of my students. But hardly had John got there, when Guy went and died. So here they lie, gathering dust.’
He rattled the cupboard doors, showing they were locked.
‘I was allowed to keep them, but they are safely locked away beyond my reach. And I was hidden away to gather dust too.’ He shuddered. ‘William, they forced me with unspeakable violence to obey their will.’
Falconer was alarmed by the change in Roger’s voice. Now it was unusually uncertain, his tone wavering. He grasped his friend by both shoulders, as an embarrassed Thomas Symon looked away.
‘But now you are free to do as you please again. See – we are here.’
Bacon shrugged.
‘But I’m still spied on and suspected of heresy.’ He turned back to the table and sat down on the stool again. ‘Now, when I set down my thoughts, I am reduced to using cipher.’
Both Falconer and Symon looked over his shoulder at the parchment he indicated. It was the one he had been scribbling on when they arrived. Neither could immediately fathom the orthography, which was made up of simple strokes and curls. The text was dense, and as Bacon had been writing it like a normal language, and not ciphering every letter as he went along, Falconer assumed it was a language of his own creation. But before either visitor could look too closely, the friar nervously covered the text with a blank sheet of parchment. Then he stared at the two men with a serious look on his face.
‘But that is not why I asked Pecham to get a message to you, William. I am minded to compile a new compendium of knowledge. And I need a safe way of getting it from inside these walls.’
Falconer frowned at the problem Roger had presented to him. But it was Thomas who immediately saw the means of securing safe passage for Bacon’s compendium. And in a way that would give him a task that would please him greatly. He spoke up boldly.
‘Have you permission to leave the friary from time to time, Brother Roger?’
Bacon frowned, wondering what the young man intended by the question.
‘Yes, of course I may. As long as it is only for a few hours each day.’
Falconer immediately saw what Thomas Symon was proposing. He punched the young man’s shoulder with joy.
‘Thomas, I think, is suggesting that your own head is the very vessel which can carry your ideas unseen past the portals of this friary.’
Symon nodded eagerly.
‘Yes. I have visited a number of the medical schools already, and I could arrange for you to teach at one. Every day, you could come to the school ostensibly to teach, and could dictate what is in your head to me. I have a good, clear hand, and can take down what you say at a reasonab
le speed.’
Bacon laughed out loud.
‘I will be smuggling my encyclopedia out piecemeal.’ He shook the young Thomas by the hand, but had a warning for him. ‘It will take up much of your time for many months.’
‘I have not much else to do. And I will be learning as I write.’
Bacon turned to his old friend Falconer.
‘And you, William, what do you propose to do all this time?’
Falconer smiled easily.
‘I have tired of my official task – that of understanding Bishop Tempier’s Condemnations. I will look into the death of this student who fell from the Notre-Dame tower. After that, I am sure something will come along to keep me busy.’
He was not to know that Sir John Appleby already had orders from King Edward to track down this Oxford master who was adept at solving cases of mysterious death. And so was blissfully unaware that he would soon be embroiled in a labyrinth of mysteries that would tax him to the limits of his brain.
SIX
The streets on the south bank of Paris were almost empty of people. A heavy downpour had driven everyone indoors, and the wet pavements gleamed like pewter, reflecting the dark grey clouds that scudded over the city. Falconer kept under the overhanging eaves for shelter from the rain as he retraced his steps towards St-Cosmé church. He was going in search of the body of Paul Hebborn, the student who had fallen from the top of Notre-Dame Cathedral. He would have preferred to have Thomas with him as he didn’t like looking too closely at corpses. But Symon’s skills as a scribe were sorely needed by Roger Bacon, so he had left the young man planning his task 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.
