Falconer and the Great Beast

by Ian Morson

  Finally, de Ewelme found his voice. ‘Regent Master, I require your services as someone with a facility for languages. The king's envoy to the Tartars has insisted I accompany him to their camp this very day.’

  Guchuluk watched, furious, as the old man stalked across the open meadow to the yurt where he slumbered his household gods. The young man had tried on several occasions to talk sense to Chimbai, without success. Yesterday he had been drawn into a humiliating argument with Sigatay, commander of Chimbai's personal arban. That it was his own fault that he found himself in such a position only served to make it all the more annoying. It was vital that he discuss the strategy for the talks with the English king with Chimbai, and the stupid old man was going out of his way to avoid him. Guchuluk wondered what he did all the time he was in the gods' yurt. Probably relived old campaigns against the Franks and the Saracens with them. The old fool was firmly anchored in the past, and that was all gone now. Gone was the time when surprise and manoeuvrability on the battlefield counted for everything. Their former enemies had learned hard lessons, but they had learned. Now was the time for similar tactics, but this time at the negotiating table, in order to get the Christians on their side and against the Mamlukes. But the commander's head was in the Tanglu Mountains, and his soul fermented in kemiz brew.

  Guchuluk sank back gloomily on to the soft skins that decorated the floor of his yurt, thinking of the impending meeting with the king's envoy that evening. It would only be a skirmish in a longer campaign, but the success or otherwise of this first encounter would set the mood for future negotiations. And whether Chimbai accepted it or not, Guchuluk knew they needed alliances now. Grimly, he resolved that, if necessary, Chimbai would have to be removed from the negotiations. He bolstered himself with remembering the final words of the Great Khan, Chinghis, spoken on his deathbed: ‘My descendants will wear gold, they will eat the choicest meats, they will ride the finest horses, and they will hold in their arms the most beautiful women.’ He chose not to recall the final part of Chinghis's prophecy: ‘… and they will forget to whom they owe it all.’

  *

  As the sun dipped redly below the battlements, the long shadow of the walls crept slowly towards the Tartar encampment. The three tents squatted like strange black mushrooms on the green fields that normally teemed with the young men who studied at the university. Their mental energies exhausted by the repetition of the learning they took in by rote, summer evenings were an opportunity to escape the confines of the city until curfew. Of course, more than a few students supplemented their meagre resources by poaching in the nearby woodland and streams, and a few heads might get cracked in the heat of the moment. But when the curfew bell called, order was generally restored.

  This evening, though it was still light, and the air balmy, the fields were barren of student life. Two flaming torches, the height of a man, stood either side of one of the larger black tents, sending their sparks shooting up into the darkening sky. Besides that, there was no sign of activity around the tents other than the milling horses. Falconer felt a shiver of fear run down his back as he passed through the half-closed city gates. It was unlike him to be afraid of the unknown – indeed, he usually relished the thought of discovery. Hadn't he spent the early years of his life travelling the world in the company of merchants who plied their trade in the earth's farthest reaches? And hadn't his blood occasionally run cold at some of the situations he had found himself in? But he had never encountered a race of people with so many myths attached to them – not least the conviction that they were God's plague on mankind. He turned his gaze on Nicholas de Ewelme, who walked at his side, and was reassured that the other man looked fearful, too. He thought again of what Roger Bacon had told him when he had called to check on him that afternoon: Men, and not monsters.

  Though it had taken some while for the Franciscan to respond to his knocks, Falconer had been somewhat reassured by the transformation in the room, at least. After letting Falconer in, Bacon had returned to his seat at the battered table, which he had moved across nearer to the window. A simple bed, topped by a fresh straw mattress, had appeared in one corner, and the floor was now innocent of grease and grime. The watery rays of the sun lay across the surface of the table and the papers that were scattered on it. Bacon cast a glance over his shoulder at his visitor, and Falconer fancied he saw the spark of enquiry in his eyes again.

  ‘I'm glad you came, William. I was just rereading the notes I made some years ago, when I met a most interesting character in Paris. He was a Flemish monk at the court of King Louis, and he'd just got back from Karakorum, where he had met the Great Khan of the Tartars. Oh, the sights he described. William! A palace with the walls covered in gold and silver, and pictures of dragons, beasts and birds, and an inner courtyard with trees growing in it.’

  Falconer looked sceptical, because he knew how travellers, especially seamen, liked to embroider the truth until that rare commodity was stifled entirely by the embellishments that were hung on it. He had done it himself, once tempted by drink and good company.

  Oblivious to his friend's gaze, Bacon went on: ‘Do you know, by the way, that though we call them Tartars, they are really called Mongols. Apparently the Tartars were a minor clan defeated by the Mongols many years before they arrived in the West. But the story that they originate from the river Tar, and I suppose the tempting association with Tartarus, has served to cloud the truth. But that is not what I wanted to tell you. I recall that the monk told me of a secret formula he had learned from the foreigners at the khan's court at Karakorum. William – that was his name, too, William of Rubrouck – was told of an explosive powder by a man from Cathay. I thought you might ask Yeh-Lu about it when you see him.’

  Falconer recalled the letter once sent him by Bacon, claiming knowledge of the mixture required for an explosive powder using saltpetre. Falconer had tried it out, and had nearly blown up a room full of scholars and clerics. It now seemed that Bacon had been merely guessing at the formula on the basis of secondhand knowledge. He shuddered at what might have happened.

  ‘Yeh-Lu?’

  ‘A most interesting fellow, with hidden depths. He hinted to me before we reached London that he knew of exploding powder, but he wouldn't reveal its secrets to me. And we did have a little problem.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He professed not to speak any tongue I knew, and I certainly could not speak any tongue he used. We spoke through another, whose scientific knowledge was non-existent, so getting accurate information was difficult. I thought you might be able to find some common ground. After all, that's the reason why the chancellor's taking you with him, isn't it?’

  Falconer wondered how a man who had only been in Oxford two days, and who had locked himself away all that time, already knew what he, Falconer, had only learned at the hour of terce. Perhaps the man was a necromancer after all. Still, he promised to do what he could for him.

  As the chancellor and the regent master left the safety of North Gate and crossed the open fields towards the tents, they heard a commotion behind them. The jangle of stirrups and the thud of horses' hooves on the hard-packed mud of the lane leading through North Gate presaged the appearance of others who could only be bound in the same direction. Their importance was indicated by the fact that they planned to arrive on horseback, though their destination was but a hundred yards or so from the city walls.

  Bernard de Genova was no longer used to being on horseback. He had spent many years now in Oxford, and had no need for a mount. But Sir Hugh Leyghton had insisted that they arrive at the Tartar encampment in the style befitting the king's envoy and his secretary. So it was that he found himself astride a fierce black rouncy, at the side of the noble knight who was mounted on his favourite grey charger. The streets were relatively quiet, and many stalls at this end of town were already closed, the only sign of their having been open was the litter of fish-heads and corn husk scattered across the highway. Even the taverns, normally bulging wi
th those students who had some coin in their purses, were subdued. In the one below Bocardo, by the North Gate, a few pale, worried faces peered out as the ill-matched pair rode by. The Tartars were obviously going to be bad for trade, mused Bernard. Though he had preached endlessly against drunkenness, it had taken the arrival of the Hounds from Hell to deter the licentious.

  Though it was not yet time for the curfew, the nervous watchman at the gate was worried about the city's temporary neighbours also. He had already half-closed the massive oak doors that normally barred the way to nothing worse than starving brigands and unwary wanderers after dark. As they approached, Leyghton called for the doors to be pulled back. His eyes on the Tartar encampment, the burly watchman was reluctant to obey, but eventually he began to heave on the heavy doors. Forced to wait, Sir Hugh pulled on his reins, and motioned for Bernard to do the same. Hooves clattered on the stones under the archway of the gate as the horses sensed their riders' nervousness and danced an edgy dance themselves. Leyghton leaned forward in the saddle, resting his gloved hands on the pommel.

  ‘We need to discuss something.’

  Bernard's horse stirred under his inexpert grip, and Leyghton stretched out a fist to control it for the Dominican.

  ‘If you knew my brother, then you know how his life ended.’ Bernard felt a strange fluttering in the stone that was his heart, and for a dizzying moment he thought he might fall out of the saddle. He quickly gathered his thoughts and settled the feelings that he had suppressed for over twenty years.

  ‘I know very well how Geoffrey died.’

  ‘Then you must see that we now have it in our grasp to revenge him.’

  The fierce look on Hugh's face contorted his natural good looks, and added years to him. Suddenly he looked even more like Geoffrey before his untimely death. Bernard took a deep breath. ‘And how are we to achieve this revenge?’

  ‘I'm not sure, but what we learn at this meeting may give us the means.’ The gates were now open enough to allow the horses through, and the watchman clearly proposed to open them no further. ‘Come, or we shall be late, and I am answerable to the king,’ said Sir Hugh. He wheeled his horse round, releasing Bernard's reins at the same time, and cantered off across the field towards the Tartars' tents. The Dominican followed at a more sedate pace, nodding at the two black-clad scholars as he passed.

  Reining in his charger in front of the group of tents, Sir Hugh sat in the saddle until the Dominican caught up with him. By the light of the two blazing torches, he could see the figure of a sentry at the entrance to one of the tents. The man, if mortal man he was, was short and stocky, his face impassive. His pockmarked features looked as though they were carved from rough stone, and the flickering light from the flames enhanced the strangeness of his flat nose and veiled eyes. Sir Hugh found himself wondering if he were real. Finally, Bernard appeared at his shoulder, yanking inexpertly on the rouncy's halter. He, too, saw the figure, and muttered a little prayer.

  Suddenly the flap of the tent was lifted, and a tall, angular figure in black robes appeared. He muttered some words into the ear of the sentry, and the Tartar stepped forward to take charge of the horses. Sir Hugh slid nimbly from the back of his charger and handed the man his reins. There was a gleam of interest in the man's narrow eyes as he ran a hand over the horse's flank. Sir Hugh hoped it was in appreciation of the animal's prowess rather than of something that might make a good meal. Behind him, he heard a grunt as the Dominican got himself awkwardly off his own horse and on to the ground. Then the tall, black figure was gesturing for them to follow him between the two blazing torches and into the tent. Sir Hugh Leyghton cast a glance at the Dominican, and hoped the friar couldn't see the fear in his eyes that he could see so clearly in his companion's. He took a deep breath and followed the tall man, who held the tent flap open. By the light of the flaming torches, Leyghton recognized him as the priest who had delivered the Tartar invitation.

  As the knight took a step forward, a sharp command came out of the night behind him.

  ‘Do not step on the wooden threshold – it is a great insult, punishable by death.’

  Leyghton looked back, and saw the two scholars he had passed in the meadow, standing in the flickering light of the torches. The powerful, grey-haired one, who was obviously the man who had spoken, hurried forward.

  ‘I have spoken to someone who travelled with these people from the coast, and he learned some of their customs. Believe me, they would strike you dead if you trod on that wooden sill.’ Falconer pointed down at the innocent strip of wood, close to Leyghton's booted foot.

  Sir Hugh nodded his thanks. ‘Are you de Ewelme?’

  ‘No. My name's Falconer, William F—’

  The other scholar suddenly pushed himself forward, anxious to correct the error. ‘I am Nicholas de Ewelme – Chancellor of the University of Oxford.’ Leyghton ignored the proffered, limp hand, and regretted his demand that the chancellor of the university be present. He had hoped for another powerful man to strengthen his party, and had got a pasty-faced, ginger-haired coxcomb instead. Pity the other one – Falconer – wasn't the one in charge.

  Leyghton looked hard at the two men, taking in the strength of the one and the weakness of the other, then stepped carefully over the threshold into the tent.

  Peter Bullock found himself once again on the battlements, the setting sun warming his bent back. It was as if the encampment acted as a lure, drawing him to it despite himself. This evening, for example, he had intended to patrol the streets and ensure that the normally unruly students behaved themselves as the inevitability of their drunkenness progressed through the evening. Long, light summer evenings proved extremely boring for the young men who teemed in the alleys and halls of the university. On such a hot night they would normally be giving vent to their boisterousness in the meadows north of the city, but of course they were out of bounds to them at the moment. Bullock had expected the humid streets to be seething like a stew over too hot a fire. However, the streets had been unusually quiet, the mood in the innumerable taverns subdued.

  He knew he should have been pleased at that state of affairs – an old soldier always prays for truces and treaties before battles, leaving the glories of death to the chain-mailed fools on horseback. But as he shambled through the narrow wynds and back alleys, where the night-stalkers were prone to lurk, he could not put off the feeling of foreboding he had had since the Tartars had arrived. The next thing he knew, he was climbing the stone steps up to the northern battlements of the city walls. And now he was peering into the circle of light cast by the burning torches in the Tartar camp. Two Western horses with saddles and halters on them were standing at the edge of the circle of light, and Bullock wondered what their riders were now witnessing in those brooding black tents.

  Faint sounds of laughter drifted on the breeze, but there was no visible sign of activity. He yawned, and pulled his leather jerkin around his burly frame as the evening chill began to descend. He was too old for night vigils, and he dragged his tired limbs down the steps, into the quiet lanes of the town. All he could think of now was the comfort of his tower room in the castle keep, and the soft bed he now allowed his old bones. But his soldier's instincts had not totally deserted him, and he saw the figure that slipped quietly from one shadow to another across the end of Schools Street. He fell back into the gloom of a doorway, and observed the heavily cloaked man make his way up towards the spot on the battlements he himself had abandoned so recently. For a moment the man stepped into the yellowish light cast by a lamp that was burning late in someone's window. Bullock instantly recognized him.

  ‘Guillaume de Beaujeu, as I live and breathe. Now what's a Templar doing in Oxford at this very moment, I wonder?’

  The banquet had turned out to be no more than an excuse for an extended drinking bout by the leader of the Tartars, Chimbai. Like his compatriots, he was a short, squat man with a ruddy, moon face that glowed brighter red as the evening wore on. He wore military-style dress o
f a blue tunic with gold-trimmed edges, and heavy grey leggings tucked into thick, laced-up leather boots. When the English visitors arrived, he was seated on a raised couch at the back of the tent opposite the entrance. At his right hand stood a younger version of Chimbai, trying his best to look as composed and unworried. Falconer could see uncertainty in his eyes, however.

  ‘That's Chimbai on the dais – his title's noyan, though I do not know what it means. And that's Guchuluk, his second-incommand, next to him, I would guess,’ hissed Leyghton. ‘Now you know as much as I do about this whole crew.’

  Ranged around Noyan Chimbai and Guchuluk were a handful of stony-faced soldiers in similar but less ornate dress, and the man from Cathay Bacon knew as Yeh-Lu, whose long gown bore a startling pattern of colourful shapes in the form of birds and dragons. David, the Nestorian Christian priest, motioned for the Englishmen to sit on the skins that were scattered across the floor of the tent, and gestured at the pot that stood simmering on the hearth in the middle of the tent. All four men managed the unaccustomed descent to the floor with varying degrees of grace. Sir Hugh Leyghton preferred a crouch that would result in his legs aching unmercifully within a short space of time. But he suffered it in silence because he refused to fall at the feet of this barbarian, and as the evening progressed the thunder-clouds crossing his brow got darker and darker. They partook of the stew that was offered them, expressing their approval in diplomatic grunts and smiles. But Falconer noticed that Chimbai touched it not at all, preferring to suck regularly from a narrow-necked leather vessel which was never beyond his reach. As Sir Hugh got angrier and angrier, Chimbai became more and more jovial, though as yet no words were spoken. Eventually a similar vessel to that which Chimbai drank from was offered to the visitors, and Bernard de Genova took a draught from it. He grimaced, but swallowed hard, passing the vessel on to Falconer.