by Ian Morson
‘Take care, it's foul,’ he whispered.
The Nestorian at his elbow smiled, and explained the contents in halting Latin. ‘It's a brew made from fermenting sour cow's milk with mare's milk. We call it kemiz –’ he threw in the guttural Tartar word for the drink. ‘It's also very potent.’
Falconer drank deeply and passed the leather bottle on. It was an unusual taste that lingered on the tongue. De Ewelme, too, managed a drink without mishap, though his pasty face turned bright red. But when the flagon was passed to Sir Hugh, he drank carelessly. Immediately his face contorted, and he spat his mouthful into the fire with a roar of disgust, wiping the back of his hand across his lips.
‘It's poisoned!’ he roared.
There was stunned silence in the tent, which was suddenly broken by a high-pitched ululation. It came from the lips of the recumbent Tartar commander, and it was only when the other Tartars began to clap their hands in joy that Falconer realized he was laughing.
From that point on, it was inevitable that the evening would deteriorate. The Tartar commander, drunk on the heady brew of kemiz, issued a guttural command to the cultured-looking Oriental in outlandish robes at his feet. The man smiled modestly, and began arranging goblets and plates on the low table that stood between the commander and his guests. David moved over to Falconer's elbow and whispered in his ear.
‘Yeh-Lu is from the Far East, and has learned magic from –’ he used the Latin word baxitae, which Falconer had never heard before. Did he mean magicians? Or priests? Falconer was soon to learn. Yeh-Lu stared intently at the goblets on the table, and the expectant silence of the other Tartars communicated itself to the small group of Englishmen. The smoky air seemed to vibrate with the intensity of concentration in the tent. Then suddenly Bernard de Genova started and cried out:
‘It moved!’
Sure enough, the goblet closest to the Dominican friar began to slide across the table towards him. He fell back on his heels and made the sign of the cross, mumbling a hasty prayer. Falconer watched in fascination as another goblet moved, and another. Then suddenly two plates rose from the table and went spinning towards Sir Hugh. With a cry of horror, he dashed them to the ground with his arm. One stood spinning on its edge before it tipped and fell against its companion with a ringing sound. Once again the Tartars applauded, while, with the exception of Falconer, their guests looked on in horror. Yeh-Lu bowed his head slightly and accepted the plaudits. Only David amongst the Tartars appeared ill-at-ease, a look of pure hatred on his face for the commander who had instigated such sorcery.
Suddenly Chimbai sprang to his feet and made his unsteady way to the flap of his tent. Had the audience ended? And on such a controversial note? As the party of Englishmen got uncertainly to their feet, the commander spat out another command to Yeh- Lu. The man from Cathay smiled ingratiatingly, and stepped through the tent flap. David groaned, and spoke urgently in his native tongue to the noyan. His comments, whatever they meant, were brushed aside, and Chimbai motioned for the Englishmen to follow him outside.
The plain was now in darkness, out of which the grey bulk of the city walls loomed. The gloom was alleviated only by the guttering flames of the two torches that flanked the entrance to the tent. Between these two red columns of flame stood Yeh-Lu, an enigmatic smile upon his face. In his hands was a ball of thin rope, and, clutching one end, he threw it into the air. The rope stiffened and remained suspended, contrary to all the scientific rules that Falconer held dear. The regent master held his breath, while at his side Bernard muttered darkly of sorcery. Yeh-Lu pulled on the rope as if testing its strength, then, unexpectedly, began to climb it. There was a gasp from all those present as he disappeared out of the circle of light from the torches, and out of he sight of the onlookers. Sir Hugh Leyghton took a step forward, but was restrained by Falconer.
‘I don't think we have seen everything yet,’ he muttered. He had seen the malicious look in the noyan's eye. Maybe he was not as drunk as he let on.
As everyone strained to look into the darkling sky for a sight of the vanished man, something fell from the heavens. It thudded to the ground at Nicholas de Ewelme's feet, and he stared down in disbelief. It was clearly the garish sleeve of Yeh-Lu's gown – and from the end protruded the man's slender fingers. The chancellor's pale face went several shades paler, and he strove to keep down the mix of kemiz and stew that he had consumed inside the tent. More thuds heralded the arrival of further limbs from the heavens, then another brought the headless torso to earth. Finally a yellow, pig-tailed head fell to the ground. The consternation of Sir Hugh and his party was complete. Even Falconer was disconcerted by this development, wondering how he might solve a murder that had taken place at the top of a rope in complete darkness. As they looked on in disbelief, two Tartar soldiers scuttled around, collecting the dismembered pieces and thrusting them into a wicker basket. They then laid the closed basket at the feet of their visitors. For a moment nothing broke the stillness of the night. Then the lid flew open, and Yeh-Lu, once more in one piece, sprang from inside it. Behind Falconer the commander roared with laughter, and led the applause for his magician.
While the visitors trembled with the shock of what they had seen, Chimbai stepped in front of them, dragging the reluctant David with him. He began to orate in his harsh native tongue, only stopping when he saw David was not translating. He grabbed the scrawny priest by the collar of his robe, and shouted in his face, splashing spittle over the unfortunate man's cheeks. David paled, then bowed his head in submission. Chimbai grunted in satisfaction, and began to speak again. This time, David translated, his voice a shaky monotone below Chimbai's peroration.
‘The noyan says that one day our race will rule the world from sunrise to sunset, and your king would do well to ally yourselves with him now. He says …’ David hesitated, until Chimbai gave him a withering stare. ‘He says there is no point in him or his master becoming a Christian, because Christians are so ignorant they can do nothing, while what you call idolaters can perform miracles, as you have just seen. If Chimbai were to convert, his noyans – his barons, you would say – would mock him and say, “Have you seen any miracles to Christ's credit?” And he would have to say no.’
With this, the noyan turned on his heel, and the audience was at an end.
Chapter Six
I will summon universal terror against Gog, says the Lord God, and his men shall turn their swords against one another. I will bring him to judgement with pestilence and bloodshed. .
Ezekiel 38:21
There were many uneasy thoughts spinning in everyone's heads that night, and through the following day. Sir Hugh Leyghton and Bernard de Genova had ridden off into the night, the one to send a message to his monarch, the other to communicate in prayer with the Almighty. Neither was happy with what they had discovered, and both sought a means of resolving the unusual situation. Sir Hugh had intimated to the friar that they should meet the following morning in order to plan what their common strategy should be. In the light of their meeting with a race of men they both had reason to hate, this promised to be a difficult encounter.
Nicholas de Ewelme had accompanied Regent Master Falconer back across the plain below the walls, and entered through Smith Gate, as prearranged with Peter Bullock, the constable. Neither man spoke at first, but Falconer could tell that the chancellor was deeply disturbed. As a cleric, de Ewelme was outraged at Chimbai's rejection of Christianity; as the administrator of a great university, he was fearful of the devastation the Tartars could mete out – had, indeed, already rendered to accumulated knowledge throughout the rest of Christendom. But what could he do to prevent their incursion into England, and, more precisely, into Oxford? He was no warrior. But on the other hand he was adept at manipulating people and circumstances – how else had he won the coveted post of cancellarius Oxonie, university chancellor, against the opposition of others more erudite and worthy? Perhaps a certain amount of manipulation could have some severe consequences for the heat
hen Tartars in this circumstance. He was incautious enough to voice his opinions to Falconer.
‘Something will have to be done about this. We cannot allow the king to be taken in by these … these monsters.’
‘Monsters, Chancellor? Some were calling that poor beast of an elephant a monster only a few days ago. And look at it now – languishing in its own ordure and a harm to no one.’
De Ewelme was shocked by Falconer's lack of understanding of the situation. He had been warned about this regent master by one of his predecessors, Thomas de Cantilupe, who had told him the man was headstrong and rebellious. He had been prepared to make up his own mind about him, rather than taking someone else's opinion – especially someone like de Cantilupe, to whom the epithets headstrong and rebellious could be applied in equal measure. But it seemed de Cantilupe was right, and Falconer was not to be trusted. Now that opinion was well and truly confirmed, he abruptly closed off the regent master from his confidences. He would simply have to make the Tartar embassy untenable on his own, and he thought he knew a way of so doing. As Bullock locked the small wicket door set in the massive Smith Gate behind the two university men, Nicholas de Ewelme mumbled his good-nights and scuttled away into the darkness. Inside the Tartar camp itself, there were those who were equally disconcerted by Chimbai's actions. Yeh-Lu was tired of acting as Chimbai's tame monkey, performing his silly tricks whenever called upon to do so, and the Nestorian priest, David, was increasingly perturbed by the noyan's dismissal of Christianity. Many of the ruling family in Karakorum were converting to Christianity, and though David knew some of it was for diplomatic reasons, he had cause for optimism. Yeh-Lu, for his part, had a mind to create more serious marvels than simple sleight-of-hand could provide. However, the saying chi pu tse shih came into his drowsy head – beggars can't be choosers. Both men felt impotent to act in the claustrophobic confines of the encampment, and both laid sleepless heads on the furs of their beds.
But chief among the worriers was Guchuluk, who was convinced that his superior had ruined any chance of gaining the support of the English king. He had seen the black and angry look on the face of the king's ambassador as he had ridden off into the night. He was sure Leyghton was not going to respond to a show of strength and unconcern such as Chimbai had displayed. And he was equally sure that such strength was not theirs to wield any longer. He paced the few yards between his sleeping furs and the edge of the fire that glowed redly in the centre of his yurt. His mind was in turmoil, and he ignored the uneasy stares of his men-at-arms, who could not themselves retire until he had settled for the night. Staring into the embers of the fire, he pondered his position. The more vigorous elements of the Il- Khan's court in Persia had elected him to represent them to the kings of England and France, but, as a last rearguard action of the old order, he had been saddled with the monster Chimbai as his superior. He was now certain that it was time to rid himself of the monster.
‘So, tell me what they are like, William. Did they offer you human flesh to eat?’ Bullock's lined face was aglow with eagerness to hear the details of Falconer's encounter with the Tartars. If possible, the more gruesome the better. He had followed the regent master back to Aristotle's Hall on the pretext of protecting him from night-stalkers, though both men knew full well that Falconer was capable of taking care of himself. He had ascended to Falconer's solar at the scholar's heels, and now he refused to leave until his friend had given him some juicy titbit of information. Falconer smiled to himself.
‘The meat in the stew was rather tough, so it could have been old soldier.’
Bullock snorted with disdain, but would not abandon his quest for titillation. ‘Didn't they even serve mare's blood to drink?’
Falconer was tired, and a little tetchy. ‘No, Peter. But they did cut a man to pieces, and restore him to life again. Nothing unusual, really. So I wish you goodnight.’ With this he slammed the solar door on the bewildered constable, who was so surprised he forgot to tell Falconer about seeing the Templar de Beaujeu in the town. Behind the door, Falconer dropped down on to his bed, falling asleep almost immediately. He dreamed of dismembered bodies that rose and walked again, unaware that on that night the inexorable process that would lead to one man's death had already begun.
The next few days in Oxford saw life almost return to normal on the surface. Idle students still went to gawp at the Tartars from the city walls, but the honest and hard-working citizens had little time for such indulgence. The markets in Oxford's cluttered streets gradually regained their normal bustle. Hearty curses rang down the lanes as incautious visitors were jostled in the throng and stepped into the stinking sewer channel that ran down the middle of the streets. It was only later that many would find they had lost their purse as well as their dignity. The outbreak of cut-purse activity kept the constable, Peter Bullock, too busy to think any more about the proximity of the Tartars and the threat they might hold for Oxford's safety. It took him a full day of patient observation before he spotted the culprit at work. Or rather, culprits, because there were two who worked together at relieving honest citizens of their hard-earned coins. One, a burly youth, would jostle a likely candidate's elbow. Then, under the pretext of apologizing and setting the mark back on his feet, he would lift his purse from his sleeve or pocket and slip it behind him, where his accomplice was passing. The accomplice, a thin boy – no more than a child, really – wandered on his way, innocently whistling, while the first cut-purse engaged his mark in conversation. If the mark suspected anything of the burly youth, and had him searched, there would be nothing to show for it but embarrassment. But the old campaigner, Bullock, had seen it all before. After checking he was right by watching the clever little juggling act twice, and admiring the skill involved, he grabbed both perpetrators by their greasy jerkins at the moment of exchange on the third attempted theft. A surprised and very relieved merchant recovered his purse from the ground where it had fallen, and Bullock hurried the youths off to his gloomy cell under the gaze of a derisive crowd.
Meanwhile, the target of people's interest but a few days earlier was giving any onlookers precious little to stare at. The encampment was unusually quiet during the day, except for occasional forays into the woodland by a single soldier on horseback, who would soon return with something furry laid across his horse. The squat little men on their squat horses were obviously adept at replenishing their food stocks from the local wildlife. And if anyone had reason to complain about this depredation of good food resources, the Tartar horsemen's inscrutable stares soon deterred them.
Falconer continued his daily routine of cramming education into the skulls of farmers' sons and barons' nephews. His only distraction now was that he was a little worried about Roger Bacon. The friar had virtually locked himself away in the turret over the skinner's that he had quickly adopted as his home and workshop. In response to Falconer's calls, he had only once briefly appeared at the door, a pale face thrust in the narrow gap that was all he allowed as an opening.
‘William! I'm sorry, but I'm terribly busy at the moment. Would you mind if I didn't ask you in?’
Falconer had acquiesced, and was abruptly left facing a firmly closed door. He was about to leave when, behind it, he thought he heard the voice of another man. He put his ear to the cracked and roughened surface of the door, but all he could hear was a strange and regular clicking noise. So he was provided with no greater clue as to what was afoot behind it. More than a little upset that someone he considered his closest friend and mentor should abandon him only days after returning from a ten-year absence, he nevertheless still kept an eye on Roger. Each evening he made a point of walking along Grandpont as part of his regular perambulation. And each evening he saw flickering candlelight emanating from the narrow slits that served as windows at the top of the look-out tower occupied by Roger. During the day, he saw neither hide nor hair of the friar. Then one evening, towards the end of the week that marked the arrival of the Tartars, he saw something very unusual.
He had walked the length of the High Street, deep in thought, and found himself close under St George's Tower on the perimeter of the castle keep. The castle stood at the western end of the city, and was the home of his friend the constable. It also temporarily housed the king's great beast – the elephant – which was still on public show. The evening was still light, with a cooling breeze blowing off the marshes south of the city. Falconer decided, on a whim, to look at the elephant again. As he approached the barn where he had last seen it with Ann Segrim, he heard a great commotion. Spilling out of the small gateway set in the barn door came a group of students, all the worse for drink. They raced across the yard, whooping and yelling, only pulling up short when they recognized the stern features of the regent master. They walked past him with the wooden dignity of the drunk, wishing him a good night, only spoiling their performance when they had passed him by breaking out in a fit of giggling. A wry smile crossed Falconer's lips as he recalled his own youth, which had been far wilder than these youngsters', did they but know it.
As he stepped over the threshold into the barn, the gloomy interior robbed him of vision for a moment. The keeper of the elephant, more usually at the entrance and keen to impress each visitor to his monster, seemed not to be in evidence. Then Falconer's eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and the smell inside the barn assailed his nostrils. The beast was not on its feet but huddled in a great mound in the dirty straw that surrounded it. It somehow seemed shrunken from its previous impressive size, its wrinkled skin slack on the massive bones that lay under its surface. Falconer heard a snuffling sound, and at first assumed it was the beast who was making it. Then he saw the elephant's keeper. He was draped across the elephant's head, clutching at both great ears, and he was weeping. Falconer waded through the stinking straw, and the man wailed at his approach.
‘Leave him alone. You – you monsters.’
