Falconer and the Great Beast

by Ian Morson

  Falconer assured him the students had gone, and clutched the man's arm, gently drawing him away from the elephant. There was a long gash on the beast's head just below its huge, mournful eye. Falconer was entranced for a moment by how the long lashes around its eye made it look vulnerable and ladylike. The gash was oozing blood.

  ‘What happened here?’

  The keeper shrugged. ‘Those youths decided they wanted to know if the beast was unnatural or not. Whether it was a monster. So one of them took out his knife and …’ He gestured at the vicious wound, then attempted to wipe his tears away. ‘Well, now they know he bleeds like any other of God's creatures.’

  The straw at the beast's feet rustled as it shook its great frame, and Falconer watched in wonder as a great shudder ran through it. How soon had the marvel that was this beast become just an idle curiosity, exactly like the Tartars. It was said the elephant lived three hundred years, and conceived by eating the mandragora root in Paradise. Falconer did not believe any of this, but nor did he know anything truthful about this wonderful beast's life. What value was scientific observation now, in this stinking barn, so far from the creature's natural home? As if remembering its place of birth, the beast gave forth a sigh as massive as its frame, and settled further into the straw that was its bed. Falconer left the distraught keeper to comfort his charge, at a loss as to what to do to help.

  Turning down Fish Street, Falconer hurried towards South Gate, anxious to keep up his surveillance of the troubled Roger Bacon before the curfew closed the gates against him. The distraction with the elephant had delayed him, and so he was late reaching the stretch of Grandpont bridge that ran over the river and marshy land outside the gate. If he had arrived at his normal time, he might not have seen whom he did leaving the friar's tower. The figure was shadowy, slipping from the gloomy doorway at the bottom of the tower to the back of the row of hovels that lined the road, but the coat made the man's identity unmistakable. As Yeh-Lu's dragon-clad form skirted the city walls on its way back to the Tartar camp north of the city, Falconer wondered what his business had been with Roger Bacon. He had a mind to question the friar immediately, but he could see from where he stood that there was no light in the tower. Reluctantly, he saved his curiosity for the morrow and returned to Aristotle's Hall and a fitful sleep.

  Guillaume de Beaujeu, Commander of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, more usually known as the Templars, was, by contrast, wide awake. But then he was a creature of the night, his special skills learned in Outremer – the Holy Land that his order was pledged to defend – and used at the Grand Master's behest. It did not always please him that he was so much used as a mindless weapon; obedience was one of the rules he followed with difficulty. Still, he was single-minded, and determined to be a fitting Grand Master himself one day, though the very idea was no doubt a contravention of the order's rules on pride and arrogance.

  Oxford was a city he knew well, which made his task easier to some extent, as he could make use of his knowledge of the layout of lanes. On the other hand, the very fact that he was known here could work against him in the peculiar circumstances in which he found himself. His presence was not to be made known to anyone. And that was why he was limiting himself to nocturnal activity, and languishing by day in the poor hovel of an inn he had found in Torold's Lane. Used to the spartan but clean comforts of the Golden Ball Inn, his present accommodation was a filthy room in the stinking house that appeared not to even merit a name. The sign outside had long ago given in to the depredations of the weather, and was nothing more than a bare, pale wooden board with a few indecipherable strokes marking its surface. He hoped its very anonymity had brushed off on himself – he needed to be invisible for the next few days.

  He crept silently out of the front door of the inn, taking care not to open it wide, for it creaked if it was opened more than half-way. Looking to left and right, he was reassured there was no one in the lane, and he pulled the door closed behind him. Though the hour was late, the air was clammy, making the night almost as hot and sticky as the day, and it brushed against his face like a damp curtain. He slunk along under the overhang of the upper floors of the houses in the lane – each leaning towards its neighbour across the street like drunken companions. His mind tossed around the conversation he had had with the Grand Master only a week or so before.

  The meeting had taken place in the austere surroundings of the Temple in Paris, its echoing and chilling interior a reflection of the soul of the Grand Master himself. Guillaume had been summoned to his presence with an indication that his skills were required once again. With leaden feet, he trudged to the chapel where he had been told the old man was praying, and he found him on his knees before the altar. The old man's whitehaired, tonsured head was bowed, and de Beaujeu stood patiently at the back of the chapel. Remaining still for hours on end was one of his particular skills, so it was no great problem to put off the inevitable for a little while longer. Eventually the Grand Master rose, crossed himself, and turned to address his acolyte. At the sight of his face, de Beaujeu was astonished – the master's eyes, normally so cold and merciless, were ablaze with an unaccustomed exultation. He positively hurried across the bare stone space between himself and de Beaujeu, barely able to contain what it was that had lighted up his soul.

  ‘Guillaume, I have the Lord's work for you.’

  The words sent a chill down de Beaujeu's spine – such an injunction usually presaged the demise of some poor soul at his hands. As if to confirm his worst fears, the master put his hand on de Beaujeu's arm, and he could tell it was trembling. ‘It concerns Those from the East.’ The Grand Master had never allowed the word ‘Tartar' to pass his lips since the Order of which he was now the head had encountered the scourge that was the Tartar army near Leignitz over twenty years earlier. Ponce d'Aubon, the Grand Master who had preceded the present incumbent, had reported on the slaughter of the flower of northern Europe's chivalry then, including the horrific fact that, after the battle, ‘Those from the East' had cut an ear from each body as a counting device. They had filled nine sacks to return to their khan.

  The Grand Master paused, as if to give greater significance to what he was about to say, and looked furtively around. The cloister in which they walked enclosed a garden full of sweet herbs that filled the summer air with enticing scents. Thyme, rosemary and anise thrived under the tender fingers of the monastic gardeners. But the light aromas were in complete contrast to de Beaujeu's heavy heart, and the aura of sweetness jarred with the Grand Master also. What secrets he had to tell were better conveyed in the gloom of a private chamber, and he led de Beaujeu back to his austere quarters, dismissing the personal clerk and valet which was all the Templar order specifically allowed him as master.

  As de Beaujeu made his silent way down the lanes that led to Smith Gate on the north side of Oxford, he recalled his own astonishment at what the Grand Master revealed to him in that dark and gloomy chamber far away from the light and warmth of the herb-scented Parisian garden. The white-haired old man went straight to a locked, iron-bound chest that stood on the heavy table in the centre of the room. He produced a key from his purse, inserted it, and turned it in the lock. As master, he was one of the few Templars who were allowed the luxury of being able to lock possessions away. Lifting the heavy lid, he delved in the chest and produced two documents. One was fresh and new, with a recently broken seal on it. The other was ancient, the parchment creased so much that the document was almost separated into several pieces along the folds. Careless of the damage he might be doing to the second document, the Grand Master waved both in the air triumphantly.

  ‘At last we have the means to regain the Holy Lands, and resolve the matter of the Tartars at a stroke.’

  De Beaujeu was so surprised to hear the word ‘Tartar' pass his master's lips that he could hardly take in what the old man then told him. Now, however, he stood at Smith Gate on the threshold of carrying out this monumental task, which would be of s
uch great importance to the Templar order.

  For the past few evenings he had strolled past the gate and observed the gatekeepers who sat at their post into the night. If the occasion allowed, he entered into conversation with them. All of them were elderly men of a variety of temperaments, carrying out their task with different capacities. One was still alert, despite his age, another grumpy and regretful that the only means he had of earning his living was to give up the solace of a warm bed at night. Neither gave him the opportunity he needed.

  Tonight was different. The old man who sat at the gate resembled a skeleton, his skin drawn tight over his old bones. An enormous wen grew from the top of his head, protruding through the sparse thatch of his hair. More importantly, his head nodded down into his chest, pointing the mottled wen at any passers-by. A leather bottle lay empty at his feet – a clear indication of the cause of the gatekeeper's stupor. De Beaujeu approached cautiously, but a stertorous snore confirmed that the old man would not be easily disturbed. Gently, he slid his fingers round the key-ring that hung at the gatekeeper's waist, and he lifted the key to Smith Gate off his belt. The old man's head jerked, and de Beaujeu froze, but gradually the head returned to its former position, the wen bobbing up and down rhythmically with the man's breathing. Swiftly, de Beaujeu was through the gate, leaving the key in the lock for his return journey. His crossing of the meadow towards the Tartar encampment would have gone completely unnoticed, if Peter Bullock had not found it difficult to sleep, and had not been stalking the top of the city walls when he should have been abed.

  Chapter Seven

  Say, These are the words of the Lord God: I am against you, Gog, prince of Rosh, Meshech and Tubal …

  Ezekiel 38:3

  The bow was strung, and the arrow set in place, its sharpened tip glowing dully in the light of the tallow lamp. The bow was a mighty weapon, stronger than the English longbow, and capable of a range of over three hundred yards. The layers of horn, wood and sinew that made up the bow were stretched so that the semicircle of the unstrung bow, when strung, was pulled back on itself, with the ends curved away still from the archer. When released, the horn would snap back to its original shape, shooting the arrow with far more power than an ordinary wooden bow. The arrow was a short-range arrow with a tip that had been hardened by plunging it into salt water when red-hot. It wouldn't need to travel far. The string of the bow was pulled back by a stone thumbring that all the Tartar soldiers used. It was a difficult technique, but provided far more accuracy. In this case, the bow was already aimed squarely at the target, and it only remained for the right time to come.

  That was provided by the early-morning arrival of Noyan Chimbai at his private tent, housing the supreme god Tengri. Safe in isolation, and guarded by three of his retainers, who surrounded the tent and made it impossible for anyone to disturb the noyan at his devotions, Chimbai performed his daily ritual of offering food and water to the god and his concubines, then stood in obeisance before their felt images. His hearing had been poor for a number of years, but he had hidden it, and supposed no one knew of this weakness. So he did not hear the strange sound inside the tent that would otherwise have alerted him to a presence other than this own. At the preordained moment, the Tartar thumb-ring slipped the string. The string straightened abruptly under the pressure of the powerful bow, and sent the projectile on its way. It cut through the air with a faint whistling sound, then thudded into its target. The armour-piercing arrow ripped through Chimbai's outer quilted jacket as though it did not exist. Once through that layer, it encountered his inner cuirass of boiled and lacquered leather strips that he habitually wore. In battle this layer might deflect a sword thrust or swung at Chimbai, but it was no match for the direct path of the hardened arrowhead. With its progress hardly slowed, the arrow continued on its course. The final layer of clothing on the noyan's body was a silk shirt. This was no affectation of luxury. If an arrow had been slowed sufficiently by the layers of armour as it spun onwards, the silk would wrap itself around the head and be pulled into the wound. Many a soldier's life had been saved by gently pulling the silk and arrow-head out of the wound. This arrow was travelling too swiftly for the silk to have any such effect. The cloth was no more effective than a layer of paper, and the arrow drove on into the skin beneath it. Finally it plunged into his chest, through his still pumping heart and on out of the layer of flesh and skin on his back, only being stopped there by the selfsame layers of clothing that had proved ineffective over Chimbai's chest. The whole process took but a few moments, and came as a nasty and quite fatal surprise to him.

  Chapter Eight

  I will turn you about and drive you, I will fetch you up from the far recesses of the north and bring you to the mountains of Israel. I will strike the bow from your left hand and dash the arrows from your right hand.

  Ezekiel 39: 2–3

  His struggle with the great horned monster was a onesided affair. The muscles of his arms popped and cracked with the exertion as he strove to encompass the creature's muzzle. He knew that, if he let go, the sharp, yellowed teeth that filled its mouth would tear him apart in an instant. The breath that it exhaled from its flared nostrils was hot and foetid on his face, and he grimaced in horror. As the two of them swayed back and forth, locked in mortal combat, the monster's glittering, curved horn which protruded from the centre of its scaly face threatened to gouge out Falconer's eyes. He could feel his strength draining from him, and the monster's feet were drumming in triumph on the dusty earth. His mind fled his body, and he snapped awake in the familiar surroundings of his own solar.

  He sat up, hot and sweaty, and untangled the coarse blanket that was wrapped around his limbs. Then he realized that the drumming sound was real, and it was coming from downstairs. Someone was knocking at the street door of Aristotle's Hall. Pulling on the black robe he had carelessly thrown across his work-table the previous night, he stumbled out of the room, and down the creaking stairs.

  Attempting to pick off a mass of red kite feathers that had somehow stuck to his robe, he threw the door open on his earlymorning visitor. The figure lurking nervously in the doorway had a large brown cloak pulled around him, with the fur-lined hood well over his face. Falconer thought it odd to be so attired in the warmth of what promised to be another sticky summer's day. He peered short-sightedly into the shadow cast by the hood and was surprised to recognize the oriental features of Yeh-Lu. He was even more surprised when the man from distant Cathay spoke to him.

  ‘Please let me in.’

  It was a moment before Falconer realized he had spoken in English. He stepped back and ushered the man of many surprises into the communal hall of Aristotle's, which Falconer shared with the students in his charge. One curious youth, Richard Youlden, poked his sleepy face over the banister rail that ran across the upper end of the hall. Rubbing his eyes, but not really taking in who the early-morning visitor was, he gladly disappeared back to his bed on being told by the regent master that he had dealt with the intruder.

  Falconer turned back to Yeh-Lu, surprised to see that the man, so cautious out in the street, had pulled his hood from his face in the presence of Richard Youlden. Even so, the lad, a farm boy from the north, could not have seen him, or he would have roused the whole hall by now. It had been a very indiscreet act by a very circumspect individual. But then, Yeh-Lu did look anxious, and perhaps he had acted thoughtlessly because of it. Falconer pointed to a chair, and mimed that Yeh-Lu should sit, before remembering that his visitor had spoken to him in English.

  ‘Please sit – and tell me how you know our tongue.’

  Yeh-Lu smiled wearily as he slumped into the high-backed chair that stood by the cold and dusty hearth. ‘This is not the first time I have encountered Englishmen. When I first began to serve at the Il-Khan's court more than twenty years ago, I met a man who had been exiled from his native land of England. It was said he was a member of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple.’ Yeh-Lu looked quizzically at Falconer, as if
to confirm such an organization did exist. Falconer nodded. So Yeh-Lu had encountered a Templar knight, and a renegade one at that. And if he had served at the Tartar court in Persia for twenty years, he was older than he looked. He gestured for the man to continue.

  ‘The man was thoroughly unpleasant, parading the superiority of his own faith before everyone. But he would never explain why his religious brothers had ejected him from their company. Hulegu – the Lord khan at the time – used him for errands that required use of the man's own tongue, and, though they were only menial tasks, the man inflated them into major diplomatic missions. Hulegu soon tired of him and sent him on a bogus mission to the khan of the North. I understand the man was later captured in Austria, and executed by one of your warrior lords. Rightly so, of course, for you can never trust a turncoat. But while he was at Hulegu's court, I persuaded him to teach me his language. He was greedy for gold, so he was not difficult to persuade.’

  Falconer still stood over the foreigner, who, slumped in the chair, looked smaller than he had done when performing his magic tricks before Sir Hugh Leyghton. He may have learned his English twenty years before, but it was perfect, though spoken with a strange lilting accent. Falconer wondered what the sallow-faced man wanted of him, that had driven him to brave discovery at the gates of Oxford. No one would have been keen to admit a Tartar to the town, and he might even have been attacked if uncovered.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  Yeh-Lu's face betrayed deep concern. ‘It's your friend, Roger Bacon.’

  ‘What of him?’ Falconer asked, thinking that the man spoke of Bacon like a colleague.

  ‘I fear there is something wrong. You see, I was intrigued by the breadth of his knowledge when we talked on the journey to Oxford. And since then I have visited him more than once in his tower. It is very convenient that it is outside the city walls.’