Falconer and the Face of God

by Ian Morson

  Then their luck turned. Will Plome was escaping over the side of the wagon and clutched at the nearest thing to hand to help him. It was the cage that housed their monkey. His grasping fingers tore open the door of the cage, and the terrified animal sprang from it, scaling the ropes that had been Will's makeshift hammock. So it was that as one of the brigands went to clamber across the pitched battle on the driver's seat, a hairy demon straight from hell leapt at him, chittering in some outlandish tongue. The demon jumped past him on to the back of the first robber and began tearing at his face. Then another even more fearsome sight loomed up.

  Having drunk himself into a stupor, Stefano de Askeles had fixed a mask on his face and begun declaiming lines from a play he imagined he would perform before the King. When the wagon jerked to a halt, he drunkenly rose to his feet and staggered to the front of the wagon, railing at John Peper's poor driving. The mask he had chosen was a grotesque skull with deep, impenetrable eye-sockets.

  The outlaw, now confronted by the Angel of Death itself, screamed in panic and turned tail. Meanwhile the first robber had leapt from the wagon, flailing his arms at the demon on his back. Seizing the moment, John regained the traces and urged the horses forward. The surprised hunchback was thrown to the ground, and he was trampled beneath the horses' hooves. His screams of pain were cut off as one front wheel lurched over his body. In the back of the wagon, that death-dealing lurch also wrong-footed the red-faced robber threatening Simon Godrich. His toothless mouth opened in a cavernous expression of surprise and he tumbled head over heels over the backboard. His weapon skittered across the floor to lie at the feet of his erstwhile victim.

  Though a running man might have caught up with the lumbering nags and their load, the brigands' advantage was lost and they melted into the forest, leaving one of their crew screaming and kicking at the monkey's continued onslaught, and the crushed body of the hunchback face down in the churned-up mud.

  The Angel of Death, in the form of a drunken de Askeles, slumped back into the interior of the wagon, and all John heard was muffled cursing at his ham-fisted driving. He looked sidelong at the two shaking women, who clutched each other in terror, and burst into uproarious laughter as relief flooded through him. Margaret shrieked as something thudded on the canvas of the wagon above their heads, then she joined in the laughter as the hairy face of the monkey peered down at them.

  'tonight you deserve a feast, Ham,’ called John, as he eased the wagon down a slope out of the trees, and into the valley of the River Thames. The wintry days were extremely short, and the grey overhang of cloud on this day made it seem as though it was already closing, although sext had only just passed, and half of the day was left. But the gloom could not dampen the excitement felt by Regent Master William Falconer. He shook the solemn friar vigorously by the hand, his enormous fist in danger of crushing the little cleric's fingers. Towering over him, he pointed the friar down the narrow street in the direction of South Gate from where he might find the quarters of the Franciscan brotherhood in Oxford. The friar could find temporary accommodation there.

  As he watched the slight figure disappear into the darkness, the import of his message echoed round his brain. Roger Bacon was back in favour, with no less a figure than the Pope himself. Clement IV had encouraged the released Franciscan friar to record his knowledge, and Bacon had been working for almost a year already on the work he was calling his Opus Majus - his great work.

  Falconer closed the door to Aristotle's Hall, and wondered just how much freedom his friend now had. It seemed from what the friar said that Bacon was no longer confined to his tiny cell, but still was only free to walk the grounds of the monastery where he had been held for so long. But then he had always lived largely inside his own skull, and Falconer was sure his incarceration had merely fuelled the engine of his thinking. Ironically, William for his part felt himself stifled by the relative freedom he enjoyed. To supplement his earnings, he ran the domus scholarum of Aristotle's Hall, and under its roof lived a dozen or so students, some sharing the six rooms that sat snugly under the steeply pitched slate roof atop the two-storey building. Fifty years ago the house and its companions would have been all timber, but a series of disastrous fires had resulted in the richer members of the community building at least the ground floors of their properties in stone. Falconer was not rich, but his landlord the Abbot of Oseney was, and he had the priest to thank for the sturdy construction of Aristotle's. Unlike many of his neighbours, Falconer did not use the back yard to keep chickens or a pig - neither he nor his students had the inclination. This house and the lecture rooms in Schools Street, where by tradition the Faculty of Arts taught, was Falconer's world. Was it any larger than Friar Bacon's?

  Falconer fingered the letter that the friar had delivered into his hands as he told him of Bacon's change in fortunes. He eagerly read its lines again. Roger Bacon was earnestly seeking Falconer's help on some difficult aspects of that most alluring of modern sciences, alchemy. He waxed lyrical about the ‘generation of things from their elements’ and the ‘rare art of prolonging life’. He made reference to an alchemist who had conducted many experiments of his own, when last Bacon had been in Oxford. Falconer was being asked to seek him out and persuade him to communicate with the exiled friar. He was to give the man a sealed note that had been tucked inside the letter to Falconer. The problem was that Bacon had only given a cryptic clue as to the man's identity.

  'I fear that even now this letter may he intercepted by those inimical to my present status. And to name a fellow scientist outright may equally cause him to fall into disfavour with those whose influence is but temporarily occluded. I trust my description of him makes his name clear to you.' Bacon ended with an admonition. ‘Remember, dear fiend,, always hearken to beautiful music, look at beautiful things, have stimulating disputations with sympathetic friends, wear your best clothes and talk to pretty girls.’

  The regent master smiled at his friend's wise and typically secular advice. However, he frowned at the puzzle he had been set concerning the Oxford alchemist. Despite Friar Bacon's confidence, he had not the faintest idea to whom the clue in the letter referred. He stowed both letters in his pouch, and retired to his solar on the upper floor of Aristotle's Hall.

  The jolt and rumble of the wagon's wheels on hard-packed ground woke the dishevelled de Askeles from his drunken stupor. He groaned as the wagon passed over a deep rut, pitching to one side and sending a spear of pain across his befuddled skull. He lifted the canvas cover between him and the driver's seat and cursed John Peper for his ineptness.

  They were passing under the arch of Oxford's South Gate just before the nightly curfew would close the city gates on the dangerous world outside. The flickering light from a brazier in the arch illuminated the group on the front bench of the wagon. John Peper's tensed back drew his bead down into his shoulders, and de Askeles could not see his face. He knew his barb had angered Peper, and grinned. The man was so easy to rile, and he enjoyed doing it. As long as Peper needed the work de Askeles gave him, he would endure his vicious words. De Askeles also knew he hurt Peper even more by the attentions he paid his wife. And the man would suffer that too.

  Next to Peper sat crazy Agnes Cheke, her bulky, shapeless body made even more so by the bundle of tattered clothes she had pulled around her against the evening chill. She twisted round and pulled an angry face at Stefano, the piggy eyes in her coarsened features seeking to strike him speechless. That look might work on the gullible fools whose fortunes she told, but Stefano had seen it too often.

  ‘Your witch's stare doesn't work on me, pig-face.’

  Margaret, sitting on the far side of Agnes, went to put her arm around the woman, but hesitated as Agnes hunched her shoulders and stared stonily away. The young woman returned to the bundle in her lap and cooed as though she had a baby in the warm folds of her skirt. De Askeles leaned roughly over the back of the cowed Agnes, and plucked the monkey from where it had snuggled close to Margaret Peper. It
squealed in pain as the actor swung it by the tail, its greenish fur bristling at such careless handling. Margaret looked on in shock as de Askeles thrust the wriggling animal at Will Plome, whose anxious face had appeared round the side of the wagon at the first squeal from Ham.

  ‘Cage it!’

  The monkey bared its gleaming teeth in fear, and leaped into the arms of the youth who cared for it. De Askeles continued to harangue his troupe.

  'the animal is too valuable to let loose. It might run away. Tonight John Peper will make a collar for it and you will keep it on the end of a rope.’

  As the wagon rumbled up Fish Street and de Askeles was turning back to the wagon's interior, his gaze lit upon a cadaverous figure that lurked in the darkness of an overhanging doorway. For a moment their eyes met and a sort of recognition flashed between them - the semblancer of Death and one who resembled Death itself. De Askeles shuddered, shook his head, and the figure was gone. His brain thumping, the actor slumped back into the recesses of the wagon, and groped at his feet for the flagon that he had valiantly tried to empty on the journey. He missed the murderous look in Will Plome's eyes as the simpleton stroked the frightened monkey's coat in an attempt to calm it. De Askeles was oblivious of the hatred he engendered in those around him - a fact which was to prove fatal.

  Chapter Three

  ARCHANGELS: Here to abide God grant us grace

  To please this Prince without a peer;

  Him now to thank with great solace

  A song now let us sing together.

  The Fall of Lucifer

  Well before darkness fell, the firewood sellers at South Gate began to lock their bundles securely away in the stalls that lined Fish Street. They were soon followed by the fishmongers, whose strong-smelling salty wares were shovelled back into their boxes for the morrow. The narrow shop frontages of the tanners and glove-makers were barred, and the honest citizens retired behind their solid oaken doors. The night watch, a band of robust but aged fellows, performed a circuit of the walls that hemmed in the press of dwellings. At each of the gates the leader of the band selected a massive key from a bunch and locked the burghers safe inside their walls. Some less salubrious citizens were also effectively locked out, for Oxford had already spilled beyond its walls, and the notorious stews outside both North and South Gates were populated with beggars, thieves and easy women.

  Soon the wide avenues that cut the walled city into four uneven segments were quiet save for the stirrings of another population: the skittering of the rats and mice that fed on the discarded rubbish of the throng of humanity that flocked the streets by day. But even these denizens of the dark did not have the night¬time world to themselves. Long winter evenings guaranteed a plague of boredom amongst the young and lively students who inhabited the numerous halls of Oxford. Moreover, the location of the city at a crossroads of commerce ensured the place also housed a shifting throng of artisans, officials and merchants. A volatile mix of spendthrift youth and wealthy travellers seeking to while away their evenings filled the meanest of back-street taverns in St Martin's with noise and excitement every night.

  For Stefano de Askeles and his troupe, this meant but one thing - money, and plenty of it. With their wagon safely stowed in the yard of the Golden Ball Inn, the group had gone in search of the noisiest tavern - the noisiest because those in it must have money to spend, and be drunk already. This guaranteed loose purses and plenty of coins for the jongleurs. Walking down the length of Northgate Street, where every other house seemed to brew and sell its own beer, it had not taken long to find a suitable place. A mob of young men had burst out of a door, collapsing drunkenly at Margaret Peper's pretty feet. A roar of cheering voices followed their passage into the lane from a bright, taper-lit room. One finely dressed youth picked himself up, swept up Margaret's hand, and covered it in kisses. He then attempted a wobbly bow, and stepped back into the open sewer that ran down the centre of the street. His comrades rescued him from his stinking pit, and raced off into the dark whooping and cheering.

  De Askeles ushered his crew into the nameless tavern, and expertly eyed up the throng of cheery revellers. The low-ceilinged room held a press of bodies clad in bright clothes of red and green and purple, with here and there the more sombre black gown of the academic. There were few tonsured heads, and few young faces, which gave de Askeles cause to smile. Oxford teachers and students alike had few coins to spare, whereas the travelling merchant, away from mistress and home, was often profligate with his earnings. A few flushed faces were turned curiously towards the newcomers, and de Askeles took hold of the opportunity.

  ‘Friends, I come to bring you pleasure.’

  His powerful voice carried over the buzz of animated chatter, and caused a lull in the noise. Everyone's eyes turned to him. Having caught the whole room's attention, he continued.

  ‘I am Stefano de Askeles, and I bring you a troupe of jongleurs who have performed before kings, and at a private audience with the Pope. Tonight we will perform not for idle nobility, but for you.’

  With an expansive gesture, he took in all those in the smoky room. A myriad tallow candles flickered on upturned faces, some disbelieving, some already taken in by de Askeles's silver tongue. He raised his left arm high in the air, and the long, slashed sleeve lined in crimson fell back like a curtain, revealing the slim figure of Margaret Peper.

  ‘I bring you the sinuous Margaretha.’

  To gasps of admiration, Margaret bent backwards at her slender waist, placing her hands just behind her feet, and flipped head over heels, landing adroitly in the lap of a red-faced man clad in well-cut robes. He started, then grasped at Margaret's hips, hooting and leering at his companions. De Askeles turned to a group of youths near the door, lifting his right arm.

  ‘And the mysteries of the dextrous Robbio.’

  Robert plucked a multi-coloured ball apparently out of the air, then two more from his mouth, and began to juggle with them. The youths burst into wild applause.

  ‘But best of all, may I present the angelic voice of Monsignor Carmina.’

  De Askeles waved his arms and Simon Godrich stepped forward, drawing the slender shape of his rebec from a pouch at his side. He sat on a convenient stool and, holding the instrument by its stringed neck, nestled the sounding box in his lap. With the bow in his other hand, he drew a melodious cascade of notes from the strings.

  ‘He has songs of Pilate and Herod, laments of poverty . ’

  There were groans from the attentive throng.

  ’… songs on the vanity of life, and the rewards of faith .’

  This brought forth more groans and good-humoured catcalls, for they guessed where this list would inevitably end. De Askeles smiled, and gave in.

  ’... or songs of drink, dice-playing and debauchery.’

  Wild cheers almost drowned out the beginning of Simon's first song.

  The old man tried to clear his mind of violent thoughts. After all, he had only had a glimpse of the other just now, and it had been a long time since it had all happened. To another it might have seemed a minor incident, but to him it had been a grave insult. Worthy of retribution. Wearily, he tried to put it from his mind and began with incantations to Hermes, prophet, King of Egypt and ancient god of reproduction. If anyone was to reveal the secrets of the fifth essence to him, it would be Hermes. It was said that he received his revelations from an angel of God. But his records of the true method of distilling the quintessence were lost. The alchemist had seen many texts claiming to be the words of the philosopher Hermes, and many times he had been excited by the prospect of achieving the tempting dual goals of eternal youth and the transmutation of base metals into gold. But every time the formulas were proved to have been written by lesser mortals, and none of them had worked.

  He passed his hands over his eyes, as though wiping the temptations from his brain. His was a search for pure knowledge, he reminded himself. He rose from in front of the flickering candle he used as a focus for his prayers
to Hermes, and straightened his aching legs. He grimaced, and thought that the restoration of youth was a seductive idea nevertheless. He was already in his fiftieth year and his limbs protested at the Oxford winter, damp and chilly as it was. However, the furnace would soon warm the crypt-like cellar in which he carried out his clandestine work.

  He began to stir the red-hot coals through the little archway cut in the side of the funnel-shaped furnace. The red glow threw his shadow on the low ceiling and walls so that it looked as though a large and menacing bird hovered above his back. He took the candle from his makeshift altar and held it over the array of rare and expensive glass alembics above the mouth of the funnel. The flame glinted off the surface of the glass and turned the fluid contents of the largest globe a soft golden colour. The alchemist took it as a promising sign.

  The surface of the liquid began to bubble as the heat from the furnace transferred itself. This part of the creation of the quintessence was familiar to the alchemist. Many times before he had begun with the best Rhenish wine and distilled it seven times to get what the texts called burning water. The requirement then was to distil a further thousand times, though he didn't know if this was a literal truth or not. He screwed up his soft brown eyes, and squinted into the long glass tube that ran from the top of the alembic. As the vapour rose from the surface of his burning water it condensed in the greenish tube and little sparkling drops fell from the end into the container he had placed below to catch the precious fluid. Impatient, he crooked his little finger below the tube and caught one of the drops. Transferring it to his mouth, he sucked on the finger and smiled at the fiery taste of the fluid. The first stages had begun.