by Ian Morson
He left the statement unfinished, and the Prior realized he would have to fund the representatio if it were to happen at all. Well, nothing came for nothing, and the King was in Oxford and may be persuaded to attend. The expense would be worth it And the wood could be re-used afterwards, no doubt.
‘I will talk to my bursar. He will furnish the requisite funds and can employ carpenters from the town guild to erect it.’
De Askeles performed another of his extravagant bows, hiding a smirk of triumph as he cast his gaze to the ground. He too was thinking of the King's presence in Oxford. This Christmas could be very profitable for him indeed. His pleasure so emboldened him that he dared to raise a personal matter, but one that he assured the Prior was of great religious importance, concerning necromancy.
The servants at the King's palace at Beaumont scuttled back and forth in a fever of tidying. The King, Queen Eleanor, the Papal Legate and innumerable nobles had finally arrived at Oxford the previous evening, and Henry had tumbled straight into his bed. This morning he had arisen early and let everyone know that he was dissatisfied. Despite approaching his sixtieth year, Henry stormed vigorously about the place insisting that the contents of the huge baggage train that followed his perambulations around the country be sorted immediately, and arranged in the rooms of the palace. The familiar furniture made him feel as though he lived permanently within these walls, as it did in every temporary residence he occupied. At his age, familiarity was a comforting feeling.
Tired functionaries had not carried out this task last night, and now harassed menservants manoeuvred massive oaken chairs and tables into position, while precious tapestries were carefully unfolded and draped strategically in the great hall and the King's bedchamber to prevent the draughts to which his ageing body was increasingly susceptible. The hierarchy of servants, from marshal through yeoman usher and wardrober right down to groom, hurried to the tasks they had carried out a hundred times before in as many different places. The King's presence, with his enormous household, was too great a drain on the resources of any one community for him to stay too long. Moving from place to place was a prerequisite of the court's survival. Already the steward, the controller and the clerk of the kitchen would be ordering the delivery of mountains of food for the King's Christmas banquet as well as the daily needs of his entourage, for although the day-to-day administration of the kingdom was carried out by clerks who stayed in Westminster, the big decisions were taken by the King and his court on the road. Taxes were also collected locally in cash or kind, and that also required skilled clerks. After fifty years as monarch, however, Henry had become insensible of all this industry, and when one tiny part of it failed he lost his temper.
The King's anger today was also fuelled by the refusal of the Earl of Gloucester to attend his Christmas revels. The earl was still sulking about a disagreement with Roger Mortimer over the disinherited barons. Gloucester had proposed that the barons could reclaim their lands, lost when they supported de Montfort, by paying a ransom to the King. In this way a band of disgruntled lords who were ravaging the countryside, having nothing more to lose, could be brought under control. Mortimer objected, mainly because he had personally benefited from the barons' disinheritance. He would have to return lands he now controlled. Henry had hoped to reconcile the two men over a Christmas banquet, but now Gloucester had spoiled his plans. How could he restore order to his kingdom if his nobles could not agree amongst themselves?
Also, he was only now getting reports that the citizens of Lynn had failed him. They had petitioned him to restore their liberties, lost after the Barons' War, if they succeeded in rounding up the young de Montfort whelps, Thomas de Crespigny and the rest on Ely. Apparently the rag-tag army of Lynn had been fooled into thinking the knights had fled, and had walked into an ambush. Now there were more deaths to avenge. He knew in the end he would have to deal with the disinherited himself.
The final straw had come yesterday, when a band of ragged brigands had had the temerity to attack his wagon train south of Oxford. The King's own wagon train! It was true they had been easily beaten off by his personal bodyguard, but it simply should not have happened. He had woken at dawn shaking in anger, and despatched a frightened messenger to Oxford to summon the Chancellor and town burghers. Now he paced up and down in his solar pulling his grey and straggly bifurcated beard with both hands. A frown creased his already wrinkled face as he impatiently awaited the arrival of the Oxford worthies. His servants knew well to keep out of his way when the King was in this mood. At such times they were glad to be mere servants and not prominent citizens whom the King could take to task for real and imagined slights alike.
De Cantilupe, on the other hand, knew the risks associated with high office and revelled in the dangers associated with staying at the top of the heap. He strode out at the head of the motley crew of merchants and landowners summoned to the King. Fear and panic might have been etched on their faces, but a smile of anticipation covered his. The group left the city confines through the North Gate, passing under the Bocardo prison that crowned the gate's arch. The King's residence was outside the city walls, for it was said that any monarch entering Oxford did so at his own peril, bringing the wrath of the Virgin down on him. The last time Henry himself had incautiously ridden through the gates, he had gone on to nearly lose his kingdom to Simon de Montfort. He was now a more temperate man.
Beyond the North Gate were the ramshackle dwellings of Beaumont, lining the approach to the King's palace. The stinking hovels leaned one against the other, as though each depended on its neighbour for support. Pigs rooted indiscriminately outside the houses and in, churning up dirt floors with their sensitive snouts. Snotty children sat in the midst of this midden, unattended by their mothers, who no doubt still slept after the night's exertions. De Cantilupe thought it ironic that the King's residence was surrounded by those of thieves and whores. Some said the King likewise surrounded himself at court with similar creatures, albeit ostensibly of nobler ancestry.
Oxford's most prominent citizens were led into the great hall of the King's palace and abandoned. Some of them had been in this place before, but it still awed them. The lofty roof beams arched up into a Stygian gloom from which descended the banners of the King and his favoured nobles. The fact that their gilded opulence was obscured by a heavy layer of dust did not diminish their intimidating effect; it only served to emphasize the seeming permanence of those who ruled England. Fortunes might have shifted from one family to another in recent years, but the baton of power was always handed around the same small group.
In the safety of his own home, each merchant present might rail against the chaos abroad in the kingdom, and intimate poor governance. In the supportive embrace of his guild colleagues, he might imagine that his decisions actually controlled the day- to-day affairs of England. But in the presence of naked power, he quaked with fear like the rudest peasant.
De Cantilupe was not afraid - after all he had played the same game himself with supplicants at court when he had been Chancellor. He knew the King would delay his entrance until he had made the merchants sweat, and then sweep through the massive double doors at the head of the hall. Separating himself from the huddle of tradesmen, he drifted towards that end of the hall and stood in a shaft of morning light that pierced the darkness. In this way, the King would be sure to see and recognize him.
Time passed. Just when even de Cantilupe was thinking the King had forgotten about them, the doors near where he stood did indeed crash open as he had predicted. Henry's position at the head of a flight of steps allowed him to dominate the company, even though his frame was slight and stooped with age. He stood in the archway, his gnarled hands hidden in gloves of the softest Roman leather. Thumbs thrust into his belt, he looked down at the assembled merchants as though they were naughty children. As his gaze passed over them, a flicker of recognition seemed to register at the sight of de Cantilupe: It was difficult for the former Chancellor to be sure, though, at th
e King's left eyelid had a droop that often made Henry appear to be winking at his audience.
When he spoke, the King's voice was powerful despite his years.
‘It had already come to my ears that there was no district more infamous than this for the committing of the crimes of robbery and murder. But it appears these crimes are not sufficient. No, my own wagon train has been despoiled and barrels of wine removed. My very person was in danger only last evening.’
There was a hubbub of protestations of outrage from those assembled, but Henry cut through it with a voice trembling with anger.
‘I believe there is a conspiracy here between the robbers and my own appointed justiciars. And in the circumstances this amounts to treason.’
The final word fell like a hammer blow on the already battered brows of those present. Their faces went chalky-white - some of them were indeed the King's appointed justiciars - but protestations of innocence were stifled in arid throats. De Cantilupe knew he had to think quickly, or he would be included in Henry's indiscriminate anger. He cursed his morning's eagerness to present himself to the King.
Stefano de Askeles was well pleased with his progress towards the mounting of his play. At terce, he had persuaded the Prior of St Frideswide of the necessity to construct a stage, and by the middle of the day the area in front of the church's imposing doors was a maelstrom of activity. Carpenters ran hither and thither with great balks of timber, and the air rang with the thud of nails and pegs being driven into beech and solid oak. Having dictated where the trap-door should be for the descent into hell, de Askeles left John Peper in charge of raising the framework at the rear of the platform from which would hang their precious painted depictions of the Temple, Jerusalem, Nazareth and the Celestial Paradise. Now he strutted around the wooden stage, wearing his favourite Devil's mask. Two immense, curved ram's horns curled out from the top of the mask, which was painted black. Red- rimmed eyes stared out of massive white pools almost filling the top half of the face. The Devil's nose was no more than a button compressed between those staring eyes and the great gash of a mouth. The Evil One's maw was wide open and filled with serrated rows of ugly needle-like teeth, and at the back of the throat a forked tongue flickered as de Askeles shook his head. His golden locks were completely hidden by the mask, which fitted like a helmet, and was held in place by cords that tied the horn-heavy effigy to his skull. He wore it because it made him feel powerful.
Peper had been curt with him that morning, but he could not be bothered to cut the man down to size. Time enough for that later when he had spoken to the priest of St Aldate's, Edward Petysance. In the meanwhile Peper had better ensure the carpenters worked hard, for they had precious little time. As he bent to jump down from the developing stage, he spotted a man laying down his tools and taking a jug up from the earth. The carpenter had already come to de Askeles's attention as he often stopped work to share a joke with his comrades. His shock of red hair made him stand out, as did his arrogant behaviour, standing in the midst of the other men with hands on hips. He had heard the man's name, Ralph, being called out from one end of the site to the other, and he meant to squash him as an example to the others to get on with their work.
Ralph now squatted down on his haunches below the stage, and tipped his head back, drinking greedily from the jug. Swiftly de Askeles crossed the stage and, swinging his booted foot viciously, kicked the jug from the thirsty man's lips. Ralph cried out in surprise, and looked in astonishment as the ale jug flew out of his hands and shattered against a pile of timbers. Wrenching his head round to see who had done this to him, he looked up to see the face of the Devil staring down at him. For a moment he was frozen with fear, then the figure above him lifted the mask away to reveal the ferocious visage of the leader of the jongleurs, his mane of golden hair framing his angry face. Ralph clenched his fists at his side, and stood in silence as the man berated him for his laziness. Only when the jongleur stormed off did the carpenter stare at his retreating back and promise revenge.
De Askeles was unaware of the anger he had caused, and the shaking fist with which he was threatened. His mind was now on Petysance and his desire for a holy relic. He already had some ideas how he could furnish the man with what he needed. With the remains of St Frideswide setting the standard, nothing less than a saintly skeleton would be required.
Chapter Five
LUCIFER: Distress! I command you now to cease
And see the beauty I bear;
All Heaven shines through me alone
God himself shines never so clear.
The Fall of Lucifer
At the heart of Oxford lay the substantial stone-built louses of Jewry. Tucked securely between the confines of the priory church of St Frideswide, and the churches of All Saints and St Mary's on the city's main thoroughfare, Jewry was a network of narrow lanes and back-to-back houses that offered mutual protection to the Jews of Oxford. They were tolerated in England because of their trade, the only trade they were allowed to ply - that of usury. Christians were forbidden to make money by lending money, but the overlords of the Christian world survived by borrowing when they required it. The King had the privilege of levying taxes should he need money. The barons relied on borrowed coin.
But Falconer was not in Jewry to borrow. He knew and respected the Jews in Oxford, not for the moneylending but for their scholarship. His oldest friend in Jewry was the Rabbi Jehozadok, who lived surrounded by books in the Scola Judaeorum. Of late the old man's eyes had dimmed with a chalky cast, covering what before had been a piercing gaze. Falconer had taken to visiting him in the evening and, under the pretext of doing his own reading, read aloud to the old sage. In this way, he kept Jehozadok in touch with that which kept him alive. Scholarship.
Now Falconer hurried to consult him in the daytime, unable to suppress his curiosity until the usual evening appointment. Jehozadok's partial blindness did not prevent him from being unusually aware of everything that went on around him. Indeed, his affliction probably aided his knowledge of activity across the scholarly city, for many people made a point of dropping in on the old man to ensure his poor sight did not cut him off from the world. Each one brought a titbit of news like busy starlings feeding their young, flitting between the outside world and the security of the nest. Without leaving the Scola, Jehozadok gathered more information than any one of his able- bodied feeders. Now Falconer wished to mine that knowledge in his search for the alchemist Friar Bacon had referred to in his letter.
Before he was even in sight of St Frideswide's Church, he was aware of the sound of feverish activity. The rasp of timbers being cut, and the thump of hammers driving home nails, forewarned him of the preparations that were being made for the presentation of the annual Christmas plays at the church. As he passed the western end, he could see the massive platform on which a horde of workmen toiled, like ants around the queen's nest. This year looked as though it was going to be a special year. He had already heard that some travelling players were in Oxford - perhaps they would raise the level of the plays' presentation from that of amateur enthusiasm in the hands of the monks, merchants and priests to something worth seeing.
Two men struggled to raise a painted cloth on a row of posts, and the chill air caused their laboured breath to steam from their lips. Falconer caught a glimpse of painted trees, unseasonably green, surrounding an edifice outlined in gold. The gilded edging sparkled in the watery sun, then the image was turned away from him to face out into the courtyard. The back of the cloth had a greyish, tantalizing mirror image of that which had attracted his attention. He was left wondering if the building he had glimpsed was the House of Bishops or the Temple. He would have to ensure he carried his eye-lenses with him when he watched the presentation. Treading carefully over the icy slush that filled the rutted lane, he threaded his way down the narrow wynd that led to the Scola.
*
People came to the alchemist for cures for many ills because they knew of his uncommon understanding of t
he mysteries of judicial astronomy, which some called astrology. The alchemist preferred the former phrase, and relegated the word astrology to purely speculative studies of the stars. The use of speculative astrology stunk of magic and fixed prediction of the future. A true astronomer only predicted events conditionally, and drew attention to man's free will to change matters. Of course the only people he deigned to advise were those of some importance in the city. The poor and ill could be left to the common apothecaries and leeches that were numerous in Oxford.
The nervous man in front of him now was a burgher of the merchants' guild, who had strangely refused his offer of a seat. He stood before the alchemist hopping from one neatly clad foot to the other, as the scholar lifted down a heavy, leather-bound tome from a shelf at his side. He laid it on the table between himself and the agitated patient and opened it at a well-thumbed page. On the page was the outline of a naked man with wild hair and a full, bifurcated beard. The figure was surrounded with scribbled writings and the alchemist peered closely at them, attempting to decipher their meaning.
‘You say you are born under the sign of Scorpio?’
‘Indeed.’
'then it is your bladder about which you are complaining?’
The skinny merchant marvelled at the alchemist's precise understanding of his problem. The alchemist merely waved away the other's admiration with a flick of his hand.
‘A medical man must of necessity know the nature and conjunction of the stars, and this reference’ - he pointed at the sketch of the naked man before him on the table - ‘confirms that a Scorpio must beware of cutting of the buttocks and the arse, and of hurting of the bladder.’
‘And is there a cure?’ asked the uncomfortable merchant, who was already casting a nervous glance over his shoulder in search of the nearest place where he could relieve himself.
