by Ian Morson
'there is a cure recommended by my old friend Friar Bacon. It is compounded of precious pearl that has been exposed to your star's influence for eight days and nights.’
He paused.
‘It is rather costly, mind you.’
The agitated merchant reached for his purse, for he was in considerable discomfort. Never mind the cost of the cure, he simply sought relief, and after all more coin could easily be earned. The alchemist shuffled out of the room, and shortly returned with a tiny, stoppered vial made of glass. He held it reverently before the merchant, whose hungry eyes feasted on the fluid that sparkled inside the container. He eagerly slipped the silver coins into the alchemist's outstretched hand and took the vial in return. The alchemist ushered him out, closing the door on his elaborate protestations of gratitude. Returning to the reception room he cast aside the book of remedies with which he had impressed the merchant as though it were nothing.
Indeed he considered it so, compared to what he had safely hidden in the small chest below the table. With trembling hands he stooped down and pushed a key into the lock. It turned easily, for he often had recourse to the contents of the chest in his pursuit of knowledge. He lifted the metal-banded lid, and reverently removed a cloth bundle from its resting place. Placing it gently on the table before him, he unfolded the wrapping. No matter how many times he revealed the contents of the bundle, he was always struck dumb by it. It was a book, the pages yellowed and fragile with age. He carefully opened it at the point where he had last inserted a piece of red ribbon as a marker, and began to decipher the text.
As William Falconer began his hunt for Friar Bacon's alchemist friend, Thomas de Cantilupe was planning how to get himself out of a fix. The King, recognizing his former colleague, had temporarily released him from the imprisonment in which he had placed the burghers of Oxford. The King had vowed that he would clear the countryside of the vagrant robbers that infested it. Whether or not he truly believed that the burghers knew of, or were acting in concert with, the brigands, was not clear to de Cantilupe. What was indisputable was that Henry had threatened to hang the imprisoned good men of Oxford, including de Cantilupe. The former Chancellor had been released to round up men who would name the conspirators. His problem was convincing anyone else to venture into the old lion's lair, where they might share the fate of their predecessors.
De Cantilupe shivered and clutched his robes around him. The Chancellor's rooms were cold, and the lazy Halegod had not lit a fire. Perhaps he had thought that de Cantilupe would be warmly wrapped in the favour of the King by now. He certainly would have been only a few years ago, but times had changed and Henry was more cautious. He stuck his head into the icy passage leading to the servants' quarters and called the old man's name. There was no response, not even the shuffle of the soft shoes the old man habitually wore. Either the fool was deaf, or he was deliberately ignoring the former Chancellor. Something else he would not have had to suffer a few years back, when he was at the height of his power.
He called Halegod again, but all he heard was the echo of his own voice. He was alone in the house. He had a mind to tell the King that the old man was the outlaws' go-between, who ensured the city burghers turned a blind eye to the robbers' misdeeds. That would repay him for his insolence. He stomped back into Henry de Cicestre's main room, and kicked at the forlorn ashes in the hearth. Then suddenly the thought of revenging himself on Halegod blossomed into a solution to his problems. Most merchants had some business rival they envied, someone who had beaten them to a profitable deal, or some handsome youth who had cuckolded them. Perhaps even the good Prior of St Frideswide's had a few names he could supply. If they were prepared to accompany him into the presence of the King, they could denounce whomsoever they chose. And the King would conveniently dispose of them in the name of ridding the neighbourhood of the brigands and their cronies. Of course, the fact that it would also save de Cantilupe's neck was of even greater importance. Why, he could even settle some old scores for himself. What was the name of that regent master who had been a thorn in his flesh through all his years as Chancellor of the university? Called after a bird, wasn't he? The name came suddenly to his lips.
‘William Falconer.’
‘William, old friend. Come and sit beside me.’
The old man motioned with his gnarled hand to indicate that Falconer should not stand on ceremony but join him at the hearthside where blazed and crackled a warming fire. Jehozadok's other hand rested on the open pages of a book, as though it gave him comfort to feel the smooth surface and the rough tracks of the scribe's pen that covered it. The hand trembled slightly, suggesting a lack of control by the ageing teacher. His cloudy eyes sought to make out the shape of the heavily built regent master as he crossed the room. Falconer knew Jehozadok could no longer see anything more than the outline of those who visited him, and marvelled at his ability to name each one. He shuddered at the thought of his own mind being trapped in an ageing and rebellious body.
‘As sharp as ever, I see.’ His cheery comment belied his real feelings.
‘I may not be able to see so well, but the fusty odour of your robes cannot escape my nostrils. Really, William, you should pay more attention to your appearance.’
Falconer blushed, but had to admit that he had thrown on the black robe he habitually wore for weeks on end. But what reason had he to wear anything more appealing? His mind returned briefly to the woman who had filled his days some while ago. They had met when Falconer had been investigating one of the murders he became so often obsessed with. Her husband had been one of his main suspects. Using his deductive powers, and with the aid of Aristotelian logic, he had found the real murderer and exonerated the husband, but not before he had been consumed with desire for the wife. Fool that he was, he had even saved the husband's life. Now he dared not so much as say the woman's name for fear of shattering his resolve to avoid her. The liaison was doubly impossible: she was married, and his continuing existence as a regent master teaching at Oxford depended on his remaining unmarried. The logic was incontrovertible, and he sighed hopelessly.
‘You have clearly not come to read to me so early in the day. And you obviously have something on your mind. More than one thing, I would imagine.’
Once again the sharpness of the old man's mind belied the appearance of his failing body. Falconer looked around the room in order to compose his thoughts. Jehozadok was surrounded by scholarship - every shelf, every table, indeed every surface was piled high with books, papers and scrolls. The light that filtered in through the unshuttered windows shone like a beacon on the profusion of learning. Sunlight danced on the motes of dust that hovered in the room - a sight that Falconer always associated with his old friend. No text lay still long enough to gather dust as Jehozadok reacquainted himself with its contents.
‘I see best when the sun shines.’
The rabbi's statement was ambiguous, and Falconer sought to penetrate the mind behind the milky eyes. He had never been able to truly fathom the depth and scope of the old man's wisdom, which was why he was here now. He would try to shine some light on his difficulty.
‘I am seeking an alchemist.’
The scientist-alchemist sat poised over the treasure like some great insect, his long and scrawny limbs bent double as he peered closely at the words before him. It was said that Aristotle had hidden elusive meanings in the text of his Secretum Secretorum and the old man was determined to fathom them out. This translation had been given to him by his old friend Friar Roger Bacon, and was directly from the Arabic by Philip of Tripoli. The friar had left him a copy of the manuscript when he had got wind of his impending incarceration in France. Since then, the alchemist had wished Bacon was available to assist his research, for some matters eluded him and he realized the manuscript was incomplete. The Secret of Secrets hinted of a universal science that brought together all the sciences known to man - astronomy, astrology, mathematics, medicine - everything.
He understood the fria
r when he spoke of the difference between speculative alchemy and the practical alchemy of experiment. Bacon had only reinforced his reputation as a magician by causing eruptions, strange noises and bright lights in his chamber almost every night of his time in Oxford. The alchemist knew he experimented with methods for turning base metals not into gold, but into far more useful elements. He had sought a means of making iron of an impenetrable hardness that any armourer would covet. However, the friar had been careless of his dangerous reputation, and it was inevitable that his order should have banished him from England, and forbidden him to practise his black arts. The alchemist was determined not to make a similar mistake, and ensured no one knew of his experiments, especially on the quintessence. His good character as a medical man had once been blemished with suspicions of necromancy, and he did not want it to happen again.
Impatiently, he raised his weary eyes from the Aristotle before him, put it to one side, and drew a more familiar text across the table. It was Bacon's own De retardatione accidentum senectutis - a Cure of Old Age and the Preservation of Youth. He felt sure the quintessence would be the ultimate goal of his studies in this area, and his aching limbs urged him to solve the riddle before his body had no youth left in it to preserve.
The long stretch of the main rostrum before the church of St Frideswide was nearing completion as dusk fell, but the rapid approach of Christmastide demanded that the acting troupe not waste a moment. Even as the carpenters' boy swept away the wood shavings with his hazel besom, Stefano de Askeles strode across the bare boards directing the novice monks of the priory in the location of several blazing torches. The flickering light from their flames cast a magical glow over the painted backdrop, turning the flat scene into something that hovered between heaven and earth. The roar of the flames added its own sense of unreality to the proceedings. De Askeles almost wished he could present all the plays in this half-light, but tradition demanded he at least start the plays in the brightness of the day. Well, he could play out his own fantasies as they rehearsed tonight.
He smoothed the heavy robes he wore in his main role so the white cloth with its multi-coloured edging hung in even folds on his imposing frame, and peered imperiously into the gathering gloom beyond the stage. A few of the carpenters, novices and other hangers-on lingered in the courtyard in the hope of seeing the actors perform without paying their few pennies later. De Askeles did not mind this impromptu audience. They were always easily impressed and quickly spread the word that the play-actors were worth seeing. A shuffling of feet behind him reminded him of the task ahead - one he always hated. He turned to face a nervous group of monks and artisans, who had volunteered or been coerced into playing the minor roles in the scenes that were to be enacted. Amongst them was an older monk, Brother Adam, an obsequious but prying soul who de Askeles was convinced had been put there as the Prior's spy. Never mind, he would need them all. Where the Creation of Man only required Adam, Eve, God and the Devil, the Slaying of the Innocents demanded soldiers, women and children, and Christ's Passion and the Ascension, Jews and angels in numbers beyond the capabilities of de Askeles's small troupe. He had therefore to depend on amateurs.
With a sinking heart he motioned for John Peper to distribute the sheets. Some sheets simply bore instructions on where to stand, and these were handed to the artisans - they would not be asked to speak. The other sheets were given to the monks - they contained the few parts that required the actor to say a word or two. Better that the monks played those - at least they could be relied on to be able to read accurately. With a few curt words and a wave of the hand, he selected the older artisans for the soldiers' parts. The younger ones, and a novice monk with a smooth face, he designated as women, much to the amusement of the rest. There were whoops and raucous whistles as one youth primped and preened himself like a common whore in
Beaumont. De Askeles didn't know whether his patience would last the night. But he did have plans for Brother Adam.
Falconer's time with Jehozadok had proved frustrating. The old man had considered all he knew of the philosophical community in Oxford, and shared his knowledge with the regent master. Both knew of the little tutor who carried out dissections of human bodies in his lust to understand the workings of man. Both knew why what he did was a deadly secret. For many years such mutilation of the human body had been expressly forbidden by various popes. But he was not an alchemist. Within Jehozadok's own community there were several medical experts whose comprehension of the use of herbs and other natural resources was vast. Yet none was even rumoured to have an interest in what so many saw as esoteric or, even worse, devilish arts. The rabbi's wrinkled brow was even more furrowed in distraction that he could not assist his friend with the search he had been set.
Falconer took Friar Bacon's letters out of his pouch, unfolded the one addressed to him again and, holding the sealed one as though it were a hot coal, reread the cryptic clue.
'“No need to go as far as Germany to find this man Just seek his name from Omega to Alpha.” What can it mean?'
Jehozadok shook his head.
‘Perhaps you should search more closely amongst your mutual friends, or the friar's Franciscan colleagues. It is often those closest to us who surprise us most with their secret interests. That is all I can offer you. But I will continue to think it over and ask amongst those who visit me.’
Falconer shook the weak and shaky hand that was offered him, and took his leave. The evening was cold and the slushy furrows in the lane had frozen into awkward ridges that caused Falconer to dance from one foot on to the other. Damp chills seeped through his thin footwear, and as he emerged opposite St Frideswide's Church he was drawn by the warm glow cast by the torches that burned in the courtyard. For a moment he stood behind the canvas that hung between him and the stage, watching the shadows cast on it of those on the other side. He listened to the booming voices of the acting troupe and watched the distorted shapes moving across the canvas, sometimes small and insignificant, sometimes large and menacing. It seemed appropriate that they were enacting the Slaying of the Innocents.
As he watched, one shadow beckoned with what was clearly a sword. Cowering below this shape was the smaller form of a woman who pleaded for the life of her child with the voice of a man speaking in a higher pitch than he was used to. The sword fell and the shriek of the woman was accompanied by the more tentative cries of other youths imitating women. Falconer smiled, and listened to the soft-spoken man-woman telling Herod, who in shadow form now loomed across the canvas, that he had slain his own son. The Herod actor dashed his crown from his head and struck a pose to deliver his speech.
'truly damned then I must be.
My body rotten and my arms,
Fiends from Hell do come in swarms,
And I have caused so much woe
To perdition I must go,
My soul to be with Satanas.
I die, I die, alas, alas.’
As Falconer watched this shadow tableau, an horrendous shape entered from the right. It seemed taller than all those on the stage, though that might just have been the effect of the shadow and the angle of the lights that cast it. What was obvious were the impressive horns that contorted out of the creature's head. For a moment the figure seemed to fill the stage, then it staggered forward. Falconer was sure he saw another more human shape separate itself from the devilish form and retreat into the solid shadow at the side of the stage. It was a curious sequence of events that he could not fathom as part of a mystery cycle. Suddenly his puzzlement was broken into by screams and other shouts of alarm from beyond the canvas. Shadows fluttered hither and thither, but the figure of the Devil lay motionless on the floor with an elongated bar sticking up vertically from its back.
Chapter Six
LUCIFER: Here will I sit now in his stead,
To exalt myself, not bend the knee;
Behold my body, my hands and head,
The might of God is marked in me.
The Fall of Luci
fer
The reality that confronted Falconer as he came around the side of the backdrop that had screened him from the stage seemed tawdry in comparison to the shadow play. The figures on the stage were all smaller and the painted scenery was flat and lifeless. The two soldiers stood over the body with their wooden swords drooping in their hands. A woman with a bulky hairnet and linen cap bent over the prostrate form in the middle of the stage. As she moved to touch the instrument that jutted out of the dead man's back, Falconer called out, ‘Don't touch it.’
When the woman looked up to see who had cried out, Falconer was startled by the face of a man peering out from under the head-dress. It was just another unreal image on top of all the other incongruities.
‘But it's Stefano - he's been killed.’
The man dressed as a woman rocked back on his heels as Falconer knelt beside the figure of the Devil and gently eased the body on to its side. Unlacing the cords that held the all- enveloping mask in place, he pulled it off the dead actor's head. There was a gasp from both Herod and the kneeling actor as a monk's tonsure was revealed. Clearly they had been expecting the visage and flowing locks of Stefano de Askeles. This man's face was the soft, indoor face of a monk.
‘What the hell's going on? I leave you all for a few minutes and everyone stops work.’
The sonorous tones of the man just presumed dead echoed across the courtyard. Falconer looked out to see a large and imposing figure emerging into the circle of light cast by the torches around the edge of the stage. He was dressed in similar long and flowing robes to the dead man, but under his arm he carried a gilded mask unlike the Devil's visage that Falconer had just removed from the body. His long blond hair was a reflection of the mask's golden image. He crossed the yard in three or four strides and stood at the edge of the stage, his face level with the crouching Falconer. He laid the gilded mask on the stage, where it sparkled in the torchlight. Its blank eyeholes surrounded by carved sun's rays seemed to look into everyone's soul - truly the face of God. The man's own eyes locked on to the regent master.
