by Ian Morson
Henry could not believe his ears. This grubby youth dressed in his own purple robes, and ensconced on the throne that travelled everywhere with him, had asked for the release of all prisoners. The King cast his eyes around his courtiers in disbelief. Mortimer was smirking, convinced that the boy had overstepped the mark. De Cantilupe was stony-faced and held his breath, sure that Falconer's ploy to gain the incarcerated merchants their freedom was not going to work. Everyone else present hesitated in the fashion of true courtiers - they waited to see the King's reaction before they committed themselves. For the King the game had been most enjoyable. Having someone else deciding matters and issuing instructions had been unusual for him. The last time it had happened, Simon de Montfort not this youth had been involved, and the circumstances had been much less pleasant. He would not like to lose another war with his barons. No, this was a much more satisfactory way to have decisions made for him. It had cost another battle and many lives to claim his power back from de Montfort, and the ramifications still lived with him in the form of the disinherited and disgruntled knights who were holed up in Ely causing trouble. This youth would be deposed and forgotten when the Christmas revels were over.
In the meantime, he was enjoying the discomfiture to which Mortimer and his other pompous courtiers were being put by the Lord of Misrule. This Thomas was oblivious of the implications of his every action. Had it been the King himself ordering them about in the same way, he would be causing such resentment that it would be inevitably expressed in the future as minor acts of revenge. Henry had not survived fifty years on the throne without being fully attuned to the aspirations and actions of those who surrounded him. He had lived in this stifling atmosphere all his life, and it was second nature to him now.
The boy repeated his request.
'that is what I said. And as Lord of Misrule I expect to be obeyed.’
De Cantilupe raised his eyes to the heavens, thinking that Thomas had gone too far. But the King smiled and bowed low. He was beginning to enjoy this topsy-turvy idea. For the moment at least he felt as though a great burden of decision-making had been lifted from his shoulders.
'so be it. De Cantilupe - go and see to it immediately. In the meantime, we shall prepare to see the Prior's plays at St Frideswide's.’
The former Chancellor hurried off to seek out the gaoler before the King could change his mind.
*
The milling crowd in front of St Frideswide's Church cheered as someone they recognized emerged on the stage. The amateur performer, clad in ecclesiastical robes as an angel, blushed and stumbled over his lines, to the amusement of his audience. Someone hooted his derision, but others around the unruly individual hushed him as God and Lucifer stepped forth to do battle. These were the real troubadours and they could weave a magic spell. The dowdy blue curtain behind them seemed to sparkle with stars as the midday sun broke through the clouds and lit up the scene.
God, clad in flowing white robes edged in a multi-coloured band flecked with gold, strode to the centre of the stage and turned his gilded face to the expectant crowd. There was a collective gasp as the sun glittered off the starburst of his features. It was no more than a mask, but as the actor spoke it seemed to come alive, almost revealing the true mystery of God. ‘Lucifer, how gave I offence to thee? You, once my friend, are now my foe. Of all the angels there was none, you know, So close to me in all my majesty. I now say “Fall”, till I say “No”, In the pit of Hell evermore to be.’
Lucifer cringed before God's might, his mask a blackened skull with gleaming teeth and curved ram's horns. He spat out a curse, then threw his arms up in mock supplication. The crowd, expecting the Devil to slink off the stage as in previous years, gasped as the ground opened and swallowed Lucifer entirely. Wisps of smoke rose from what was clearly the pit of hell. A few superstitious souls at the front of the audience crossed themselves and backed away from the stage. De Askeles, sweating under the mask of God despite the cold, smirked as his trap-door in the floor of the stage had its effect. The Prior, and the whole of Oxford, would remember this year's play cycle and the man who wrought it. What a pity the King was not yet here to see it. He strode off stage to an expectant buzz, and waved his hand imperiously at John Peper who stood at the side of the stage ready to drop the next painted canvas in place. It depicted the Garden of Eden, and was decorated with representations of good English oaks.
*
A scrawny man with a scarred face eased his way through the back of the press of people. He made his way to the front of the crowd where the richer onlookers would inevitably be. Importance and wealth were inextricably mixed - except when it came to parish priests, and for that reason Edward Petysance did not lose the few coins he had. Others were not so lucky. Everyone's gaze was fixed on the stage and the unfolding of the Temptation, agog for more marvels like the disappearance of the Devil into hell. John Stockwell, a silversmith of some repute, turned to his right to comment jocularly on the stocky shape of the man playing Eve, and failed to notice the man with the scarred face slip into the crowd at his left elbow. In a trice Stockwell was relieved of his well-filled purse, and the pickpocket moved inconspicuously on. Further into the crowd, Peter Inge, a seller of fish, returned the smile of a scrawny, raw-faced man who appeared at his side just as the Serpent appeared to Eve. When he looked again the newcomer had gone - he would discover only later that so had his bag of hard-earned coins.
Several emptied pockets later, Cuthbert Gledd, known to his dubious friends and implacable enemies as ‘Cutpurse’, decided he had earned enough, and began to retreat from the jostling throng of good Oxford citizens. He smiled all over his ruined face, thinking that his long journey from London, where that face was becoming too well known, had been worth it after all. At one time his features had been totally nondescript and he could ply his chosen profession of thief quite inconspicuously. He simply melted into the crowd. But then he had tried to steal from a serjeant-at-arms and had lived to regret it. Just as he was lifting the soldier's purse, someone in the crowd had jostled his elbow and he had been given away. The brute of a serjeant had closed one fist over Cuthbert's hand, realized what he was about, and used the other to hammer the thief's face into a different shape. Still, Cuthbert could not give up what he did best, indeed the only thing he knew how to do. He simply had to move on when his face became known.
When he saw one particularly stupid-looking yokel at the back of the crowd with a bulging purse hanging from his belt, greed got the better of him. The old hunchback was begging to be robbed, and Cutty would oblige. He stumbled as he passed the man, grabbing his waist for support. Apologizing, he recovered himself, and would have walked away, the purse now in his hand. But a vice-like grip on his neck prevented him from escaping, and the ‘old man’ held him at arm's length like a mewling puppy. Visions of his last beating swam before his eyes, and he groaned. Then he blanched when he saw the man draw a snaggle-edged sword from a scabbard hidden by his left side.
‘Now what's all this?’ Cutty gasped. ‘Leave go an innocent citizen.’
‘Innocent? I've watched you take at least six purses, and then you have the nerve to steal my own. Give them over.’
The old man shook the thief, who yelped and emptied his pockets on the ground. Despite his plight, he still tried to bluff his way to freedom.
‘Help me, I'm being robbed,’ he squawked. At the back of the crowd a few faces turned to see the unequal struggle, grinned and turned back to the play.
‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. Peter Bullock, town constable, at your service.’
Cutty Gledd groaned, convinced that he was fated to spend some considerable time in this yokel's prison. But fate intervened in the form of a grizzle-haired regent master of the university. As Bullock prepared to march the thief to his cell, Falconer hurried over to his friend, a worried frown creasing his normally calm features.
‘Peter. I must speak with you. Let this man go - whatever he's done cannot be as important as wh
at I have just learned.’
‘But—’
‘We must talk. Now.’
Bullock sighed, and released Gledd, pushing him down to his knees. The thief smirked at his salvation, then paled when he saw the constable raising his old sword above his head. Falconer, too, gasped at the apparent summary and violent justice Bullock was about to mete out. Gledd flinched as the sword swept down, then squealed in pain as the flat of the blade hit him squarely across the buttocks. For good measure, Bullock's boot followed where the blade had landed, and helped the thief on his way.
‘And don't let me see your ugly face again, or it won't be the flat of my sword you'll feel.’
He watched as the chastised thief scurried away in the direction of Fish Street, and a swift exit from Oxford through the South Gate. Then he turned to the grim-faced Falconer.
‘Now what is so important that it disturbs the pleasure of locking up a thief, and my enjoyment of the plays?’
‘Destroyed all this world shall be, Save Noah, his wife and sons three, And their wives too they take, To be saved for your sake.’
De Askeles thundered out the words of God, and left the stage to John Peper, nervously clutching his false beard, who was enacting Noah. In the wings, watching her husband, was Margaret Peper. She stood with her weight forward on one leg, her sinuous form outlined against the cloth of her dress. The vivid colours of the full-skirted gown she wore for acrobatics in more sober surroundings than the local inn only served to accentuate her sensuality in Stefano's eyes. He pulled the gilded mask from his head and took a swig of wine from the goblet he kept at the side of the stage. Striding over to where she stood, he pressed up against Margaret's back. Startled, she wriggled free of his embrace and told him to leave her alone. De Askeles was in no mood to be rebuffed. The plays were progressing well, and he already felt he could be denied nothing. Least of all that which he had taken many times before.
He grabbed the woman's arms and roughly pulled her to him. ‘I will have you whenever I wish, or you and your weak-willed husband can go begging in the gutter.’
Hatred for de Askeles and her predicament burned in Margaret's bright green eyes. But she submitted to his embrace, thinking only of how she could be rid of him. It was fateful that at that moment John Peper turned to deliver his lines as Noah to his recalcitrant stage wife, Robert Kemp made up as Mother Noah. ‘Good wife, do as I thee bid.’ ‘Heavens! Not till I see more need, Even though you stand there all day staring.’
Peper could hardly tear his gaze away from the sight over Robert Kemp's shoulder. The sight of his wife blatantly sinking into the embrace of Stefano de Askeles.
Chapter Thirteen
LUCIFER: And therefore I shall for his sake
Show mankind great envy
As soon as He can him make
I shall at once him destroy.
The Fall of Lucifer
Fifty years on the throne had given Henry an uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time. His arrival at St Frideswide's Church coincided with the representation on stage of the Adoration of the Magi. Three worthy merchants of Oxford had paid de Askeles well to be the three kings, and now recited their lines with relish. Kneeling, they prayed for a sign, and at that moment Agnes lit a small block of resin. It flared like a star in the sky, and the crowd gasped again at the effect. While they were still blinded by the sudden light, Simon Godrich, dressed as a priest to represent an angel stepped on to the stage. His appearance thus seemed to be magically out of nowhere, and his plangent voice was used to good effect in welcoming the magi. ‘Oh! Rise up all ye kings three, And come you after me, Into the land of Judee.’
At that moment there was the sound of horses' hooves thudding on the pounded earth of the courtyard, and murmurings from the back of the crowd. Godrich peered into the darkening corners of the yard, angry at whoever had interrupted the scene. The people seemed to fall to their knees in a wave that ran from the back of the audience to those closest to the stage. Behind them, an old man with dull graying hair and a pointed beard of the same colour was easing his stiff limbs off a massive charger. Several men-at-arms scurried around him, ensuring his insulation from those who knelt on the ground. Inside the ring of soldiers was another horse, from which someone sprang with the suppleness of youth. The whisper that was running through the crowd finally reached the stage - it was King Henry. Abruptly those in full view on the platform also fell to their knees.
Though with head bowed, Simon could still see the King from his raised vantage point. He was puzzled by the attention Henry paid to the youth who accompanied him. The King offered the boy his arm and led him to the rostrum where the Prior of St Frideswide's stood, as though the boy were the King and not Henry. Yet he was too young to be the Prince Edward, who was fully a man already. Henry allowed the youth to precede him up the steps to the seats reserved for the Prior and his retinue, and bowed as he sat down on the very cushion the Prior had placed on the bench for his own comfort.
In the crowd, Falconer grinned broadly as he saw Thomas Symon deferred to by the King, and discomfiting the pompous Prior. His plan must be working - but had the Lord of Misrule already been able to gain the prisoners' release? A voice at his elbow answered his unspoken question.
'they are free. But don't involve me in such a mad scheme again. I feared for my neck from dawn today until now.’
It was de Cantilupe, who looked hot and bothered after hurrying from the gaol, where the released merchants had virtually fallen at his feet in gratitude, to catch up with the King's retinue. He mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief and glared at his old adversary, swearing this was going to be the last time that the man endangered his position. He shivered as the cold of the advancing winter's evening chilled his sweat, and stamped off to join the King. Falconer followed his retreating form, and looked up at the royal group in time to catch an exaggerated wink from Thomas Symon on his lofty perch. The boy waved his arm imperiously, but it was only after the King beside him discreetly nodded his head that the crowd rose and turned their attention back to the plays. Simon began again.
‘Oh! Rise up all ye kings three ...’
*
Bullock still could not believe what Falconer had told him - that a murder had taken place in the town and he had not known of it. What Falconer had learned from Jehozadok was that the body of old Solomon had been ignored by all who passed it. He had been left in a crumpled heap like so many rags until one of his own race had happened down the lane where he had met his fate. No doubt the Christians who had walked by would claim if questioned that they thought he was merely drunk. But still Bullock could not stomach their callousness towards another human soul, Jew or not. The body had already been whisked away, and buried according to the rituals practised by the Jews. It did begin to explain the fracas at Petysance's procession, and the young Jew's threat. He just hoped another life would not be lost in some vengeful act. But, with the body gone and the inward-looking Jews closing ranks, there seemed little he could do about the death, except keep his ear to the ground.
As for Falconer, he was curious about Solomon's conversation with Jehozadok before his death. Was there a clue in what he had said? Were his death and the ‘accidental’ death of the monk linked in any way? After all, Solomon had been in the courtyard of St Frideswide's on the day of Brother Adam's untimely death. There was so much information and as yet so little sense to it all. But first Falconer had his duty to his friend Bacon to perform, knowing that amongst the other prisoners released by ‘Lord’ Thomas would have been Zerach de Alemmania. The secret letter from Friar Bacon suddenly burned hot in the pouch at his waist. It was not only that he wished to deliver it as soon as possible, but he also wanted to know its contents himself. He resolved to find a way to persuade Zerach to open it in his presence. He muttered an apology to Bullock and followed a few other souls who were drifting away from the plays. Casting a glance back as he walked under the arch into Fish Street, he saw the troubadour Robert
Kemp stride on stage in the role of Herod and threaten to kill the kings and the new-born babe.
The heavy greyness of the sky was ushering in the gloom of evening rapidly and Falconer folded his arms across his chest to protect himself from the cold. The market was gone from the street, but jugglers, puppeteers and dancing bear trainers still entertained the ebb and flow of people by the light of flickering torches. Deep shadows hung over the corners furthest from the flames, and Falconer kept a weather eye open for the nightwalkers who would soon be emerging to rob the unwary. The lane down to Zerach's house was deep in gloom, and Falconer did not relish standing too long exposed to the silence that hung over it. Everyone it seemed was at the plays.
His urgent knocking on the door only elicited a tremulous voice from the other side of the oak after some considerable time.
‘Who's there?’
‘My name is Falconer. I am a regent master at the university and a friend of Roger Bacon.’
‘I do not know you or him.’
Falconer hesitated. Was this the wrong man after all? No - the clues fitted his name too well. The play on the meaning of his second name - Germany in the French tongue - and the initial letters of his names - Z and A, Omega and Alpha - confirmed it. Surely the man was just frightened, as anyone had a right to be who had been incarcerated by the King and threatened with the scaffold. He needed to convince Zerach de Alemmania that he was truly who he said he was.
‘Roger had a thesis - possunt fieri instrumenta volandi. Surely he told you of that?’
The voice sounded unconvinced. ‘He told many people of the possibility of making a flying machine.’
‘Yes, but he only told a few close friends and colleagues that someone was attempting to make it reality.’
Falconer prayed that Zerach had been close enough to the friar to be let in on this secret. There came the sound of a bolt being pulled back, and a pale, drawn face was pressed to the narrow gap as the door was opened. There was a question on the man's lips, and Falconer grinned in embarrassment.
