Falconer and the Great Beast Read online

  He could tell the motley group viewed the prospect of travel on a ship with trepidation, and it amused him to compare this reality with the concept of the devilish Tartar horde that had so terrified the civilized nations in the West. He wished King Louis of France could have seen the fear in their eyes at the prospect of trusting to the small English barque that tossed on the pounding waves close to the quayside. The dock was piled high with their baggage train, and a herd of skittish but sturdy horses milled around in a temporary corral. But, despite their own fearfulness, the Tartars obviously still instilled fear in other people. The sailors who frequented the port, a hardy breed of men normally, were giving the stony-faced soldiers a wide berth. One or two even resorted to gestures which the friar recognized as signs to ward off the evil eye.

  As the rain bore inexorably down, the friar eyed the group closely. He saw that one of the men wore a Christian cross on a chain around his neck. Boldly crossing over to him, he addressed him with a greeting in Latin. The man's face broke into a smile, and he spoke back haltingly in the same tongue. The friar found it difficult to understand the accented speech, until the other man suddenly spoke in English. Once over his initial surprise, the friar responded, and the two were soon deep in conversation. The Franciscan learned the man was a Nestorian priest from beyond Comania by the name of David. This name had surprised the friar a little, for though the man professed a Christian faith, albeit one deemed heretical by the Roman hierarchy, he was of the same race as the soldiers. Those same soldiers were already eyeing the two priests' conversation with suspicion. They were all short and stocky, with veiled, slanting eyes. Some were cleanshaven, and some sported wispy black moustaches. Most had fearsome scars slashed across their cheeks.

  With his imperfect English, David still managed to explain that many of his tribe were Christians, as were some of the royal house of the Great Khan, Kublay. And he had been given a Christian name at birth. But before he could explain further their conversation was interrupted by the clearing of the storm, and a cry from the shipmaster to begin boarding. The soldiers reluctantly began the business of loading the ship, which had now tied up firmly to the quayside. The Tartars seemed no less fearful than their short-legged horses, which all balked at crossing the gangplank to the bobbing deck. While they were encouraged on board, the friar spoke to the shipmaster about travelling across the Channel on his vessel. The sailor dubiously rubbed an empty eye-socket, criss-crossed with a fearsome scar, but on the production of a modest amount of coins readily agreed. Despite being a man who had been involved in many a brawl, he was still clearly glad to have a man of God on board to protect him from his other passengers. It seemed he, too, feared the devilish Tartars.

  Once clear of the harbour, the strong winds struck the ship and it tossed up and down on the mountainous waves. The deckrail was soon festooned with unhappy-looking Tartar soldiers, unused to the surface under their feet lurching so viciously. The friar decided to seek out his erstwhile companion David in order to learn more of the Tartars' mission in England. Peering down one of the dark companionways to the rear of the ship, he heard the throaty bark of two men arguing in their own tongue. He hesitated to pass the cabin from where the argument emanated in case he was accused of spying. But before he could retreat, an older man in a fur cap and a blue tunic with gold at its sleeves stamped out of the room, hotly pursued by a bare-headed younger man. The friar had seen them both on the quayside earlier, set slightly apart from the rest of the Tartars by their air of authority. He had assumed they were the party's leaders. And they looked none too friendly with each other.

  The young man grabbed the other by the sleeve and spun him round, almost dislodging his cap from his head. In his other hand was a short stabbing knife which he brandished under the older man's flat nose. The friar wasn't sure whether he should intervene – the action was that of a man prepared to kill – but then the moment passed. The look of outrage and disdain on the older man's face seemed to bring the other to his senses, and slowly he lowered the knife, and let go of the other's sleeve. The older man, who the friar later learned was the leader of the Tartars, Chimbai, by name, spat at the feet of his second-in-command, Guchuluk, and disappeared into the adjoining cabin. Guchuluk suddenly seemed to realize there had been a witness to the incident, and cast a cold glance out of the corner of his eye at the dark figure of the friar that filled the doorway on to the deck. Then he, too, stepped back into his cabin. The whole set of events could not have taken more than a few moments, and the friar was left staring down the empty passage, wondering if he had dreamed it all. He returned to the open deck, deep in thought and distracted from his original aim of finding David. The sun came out, and the wind dropped, allowing the barque to settle to a more gentle undulation. But, despite the brightening of the weather, the friar had an uneasy feeling about his new companions.

  After disembarking on the windy coast of England, the friar avoided the company of the two Tartar officers, who gave no outward evidence of their mutual enmity to the rest of the entourage. Instead, on the way to London, the friar fell in with a far more interesting individual. On the quayside he had looked for David, in order to beg a ride on the Tartar baggage train. But the priest was far too busy negotiating payment of the shipmaster on behalf of his masters, so the friar turned to someone else who seemed out of place in the troop of military men. He had spotted him on board the barque, looking on with amusement at the discomfiture of the seasick soldiery. His features were still Eastern in origin, but of a much more refined nature than the rest of his companions. His manner, when the friar spoke to him on the quayside, was also more civilized. He appeared unable to understand the friar's tongue, but clearly realized the import of the words, and readily agreed to the friar travelling with him on the baggage wagon. The man tapped his chest, and spoke a melodious word or two that the friar took to be his name. Later, through the agency of David, he confirmed that he had met Yeh Lu, a man from distant Cathay, travelling in the Tartar commander's company as administrator.

  Though they discovered a mutual interest in science, there was little time for an attempt at conversation with Yeh-Lu on the trip to London. With only David to act as interpreter, and the priest not fully understanding what either man was saying, the dialogue progressed infuriatingly slowly. And David's slow recovery from the effects of the seasickness meant he showed little inclination to help them. Finally, with conversation stalled, and silence reigning, the smoky, noisome environs of London hove into view. It took for ever to whip the baggage train through the gawping crowds and over the river bridge. For the friar, used to solitude, the noise and bustle was terrifying, and the stench of so many bodies crammed together in confinement was appalling. He wondered what the Tartars thought of such an ant-hill of life. Their impassive faces betrayed nothing.

  At the heart of the capital, the friar took his leave of the strange party of men, while the Tartar commander went off to negotiate his audience with Henry, King of England. He shook hands with Yeh-Lu, regretting not talking more with him. The man replied in his strange, lilting tongue:

  ‘Chih chen pu yen, yen che pu chih.’ He smiled at the friar's puzzled frown, and raised an eyebrow at David. The priest translated:

  ‘It is a Chinese saying. Those who know much, talk little. Those who know little, talk much.’

  Yeh-Lu clapped his hands gleefully, as though he understood David's translation. The friar nodded an acknowledgement, and took his leave of the two men. But no sooner had the Franciscan set off on foot towards his own destination – Oxford – than he was overtaken by a flustered David on horseback. They had missed Henry by three days, and the king had left a message asking them to make their way to Oxford, where they could talk with the king's envoy and meet the king on his return from Wales. Would the friar act as their guide? He readily agreed, eager to continue his dialogue with the man from Cathay, who, despite the language difficulties, had indicated he knew of an explosive powder the nature of which also occupied th
e friar's curiosity.

  And so he had finally completed the return journey, ten years after he had left. But, having arrived too late to enter Oxford the previous night, the friar had reluctantly to accept the hospitality of the Tartars for one more night. Now he was anxious to see the university city once again. Stepping out of the tent, he eased his aching back upright and gazed upon the city walls. They were newly built since he had left Oxford, and glowed with a golden light in the early morning sun. Though the city had once been his home for many years, he now felt a little like a stranger, standing on the outside looking in. Or, rather, looking up. The walls towered above him, and he had to squint with his tired, old eyes to discern the little figures that stood on the top. He smiled wryly to himself, wondering what the good citizens of Oxford thought of the strange encampment in the midst of which he stood. He also wondered if anything besides the walls had changed, and if there was anyone still to remember him. As if in response to the rueful thought, he imagined he heard his name being called, but from a distance.

  ‘Roger. Is that really you?’

  Emerging from the gloom of North Gate came a tall, angular figure of a man dressed in shabby, black robes. His hair was greying, and his waist tugged a little more at the belt that encircled it, but the friar had no doubt it was his young acolyte, William Falconer. Not so young now, it seemed. Friar Roger Bacon scrubbed a hand across his tonsure and the few remaining white hairs that encircled it, and wondered if he had fared so well in the intervening years. He thought probably not.

  A soft light reflected off the streams and rivulets that meandered across the low-lying grasslands below the southern walls of the town. And the air itself was thick with dancing motes of dust and insects. So it was that the landscape forced a drowsiness on all those who inhabited it in these long days of summer. The excitement of the dwellers within the walls of Oxford, dulled and deafened by the contented drone of bees, had apparently not penetrated the walls of the Dominican friary that sat in the fields a little apart from the town. Here, the unhurried worship of the Creator continued at the same pace as it had done on the day before the arrival of the exotic creatures now encamped on the northern side of the town – close by, but as if a world away.

  But all was not as it seemed. Friar Bernard de Genova knelt in the quiet chapel before the crucifix with head bowed, yet in his heart was a seething anger. His fellow Black Friars were about their business, many teaching in the huddle of rooms in Oxford that were the schools of the university. Bernard should have been there also, conducting repetitions on the Sentences of Peter Lombard. But he had a far more urgent errand to pursue, requiring a communion with the Lord.

  He had been up at dawn, as was his invariable habit, and had entered the town through Little Gate as soon as it was unlocked. Once inside the town, he headed for Jewry, where the house that had been the Dominicans' first home in Oxford now served as a Domus Conversorum for those Jews converted to the Christian faith. The fact that the shabby tenement currently gave shelter to one elderly man, whose brains were addled beyond reason, did not deter Friar Bernard from taking his task seriously. He arrived every morning to take the Jew – former Jew, he reminded himself – through his Christian catechism. It was a perpetual struggle, for the old man's mind wandered, and he could not concentrate on any single thing for more than a few moments.

  This morning, however, the normally vapid Bellasez was awaiting the arrival of the friar on the doorstep of the crumbling house at the top of Fish Street. His toothless mouth gaped in some semblance of a grin, and a long string of spittle hung down his sparse grey beard. He positively danced from one crippled foot to the other at the sight of Bernard. The friar was approaching sixty himself, but the pale, freckled skin of his face, contrasting severely with the black of his habit, was tight and unwrinkled. In the mornings his limbs were slower to respond, and somewhat stiff, but he still had the slender frame of his youth, and he approached his set tasks with the same vigour. He took the older man by the shoulder, feeling under his grip nothing more than skin and bone.

  ‘Brother, what is the matter? Is something amiss?’

  He steered the shambling old man back inside the house, and closed the ill-fitting door. Bellasez opened his mouth and croaked a few incoherent words. To Bernard, he resembled, despite his advanced years, a fledgling in its nest opening its gaping beak for sustenance from its parent. He sat the old man down on the only chair in the dark and stinking room, and urged calm on him. Finally Bellasez was able to marshal his thoughts sufficiently to tell Bernard what had so agitated him.

  ‘They have returned.’

  ‘Who have?’ Bernard was puzzled, and wondered if the old man had lost his mind completely.

  ‘I have seen them.’

  The friar sighed and was about to leave Bellasez to his meanderings when the old man grabbed his arm, and said something that caused the hair on his neck to rise.

  ‘The Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, exiled by God. They have been released, and are even now encamped outside the town.’

  The friar scoffed at the old man's assertions, and sought to calm him down. It was not difficult to achieve, for soon the old man's fuddled mind drew a veil over what he had seen that morning, and he slipped back into his normal, soporific state. Bernard soon had him settled down on the smelly, straw mattress where Bellasez spent most of his days in dazed slumber, and was free to leave. Closing the door on Fish Street behind him, though, he stood pensive. The man was mad, but perhaps he was a holy fool, and his words had substance. Bernard knew what he had meant by the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, but was not sure how he should react to the idea. It was in that moment of indecision that a youth whom Bernard recognized scurried past, excitement in his every step. William East was a promising youth to whom he had taught grammar on his first arrival in Oxford. The student was normally a solemn and serious individual, which is why Bernard, similarly inclined, had taken to him. His current state of agitation was therefore out of character.

  ‘William East – why are you in such a hurry?’

  The youth, his haste having taken him several paces past his former mentor, threw his response disrespectfully over his shoulder, in a manner that shocked the staid friar, before hurrying on his way. ‘Have you not heard, Brother Bernard? There are Tartars encamped outside North Gate.’

  Bernard de Genova paled. Had Bellasez spoken the truth after all? He felt a need to seek guidance.

  Now, on his knees before the image of Our Lord, he pondered that very question, his thoughts as icy cold as the interior of the chapel. Though the old Jew had seen the Tartars as the lost tribes of Israel, shut away by God beyond the mountains in the East, Bernard once again was minded to listen to the words of Ezekiel, as he had done some twenty years earlier. He spoke the verses out loud:

  ‘“This is the word of the Lord God: At that time a thought will enter your head and you will plan evil. You will say, ‘I will attack a land of open villages, I will fall upon a people living quiet and undisturbed …’ You will expect to come plundering, spoiling and stripping bare the ruins where men now live again.”’ The monotone of the recited words formed a whispered echo in the upper reaches of the chapel that seemed to Bernard like angels talking. And they were confirming what was echoing in the vault of his own head concerning the true identity of the Tartars now at Oxford's gate.

  The slap of sandals on the cold stone slabs of the chapel floor brought him back to the mundane. Still bowed and on his knees, he tilted his head to one side. The sandalled feet at his side, the toenails of which were coarse and yellow, could only be those of Brother Adam. Though he often prayed to God to take the thought from his mind, Bernard could still not restrain a feeling of disdain for the self-centred Dominican who had been set in charge of the friary at Trill Mill after the death of Ralph de Sotell. Adam Grasse was a Breton, and, to Bernard's mind, no more than an ignorant peasant. That he had a quick mind was, in Bernard's estimation, to say merely that he was possessed of low cunning.


  Adam cleared his throat at the kneeling friar's continuing lack of respect in his superior's presence.

  ‘Brother Bernard.’ The words were soft-spoken but admonitory. With a sigh, Bernard pulled himself up to his feet to face his nemesis.

  ‘Brother Adam.’

  ‘I have a message for you.’ This immediately piqued Bernard's interest, for it would be an unusual message that Adam Grasse was prepared to deliver himself. Brother Adam, who did indeed resemble a peasant, with his vast, oval face reddened by exposure to a brighter sun than England could boast, and fat, crimson lips that caused spittle to fly as he spoke, continued, ‘I have been asked to release you from your teaching duties temporarily to perform a most important task.’

  Before the friar could finish, Bernard, already irritated by what had been said, interjected. ‘More important than enlightening the minds of the errant youths who find their way through the course of arts study at this university, and so think themselves well versed in what matters in this world? More important than teaching them the word of God?’

  Adam Grasse betrayed no annoyance on his ruddy features, merely waited until the intemperance of his brother friar had been vented, and went on. It was not for nothing that he had been selected by his fellows to be the head of the friary. His peasant frame hid a wise and calculating mind.

  ‘You may be aware of the Tartar embassy that is encamped on the town's doorstep. Well, the king is unable to meet with them at present. Instead he has sent an envoy to speak on his behalf.’ ‘And how does that concern me?’ Bernard marvelled at the coincidence of his conversation with God about the Tartars and Adam's reference to them so hard on its heels. But he couldn't see where he fitted into this situation.