Doctor Mirabilis

by James Blish

  ‘But this should indeed all have been settled, my lord King!’ Edmund Rich protested, his face white. ‘I wis nat how it came into your majesty’s hands at all. Ralph Passelew himself never took it to the secular arm. He sued Archbishop Boniface under canon law for a mandate of institution in eight days, and won it; but I was forced to tell the most holy Boniface that such an appointment would bring scandal upon the Church, and also assuredly upon himself—’

  ‘“ … since thou wilt be acting not out of zeal to do what is right, but only out of fear of the King,”’ Matthew Paris added from text, his forefinger following the contracted, unforgiving minuscules of the code on the page before him.

  Edmund stared at the historian, and after a moment’s thought, crossed himself. Adam did likewise, but only abstractedly, as a man who would do himself no harm but did not seek to ward off any positive ill. He had found himself wondering why Matthew Paris should have written of these matters with such malice, and why he was now contributing his most carefully selected arrows to the King’s bow. It was plain that Paris did not love the King; nor could he have borne any grudge against the Capito for past visitations, for his own monastery at St. Albans was exempt and always had been. Could it be that he was a man compelled by his single gift of history to take no man’s part but his own, or that of his words? If so, never mind that to declare any man surely damned was a sin; Matthew Paris was as damned as any living soul could conceivably be, and the Logos itself would forbear to pity him.

  ‘And?’ the King said.

  ‘You have exhausted my knowledge of the matter, my lord King,’ Edmund Rich said. ‘But I had thought it composed; and well it should have been, long ere now.’

  Adam raised his hand. The circlet inclined toward him, and the eyes looked at him.

  ‘Most Christian Adam: proceed.’

  ‘My lord King, I know of this tangle, and the ways of it, all too well. Ralph Passelew is an outworn story to me, and to all of us in the parish; was once much loved and honoured, and deservedly so by your majesty, as any wise and just master hunter should be honoured. But in his dotage he bath presumed upon the Crown to aspire to a prebend, that should have rested in gratitude in your majesty’s bounties. Robert Grosseteste had warned him, long before his dotard’s greed reached your majesty’s ears, not to hope to exercise such an office, which if won would lead to imprisonment for all involved, clergy and laity alike. So the law runs; but he was senile, and would not listen.

  ‘Only then was the Capito forced to appeal to Boniface, begging him not to allow this most dearly beloved old man to sue for any post in the Church. I myself helped to compose that letter, in which we said that such an installation would be to the detriment of Boniface his suffragens, whom it was his duty to protect. Boniface was ne more pleased by this our intercession than is your majesty, but he was forced to allow us our argument, seeing in the light of reason that it could hardly be gainsaid. Hence he proposed to us that he should instead institute in Northampton in clue course a Master John Houten, then currently archdeacon of the church; to which we of course consented, since pastoral care was our only object … not, not certainly, to thwart our King.’

  ‘Your King named Ralph Passelew,’ Henry said.

  ‘He was very old, my lord King,’ Adam said steadily, ‘and though every man loved him, he was not even a clerk, let alone a prelate.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He died, my lord King, on the feast of St. Blase. That this petty broil still diverts the most high King of England from his affairs of state is not by the intention of Robert Grosseteste, Bishop of Lincoln. God and the King I beg give me leave to say that someone else is inflaming your majesty’s good sense.’

  ‘Beware,’ Henry said, almost sleepily. Matthew Paris’ quill squeaked and sputtered. Adam bent his head and fell silent. So did they all.

  ‘But where are we now?’ Simon de Montfort said at last. ‘We’ve argued ourselves into an ingle, and yet it has nothing to do with why we’re here.’

  ‘Nothing, Simon?’ Henry said.

  ‘Very little, my lord King. We have been talking all along about his complaints against the Crown; but let us look for a moment at what the Capito doth to the realm now, and will do henceforth if we cannot say him, Stop! all in one voice. For look you, I am but a plain soldier as God knoweth, yet it seemeth me that after contumacy the gravest of crimes for any monk is to publish the secrets of hall or chapter to the laity, whereby he becometh a fautor of popular scandal and bringeth holy Church herself into scorn and disrepute; which rule of sense bath mostly prevailed in the practice of visitation, to the protection of rude and ignorant men such as I am, in constant peril from the meanest of temptations. This rule the noble Robert of Lincoln bath now put into desuetude – in quest of perfection of spirit among his flock as I ne doubt, but to visible confusion and despair.’

  ‘We dare not hope,’ Edmund Rich said heavily, ‘that corruption shall put on incorruption in this life.’

  Adam was uncertain whether this was intended to be taken as agreement with Simon’s proposition, which had stricken Adam with certain doubts as to the purity of his own attitudes which he had never entertained before. Simon, however, seemed to adopt the Archbishop’s words as though they had been his own.

  ‘I thank you, my lord. Yet this is not yet all. These massive public examinations of the conscience of a whole cure bring eke in communis fama the sins and purported crimes of everyone drawn into the net, noble and commoner alike – and so in the end, when the noble Robert bath withdrawn to his next county, wife will ne longer bow the neck to her goodman, burgess hath no obedience from his citizens, no landholder buys and sells from any other, sheriffs are scorned, serf thinketh his lord ne better nor worse than himself, allegiances fall all awry, charters are turned into scraps; fealty itself becometh naught but a word, and may yet sink to less than a word, even to you, my lord King: to the yelp of a kicked cur who kens the foot in his ribs and licks it, sithen it belongeth to the only hand that will feed him.’

  The counterfeit baron looked as though he were about to cheer, but somebody must have trodden on his toe; he looked glumly down again. The King, who had been drumming his fingers upon the table-top, gradually brought his tattoo to a stop. It had been slowing noticeably during Simon’s peroration.

  ‘Both halves of this judgment be but simple sooth,’ he said. ‘And so we will speak plainly. We doubt not any fraction of the fealty of Robert of Lincoln; but ’tis mortal clear what dangers he is courting. The bondsmen hate the clergy, we need not Grosseteste to be warranted of that – out of that passion sprang the last insurrection, which our barons were not loath to channel under the pillars of our throne. We do not wish these nobles afforded another such pretext: wherefrom, this meeting.’

  ‘The danger is clear,’ Edmund Rich admitted. ‘Though, my lord King, when it hath passed away, I will remind your majesty again that in the matter of the prerogatives of the Church against the Crown I will be as strong a champion of Bishop Robert’s views as ever I was before. But let us put that to one side for this day. Prater Marsh, thou art not without influence in the Bishop’s household. Canst not prevail upon him to be less drastic? This is our quarrel too; and our just grievance with Rome will hardly be mitigated if the Bishop himself, our strongest spokesman, knows not that he promulgates in England the newest and most perilous of Papal oppressions.’

  ‘I sorely misdoubt me that the Capito can be influenced of anyone in this,’ Adam said heavily. ‘His righteous wrath is at its hottest, as indeed how could it not be, considering the magnitude of these evils he upturneth daily at the synods? Nor would the rede of Earl Simon be calculated to moderate his holy fury. This is a saintly man, as your lordship knows well, and as we all seek to be. He’s nat to be wooed by arguments from expediency; is from the outset far too great a logician, maugre the affront to the moral laws he’d smell like brimstone smoking up from the very first such word.’

  Henry was drumming on the
table again.

  ‘Thou wilt try this course, most Christian Adam,’ he said.

  ‘Certes, my lord King, I will. Lack of zeal be’eth not my cross this day, but only misfaith in the efficacy of what’s commanded. Can all these wise heads here think of nothing better?’

  Henry’s fingertips beat a soft rataplan. ‘We will sit here,’ he said, licking his moustache, ‘until they do.’

  This had been announced as a relatively ordinary midday meal, but nothing could be entirely ordinary in which the King was involved. True, the gathering at the dais was not large, consisting only of Henry, flanked by two knights; Simon and a trusted captain of his father, his devotion formed during the Albigensian campaign; the counterfeit baron, uncompanioned; Matthew Paris; Edmund Rich and his lawyer-clerk; Eleanor of Leicester and her handmaiden, and Adam Marsh. Only a dozen in all; but this was reckoning without the entourages of the King, Simon, the Archbishop and the baron all assembled at the lower tables, their usual tumult of banging tankards and bragging not greatly subdued by the royal presence. Add to these, too, the bread-cutters and the water-carriers, the squire at the hall dresser who poured the wine and gave out the cups and spoons, the usher at the door, the waiter and two servitors at the high table, and even a clerk to count Simon’s silverware on and off. It was not such a crush as Adam had survived at Beaumont, but in his present liverish spirits it was sufficient to threaten him with a headache.

  And the food came on without let or respite: black puddings, roasts of venison, herrings in wine, trout with almonds, spiced pottages, ducklings in verjuice, vegetables in vinegar and fruits in wine sauces, turnip jam and pumpkin jam, sweetmeats, pastries, wafers and entremets, all sifted over with ginger, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, pepper, galingale or sugar, even the meats; and more wine than Adam would otherwise consume or see consumed in a six-month.

  Nor was this all of his trouble; for this was for Simon an occasion of state, and where by ordinary his lady would have sat by her lord, today he had found it more fitting that she should be attended by their joint confessor, at the other end of the table. It was of course unthinkable that Adam should not discourse with her at all; though this was his inclination now, neither the amenities nor his duty to her soul permitted that. Nevertheless, he was at a loss for words, and filled with a sudden, ill-defined resentment toward Robert Grosseteste.

  She did not allow this long. Reaching out a narrow white hand, she plucked a sweetmeat from his neglected dish and nibbled it judiciously.

  ‘The Father is contemplative today,’ she said without looking at him, licking her fingers daintily. ‘Whence this wintriness, most Christian Adam?’

  Adam shrugged. ‘In sooth, I know not,’ he said uneasily. And in fact, he realized, though he was not without some skill and craft as a diplomat, he fathomed himself not half so well as he often understood others. He knew well, for instance, that Roger Bacon and many older men often had found him somewhat of an enigma; that was easy to read in their faces. He wondered if they would be amused to know that his soul baffled himself as much as it did them. ‘Belike ’tis this confrontation with thy royal brother.’

  ‘I sensed it was going ill, and much regret to have it so.’

  ‘There may be more. He is being white-faced and scrupulously polite.’

  Eleanor crossed herself. ‘Yet that’s nat the all of it, I wis,’ she said. ‘’Tis plain, that’s but the rope that turns the windlass, by which we ken there’s water in the bucket though it be never so far down in the well.’

  Adam was forced to smile by the outrageous trope; like many another noblewoman, Eleanor evidently could listen to minstrels more often than was good for her.

  ‘Bail away, my lady,’ he said, ‘though I’ll warrant thee, there’s naught below but mud.’

  ‘Gems are born in that,’ she said, with some determination. ‘Well, then, I’ll confess thee, good Father! Examine thy soul, and speak it.’

  This was probably safe ground. At the least, they were exchanging words, no matter how like they were to gibberish, which would look more in keeping to Simon than his former sullenness.

  ‘I was thinking when first thou spakest, my lady, of the Bishop of Lincoln,’ he answered dutifully. ‘In this there’s naught surprising, sithin we’ve talked with the King about naught else all day.’

  ‘True,’ she said. ‘And the noble Robert is thine oldest friend, thy teacher, thy spiritual father. How now this coldness?’

  ‘Coldness?’ Adam said, astonished.

  ‘Certes; an thou hearest it not in thine own voice, remarkest thou on how thou spakest not of a man, but only of an office.’

  ‘Thine ears be sharp indeed, my lady. ’Tis true I feel a certain distance, though I wis nat why or wherefore. Again, belike ’tis only this foredoomed occasion; for he bath all unwittingly caused me to appear before the King to answer to him, and utterly without those recourses which the King ne’ertheless demands of me. But stop, these are the reasonings of a child, to hold the Bishop responsible for my small embarrassment, that he wots nat of, and never meant to cause. ’Tis all this wine that bath me by the wits.’

  ‘Fear not, I’ll shrive thee for thy gluttony,’ she said, and lifted a goblet to her own lips with a smile. ‘I’ll press thee more yet, Father, for now at least thou’rt plaudering with me. Art thou alone in this?’

  ‘I fail to understand.’

  ‘What Henry wants, he would from thee alone?’

  ‘Nay,’ he said slowly, ‘nay, nat so. He would have it from any man here, could any bring it him. But none can.’

  ‘Then still thy coolness is unplumbed, most Christian Adam, for e’en unwittingly the good Robert bath not singled thee out; yet speakest thou as if he had. Why is this so?’

  These questions were verging upon impudence from a penitent; yet she was in her own house, as he was not. He must abide the course; indeed had consented to it. Perhaps it was indeed the wine, but for whatever reason he felt impelled to give her a little of the answer – not all, not all –as it began to appear to him. Though such a course was as hazardous as rope-dancing, that too seemed to urge him forward.

  ‘No man can wholly love justice,’ he said slowly, ‘e’en from the mouth of his confessor and brother in Christ. I did confess to our saintly Robert; and until this day, I deemed I had done my penance in sufficiency. Mayhap my heart seeks now a drop of mercy, and findeth it not, and so blames Grosseteste.’

  ‘Now I’ll not ask thee what that sin was, Father, for a game is but a game,’ she said, her face instantly grave. Surely she had no notion that it was in this cast of mind and countenance that she most wrung him. ‘I perceive I played at bric with fate-straws, and will cease; forgive me.’

  ‘Nay, I thank thee for thy goodness,’ Adam said. ‘Thine innocence is proof against offence; and truly, what transpireth here hath no connection with this expiation, a burden I wrought solely for myself. I told thee, there was naught down there but mud.’

  But at the same moment, the rope broke under his weight and, falling, he saw. With it his voice broke too, beyond all hazard of his mastering it, as he tried to cross over the last five words.

  She turned her head and gazed at him, her delicate brows lifting slightly. He tried to look away, but could not. When at long last she spoke, it was in a whisper, so that he could not hear her over the noise in the hall; but he could read the movements of her lips.

  ‘I know it,’ she said. ‘I know it. Otherwise how could it matter here? It is I. I am the occasion of this sin. It is I.’

  No power on Earth or under it could have prevailed upon him to peril her by the faintest sign of assent; but there came to him no Power from Heaven by which he might have summoned the strength to deny it. For a few falls of grains through the neck of the glass, there were no powers, and they two were the only living things in Kirkby-Muxloe, or in all the world.

  Henry would have left by nightfall, but that no course forenenst Grosseteste had emerged which was agreeable to all; so that n
ow he would have to stay another night in Kirkby-Muxloe.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, arising at last from the table. We will make our own composition of this matter, as time and again we are driven to do. We will have the sheriff of Lincoln serve a writ upon Grosseteste, requiring this Bishop to show forth upon what grounds lay persons of his diocese are forced to take oaths against their wills. And if that serveth not, we will direct our sheriffs in general to allow no layman to appear before this Bishop to answer any inquiries under oath – nay, even to give statements on other matters, maugre marriages and wills, against the customs of the realm and to the prejudice of the crown. That, we hazard, will put this teste synodak to the halt; think you not, gentlemen?’

  He did not wait upon an answer.

  After some while, there was the five-fold sound of breathing being resumed. At the sound they smiled at each other, tentatively, ruefully.

  ‘Ne doubt it will,’ Simon said.

  ‘Ne doubt it will,’ Edmund Rich agreed sadly. ‘And equally surely, will inflame anew the quarrel between Grosseteste and the King.’

  ‘Canst thou not forewarn him, holy Edmund?’

  ‘Impossible. He’s still afield with Roger de Raveningham and five other clerks, turning up fresh scandals. Nor could that help us now. These acts the King proposeth, he’ll see as fresh interference with the rights and liberties of the Church, to the detriment of her disciplines. And he’ll be right.’

  ‘Ne doubt the good Grosseteste hath justice on his side,’ Simon said gloomily. ‘Yet his case would be the more defensible, had he himself been less careless of the rights of his majesty. Witness the dischurching of the sheriff of Rutland.’

  ‘I am unfamiliar with the instance, my lord earl.’

  ‘I wis it well,’ Adam said. ‘A clerk, his name unknown to me, was deprived of his benefice for incontinence, during a visitation; but refused to surrender it, whereupon the Bishop excommunicated him, and ordered the sheriff to imprison him. But this sheriff of Rutland was a friend of the contumacious clerk and refused to act; whereat, Grosseteste excommunicated the sheriff as well. An arbitrary act, I thought then, and I think now; yet what else could the Bishop have done?’