by Ian Morson
De Bosco’s face paled, and he found he could not take a breath. Of course he knew the name, even though Inkpen had misheard it, because he was expecting the man. He trembled at the thought that his servant was making the second most powerful man in the kingdom — after King Edward himself — linger in the hallway. He rose from his chair and, regaining his power to breath, hissed at his servant.
‘My God, man, show him in at once. It is the king’s chancellor, Robert Burnell.’
The blood fled from Inkpen’s face also, and he disappeared from view. Only moments later, he was ushering Robert Burnell and his silent companion into the room. His voice cracked as he tried to announce them, failing completely with the second man, whose name he had not discovered in his haste to rectify matters. Burnell seemed quite unperturbed, and as Inkpen’s voice died away, introduced the man at his shoulder himself.
‘This is Isaac Doukas, my secretary. He is a Greek from the island of Cyprus.’
De Bosco glanced nervously at the other man. He was stocky and dark-skinned with long, greasy black hair tied up at the back, and revealed his calling by the satchel over his shoulder, out of which protruded the feathery ends of several quills. But he was no grovelling, stoop-shouldered clerk, for his eyes were as black as his hair, and gave off no reflection. Indeed, they seemed to suck the very light away from the room in which he stood. Almost as though reacting to de Bosco’s imagination, a candle at his shoulder flickered, and the chancellor felt his heart lurch. He started to thrust out a hand to Burnell, but something held him back, and he bowed instead.
‘Forgive me for your poor treatment. We were expecting you, but you caught us on the hop. You see, we are having some difficulty with a persistent thief of books, and his behaviour has been getting more worrisome of late. He attacked the last master he stole from.’
He was aghast that he was babbling out such embarrassing facts, but he couldn’t stop himself. Burnell waved his hand, not caring to know about a thief, albeit one of such a valuable commodity as books. But de Bosco was so flustered that he continued to babble about his problem, trying to excuse himself but only making matters worse.
‘I am in control of the situation, though. I have summoned a most subtle master, who concerns himself with mysteries, and who will be on the trail of the malefactor soon enough. His name is William Falconer.’
Burnell raised an eyebrow, as if he neither knew nor cared about who this master was.
‘If, as you say, this thief is resorting to violence, then I think this … Falconer needs to act quickly. The king would hate to hear of murder within the walls of Oxford.’ He stared balefully at de Bosco. ‘It would not go well for your tenure.’
De Bosco licked his lips nervously. The post of chancellor was in the hands of the regent masters of the university not in the gift of the monarch. However, most of the masters could be swayed by the king’s view on a candidate. Even one who was already occupying the post. He parted his dry lips to speak, but saw that Burnell was of a mind to move on, and held his peace.
‘But there is a far more important matter I have come to discuss. I have to tell you that the king is far from pleased by the Welsh at present. He is contemplating a campaign against Llewellyn, and wishes to have no disturbances within his kingdom centred on this rabble. Therefore he has taxed me with the job of ensuring there is not any Welsh rebellion in Oxford.’
De Bosco opened his mouth to protest Oxford’s loyalty, but once again Burnell stopped him with a glance.
‘You will, therefore abolish the nations here at the university, and so prevent the Welsh and other factions joining together in rioting against the king’s authority.’
De Bosco was aghast at such a command, but knew it was pointless objecting to the decision. After all, he had only the day before been talking to his proctors himself about the divisiveness that the Northern and Southern nations created in the town. These nations were a long tradition at the university, but it looked as though their days were numbered. Still, he could not help raising an objection.
‘But, but … I will have to call together the congregation of masters, and speak to my proctors. I dare say they will not be pleased to see their power bases removed.’
Burnell waved a desultory hand, apparently dismissing the proctors and the whole mass of regent masters as though irrelevant.
‘I do not know the Southern Proctor, but I have corresponded with Plumpton, and know his views on the matter. I see no problem there.’
De Bosco was shocked he had already been betrayed from inside his own camp. Plumpton, of all people, had gone behind his back. Defeated, he bowed once more to the Chancellor of England. Triumphant, Burnell now placed a friendly arm on his shoulder, and spoke of other matters.
‘Now, tell me about this book thief, and the man who will root him out.’
Chapter Four
At sext, in the middle of that particular Saturday, an interesting sight was to be seen in Oxford. Solemn men in black robes appeared from all corners of the town, and began converging on St Mildred’s Church in the northern quarter of Oxford. It was to observers as though a dark and gloomy mass of water was flowing down the narrow lanes, pulled by an unseen force towards the church. The Congregation of Regent Masters of Oxford University’s Faculty of Arts met periodically to consider matters of relevance to the workings of the university. The Masters of Arts jealously guarded their status and pre-eminence over all other masters, and their numbers specifically excluded the friars and doctors of theology. Perhaps because of their dull garb, or perhaps due to the secretive nature of their gatherings, they were familiarly known as the Black Congregation. In actual fact, the issues coming before the Congregation were often tedious, and not every master who could attended all meetings. However, it was rumoured that today was to be an unusual occurrence. They had all been summoned at short notice by the chancellor for a most serious purpose, and required to attend at midday without fail. Rumours of someone of eminence attending the meeting had ensured that no master stayed away under any pretext. And that had made certain of their promptness too. Soon the church was filled with the black sea of masters, and the doors were closed on the curious outsiders.
Four chairs had been set up just below the altar, two slightly raised above the other two, which flanked them either side. A group of senior masters placed themselves close before the seats to establish their precedence, though they were still not sure what was to take place. Amongst the senior group were the tall, angular figure of Master Gerald Halle, and the coarse features of one of the few foreign Masters, Heinrich Koenig. Others nodded to this pre-eminent group as they moved around seeking a suitable place to sit. After an initial period of subdued conversation, when questions were bandied around from master to master but no answers supplied, the congregation began to arrange itself in the seats either side of the nave. All the masters wore a black tabard, over the top of which was arranged a black sleeveless cope, or a cloak with a hood bordered with fur. All knew how cold the interior of St Mildred’s could get, and had ensured they wore something warm. It was likely to be a lengthy business they were summoned to sit through. Headgear saw a mixture of square birettas and simple round pileums. A few had already pulled up their hoods to keep warm, and no doubt in order to doze off beneath them should matters become tedious. Though the wait was protracted by the absence of the chancellor, and speculative whispers broke out, the assembled crowd were not to be kept in uncertainty for long.
As the conversation in the church lulled, William de Bosco finally scurried from the gloom of the side aisle towards the chairs arranged below the altar. He wore a scarlet cope trimmed with black over his robe, and a scarlet biretta on his head, though he looked uncomfortable in such grand robes. The two proctors strode along either side of him, and arranged themselves in the lower chairs flanking the chancellor’s chair and the as yet conspicuously empty one. De Godfree’s face looked decidedly grim, while in contrast Roger Plumpton’s was all smiles. The delay to the a
rrival of the three men had been caused by the absence of the Northern Proctor, Plumpton who, it turned out, had been in private consultation with Robert Burnell. This clearly explained de Godfree’s current grimness, and de Bosco’s uncertainty. The three men’s entrance, late as it was, had ensured complete silence, and the chancellor finally broke it with a sombre pronouncement.
‘You were summoned here for a most serious purpose. The congregation will be addressed by Robert Burnell, Chancellor of England.’
A murmur of shock and surprise wafted through the gathered crowd. Some masters were no doubt excited by the prospect of such a grand figure addressing them. Others, chiefly those whose antecedents were Welsh and who were aware of the king’s anger with Prince Llewellyn, were filled with apprehension. All craned their necks to look down the aisle of the church to get a sight of the chancellor. As he walked up to the empty seat next to de Bosco, Burnell’s slight and sombrelyclad figure disappointed them somewhat.
*
He had heard the word of God again, and rose from his prostrate position on the cold stone flags before the altar. He was aching and stiff — his limbs frozen by their contact with the floor and the fixed pose he had maintained for so long — but he was exhilarated by God’s murmurings in his ears. He flexed his arms and stamped his feet to get the blood flowing around his extremities again. His rational mind might have told him God’s words were merely echoes of the gossip he heard from his fellow creatures. But his state of ecstasy convinced him otherwise. God and his angels spoke directly in his head, telling him where next he must strike. He walked stiffly down the nave, and out into the late afternoon sun. Weak though its rays were, they warmed his frozen body, and gave his legs added purpose. The words still buzzed in his brain like bees in a hive, and they had caused his head to ache unmercifully. But it was a small price to pay to be in direct contact with God. The buzzing told him Regent Master John Bukwode of Corner Hall had a collection of magic books that must be taken, and the evil canker destroyed. He shook off a sudden wave of dizziness, and began to make his plans.
*
Falconer had received de Bosco’s message, and curiosity had finally drawn him to the Chancellor’s lodgings. But not before he had skulked in his solar to avoid the Black Congregation. Then, on the way to Glassen, he had been distracted by a chance encounter with someone he knew. Ahead of him in the narrow street that led up to the High Street, he had seen a figure he recognised. The rotund young man, with a rolling gait and a shock of unruly brown hair, could be none other than the boy from the travelling players’ troupe. He had to search his brain for the name, and for a while it eluded him. A few years ago, the troupe had been embroiled in a murder that he had solved. At first one of the troupe, the jealous husband of an acrobatic female saltatore, had been suspected. His name was John Peper — Falconer could at least remember that. But the boy, who was somewhat slow-witted, was more difficult to place. If the troupe was in Oxford, Falconer wished to know where they intended to perform, so he skipped through the crowd and caught up with the boy. He tapped him on the shoulder, and as the youth turned to face him, he remembered his name.
‘Will Plome. What are you doing here?’
It was an innocently worded enquiry, but it seemed to perturb the fat boy more than it should have. His plump face turned red, and his lips formed a perfect O in surprise. Clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle to his chest, he stammered a few incoherent words in reply to the challenge.
‘I … just … I didn’t …’
The youth fumbled nervously with his parcel, and Falconer regretted his scaring of the slow-witted Plome. He patted him on the shoulder encouragingly and smiled. Plome looked away, as if expecting someone else to leap on him, and ran off clutching the parcel tightly to his bosom. Too late, Falconer realised he had failed to ask where the troupe was to perform, wondering only what had made Will Plome so skittish. When he had last seen him, he had always been cheery and pleasant. But this time his face looked ashen and grimly determined. Falconer wondered what had changed the boy so much. But he was late for his meeting with the chancellor, and hurried on. And by the time he had spoken to de Bosco, Plome and the strolling players were banished from his mind.
His conversation with William de Bosco began awkwardly. He was chastised for having forgotten the calling together of the Black Congregation that very day. In actual fact, he had done no such thing, but no longer relished the meetings of that assembly ever since the time it had tried to judge him for murder. But it was easier to apologise for a poor memory rather than explain his feelings on the matter. He was told by de Bosco, however, that no less a person than Robert Burnell had addressed the gathering concerning the Welsh problem. De Bosco was most vexed by the whole situation.
‘The nations are to be abolished, and I shall take the blame. Meanwhile, Burnell has gone back to the king, but has left his clerk behind, who will no doubt spy on me and report back to his master about all my failings. And talking about failings …’
The chancellor finally got to the point of his summoning Falconer. He wanted him to discover who was stealing valuable books from collections belonging to individual masters, and student halls. Falconer, disappointed that his summons was for mere thievery, at first declined to assist. But de Bosco was insistent, a pleading look in his eyes.
‘You must help me, Master Falconer. You see, what started as a purely an inconvenience, has become a serious matter. Not only has a master been violently attacked during the last theft …’ He knew he was exaggerating, but it was to a good purpose. ‘… but now the king himself is showing interest in the university. I dare not let such vandalism progress any further.’
Falconer didn’t like the thought of Edward being involved in the university’s affairs. And if someone were to die as a result of this spate of thefts, he would probably find himself at the centre of something more clamorous than thievery. Far better then to solve the lesser crime than let it escalate. He nodded a reluctant agreement.
‘I will look into it. Tell me who was attacked and I will talk to him.’
‘I thank you, Master Falconer. It was Master Roger Stephens of the law schools.’
De Bosco was glad of Falconer’s acquiescence. He heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that Burnell’s Greek secretary, Isaac Doukas, was in the next room, listening in to the conversation on his master’s behalf. The cold, apparently heartless man scared him more than a scribe had any right to, but he needed to show assurance. It would not do to have seemed indecisive at such a time as this. He clapped the regent master on the shoulder in a man-to-man sort of way that he was entirely unused to.
‘You will not regret your decision.’
As Falconer walked back to Aristotle’s Hall, he wasn’t so sure. He turned the man’s request over in his mind. William de Bosco was like a willow tree — he swayed with the wind, and so survived the storms around him. But unfortunately that meant he was also in Falconer’s opinion a cipher — a symbol of something, but lacking depth. Perhaps that was his purpose — to represent the university without imposing his own opinions on it in the way that Thomas Bek had. Bek had sought a greater power than was his to command, and was fortunate that, once dislodged from Oxford, he had still found a place in Edward’s court. A personal friendship with the king counted for a great deal in this world. On the other hand, a king’s enmity was not to be recommended, as Falconer knew to his cost. He had performed a service for the king while both men had been in Paris, but it had left Falconer knowing more about the king than Edward cared for in anyone. Knowledge could indeed be a dangerous thing, especially knowledge of the king’s private affairs. So since that time, Falconer had hidden away in Oxford, kept his head down, and attended to his teaching duties assiduously. To now be under the scrutiny of Edward’s servant, was a worry for him.
Falconer opened the door of Aristotle’s, not convinced that de Bosco’s final words were correct. He somehow felt he might indeed live to regret getting involved with the thefts. Stepping
into the main hall of his rented accommodation, he was surprised to find Aldwyn hovering beside the fire that glowed in the grate. The monk hurried over to him, holding out a well-thumbed tome.
‘Master Falconer, I am glad you have returned.’
Falconer could see that the old monk was agitated, and supposed it had something to do with his ancestry. Aldwyn had been examining the hospital records, and he supposed the monk may have found a reference to his possible birthing, and the fate of his mother. He licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry.
‘You have some … news for me?’
Aldwyn frowned, and patted the book in his hands.
‘Grave news, I fear. It is all coming true.’
Falconer shook his head in puzzlement.
‘What is coming true? Have you not come to tell me of my birth in the year 1225?’
Aldwyn looked uncomfortable, recalling what had started his researches in Geoffrey’s book.
‘Ah, yes. The cutting open of the unfortunate maid to save her baby. I suppose that could be what you were looking for.’ He nodded his head slowly. ‘A birth in the very year you wanted there to be one. But there is no proof it was your birth, nor that the maid was your mother.’
‘Even so, did she die?’
‘There is no record in the ledger.’ He couldn’t look Falconer in the eye. ‘It was an irregular situation, you understand. But that is not why I came to see you, though it did set me on the right track.’
‘The track of what?’
Falconer was becoming irritated by the old man’s lack of clarity.
‘The truth of the prophecies of Merlin.’ Aldwyn waved the book in the air, holding the heavy tome in both hands. ‘They are all coming true.’