Falconer and the Great Beast

by Ian Morson

  Ezekiel 38: 18–20

  The early morning sun, filtering into Falconer's solar at the top of Aristotle's Hall, found the regent master slumped over the heavy, scarred table in the centre of the room. Scattered around on its surface was a jumble of aromatic jars, some with their lids discarded and the scent escaping, and an array of animal bones. Chief amongst the remains was the skeleton of a large bird, the bones cunningly held together with sinew. The skeleton was laid out as though the bird, while alive, had been gliding through the air. On the floor underneath the table was a heap of reddish wing feathers, which, if they came from the same source as the bones, identified the bird as a kite. The feathers were not there as writing implements, for each had been pulled apart and closely studied, before being thrown on the growing heap under the table. Creating the means for a man to be able to fly like a bird was an obsession that occupied every spare moment that Falconer had.

  But another matter had distracted him the previous night, and had occasioned a different sort of nocturnal research. Near his stiff and outstretched right arm lay a sheaf of papers that, before his conversation with Peter Bullock on the battlements of Oxford's city walls, had slipped out of his memory. Now the constable's dire warning had reminded him of their existence. Returning to the hall, where he presided over the education of a dozen students, he had retired immediately to his solar and the company of Balthazar. Balthazar was a barn owl that Falconer had tamed as a chick, which had now grown into a splendid, ghostly white bird. During the day the owl slept, as still as a statue, in a corner of Falconer's solar at the top of the house. Occasionally it would open its round deeply knowing eyes to observe its human companion, then return to sleep. Awake, it never proffered any opinion on Falconer's activity, and that's why he liked the sagacious bird. Oxford was too full of people ready to offer their opinion unasked. At night it stirred itself, and flitted silently out of the window in search of food, its easy flight mocking Falconer's stumbling efforts to copy it.

  Last night Falconer had begun digging through the pile of books stacked next to his bed. Observing his master's preoccupation, the bird hopped to the open window, spread its wings, and flew off to quarter the meadows for mice. It had taken Falconer some while to find what he had been looking for, because he had long ago discarded it as a mere curiosity. Finally he remembered tucking the papers into the back of a copy of Priscian's ,Grammar – a book he rarely had recourse to. At the bottom of the stack of books he had accumulated since his arrival in Oxford many years before, he eventually laid his hands on the simple grammar book. Sure enough, there were the papers he was seeking, poking out from inside the back cover. He unfolded the stiff, resisting parchment and began to read the contents with a fresh eye.

  The text was entitled Epistola Alexandri Macedonis ad Aristotelem magistrum suum de itinere suo et de situ Indiae, and purported to be a letter from Alexander the Great to Aristotle. Describing the nature of the countryside beyond the boundaries of the East, and the beasts that roamed it, it was relied on by travellers to inform them of what they might encounter when they ventured further than civilized man had done so far. Falconer's eyelids drooped as he read by the flickering light of a tallow candle about striped tigers, white lions as large as bulls, and bats as large as pigeons. He was disappointed, but not surprised, to find no reference in the letter to the Tartar race – he had always thought the letter a fake anyway. His head slumped over the parchment and he drifted into sleep, only to have his dreams inhabited by the beasts conjured up in the text. He found himself in a fantasyland of massive trees and thigh-high grass that impeded his flight as he ran from the terrible odontotyrannus – a beast described as being as large as the elephant he had seen at Carfax that morning. But this beast had the black head of a horse, the sharp teeth of a wolf, and a vicious triple horn sprouting from its forehead. He ran and ran, but the beast gained on him as he fought to push through the clinging grass. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, and felt the foetid breath of the odontotyrannus on his cheek. He stumbled and fell, crying out as the sharp, cruel horns gored his shoulder-blades.

  ‘Master.’

  Falconer woke from the nightmare to find the bright sunlight of a new morning penetrating his vision. He unthinkingly lifted his head from the cushion of his left arm, and winced as a bolt of pain shot down his stiffened neck. He could hardly move his outstretched right arm at all, and the fingers were without feeling. Cautiously, he turned his head to look at whoever had been tapping his shoulder. His screwed-up eyes discerned the features of Richard Bayley, a fresh-faced youth from Isleworth, who was soon to complete his first year at the university. Richard had not succumbed to the world-weariness that characterized most of his companions, and his face would usually be relied on to be staring up in wonder as Falconer gave his lectures in logic. This morning, his pink and beardless visage was more than usually animated. Falconer eased himself upright and pins and needles lanced down his numb right arm.

  ‘What is it, Richard, that gets you up so early? And gives you cause to disturb my slumbers.’

  The youth was immune to the mild rebuke in Falconer's words, and he grabbed his master's arm.

  ‘Come. You must see. They're camped on the fields outside North Gate.’

  Falconer was about to enquire who ‘they' were, when he remembered Bullock's words about the Tartar ambassador and his impending arrival. Was it truly he who had arrived, and would he and his entourage resemble the beasts chroniclers described them as? He stirred his aching limbs and followed Richard Bayley down into the streets of Oxford. Balthazar, his belly full, was back on his perch, oblivious to the wilder imaginings of men.

  Chimbai donned his raw silk undershirt and stuffed it into the waistband of his heavy grey trousers. On top of the shirt he pulled on his blue tunic, the kalat, which was decorated with gold thread at the cuffs to denote his standing. His rank was that of noyan, above which there was only the rank of tribal leader, or khan. Finally, though the sun shone and the sky was clear outside the yurt, he placed a cone-shaped cap on his head. This cap was fur-lined and had a curved design that showed he was of the ancient Khorilar clan. Chimbai could claim a common descent from the ancestors of the great Chinghis Khan, and that ancestry was reflected in his swaggering walk as he crossed from his main yurt to the tent in which he kept his images of the great god Tengri.

  The sun was bright, but the air was heavy with a dampness that Chimbai found irritating, for it filled his chest with a heavy humour. He yearned for the dryness of the winter plains where his forefathers had pastured their cattle. This infernal little island they had landed on a few days before was claustrophobic, and damp. He would carry out his task as quickly as possible and return to Comania as fast as his horses could bear him. He had already sent the Christian priest into the city to find the English king's envoy, who, he had been promised in London, would be awaiting him. He cast a practised eye over his personal guards, who encircled his private tent, rendering it out of bounds to all who travelled with him. The three men were alert and well-armed, and knew better than to let him down – their very lives depended on their obedience to his orders. Just as he was about to enter the yurt, he heard someone call his name. Glancing over to the entrance to the second large yurt, he saw the stocky figure of his deputy, Guchuluk, striding towards him. Quite deliberately, he chose to ignore the younger man, and stepped into the small yurt, dropping the heavy flap behind him. He relished the thought of Guchuluk being humiliated by the men of his ten-troop arban. He was hot-headed enough to try to get past them to say whatever it was he wanted to Chimbai, and they would be implacable in denying him access to their commander. The youth never learned his lesson.

  The yurt was in semi-darkness, a narrow shaft of light spearing down from the small opening in the apex of the tent. Chimbai removed his fur-lined cap and stepped towards two figures that occupied the rear of the yurt. He bent down reverently before them and picked up a wooden bowl at their feet. Dipping his fingers into the
greyish animal fat in the bowl, he transferred some of it to the mouth of each figure, smearing it across the crude representation of their lips. Next he took up a skin which was full of water, and dribbled the contents on to the greasy visages. Having shared his bounty with his gods, he stepped back, and, standing with his feet firmly planted on the ground, he raised both arms in salutation. He uttered the prayer he had learned as a child, then stood motionless. As was his invariable habit every morning, he maintained this uncomfortable pose for a considerable time, silently worshipping the spirits of his ancestors.

  When Falconer reached the battlements of the city walls, he found Peter Bullock in more or less the same spot as he had left him the previous night. But now he had been joined by twenty or thirty townsfolk, who all gazed nervously over the crenellated wall. Richard Bayley, who with his young legs had beaten his master to this vantage point, pointed eagerly over the wall.

  On the fields that lay immediately beyond Candich, which encircled the city walls, was a sight to outdo the strangeness of the great beast that the citizenry of Oxford had revelled in the previous day. In the middle of the grassy sward that usually witnessed the energetic physical pursuits of the students of the great university, an encampment had sprung up overnight. But it was an encampment the like of which even William Falconer on his travels had not witnessed before. Three circular, black structures, each topped with a shallow dome, had grown out of the parched earth, two larger than the third. The flowers that had sprung up despite the dryness of the summer were now trampled underfoot. From one of the two larger tents, there rose a lazy plume of smoke that drifted into the summer sky. To Falconer, the scene was blurred and unclear, and he delved in the pouch at his waist. From it he drew a v-shaped device with glass set in rings at the extremity of each arm. He held this device to his face and peered through the lenses. The view below him came into focus. Though he gave his students the impression that his pale blue eyes could search out the slightest misdemeanour deep in their soul, his vision was weakened by years of studying close and poorly drafted texts. These lenses, devised by a Jew of his acquaintance, remedied the weakness.

  Still he could see nothing stirring in the encampment save the livestock. Beneath the trees that edged the field was a group of six or seven corralled horses unlike any Falconer had seen. They were thickset, with short legs, and their skulls had a broad, bony forehead. They stirred restlessly as though impatient at being confined, raising clouds of dry dust from their agitated hooves.

  ‘Is that them?’ enquired the ingenuous student at Falconer's elbow.

  ‘Who?’ Falconer was puzzled by Richard Bayley's question.

  ‘The Tartars – I have heard they have the head of a man but the body of a horse.’

  Falconer guffawed at such credulity. ‘And others say they are dog-headed cannibals. Beware of any hound you see in the street – they might be Tartars, come in the night to consume you.’

  The youth paled at the thought, not recognizing it as a jibe, and glanced nervously at a dog that foraged in yesterday's market litter in the lane below. One of the townsfolk who stood close by must have heard Falconer's jocular remark too, for a whispered thread of horror ran through those who stood on the battlements with Falconer. He was about to disabuse them of their fears when Bullock muttered under his breath:

  ‘Here they are.’

  Falconer quickly raised the lenses to his eyes again and looked at the entrance to one of the larger tents. Three short, stocky men emerged, and hurried over towards the nearby smaller tent, where they arrayed themselves around it in a protective circle. They were all dressed in the same long blue tunic with red edging at the cuffs and collar, over which they wore a short jerkin of leather strips. Each had a short scabbard at his waist, a curved bow, and a quiver of arrows.

  Falconer felt someone nudge his arm. It was Peter Bullock motioning him to look back at the tent flap from which the three men had come. From it emerged another stocky figure, but this man was much more imposing than the three before him. His tunic was edged in gold, his cap fur-edged and outlandish, and his manner was self-assured. He stood before the entrance to the tent, his feet planted wide, as he surveyed the world. The early rays of the sun lit up his impassive, leathery face, and Falconer didn't know whether he was aware of the crowd observing him or not. He felt sure, however, that the man cared little if he was being gawped at or not. The look on his face as he stood before his tent was that of a man who reckoned he owned everything he set his eyes upon – and nothing, or nobody, would stand in his way.

  The Tartar strode over to the small tent and entered it, ignoring the call of another person who had emerged from the second of the large tents. This man, younger and less imposing, strode over to the tent where the older man had disappeared, only to be stopped by one of the three guards. Despite an angry exchange of words, that drifted up like guttural barks to the top of the city walls, the second man was turned back, a livid look on his tanned features. He stalked back to his own tent and disappeared inside.

  For a while nothing further occurred on the playing fields that had been usurped as the Tartar encampment, and the crowd that had gathered on the city walls began to disperse, leaving Falconer and Peter Bullock to debate the tableau that had been enacted before their eyes that sunny morning. Bullock spoke up first:

  ‘Not all rosy in the Tartar camp, then.’

  Falconer just grunted in agreement. He had never supposed that this implacable war machine was made up of anything more than human creatures the same as those in the West. And if that were so, they were prey to the animosities and rivalries that everyone experienced. As if reading his mind, Bullock posed a question for him:

  ‘Talking of disagreements between men, have you seen Humphrey Segrim lately?’

  Cautious of what might lie behind his friend's words, Falconer responded with a question of his own. ‘Why? Should I have?’

  The constable pursed his lips. A person of epicurean tastes, he would be the last to condemn a man for making a fool of himself over a woman. He had pleasured himself with plenty a lusty maiden in his time, and had avoided the snares of wedlock in the process. But therein lay the problem for his friend. The woman he pursued was married, and her husband still alive. Indeed, the fact that he was alive was due in no small part to the quick thinking of the very man who now paid court to his wife behind his back. Regent Master William Falconer had pummelled him back into existence after an errant priest had all but squeezed the life out of him. That the marriage of Humphrey and Ann Segrim appeared to be a sham as far as the bedroom went was no reason for a supposedly celibate regent master to jeopardize his position at the university. Especially when the whores of Beaumont could provide a most satisfactory service to a man in need of comfort. The constable couldn't understand his friend's apparent desire to ruin himself, even though he had to admit that Ann Segrim was some beauty. He could relish ruining himself over her in any other circumstance. He knew Segrim's suspicions had been aroused by his wife's regular trips to Oxford from their estates at Botley, and had urged Falconer to deny the rumours to Segrim's face.

  Falconer was about to explain that his relationship with Ann Segrim was purely one of master and student when he spotted something happening in the camp, and raised his eye-lenses to his face once more. Suddenly his face paled, and with a muttered expression of disbelief on his lips, he fled down the stone steps and along the lane towards North Gate.

  Chapter Three

  These are the words of the Lord God: In that day when my people Israel is living undisturbed, will you not awake and come with many nations from your home in the far recesses of the north, all riding on horses, a great host, a mighty army … and in those future days you will be like a cloud covering the earth.

  Ezekiel 38: 14–16

  The Franciscan friar stooped as he brushed under the flap of the greased felt tent his Tartar hosts called a yurt. The morning was bright and clear, and the walls of Oxford stood before him. He took a dee
p breath and caught the scent of the summer flowers growing in the meadow. It had been so long since he had stood and smelled the flowers in England. For a moment he felt almost giddy with excitement.

  He had met the Tartar commander and his entourage at the port of Calais as they waited for a storm to subside and a sea crossing to become possible. He had travelled from Paris, and he, too, sought to cross the Channel. Forced by the teeming rain into reluctant proximity with these strange people with outlandish clothes and even more unusual facial features, he listened in to their conversation. Unfortunately he understood not a word. The guttural tongue that they shared was like nothing he had heard before. And, shut away as he had been for the last ten years, he wasn't even certain where they came from. Little news had penetrated the monastery in which he had been incarcerated, and what had was carefully screened from him. Now this new pope had seen fit to persuade his order to release him from his confinement, and to encourage him to write down all his accumulated knowledge. It didn't extend to these strange men. In fact, he was only just beginning to discover how the world had turned since he had been obliged to leave it all those years ago.

  Then it suddenly struck him, were these the fiends from Hell that Christendom had so feared when he had been in the world still? Could things have changed so much in ten years that the terrifying Tartars, who had been devastating Christendom, could now be merely peculiarly garbed strangers to gawp at? Humble fellow travellers? If they were Tartars, then things had changed indeed! He suddenly felt deeply angry at being deprived of human intercourse for so long, and it made him feel old. One of his favourite prescriptions for keeping mentally young came to mind– listen to beautiful music, look at beautiful things, hold stimulating conversations with sympathetic friends, wear your best clothes, and talk to pretty girls. He had been allowed none of these for ten years, and he had missed the casual gathering of information that they afforded any human being. Now, despite his difficulty in mingling with people again, he was anxious to learn what had been happening since his incarceration, and decided these strangers would make interesting travelling companions.