had been dragged together to form a loose semicircle around him. Not a few of the townsfolk stood listening as well, sometimes calling out facetious answers to the rhetorical questions posed by the renowned teacher.
It was the professor Douglas had come to see, the sole reason he had so painstakingly polished his Latin and assembled the wardrobe, studied the history, manners, and customs in order to make this trip to the mid-1200s. Therefore, Douglas studied him intently. A trim, solemn-faced fellow of middle years with a strong nose and high- domed head, Roger Bacon-doctor, professor, scientist, and theologian-had established himself as a prime moving force in the fields of academia that were his domain: anatomy, medicine, science, alchemy, philosophy, and theology. He wore his dark hair short and tonsured like any other priest of his stripe, and his simple brown Franciscan robe, though threadbare and frayed at hem and sleeve, was clean, his belt of braided cord neatly tied.
At one point in the lecture, some local youths muscled their way to the fore and began talking loudly and making rude imitations of the professor standing on his wooden box. From this Douglas grasped another fact of his research: the petty jealousy of some of the townsfolk of what was increasingly considered the educational elite in their midst. Some, like the crude yokels Douglas observed, felt themselves hard done by a system that seemed to favour those they considered transient interlopers and effete snobs. Indeed, owing to his propensity for unorthodox notions and the inexplicable behaviour that often accompanied his various experiments, the esteemed man of science was steadily establishing himself as a leading eccentric, if not a cap-and-bell fool, in the court of public opinion.
The troublemakers pursued a rather halfhearted attempt to interrupt the proceedings, until two bulky bailiffs with long pikes appeared and moved them along. Order restored, the open-air symposium continued. Douglas turned his attention to the lecture and tried to follow it as best he could. The Latin was accomplished-fluent and fluid, eloquent, and elegant in expression-and so highly polished by years of scholastic application that even when Douglas knew the words being spoken it was difficult to ascertain what sense was being conveyed. The students, and a smattering of townspeople, seemed to grasp the meaning of what Douglas eventually concluded was a discourse on the nature of the universe and the place of reason in framing the human conception of reality.
It might well have been riveting stuff, but it took all of Douglas’ newly acquired expertise in the ancient language just to identify the subject; actually following the subtle nuances of the argument were well beyond his nascent abilities. Still, he had a basic general idea of the flow if not the particulars, and anyway he had not come to sit at the feet of the learned professor. He was on a far more important mission.
“Snipe!” Douglas hissed under his breath. “Do not throw that.” He had seen his pugnacious assistant fingering a rotten pear he had picked up from the gutter on their way to the lecture. “Drop it now.”
The youth turned a baleful gaze upon his master, but still clutched the overripe fruit, juice oozing from his fingers.
“Drop it!” said Douglas. “Obey.”
With a sneer of defiance, the pale youth released the fruit. The pear hit the ground with a dull splat; Snipe stomped it with his foot and ground the soft fruit into the dirt. He then stood, rigid with rage, and glowered at the rabble around them.
“Good boy,” Douglas commended him, and offered him a sop. “We will find a cat for you later.”
The lecture eventually came to an end and the students began drifting off in twos and threes, melting into the general bustle of the busy town square. A few lingered to ask questions, and Douglas waited for these to finish. When all had gone away, he approached. “Pax vobiscum, Magister Bacon,” he said, removing his round monk’s cap and making a nicely practised bow of deference. “Deus vobis.”
“Quis est?” said the professor, as he turned. Taking in Douglas’ robes, he said, “God with you, brother.”
Douglas introduced himself as a visiting priest who had come seeking enlightenment on a scholarly matter. “I wonder if I may call on you in your lodgings to discuss it?”
“It would be a sublime pleasure for a certainty,” replied Master Bacon. “Alas, my duties are many, and I have not found a way to expand time to accommodate them all. Therefore, I must sadly decline your offer to attend me- attractive as it may be.”
“To be sure,” replied Douglas, who had anticipated a similar response and was ready with a reply. “I would not presume to add to your burdens in any way, God knows. Yet it may interest you to know that I come from the abbey at Tyndyrn, where an exceedingly peculiar manuscript has come into our hands, we know not how.” He saw the glint of curiosity spark in the professor’s dark eyes. “Some of my brothers believe you may be the only person alive who can read it.”
“This manuscript of which you speak,” said Roger Bacon, rubbing the back of his hand, “what can you tell me about it?”
“Very little, sir. You see, it is written in no language ever seen before. At least, not one that our best scholars can identify.”
“Congratulations, my friend,” declared the august professor with a bow of his tonsured head. “You have succeeded in intriguing me-an eventuality that grows more difficult with each year that Christ tarries. Will you come to me tonight at the Bear? We will have supper together.” He indicated the inn behind them. “I take my meals within, and my table is always ready. I shall keep a place for you.” His eyes shifted to Douglas’ companion. “And your acolyte, of course. God’s greeting, my son.” Upon regarding the youth more closely, his smile wilted.
“He is mute and does not speak,” Douglas informed the master with a pat of Snipe’s overlarge head. “My thanks, Master Bacon. Until this evening, then.”
“God with you, friend,” replied the professor, stepping away.
Douglas waited a moment, then crossed the square and proceeded to the Star Inn, where he had taken rooms. He spoke to the matron and requested food and drink to be brought to him. He and Snipe returned to their upstairs lodgings, Douglas to study some more Latin in preparation for the evening’s conversation-an activity he expected to tax his linguistic powers to their utmost-and Snipe to sleep in preparation for tonight’s vigil.
Then, just after sunset, the two ley travellers donned their outer robes once more and went out to meet Master Bacon at the Bear. They crossed an all-but-deserted square-now occupied only by a few old women gleaning morsels from the detritus and garbage heaped at the street corners, and some mongrel dogs snuffling through the refuse in the gutters. Ignoring their beggarly imprecations, Douglas hurried to the inn, paused beneath the torch above the door, and with a last warning to Snipe to be on his best behaviour, lowered the hood of his cowl and went inside. The interior was a fog of smoke and steam and the scent of the beeswax candles that lit the room, casting everything in a warm amber glow. He stepped to the serving hatch and procured a pie, then turned to get the measure of the place. There were tables of assorted sizes scattered about the large central dining area served by a wide, deep, and glowing hearth where spitted meat roasted, cauldrons gurgled, and bread baked; three smaller rooms opened off the main room, each containing a single long table and benches. In one of these snugs they found Roger Bacon, surrounded by a bevy of students-sallow-faced striplings with straggly beards and long tousled hair, some wearing their scholars’ robes, others dressed more informally in dark satin jerkins and tunics. All clutched jars of ale, and they rose as one to greet the newcomers.
“Pray you, do not stand on our account,” Douglas told them. “Please, sit and take your ease.” Posting Snipe at the door with the pie, he took the seat offered him at the end of the table.
“Our friend is visiting from Tyndyrn Abbey,” the professor informed his audience. He poured another jar and pushed it along the table to Douglas. “He comes seeking enlightenment. Is this not so?”
“Verily, that is the purpose of my visit,” replied Douglas. He noticed the twitch of the students’ eyes as they darted glances to one another when he spoke. He guessed the cause and swiftly moved to disarm any mistrust, adding, “Before we converse further, I will apologise for my lack of learning and the crudeness of my speech. I was not brought up to the Latin of my betters. I was born and raised on the Isle of Man. Whatever learning I possess, I acquired late in life and through the instruction of those but little better informed than myself.” He gazed steadily around the table and concluded, “I am sorry if my speech offends you, brothers. I humbly beg your indulgence.”
“Nonsense!” cried Roger Bacon. “All scholars are pilgrims on the same journey. Some may have set foot to the path the sooner, and so have advanced a little further.” He, too, passed his gaze around the gathering. “As a pilgrim people, we do not presume to hold judgement over one another, but accept all like-minded travellers in our company as friends for the journey.”
The students, subtly chastised, ratified this sentiment with hearty cheers and thirsty quaffs of beer, hailing the newcomer in their midst.
