“My thanks,” said Douglas, wiping his mouth on his sleeve in imitation of his companions. “I am your servant.”
“Since our company is complete,” said the master, “let us break bread together and commend our converse to the Almighty, may our erudition bring him glory.”
“Amen!” cried the students. “To supper!”
Three of the more junior members were dispatched to the kitchen to collect the food and bring it to the table. They trooped off noisily, returning shortly with a collection of crockery filled with roast meats, small loaves of bread, and a variety of vegetable porridges. Wooden spoons were passed around, and they all fell to with a will. Douglas was glad he had remembered to bring along a knife of his own since, in an age where everyone was expected to furnish his own cutlery, the hospitality of the inn did not extend past the communal wooden spoons.
The meal soon settled into a convivial hum presided over by Master Bacon, and Douglas observed the manners and culture of his fellow diners. The camaraderie was genuine and seemed deep, as was the esteem in which they held their renowned professor. When Friar Bacon spoke, all eyes turned to him, as all thoughts yielded to his guidance. His was the last word in all discussions. As might have been expected of academics, the talk around the table was a heady stew: chemistry, mechanics, mathematics, astronomy, all mixed together with heavy dollops of philosophy and theology-much of it beyond Douglas’ ability to digest. However rich, the master was always able to elucidate any matter further, or expound in greater or finer degree. Douglas sensed that the scope and sophistication of the man’s thoughts were staggering, and though he could not follow the intricacies of expression, he could marvel at the suppleness of mind that produced it.
When, long after the dishes had been cleared and the ale jars filled once and again and again, the students were dismissed to their evening prayers and the master at last turned to his newest guest. “Now, my friend, we have some time to ourselves. Will you accompany me to my laboratory, where we can speak more privately?”
“Of course, I would be honoured.”
Leaving the inn, they went out into the night, passing through the city only intermittently illumined by torches and braziers set up at the street corners and tended by the town’s bailiffs-the local militia who acted as peacekeepers and enforcers of the king’s law. Tonight the old town was quiet, and the two men-accompanied by a truculent shadow in the form of Snipe-walked easily and unmolested down the wide street leading to the bridge and its imposing tower. Upon reaching the base of the tower, Master Bacon produced a large iron key and proceeded to unlock his laboratory, which occupied the ground floor.
While the professor worked his key in the lock, Douglas turned to Snipe. “Stay here and guard this door,” he told him, bending near. “I do not wish to be disturbed. Understand?”
By means Douglas did not perceive, the professor lit candles with a mere snap of his fingers. As soon as it was light enough to see the interior, Douglas observed that it was a single large square room, its stone walls unadorned, its floors bare. Two long board tables set up on trestles side by side ran the length of the room, their surfaces covered with books and parchments at one end and bottles, vials, jars, and mixing bowls on the other. In a nearby corner stood a brick oven something like a small blacksmith forge; smouldering coals sent a thin tendril of smoke rising towards a hole in the ceiling. Surrounded by arcane tools and vessels of copper, iron, tin, and bronze, it gave that corner of the room the appearance of a combination foundry and chemist’s laboratory.
Near to the oven was a large wooden chair piled high with fleeces and coverings. A large iron candle tree stood to one side of the chair, and a contraption resembling a cantilevered drafting table stood on the other. From this Douglas surmised that it was the place where the eminent professor did his reading and thinking and writing.
“Welcome, my friend,” said Master Bacon, waving out the reed he used to light the candles. “Every creature has its true home. This is mine. Here I have everything I need for the sustenance of the inner life.”
“A most commodious dwelling,” agreed Douglas. Indicating the collection of bottles and jars on the table, he said, “Am I right in thinking that you are engaged in alchemical investigations?”
“You are perceptive,” replied the master. “For some years, I have been pursuing the promise of alchemy. Alas, it is proving a very elusive prize. It is with no small regret that I confess I seem no closer to achieving the goal I have set for myself-although I have made many discoveries and enjoyed some small success along the way.”
“Nothing is wasted,” said Douglas.
“Verily.” Roger Bacon smiled indulgently. “For the scholar no effort is ever wasted.” He moved to the end of the table covered by his manuscripts. “I believe,” he said, rolling up one of the parchments to clear a space, “you have brought something for me to examine. Let us be about our business.”
“I am your servant,” said Douglas. Reaching into the inner pocket of his robe, he brought out the small, linen-wrapped parcel; he removed the cloth and placed the book on the board. “I would be most grateful, sir, to receive your erudite opinion, for I confess its contents are wholly mysterious to me.”
“Not sir,” corrected Bacon, “but brother only. We are fellow priests, are we not?”
Douglas merely smiled and pushed the book nearer. Roger Bacon’s gaze fell onto the volume, his dark eyes suddenly agleam with the excitement of the chase. “Let us see what we have.” Taking up the book, he carefully opened the leather cover and stared for a long moment at the first page, then turned it, glanced at another, and then three more in quick succession.
“How did this come into your possession?” he asked, his voice trembling. His gaze turned fierce. He stabbed a finger at the text. “This… this book-how was it obtained?”
“Is there some difficulty?” replied Douglas slowly. Unable to read the meaning behind Bacon’s words, he stalled for time to think.
“Do not be offended, I pray thee,” Bacon said. “But I must know. It is of utmost importance to me.”
“It belonged to the previous abbot, I believe. As I have it, the book was found among his things when he died last spring,” Douglas lied. He had practised the story so often, he almost believed it himself. “How it came into the dear man’s possession, I cannot say. The present abbot could no doubt tell you more, but as he is too old and infirm to make the journey here, I was deputed to the task.” Douglas offered a smile of wan sincerity. “Beyond that, I can offer nothing. I am sorry.”
“A very pity.” The eminent scholar shook his head gently. “It may be that certain questions must remain unanswered until another day. In the meantime, we shall proceed with the task before us.”
Roger Bacon opened the book again, and Douglas breathed an inward sigh of relief as he watched the scholar brushing his fingers lightly over the close-written lines of abstruse symbols, his lips moving all the while.
“Can you read it?” Douglas asked, trying to affect a scholarly disinterest.
“For a truth, I can,” confirmed the master. “You see, my friend, I am the one who devised it.”
“Devised?” wondered Douglas, uncertain he had heard correctly. “Do you mean that you wrote this?”
“Oh, no,” Bacon replied with a quick shake of his head. “I did not compose this book, but I transcribed the script in which it is written.”
“Pray, what language is represented here? I confess neither I nor anyone else I know has ever seen the like.”
Here the master scholar allowed himself a bemused smile. “That does not surprise me in the least,” he said gently. “Few mortals will have ever seen it.” He lowered his gaze to the text once more, brushing a line of the flowing script with his long fingers. “It is the language of the angels.”
CHAPTER 22
Pay strict attention now, Archibald,” instructed Lord Gower. “Use that clever brain of yours. Think!” He turned to the table behind him, which was covered by a sheet. “We will try this test again. Are you ready?”
Archie, dark brow furrowed with concentration, nodded. “Ready, my lord.”
The earl whipped away the cloth. “Now, tell me-which among these items are the genuine articles, and which are the imitations?” He indicated a spread of small objects arranged on a rectangle of blue velvet. “Take your time,” he urged. “And concentrate. Remember all I’ve told you.”
Hands folded beneath his chin, the young man stepped forward and gazed at the array of objects on display:
