between late November and mid-January.
The light from the crossroad beacons faded, and they walked in darkness until reaching the bridge, where another set of braziers was set up to illuminate the passage under the tower. Douglas walked around to the side and climbed the few steps leading to the stout wooden door, only to find that it was barred: rough boards were nailed across the door frame.
“What the bloody-” muttered Douglas. He had expected to find the scholar at work in his study, as he invariably was every night.
Snipe took one look at the boarded-up entrance and uttered a sharp bark, which was his attempt at laughter.
“Not funny,” growled Douglas. “We’ll have to go back into town and see if we can find out what’s happened.”
They trudged back up the street, and this time were challenged by the bailiff at the crossroads. “Pax vobiscum,” offered Douglas in greeting. He raised his hand in the sign of the cross, and the town official, seeing the gesture and monk’s habit, raised his pike to let them through. “Benedicimus te, filius meus,” Douglas pronounced in his best clerical tone and passed.
“Salve, frater” replied the bailiff in rough Latin.
Douglas nodded and moved on. As the bells for compline had gone, he decided to call in at Saint Martin’s and see if he might speak to one of the senior clerics. With a muttered warning to Snipe to be on his best behaviour, the two slipped into the church quietly to stand at the back of the simple sanctuary. A group of monks in white robes with black scapulas was standing below the altar at the front, chanting the last prayer of the day.
They soon finished and began shuffling out, some of them yawning, others talking in low voices. Douglas identified one he thought he recognised from a previous visit and, stepping out from the shadows, said, “My apologies for interrupting, brother.” The Latin felt odd on his tongue, but he remembered to dip his head in a slight bow to acknowledge the other’s seniority. “Brother Thomas, is it not? I was hoping to have a word.”
The monk sent his brothers on ahead, stopped, and turned to Douglas. “Do I know you, brother?”
“I am Brother Douglas,” he said, smiling, “a visitor from Tyndyrn.”
“Ah, yes-I remember you. How can I be of service, brother?”
“Pardon my rude speech,” Douglas said. The other gave him a nod of indulgence. “But as you may recall, I have been engaged in scholarly consultation with Friar Bacon-a question of language and interpretation.”
“Yes?”
“I have just arrived in the city and was hoping to find him at work in his study at the bridge, but-”
Brother Thomas completed the thought. “You have discovered that Master Bacon’s tower is boarded and barred.”
“Verily, brother. I was hoping you might tell me the reason for this?”
The senior monk pursed his lips as he thought how best to frame his reply. “Brother Bacon has been placed under arrest and confined to his living quarters.”
Douglas raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Can you tell me the reason for his arrest?”
“Pray, permit me a moment’s consideration,” replied Thomas. The monk steepled his fingers and placed them against his lips in thought. “I can tell you that our brother has been charged with attempting to corrupt the students under his care, and has been confined pending the outcome of an investigation into his teachings.”
“This is a very serious charge, to be sure,” allowed Douglas judiciously. Through his research, he knew Master Bacon had once been placed under house arrest on flimsy charges of heresy-brought, it was thought, by rivals jealous of his patronage by Pope Clement IV. He had, however, not been able to find out when this house arrest began; now he knew. “Is he allowed visitors?”
The elder monk shook his head slowly and offered a thin smile. “Alas, no. It is a condition of his arrest that until the charges are tried and proven one way or the other, Brother Bacon is not to see or speak to anyone-lest he spread the contagion of his noxious teachings.”
“Of course,” replied Douglas, sensing an underlying hostility in his informant. “No doubt that is as it should be.”
“To be sure.” The priest drew himself up. “Now, if there is nothing further, I will wish you a good night.” He raised his hand in a parting blessing. “God speed you to your rest.”
“And you, brother,” said Douglas, stepping aside to allow the other to depart. The senior cleric joined his fellows, who were waiting for him at the church door. After the others had gone, Douglas drew Snipe aside. “We wait here until everyone has gone to bed,” he said. “You sleep too. I will wake you when it is time.”
PART FIVE
CHAPTER 27
The soft evening deepened around them as Cassandra and her two guides sauntered along the quiet streets of Old Damascus, listening to the sound of distant church bells. Cass-a little dazed and dazzled by all she had heard that day-was in a quiet, thoughtful mood. From a minaret somewhere the droning sound of the muezzin arose, echoing through the near-empty streets, calling the faithful to prayer. The purple twilight and the sound of the bells and quavering chant suited her perfectly.
“I still don’t know why you’d want me to join your society,” she declared finally. “I have zero experience and know next to nothing of any of this. I really don’t think I have a single thing to offer.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Peelstick, “you have the one thing we need most- youth. All the rest can be learned.”
“The plain truth is that the Zetetic Society has been active a very long time and, regrettably, our membership has aged,” Brendan pointed out. “We may age more slowly than our fellows, but age we do. The simple truth is that most of us are simply too old to go adventuring anymore.”
“It is a fact of life,” agreed Mrs. Peelstick wistfully. “We do all get older.”
“These days, our best and highest use is to recruit new members and provide support for the active questors,” continued Brendan. “We’re all of us searching for young blood, but it’s not easy. For example, we have several members hoping to pass the baton just now, but hand-offs can be awkward. The travel itself can pose difficulties.” Turning to Mrs. Peelstick, he added, “I’m thinking about Cosimo and Kit.”
The older woman nodded knowingly, then sighed. “They are in my thoughts constantly.”
“We mustn’t give up, Rosemary. Until we know more, we simply cannot allow ourselves to assume the worst.”
“You’re right, of course, Brendan.” She offered a sad, hopeful smile. “Still…” Her voice died away, leaving an uneasy silence.
Cass glanced at Brendan, but he seemed lost in thought. When she could restrain herself no longer, she asked, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to pry-but who are Cosimo and Kit?”
“Ah,” replied Brendan, coming to himself once more. “Cosimo Livingstone is one of our questors. He has been intent on bringing his great-grandson into the fold-a young man named Christopher- about your age, I should think. Cosimo had tried unsuccessfully to enlist his son and grandson, but in Kit he had found someone who could carry on his life’s work.”
“Handing such responsibility from one generation to another can be fraught with difficulty,” observed Mrs. Peelstick.
“Cosimo had high hopes for Kit,” Brendan continued, “and he was preparing the young man to take a full and active part in the society. They were to have attended our last convocation.”
