confessional cubical, he stretched and then peeked out from behind the drape. Seeing that no worshippers had yet entered the church, he quickly roused Snipe, and both crept away. Though the sky was light with the coming sunrise, the streets of Oxford were still steeped in shadow. At the crossroads the bailiff was dozing at his post; Douglas gave him a wide berth all the same. Once past the guards’ station, the two furtive figures proceeded along Cornmarket Street to the market square- empty save for a bench in front of a butcher’s stall that was occupied by a sleeping man wrapped in a cloak with his hat over his face. On the upper floor of a large house in one of the narrow side streets leading from the square, Roger Bacon, friar and professor, had his private chambers. Douglas had marked the place on previous visits and, assuming that was where the ecclesiastical authorities were holding the professor, Douglas reckoned he might be able to reach him.
The entrance to the lodging house was not locked, so Douglas and Snipe slipped into the tiny vestibule and made their way up the wooden staircase that creaked with every step. A single door at the end of the hall gave access to the only room at the top of the house. Surprisingly, there was no lock on the door; neither was it chained. It, like the door to the master’s tower study, was barred by simple board planks nailed crossways to the doorposts. The door itself could be opened to allow food and drink and other necessaries to be passed through. A determined captive could easily have escaped, but the renowned “Doctor Mirabilis” was a captive of conscience; no doubt honour held him more securely than iron.
Douglas put his hand to one of the boards and pulled; the resistance offered gave him to know that they would require tools if they were to gain entry-not an insurmountable problem, but likely to be more noisy than he would prefer. Waking up people at the crack of dawn would not advance the cause.
“Come, Snipe,” he whispered, turning away. “I’ve seen all I need to see.”
Outside they found a dry place to hunker down until a more convivial hour. Later, when the town began to stir, they crawled from hiding and joined the early-rising folk. Douglas bought two savoury pies from a baker and two jars of beer from a brew mistress with a cask in a barrow; they ate their pies and drank their ale, and watched the square slowly trundle to life.
As they sat eating, there arose a tremendous squawking and honking. From the street to the east there appeared three figures-a man and two young girls-herding a flock of long-necked geese. The man held a slender staff, and the girls each wielded a bendy willow switch, expertly keeping the flock together. They moved into the square and began setting up a flimsy pen made of wicker hurdles pulled from a stack against a wall. While they were about this chore, another poulterer likewise set up his pen a little distance away.
The next arrivals were a farmer and his wife who carried a long pole between them on which a dozen or more live chickens were hung by the feet. The two placed the pole on a simple wooden frame that appeared to be set up for this purpose. The farmwife then produced a basket of eggs and settled herself on a stool to wait for customers. Other farmers appeared-some with chickens, others with ducks or pigeons-and several folk bearing great billowing sacks of feathers.
“The poultry market,” Douglas mused, finishing the last of his beer. “Come, Snipe-let’s go before I start sneezing.”
Douglas rose and returned the wooden jars, then went back to the lodging house where Master Bacon was incarcerated. As before, no one was around, so Douglas simply knocked on the door; it was opened a few moments later, and the long, unshaven face of the great scientist peered blearily out.
Douglas was taken aback at the change in the master’s appearance: stoop-shouldered in a filthy robe, his flesh slack and pasty, the eyes usually so keen with the bright light of an unquenchable intellect were now dull and watery; indeed, the scholar’s whole demeanour seemed bowed with a grinding fatigue of care.
“Yes?” he said, his voice a creaking rasp. “Was there something?”
“Master Bacon,” began Douglas, somewhat uncertainly.
“Do I know you?”
“Indeed, sir. It is Brother Douglas-from the abbey at Tyndyrn.” There was no immediate response, so he added, “We have spoken in the past about your work with a particular manuscript in which we share an interest.”
This last produced a result, as a glimmer of recognition lit the face briefly, then flickered out once more. “Ah, yes. I remember you,” the master replied vaguely. “God be good to you, brother. I hope this day finds you well.”
“And you, brother.” Douglas hesitated, then asked, “Are you permitted to receive visitors?”
A faint smile touched the scholar’s lips. “Strictly speaking, no. But”-he peered beyond his guest into the narrow corridor and landing-“ as you see, visitors are not exactly clamouring for my attention. It will do no harm to allow an exception.”
“I would not like to make trouble for you, master. Or make your present difficulties worse.”
“The worst, I fear, has already happened.” The most intelligent man in Oxford shook his head lightly. “A brief visit cannot further aggravate my present difficulties, I assure you. And a visitor is cheer itself to me just now. Pray, speak-and let me feast on the sound of a voice not my own.”
“As you will, master,” replied Douglas. Turning to Snipe, he gave a whispered command, and the feral boy turned and started away.
“A moment, if you will,” called Friar Bacon after him. He moved aside, leaving the door ajar, only to reappear a moment later bearing a large crock with a wooden lid. “If you would do me this kindness,” he said apologetically. “My night pot-it must be emptied, and I so loathe tossing it out the window into the street. I find the practise barbaric.”
He offered the crock through the lattice of boards blocking his door. “I do most humbly beg your pardon, but-”
“Of course.” Douglas took the crock and passed it to Snipe. “Empty this outside,” he said, “and stay at the bottom of the stairs. Give me a whistle if anyone comes in.”
Snipe uttered a low, throaty growl of displeasure, but took the crock and retreated into the shadows of the staircase. They heard the door slam, and all grew quiet once more.
“I am indebted to you,” said Roger Bacon.
“On the contrary, master. It is I who am in debt to you, and I mean to repay you as best I can.”
“You are too kind, brother, too kind.” He offered his wan smile once more. “It is months since I had a visitor. I have almost forgotten how to behave. I could wish I had some refreshment to offer you, but I have only what they bring me one day to the next, and that is little enough. What was it that you wanted to see me about?”
“It is about a manuscript,” replied Douglas. Putting his hand into his sleeve pouch, he withdrew a small scroll of parchment and passed it through the wooden bars.
Friar Bacon slipped off the binding ribbon and unrolled the scroll, holding it before his face. “My eyes have been giving me difficulty of late,” he explained as he read. “These rooms are so dim, and I never can get enough candles.” He scanned the scroll more closely. “Yes!” he said, his voice quickening. “I remember this. You are the scholar from Tyndyrn. Did you write this?” He shook the parchment in his hand. “I once made a simulacrum of this, I believe.”
“Yes, master, that is so,” confirmed Douglas.
“I cannot think what happened to it.”
“We discussed the origin of the text, and you most generously provided a translation,” Douglass offered, quickly skating over the fact that he had ordered Snipe to steal the professor’s notes to aid his deciphering work. “I came to ask you to ascertain if I have rendered the text correctly.”
“Ah!” Bacon returned to his scrutiny of the manuscript. He read, his lips moving slightly now and then, nodding to himself. “Well, well,” he said, looking up at last. “I think we shall have to begin calling you professor.”
“But is it accurate? What I have written-is it correct?”
“Oh, indeed. Correct in the main, and in most particulars.”
“Most?”
“There are a few small errors,” allowed the master, falling naturally into the role of a teacher. “But considering the difficulty you faced, it is a most worthy achievement. You are to be congratulated, brother.”
“Thank you,” replied Douglas. Relief, unexpected as it was pleasurable, swept through him. It was better news than he had hoped to hear. “But would you mind showing me where I have gone astray?”
“Not at all.” He held the scroll up to the makeshift bars of his cell. “You see this symbol-how it curves to the
