The Powder of Death Page 2

  A livid flash and clap of thunder stunned his senses and the room filled with acrid smoke and the fearful stink of brimstone.

  Terrified, Bacon gripped his chair and stared into the gloom with a pounding heart, expecting to be confronted with the diabolical form of Beelzebub himself arising from the nether regions – but he saw only the silent figure of his friend through the slowly dissipating smoke.

  ‘Wh-what is this you’re conjuring before me, Brother Rubruck?’ he croaked, crossing himself.

  ‘No deviltry, Roger, I swear to you.’ He bent to pick up some ashy fragments and placed them in Bacon’s uncomprehending hands.

  ‘The work of man.’

  ‘Then how …?’

  Rubruck turned over a plate on the serving table. ‘See here, Brother, the essence of the phenomenon.’

  He brought out another pouch and carefully shook a small pile of grains as grey as his friar’s habit on the back of the plate, and leant back to allow Bacon to see.

  ‘Now I bring fire.’

  Bacon recoiled fearfully as a lighted taper touched one edge, but it only flared and spat merrily without violence.

  ‘Yet if I …’ Rubruck poured a similar sized amount but this time led a small trail out to one side. He placed a cup over the plate, brought the flame to it and stood back.

  There was an instant’s fizz and a sharp pop. The cup flew into the air then fell to the ground to smash in pieces.

  ‘At the touch of fire the substance grows angry, and if confined in its rage, it calls upon all the powers of a demon to free itself.’

  ‘This is marvellous in my sight,’ Bacon said shakily. ‘A deep mystery beyond imagining. Yet you say it’s the work of man … How is it that …?’

  ‘In his capital, the Great Khan maintains quarters for foreigners, artisans and craftsmen from far parts of his empire engaged in works to add splendour and lustre to his realm. Those of the Cathayans he particularly indulges, furnishing them with all they ask, for they are adepts in the greatest mystery of them all.’

  ‘This … this terrible dust.’

  ‘That they call huo yao. They make it from unspeakable ingredients by a long process that ends with what you see before you. Roger, hear me – I’ve seen them call forth torrid leaps of flame as from a dragon’s mouth, to send messengers on wings of fire to soar across the heavens and as you’ve seen, to bring thunder and lightning down to earth at their bidding, a hideous and miraculous sight.’

  ‘A terrible experience, William.’

  ‘Only because I felt it my duty to make investigation, as a scholar and philosopher must.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘And now to my dilemma, dear friend.’

  ‘I hear you with respect and admiration, Brother.’

  ‘I thank you, and know also that you are the one out of all Christendom that I can think to bring my troubled mind.’

  Bacon murmured a respectful acknowledgement.

  ‘So far as I can know it, the people of Cathay delight only in its ardent properties in spectacle and display, the capacity to affright and awe.’

  ‘This is understandable.’

  ‘Since that day I’ve struggled with my conscience before God. For want of curiosity in my companions, I, of all in my party, have been made witness to these terrors and portents. And only I, for whatever divine purpose, have been vouchsafed the secret of this infidel magic.’

  Bacon caught his breath. ‘You learnt of the spells to bring it into mortal existence?’

  ‘I questioned many artisans severally, all of whom gave the same answers. Yes, Brother, I have the secret.’

  ‘Then …’

  ‘My dilemma is plain – do I reveal it or no? In the Europe of this dark century of war and hatred, when armies perpetually contend on the battlefield in slaughter and cruelty, how can I be sure that this dangerous knowledge will not be perverted to produce instruments of war more terrible by far than any seen to this day? There are many who would conceive it to be a mortal sin, I believe.’

  Bacon leant forward, intensity in his voice. ‘I, too, would regard it so, Brother. The secret must remain locked in your breast all your mortal days – it must never escape into this wicked world!’

  ‘As I at first concluded. Yet … yet as a philosopher and devoted to the arts of learning I’m sorely distracted by the observation that should I be called to my rest this hour, there will be none in this kingdom to know of its existence, to perhaps pursue its properties unobserved and discover its vitality and significance. Brother Roger, I beg you will allow me to share this dread knowledge with you as a natural philosopher and relieve me of this heinous burden.’

  Into the stillness came from the outside the same dull roar of revelry, but within the austere scholar’s study the fading reek of sulphur was a token of the frightful things that had passed.

  ‘Very well, Brother Rubruck, I shall accede to your request. But only on the condition that we do kneel and swear together the most sacred oath that this secret shall remain inviolate between us, never to be divulged to the profane and ignorant of this world.’

  ‘I am content at that.’

  CHAPTER 2

  The village of Hurnwych Green, Warwickshire, England

  Hocktide eve. AD 1287, the fifteenth year of the reign of King Edward I

  The rain had eased off but still threatened as Perkyn Slewfoot trudged along the well-worn path towards the tithe-barn by the manor house. It was cold and bitter this early in the morning and being a lowly villein he wore just a coarse grey wool jerkin, loose leggings and the old felt hat he’d inherited from his father. His toes showed through his shoes, which were soon caked in mud.

  He scratched absent-mindedly; the fleas had been merciless during the night.

  Perkyn quickened his pace. He knew the reeve was waiting for him, the hard-faced Hubert Subsey, whose job it was to exact every working hour from those who owed service to their lord of the manor, Sir Robert le Warde.

  Sometimes it was two or three days a week he must labour thus under the ancient and inviolable covenant between noble and bound: in return for service in his fields the lord would graciously extend his protection over him.

  One morning two winters ago, still in his bed, Perkyn’s father had turned his face to the wall in silent despair and died. His eldest son had gone to be a mercenary and hadn’t been heard of again and his daughter had been hastily married off at fourteen.

  It had left only Perkyn to look after his careworn mother in their humble wattle-and-daub home.

  He’d always known he’d never marry for he’d been born with a gnarled ankle that had earned him the name ‘Slewfoot’. No girl would look upon such a poor risk as a provider but he didn’t pine, for was this not God’s way of caring for his mother?

  Perkyn just got along with life. With no allowances in their pitiless world for half-work he’d learnt the hard way how to keep up with the others – a hand to the plough; the hoe and harrow; and at harvest time, the sickle.

  But provided he laboured on the lord’s stipulated days, including the extra boon-work, he was free to work for himself. He had several strips planted in barley and peas. There were three geese fattening nicely and a goat for milk, but he’d had to sell the pig after the wet and bleak winter just endured.

  The reeve shouted at the line of serfs bringing the straw baskets of seed. Perkyn filled his pouch then went off with his friend Godswein, the man’s gap-toothed smile always cheering.

  They set to with their dibbers, each to a strip and within hailing distance. A jab down and twist in the freshly turned soil, a single bean dropped in and on to the next in a time-worn rhythm. The strips were a chain wide and a furlong in length; it was hours before they completed their task, their backs burning with fatigue.

  The two sat companionably together on the turfed edge of the field and took out their bread and cheese, trimmed with onions. Godswein shared a costrel of ale with Perkyn.

  ‘God’s teeth! On your feet,
you fool-born oafs!’ The reeve’s snarl cut through their rest.

  ‘And we’ve done it all, the lord’s sowing, Master Subsey!’ Godswein said nervously. If the reeve had a mind to, they could be brought before the bailiff and fined for default of their obligation to service.

  ‘That’s as well, you low-arsed pair o’ drabble-tails. I wants to see you behind a plough this afternoon. Sir Robert needs his winter wheat in the ground afore May Day.’

  They hurriedly finished their repast as two scraggy beasts were brought up, the plough with a sadly blunted iron share and coulter.

  As they faced up to the strip the first drops of rain spattered down and with it a gusty, spiteful blow.

  The oxen were baulky, wanting their byre, the soil sticky and resisting, but in the driving rain they pushed forward, Perkyn at the plough, Godswein with the ox-goad, both silent in the shared misery of hard labour in the shuddering wet and cold.

  It was some consolation that for this crop furrows were shallower, but it was heavy going, endless hours of flogging both man and beast until their portion was complete.

  Perkyn bid Godswein farewell and tramped home to blessed surcease.

  His mother set aside the bundle of rushes she was working on. They would later be dipped into the rancid sheep fat simmering at the hearth in the centre of the room to supply their only light after dark.

  ‘Set you down, m’ son!’ she fussed as she tended to the other pot on the fire.

  Waves of weariness came over Perkyn but the suffocating damp, smoky smell, with its overtones of ancient living and animals, was token of home, with all its memories and solace. His mother had been out rush-cutting and the beaten earth floor was covered with fresh grasses sprinkled with sprays of herbs and wild buds and from the upper beams hung three new cheeses.

  ‘Take off your togs then, my sweeting.’ She found his old smock. Obediently he stripped off his soaked clothing, which she threw over the wattle partition to the animals’ end of the house. She went to the window, a slat with a hide hinge at the top and took down the stick that held it open. This trapped the smoke from the fire but helped keep away the flies as well as retaining a cosy warmth.

  He felt a twinge of guilt – his mother was worn out; bent and shrivelled with age, she showed all of her thirty-some winters and found moving about difficult.

  ‘Have you done with the lord’s portion?’

  ‘Aye, I have, Ma.’

  But now he had to find the strength to drive the plough again for a freeman in return for the use of the same for himself later. It was hard to take, so much of his strength going into others’ land, but this was the life the good Lord had decreed for him, just as he’d given others the grace to rise above it all. It was no use fretting about what could not be, and didn’t Father Bertrand make much of accepting one’s lot on earth?

  She brought him his supper bowl. It was watery pease pottage with a few limp vegetables floating on top. He supped it quickly, the gnawing hunger pangs barely touched.

  ‘I wish and all that I had some meat to give you,’ she said wistfully. ‘Perhaps when I sell my cheeses – they’re very tasty, even should I say it myself.’

  ‘Yes, Ma,’ he said mechanically. There’d been no takers for the last, why should it be different now?

  The night was drawing in so there was nothing for it but to turn in to his leaves and straw bed by the goat. His foot hurt and it would be another day of work on the morrow.

  As he finished the last of his black bread there were voices outside.

  ‘Perkyn? You sleeping?’ It was Godswein. ‘Wilkie Bate says if you’d fancy a sup of ale …’

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘This’s right kind in you, Wilkie,’ Perkyn said greeting the jolly man whose income from five strips and a goodly number of sheep had enabled him to build a large, three-bay wattle-and-daub house near the river.

  The fire crackled and spat in cheerful unruliness and Jankin and Reginald Fivepot with leather jacks and drinking horns a-fill with ale roared a welcome. No less than three tallow candles touched them with gold.

  Bate’s wife brought in another stout flagon of ale and set it on the trestle table.

  ‘Ah. This’n is for you, Perkyn. You’re looking poorly – here’s a drink as will set you up, lad.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Wilkie,’ he said.

  The others paused as he lifted the black leather tankard and drank deeply. It tasted foul and made him retch but he downed it to the end.

  There was something in the murky bottom of the vessel. Apprehensively he fetched it out – it was a bloated mouse carcase.

  The room erupted in mirth and Perkyn looked around uncertainly, then a broad smile spread and he joined in the merriment.

  At the noise, Bate’s wife came back and saw what had happened. She scolded her husband and brought Perkyn a fresh drink and a morsel of cake to take away the taste.

  An ungenerous soul would have noticed the small ale was no longer quite fresh, but no one was about to complain and it went down quickly.

  ‘A rare drop,’ acknowledged Reginald, wiping his mouth.

  His good-natured red face creased in merriment. ‘As I’ve brought a splash o’ something else, which I returns the friendliness of our Wilkie!’

  He reached beneath the table and pulled up a wicker-clad pottery jar. ‘Get your cups, goodwife, this is your metheglin – bold rose-hip metheglin, to warm your hearts on a night like this!’

  It was a rare treat. A Welsh potation of fermented honey, it was considerably stronger than ale.

  ‘It’s Hocktide eve, friends. Don’t let’s waste this!’

  Perkyn felt its crude potency take hold and his cares began to fall away.

  Tomorrow was a feast day and all were released from service on the lord’s demesne. He was free to work on his own small plot of land, which sadly needed attention – or not! The fine feeling spread and when the dice came out for a game of Hazard he was glowing in the company of his friends.

  ‘Your good mother in humour, Perkyn?’ Jankin asked, feeling in his ragged brown hood for his flute.

  ‘Aye, but since we had to sell our pig we’ve had barely a bite o’ meat and she’s getting mortal frail.’

  Wilkie snorted. ‘A fine thing it is when a good woman must pray for a morsel so.’

  ‘Aye!’ Jankin mumbled. ‘Agin nature, it is.’

  ‘God rot it, but I’ve a notion to do something about it!’ Reginald blustered.

  ‘Oh? And what’s that?’

  ‘Why, over yonder there’s enough meat to fill us each a pot for a month!’

  ‘Are you saying you’re going … a-poaching?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  The swagger fell away quickly at the reality of the words. To enter the woods of the lord’s demesne and take a deer was against the dread Laws of the Forest. It would be a dire offence against the callous Baron Everard D’Amory.

  His ancestral home Castle Ravenstock loured down on the village from the face of an escarpment several miles away, monstrous and dominating. Within it were lords and ladies, men-at-arms, chambers of torture and a great hall for feasting of unimaginable splendour. The unreachable pinnacle of this earthly world, beings whose existence and movements were inscrutable and not for their knowing.

  There was no crossing of their lives. The manor under its lord Sir Robert le Warde directed the affairs of Hurnwych: from rent collections to common grazing rights to the manorial courts. Village met authority in the form of the bailiff in the great hall of the manor, or more often the foul-mouthed reeve, Hubert Subsey.

  More metheglin restored the mood but there were thoughtful looks about the table.

  ‘One stag o’ size that never would be missed …’

  ‘I once saw a haunch of venison. Christ’s wounds, it was big!’

  ‘She’d bless you for ever, just for the taste of a collop or two of meat.’

  Godswein broke in. ‘Enough o’ this talk, it’s making me famished to hear it. T
here’s nobody going to take a deer – you down it, there’s no way to get it back here! Besides which, someone sees you, the Verderer hears about it and is going after you with a rope.’

  ‘Ah! There is a way!’ Wilkie sat back with a superior smile.

  ‘How?’

  He leant forward, his face serious. ‘It’ll take all of us, no hanging back.’ Seeing he had their attention he continued. ‘The trick is, we want to get it out quick, and as well, that no one notices, right?’

  ‘Yes, Wilkie.’

  ‘So here it is. We’ve got our rights of pannage and firewood. Anyone sees us with a bag stuffed full, it’s our usual load. But it’s not – it’s a nice fat joint of venison each!’

  ‘So we—’

  ‘Yes! As soon as we drop the beast we sets to on the spot and all together we butchers it quick smart. Won’t take long and no one will see us carry any deer out of the woods. Right?’

  This far into the evening it was sounding altogether very possible.

  ‘Who’s our best shot?’

  They all turned to Perkyn.

  ‘Oh, you mean …’

  ‘You’re youngest, and I’ve seen you plant an arrow in a magpie at thirty paces.’

  ‘But I’ve never—’

  ‘You take him, we’ll cut him up. Besides, your arrow – you get first choice!’

  Perkyn grinned broadly. They trusted him – his friends. He couldn’t let them down. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Stout fellow.’

  ‘When’s it to be?’

  ‘What better time than when all right-minded foresters have their feet under a table and their beaks in an ale – Hocktide!’

  ‘Tomorrow morning! Why not?’

  CHAPTER 4

  Where the river wound through, the woods were dense with thickets and undergrowth on one side. Coppicing and level country had thinned out the other side to more open woodland, rich grazing for deer.

  Wilkie was certain what had to be done. ‘They go in groups. We sit young Perkyn behind a handy bush downwind from ’em and drive a likely beast past him. He lets fly and we all get to work right there. Easy!’