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?”