Corbett threw the man a coin and, as he went back down the stairs, idly wondered if the guard had spoken the truth.
If people are to be subject to the same law, at least let it be the law of England for the English and of France for the French and not the law of Lombardy.
Chapter 6
‘I do not believe such things are possible; they are fanciful notions. It is my belief Friar Roger was a great scholar with a lively imagination.’
Louis Crotoy sat back in his chair, pushing away the manuscripts in front of him as if they were soiled. Corbett, sitting at the end of the table, wondered whether his old friend had decided to confront the danger; by rejecting Friar Roger, he was implicitly demanding this meeting be brought to an end. De Craon, however, at the other end of the table, appeared unruffled. He had taken his cloak off and unlaced the quilted jerkin beneath.
‘I agree.’ Jean Vervins leaned forward, staring down at de Craon. ‘In his De Mirabile Potestate Artis et Naturae, Concerning the Marvellous Power of Art and Nature,’ Vervins translated the title as if the others had no knowledge of Latin, ‘Friar Roger claims,’ he picked up one of the manuscripts before him, ‘there are marvels created solely by the agency of art or nature. In these there is no magic whatsoever. Why?’ Vervins lifted his head and smiled thinly. ‘Because, so Friar Roger claims, it has been proved that all magical power is inferior to that of art and nature.’
‘What are you saying?’ de Craon asked.
‘Nothing, my Lord,’ Vervins retorted. He blinked his tired eyes and scratched the tip of his sharp nose. ‘But it follows logically that if marvels are the result of art and nature, then they can be seen by all and there is no secret knowledge.’
‘And yet he contradicts that,’ Crotoy put in. ‘Friar Roger talks of, and I quote, “marvellous devices constructed in antiquity and in his time, and he has met people who are acquainted with them explicitly”.’
‘He says that,’ Vervins’ voice rose, ‘in his work De Arte-’
‘Except for the instrument of flying,’ Corbett intervened.
‘Ah,’ Crotoy retorted, ‘but he claims to have met someone who has thought it through. Here is Friar Roger claiming that he has actually spoken to someone who at least, in theory, has constructed a device which can fly.’
‘He is referring,’ Pierre Sanson spoke up, fat face all flushed, thin hair damp; he too had loosened his cloak, throwing it on the back of his chair, ‘he is referring,’ his squeaky voice caused laughter amongst the henchmen sitting near the hearth, ‘to Peter Marincourt.’
‘Ah yes,’ Crotoy shook his head, ‘this mysterious philosopher who was supposed to have taught Friar Roger in Paris. Look,’ he leaned his elbows on the table, ‘I concede that Friar Roger made incredible claims. Listen.’ He picked up a manuscript. ‘He actually writes, “It is feasible that great ships and sea-going vessels shall be constructed which could move under the guidance of one man, and go so much faster than a galley full of oarsmen”, and again, “It is feasible that a cart could be made to move with incredible speed and such motion will not depend on man or any other creature.” Later on,’ Crotoy dropped the manuscript, ‘he talks of a device which, if constructed, could take a man to the bottom of the sea, unscathed. Now,’ the Frenchman warmed to his theme, ‘what happens if I claimed to have built a set of wings to fly from the top of the keep of this castle? Is there anyone here who would like to try it?’
The question provoked a burst of laughter. Corbett, hiding the lower part of his face behind his hand, glanced at de Craon slouched in his chair, face all puckered up as if he was following every jot and syllable of this debate. He had concluded that, apart from the plump Pierre Sanson, the French scholars had very little respect for Friar Roger’s claims and were deeply suspicious of the Secretus Secretorum. They had also quickly come to terms with the death of their comrade; there was little sign of mourning, except for Crotoy, who had asked Father Andrew to celebrate a Requiem Mass later that day. De Craon had received Sir Edmund’s promise that the body would be cleaned and gutted, packed with ointments and spices and sent by cart to Dover for the journey back to France. Once they had all gathered here, Crotoy had led the attack, fielding the hypothesis that if Bacon’s claims in other manuscripts, which could be read, were ridiculous, why should they take notice of some secret manuscript indecipherable and totally resistant to translation? In other words, Corbett wryly reflected, the French scholars wanted to go home.
‘But you have proof of this,’ Bolingbroke broke in. ‘When I was in . . .’ he paused and stopped himself in time, ‘in the Halls of Oxford, a lecturer had to prove his case either by logic or experiment.’
‘Precisely!’ Crotoy seized on Bolingbroke’s words. ‘In his work the Opus Maius, Friar Roger claims that if you cut a hazel twig in two and separate the pieces, the two isolated parts will try to approach one another; you will feel the effort both ends are making.’ He leaned down and picked up a hazel twig, placed it on the table, took a knife, sliced it in two and held the pieces apart. Sir Edmund, seated in a high chair to Corbett’s right, rose to his feet, watching intently.
‘Do you see any movement?’ Crotoy declared. The Constable came round the table. Crotoy thrust the twigs into his hands. ‘Do you experience any sensation of these twigs, like lovers, yearning to meet?’
Sir Edmund held them for a while and shook his head.
‘In other words,’ Crotoy finished his declaration with the classic phrase of the schools, ‘that which is to be proved has not been proved. Therefore the hypothesis on which it depends cannot be valid.’
‘And yet,’ Bolingbroke declared, ‘in that same work you quoted, Friar Roger talks of “certain igneous mixtures, saltpetre, charcoal and sulphur which, when wrapped in parchment and lit, creates great noise and flame”.’
‘But is that proof?’ Vervins jibed. ‘If you throw a slab of meat into a hungry kennel you will hear great noise.’
‘Ah yes,’ Bolingbroke retorted, ‘but that is to be expected. What I am saying is that Friar Roger did prove that mixture would lead to that effect, as he does in Chapter Seven of the Opus Maius, where he demonstrates how a rainbow can be measured.’
‘What if,’ de Craon’s voice cut like a lash; the French envoy was clearly annoyed at the cynicism of his companions, ‘what if the solution to all these riddles lies in the Secretus Secretorum? Perhaps,’ he waved a hand, ‘the answer to how a cart can move of its own accord, or the split ends of a hazel twig attempt to meet each other, might be resolved there? Doesn’t Friar Roger claim,’ de Craon closed his eyes to remember the words, ‘“for the wise have always been divided from the multitude, and have hidden the secret truths of wisdom, not only from the vulgar, but even from common philosophers”?’
‘Arrogance,’ Crotoy jibed. ‘If Jesus could reveal divine truths then why can’t Friar Roger confess his secrets?’
‘Ah no,’ de Craon retorted. ‘Didn’t Jesus himself say that he spoke to the multitude in parables but bluntly and openly only to his own followers? Gentlemen, we are here not to debate Friar Roger’s claims but to break and translate the cipher of his secret manuscript; that is what our royal masters have demanded.’
De Craon glared down at Corbett, willing his support, but before he could reply, the door was flung open and a messenger came in and whispered into Sir Edmund’s ear. The Constable nodded but gestured at Corbett to continue. The Keeper of the Secret Seal opened the leather bag at his feet and drew out his copy of Friar Roger’s Secretus Secretorum.
‘Monsieur de Craon is correct,’ he began. He patted the cover, noting with amusement how de Craon had produced his own copy of the same work. ‘Everything depends on this manuscript.’ He undid the clasp and turned the crackling parchment pages. ‘At first sight it looks easy, a Latin manuscript, here and there strange symbols, but the words make little sense. If translated they are like the babblings of a child.’