‘No, Master Falconer. Let us not stray from your main thesis. Your students are misled if they believe Aquinas advocated sexual activity for its own sake. He went on to say that…’
Falconer broke in on the Franciscan friar.
‘Alexander Aspall, tell Brother Pecham what Aquinas says about non-procreative sex.’
Aspall, a small and scrawny youth who looked more like a child than his true age of seventeen, blushed. But he stood up and spoke out clearly, as Falconer had drummed into him.
‘Thomas Aquinas was vehemently opposed to non-procreative sexual activity, and this led him to view-’ here he took a deep breath before he continued ‘-masturbation and oral sex as being worse than incest and rape.’
With the words out of his mouth he sat down blushing, but to howls of laughter from his contemporaries. Falconer smiled innocently at Pecham, who to give him his due grinned back at the triumphant regent master and nodded in acceptance of his defeat.
‘You have obviously schooled your students well in the more solitary pursuits and their dangers. But I am not here for a lesson in procreation, nor in optics. May I speak to you… alone?’
Falconer’s curiosity was piqued. Though Pecham was a fellow scientist, his religious orthodoxy had not made him one of Falconer’s intimates. If he wished to speak to him without any other ears present, the matter was perhaps important. He nodded briefly.
‘We were about to conclude anyway.’
He turned to his students and dismissed them for the day. This cheered the frozen students up no end, and they made a dash for the door before their teacher changed his mind. Once the noise of their departure had subsided, he brought Pecham over to the fire to derive what small crumb of heat it offered.
‘We are alone. What is it you want to say?’
Pecham stared into the glowing coals for a moment, and when he spoke it was not without a little embarrassment.
‘I have a message for you.’
‘Then give it to me.’
Falconer held out his hand, puzzled by the secrecy that delivering this missive had entailed. Pecham stared long and hard at the outstretched hand before explaining.
‘It is a verbal message that I can only divulge if you can tell two things. First, who is the man who masters the secret of flight in the air?’
Falconer shook his head in bewilderment. What was this game of puzzles? Looking at the Franciscan, he saw nothing but earnestness in his large brown eyes.
‘That man is me. Come, tell me the message.’
‘Not until you answer the second question. Who is it has unravelled the secret of sailing under the sea?’
Falconer was beginning to see where this was leading.
‘He who is known as Doctor Mirabilis. Friar Roger Bacon. Is this message from him? He alone knows of my little… obsession with the secrets of flight, and I his concerning undersea ships.’
Pecham nodded, the glow from the fire turning his face a ruddy colour as he gazed into the greyish-red ash.
‘I am sorry to play these games, but my brother insisted I ask the questions of you before I delivered his message. He is somewhat… worried just now by the absurd notion he is persecuted by his own order.’
Falconer could see how painful this all was for John Pecham. He was a Franciscan, and deeply religious, and yet he was also a disciple of Roger Bacon’s obsession with experimental science. It was a calling that conflicted with the demands of the Church hierarchy, and of the religious order of which they were both members. Bacon had once had the support of Pope Clement and had written copiously concerning knowledge and the world. But Clement had died some years ago, and Roger had disappeared into the depths of the Franciscan order somewhere in France. Pecham, however, must have made contact with him recently. Indeed, as the Franciscan had just returned from the University of Paris, Falconer wondered if that was where Roger was now. He grasped Pecham’s arm excitedly.
‘You have seen him? Is he well?’
The Franciscan grimaced and extricated his arm from Falconer’s vice-like grasp.
‘I did not see him as such. He is… cloistered away in a cell. I had this message from one who had seen him, however. I am just the bearer of a second-hand missive.’
‘And what is this message that must be conveyed by word of mouth only?’
Pecham formed the words in his brain carefully, reciting them just as he had been told them.
‘That he who designs submarine ships would speak with he who flies in the air with the purpose of perpetuating knowledge.’ He grimaced. ‘There. I promised I would pass on the message just as it was delivered to me. But I have to say, it only serves to confirm my fears that Friar Roger has gone mad. He is set on writing an encyclopedia of all knowledge but fears that anything he writes will be destroyed unless he also passes it on to others. It seems you are to be one of those selected to be his memory.’
‘But how am I to get to Paris in the first place? There are my teaching duties, my students and the cost to consider.’
Pecham smiled conspiratorially.
‘The chancellor awaits your petition to be allowed to study the effect of Bishop Tempier’s Condemnations on the teaching of Aristotle at the University of Paris.’
The Franciscan was referring to the results of a meeting of conservative clergy under the guidance of the Bishop of Paris in December of 1270. The tract that emanated from the good bishop’s office sought to ban certain Aristotelian teachings in Paris. Thirteen propositions had been listed as false and heretical, but that had had little influence on William Falconer in Oxford. Pecham patted him on the shoulder.
‘Who is more suitable to gauge the reaction now than Oxford’s most splendid proponent of Aristotle’s thought Regent Master William Falconer?’
Falconer’s face creased into a wry smile.
‘It seems that my path has been laid out for me.’
The truth was that he did not mind at all being manipulated in this way. Hadn’t he only just been thinking that his life of teaching had become routine and dull? Here was a chance to travel to Paris and to seek out a meeting with his old friend Roger Bacon. It was dawning on him how much he missed the incisive and argumentative mind of the man. He nodded his agreement.
‘In which case, I have no choice but to go.’
His interview with the chancellor was as swift and painless as that with Pecham. William de Bosco was a new appointment to the post, which controlled the administration of the university. He was a safe and secure appointment, made to redress the balance of the previous incumbent, Thomas Bek, who had been deposed due to his overweening ambition. True to the meaning of his name, de Bosco was a short, stocky man who seemed to be firmly planted in the good earth. His demeanour was similarly stolid, indeed almost wooden. He ushered Falconer into his presence and bade him take a seat. In similar circumstances, Bek would have kept his visitor standing. Especially William Falconer, whom he had detested as a disruptive element in the good running of the university. De Bosco looked almost pleased to see the troublesome regent master, and he got straight to the point.
‘William, Brother Pecham has recommended you as our envoy to Paris. You understand what you are to do there?’
Falconer smiled and nodded.
‘Yes, Chancellor.’
Indeed he did know, but it was not to be the errand that de Bosco was sending him on. The chancellor seemed reassured, however, and not a little relieved that he did not have to enter into a taxing discussion of heretical teachings.
‘Good, good. And you are not to worry about your teaching duties, nor the good running of Aristotle’s Hall. That can all be managed in your absence.’
‘But that is my only source of income. If I am not earning it, how am I to fund my journey and sojourn at the university, sir?’