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Alchemist. Fornicator. You will pay for this.’
    On which threat he stormed from the room.

FOUR
    ‘ I t was merely what Roger calls a firecracker. He played the same trick himself some years ago. But memories are apparently short in Oxford and no one recalled it.’
    Falconer was helping Thomas Symon clear up the school room in the aftermath of the celebration. A lot of food and ale had been consumed after Ralph Cornish’s disappearance. More than either William or Thomas could really afford, but jollity had ruled for some considerable while. Falconer scuffed his boot over the black mark on the floor where the firecracker had exploded. Thomas had rebuked him for his childish effort. His attitude to the prank had indeed made Falconer feel like a naughty boy and he was now beginning to regret what he had done.
    ‘Blame Roger Bacon. He left me two recipes for the powder. One lists saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal of hazelwood. But there is a more complicated one too. The trouble is he left half the ingredients as a code… Luru Vopo Vir Can Utriet.’
    Thomas looked quizzically at Falconer.
    ‘What does that mean?’
    Falconer shrugged.
    ‘I took it to give the amounts required. Seven parts to five to five. From the strength of the explosion, it looks as though I was wrong.’
    The two masters looked at each other and then burst into laughter. Thomas was jubilant.
    ‘Did you see the way Master Ralph danced? Just like he was possessed by the Devil.’
    Falconer’s face turned quite solemn.
    ‘Let us hope that is not truly so. It is Aristotle’s view that evil can be defined as the lack of, or reduced presence, of God. Ralph is a fool but he is not evil.’
    Thomas was now surprised at his mentor’s mention of God. Just as he had been when during the debate, Falconer had expressed his adherence to the mystic Abbot Joachim. Though he never dared broach the subject, he had always assumed Falconer lacked any true faith. Now it seemed he was wrong and Falconer had surprised him once again. Quietly, the two Masters, old and new, finished tidying the school room and left for Aristotle’s Hall.
    The spicer’s shop was a great attraction to Saphira. Before coming to England in her search for an errant son who had run off when her husband died, she had lived in France. There, spices from the East were particularly relished when mixed with the red wines of Bordeaux. England was a dour place in comparison, especially Canterbury and London, where she had stayed for a while when first arriving on these shores. It was only when she had met William Falconer, and then had rashly found herself pursuing him to Oxford, that the cold, wet weather seemed to get less burdensome. To find a treasure house of spices in the market in Oxford had been particularly welcome. The spicer, Robert Bodin by name, was a large, red-faced man, whose joviality hid a sharp acquisitive nature. No one would cheat him out of the tiniest part of a pennyworth when he weighed out his precious goods.
    Whenever Saphira entered his shop, her eyes roved greedily over his expensive wares. All sorts of goods brought from Syria and Cyprus and the East were on display in sacks and barrels. She sniffed the air and recognized the pungent aromas of cumin, ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg. But the barrels were also stuffed with almonds, liquorice, figs and dates. Though Saphira had now settled in Oxford and employed a maidservant to see to her immediate needs, she still liked to make her own purchases. Especially at the spicer’s, when her newly acquired knowledge of medicinal herbs and remedies for poisons still buzzed in her head.
    Today, Robert was dealing with a tall lady whose long blonde hair was bound tightly under a modest snood. Much as Saphira’s own flame-red hair was when in public. Though her back was to Saphira, she could tell the lady, dressed in a rich, blue robe, was calm to the extent of coolness. And this was all in spite of her short, stocky maid who fidgeted