Oxfordshire Folktales (26 page)

Friar Bacon was renowned for his learning; there was nobody in thirteenth-century Britain who knew more than him (or so he liked to think). He claimed to know the secrets of Heaven and Earth and perhaps even Hell, so was rumoured to be a magician. This was not without foundation, but perhaps what is magic for one age is merely the science of a future one. Maybe Friar Bacon was just ahead of his time and simply knew more than his contemporaries?

Yet, even the mightiest magician has to start somewhere.

As a boy, Bacon was something of a prodigy. He came from a West Country farming family. His father could see his son was bright, a genius even, but didn’t want him to go to Oxford. As long as he had learning enough to use his father’s hard-earned wealth wisely, he’d be happy. But Bacon gave his father the slip and ran away to a cloister to study further. Showing great promise, he was invited to hone his scholarly pursuits at the university in Oxford. Thrilled, he set off for the City of Dreaming Spires, where he ‘perfected himself in all the sciences’, becoming a master of the secrets of art and nature. He set up residence in Oxford and so began his extraordinary career.

Friar Bacon’s cunning art was in great demand. He had some powerful patrons, including Prince Edward, son and heir of King Henry III. With Friar Bacon’s help, Edward seduced the Fair Maid of Fressingfield. The Friar sent an emissary on the Prince Regent’s behalf – Lacy – who ended up falling in love with Margaret. Bacon showed his patron that they planned to wed in secret, through a ‘magic viewing glass’, which Bacon interrupted with his sorcery.

Another time, the King and Queen were sojourning in Oxfordshire, when they sent for this increasingly famous scholar, via a messenger. Friar Bacon agreed to come and said he would be there two hours before the messenger; and further, he would also reveal the name of the wench the page had just been with! Flushing red, the page left and Friar Bacon slowly packed a case and set off, whistling, at a casual pace. When he arrived at the Royal residence, he was commanded by the King and Queen to show them his art. Reluctant at first, he conjured dancers and musicians, clowns and acrobats, a great feast, and finally exotic perfumes – dazzling all fives senses. The King and Queen were impressed and rewarded him richly. As he left, showered in gold, the page arrived all muddy and breathless. Friar Bacon conjured before him his sweetheart – a greasy kitchen-maid – much to the amusement of the court.

This was only one of Bacon’s many accomplishments. He famously defeated a German magician called Vandemast before the rulers of Europe, after which they all sought his services.

And so Friar Bacon grew in wealth and influence. But he was not without his own Achilles’ Heel.

Friar Bacon had a servant, Miles, who seemed as witless as his master was wise, and often hindered when he should assist – getting in the way of his many experiments. Clumsy and incompetent Miles – why did he keep him on? He wondered himself sometimes!

Friar Bacon had a professional rival – Friar Bungay, a scholar educated at Oxford and Cambridge and a member of the Order of Friars Minor. Bungay matched Bacon in learning and they were notorious for arguing over philosophical points. And yet, there was an underlying fondness between them – there was no one else who Bacon could feel was his equal.

Together, they planned Bacon’s most daring experiment yet – a mechanical head of brass, which would protect the shores of Britain with a wall of brass. It would be able to speak and warn of danger; the ultimate in state-of-the-art medieval security. They laboured long and hard at this and the task was made twice as hard by Bacon and Bungay bickering over each and every technical point. They tinkered and bickered until Bacon could not take it anymore and he sent Bungay away – too many chefs spoil the broth! He was fed up of Bungay flagging up yet another design flaw. It was nearly complete; each piece of the mechanical head had been exquisitely crafted to the smallest of measurements. He wasn’t going to rebuild it. It had taken over a year to build already. Time was slipping away. Every day, Friar Bacon felt wearier and wearier, his naps getting longer and longer.

Friar Bacon, exhausted, slept in his lab. He had not properly rested for days, but his masterpiece was complete: the Brazen Head would guard the coast of the kingdom with an ever-waking mechanical gaze – the ultimate fire-wall.

Yet the Brazen Head watched with amber eyes – eyes that glowed with a strange intelligence. It seemed to see beyond the coast of Britain; beyond the cold seas that encircled it; beyond the shores of the Earth itself – into the past and into the future. It heated up and steam poured from its vents. It shook and the whole lab trembled, yet still Friar Bacon did not wake from his deep slumber. Miles the servant watched on in horror – hapless and helpless, he did not think to stir his master as the Brazen Head spoke: ‘Time is…’ its metallic voice rang out. More steam poured from it, the eyes glowed brighter and it spoke a second time, brass words bouncing off the stone walls: ‘Time was…’ Silence settled, the head stopped shaking, then it erupted into motion, whirring and clattering, and spoke one last time: ‘Time is Past…’ it boomed, with a hollow, metallic voice, before finally smashing to smithereens on the floor – coils and cogs everywhere.

Miles turned pale, looking at the broken head.

Friar Bacon awoke to a scene of chaos and devastation. He blazed at his useless servant – why didn’t he wake him! May he be damned to Hell! ‘Get out of my sight,’ he roared. ‘And do not come back!’

Friar Bacon kicked the useless brass skull across the floor, stubbing his toe. Cursing in pain, he slumped into a chair, head in his hands. All his efforts were in vain. Perhaps he had over-reached himself. His heart had lost its fire.

The lab was eventually cleared up. Friar Bacon was bankrupt, having poured all of his resources into the project, and so he took on a final job – two Oxonian students came to him, concerned about their fathers, who had vowed to duel each other to the death the next day over some foolish matter of honour. Friar Bacon could not stop this and duelling etiquette meant that they could not attend, but he could show them the duel through his magic glass. A morbid curiosity compelled the students to look into the crystal ball. The Oxonians watched in horror as their fathers’ slew each other before their very eyes. Fuelled by grief and rage, the students turned on each other and did the same before the magician could stop them. Stunned, he looked down at the two slowly cooling corpses, mirroring the two in the glass.

He was so horrified by this that Friar Bacon renounced all magic. He burnt all his books – ancient, priceless magical tomes containing all of his learning. And he turned back to God, living out his last few years in devout contemplation.

His servant, Miles, was said to receive his diabolical punishment – riding to Hell on the Devil’s back, and becoming a tapster in Hell, serving the endless thirst of demons.

Wherever they ended up, perhaps both souls might now have a better idea what the Brazen Head’s prophesy meant: time is; time was; and time is past.

Ensconced snugly in the verdant flanks of the Cotswolds is the elegant Jacobean mansion of Chastleton. Just off the old Fosseway, down a winding narrow lane to the brow of a hill – there it sits by its own church, where birds sing in the Spring sun and the silent dead push up the snowdrops. Walk amongst these ancient ivy-covered tombs beneath the penumbral yews and you get a sense of the many lives that have lived and died within its influence. It has known famous and infamous sons. Here is the tale of one – and a lady of exceptional character.

Chastleton has always been a Royalist house; built in 1612, by Walter Jones, a wool merchant of Witney, it prospered on the fat of the land. Its lush meadows and grounds provided a safe haven for the cultivation of crops and the rearing of livestock – and the occasional fleeing war refugee!

During the Civil War it gave refuge to an Arthur Jones, grandson of Walter Jones, who had escaped from the defeat at Worcester on the 3rd of September 1651.

Later that night, after a thirty-mile ride, the exhausted and anxious Arthur appeared, his poor horse in a sorry state. His lathered steed was rubbed down and stabled and its rider given food, refreshing draughts and refuge. In one of the bedrooms, called the Cavalier Room, is a secret chamber hidden behind the arras that lined the room. Arthur was hidden here, and just in time! Suddenly, there was the sound of horses’ hooves echoing down the lane – his Roundhead pursuers had arrived.

Hidden in his bolt-hole, Arthur’s heart began to beat faster as he heard down below the firm banging of gauntlet on wood. ‘Open in the name of Parliament!’ a stern voice bellowed.

Mrs Jones let them in as her servants stabled their horses. Without a ‘by-your-leave’ from the Lady of the Manor, the grim Roundheads searched the house. Fearing they would do more harm left to themselves, Mrs Jones took matters in hand and led the party of soldiers from room to room. In their Northampton-made boots they tramped through the house, pulling back arras and turning over mattresses. No cupboard or wardrobe was left undisturbed.