Doctor Mirabilis by James Blish Page A

more light.
    The coins were in little the hoard of well more than a lifetime. Anyone looking at them could have told at once that the Bacons
     were wool-sellers, for nearly every coin of commerce rested in Roger’s fist: English pennies and ryalls, new and old shields
     of France (the old worth something in exchange if they were real, the new clipped even if genuine),the golden Lewe of France, the Hettinus groat of Westphalia (debased), the Limburg groat (debased), the Milan groat (debased),
     the Nimueguen groat (debased), the gulden of Gueldres (much debased), the postlates, davids, florins and falewes of the bishoprics
     of half of latin Christendom (debased beyond all reason). Obviously Wulf ‘s host (and nephew) had much depleted the real value
     of the hoard by taking from the serf nothing but English money, but this handful of dubious riches could not be blamed on
     Wulf and the innkeeper alone: Christopher Bacon should have had better sense than to bury foreign coins, or for that matter,
     to have taken them in payment from William Busshe or anyone else. Probably he had never had any reason to suspect even the
     existence of the intricacies of foreign exchange, being naught but a farmer all his life long; to him these clipped and adulterated
     coins with their exotic designs and legends must have seemed mysteriously more valuable than the mere pennies paid him year
     after year by his tenants – why else would he have gone to the trouble of burying them?
    Yet Roger was little inclined to absolve his father for that, let alone Wulf and his nephew. What he held in his hand was
     all that remained of his patrimony – that and the rest of the trash in the purse – and though it would be impossible to judge
     what it all amounted to until he had a chance to count it through somewhere in safety, it was clearly far from any sum sufficient
     for his needs. And for this, this ignorant, smelly old man had buried Roger’s rhombs and his glass and his time-costly measuring
     tools for the discovery of a pack of raiders!
    He swung away from the door in a fury of frustration and hurled the coins at the wall. Wulf dodged clumsily away from the
     sudden motion, but in a moment he was standing again as straight as his old man’s back could stiffen.
    ‘Thee must be more quiet, Meister,’ he said. ‘Else thee will properly lose all.’
    ‘Thinkest thou I have aught to lose, old man?’ Roger said between his teeth. He strode to the stool and jerked the drawstring
     of the purse tight savagely. ‘Nevertheless, Ithank thee for thy cunning stupid drudge though thou be’st. Dost think Will of Howlake will never hear of thee, dwelling here
     like a freeman after eight decades as a serf? Thinkest thou he’ll not dispatch his men to seek thee out, and ask thee whence
     thy sudden riches came? Thou shouldst have run till thy bones broke with thy weight, wold Wulf; for traitor they will adjudge
     thee, and draw out thy bowels, and pull the rest of thy curse asunder ‘twixt four horses!’
    ‘Aye, us thought it mote be so,’ Wulf said, ‘And thee wilt leave us nothing Meister, but they orts there that thee flung away?’
    Roger opened the door and turned back to stare at the serf for the last time. Certes, I’ll leave thee more,’ he said savagely.
     ‘Dig thou for that boy’s trash that thou stol’st, and give that to thy nephew-in-law for thy meat!’
    But the old man no longer seemed to be listening, as though he had known what the answer must be. He was on his knees, patiently
     picking over the filthy straw for the discarded, debased, fugitively glittering coins.
    It had been no part of Roger’s intention to strike out for Oxford again without so much as a night’s rest, nor with the same
     horse, either, but the dead weight of the knobby purse impelled him to triple caution; now, surely he dared not risk search,
     let alone recognition. He risked only a long meal for himself and John Blund and then struck out during