by Ian Morson
He came to a point in his backwards search through the tome where the writing changed. One scribe's hand was very much like another, as the skill of writing was handed down within each monastery's walls. The more recent text was clearly that of Brother Ralph – neat and precise. But at the point Falconer had reached, the hand was much more free and carelessly illustrated along the margin – an indulgence that Ralph had not allowed himself. Falconer found himself wondering who Ralph's predecessor had been and whether he was still at the priory. Could he guess who it was just from his hand? An interesting exercise that might prove useful in the future.
He looked more closely at the shape and form of the letters rather than the meanings they conveyed. The tails of some letters became more wild as Falconer scanned the page from top to bottom. But what caught his eye were the illustrations at the side of the page. Earlier entries were simple designs of flowers entwining random letters – a yellow rose that grew up a letter R, comfrey sprouting from the centre of a C. Towards the bottom of the page murky demons with long tails twined the letters, their eyes staring from the parchment in rage and madness. At the very bottom was a different image still. Squashed in beneath the claws of an ugly behemoth was the tiny image of a monk. Falconer drew his eye-lenses out and peered more closely. The monk was dressed in Augustinian robes, as those of Conishead were, and next to him stood an indistinct figure, only completed in outline. All that was fully drawn was its arm, and that was plunging a knife into the chest of the monk.
‘Ah, Master Falconer.’
The quiet voice startled Falconer, who was so engrossed in the detail before him that he had not heard anyone enter the room. Now he was embarrassed to have been discovered, and straightened up with an apology on his lips. But it was Brother Ralph who apologized first, hardly able to get his words out clearly. Falconer was only aware of ‘… I regret …’ and ‘… that it should happen here …’ and ‘… there will be full restitution, of course.’ Gradually it became apparent that Ralph was saying one of the monks had destroyed a book belonging to him. He blanched at the thought it might be the Treatise on the Magnet, for he would have great difficulty in replacing that. Then he sighed with relief when Ralph shamefacedly held out the empty cover of Ars Rhetorica. That, at least, was a familiar text he could replace, though the cost would beggar him.
An embarrassed silence hung between the two men as they both counted the cost of the monk's mad rage. It was broken by Ralph, who saw the opened library catalogue on the table. Turning it towards him, he sighed.
‘I see you have come across some more of Brother Thady's ravages.’
In response to Falconer's puzzled look, he pointed to the clutter of images down the margin of the page.
‘Thady Lamport, who has just ripped your book to shreds, was my precursor as keeper of the library. These … scribbles … are his doing. I intend to scrape the pages clean when I get the chance.’
‘Have you seen what's there?’
Westerdale was abrupt and dismissive. ‘The ramblings and outpourings of a disturbed soul, and I'm afraid they sully the purpose of the catalogue.’
It was apparent to Falconer that the little monk had not looked closely at the detail of these ‘outpourings', and he resolved to keep the result of his scrutiny to himself for the moment. What was interesting was that the recorder of the miniature murder scene should also be the destroyer of his book. Was the murder he depicted real? Was it in the past or in the future? Or was the man merely deranged, as Ralph Westerdale suggested? Time enough to resolve that when he had had a chance to examine the bones lying in the chapel. For now he must concentrate on the original purpose for his visit. He indicated the catalogue, which now lay face up on the table.
‘I am impressed by the breadth of your collection.’
The precentor's whole body puffed up with pride. But Falconer's next words were enough to deflate him.
‘But I have not yet found reference to the texts I am seeking. The books the Franciscans gave you that belonged to Bishop Grosseteste.’
‘I … er …’
Falconer gave him no time to respond, and opened the catalogue close to where he had got to in his chronological search. ‘They must be recorded hereabouts.’ He flipped another page over and gasped.
‘What's wrong?’ asked the worried Westerdale.
‘Look at this.’
The monk peered down to where Falconer was pointing. The page that Falconer had previously noted was misaligned when the catalogue was closed was now uppermost, and a long cut ran halfway down it close to the binding. There was a crease from the bottom of the cut across the whole page, causing it to stick out. But that was not the worst of it. The cut had obviously been caused by the wholesale removal of the page above it. All that was left of that was a long stub of parchment.
The church gradually grew silent as the brothers filed out at the end of midday Mass. They now had three hours for their own devotional tasks until they reassembled at sext for the fifth service of the day. John Whitehed, the sacrist, found comfort in this inexorable cycle that came and went each day like the tide on Leven Sands. Before and after each service he was fully occupied in preparing the vessels, and the bread and wine for Holy Eucharist. In between this tidal flow of devotion were the low points where stretched the endless mudbanks of time, during which he thought only of the perdition that faced him on his death. He tried to busy himself with other matters, but his office relieved him of the necessity to carry out any manual labour, other than to supervise the burial of the dead. It was also his duty to respond to the letters that arrived at the priory.
One such letter had come from Regent Master Falconer some months previously. Unfortunately, Ralph Westerdale had been present when he had opened it, or he would have firmly denied Falconer the opportunity to visit Conishead. The precentor, however, had insisted that they invite the man, especially as he had been a student of Bishop Grosseteste. To have a scholar with such illustrious antecedents visit the priory and its library could only enhance its reputation. Whitehed was sure that Brother Ralph was thinking about enhancing his own reputation in the process also. So the die was cast, and the sacrist began to fear the day that would bring the man from Oxford. Then the inevitable would happen. Now he was here, Brother John could only wait in fear of imminent discovery, and pray that it might not take place. That his terrible secret was known to Brother Adam already had been enough to make his life a misery these past few years. But that was almost tolerable – still allowing him to continue in his office at the priory – compared to the possibility of having what he had done becoming public knowledge.
Nervously he washed out the vessels, storing them in the cupboard ready for the next Mass. His hands trembled, causing the silver cups to strike one against the other, and the sound, like cymbals, echoed through the stillness. Try as he might he could not still the tremor in his hands, and he grasped the altar rail hard until his knuckles turned white. He was a weak man, he knew, but he also knew that only drastic action would resolve his situation.
Brother Martin Albon's head was bowed over the nameless remains in the side chapel when Falconer returned, accompanied by a whey-faced Ralph Westerdale. The back of his habit was an immaculate white, as was the custom with Cistercians, but when he turned round to see who was disturbing his work, Falconer saw that the front was already stained with mud and grains of sand. The sleeves were rolled up, and exposed a pair of stringy but muscular forearms. Bits of the suety remnants of the body stuck to his fingers, and Falconer knew he was not afraid to delve into the innards of the bodies that confronted him. To complete the picture of a man of science, a wispy halo of white hair floated around his pink scalp.
‘Ah, you must be the celebrated scholar from Oxford, come to look at Brother Ralph's library. I am Martin Albon, appointed coroner by the King to investigate the many deaths the sands throw up for us.’
His voice was firm, but half an octave higher than it would have been in his prime. And as
he droned on, Falconer wondered for a moment if his mind also betrayed his advancing years.
‘And many deaths there have been over the years. There are always those foolish souls who underestimate the dangers of Lancaster Bay. Most of them end up in the same position as this poor soul.’ He flicked a piece of soft pulp from the body off the end of his index finger. ‘Why, I remember once being called to verify the demise of a cartload of people, who had tried to cross the bay without the guide. The whole cart and its contents were swallowed up at Black Scars Hole, and no one knew what was happening as the wind drowned out their cries for help. They must have stopped the cart, or slowed down – you see, if you do so the sand washes from under your wheels, and the cart tips up.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the body?’ asked Falconer bluntly, not expecting much. If the old monk rambled on so, the master wasn't certain he would get any useful information from him at all. He was probably just a cipher, there to confirm the obvious.
Albon looked across at Henry Ussher, who was standing in the shadow of a pillar as though not wishing to be associated with the unpleasant task in hand. In response to Albon's quizzical look, the prior waved his hand in resignation. Falconer was here, and might as well hear what the Cistercian had to say. Albon pointed to the pile of bones, which he had now arranged as they would have been in life.
‘It is the body of a man. It's sometimes difficult to tell when you lay the bones out on the ground, but I would say this was a tall man. As tall as you, Master Falconer.’
Falconer grunted in agreement, and Albon continued.
‘And his hair was black – you can see some remains of it on the skull. Now I cannot be sure, because most of the flesh is gone, but there is no hair on the top of the scalp. So he was either naturally bald, or he had a tonsure. Here …’ between his forefinger and thumb, he picked up a shred of material … ‘we have a piece of cloth I found stuck to the ribs. No doubt I would have found more in the sand that formed his grave, had I been present. It is finer linen than a fisherman would wear. All things considered, I would say he was a wealthy merchant or a brother monk.’
Falconer was pleasantly surprised, and had to rapidly revise his earlier opinion of this man. He clearly had an eye for detail as Falconer did. He was going to mention the silver cross that Henry Ussher had taken from him, but a quick glance at the prior told him there was something wrong here. Ussher was looking away, not wishing to assist in the identification. Maybe he was distracted by more important matters, or maybe he had something to hide. For the moment, Falconer decided to keep quiet.
‘Of course, I am used to having more recent remains in order to assist in my examination,’ Albon continued. ‘Lungs full of water clearly speak of a drowning, and there are other signs, if the quicksand was their downfall. Here I have nothing but the bones and this soft mass that is all that remains of his outer form.’
Henry Ussher spoke for the first time. ‘Then there is nothing here to tell us it was more than an unfortunate accident.’
It was a flat statement, not a question, but Albon ignored the clear suggestion. ‘Oh no. It was no accident. It was undoubtedly murder.’
The prior's eyes were cold and blank – Falconer was reminded of the stare of a dead fish on a fishmonger's slab. But his own eyes lit up at the word the old monk had spoken.
‘Murder, eh?’
‘Oh, without a doubt. Look here.’ Albon knelt, drawing Falconer down with him to examine the ribcage. ‘What do you see? Here, and here.’
He pointed with a work-coarsened finger at the ribcage where he had rubbed away a layer of grit. Falconer could immediately see what had not been obvious to him at his previous cursory glance at the bones. He took out his eye-lenses and looked closely, ignoring the ripe odour now coming from the soft pulp inside the ribs.
‘There's a chip on the bottom of this rib, and on the top of the one below it. A single, deep cut that could only have been made by something sharp.’
‘Exactly.’ Albon stabbed his finger dramatically in between the ribs. ‘Someone plunged a knife straight into our mystery man's heart.’
A vision suddenly swam before Falconer's eyes. It was of the tiny picture in the margin of the library catalogue, drawn by Brother Thady Lamport.
The little domestic chapel at Godstow Nunnery was more to Ann Segrim's liking than St Thomas's Chapel – especially as the central aisle was dominated by a large stone coffin. When she had first discovered it, she thought its size incongruous in so small a place. But then she realized who was interred within. She leaned against the cool stone and traced her fingers along the letters carved in the surface, repeating them under her breath.
‘ Tumba Rosamundae. ’
She felt some affinity with the fair Rosamund, who had been mistress to Henry II until he had forsaken her to marry Eleanor. She had taken the veil at Godstow, and some said she was forced to take poison by Henry's vengeful new wife. But a hundred years was long enough for facts to be forgotten, and for legends to thrive. Who knew where the truth lay, other than in the longdead heart of Rosamund, focus of continuing pilgrimages? And here she was, interred beneath the stone Ann now touched.
Ann had a passing thought to render her own stay at Godstow permanent. At least it would resolve her unsatisfactory life: married to a man she despised on the one hand, and on the other attracted to a certain regent master of Oxford University who seemed unable to make up his mind about her, restless and prodigious though that mind might be. William Falconer was frustrating.
‘No more than a harlot.’
Abbess Gwladys's words cut cruelly through the quiet of the chapel. At first Ann thought the nun had looked into the depths of her soul, then blushed when she realized Gwladys was talking about the fair Rosamund.
‘Oh, the nunnery derives some funds from the few pilgrims who still come to pray at her tomb. But the bishop was right seventy years ago when he called her a harlot, and demanded that her bones be removed. If I had been abbess then, I would have complied and scattered them on the nearest dunghill.’
Ann believed her. After a number of years of scandal, Godstow Nunnery was run strictly according to the Benedictine Rule recently expanded by the Papal Legate. The abbess had gone through the rules at length with Ann, when she arrived, impressing them on her soul. It seemed there should be no drinking after compline, when the nuns should retire to bed. The sisters should not talk with secular folk except in the hearing of a nun of sound character. (Ann hoped for the sake of her investigations she was not deemed to be secular, at least for the time being.) All the doors of the nuns' lodgings that led to the outer court were to be stopped up, and no sister was to travel to another town except by licence of the abbess. Not least was an injunction never to talk to Oxford scholars, who could be guilty of exciting ‘unclean thoughts'. Ann smiled wryly – that indictment at least was true.
‘You wished to speak to me.’ Gwladys's tone was uniformly cold, and increasingly impatient. It reminded Ann why she was here, and she nodded hesitantly. She had been putting off this question, but knew she had to ask it. The abbess's severity did not make it easy.
‘Was Sister Eleanor liked?’
The abbess's forehead knitted in a frown as she wrestled with this foreign concept. ‘Liked? She was a sister in God, and carried out her devotions adequately. We are all here by God's will, and whether one is liked or not is of little consequence.’
Ann knew that God's will often had little to do with why girls found themselves in a nunnery. For wealthy families it was a convenient means of discarding a feeble-minded, ugly or otherwise unmarriageable daughter. Peter Bullock had assured her Eleanor was none of these. Eleanor had indeed been quite beautiful, according to the constable. Undaunted, Ann pressed on with her enquiry.
‘I need to know if any of the sisters were particularly close to Eleanor.’
‘I am not sure what you mean.’ The red flush that started around Gwladys's neck and crept over her cheeks suggested that she kne
w exactly what Ann meant. However, she was not going to admit to any improper activity in her establishment. Ann tried a different tack, though with little hope of success now.
‘Then, was she disliked for any reason?’
The abbess's whole face was now a mottled red, and it was obvious to Ann that Gwladys was already regretting being persuaded by Peter Bullock into this unorthodox enquiry.
‘The sisters' time is devoted to worship. There is no time for idle tittle-tattle, enmities or the establishment of … personal relationships.’
The last two words were spat out as though they were likely to sully the virginal and holy lips of the speaker. Her opinion clearly demonstrated, the abbess spun on her heels and stalked out of the chapel, leaving Ann to think she could have got more useful information from cold Rosamund in her stone coffin.
The view from Henry Ussher's private solar was normally a consolation to him when he was troubled. That he could see down into the cloister was of little consequence, though he sometimes found it useful to see who was talking to whom. Especially when they thought themselves unobserved. He had cowed many a brother with his apparent omniscience, and secretly delighted in the effect. That he could see the fishponds and fields beyond was usually of some satisfaction to him. They furnished the priory's everyday needs and were a symbol of its stability. But that he could see over the priory walls, to the banks of the Leven and beyond, was what afforded him most joy in his position. He dreamed of stepping outside those walls, and having power over those little people who dwelled in the wider world. Indeed, he clutched in his hand a sealed message he needed delivered to Lancaster to await the arrival of the Papal Legate. The joint epistle from King and Legate had been a burdensome worry, with its demands for money. But it offered an opportunity for the prior to meet the Legate and impress him with his abilities. Now all his aspirations could be shattered by a heap of old bones.
