by Ian Morson
‘Eleanor was not observant of the rules. Before Sister Gwladys came she used to deck her robe with ribbons bought by the gatekeeper's son in Oxford. And her family stayed here often before the bishop forbade it. She … entertained in her cell.’ Her eyes were as round as platters as she listed the horrors of Eleanor's unruly life. ‘She didn't like it when Sister Gwladys changed everything, and applied the rules strictly. And there were one or two others who took her side at first. Sister Gwladys punished them.’ She spoke the last words with relish, and perhaps a little regret that she could never be so evil as to merit righteous punishment. ‘But Eleanor still defied the abbess.’
Ann was shocked. ‘Wait. Are you suggesting that …?’
Gilda's eyes were now enormous. ‘I am afraid that the abbess might have got a little carried away with her punishment.’
Henry Ussher was beginning to think that matters were getting out of hand. He was so perturbed that he had barely been able to get through vespers. He hoped that the others had not noticed the tremor in his voice. But everyone must have heard when the prayer book slipped from his fingers and crashed to the ground. The echoes of the noise still rang around his skull. It was that damned regent master's stare that had unnerved him. After completion of the service, he had hurried off to his rooms, ignoring even Lutt's call asking after his health.
In fact, Lutt presented another problem. He could barely cope with the matter the camerarius had presented him with this very afternoon. Had it really been within the compass of one day that so many disasters had occurred? It had begun with the announcement of the discovery of a body in the bay. Nothing unusual in that – many fools were caught in the tide or by the quicksands. To discover it was the body of de Langetoft had been a blow. He had hoped that fifteen years had wiped away all possibility of his rival's returning to trouble his advancement. Now his bones lay in the chapel in mute accusation. Even that misfortune could have been overcome if the meddling Falconer had not spotted the cross. The prior did not doubt that his actions in taking the cross from the Oxford master would only delay discovery, not prevent it. But he was adept at weaving tales to obscure the truth.
His next step must be to spirit Thady Lamport away, something he should have done long ago. Fifteen years ago, when all this started.
The thin monk's skull-like face creased in perplexity. He could understand the bishop's thesis, expounded by Brother Henry, that ‘lux' begat ‘lumen' by multiplying a likeness, or ‘imago', of itself in all directions without reference to time or space. Much as God created man in his own image. And he knew enough of astronomy to know that the light from the stars affected men differently, just as each celestial sphere affected the lower spheres with its light. What he could not understand, no matter how he tried, was the conflict between Grosseteste's assertion that light was ‘inextensa' – unextended in itself – yet propagated itself in straight lines, or extensions.
The tension in his head was building intolerably, and the pain interfered with his visions. He wished that Brother Henry had not drawn him into his affairs. It was the talk of the other brothers that the long friendship between Henry and John had ceased with some acrimony. Now Brother John skulked around the priory muttering that he was going to reveal to superior authority certain ungodly acts of his former friend. Thady had no wish to be caught in the midst of this conflict, but if there were a side to choose, he had good reason to avoid Brother John's.’
He groaned as another lightning bolt of pain crackled inside his skull. Brother Henry droned on about how he would set up the experiment, but all Thady could think about was those above, whom he had neglected so of late. The pressure of their insistent thoughts lay like an oppressive stone on the top of his head. He was fearful it would burst.
Fifteen years past, thought Henry. He had been puffed up with pride then, and imagined he could control even a madman like Brother Thady. It had been a sort of bravado not to get rid of him, a show of strength to have him around still. But now there were too many threads to the deceit, and he was a more cautious practical man these days. With Thady out of the way, there would be one less worry. He would deal with it before he left for the ironworks and Craik-water tomorrow.
Since Lutt had entered the picture, the web of lies was becoming ever more tangled. He could do as Lutt asked, but knew that would not be the end of it. No, if he were to advance his career in the church, he would have to make hard decisions sooner or later. Why not start now? If Lutt thought he could manipulate the prior, he was in for a nasty surprise. Outside his window, the darkness of the priory bore down like an unbearable weight as he planned for the morrow. If he had seen what was being enacted below, he would have wished he had acted sooner; but darkness hid the encounter.
It was late and Falconer knew that, if he were to rise early tomorrow, he would need to be abed soon. The archway under the dormitory turned the grey dusk of the cloister into an impenetrable blackness. If he had been strolling the lanes of a gloomy Oxford, he would have been on the alert for the nightwalkers' attack, but he little thought to be accosted in the sanctuary of this remote religious establishment. So when he stepped into the dark, and found himself pinned in a vice-like grip, he was too surprised to struggle.
His attacker spun him round, and he was confronted with the staring eyes of Brother Thady Lamport. The monk pressed his face close up to Falconer's and the master smelled the fishy breath that emanated from his mouth.
‘There's evil here. You can smell it.’
Falconer refrained from confirming that he could, and that it was Lamport's own fetid exhalations. Close up, the monk's eyes positively sparkled in their deep pits. Falconer could imagine Lamport cowing other souls with his look, but he had encountered too many fanatics himself to be afraid of any of them.
‘And destroying my book is going to root it out?’
‘All knowledge that is not God's must therefore be the devil's. I have tried to winkle out the evil, but it is too firmly rooted in these walls. The three Counsels of Perfection have been broken, and he who indulged his own pleasures is now placed above us.’ He stared meaningfully at the window of the prior's quarters. ‘He keeps his secret locked away.’
Falconer did not know what this riddle meant, and before he could ask the cellarer to be more clear Lamport's ravings had moved on.
‘We have brought it on ourselves, of course. Because we have failed in our task.’
‘And what task is that?’
‘To provide the fruits of the earth to those above.’
Falconer was completely lost, not knowing what the monk was saying. He tried to brush Lamport's hands from his shoulders, but the cadaverous man surprised him with the strength of his scrawny arms. His fingers dug into Falconer's flesh through his heavy robe, and Falconer found himself pushed back against the wall, deeper into the darkness. Lamport shook his head in exasperation at the Oxford man's stupidity, and spittle flew from his lips.
‘Those from the magic land, who come to us in ships. They sail in the clouds collecting grain and fruits in return for wisdom. Then they return to God, to fill in the book of our lives. We have ignored them – you have ignored them, with your petty little pursuits. Your games of logic and rhetoric.’
Falconer saw that Thady was quite mad. In his head lay cluttered a jumble of ancient lore mixed with Lamport's own version of the Christian faith. Falconer recalled cloud-ships from his youth. He remembered his own grandfather swearing that he had seen an anchor let down from one, and grappled to a fence. The rope attached to the anchor had pulled taut, as though the invisible ship was attempting to pull free. But the anchor was caught fast. Eventually a sailor had descended the rope going up into the sky, and tried to release the anchor. But before he could do so, the man died, suffocating in the lower earth's thick air. His grandfather swore he knew where the cloud-sailor's grave was, though he had never taken the young Falconer to see it. He even recalled the name his grandfather had given to the magic land the ships sailed in. Magoni
a.
Falconer's thoughts suddenly returned to the little drawing in the library catalogue. Was Lamport's drawing of a monk being stabbed connected to the death of de Langetoft? Perhaps by humouring Lamport now, he would be able to discover if it was there more than just by coincidence. Perhaps Lamport had actually seen something.
‘Was John de Langetoft taken by the cloud-ships?’
The mention of that name stopped Brother Thady in his tracks. His sparkling eyes narrowed, and retracted deeper into his skull. For a moment he held his breath, then he exhaled his fish-breath all over Falconer in a rictus of laughter. He positively brayed, and his hands fell off Falconer's shoulders.
‘Taken? De Langetoft got what he deserved. I was there. He was killed by a demon.’
Chapter Seven
For most of the monks at Conishead Priory, the following morning was like the one before and the one before that. Latest in a long and comforting procession of days that would lead inevitably to the Final Judgement. Matins was followed by lauds which preceded prime in a succession of devotions that obviated any need for dangerous and original thought. For a few, deviation from the routines of the priory heralded danger as threatening as an unexpected change in the sands of Lancaster Bay. One incautious step and all would be lost.
Adam Lutt sat impatiently through prime, aware that the prior had sent for Thady Lamport as soon as everyone had risen. Now the cellarer was nowhere to be seen – and it was odd for him to miss the services. His madness drove him to greater devotion, not lesser. Back in the corner of the dorter he used as his office, Adam fiddled with a copy of the recent circular letter to all clergy from the King and Papal Legate. It reminded clerics that the King's tithes to cover the next three years were now owed. Moreover it demanded the sum of 30,000 marks for the restoration of the King's dignity, owing to the fact that the Legate would claim the aforementioned tithes to pay Prince Edward's debts in Sicily, Apulia and Calabria. The figure was outrageous, and though there were other demands in the letter it was the money that Adam had to concern himself with. But he could not concentrate, not while John Whitehed, the sacrist, had still not returned from whatever mission had taken him away from the priory the previous day. The prior himself was absent, but then he had long ago arranged to visit the ironworks on the far side of the Leven, and the priory's fisheries at Craik-water. The circular journey would take him all day, and required an early start.
Still Lutt felt uncomfortable that the prior, the sacrist, and the cellarer were all out of his sight, even for a day. Most of all he worried about the cellarer, who had no reason to be absent. Lutt hated not knowing everything that was happening in Conishead. Knowing everything was how he had survived in a position of power for so long. There had been too much uncertainty of late – he had even had to change the location of his little treasures for fear of discovery. Now, at the very last minute, Brother Paul had delivered the message that he was to attend to the monies being spent at the ironworks immediately. Paul said it was a summons from the prior, but, if so, why had the latter not arranged for the camerarius to travel with him today? It all seemed so irregular, and Adam Lutt disliked irregularity. As he was unsure of the route across the bay on foot, he decided to take a horse and go round the long way. Even if he missed the prior, he supposed that the ironmaster would know what it was all about. At least he was sure that that interfering, but slothful, Regent Master Falconer was still safely abed.
In fact, Falconer was already up and, much to his own surprise, reasonably alert. He had adopted the routine of the priory quite quickly, and though he didn't attend matins and lauds he had woken at dawn. The icy cold water in the water-butt outside the guest house had contributed much to his state of alertness. His face still tingled from its vigorous immersion in the butt. He had slipped out of the postern gate while the inmates of the priory were in the chapter house, and now made his way to the banks of the Leven. There he had agreed to meet the guide Ralph Westerdale had said he would arrange for him.
For once, the sky was clear and birds sang from the trees that surrounded the priory. It was cold, but, wrapped in a monk's woollen travelling cloak that Westerdale had obtained for him, Falconer was glad to be abroad. He felt that he had thrown off a shroud of oppression that hung over him within the priory walls. Inside there was no privacy, and it seemed to him that everyone's very thoughts were known to everyone else. And to a man who thrived on original thinking that was very unsafe. He wondered if the murderer of John de Langetoft was known already to the monks. Had been known from the first day. He could not imagine that anyone could keep a secret inside the walls of Conishead. Perhaps he was the only one not in the secret.
Standing at the bank of the Leven, seeing the sun reflected in sparkling points of light from the receding waters of the bay, he laughed at his own sick imaginings. The gloom of the priory was having an effect on him, and he was determined to throw it off. He thought of Oxford and the perpetually optimistic procession of students that had passed through his hands. Then inevitably he imagined Ann Segrim, sitting comfortably in her manor house at Botley, with the walls of Oxford visible from the upper room she used so much. In his mind he heard her tinkling laughter, especially the peal which had come when he told her he was entering a monastery. He laughed himself now, envying her comfort.
‘It's not often I hear laughter in these parts.’
It was a woman's voice, and for a moment Falconer imagined that his thoughts of Ann had created her in the flesh. But the woman who stood at the end of the narrow track that led down to the water's edge was smaller, and dark-haired. Her face was tanned brown, like so many in these parts, and the creases of a hard working life spread from the corners of her eyes and mouth. Yet her looks were well formed, and Falconer could imagine her turning a few heads when she was younger. Still only of middle years, she would have been more attractive now if it weren't for the veil of coldness that hung over her eyes. The eyes, thought Falconer, that were claimed to cast spells. Looking at her, he felt sure it had not been occult powers that attracted men to her in years past. The words she had uttered were spoken softly, but Falconer knew there would be a hard edge to her conversation. This woman had struggled to survive.
He realized he had been gazing rather long at her. But she had returned his gaze unflinchingly and he knew his assessment of her was true.
‘You are to be my guide across the Leven, I would guess.’
‘You guess rightly.’
She offered nothing more about herself, and when Falconer showed no signs of moving she turned and made off the way she had come, throwing a comment over her shoulder. ‘You'd better stir yourself before the tide returns.’
Falconer grunted in acknowledgement and set off in her footsteps. He was slowly realizing that the inhabitants of these parts had an imposed routine as tyrannical as that of the monastery. Only this one was imposed by nature and the ebb and flow of the tide: in its own way as inexorable as the demands of worship for the monks. They stepped on to the oozing mud of the estuary and Falconer put his guess at his guide's identity to the test.
‘You must be Ellen Shokburn. Your son Jack guided me over Lancaster Bay recently.’
Once again he got no response other than a grunt. He assumed it was one of acknowledgement, and they both trudged on in silence until Falconer attempted to begin the failed conversation again.
‘Have you guided many across these sands?’
The woman snorted. ‘Don't be afraid. I know what I'm doing – I've done this since I was a child. Just because I'm a woman it doesn't mean I'm useless.’
Falconer was sure this sharp, hard-working woman was anything but useless. ‘A pity then that your father didn't teach you the secrets of Lancaster Bay. You might have been able to save the poor soul whose bones have just been brought to the priory.’
Ellen walked on a few paces before she replied. ‘If he tried to cross without my father's help, he has only got himself to blame.’
Remembering that
her father had been suspected of the death of John de Langetoft, Falconer wondered how she might respond if he said the bones had been identified. It was worth trying.
‘A monk went missing some years back – it could be him.’
The woman stopped in her tracks, and stared coldly at Falconer. He tried the name on her.
‘His name was John …’
‘John de Langetoft.’ Ellen spoke the name, but there was nothing but coolness in her eyes. If her father had murdered the monk, she either didn't know the truth or was well able to hide her fears. ‘Looks as if the weather could break up soon.’ She pointed to the mouth of the river, startling Falconer by the sudden change in subject.
He peered short-sightedly past the blur of Harlesyde Island that shimmered in the haze rising from the retreating waters around it. He could see nothing.
‘There – out to sea. There's bad weather brewing.’
Falconer was not sure, but he thought he could discern the faintest wisp of darkness low down over the furthest edge of the sea. Her eyes must have been truly sharp to spot it.
‘It should not bother us, should it?’
The woman hissed at his lack of understanding of the world he occupied.
‘It will be on us with the returning tide.’
Another man of book-learning who did not know how to read nature, she thought. Mid-winter Mass-day had fallen on a Monday, and Ellen knew as surely as the next incoming tide that it betokened a tempestuous spring, and death amongst women and kings. She felt borne down by the weight of her fatalism, and sighed. One could only live from day to day, and accept the will of God.
At the shoreline, she stopped and pointed out the way to the ironworks to Falconer. ‘When did you intend to make your return?’
‘I'm not sure. I have to speak to the prior at the ironworks. How far is that from here?’
