A Psalm for Falconer

by Ian Morson

  A sudden draught lifted the corner of the page he was staring at uncomprehendingly. He looked up at the door, and saw a hazy, white shape hovering before him. He rubbed his tired eyes again and the shape resolved itself into the ancient form of Fridaye de Schipedham. The white, wispy hairs of his long beard stirred in the breeze from the open door, and his eyes were bottomless pools of sorrow.

  Falconer tried to speak but his mouth was impossibly dry and no sound came forth. The Hospitaller seemed to drift rather than walk across the room to Falconer's side. With a start the Oxford master realized the candle that stood on the table had been extinguished by the gust of wind that had stirred the pages of the catalogue. A thin, twisting column of smoke rose from the blackened wick. Yet there was light in the room to see by. Falconer looked more closely at his silent companion. Clad only in a loincloth, the pale skin of his exposed torso had a glow of its own that illuminated the room. His face appeared more skeletal than when Falconer had last seen it. He expected the apparition to speak, but though its mouth hung slackly open no sound came forth. It was the eyes that drew Falconer, drew him down into the very soul of the troubled Hospitaller. On their surface, Falconer thought he saw some shapes that were not the reflection of the room as they should have been. Instead, he clearly saw a young knight, shrouded in a white surcoat on which was blazoned a large red cross. He instantly knew this was the youthful de Schipedham. As he stared, the Crusader's garb melted into the very robe Falconer had worn after being saved by the hermit. He stood stiffly to attention, and at the youth's feet knelt a woman, whose face was cast down to the ground. His lips moved, though Falconer could hear no sound, and the woman looked up. Her hair was raven, her eyes the shape of almonds, and her lips a voluptuous bow of red. She was undoubtedly the hermit's nameless princess, and Falconer knew why he could not have resisted her. As he watched, the young de Schipedham's stiff posture collapsed, and he drew the woman up towards him.

  The apparition blinked and suddenly, though there were still two people reflected in his eyes, their faces were different. Falconer recognized immediately who they were, and he smiled. A long sigh escaped the lips of the ancient hermit, as though a tiring penance had at last been completed. He turned towards the door, hesitated, and pointed a long finger at the catalogue in front of Falconer. The Oxford master peered at the page in puzzlement, his eyelids now heavy with sleep. He did not know if he had fallen asleep, but suddenly he jerked his head off his chest and looked up. The door was closed, and de Schipedham was gone.

  Having been plunged into darkness, Falconer fetched a lamp from the corridor outside Westerdale's room, and looked at the page again. He saw a fresh ink mark against a particular entry, then another, and another down the page. It was not the page he last remembered looking at, though. Had the wind blown the pages over? Had he marked the entries himself virtually in his sleep? Or had the hermit really come to the priory, and pointed him to the right track in some uncanny way? Truly he cared not, because he now had all the pieces of the riddle in his grasp.

  When Ralph Westerdale returned he was surprised to find Falconer poring over the catalogue, a scrap of paper at his elbow filled with numbers, and a broad smile on his face.

  NONES

  If I take my flight to the frontiers of the morning,

  Or dwell at the limit of the western sea,

  Even there Thy hand will meet me,

  And Thy right hand will hold me fast.

  Psalm 139

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Brother Paul …’

  ‘Peter.’

  ‘Brother Peter. You travelled with the prior when he visited the fishery and the ironworks recently?’

  The monk hesitated at Falconer's question. He did not want to be drawn into anything that may reflect badly on the prior. And this tutor from Oxford seemed a slippery customer, able to turn anything he might say the wrong way. Falconer knew what was in Peter's mind, and draped a friendly arm over his shoulder. As they walked along the edge of the fishponds, he cast a glance back up to the window arch he knew overlooked them. As far as his poor eyes could tell, there was no one in the camerarius's office. The only other person within sight was Ellen Shokburn, wading up to her thighs in the farthest pond. She was dragging out weed with a long-handled rake. Too far away to hear what was being said.

  Brother Peter got the message – even if he said something untoward, no one would know it had come from him. His shoulders relaxed under Falconer's arm.

  ‘Yes. The prior taxed the lay brother at the fishery severely for not supplying enough fish to restock the ponds.’ He waved a pudgy hand at the pools around them. ‘He thought the brother was being lazy. The prior is a very … active man, and expects us all to share in the communal effort.’

  Falconer was amused by Brother Peter's obvious desire to express his admiration of Henry Ussher, emphasized by the earnest look on his face. But he kept a straight face and let the monk ramble on as he described the prior's visit to ironworks and fishery. Eventually Peter came to the storm and the difficulties the little group had experienced in returning to the priory. He recounted how a peasant had gladly volunteered his hovel to the monastic party, leaving with his family to shelter in the woods. Falconer could imagine how ‘glad' the peasant had been to give up a dry roof for the damp and chilly forest. And how he had been ordered to ‘volunteer' his accommodation.

  ‘So you all sheltered there overnight?’

  Peter nodded happily, sure that he had not unconsciously betrayed the prior in any way.

  ‘And you were with the prior at all times?’

  Peter nodded so vigorously, Falconer feared for the safety of the head on his shoulders. ‘I had the pleasure to serve the prior through the whole trip. Only when he returned to the ironworks to retrieve his missing gloves was I not at his side.’

  Falconer held his breath. Dare he ask the monk to clarify what he had said, or would he just clam up and deny everything? He need not have worried – the guileless fellow simply carried on explaining.

  ‘I thought it odd at the time. For we had settled in for the night in the dry, and the prior realized he had left his gloves at the ironworks. I offered to get them myself, but he insisted that as it was his fault he should retrieve them. But to do so while it was still raining was penance indeed.’

  ‘Was he gone long?’

  ‘Oh, some time – as long as between nones and vespers.’

  Long enough to return to the ironworks and murder Adam Lutt, for example.

  ‘Have I been of help?’

  Falconer roused himself from his mental calculations, and thanked the artless monk for his assistance. He had indeed been of help, and this put a new light on the matter of John Whitehed's guilt. The prior too was in the vicinity of the ironworks at the right time, but did he have a motive? Falconer thought he knew of one. He hurried off, hardly giving a second glance to the bare, brown limbs, dripping water, that Ellen Shokburn revealed as she clambered out of the pond.

  Henry Ussher paced his office impatiently as he listened to Ralph Westerdale's report on the failure to find the missing sacrist. Several of the lay brothers had been despatched northward with instructions to comb the fells for any trace of John Whitehed. As far as they knew, he had wandered off in some unreasoned distress and needed their help. The prior was not yet ready to reveal the suspicions about the sacrist's involvement in the deaths at the priory. Ralph thought more could and should be done, but Henry Ussher had taken charge of the situation. His instructions were to be obeyed, even though Ralph privately thought they had little chance of success. If he had known that success was the last thing the prior wanted, he would have been shocked.

  Ussher was in fact more concerned about the impending arrival in the region of Ottobon, the Papal Legate. Though the relationship between the papal hierarchy and the monastic orders in England were strained – usually by the persistent demands for money that the one made on the other – the prior knew how to make use of connections in
that hierarchy. Indeed, money could be put to good effect in smoothing the path of personal preferment. The last thing Henry Ussher needed in the circumstances was rumour and scandal attached to the priory, or himself. No – much better to keep the whole matter quiet, and deal with John Whitehed when Ottobon had gone. The handful of lay brothers sent to scour the fells was more for show than to provide results. Though he did still need to pin the blame of the double murder on the sacrist, before any more awkward questions were asked. Thinking of awkward questions, he asked Westerdale where that nuisance of an Oxford master was. The response was worrying.

  ‘He's gone to the ironworks. He said he wanted to look again at what you showed him before. Said he had a scientific interest. Does that make sense?’

  The prior paled, and hurriedly dismissed the puzzled precentor.

  At the ironworks, the sullen ironmaster had been suddenly won over when Falconer said he had come expressly to see the new furnace. He had guessed it was the man's pride and joy, and that any interest shown in it would raise the esteem of the enquirer in his eyes. Falconer wondered if the prior yet knew of his destination, for he certainly would not be able to keep it secret. Secrets were impossible in the claustrophobic atmosphere of Conishead, as John Whitehed had discovered to his cost. The wonder was that the sacrist had kept his from all but one person for so long. No, the prior would know soon enough where Falconer was. Indeed, how he reacted to Falconer's visit to the foundry could provide yet more clues for the master to weave into the tapestry of his investigations. Let all the others rush hither and thither in search of John Whitehed; he was on a more purposeful track.

  When he crossed the estuary below the priory, he had wished he had an excuse to see the old hermit on Harlesyde Island. He was sure that Fridaye de Schipedham knew more than he was telling. And he still was not sure if the visitation last night had been a physical manifestation of the hermit or not. But in the early morning light there was no sign of him on the island, and Falconer felt sure he would be unwelcome unless invited. The hermit's twenty-year penance for his conduct in Outremer was saddening. Did he truly regret so much the time he had spent with his Arab princess? The vows made to his Order were harsh and cruel in Falconer's eyes. He would leave the man alone for now, but he still might have to breach Fridaye's self-imposed exile one day.

  His solitary journey across the sands, disturbed only by the call of the wading birds, gave Falconer time to mull over what he knew for sure, and what he could deduce. Though it was still possible that John Whitehed had killed on two occasions, separated by fifteen years, Falconer nevertheless had some questions about other monks at the priory: chiefly the prior's possible presence at the ironworks when Adam Lutt was killed, and the supposed embezzlement of funds by the camerarius. And he would not be content until they were answered.

  The ironmaster was uncharacteristically loquacious as he led Falconer down the track to the site of the furnace where iron could be melted.

  ‘Iron is the tool that makes us what we are, you know. Without dread of iron the common good is not preserved. Without iron innocent men cannot be defended. No field can be tilled without it, nor building built. Now I have the means to shape it as I wish.’

  Falconer felt sure he had borrowed those words from someone more learned than he. But there was still truth in them. When they reached the new furnace, the ore had already been loaded in the top of the bowl, which was now sealed. The heat from the furnace was building up as the water-powered bellows rhythmically pumped air over the coals. The Welsh ironsmith presided over the proceedings and a group of grimy workers stood ready to deal with the resulting hot liquid. One of the group – a short man with a pock-marked face – stared fearfully at Falconer. He appeared shifty, and to be sweating more than even the heat from the furnace would warrant. On another occasion Falconer might have taken more notice. But he was distracted by the ironmaster's explanation that the process had some while to run before the ore liquefied. He decided it was time to tax the man with a question about Lutt's presence at the ironworks that fateful night.

  The ironmaster looked suspiciously at Falconer before he replied. His piggy eyes, pressed deep into the bulging flesh of his reddened face, registered none of the calculation that was going on behind them. He shrugged, coming to the conclusion he had nothing to lose.

  ‘He said he had come to investigate the finances of the ironworks, though there was no reason for him to do so. Everything I undertake is carried out with scrupulous honesty.’

  Falconer could have said that he would be unique in his profession if that were the case, but he needed more from the man. He nodded and let him go on.

  ‘Mind you, he didn't have time to do what he came for. The storm interrupted all that. And I must say he was more than a little confused in the first place. He said the prior had sent for him. But you know that the prior had just spoken to me – you were here – and he gave no indication then that he had any concerns.’

  Falconer rolled around his brain the idea that the prior had secretly arranged for Adam Lutt to come here. This was more and more interesting. He pressed the ironmaster on his last point. ‘No concerns at all? About your paperwork?’

  The ironmaster's red face paled a little at the last word, but he still shook his head. Falconer pulled a piece of parchment from his pouch. It was one of the documents from Adam Lutt's desk – the one that did not tally with Lutt's accounts, and mutely accused the camerarius of embezzling the money from the sale.

  ‘Do you recognize this document?’ Falconer did not allow the ironmaster to take the parchment, but held it before his face. ‘That is your mark at the bottom, is it not?’

  The ironmaster had to grudgingly agree.

  ‘Strange that the surface looks so clean, when all the other documents that come from here are marked and stained with the honest sweat of your hands. As soon as I saw it on Lutt's desk, I thought there was something wrong.’

  The ironmaster began to deny the accusation, but the look in Falconer's eyes told him it was useless. He looked at the ground in embarrassment.

  ‘He told me to mark it. He said there was something wrong in the accounts, and this would put it right. And he said that if I didn't agree he would make sure Lutt found something wrong – at my end.’

  ‘He?’ Falconer needed to be sure.

  ‘The prior – you saw us talking about it. It was just as you were leaving the clearing that day.’

  It was clear the prior had faked Lutt's embezzlement of funds to cover something more serious. Falconer had hardly begun to think about the implications when there was a cry from behind them. The rhythmic roar of the fire as the bellows blew air across the white-hot coals was overlaid by a crackling and spitting. Suddenly the plug that held the contents of the bowl-furnace in place burst free and liquid fire poured forth. Falconer and the ironmaster had been standing nearby, Falconer with his hand resting on the sandy hollow that the molten ore was to flow into. If it had been left to the Oxford master, they would have been standing in the path of the hellish liquid still. But the ironmaster was wise to the dangers of his foundry.

  He flung himself at the not inconsiderable bulk of Falconer, and they both tumbled over on the muddy ground. As the liquid hissed into the hollow, some of it splashed over the side. The ironmaster's face, pressed close to Falconer's own, suddenly turned ashen, and a grimace contorted his face. Suddenly his body was a dead weight in Falconer's arms. The Oxford master scrambled to his feet, and dragged the now unconscious ironmaster away from the devilish liquid that dribbled sluggishly in the mud. Too late – the man's left foot was covered with a slimy grey deposit, and his boot was blackened and cracked.

  The eerie silence that reigned for a moment but lasted for an age suddenly ceased, and pandemonium broke loose. The ironworkers plunged on their master and hoisted him up in their arms. They were led by Llewellyn, whose spitting monster had bitten back at last. The ironmaster was carried away down the woodland track towards the main encampment.
All Falconer saw of him was a limp arm that dragged in the mud. He was left alone in the desolate glade where a filthy slurry steamed odiously at his feet, giving off an unnatural stench, overlaid with the smell of burning flesh, that tore at the lining of his nose. He retched, but stood his ground, and examined the site. Holding the sleeve of his robe over his face, he approached the furnace. The plug that should have held back the flow of molten iron was gone. Either it had been poorly fitted, or someone had deliberately knocked it out. There was a chance it had been a tragic accident. But the fact that the weasel-faced worker had been nowhere to be seen when the others crowded round their master made Falconer think otherwise. This had surely been another attempt on his life, and he had only been saved by the quick thinking of the unfortunate ironmaster. A man whose name he didn't even know.

  Ralph was bewildered. First the prior had dismissed him from his presence, then shortly before terce had sent for him urgently. Ussher appeared agitated, and was in the process of packing a large saddlebag with the most sumptuous of his clothes.

  ‘I must leave at once. The Papal Legate is due in Lancaster the day after tomorrow, and I must be there to meet him.’

  Ralph wondered why the prior had decided to act so late in travelling to meet Ottobon. He must have already long known the Legate's itinerary, for no one had arrived at the priory today who might have brought new information. And the way he was treating his best robes, stuffing them unceremoniously in saddlebags, was entirely uncharacteristic of the meticulous Henry Ussher. Ralph stood in the middle of the whirlwind, wondering what the prior wanted of him. He was soon told.

  ‘Bring the young bay guide here. I must speak with him about the tides, and when I might cross Lancaster Bay.’

  Ralph Westerdale nodded. ‘I will send his mother to fetch young Jack – she is working at the fishponds still.’