A Psalm for Falconer

by Ian Morson

  Though given his orders, Ralph was still perturbed by the prior's mad activity, and only stirred himself to action when Ussher's impatient glare fell full on him. He scuttled off to find Ellen Shokburn.

  Having learned that his saviour was still alive, though grievously hurt, Falconer began the return journey to Conishead. The ironmaster would live to battle with ore again, whether it be the solid bloom that came from the old furnaces, or molten flux from the new. He would not walk very easily, but he could still bully his underlings into sweating shape into the iron. Falconer cursed under his breath when he realized he still had not asked the man his name. At the time he had been too glad to retreat from the confines of the mean and odorous lean-to where the man lay, his face still strangely grey and clammy. Falconer was never at ease with illness – his own or others'.

  Now the quiet of the track leading down the river bank restored his humour, and he once again went through the facts he had gathered about the monks at Conishead Priory. It was as Fridaye de Schipedham said, a house of secrets. And John Whitehed seemed to have the most. He had been stealing and selling books for years, in order to pay for his alliance with the mysterious Isobel. Odd, though, that Falconer just did not see him as a breaker of the monastic vow of celibacy. Such an obsequious, frightened little man. Falconer reserved judgement on who had been uncelibate. Who else harboured secrets? Thady Lamport was undoubtedly mad, and he had drawn an accurate picture of John de Langetoft's death by stabbing. Only if he had been there could he have known what happened – seen it or perpetrated it. Brother Ralph had no possible links with the deaths, so far as Falconer could tell. Which left the prior, Henry Ussher. He was in the vicinity of the ironworks when Adam Lutt was killed, and had falsified papers to accuse Lutt of embezzling priory funds. Had he done this in order to counter a blackmail threat by Lutt, and had Lutt known something that John de Langetoft had also known, to his cost? Death had been the price for the camerarius's breaking the vow of poverty.

  De Langetoft and Ussher had been intense rivals for the post of prior. Breaking the vow of obedience could certainly be laid at both their doors. And de Langetoft could well have known something about Ussher that he would have preferred to keep secret. But had it been reason enough for Ussher to kill de Langetoft?

  And then there was the matter of Grosseteste's missing books. None of them had been borrowed by the sacrist, so they did not fit into the pattern of the books stolen by him. Not taken by John Whitehed, then, but missing nevertheless. Falconer felt sure the books had something to do with whatever was Ussher's secret, and his examination of the library catalogue had furnished him with some intriguing facts. Yes, the prior had some answers to provide. The Oxford master began to stride more determinedly along the muddy track, as the questions to ask formed themselves in his mind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If Henry Ussher was travelling to Lancaster, he would normally take the longer land route round the head of both the Leven and the Kent. This would allow him to ride on horseback, and transport the several trunks of clothing that he usually deemed his dignity to require. But today's journey was precipitate, and the need to be in Lancaster on the morrow demanded he travel on foot across the sands of both Leven and Lancaster Bay. The boy, Jack Shokburn, had been spoken to, and had agreed reluctantly to take the prior across the vast expanse of Lancaster Bay in the gathering gloom that the tide time demanded. It was either that or wait for dawn. And Henry Ussher wanted none of that – he needed to make the journey now. The final preparations were in the making, and the youth was to go ahead to prepare lamps for the crossing.

  But first Ralph escorted him to the camerarius's empty office, to get the coins that the prior insisted Jack be paid for his inconvenience. The sullen youth stood rubbing his chapped hands together as Ralph opened the chest, which till now had been Adam Lutt's responsibility, and extracted a small leather bag. The coins were counted into the youth's hand where they lay sparkling in the candlelight. The door flew open at that moment and Falconer rushed in.

  ‘Ah, Brother Ralph, I've found you at last. I have news of John de Langetoft's murderer.’

  He stopped abruptly as Shokburn turned round. He had not recognized the youth's back, and now wished he had not spoken up so openly. It would not do for him to hear Falconer's theories. Realizing that the master was embarrassed by his outburst, Ralph Westerdale dismissed the youth, and hustled Falconer out of the dormitory and round to his own simple room. When they were settled either side of the bare table, Ralph spoke.

  ‘Let's not tell everyone about our little … difficulty.’

  He was angry, knowing that unpleasant rumours were already circulating about John Whitehed, and that young Shokburn could easily have confirmed them, if Falconer had said any more. It would not do for the local people to lose their respect for the priory and its residents. He asked Falconer for the news about the missing sacrist. A frown crossed Falconer's features.

  ‘Why should I know about John Whitehed?’

  ‘But you said you had news of him.’ Ralph was getting exasperated with this obtuse academic.

  ‘News of Whitehed? No, I said I had news of John de Langetoft's murderer, and I believe him not to be Whitehed.’

  ‘Who could it be, then?’

  Falconer leaned forward, and smiled knowingly. ‘I must see the prior first.’

  Westerdale gasped, and threw up his hands in horror. ‘You cannot suspect the prior of the deed, surely?’

  Before Falconer could reply there was a scraping sound from the other side of the door. The Oxford master rose swiftly to his feet, and flung the door open. There was no one on the other side. He peered across the cloister, his lenses held up to his eves. All he could see was the retreating back of Jack Shokburn. Why was he still around? Had he gone to the kitchens to beg some food, or had he been listening outside Westerdale's room? He shrugged his shoulders, and stepped back inside. A whitefaced Westerdale still awaited his reply. Instead, Falconer asked another question.

  ‘Did you know that Henry Ussher borrowed the Grosseteste books before they were lost?’

  Brother Ralph's face betrayed the fact he did, but still he blustered. ‘How could you possibly know that? We are talking about something that happened more than fifteen years ago.’

  Falconer laid his hands on the massive catalogue that lay between them, swivelling it round to face Westerdale. ‘Thady Lamport's records were sketchy at the end, but he still wrote down who took which book from the library. Look here.’

  He flipped the tome open where he had inserted a scrap of parchment, and poked an accusing finger at the page. ‘Here. It reads “HU – 349”. And here.’ He turned a page and stabbed down with his finger again.

  ‘It reads “HU – 345”. And there are other entries, too. Item 344, and so on. HU – Henry Ussher. Now look up the entries in the catalogue for items 344 and 345 and 349. Or should I say look them up on the stolen page. For that is where they are recorded.’

  He flattened the crumpled page on the table top.

  ‘Item 344 – De luce, originally property of Bishop Grosseteste. Item 345 – De sphera, originally property of Bishop Grosseteste. Item 349 – De infinitate lucis – Grosseteste.’

  Ralph sighed and hung his head in silence, so Falconer pressed on.

  ‘What was a man who professes to uphold Augustine's doctrine that anything not in the Bible is wrong doing with such … startling works? I mean, I know that the bishop asserts in De sphera that per certa experimenta the stars are not fixed in the heavens. And demonstrates that the world is round by showing that the Pole Star, high in our sky, is low to the horizon in the Indic lands. Did Ussher think that by hiding the books he could hide the knowledge also?’

  Ralph became agitated, rising from the table and pacing the room. ‘No, no. You have it all wrong. The prior has always been a man of infinite curiosity.’

  ‘What was he doing with the books, then?’

  Ralph gulped, his mind racing. At last he sp
oke. ‘Copying the experiments written down by the bishop.’

  *

  As Brother Henry fiddled with the lens, he asked Brother Thady to read him the section from the book again. The cadaverous monk lifted the heavy tome in his hands and held it to the weak dawn light that filtered through the shutter on the window arch.

  ‘He says that in optics light – he uses the word “lux” here – symbolizes the highest form of perfection. Lux produces lumen, his other word for light, from nothing, much as God produces creatures out of nothing. Light is the “prima forma corporalis” of Creation spreading to the limits of the universe in the first moment of time.’

  ‘The “prima forma corporalis”,’ muttered Brother Henry reverently. He set the prism, a piece of glass he had obtained with great difficulty, in proximity to the lens, and arranged it so the first beams of sunlight would shine on the wall of the room. Thady set the book down and frowned at the arrangement of metal armatures and glass. He was getting more and more perturbed about Brother Henry's efforts. What did he call this? Oh yes, finding out from his own experience – “per experientiam propriam”. He called it an experiment.

  ‘Why should we need to repeat what Grosseteste has already shown?’

  Henry tutted in exasperation. ‘I have already told you. The bishop says there is a world of difference between knowing a truth solely from a book, and knowing it from personal experience. To know that something is so is a lower knowledge than to know why it is so. I seek that higher knowledge of why.’

  ‘And what will this … arrangement do?’ Thady waved his hands once again at the lens and prism. Henry stepped forward and shielded his set-up.

  ‘Careful. It has taken me an age to align them, and you nearly ruined it all with one wave of your clumsy fingers.’

  Thady clenched his bony fists together and thrust them out of harm's way up the sleeves of his habit. Henry recovered his temper and tried to explain.

  ‘Grosseteste avers God is light – “Deus lux est”. This experiment should draw perfect light through the celestial spheres on to this wall.’

  Thady was getting frightened. ‘The bishop also said before he died that the Pope was Anti-Christ, and the Church would not be freed from servitude except by the edge of a bloody sword.’

  Henry snorted. ‘That was mere politics. This is science.’

  He strode over to the window and flung open the shutter, letting the early rays of the sun fall on the crude lens. This lens in its turn focused light on the block of glass that was the prism. Both monks turned their gaze to the wall, one eagerly, the other with apprehension. What they saw filled them with horror.

  ‘And he really thought he had dissipated the very matter of the universe?’

  ‘It's what drove Brother Thady finally mad. He thought they had shattered the very essence of God, and he ran off. The prior – Brother Henry as he still was then – came to me that same morning. It was the first time I had seen him not in control of himself. He told me to find Thady and care for him. He had the prism in his hand and he threw it to the floor – ground it under his foot. As for the books, I was later told he had locked them away in the cupboard in the prior's quarters. For all I knew they were still there when you came. I did not discover until yesterday that they too were missing.’

  Ralph shuddered at the recollection of the incident, and could not understand why Falconer was smiling at such an horrific event. Falconer, for his part, saw in Ralph's eyes what effect such a simple happening as the splitting of light through a prism into its constituent parts had had on the monk. His superstitious fear of a natural and scientifically predictable event was as harmful as Thady Lamport's fear of cloud-ships and their inhabitants. Perhaps it was something in the remoteness of the spot that created demons in the minds of those who lived here. Falconer thought it best to keep his counsel, and asked him what happened next.

  ‘And did you find Thady?’

  Ralph shook his head. ‘It was days before he returned, and by then his mind was gone. The experiment had been too much for him.’

  Falconer smiled grimly. ‘I think it was more than the experiment that night that turned his head. I believe he saw the murder of John de Langetoft also.’

  Ralph's jaw dropped. ‘And never spoke all these years?’

  Falconer's response was cryptic. ‘Perhaps he thought the death was divine retribution. But tell me, if John de Langetoft knew about these experiments, do you think him capable of using the knowledge against Henry Ussher?’

  ‘If he knew about them, he would feel duty-bound to inform his superiors in our Order, whether it benefited him or not. His sense of righteousness knew no limits. That it should also benefit him would no doubt add a certain pleasure to the revelations, though.’ He paused. ‘Do you think that was reason enough for the prior to kill him? And Adam Lutt, who may have “inherited” that secret also?’

  Falconer pondered on this thought. Once again, Thady Lamport's voice echoed inside his skull, conjuring up three words – Obedience, Poverty, Celibacy – the three substantial of monastic life. He knew now that of those the third, celibacy, was the key, and was about to respond to Ralph's surmise when the door to the precentor's room burst open. It was Brother Paul, his face flushed from having rushed straight from the gatehouse. He could hardly gasp his message out.

  ‘The lay brothers – they've found him.’

  ‘Who – John Whitehed?’

  Paul nodded vigorously, his eyes wide open. Falconer sat him down in a chair and made him take deep breaths, until he was able to get out the rest of the story. John Whitehed had been seen on the outskirts of Hest Bank, right across Lancaster Bay. The lay brothers who had spotted him had not had the common sense to keep quiet and follow him. Instead, one of them had called out, then had all but lost the fleeing monk again amidst the narrow wynds. Fortunately, his pursuers had seen him ducking into a hovel in the meanest part of the village, and had cornered him.

  ‘They broke down the door, though that took little effort. And found the sacrist in the arms of a woman. Or rather she was in his. They've brought them both back with them.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘In the church. Brother John expressed a desire to pray.’ Falconer rushed round the cloister to the church door, with Ralph in pursuit as fast as his short legs could carry him. Inside the church, the last rays of a weak afternoon sun filtered down on the bowed head of the little sacrist before the altar. Seated on the bench at his side was the notorious Isobel, for whom he had risked all. Her face was in shadow, and Falconer walked slowly over to her. She was rocking gently backwards and forwards, no doubt fearful of the predicament that she had suddenly found herself in. Falconer stood before her, and spoke quietly.

  ‘My lady.’

  Isobel leaned forward at the sound of a friendly voice, and her face came into the shaft of light. Falconer grimaced, and knew his suspicion that Whitehed was not the breaker of the vow of celibacy was correct. Her features were plain, almost coarse, and her hair lank and grey. Her tongue played languidly at the corner of her thin lips. Most obvious were her eyes. Deep and brown, they showed no evidence of intelligence whatsoever. She was an idiot.

  ‘Please leave her alone.’

  The voice of the sacrist spoke at his shoulder, and Falconer looked at the anguish in those eyes. So different from poor Isobel's.

  ‘She doesn't understand any of this. Or what is happening to her.’ Whitehed swept his gaze across the whole congregation who had gathered in the gloom of the church to witness his discomfiture. ‘You don't understand. I have been taking care of her since she was born. No one else would.’

  His eyes bored into Falconer's.

  ‘She's my sister.’

  Ann once again stood waiting for Peter Bullock on the flat plain of Port Meadow. She was sure she felt the same excitement she had seen in William's eyes when he knew he had solved a particularly tortuous mystery. All that was left were a few brush strokes to complete the entire picture.
She prayed that Peter would be able to provide them. She had sent him to Woodstock, where the de Hardyng family still lived, with questions to ask about Eleanor's sister. He had also been commissioned to enquire for the existence of a particular student amongst the hundreds that thronged Oxford. A chill breeze blew along the valley, whipping up little wavelets on the normally placid river. Ann's own emotions were equally turbulent – had she solved the mystery? Just as the sun was sinking redly behind the scudding clouds, and Ann had almost given the constable up, she saw a plodding figure crossing the meadow towards her. It had the unmistakable lurching gait of Peter Bullock. She was scarcely able to control the thudding of her heart. What if she was wrong? But she couldn't be – she was so sure. She hurried towards him, but could read nothing in his lined, impassive face as they approached each other. Finally they stood face to face.

  ‘Well?’

  Bullock sighed. ‘The first part was easy. Yes, he is a student in Oxford. But as for the other part … it was a wasted journey.’

  Ann's face fell, and Bullock felt impelled to explain. ‘All the way to Woodstock to find there is no sister. I don't know who told you there was.’

  Ann grabbed the astonished Bullock by the arms and danced an impromptu jig, twirling him around. ‘Thank you, Peter. Now I know the truth.’

  *

  At Conishead, the whole truth was not long in coming. John Whitehed had hidden it for so long, it was like opening the floodgates to the priory fishponds after a drought. His sister's was a difficult birth during which their mother had died. Something had gone wrong, and it was soon obvious to the wet nurse that little Isobel was not normal. Talk of disposing of the scrap of life shocked the young boy who was John Whitehed, and he vowed to look after his sister while she lived. That had proved a bigger burden than he had at first imagined. Once grown, she had been sent to a nunnery by their father. But when he had died, and the nunnery no longer received donations from the family, John was left to cope with her on his own. He was by then making his way in Conishead Priory, and had arranged for someone to care for her in Hest Bank. But money was still required to pay the woman who looked after her. And poverty was one of Whitehed's sacred vows. That was when the sacrist had started stealing books to sell.