A Psalm for Falconer

by Ian Morson

  Indeed, that was the main problem – he had got no further than the gates. The abbess, the Lady Gwladys, had forbidden him from setting foot inside the buildings that made up the core of Godstow Nunnery. So far he had only succeeded in talking to each of the inmates through an impenetrable grille that afforded him no glimpse of the nuns' faces. How could even Master Falconer be expected to distinguish truth from lies, when the speaker's expression was thus rendered invisible? He had to find a way to interrogate the nuns face to face, or at least provide a substitute who could do this for him. Of course, it would have to be a woman in order to satisfy the harridan who ruled over the nuns' little world. But whom could he trust to serve his need? And what would Falconer have done?

  The minute he thought of Falconer, a solution sprang into his head, and he smiled a wicked smile.

  ‘Take care as you cross the rocks – the weed is slippery. But the footing gets better as we reach the sand.’

  The youth, who said his name was Jack Shokburn, led the way over the rocky foreshore and down on to the flat reaches of the dark brown sand. His long, blond hair hung low over his forehead, framing a face already dark-tanned by his outdoor occupation. Falconer imagined that the sun, reflecting off the sheets of water that formed the bay, soon turned every rosy-cheeked child into a leathery-faced denizen of this region. The youth was tall for his age – Falconer judged him to be no more than twenty – and well muscled, though slim. Sinewy was the word that sprang to the master's mind. His cheap robe of brown fustian was extensively patched and his legs and feet were bare.

  ‘Let me take your saddlebag,’ he offered as Falconer gingerly picked his way across the slippery seaweed clinging to the rocks they were crossing.

  Falconer gripped the bag tightly. ‘Thank you, but I will hang on to it myself. I regret it's full of books, and not the lightest of burdens.’

  Jack shrugged his shoulders, and strode off across the muddy margin to the open bay. At first his direction puzzled Falconer, for he seemed to be walking out to sea, not towards the hump of promontory across the bay which he presumed to be their goal. But the youth turned and clearly signalled Falconer to follow him with a wave of his arm. The master set off in the same direction, his boots sinking into the slimy mud that coated the foreshore. Dampness penetrated the cracks and fissures in his boots and he was glad eventually to reach firmer sand. Ahead of him, Jack Shokburn had stopped beside a bush growing incongruously in the featureless ridges of the sand, and was waiting for Falconer to catch him up.

  ‘There's the next brobb,’ he said as Falconer approached, and he pointed off at an angle. Without his eye-lenses, Falconer could see nothing and questioned the strange word.

  ‘Brobb?’

  ‘It's a marker, so I know where to go avoiding the quicksands.’

  He gestured at the bush near his bare feet. Falconer realized it was not growing from the sand as he had imagined, but was a mature laurel branch thrust into the sand by the youth.

  ‘First we must cross the Keer and then the Kent. So I suggest you take your boots off. Unless you want them ruined.’

  Falconer could not imagine them being worse than they were already. He looked down. A line of salt was already forming around the wet, mud-spattered toe-end of each. But he leaned on the youth's shoulder and, hopping ungracefully, yanked his boots off and pushed them under the flap of his saddlebag. When he was ready, Jack Shokburn stepped into the swift-flowing stream, whose waters eventually reached his knees. Now Falconer knew why the youth habitually went bare-legged. He hoisted his own shabby robe up around his thighs and, making sure his precious load of books was safely slung across his shoulders, stepped into the icy waters.

  The pull of the river on his legs was strong, and he hesitated in the middle feeling the grainy, shifting sand beneath his toes. He heard an involuntary cry that at first he took for a seagull, but when it came again he recognized it for a human voice. Looking upstream he saw some indistinct dark shapes huddled by the far bank of the river he was fording. He thought of calling his guide, but Jack was already clear of the stream, and plodding off to his next laurel brobb. Falconer fumbled in the pouch at his waist for his eye-lenses, dropping the hem of his robe in the process. His fingers closed on the metal of the device, and he raised it to his face, careful not to drop it in the water where he might never recover it. The shapes he had spotted upstream were indeed human, and they seemed to be digging feverishly in the riverbank. One stood up for a moment, and the sun glinted off something he lifted from the mud.

  Falconer was suddenly aware that Jack was calling him, and pointing to his feet. He remembered the youth's mention of quicksands, and pulled his legs from the clinging silt. Lifting his now thoroughly soaked robe out of the water, he climbed up on to the bank of the river and hurried towards his guide. As he approached, he gesticulated with the lenses that he still held in his right hand.

  ‘What might they be doing?’

  The youth squinted towards the little group of people clustered at the edge of the Keer, but they were too far away. It was impossible to make out clearly what their actions represented. He shrugged indifferently – it seemed to be his main means of expression – and turned on the final leg of his winding course across the Lancaster sands to the shoreline of Humphrey Head. With one more look over his shoulder, and his lenses safely stowed back in his pouch, Falconer too walked on.

  The knock that came at Peter Bullock's spartan quarters at the base of St George's Tower woke him from his doze. He was surprised that he had been asleep, remembering that he had eaten a small repast consisting of bread, cheese and ale. Not enough ale to send him to sleep, surely. Perhaps the years were creeping up on him, and he was turning into a mewling infant again. The tentative knocking became more insistent, and he shook his head to clear his senses.

  ‘I'm coming. I'm coming. Don't batter the door down.’

  Not that anyone could possibly effect such a deed. The door, his quarters, and the dungeon below had all been constructed to withstand the mightiest of onslaughts on this end of the city of Oxford. The new city walls were sturdy enough – the old castle at the city's western end was impregnable. A suitable residence for the town constable, charged by the burghers of Oxford with keeping the unruly hotchpotch of students, merchants, sturdy clerics, and passing travellers in some sort of order. An old soldier, Peter Bullock used every artifice he had learned in battle, and in the gaming between battles, in order to keep the peace. He preferred the art of gentle persuasion. But if force were needed, he was still capable of swinging his trusty sword – even if all he did was bring the flat of the blade down on someone's crown, giving the malefactor a sore head rather than splitting it open. His reputation, and the sight of his bent back and leathery face, was often enough to subdue all but the rowdiest drunk.

  But perhaps age was getting the better of him at last. He yawned cavernously as he swung the heavy door open, only stifling the gape with his calloused fist when he realized it was a lady who stood before him. Her figure was a little fuller than when last he had seen her, but none the worse for that. Her golden hair was half hidden beneath the net she habitually wore, but its lustre was as great as he remembered. What pleased him most, and had done when he first saw her, was that she stood tall and fearless. Now a gentle smile played over her clear, even features, and her voice chimed on his ears.

  ‘Do you cultivate the mien of an ogre to frighten your citizens, or does it come naturally?’

  Bullock ruefully scrubbed his whiskery chin, and a grin split his wrinkled face. ‘You always knew how to compliment a man, my lady Segrim.’

  ‘Well, am I to be allowed in? Or are we to conduct this conversation on your threshold?’

  Bullock laughed – Ann Segrim had not changed, and he was glad of it. She would need all her wits about her for what he was going to request of her.

  Ralph Westerdale scurried along two sides of the cloister, his sandals slapping on the cold stone slabs. That the precentor and librari
an of Conishead Priory should have his office on the opposite side of the cloister to the main book presses spoke eloquently of the triumph of comfort over convenience. The cupboards housing most of the five hundred books at Conishead were positioned in recesses on either side of the entrance to the chapter house. Ornate semicircular arches defined all three doorways. In contrast, the office of the precentor was a small partitioned area of the undercroft below the lay brothers' dormitory. More important, it stood next to the kitchens. But at times such as these the human comfort of daily warmth compensated little for the inconvenience of having to shuttle back and forth between office, book presses and library carrels.

  The sound of his sandals forewarned three of his brethren, who were solemnly pacing the cloister, of his approach. They stepped aside and smiled indulgently as the short, rotund monk puffed past them. He disappeared into the first book press like an oversize mouse into a hole. As the other monks passed the cupboard at a more leisurely pace they heard Brother Ralph clicking his tongue in exasperation.

  The precentor's problem was that he had neglected to check the catalogue against the library itself. Ten years he had carried out his responsibilities, and he had not thought to make a complete check of all the books there were supposed to be in the collection. Now this regent master was coming from Oxford, and he couldn't find several of the texts that were in his care. He could only hope that they were merely misplaced – that a brother had borrowed them without permission, or that they had been erroneously shelved in the small vestry collection, or the dorter cupboard. He would simply have to check everything.

  He wondered if he should tell Henry Ussher, the prior, who would be very concerned about the specific texts that were missing. But he decided it was too soon to admit to such a dereliction of his duties. He should first be certain whether the texts were missing or not – time enough to admit failure when he was sure they were. His stomach rumbled in protest, already guessing that the urgency of his task would mean a delayed repast this afternoon. Ralph Westerdale stepped back into the cloister and carefully locked the book press door behind him. No other texts had better go astray.

  As Ralph traversed the two sides of the cloister on his return journey to his office, he noticed the cellarer emerging from the passage that divided his office from the kitchens. Brother Thady Lamport was a cadaverous man whose habit hung on his spare frame like an oversized sack enclosing old bones. His skeletal face was dominated by the sunken pits of his eyes, and many a novice at Conishead was fearful of his devilish stare. He had a manner to go with his unprepossessing mien, and most of his brothers avoided him.

  Ralph presumed he had come from the kitchens or the outer courtyard, and had not been seeking him. However, the cellarer started up the bottom of the cloister, putting him on a course to meet Ralph near the intersection of the west and south ranges. Just in case he was wanted, the precentor prepared for the encounter, and for his part was ready with a friendly benediction. But as he turned the corner, all he was presented with was the back of Brother Thady disappearing rapidly m the opposite direction. The monk had abruptly turned round and retreated from him. Ralph puffed out his cheeks in annoyance – the community at Conishead was too small to permit of any longheld grudges. Life would be intolerable otherwise. The fact that Ralph now held the very post formerly occupied by Brother Thady was no reason to snub him.

  ‘You want me to enter a nunnery!’ Ann Segrim couldn't believe what she had heard from the lips of the constable.

  ‘Not permanently.’

  ‘I'm glad to hear it.’

  ‘Just for a while. What's it called? On …?’

  ‘Retreat. An old warrior like you should know the word.’

  Ann could not resist the jibe. Peter Bullock's face tightened, then he exploded with a rasping sound that Ann interpreted hopefully as laughter. She joined in with her own more melodious peal. When they had both regained their composure, it was Bullock who spoke first.

  ‘You're right. An old warrior is one who knows when a battle is lost. Leave honour to those who want to die young and virginal.’

  There was a moment's silence, and in response to the unspoken question Bullock told her that Falconer was not in Oxford, and unlikely to be back for several weeks. Lady Ann was silent, and Bullock wondered when she and Falconer had last seen each other. That she was married, and he was supposed to remain unmarried while a regent master at the university of Oxford, made for an interesting relationship: more curious in that it had sprung up while Falconer was investigating a murder that Ann's husband, Humphrey Segrim, might well have committed. That he was not guilty, and in the process of the investigation Falconer had returned him from the dead, made the thought of their trysts even more exotic. Still, it was not for the constable to wonder on the antics of his friend – he had a murder to solve, and he believed Ann Segrim was the only one who could help him.

  ‘There's been a death at Godstow.’

  A solemn cast fell across Ann's handsome features. ‘And you think it's murder?’

  ‘I wish I knew. The abbess won't even let me on the premises to see the body. I have to question the nuns through an impenetrable grille that tells me nothing of their state of mind. All I know is the Lady Gwladys must think it's murder, or why should she have called for my services? She could have simply buried the unfortunate, and there would have been an end of it.’

  ‘So you want me to enter the nunnery and ask your questions for you?’

  Bullock's response was almost too eager. ‘Yes. You are the right sex, after all. And—’

  He broke off before he said too much, but Ann finished his statement for him. ‘And my, er, proximity to Regent Master Falconer may have allowed some of his technique to brush off on me.’

  Bullock examined the toe-ends of his scuffed boots. ‘Well, I wouldn't have put it like that, exactly. But if anyone can penetrate the veil of secrecy in the nunnery, you can.’

  Ann was not sure whether the punning allusion to veils was consciously coined, but she thought it fitting nevertheless. And the thought of outdoing Regent Master Falconer at his own game appealed to her.

  ‘My husband is away on business at the moment. I will speak to the abbess this very day.’

  The constable's relief at her acquiescence was palpable, for he too relished the idea of solving a murder without recourse to his old comrade. Successful, he would constantly remind Falconer of his prowess. If he personally had to retreat in deference to a more suitable candidate for the chase, then so be it. Defeat could not be countenanced.

  Falconer's first sight of Conishead Priory was from the opposite bank of the Leven estuary. Having completed the crossing of Lancaster Bay in the taciturn company of his youthful guide, his trek up and over the hump of the Cartmel headland had been conducted in solitude. For the normally loquacious Oxford master, this had been almost unbearable, and he had longed to encounter a fellow traveller. At the place called Sandgate, on the shores of the Leven, his wish had been fully granted. Guiding wayfarers across the Leven Sands from this point was the responsibility of the monks of the priory, ably carried out on this occasion by two garrulous characters – Brother Peter and Brother Paul. Their faces were bland, rounded and well scrubbed and, though each introduced himself, Falconer soon could not tell one from the other, referring his questions to a composite “Peter-Paul”.

  They had been forewarned of his possible arrival, and hurried him straight on to the flat expanse of mud. They explained that the tide would soon sweep in and make the crossing impossible. In order to reach the priory without waiting for the falling tide would then require a lengthy and tiring detour inland to the bottom of Furness Fell. “Peter-Paul” could not contemplate such a delay and sped on ahead, their voices ringing out with inane chatter. This part of the journey was nothing compared to the crossing of the great sweep of Lancaster Bay, and the river to be crossed no more than a stream.

  The sun was already beginning to sink lower in the sky, and the cleft of the ri
ver valley was rather gloomy. Falconer thought he heard a hollow, thumping sound, and peered round to gauge where it came from. It seemed to echo from the wooded slopes on both shores, so he looked out to sea. Sitting at the neck of the river estuary, like a cork in a wine bottle, was the dark and dismal outline of a tree-covered rocky outcrop. The position of the sun behind it and his poor eyesight afforded him no detail of the island. But as he stared, he was convinced he saw a movement in the trees – a flash of something white.

  ‘Peter, Paul, what is that island?’

  Peter, or possibly Paul, turned to face him. ‘What, Harlesyde Island?’

  ‘Does anyone live there?’

  Peter-Paul grimaced, and rubbed his stomach. ‘If you can call it living. There is a chapel on the island, and it is occupied by a Hospitaller. His name is Fridaye de Schipedham.’

  He scurried off to catch up with his comrade, his sandals making loud squelching noises as they slapped on the mud. Suddenly both brothers seemed at a loss for words, and an involuntary shudder ran down Falconer's backbone. He looked back at the island, but there was now no sign of life. What was evident was that the tide had turned. Water lapped at the base of the island, and would soon cut it off from the outside world. Falconer hurried on in silence to escape the oncoming waters, but as he scrambled up the bank to the shore he once again heard the eerie regular thudding sound. It seemed inhuman, almost unworldly.

  Chapter Three

  Falconer awoke with a start, not knowing at first what had roused him. Was it the inhuman thump again, or had he simply dreamed that? Something had intruded on his weary repose. Then he heard it – the solemn tolling of the priory bell. He sat up and thrust the coarse woollen blanket off his body. The long, communal sleeping room that was the priory guest house was cold and not a glimmer of light came in through the open window arch. His breath came out in icy plumes from his lips, and he shivered, pulling the blanket back round him. He had only been asleep for a few hours, and felt bone-wearily tired.