by Ian Morson
Deep in thought, he left his residence and hurried over to the gateway, where the message-carrier already awaited him. As he walked, he twirled the mud-covered silver cross in his fingers, trying to piece together a plan that would preserve his secret. He had recognized the cross immediately, and had managed to pluck it from Falconer's hand before any of the other monks could see it. He knew whom it had belonged to, and didn't want the man to come back to haunt him as his own memories did.
He was being sucked deeper into the complexities of Bishop Grosseteste's ideas. He now began to understand the concept of the eternity of light. God as light, the prime form carrying with it the whole matter of the universe. Grosseteste explained that the ‘primum mobile' generated the form of the celestial heavens by diffusing its light downwards. The light from the stars generated the first of the planetary spheres, and so on down until all seven spheres had been created. Then came the four spheres of elementary bodies that were under the moon. Thus in descending order each sphere affected the lower sphere by casting light, and so on down to men. What was beginning to excite Henry were the descriptions of experiments in the science described by the bishop as optics. By this means Brother Henry could see a means of capturing eternal light. He would try to set up an experiment, but he would not involve Brother John, who had mocked his previous attempts at explaining Grosseteste's concepts. He would have to think of someone else, someone who could understand the true glory of his searching. Perhaps the precentor, Brother Thady, would help. He was responsible for the books, after all.
*
All this trouble over a striving for the truth. Now he didn't know whether he could prevent the truth from emerging, but he would have to try. The insistent calling of his name brought him back to the mundane. He realized it would shortly be time for the nones service, so he expected to see the fussy little sacrist dancing attendance on him. Instead it was the altogether bulkier frame of the camerarius, Adam Lutt, which waddled in his direction.
Much as he hated the ministrations of John Whitehed, the sacrist was a harmless little man. Adam Lutt was another matter. Along with his responsibility for the accounts of the priory, he seemed to have adopted an attitude of self-importance that irritated most of those with whom he came into direct contact. And as he was in charge of the dormitory also, he was in an excellent position to make any monk's life a misery if he were crossed. But for now the man was more concerned with imitating the fawning sacrist.
‘Forgive me for interrupting you, prior, but Brother John has had to attend to other business. I am here to ensure you are ready for the service, and wondered if we might speak of a discreet matter on the way.’
Ussher was too distracted to wonder at Whitehed's desertion of the routine he so loved. He simply sighed, and, slipping the silver cross surreptitiously into the pouch at his waist, motioned for Lutt to follow him. ‘I must ensure this message is sent first.’
The camerarius fell into step with him, prattling on about inconsequential things until they reached the gate, where the messenger stood waiting. Once his letter was out of his hands, the prior's thoughts returned again to the man discovered in the sands. The bones themselves could have been passed off as those of any erring traveller caught in the quicksands or the tides that sweep up Lancaster Bay at the speed of a racing horse. Damn Albon for being so clever, and spotting the marks on the ribs, and for suggesting he was a monk. Even so, there was nothing to link the remains with Conishead. Except the cross. As Falconer was a stranger in the priory, he would not know the significance of the cross. On the other hand, Ussher could not rely on him to keep his mouth shut. No, the sooner he could be got rid of the better. Engrossed in his own thoughts, he suddenly realized he was ignoring what the camerarius was saying.
‘Now, what's this discreet matter you must raise with me?’
A sly grin played across Lutt's lips. ‘It's to do with John de Langetoft.’
PRIME
Like men who watch for the morning,
O Israel, look for the Lord.
Psalm 130
Chapter Six
Darkness had fallen, but the northern side of the cloister was lit by the scraps of light that shone through the latticework doors of the reading carrels ranged along the edge. In each carrel there was a central table shaped like an inverted V to provide a sloping support for books. Over the table was a candleholder for the winter evenings – in the summer the pierced carving of the carrel door afforded some light to read by. On each side of the table was a narrow bench, so arranged that the two occupants of the carrel faced each other. The ten carrels thus allowed up to twenty monks to read books borrowed from the library, whose presses were close at hand. The more senior members of the order were allowed to take their books to their own quarters, and read in seclusion there.
Not every carrel was occupied that evening. There were monks in the two or three together at the furthest point of the range, but the carrels nearest the book presses were empty and dark save for the third one along. There, a candle indicated occupants, but inside there was precious little reading taking place. Immediately after nones, Falconer had grabbed Ralph Westerdale's arm and dragged the precentor into the vacant carrel to question him about the priory. After about an hour of interrogation by Falconer, Ralph had stopped to light the single, fat candle that was fixed above the reading table. Its flickering light now cast long shadows that danced over the master's features as he picked the precentor's brains.
‘A tall man with dark hair. A monk who must have died at least ten years ago, judging from the bones. If you were to guess who the dead monk was, what would be the name you came up with?’
Ralph could see the candle flame reflected in Falconer's piercing blue eyes. He lowered his gaze to the scarred surface of the table, and picked at the marks with his fingernail. The silence pressed heavily on him until he eventually was moved to speak.
‘Someone who disappeared fifteen years ago, not ten, in mysterious circumstances. Someone whose absence our present prior didn't exactly regret. Indeed, the man who was camerarius and his rival for the office of prior at the time. John de Langetoft was his name. There was a suspicion that the sands guide, Shokburn, had robbed and killed him, but it could not be proved. He always wore a rather ornate silver cross, and I suppose it could have been a temptation to someone with no money or scruples. Anyway, it's too late to reopen that debate – Shokburn died several years ago. It's his grandson who now acts as guide.’
‘The youth who brought me over.’
‘The very one – the Shokburns keep the trade in the family, and pass on the secrets of the sands like something magical. The old man looked as if he was going to take the knowledge to his grave, because he only had a daughter, and women aren't admitted to the secrets. But she obliged with a boy child before the elder Shokburn expired. You could often see the old man in the middle of the bay showing the toddler how to read the sands almost before the child could walk. It used to scare Ellen – his mother – seeing her son perched on the old man's shoulders and the tide roaring in.’
‘Ellen?’ Falconer wondered why the precentor used her first name in such a familiar way.
‘Ellen Shokburn. She works here at the priory.’ In response to Falconer's querying look, he expanded. ‘Only outside the walls, of course. Though sixty years ago the priory did admit lay sisters into the house. But that was all stopped when Furness Abbey was placed in a position of superiority over us.’
Falconer detected a note of resentment even after so much time in Ralph's reference to the abbot of Furness's power over Conishead. He thought to pursue this line, but Ralph continued with his explanation.
‘We are still responsible for the crossing of Leven Sands, and Ellen sometimes takes people over the bay, and carries letters for us. Employing her was one of Ussher's first acts when he was elected prior. Some say the first and last generous act of our good prior. You see, the father of the boy ran off soon after he was born, and she was in need of some means
to support him. Ussher gave her work here. If you see her, though, take care. Some say she has the evil eye and bewitched the prior into employing her.’
Falconer looked hard at Ralph, but could not detect whether the monk was being jocular or not. He knew some took the ancient occult power of the evil eye seriously. He had even heard of a man who had run a woman through with a pitchfork, claiming she had cast a spell on him. He had successfully evaded hanging by claiming quasi se defendendo contra diabolum – self-defence against the devil. For himself, he scoffed at such superstition.
He shifted uncomfortably on the narrow seat, and eased his long legs under the table. He longed for the space of his own solar back at Aristotle's Hall – never again would he complain it was cramped. Then, in the silence, he heard a creaking sound that appeared to come from the carrel next to the one he and Westerdale were occupying. But when he leaned out to peer through the grillework of the door, he could see no illumination on either side of them. They were still alone.
‘If it is de Langetoft that lies in the chapel, who would have had reason to kill him?’
Westerdale continued his nervous picking at the splinters in the table. ‘Hmm. If you think that attaining the highest office here is sufficient cause to kill, then our present prior must be suspected. Though I do not believe he did kill de Langetoft – they were rivals but still close friends. Adam Lutt and John Whitehed were also hoping to be considered. Lutt is the keeper of accounts, and you have seen Whitehed at each of the services. He's the sacrist, the skinny one who tries to anticipate the prior's every move.’
‘Did he behave thus with the previous prior? I would have thought it wasn't a very successful way of achieving high office.’
Ralph smiled grimly. ‘The brothers didn't think so either.’ He paused. ‘And then there's Brother Thady, of course. He hates us all as sinners, but he despised John de Langetoft most of all.’
‘That's interesting. Why do you think that was?’
Ralph's brows creased in a deep frown, whether trying to recall long-past enmities, or worrying about revealing secrets best kept, Falconer could not tell.
‘Who knows what goes on in Thady's mind? The poor soul is demented and should be shut away in some solitary cell for his own good.’
Falconer clearly understood the last words to mean for the good of the other monks at Conishead, but didn't comment.
‘It seems that there are several with good reason to have killed de Langetoft.’
‘And little chance after fifteen years of discovering just who it might have been,’ said Ralph gloomily.
‘A difficult task, I grant you. But not an insuperable one. I could spare some time to talk to each of those concerned.’
The precentor leaned over the rim of the bookstand that separated the two men, and hissed at Falconer in surprise. ‘You don't mean you are going to try and discover who the murderer was yourself?’
Falconer permitted himself a wry smile. ‘I have a certain reputation in Oxford. Indeed, some say I can't resist meddling in matters that do not concern me.’
He was thinking of the former chancellor of the university, Thomas de Cantilupe, who had more than once been exasperated by Falconer's insatiable curiosity when it came to puzzling deaths. Falconer had proved time and again that the simple application of Aristotelian logic could resolve such practical problems.
‘I suppose I should start with the prior.’
‘You will have to rise early. He leaves tomorrow before matins to supervise the ironworks on the opposite bank of the Leven, then he'll be going to the fishery at Craik-water.’
Falconer groaned at the thought of another day started before dawn. Noticing this, Ralph made a suggestion.
‘The prior will be travelling on horseback, and taking the long route overland. You might catch him up on foot by crossing Leven Sands – and could therefore lie abed until after lauds.’
The final point clinched it for Falconer, and he decided that it would perhaps be interesting to intercept the prior at the ironworks. He would like to see it in operation anyway. He was about to ask Ralph if he could find a guide to take him across the Leven tomorrow when he heard another creaking sound, quickly followed by the snick of a carrel door being closed. It was very close, but by the time he had slid along the bench, disentangling his long legs from under the table, and opened their door, there was no one to be seen. He looked to left and right, but the only movement was that of the light from the farthest carrel drifting across the cloister's slab floor as the candle inside flickered and guttered in the wind. Then behind him there was a soft thud.
Turning sharply round, he saw that the door of the first carrel was swinging to and fro in the same wind that disturbed the candle flame. As he watched, it thudded shut again. He was sure the door had been firmly closed when he and Westerdale had entered the third carrel. Had someone overheard their private conversation, deliberately hiding himself in the darkness?
As darkness fell, Ann Segrim strove to read the last few sentences of her book. Her husband would have been surprised to find that she read anything other than the Bible, let alone this translation of Aristotle's Metaphysics. It was a copy loaned her by Falconer, the latest of many works she had consumed voraciously after becoming horrified at her own ignorance: an ignorance revealed at her first encounter with the regent master, and measured in its truly awesome size at their many other meetings. At first she thought that his lending her a book had been to ensure her return. Indeed that may have been the case, the first time. But when she expressed a desire to learn at the second visit, he didn't treat her request with disdain as she had been afraid he would, and had prepared a plan of study equal to that of one of his students. A backward student, perhaps, but one soon showing promise, she liked to think.
‘You're the mistress Ann.’
Once again she had been surprised by the quiet arrival of one of the nuns. She blushed and slipped the heavy Aristotle on to the bench beside her, where it was hidden by the table. It would not do for Sister Gwladys to be aware of such profane texts within the walls of Godstow. Before her stood a frail young woman whose Benedictine robes seemed to pin her insubstantial body to the ground. But her thin and angular face bore the glow of someone halfway to heaven, and Ann could imagine her praying every night for release from her earthly confinement. Now, however, there was a cloud across her features that spoiled the otherwise certain nature of her calling. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at the doorway of the library where she had found Ann Segrim sitting. Ann felt a shiver of excitement run through her, sure that at last something was going to be revealed about the death of Sister Eleanor.
Another frustrating day had passed since her conversation with the abbess, and she was none the wiser about the murder. She longed for Falconer's presence, sure that he would know what action to take. But now it would seem that the next step had come to her. Though the abbess had virtually forbidden her to question the nuns, that didn't prevent the nuns from speaking to her. And here was one who, with a little gentling, looked ready to talk. Fortunately Ann could bring her name to mind from the brief introductions that the abbess had conducted on her arrival at Godstow.
‘Sister Gilda. Please sit down.’
The nun ignored the offer made by Ann's outstretched hand, as though something stopped her from settling. And Ann's invitation had increased her agitation, as though the conflict of disobeying an older woman added to the disquiet of her already tortured mind. She continued to flit around the silent library like a butterfly in high summer, afraid of being squashed by a heavy hand. She gave another glance at the ominously open door, as though in two minds whether to escape or risk staying. Ann strode purposefully to the door and closed it, leaning against the studded oak. The act of trapping her resolved Gilda's crisis.
‘You want to know why Eleanor was … why she died?’
The question required no answer. Ann was a little surprised that her purpose had become so obvious, and wondered if Sister
Hildegard, the ancient nun present at her interview with the abbess, was as deaf as Gwladys imagined. She had certainly not spoken to anyone else about the murder in such a way as to give the impression she was anything other than a normal corrodian, seeking temporary shelter from a wicked world.
‘Why should I concern myself with whatever happened here before I came?’
As soon as she had said it, she could have cut her tongue out. In wishing to play down her involvement, she could risk permanently closing the door to her only avenue of information so far.
‘But I thought, when Sister Hildegard told us not to—’ Gilda stopped in horror.
‘Not to speak to me?’
Gilda's pale face had turned even whiter at her mistake, and her eyes quartered the room in a horror-stricken search for a way out other than the one Ann blocked with her body. If she could arrange to die on the spot and ascend to heaven, Ann felt sure she would. She tried to retrieve the situation.
‘You know, I had a younger sister once who broke one of our mother's favourite cooking pots. A poor servant was blamed for my sister's error and whipped. My sister suffered two days of agony before she sought my advice. I told her to confess – that she would feel better for it.’
Something lit up in the child-like nun's eyes. The thought of confession and martyrdom clearly appealed to her. Ann didn't tell her that her spoiled brat of a sister had never admitted the broken pot was her fault. Indeed, it had been her sister who had blamed the poor servant in the first place. It would not do for Gilda to know that some people could lie and cheat with a clear conscience. And get away with it.
‘Is there something you want to confess?’
Gilda's eyes now positively glowed in the dark of the chamber. Ann took her arm and led her to the solitary table, sitting her down on the bench. Ann sat next to her and the words tumbled out of her thin lips.