by Ian Morson
‘With the time it takes to get there and back, you will not have long at the ironworks or you will miss the tide. I will wait until the last moment to cross and no longer. If the weather worsens, we should not try to cross at all.’
Falconer peered back across the estuary, and tried to figure out where they had crossed. If the woman was not here on his return, could he make the crossing on his own? He wondered what he should do, if he were trapped on this bank for the night. Turning to ask her if there were shelter near, he realized Ellen Shokburn had gone without making a sound.
At the moment Falconer found himself alone on the shores of Leven Sands, John Whitehed, the sacrist, was making his return across the larger and infinitely more treacherous Lancaster Bay. His guide was Ellen Shokburn's son, Jack. The youth was only a stripling, still to fill out into manhood. But he knew the secrets of the sands, taught him by his grandfather, and he strode confidently from one leafy twig of a marker to another. Whitehed trudged behind him, damp soaking into the habit that he carelessly let trail on the wet sands. He was downcast, and his trip to Hest Bank had not raised his spirits. Usually, when he saw Isobel, he returned happy that she was still safe and sound, and anxious for his next opportunity to see her. That it all came at a cost disturbed his conscience, but it was worth it.
Or had been until that fat weasel Lutt had poked his nose into his affairs. Now the price had-risen, and Whitehed wondered if it were too high. He had seen off one attempt to use his secret against him many years ago; perhaps now the time had come to do the same again.
‘Take care, sacrist.’
The youth's voice came like a knell to Whitehed, and at first he thought he had been thinking out loud. The very idea sent shivers coursing through him. But then he realized Shokburn was warning him about a sandy gully in the long, spiky grass they were traversing. In his reverie, Whitehed had virtually reached the shores of Humphrey Head without realizing it. And his inattention had led him off the path that his guide had been making. It was only when Jack looked back that he had seen the sacrist heading for a slimy pit hidden by the high grasses. His warning cry was just in time and Whitehed, waving his arm in acknowledgement, turned back on to the right track. He was also now sure which track he had to take for his own safety.
The way along the shoreline was easy for Falconer to follow. It was a well-trodden path that afforded glimpses through the trees of the secluded inlet of the River Leven. Falconer would have expected to see and hear abundant wildfowl in such a spot, but the whole stretch of silty mud either side of the stream was devoid of life as if abandoned by God. The water itself appeared dull brown and turbid. Then, as he rounded a bend in the river, he heard it. The same heavy thud-thud-thud that he had heard near Harlesyde Island on his arrival. It drove the air before it in regular gusts, oppressive and deadening. As on the first occasion, Falconer was put in mind of the heartbeat of some monstrous beast that roamed the estuary. He was walking towards the sound, and his own heart matched rhythm with the beat. Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Suddenly he was out of the trees, and into an unnatural glade made hideous by the hand of man. Everywhere he looked stumps of trees thrust out of the churned-up soil. It was as if the monster, whose heartbeat was now louder still and pressing on his ears, had torn up the woods in a frenzy. Advancing across the wasteland, he realized the picture in his mind was not far from the truth.
The river bank took an abrupt right turn at this point and above him, on the edge of the glade, was a hive of human activity. Long tables piled high with stones stretched down the side of the river, which at this point flowed narrow and swift. A series of waterwheels drove massive hammers down on to the stones shattering them into chips. These were the nodding heads of his monster, served by scurrying human forms dressed in rags. The dust-covered men hurried to supply coarse stones to the altars of the trip-hammers, and then sweep away the crushed ore. Youths with baskets carried the ore to pits lower down where they tipped it into the maw of the roasting ovens. Sweat-soaked men, as red in the face as their comrades on the trip-hammers were pale with dust, served the fiery blaze that burned below the bowl-furnaces. It was a scene from hell – the ironworks of Conishead Priory.
A harassed-looking man, his face red and his rough tunic spotted with burn holes, scurried over to him.
‘What do you want?’
He gave the impression that whatever Falconer wanted, he would see that he did not get it. Falconer dealt with him as he would anyone full of their own importance. He ignored him, and strolled across to the wooden shelters lining the edge of the site. Their interiors were lit by the red glow of two forges, and at each a beefy-armed smith plied his trade, shaping the iron bloom that had come from the last firing of the bowl-furnaces. Their hammers pealed in counterpoint – a living sound which contrasted sharply with the thud of the ore-breakers that still pounded away. In the corner of the shelter lay a pile of nails, chains and the makings of hinges and heavy locks.
‘Can you tell me where the prior is?’ he asked of one of the smiths as the man returned the half-shaped lump of iron he was working on to the forge. The man didn't bother looking at him to see who was asking. He simply pointed with his hammer to a path running down the side of the shelter. It was guarded by the red-faced man, who was even redder at Falconer's disdain. This time the regent master could not ignore him, but a penetrating stare was all that was necessary to establish who was in control. Grumbling under his breath, the man stood aside, and Falconer followed the path upstream.
Eventually he came to a second clearing in the woods, where trees had been felled. In this smaller glade stood a well-groomed horse that obviously belonged to someone of power. The prior must be hereabouts. There was a huddle of figures on the far side of the glade, standing around another bowl-furnace. It was smaller than the ones lined up at the main ironworks, but halfway across the glade Falconer could already feel the heat of the fire that stoked it. There was a curious hissing sound followed at intervals by a roar, and Falconer was put in mind again of a tethered monster. Suddenly excited voices broke out over the noise, and the group was suffused with an unearthly glow. It took all of Falconer's scientific resolve to approach and observe for himself before succumbing to panic.
At his approaching footsteps the men turned, a look of annoyance on their faces. It was Henry Ussher who recovered first, and spoke.
‘Regent Master, you arrive at a fortuitous moment. Llewellyn the Welshman here has wrought a small miracle.’
The short, dark-complexioned man at the prior's side cast his eyes to the ground in embarrassment, muttering something in his own tongue.
‘Come and look.’ The invitation was from Ussher, and he motioned for Falconer to look in the top of the bowl-furnace. Llewellyn lifted the heavy lid invitingly. He walked over to it and peered in, expecting to see a glowing lump of iron bloom sitting among base clinker, for that was what a furnace normally produced. In its stead was a white-hot, spitting liquid. Ussher leaned over his side for another look as the liquid rapidly cooled, leaving a black scum on the top.
‘The red haematite hereabouts is particularly good. The means of making charcoal is plentiful. And Llewellyn has contrived to melt the ore to a liquid.’
Falconer could immediately see the benefit of this process over the normal one which produced a lump of iron that needed resmelting and re-heating to work it. His question as to how this miracle was achieved was answered by the prior's dragging him round the back of the furnace to see a huge set of bellows linked by cogs and axles to a waterwheel, which was driven by the same river that fed power into the trip-hammers lower down.
‘Water-powered bellows,’ explained the prior. ‘They drive the heat of the furnace up to the correct temperature for liquefaction. Llewellyn had seen it done, and swore to me he could reproduce it here. He has been proved right. But take care – the molten ore is extremely dangerous.’
Both he and Falconer stepped back to allow the ironsmith to continue the process.
With long tongs the Welshman pulled a plug in the side of the furnace and the glowing iron poured into a channel below it. The iron, already thickening as it cooled, filled a long, narrow mould of wet sand. There it crackled and subsided.
‘Now you have seen enough of our little secret. What brings you to the ironworks?’
He led Falconer out of the glade, and back down the track to the main part of the works. His groom followed with the prior's horse at a respectful distance. With a glance of regret over his shoulder at the mechanical marvel, hidden in woods at the edge of the world, Falconer dissembled at first. ‘I am afraid I found being cooped up within the walls of the priory a little … constricting. I decided to stretch my legs.’
The prior was not fooled. ‘Across Leven Sands, which would have required a guide, and out to here where I happened to be? When there are plenty of safe paths leading in the opposite direction not requiring planning ahead?’
Falconer smiled and Ussher answered for him. ‘You wanted to speak to me informally outside the priory, where we might not be overheard.’
Falconer nodded, and the prior continued. ‘And I know what you wanted to talk about. John de Langetoft.’
Was the prior about to be open with him? Or was this approach merely the ruse of a devious man? Falconer could not decide, but let Ussher speak anyway. He would make up his mind later as to whether he was being given the truth.
‘As soon as I saw the cross I knew the bones were those of de Langetoft.’
‘Then why try to hide the identity from everyone else by taking the cross, and not admitting its existence when Martin Albon was examining the remains?’
A wry smile crossed the prior's features. ‘Fear, I suppose. De Langetoft was a rival for the post of prior fifteen years ago, and I was immediately afraid that the community would revive the rumours that circulated then about my doing away with him.’
Falconer was sure that simple fear was something this man never felt, but let him go on.
‘Of course, when there was no body in evidence, the rumours soon died and my appointment was confirmed. It was assumed that de Langetoft had fled for reasons of his own. Now a body has, quite literally, surfaced, I suppose my first reaction was to try and cover up its identity to prevent those rumours arising again. Now is the wrong time for me to be under any suspicion.’
He didn't expand on his last statement, leaving Falconer to assume that preferment was in the wind for Henry Ussher.
‘I now realize what I did was foolish, and, if anything, likely to throw more suspicion on me. Have you told anyone yet about the cross?’
Falconer said he hadn't and the prior nodded. ‘Good. As soon as we return, I will confirm the identity of the remains myself. It will be better coming from me than you, I think.’
He went to mount his horse, and wrapped the cloak offered him by his groom round his long frame. A chill wind blew across the open site and dark clouds scudded over the face of the sun. Suddenly Falconer felt cold. The prior looked down at him and suggested he return quickly by the estuary route.
‘The weather looks as though it is worsening, and you will find it swifter on foot across the Leven. I and my entourage are moving on to the fishery, and will have to return the long way round to get the horses back. It would not be proper for the prior of Conishead to be seen to be inspecting his lands on foot.’
He laughed and wheeled his horse away from where Falconer stood. With another glance up at the darkening sky, the regent master hurried off along the path he had come. His last view of the ironworks was of Henry Ussher leaning down out of his saddle to talk to the red-faced man, who had taken a dislike to Falconer. They were both looking in his direction.
Adam Lutt knew he was too late to speak to the prior when he arrived in the churned-up clearing that was the ironworks. There were no horses, except the one he had ridden in on. And the air of frenzied activity that would have prevailed when the prior was inspecting the work was lacking. In fact there was hardly any work in progress. The ore-dressers sat on their upturned baskets, casting incurious eyes in his direction. His presence clearly did not warrant their putting in a semblance of work. The only sounds were the ringing tones of the smiths in their shelter. Even the heavy trip-hammers, which could sometimes be heard from the priory, were stilled. From the path that ran up the side of the shelter emerged the ironmaster and that damned Welshman the prior was so fond of. They were deep in conversation, until the ironmaster, known only by his title and not by any name, spotted Lutt. Breaking off, he strolled across the clearing as though the camerarius was of no importance. This made Lutt angry, and he hoped the money matter that the prior wanted him to examine would embarrass the red-faced man.
Lutt remained astride his horse, to have the advantage of height over the ironmaster. ‘Ironmaster, why aren't these men working? We pay them enough.’
The ironmaster's full lips curled in contempt at the uninformed comment. ‘Can't you see there's a storm brewing?’
Lutt's retort was sharp. ‘They can work in a blizzard for all I care. Set them to work immediately.’
The ironmaster insolently stood his ground. ‘I would make them work, if it were worth it. But when it rains the furnaces go out. And when the furnaces go out there's no need to feed the bowls with ore. No ore needed, no crushing needed – simple as that.’
Having given Lutt this basic lesson in ironmaking, he turned his back on the camerarius and walked over to the idle workers. Lutt swung down from his horse, swiftly closed the gap between himself and the ironmaster, and grabbed the man's arm. He stuck his face in the other's and hissed a warning. ‘I am here on the prior's business. To see how you spend our money.’
The ironmaster looked truly puzzled. ‘He said nothing of that when he was here. What's it all about?’
As Lutt did not know, he was nonplussed for a moment. The silence between the two men was broken by the hiss of rain, and suddenly everyone was making for shelter. The workers melted into the forest and back to their ramshackle hovels. It was as if they were made of clay and had been washed away by the downpour. Even the ironmaster followed them, ignoring Lutt, who stood for a moment in the rain before making for the cover of the smithy. Underneath the sloping roof, he moved close to the fires that had been abandoned by the smiths. They still retained their warmth, and Lutt, pulling his cloak about him, glumly resigned himself to a long wait. The prior's instructions would have to be carried out another time.
The hiss of the rain on the shelter's roof must have caused him to doze off, because he suddenly woke up in the dark. The coals in the forge had long turned ashy and grey, and he was stiff with cold. Suddenly, he was alert to a sound outside the hut. Thinking the ironmaster had perhaps returned, he put a stern look on his face and turned to face the low opening. When he saw who it was, he was surprised.
‘What are you doing here?’
The rain also delayed Falconer. He had to shelter under the imperfect cover of a blighted oak, and had endured an eternity of cold water dripping down the back of his neck. By the time the rain had stopped, and he had reached the bank of the Leven where he was to be met by Ellen Shokburn, he was cold and miserable. Moreover it was later than he had hoped. He thought he heard a rustle in the undergrowth near to him, but when he called out there was no reply. Even the birds seemed stilled, as they had been higher up the river by the noxious presence of the ironworks. There was no sign of his guide.
Peering cautiously at the expanse of glistening sands, he was sure he could make out the opposite bank, even though there was a mist crawling upriver from the sea. The incoming tide was nowhere in sight, and he considered the options available to him. He could take the chance of crossing on his own, or stay here overnight and die of the chills. In his wet condition, he reckoned there was no choice but to cross. After all, he thought he could remember the route, which was a straight crossing, unlike the zigzag journey across Lancaster Bay. Keeping his short-sighted gaze on a prominent ash on the opposite bank, he step
ped out on to the mud.
It seemed simple until he realized that the mist was thickening. His marker on the opposite bank kept disappearing and reappearing. Then it was gone altogether. The mist that lapped around him was chill and dank, and he shivered. He told himself not to panic, and stood still for a moment, peering at where he thought his goal lay. For a moment he was sure he saw the ash tree looming out of the mist. He tried to fix the position in his mind's eye, and strode purposefully towards it.
It was almost with relief that he found himself stumbling into knee-high water. This was surely the River Leven – he had only to cross it and keep straight on and he would be home safe. He lifted the skirts of his robe and stepped further into the icy waters. He was immediately confused for he could not tell which way the water was flowing. At first it seemed to tug at his legs from right to left, like the river flowing out to sea. But then it appeared to drag the other way. Was this the incoming tide trapping him in mid-crossing? He must make a decision about what to do.
Suddenly the air above him was rent with the tolling of a ship's bell. Were Thady Lamport's mad ravings about Magonia true after all? He heard a splash behind him and imagined a cloud-ship had dropped its anchor. Then he laughed. He was a scientist, and cloud-ships were nonsense dreamed up centuries ago by the superstitious. He was just disorientated by the mist. Even so, he was still in grave danger, if not from the cloud-sailors, then from the very real threat of the incoming tide. He hitched his robes up and waded through the water that had now risen to his thighs. There was another splash behind him, and, as he turned, the cloud-ship's anchor hit him squarely on the skull and he fell into a pit of darkness.
TERCE
Thou hast rescued me from death,
To walk in thy presence, in the light of life
Psalm 56
Chapter Eight
They met on the river bank on the Port Meadow side, making it seem like a chance encounter. The attractive, mature woman with hair the colour of straw, and the bent-backed old ruffian – it was an unlikely tryst. Ann Segrim had gained the permission of Sister Gwladys to leave the nunnery at Godstow, but had not told her she was meeting the constable of Oxford. He had been summoned by her surreptitious message sent through the agency of the gatekeeper at Godstow. They walked together in silence until they were out of sight of the nunnery. As they strolled along the crumbling bank, the soft earth of the water meadow squelched under their feet, and Ann lifted the hem of her gown clear of it. She was wondering how to pass on what the nervous little sister had spoken of the previous day, when Peter Bullock broke the silence.