A Psalm for Falconer Page 18

  ‘But I did not kill Adam Lutt, though at times I might have wished to. Nor John de Langetoft fifteen years ago – I did not even know he had uncovered my secret until Brother Adam came to me for money.’

  They were now seated more comfortably in the guest quarters occupied by William Falconer. Isobel sat on his bed, still rocking and humming tunelessly, oblivious of the disaster that had come to her brother. John Whitehed stared fixedly at his feet, his fingers twining round themselves like a box of worms awaiting the fisherman. He looked up in hope.

  ‘Though I cannot prove where I was when de Langetoft was killed, I am sure the old woman who looks after Isobel will confirm that I was with her and my sister when Brother Adam was killed.’

  Falconer patted him on his slumped shoulders. ‘I am sure you were. I know you killed neither man.’

  The look was now that of some faithful hound. ‘You do?’

  ‘Indeed I do. Ralph, it's time I spoke to the prior.’

  ‘You can't. He's gone.’

  Falconer roared in anger, and leaped from his chair, toppling it backwards. ‘Gone? Gone where? Why didn't you tell me?’

  Ralph's indignant reply came out wrong, sounding more like a squeak. This academic was so unpredictable, and a little frightening. ‘I didn't know it mattered any more, when we were told that Brother John had been taken. I thought the affair was closed.’

  Falconer snorted. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘To Lancaster. Young Jack Shokburn is guiding him over this evening, before the tide comes in.’

  Falconer became quite agitated, hopping from one foot to the other in the process of pulling his boots on. If he could have run and put them on at the same time, he would have.

  ‘We must catch them up. He's in mortal danger.’

  ‘Who is?’

  But Falconer was gone before he could reply.

  Chapter Sixteen

  HHaving left Ralph Westerdale to take care of the unfortunate John Whitehed and his sister, Falconer got one of the Brothers Peter and Paul to take him across Leven Sands. Though he had crossed on his own before, it was beginning to get dark and he could not risk losing his way. A red haze shone from the far rim of the sea beyond Harlesyde Island. Falconer was once more put in mind of the edge of the world. If he stayed in this part of England much longer, even he might begin to believe in a flat earth. He squinted at the island as they passed, but it was no more than a black outline set in a sea of red. Perhaps the hermit had exhausted his spirit coming to Falconer last night, for Harlesyde seemed truly dead tonight.

  A chill wind suddenly gusted in from the sea, and a dull rumble forewarned of a storm. A blackness fell over the ruddy glow out to sea, squeezing the last rays of the sun out of existence. Falconer prayed that the onrushing bad weather would delay Henry Ussher. But he doubted it would and hurried on – there was no time to lose.

  The mud on the river bank now looked grey in the poor light, and it sucked at the two men's feet as if working for the prior, delaying their progress. On the shoreline at Sand Gate, the monk passed Falconer a tallow lamp, and wished him luck. Once lit, the lamp did no more than flicker fitfully in the darting wind that scudded in from every direction. Falconer hid the yellowish flame in his fist and plunged on up the steep bank of the headland he had to cross before reaching Kent's Bank and the Shokburns' cottage. Then the whole of Lancaster Bay would lie before him. He doubted he would be there in time.

  His legs began to burn as he stumbled up the grassy bank, the tallow flame hardly lighting more than his own fist in front of him. He forced one foot in front of the other, matching his breath to the movement. But soon his breathing was as ragged as his strides. He had spent too long sitting on his backside in the comfort of Oxford. Twenty years earlier, he would have surmounted this little hill easily, and in the heat of battle at that. His life had not always been that of an academic, and he had seen sights across the world that some of those at Oxford only dreamed of. Falconer had been present when the monstrous plague of Tartars, devastating the world, was repulsed on the banks of the Danube by the King's brother, Conrad. Now his legs trembled climbing a gentle grassy knoll.

  At last he reached the top, and took a moment to regain his breath at the point the brothers called Headless Cross. Ahead was the sweep of Lancaster Bay, the sands and shallow pools sparkling in the moonlight that broke suddenly through a gap in the massive banks of heavy cloud. Then the moon was gone again as the clouds rolled together, thunder rumbling on their fringes. Still Falconer could see light reflecting from the smooth surface of the bay, and he fumbled in his pouch for his lenses. Bringing them up to his face he realized the reflection was moving. It could only be Henry Ussher and Jack Shokburn out on the sands, with one of them carrying a lamp or a burning brand. Falconer gritted his teeth. The weather had not stopped them, but they were still this side of the Kent river. He could catch them up.

  As if in cruel response to his optimistic assessment of the situation, the skies opened, and Falconer's view of the bay was obscured by driving rain. The tallow lamp died in his hand and he flung it aside, plunging down the hillside in the pitch dark. He had gone halfway in a trice, when he stepped on a loose rock that slid from under his foot. His ankle went over, and he rolled head over heels down the hillside until the unyielding trunk of a tree stopped his fall abruptly. He felt a sharp pain in his side, his head hit the ground and he blacked out.

  Peter Bullock had tracked down the youth, Thomas Thubbs, to Colcill Hall. It was curious that after all her deductive work, Ann Segrim should end her quest in the student hall that stood right next to William's own Aristotle's Hall. The route she took to the front door of the hall was thus well trodden by her, and she knocked on it with some authority. As she waited to be admitted, she threw a glance over her shoulder at the nervous Sister Gilda. The pinch-faced little nun had scurried at her heels through the bustle of the busy market streets of Oxford like a nervous puppy. Now she hid behind the ample curves of her guide, as though afraid for her safety.

  It had taken all Ann's persuasiveness to convince the abbess that she needed to take Sister Gilda to Oxford on her quest for the errant student. Gwladys had only agreed when Ann threatened to bring Thomas Thubbs back to the nunnery. The temporary release of a sister nun into the turbulent and sinful world of Oxford had been deemed the lesser of the two evils. Still, the abbess had made clear to Ann that Gilda's immortal soul, no less, was in her hands.

  She had raised her hand to knock once more upon the unopened door, when it was pulled ajar with an ominous creak. In the doorway stood a yawning and dishevelled youth who had clearly been enjoying the pleasures of the myriad inns in Oxford the previous evening. Judging by the darkness of the stubble that peppered his chin, Ann judged this was not the peach-faced youth she was seeking. When she enquired if Thomas Thubbs was present, she was invited into the hall with a vague wave of the youth's hand. He then abandoned the open portal, and returned to the mattress from which he had been dragged so rudely. This nest of straw and tattered blankets lay in a corner of the dark and odorous room at the centre of which stood a much-abused refectory table. Another youth lay stretched out on its greasy surface, his snores echoing in the mean and low-hung rafters of the blackened ceiling. Colcill Hall may have been located cheek by jowl with Aristotle's, but they were worlds apart in mood and comforts.

  ‘Does milady seek her son?’

  The thin and quavering voice came from the shadows of a doorway at the back of the ill-kept room. It belonged to a slim and pale-faced youth who was obviously nursing his own headache after what must have been communal excesses the night before. At first Ann was annoyed that she should be thought old enough to be the mother of a student at the university – then changed her mind when she thought of the alternative possibility that might have sprung to the youth's fuddled brain. He might have mistaken her for a woman of the night come from the stews of Beaumont to collect her unpaid fee. Before she could reply, the youth went on in wheedling tones, as th
ough used to framing lies to placate those adults who called in unannounced on this unruly hall.

  ‘You see before you the unfortunate result of seeking solace in cups of ale. The only excuse I can offer is that when death has stalked one who lodges here, he can but seek comfort in the living. You see around you good comrades who rallied round when someone was in need.’

  Ann guessed that behind the pallor of the youth, beneath the dark rings that surrounded his dulled eyes, was the face of Thomas Thubbs. The boy who could pass himself off as a girl to the weakened eyes of Hal Coke, gatekeeper of Godstow Nunnery. To be certain, she turned to Sister Gilda, revealing her to the youth for the first time. His face fell at the sight of her religious garb, and he dropped to his knees, vomiting up a foul-smelling brew from the depths of his stomach. The effect on Gilda was equally startling. She darted across the floor and fell upon her prey, her hands outstretched like talons. She grasped him by the neck and shook him, her inhuman screeches outdoing the snores from the soporific youth on the table.

  ‘That's him. That's him. He was the one who defiled her. Stole her.’

  Ann grabbed her arms from behind, and tore her off the cowering Thubbs. He rubbed his violated neck, and wiped the smears of vomit from his cheeks. As the nun struggled vainly in her arms, she looked coldly from one to the other.

  ‘Now I want the truth.’

  Ellen Shokburn pushed the shutter aside, and peered out of the window across the bay. She could no longer see the lamplight that before the storm had marked Jack's crossing. The rain poured down in a solid sheet, obscuring even the shoreline only a short distance away. It hissed on the thatch above her head, and a steady drip fell in the corner of the dark, box-like room. The water that came in ran across the sloping floor and out of the door; the cottage had been built with a canted floor because it was so close to the shoreline. Some very high tides actually swilled into the cottage, and Ellen was used to such ravages of nature. Everything she and Jack possessed was virtually within arm's reach. In one corner of the room hung a ragged cloth that gave her some privacy at night, and in the opposite corner was the mean shelf that was her son's bed. A sturdy, well-scarred table filled the space in the centre of the room, and Ellen sat down at it, toying with the hard crust of yellowed cheese that had been her supper. Despite the meanness of her home, she knew she would do anything to keep it for herself and her son. Anything.

  A buffet of wind hit the cottage wall, and the opened shutter slapped against the daub. She prayed for her son's safe return, not understanding why he had been so amenable to the prior's demand to make the journey despite the weather. It had been obvious that a bad storm was brewing, and in any other circumstances Jack would have refused to cross the bay in the surly tones he had learned from his grandfather. But the prior of Conishead had hardly to press him, and Jack had agreed. It had been left to Ellen to try to dissuade them from setting out at dusk in a storm. But Jack had been adamant that they could accomplish the journey safely. They had barely got on to the sands before the storm had broken.

  Ellen was resigned to staying up all night waiting for Jack's safe return. So when she heard a shuffling noise outside the cottage, all her senses were alert. She leapt up from the table, a sigh of relief on her lips. She imagined that Jack had abandoned the crossing, and he and the prior, soaked to the skin, were even now returning to the sanctuary of the cottage. She was moving towards the door when a flash of lightning lit up an apparition in the open window. She gasped at the sight of a grey face, smeared with dark streaks, staring in at her. The apparition's eyes were wild, and its hair was plastered to its skull. An eerie moan escaped its lips, and Ellen wondered if the pelting rain had called some water-demon from the deep.

  A second flash of lightning lit the darkness again, and the face was gone. It had disappeared so quickly, she wondered if she had imagined it. But then through the constant hiss of the rain she heard the low moan again. This time it sounded more like a human being in pain than a demon. She cautiously slid the bolt on the door, and pulled it open a crack. Under the window sat a bundled figure, clutching its side, water streaming down its face. As the eyes turned towards her, she recognized the Oxford master who was staying over at Conishead. The one who was poking his nose into the murders. What was he doing out on such a night? And what on earth had happened to him?

  She helped him to his feet, and supported him as he staggered inside the cottage. She dropped him down on Jack's bed, and got a cloth to wipe away the blood that ran down one side of his face. His soaking wet robe was covered with grass stains and mud, and torn in places. She realized he must have fallen somewhere on the headland. Not surprising on such a night. After a while, he appeared to be recovering his senses, and she helped him sit up. He winced and clutched his side.

  ‘Thank you. I thought I had got lost out there, and then I saw the cottage. I hoped it would be you.’

  Her hands had felt soft to him as she sponged away the blood on his face. He was seeing the other side of this cold and solitary woman, and could imagine how someone might truly be attracted to her. She stared hard at him, trying to read his mind.

  ‘What were you doing out on such a night?’

  Falconer suddenly remembered the urgency of his task, and looked around. ‘The prior – is he here?’

  ‘No. He and Jack set out some time ago. They'll be across the Kent by now.’

  The big man lurched to his feet, and gasped. He didn't know which hurt most – his side or his ankle. At least the pain in his head was only a dull throb.

  ‘Just tell me one thing – does Jack know who his father is?’

  Ellen frowned, and was about to tell Falconer it was none of his business when he stopped her.

  ‘Please. It is important.’

  She sighed, and nodded. ‘I told him just the other day.’

  Falconer looked grim. ‘I feared so. We need to get to them. It's a matter of life or death. Jack overheard me saying something about the rivalry between the prior and de Langetoft. I fear what he might do.’

  Ellen looked at him, her lips pressed tight. ‘You know who killed them, don't you?’

  Falconer nodded, the rain splashing off his tangled hair. She looked into his piercing blue eyes a moment more, then grabbed a piece of sacking from a hook by the door. She threw it over her shoulders, and picked up the lamp from the table.

  ‘Come on, then. I'll guide you.’

  Outside the rain still poured down, striking their faces like shards of ice. There was nothing for it but to bow their heads into the gale, and press on. The first part of the route out to the bay was through short tussocks of grass, whose stalks were like knife blades. But at least it afforded some grip. As they stepped on to the sand proper, Falconer nearly went over on the slippery mud. His left ankle was sore, and hardly supported his weight. He gritted his teeth, and grunted thanks for Ellen's steadying arm. She looked briefly at him and trudged on. He kept up close behind, afraid of losing her in the darkness. He would not be able to find his own way in these conditions.

  As they moved further from the protection of the shoreline, the wind got stronger. It buffeted them, tearing at their clothes and nearly lifting them off their feet. Ellen glanced nervously out to sea. She could not see the incoming tide, but it was out there in the darkness. And when it came in, it came with the speed of a galloping horse. Unless they were over soon, they would be caught by it. There was still no sight of Jack or the prior, and Ellen doubted whether they could catch them up. Their only hope was that Henry Ussher was slowing Jack down, being unused to walking so far.

  They reached the first watercourse, and held on to each other for safety as they waded across. The water was so cold, Falconer felt as though the very bones of his legs ached. They were both soaked from head to foot now, their clothes heavy and clinging. Having gained the opposite side of the river, Falconer stopped to get his breath, but Ellen grimly motioned him on with a wave of her arm. He followed her zigzag path across an endless vista
of water. To Falconer there was now no difference between the sky and the land – it was all water. For all he knew, the tide could be in and he could be walking on the sea itself. So when Ellen spoke, he was glad of conversation in order to keep his mind straight.

  As they talked, they plodded on grimly through the rain. Then suddenly Falconer heard something that resembled the cry of a gull wheeling in the sky. Except no bird would be so foolish as to be in the sky in these conditions. It was Ellen – she was shouting and pointing ahead of them. Falconer half expected to see a cloudship floating past, but at first saw nothing in the gloom. Then he thought he saw a flash of light. He blinked and shook the water from his eyes. There were two shapes huddled over a lamp, standing by the bank of a stream. It had to be the Keer, and they had to be Henry Ussher and Jack Shokburn. They were in time.

  But even as they looked, the lamp tilted at a crazy angle, and the two figures melted into one, swaying first one way then the other. They were fighting. Ferociously.

  Henry Ussher had doggedly followed Jack Shokburn across the vastness of the bay, the only view he had being the hunched shoulders of the youth. The rain was teeming down and the prior was wetter than he had ever been before. His waterlogged robes hung on him like heavy chain mail, and his legs felt leaden. He had never been so uncomfortable, and the journey appeared endless. Fording the Kent had been a nightmare – he had almost been swept away. But for the strong arm of the youth grabbing him as his legs gave way, he would have been gone. He prayed for deliverance from this watery hell.

  He was suddenly aware that the youth had stopped in his tracks. He lifted his head into the howling gale, and squinted through half-closed eyes to see what was wrong. They stood on the lip of the Keer stream, and though it flowed fast it looked easily fordable.