Explore "Falconer's Crusade" by Ian Morson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The clanging of the Morrow-Mass bells at St John's and St Peter's in the east roused William Falconer from his sleep. A mild curse hung in the cold air as he pulled his tunic closer around him, the dawn chill still in his bones. He swung his feet from the bench where they had been tucked into the fur of his academic hood. The frozen rushes crackled underfoot and he remembered he had gone to sleep failing to ensure the fire in the hearth would last the night. A stronger curse streamed from his lips.
Falconer was a massive man whose clothes seemed to ill fit him. His wrists stuck out well clear of the frayed ends of his sleeves, ending in raw, bony hands more in keeping with a labourer than with a regent master of the Faculty of Arts. A student caught by the gaze from his pale blue eyes set in a coarse, ruddy face had the uncanny feeling that his every secret was being stripped from his soul. That look served him well on many an occasion.