The Midnight Man

The Physician’s Tale
Part Five

Stephen tried to forget the grisly horrors of Rishanger’s macabre house. Anselm and Beauchamp busied themselves about the removal of the remains to the city cemeteries. Stephen, on the other hand, now free of the Carmelite rule, settled into his life at The Unicorn. He came to love that warm, welcoming tavern with its sweet-smelling taproom, kitchen garden, scullery, buttery and large stone kitchen. Minehost Master Robert allowed Stephen the free run of the hostelry before deciding that he was best suited to the kitchen. He was soon instructed into the mysteries of that great, stone-flagged cooking chamber with its yawning hearth, furnished with a spit, side ovens, grid irons and what the cook called his ‘sizzling pans and cauldrons’. Stephen was shown the various knives, stone mortars with their wooden pestles, the vivarium for fish, the hooks for fleshing, the skillets and different bowls. He watched the cooks and spit boys prepare a wide range of dishes: fillet of cold boar glazed with honey; capon braised with sweet wine stock; sole in yellow onion sauce. He embraced the world of chopping, smoke, steam and a host of delicious thick smells which tickled his nose, watered his mouth and teased his stomach.

Master Robert also used him to fetch stock from the different markets: meat from the blood-puddled stalls under the grim hulk of Newgate; chicken and geese from the fowl sellers along Poultry as well as the produce from the various herb and vegetable markets of Cheapside. Alice went with him. She was merry — even shameless — in her flirting. She seized his hand, making Stephen run along with her through the lanes, breathlessly pulling him into some shadowy nook to kiss him full on the lips. Stephen was, in both heart and soul, much taken with her. Every day was an adventure. He would rise early in his small garret, try and recite some prayers, then visit the nearby chapel of St Frideswide, as Anselm had told him to stay well away from St Michael’s, Candlewick. After he had attended Mass, recited an Ave before the Lady chapel and lit a taper for the soul of his mother, Stephen was caught up in the hurly burly of the day, which he thoroughly enjoyed. Alice, impetuous and passionate, chattered as merrily as a spring sparrow on the branch. Neat and clean, she greeted him every day with a smiling face and brushed hair, always dressed in an immaculate smock and apron. She adored her father, Master Robert, who proved to be a genial host. He was fair and honest, making the tavern scullions and servants work hard but paying and feeding them well, ensuring they had safe and comfortable lodgings.

Alice explained how her father’s family had owned two such taverns on the outskirts of Bristol with a similar holding on the Old Roman Road near Bath. On the death of his wife Master Robert had sold all three, moving to Dowgate in London with Alice and her younger sister Marisa where, Robert had vowed, they would manage the best tavern in the city. Stephen was caught up in all the runnings of this, be it the purchase and import of food or Master Robert’s determination to extend the tavern gardens and produce his own vegetables for the kitchen. The Unicorn was certainly popular, the favourite choice of tradesmen, tinkers, ermine-robed lawyers, scarlet-cloaked serjeants, dark-garbed clerks and sailors from nearby Queenhithe as well as the citizens of Dowgate.

Stephen worked hard from daybreak until noon. Once the Angelus bell sounded, Alice would take Stephen into what she called her ‘secret bower in the greensward where they could sit like Robin and Marion in Sherwood’. In truth, that part of the tavern garden was overgrown, a mass of tangled bushes and climbing sturdy flowers. A former owner had built the bower by twisting saplings together and allowing an array of wild roses to overgrow it. Inside stood a high turf seat and a rickety old table for pots of flowers. The only fly in the ointment, as Alice observed, was her baby sister, Marisa. Alice’s mother had died giving birth to her and Master Robert believed the life force of two souls was trapped in that little body. Marisa was a vivacious handful: six to seven years of age, she was a bundle of energy with a rosy face framed by yellow curls and a constant gap-toothed grin. She was, as Stephen came to realize, a sprite in all her ways. Marisa needed very little sleep — merry as a robin, she rose early to seek him out. From the start, Marisa had decided that if her sister liked Stephen, so would she and she acted accordingly. Where Stephen and Alice went, Marisa always followed, their noonday meetings being no exception.

Alice tried to ignore her younger sister, more concerned about the dire events in Dowgate. ‘Margotta Sumerhull and I would often come here after the Angelus,’ Alice declared as she made herself more comfortable, placing the linen napkins containing cold meats and fresh bread on the table. She took the tankards of ale from Stephen and placed them down, turning to grasp his hand firmly, her loving eyes now solemn. She would always lean forward and kiss him roundly on the mouth, then draw back. Stephen sometimes wondered if Alice was slightly fey; he had never met a young woman like her — demure but direct.

‘We always met here,’ Alice continued, parcelling out the food. ‘We would discuss meeting our perfect gentle knight as the troubadours say we should. Well,’ she pushed a piece of bread between Stephen’s lips, ‘I have met mine. I took to you, Master Stephen, as soon as I met you in the street with Brother Anselm.’ She smiled. ‘You looked so innocent, so trusting, despite all the commotion at the church. You are the young man I decided I should marry.’

Stephen gulped what he had eaten. ‘But I am a novice,’ he replied, ‘entrusted to the Carmelite order.’

‘But you have only taken simple vows, not solemn ones,’ Alice declared blithely. ‘I have checked that. Brother Gilbert — you know, the Benedictine who sells us his produce from the orchard at Westminster?’ She didn’t wait for Stephen’s reply. ‘Well, I have asked him. He explained the difference. He knows about you and Brother Anselm. He says you visited Westminster.’ Alice cut a portion of meat, neatly diced it with a sharp, curved knife, picked up the pieces and popped them into his mouth. ‘You see visions, don’t you? Are you seeing them now?’

‘No!’ Stephen exclaimed with a fervour which surprised even himself. ‘No, I am not — not since I came here.’ He swallowed the diced meat and grinned. ‘Perhaps you frightened them off?’

‘I probably have.’ Alice chewed on her bread, watching him curiously. ‘I heard about what they discovered at Rishanger’s house. Did you know he used to come here? A weasel-faced, hard-hearted rogue. I never liked him.’ Alice put down the piece of manchet loaf. ‘God knows,’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘one of those may have been Margotta Sumerhull. Tell me,’ and she’d revert to her usual litany of questions, which he tried to answer as best he could.

Stephen came to realize that Brother Anselm had left him at The Unicorn for many reasons. The exorcist himself had disappeared, lost in his own business. Stephen began to sense that Anselm was not only trying to determine his vocation but also learn what was happening along the needle-thin runnels and alleyways of the Parish of St Michael’s, Candlewick. Stephen remained vigilant. The deaths of Bardolph and his wife, the opening of the graves, the rumours about hauntings, had alarmed everyone. People were now glad that Sir William Higden had decided to keep the church under close ward. Many argued that the church should be closed completely. Sir William should pull down the entire edifice, clear the cemetery, fill the charnel house and begin a new building. The dark rites of the Midnight Man and his coven were common gossip, as well as the horrid finds at Rishanger’s house. Lists of the names of young women who had disappeared were hastily drawn up in this alehouse, tavern or cook shop and passed from lip to lip. Alice, however, was only interested in one name: her bosom friend, Margotta Sumerhull. She pestered Stephen, who could only answer that all they had found was a tangle of bones. Nevertheless, he promised he would ask Anselm and Sir Miles if they could offer further help. Secretly, Stephen wondered more about Edith Swan-neck, Bardolph’s mistress. Stephen, from what he had learned from his father, knew that her corpse would not have decayed completely, so where was she?

At times, although immersed in the joys of The Unicorn and Alice’s loving presence, Stephen openly fretted about the apparent disappearance of both Anselm and Beauchamp. Alice, in their daily meetings in her ‘secret bower’, would often question Stephen about his master. Did he have secret powers? Could he see the spirits of the departed? Stephen, sworn to silence on such matters by Anselm, could only answer evasively, so Alice would move on to Beauchamp. Stephen had also heard rumours about the royal clerk. How he lived in apparent splendour in his own elegant mansion in Ferrier Lane. ‘A man of great discretion’ was how Alice described Sir Miles, who sometimes supped at The Unicorn. Rumour had it that he was a ladies’ man, yet he was most reluctant to entertain at home and more inclined to visit this tavern or that, constantly escorted by his henchman Cutwolf. Rumour babbled about that enigmatic royal clerk’s private life, though it was more of a case of much suspected but nothing proved. At times Stephen was relieved to be distracted by the young Marisa, who regarded his daily meetings with Alice in their bower as part of a delicious game. The little girl would creep through the garden, or be there hiding already, only betraying herself by a flash of colour or her irresistible giggle. Alice would rise and go searching until she caught her young sister, dragging her out of her hiding place, trying not to laugh at the gap-toothed grin before sending her packing back into the tavern. Marisa, however, also regarded Stephen as hers and, when her sister was not looking, would grasp his hand, jumping up and down, begging to be taken out to this stall or that.

Cutwolf appeared. He, too, took lodgings at The Unicorn, a narrow, low chamber near the stables. At first he kept to himself, busy with his master’s affairs. Cutwolf could give Stephen little news about Anselm, who had apparently disappeared into the muniment room at the Tower while Beauchamp was absent on Crown matters, though exactly what was never discussed. During the second week of Cutwolf’s stay at The Unicorn, as Minehost and his servants prepared for some May-time celebrations, Cutwolf became more sociable. He took to joining Master Robert and the tavern servants in the taproom after the usual customers had left. In the glowing light from a roaring fire and the shafts of flame from candles and tapers, Cutwolf would regale them all with stories about London’s Hades, the dreadful underworld thronged by a host of dark but colourful characters: Melisaunde, the arch mistress of wicked wenches and Duke Jacob Hildebrod, a monstrously fat old man with one gleaming eye in the centre of his forehead. How Duke Jacob ruled what was commonly called ‘The Shire of the Lords of the Huff’, which included all the naps, foists, coneycatchers, cozeners and forgers of London. How this lord of hell could whistle up a blizzard of swords and cudgels as well as a legion of hideous hags who rode on broomsticks. The rifflers and the rufflers from the dank, pig-licked cobbles of Southwark and Smithfield were also his retainers. .

Stephen, with Alice next to him on a bench close to the inglenook, Marisa sitting on the floor between them, would listen round-eyed as owls as Cutwolf described the evil smelling ‘Hole-in-the-Wall’ tavern with its spacious bailey, ‘The Court of Miracles’. Here the Ringers of the Dead would summon all the thieves of London to account to their lord, Duke Jacob. Cutwolf would delight them with such tales of mystery while Minehost passed around a steaming posset in a broad-rimmed, loving cup, along with dishes of finely-sliced bread and roast meat. Stephen’s admiration for Cutwolf deepened as the henchman proved that verse from the Gospel — how the children of this world are more cunning in their affairs than the children of the light. Stephen discovered that Cutwolf was in fact a royal clerk schooled at Stapleton Hall, Oxford; a mailed clerk who had fought in battle. A secret, subtle man who hid his true identity beneath the mask and guise of a street riffler. Cutwolf was not just acting the troubadour, the jongleur, the travelling minstrel, he was also Beauchamp’s spy. Cutwolf was a clever spider, spinning a web to cover them all and entice others into the trap. Once he’d finished minstrelling, he would invite others to make their contribution about life along the alleyways of Dowgate and the surrounding wards. Everyone was eager to participate and, in anticipation during the day, garner as much tittle-tattle and gossip as possible.

The bloody, mysterious affairs at St Michael’s and Rishanger’s house were raised in disgust. The common opinion was that Bardolph had been hurled from the tower by a demon who lurked in the cemetery and stalked the tombs. Stephen held his peace because, as the days passed, he realized that Cutwolf was after greater prey — the identity of the Midnight Man! That title certainly cast its own deep shadow of evil over the ward. Warlocks and wizards, witches and moon women were common enough, but the Midnight Man and his coven were different. One evening Cutwolf opened his purse and laid six thick silver pieces on the table, bringing the candle spigot closer and allowing the precious coins to glitter like gifts from heaven. These, Cutwolf promised, would be given to anyone who brought fresh information about the Midnight Man and his company. Master Robert openly supported Cutwolf. More people thronged the taproom before the curfew bell tolled and so more remained to share the gossip after the main lantern horns were doused and the tavern door officially locked and sealed for the night. The ward patrol took no issue with this; instead its members would knock on the courtyard gates and be granted admission. Yet, if Cutwolf hoped for a revelation, he was disappointed. Legend and lie abounded about the Midnight Man. Rumour had it that Rishanger was one of the coven, even its leader, yet the identity of that notorious warlock remained stubbornly hidden.

One night Simon the sexton appeared in the taproom. He was so deep in his cups that he failed to recognize Stephen but sat slack-mouthed, listening to Cutwolf, when the henchman produced his coins and asked about the Midnight Man. Stephen, deep in the shadows around the inglenook, wondered if Simon had come of his own accord or been sent by Parson Smollat. Any doubt about that dissipated the following evening when the good parson himself, accompanied by the sexton, also attended Master Robert’s joyous vespers. On that particular evening Cutwolf related a chilling ghost story about St Mary-le-Bow, the gathering place of Laurence Duket’s ghost, who had taken sanctuary there decades earlier and was found hanging from a window-bracket. Afterwards the discussion returned to the hauntings at St Michael’s. Everyone glanced curiously at the parson who, red-faced with drink, could only shake his head and stutter at what he slurred was, ‘the sheer wickedness of the thing’.

‘The Midnight Man must be a powerful person,’ Alice declared, her lilting voice ringing through the taproom. ‘Someone who can dominate and terrify a soul.’ Everyone agreed, nodding their heads at the horror surrounding this warlock. Cutwolf realized he would learn little from the evening and, as he always did, turned the conversation back to some other topic. Alice’s intervention, however, had forced Parson Smollat to stare in Stephen’s direction. Despite his many gulps from the loving cup, the parson recognized Stephen and afterwards, just before he left, pompously sauntered over. He did not question why Stephen was there or why he was not wearing the Carmelite robe, but clutched the novice’s arm and demanded to know the whereabouts of Anselm. Why had he disappeared, and what could be done about the strange doings at his church? Despite Parson Smollat’s wine-soaked arrogance, Stephen felt his real fear. He could only fend off his questions as he helped the priest through the door and into the cold night air. The parson called for the sexton to wait for him before tapping the side of his red, fleshy nose as if he and Stephen were fellow conspirators. ‘Cutwolf is right,’ he slurred. ‘That malignant, the Midnight Man, must be found. He is the root of all this evil nonsense.’ Parson Smollat sighed noisily. ‘God knows, I am tired of all this. I wish I was free of Saint Michael’s.’ Turning away, he walked off into the darkness to join Simon. Stephen watched them go. The lane leading to the tavern side door emptied, silent except for the slipping and slurry of hunted and hunter across a pile of refuse further down. Stephen was about to return to the cheery taproom when a glow of light abruptly appeared. A cowl, empty except for blackness, swam towards him out of the dark.

‘See what fear man’s bosom rendeth,

When this from heaven the judge descendeth.

Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth,

All before the throne it bringeth,

Nature’s struck and earth is quaking. .’

‘Stephen!’ Cutwolf was beside him, shaking his shoulder; both vision and voice faded. ‘Stephen!’

‘Your master?’ the novice asked, still staring into the darkness. ‘Where is your master, Beauchamp, Cutwolf? Why doesn’t he entertain visitors at his house?’

‘Because my master is not what he appears to be.’ And, saying no more, Cutwolf turned away.

Anselm appeared a few mornings later. Stephen was in the kitchen being initiated into the mysteries of preparing stewed collops of venison basted in spiced wine. He was carefully mixing the ingredients into a large pan: meat stock, peppercorns, a stick of cinnamon, six cloves, and was about to add the ginger, vinegar and salt when he looked up. Anselm stood like a prophet of old in the doorway, beckoning at him. ‘Stephen,’ he called, as if they had been parted for a short while instead of weeks. ‘Stephen, you must come.’

Stephen smiled his apologies at the cook who had been instructing him, grabbed his cloak from a peg and joined Anselm, who was already striding across the cobbled stable yard.

‘Magister, how are you? I have missed you over the last few weeks.’

‘No, you haven’t.’ Anselm paused at the gates and stared down at him. The exorcist’s lean face looked more austere than ever, though his eyes were friendly. ‘I missed you, Stephen, I really did.’ He paused and coughed, wiping his mouth with a linen cloth. Stephen’s heart lurched when he glimpsed the bloody flecks. Anselm followed his gaze and pushed the cloth up the volum-inous sleeve of his gown. ‘It’s nothing,’ he rasped. Stephen caught the laboured wheeze in Anselm’s chest.

‘Magister.’ Stephen slipped his hand into Anselm’s. ‘Magister, you are coughing blood. I know. .’

‘And so does the prior of Saint Bartholomew’s. I have been there, Stephen, and elsewhere. Anyway, he tapped my chest and listened to my breathing. He has given me a strange concoction: dried moss mixed with soured milk. It seems to help. I have also been to the Tower and elsewhere while you have been with Mistress Alice, lost in her eyes no doubt!’ He strode out into the lane, not waiting for an answer. Stephen, swinging his cloak about him, followed on. Only then did he glimpse the two women dressed in the dark brown robes of the Friar Minoressess. Stephen immediately wondered why they were so far from their house near the Tower. He stared hard. Both women were old, one of them most venerable. Stephen recalled chatter from the tavern, and how these two had been glimpsed before. In fact, the more he stared, the more convinced Stephen became that they were the same two nuns he had glimpsed at the Chapel of the Damned. The women stared back and turned away, the older one leaning heavily on her companion’s arm. Anselm passed them without a glance. Stephen hurriedly followed.

‘It’s Saint Michael’s,’ Anselm declared. ‘Well,’ he stopped to allow a legless beggar crawling on wooden stumps to cross the runnel, ‘it would be, wouldn’t it?’ They hurried on.

‘Sir Miles and I were to meet Sir William Higden,’ Anselm explained, ‘about a possible second exorcism. Our good merchant, however, wants the entire building torn down. I cannot truly fault him on that. We were to adjourn to the church. Simon the sexton was instructed to meet us there with the keys but we cannot find him or gain entrance.’

‘Why did you come for me?’ Stephen asked, fearful that today he would not meet Alice in their secret bower.

‘I am sorry.’ Anselm paused to cough. Stephen caught the bloody flurry on the rag in his master’s hand. Anselm swiftly pushed it back. ‘Enough of that!’ He smiled at Stephen, grasping him by the arm. ‘Here we are!’

They reached the lychgate guarded by Cutwolf and his coven. ‘No joy yet!’ the henchman declared sombrely.

The two Carmelites entered the cemetery. The morning air was cool and crisp, and fleecy clouds streaked the blue sky with white wisps. The sun was strong, yet the light and warmth failed to bring any life to that dismal place. The sprouting weeds and the long, wild grass had grown even higher, masking the tombstones and other monuments of the dead. Before them loomed the sombre, craggy mass of the church with its dark tower and slated roof. Figures moved between the steps leading up to the main entrance and the corpse door to the side of the church. Abruptly a crow called, sharp and strident. Stephen glanced up and the vision descended. A hideous scream shrilled, while the deepest shadows raced swiftly through the long grass of the cemetery. These abruptly stopped. Eyes, red as blood, peered out between black weed stalks. The shapes shifted, fast and fleeting like some night swallow. These wraiths skimmed the bramble tops, turned and vanished.

‘See the night of the deep ploughing!’ a wheedling voice mocked.

‘Close fast like a trap!’ another answered. Stephen stumbled. He glanced down in horror at the white, claw-like hands creeping out from the undergrowth, fingernails long as talons and caked with dirt. ‘Give mercy!’ a soft voice whispered. ‘Give mercy. Have pity on the surprised, unprepared dead.’

‘Jesu Miserere,’ Stephen replied. ‘Jesus, have mercy.’

‘You are well?’

Stephen glanced up. For some strange reason he had crouched down as if to clean soil from his boots. He stared up at a smiling but haggard-looking Beauchamp.

‘I am well.’ Stephen rose to his feet. Anselm had gone ahead, climbing the steps and pulling at the great iron ring on the main door of the church.

‘We cannot get in.’ Sir William Higden, followed by Smollat, Almaric and Gascelyn, came around the corner. He nodded briefly at Stephen. ‘The corpse door is locked. We are tired of hammering. Is Simon asleep, drunk? We need him — we need his key.’ The merchant knight’s face was flushed and petulant, eyes glittering, lips pursed. A hard man, Stephen reflected, insistent on having his own way. Almaric the curate looked sleepy-eyed, rather vacuous. Gascelyn, as unkempt as ever, kept playing with his dagger hilt, staring back over the cemetery as if searching for a glimpse of that eerie death house. Parson Smollat looked and acted as if he was deep in his cups, unshaven, red-eyed, not too steady on his feet.

‘Let’s force the door!’ Gascelyn exclaimed.

‘The corpse door is heavy,’ Almaric retorted. ‘The sacristy door would be easier.’ A brief discussion ensued and the decision was made. A moss-encrusted log was hauled from beneath one of the ancient yew trees, the branches of which hung down like the bars of a cage. They moved to the narrow sacristy door. Stephen stood back and watched. Cutwolf and the others hurried to help. Sir Miles Beauchamp, wiping his hands, once more tried to force the door.

‘It is locked and bolted,’ Almaric confirmed. ‘Brother Anselm, you have tried the corpse door and the main entrance? Simon must have locked himself in.’

‘Begin!’ Sir William shouted, drawing his sword as if besieging an enemy castle. The group of men grasping the log drove its blunt end into the door, aiming for the lock. The door shuddered but held. Again they tried, stopped, rubbed their hands with spittle, grasped the log and returned to the assault, moving their aim from the lock to the thick leather hinges embedded deep in the lintel. At last the ancient wood began to buckle, splinter and crack. The top hinge yielded first, snapping back, followed by the second. The door was pushed open.

‘Wits sharp, pray fervently,’ Anselm whispered to Stephen as they followed Beauchamp into the gloomy sacristy. ‘Check the door!’ Anselm hissed. Stephen did so. The bolts were badly buckled, while the key hung twisted in the lock. The sacristy was musty; cobwebs stretched across the corners. They hurried through into the sanctuary. A cold breeze swept Stephen’s face, bringing the bloody stench of the Shambles.

‘Welcome.’ The muffled voice seemed to come from his left. ‘Welcome to the banquet of Cain, the fruit of his loins.’

‘Master Simon,’ Parson Smollat called from the top of the sanctuary steps. ‘Master Simon, where are you?’

They went down the steps and began their search. ‘Here!’ Gascelyn called from a darkened transept, and they hurried over. The sexton lay in a wide, congealing puddle of his own blood, turned on his back, eyes staring up, the savage cut across his throat gaping like a second mouth. His sprawled arms were outstretched, his own dagger grasped in his right hand. Stephen stifled his cries as the others exclaimed at the horror lying there. Anselm demanded some sacking be brought from the church tower. He placed this around the corpse and immediately administered the last rites, whispering hoarsely the words of deliverance followed by the prayers for the dead. Parson Smollat was shaking so much Gascelyn had to take him to sit on the sanctuary steps.

Beauchamp, aided by Sir William and Almaric, immediately searched the church, going into every nook and cranny, but Stephen knew it was futile. This place was a barren wasteland peopled by restless ghosts now clustering hungrily around them. Something crept across Stephen’s booted feet. He glanced down at the moving shadow trailing like black smoke. Tendrils of wet hair swept the side of his face. Cold fingers pressed against his brow. Anselm was still intoning the prayers for the dead. The sacking he knelt on squelched blood which began to bubble. Stephen, mouth dry, had to step away. He flinched at the disfigured, twisted faces drifting out of the gloomy transept: pale and thin, eyes glaring madly, jowls twisted in anger. He glanced over his shoulder. Gascelyn had struck a tinder; he was lighting the torches as well as different candles. Parson Smollat was blubbering like a child, shoulders shaking. Anselm’s voice rose. ‘I command you, Michael Archangel and all the heavenly hosts, to go and meet him.’

‘Ours in life, ours in death!’ a voice snarled in reply.

‘I command you,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Begone to your proper place and stay there. Stephen,’ Anselm insisted, ‘kneel, pray!’ The novice did so, yet all he could think about was Alice, of sitting beside her in that rose-garlanded bower with young Marisa spying on them from the brambles. He prayed but he could only think about them as the cold breeze returned with its offensive stench.

‘Remove the corpse,’ Anselm ordered, getting to his feet. ‘Let us leave here swiftly. This is no longer a place for God or man.’ Anselm swept by Stephen, tapping him on the shoulder as a sign to follow. The exorcist hurried up the sanctuary steps, pausing to deal with a coughing fit which bent him double. Stephen again glimpsed the red specks on the linen cloth but Anselm waved a hand and, taking a deep breath, straightened up. He walked across the sanctuary, took a stool, stood on it and unhooked the silver pyx. He removed the round white host and reverently ate it. He stood for a while, hands clasped, murmuring the Eucharistic prayer, ‘May the body of Christ be to my salvation, not to my damnation’, followed by the ‘Anima Christi’ poem.

Stephen stood with him and, by the time they had returned, Beauchamp had organized Cutwolf and others to use more sacking as a makeshift stretcher. The corpse was removed from the church. They left by the sacristy door. Parson Smollat, now partially recovered, murmured about the corpse door remaining bolted and locked and how its key was still missing. Stephen was just relieved to leave that abode of shadows. He turned, revelling in the sunlight and the pleasing breeze. He watched as Cutwolf hurriedly searched the corpse, now stretched out on the sacking. The sexton, however, only carried a few paltry possessions: coins, rosary beads, a small cross and a few nails but nothing else. No key to the corpse door could be found.

‘Take his corpse back to the priest’s house,’ Beauchamp ordered. ‘Brother Anselm, you accompany it, see that all is well. Sir William,’ Beauchamp turned to the merchant knight, ‘we shall meet in your chamber within the hour, yes?’

Anselm whispered to Stephen to follow him. The exorcist went to walk on but paused, crouching to examine dark stains on the paved path which went round the church. He picked at the congealed specks, plucked a piece up and sniffed at it, rubbing it between his fingers. He scrutinized similar droppings then rose to his feet. ‘Strange,’ he murmured, ‘but let us go on.’ They walked through the cemetery towards a small wicket gate which led into the enclosure before the priest’s house, a fine pink-plastered, black-timbered dwelling built on a grey stone base with a blue-slated sloping roof. Parson Smollat explained how the sexton had two chambers, which could be approached by an outside staircase. The exorcist intoned the De Profundis as they approached the steps.

Stephen, however, remained distracted. He felt as if they were being followed: the sound of dry leaves whirled and rasped behind them, yet when he looked back there was nothing but the swaying wilderness of wild grass. He glanced back at the church. A shape like a gargoyle or babewyn was crouched on the sloping slate roof, black and hideous like some wild ape. He glanced again but it was gone. Stephen’s eye was caught by movement at the top of the tower — shifting shapes as if bowmen, hooded and cloaked, clustered there. ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ a woman’s voice called. He glanced across the bending grass which parted to reveal a black tombstone — from this a wicked white face, hair all a-tangle, glared furiously at him. Stephen stumbled and swiftly crossed himself.

They reached the wicket gate and went through on to the cobbled courtyard before the pretty-fronted priest’s house. Isolda, wimple all awry, hands outstretched, came out. She began to chant a hymn of mourning until Parson Smollat gathered her in his arms and led her away. They took Simon’s corpse up the outside staircase. The door to his two chambers hung unlocked, and they entered. Stephen was immediately struck by their ordinariness. Two white-washed cells with crucifixes and painted cloths on the walls, a few sticks of furniture, coffers and caskets. They placed the corpse on the narrow bed but, even as they arranged the dead man’s limbs into some form of dignity, both Anselm and Beauchamp were busy about the chamber. They examined the tattered, grimy sheets of parish records piled on the chancery table in the second chamber. Coffers and caskets were opened. Stephen was surprised at how swiftly both Beauchamp, looking rather tired and absorbed, and Anselm sifted through the dead man’s possessions. Parson Smollat, accompanied by a now comforted Isolda, came up the outside stairs. Beauchamp asked the woman to look after the corpse, adding that he would leave Cutwolf and his companions to assist her in cleaning and washing the body. ‘We must go,’ the royal clerk declared. ‘Parson Smollat, we shall wait for you below.’

Beauchamp, Anselm and a slightly nervous Stephen left the chamber and went down to wait in the courtyard. ‘Magister,’ Stephen pleaded, ‘where have you been, what have you been doing?’ He glanced swiftly at the royal clerk. ‘You are coughing blood. You should not be involved in this.’

‘Brother Anselm.’ Beauchamp grabbed the exorcist’s arm. ‘What is this spitting blood? Have you been poisoned?’

‘No, no.’ The exorcist smiled, exerting all his charm and beckoning them away from the door of the priest’s house. ‘I have been studying here and there and my cough is as old as I am. Now, Stephen, do not fret or worry.’ He rubbed the side of the novice’s face. ‘Be at peace,’ he urged. ‘Think of God’s goodness and,’ he teased, ‘Alice’s smile. You have enjoyed yourself. No,’ Anselm wagged a finger, ‘I will not talk about myself. Let us talk more about poor Simon.’

‘We discovered nothing,’ Beauchamp declared. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Except this.’ Anselm twisted a piece of parchment, small and greasy with age between his fingers. ‘A mere scrap.’ He handed this to Beauchamp, who simply pulled a face and passed it to Stephen. The novice read the scrawl repeated time and again in dog Latin, Norman French and English. The message was simple and stark: ‘Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael.’ As the Angelus bell abruptly tolled, Stephen thought about the arbour and sitting next to Alice.

‘Stephen?’

‘Er, nothing, Magister.’ He handed the strip of parchment back to Anselm. ‘I don’t know what that means. Look, the others will be waiting.’

They all, Parson Smollat included, eventually gathered in Sir William’s elegant chancery chamber. The perfume of the quilted leather chairs and stools mingled with the fragrance from the flower pots, chafing dishes and braziers. Stephen wondered how such exquisite beauty could exist alongside the horrors they had just witnessed. ‘Well,’ Sir William asked, lacing his podgy fingers together, ‘we really must close the church now. Yes, Parson Smollat?’

The priest gulped noisily but nodded in agreement.

‘What happened?’ Anselm demanded.

‘From the little we know,’ Sir William replied, ‘Simon went into the church. He entered by the corpse door. Once inside he pulled across the bolts and locked the door. He must have taken the key with him.’

‘And this has not been found?’ Anselm intervened.

‘Yes,’ Sir William agreed. ‘Apparently it wasn’t on his corpse.’

‘I searched the church with Almaric when you took poor Simon’s corpse back to his chambers.’ Gascelyn spoke up. ‘Brother Anselm, that key has disappeared.’

‘So,’ the exorcist demanded, ‘how did the sexton die?’

‘We’ve discussed that,’ Sir William replied. ‘Brother Anselm, it is a mystery except for one conclusion.’

‘Which is?’

‘The sacristy door was locked and bolted — you saw that. So it would seem that Simon entered by the corpse door, drew those bolts, locked it and threw away the key or hid it somewhere. He then went into that darkened transept, pulled his dagger and cut his own throat.’

‘Impossible.’

‘What other solution is there?’ Almaric sniffed. ‘Go back, examine the corpse door. The bolts were drawn. If you draw them back, the door remains locked because the key is missing. Simon must have killed himself, or was forced to, or some secret assassin entered that church. But how? There are no tunnels or secret passageways. Some demon, surely, Brother?’ Almaric grew more loquacious and Stephen suspected that the curate had drunk deeply from the goblet of claret in front of him. ‘Surely,’ he repeated, ‘a man can be so terrified by demons, by the horrors which lurk behind the veil as to take his own life?’

‘I would agree,’ the exorcist conceded, ‘and you all think that?’ He stared around the polished walnut table, slightly dusty from the great bowl of lilies in the centre, their yellow seeds now peppering the polished top. Everyone nodded in agreement. Beauchamp looked rather askance, even sullen as he mulled over his own dark thoughts. The royal clerk caught Stephen’s glance and stared coolly back. The novice wondered if Cutwolf had told him everything, including Stephen’s own suspicions about this mysterious and enigmatic clerk.

‘In which case,’ Anselm tapped the table top, ‘Saint Michael should be placed under interdict until it is cleansed and purified.’

‘Or pulled down?’ Sir William declared. ‘I have petitioned both the Crown and the Archbishop. The entire church should be razed to the ground.’

‘In the meantime,’ Parson Smollat asked, ‘what do I do?’ The priest looked agitated, his balding brow laced with sweat.

‘It is not the end of the world, parson,’ Sir William said kindly. ‘You can look forward to a new church.’

‘If the King and the Archbishop should agree.’ Beauchamp asserted himself, resting his arms on the table. ‘But for the moment,’ he emphasized his points on his fingers, ‘we do not know who the Midnight Man is or his coven. We do not know how he learned about the lost treasure or the robber Puddlicot, yet he has. He has used, to little or no effect, the black arts to learn more. He performed those rites at Westminster and at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick. We know he failed but not how or why this ended in failure, causing such a fierce stir amongst the living dead. Hence the hauntings, the demon infestation of Saint Michael’s and the abbey. Somehow or other,’ Beauchamp paused, ‘I believe the Midnight Man discovered two items of the lost treasure. Rishanger seized these, attempted to flee and was murdered.’ The royal clerk carefully rubbed his hands together. Stephen sensed something false, as if Beauchamp was not revealing his true thoughts. ‘Now, Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the warlocks coven,’ the royal clerk continued. ‘He may even be the Midnight Man himself, for that sinister figure has fallen remarkably silent. Rishanger was certainly a blood-drinker. He abducted and murdered young women, then buried them in that dire garden of his. Beatrice, Rishanger’s leman, was also murdered, her corpse abused by Rishanger or others — we do not know the truth. Finally, were Rishanger’s other victims the object of his murderous lust or were they used in his diabolic rites?’ Beauchamp shrugged. ‘Again, we do not know.’

‘Then there are the other mysterious deaths,’ Anselm declared. ‘How did Bardolph fall from the top of that church tower? And Simon, his throat cut, locked in a church? Adele, poisoned by a mysterious visitor? Who this was or why they should murder her is, again, a mystery.’

‘Why can’t you free us from all of this?’ Parson Smollat almost shouted. ‘You are the exorcist. Anselm. You failed and then you disappeared.’

‘Yes, I failed. I did so because I have failed to dig out the root of all this, a malignant human wickedness. Yes, I did disappear but I have been very, very busy. I have searched the records. I have also travelled to the great Abbey of Glastonbury in Somerset.’ His words created an immediate silence.

‘Now it comes!’ a voice hissed into Stephen’s ear. ‘Now the wheel spins yet again.’ Stephen glanced over to the corner where a figure sat, a blood-red translucent veil covering its head, face and body. Stephen’s heart skipped a beat. He watched those red-mittened hands: the ends of the fingers were like long white worms, the nails painted a deep blue. Stephen murmured a prayer. The hands were moving. Stephen panicked. They must, he prayed, not pull up that veil and reveal the sinister face beneath — a witch’s face! Stephen abruptly pushed back his stool.

‘Glastonbury,’ Sir William spluttered. ‘Why there?’

Stephen rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. He glanced over again: the corner was empty but a drum, deep in the house, began to beat, followed by the faint trails of a trumpet blast. ‘A l’outrance!’ a voice cackled. ‘Usque ad mortem — to the death, so the tournament begins.’ Stephen felt a blast of heat, as if an oven door had been thrown open and he had been thrust before it.

‘Stephen,’ Beauchamp gestured at the wine dresser, ‘do you want something to drink?’

‘No.’ The novice rubbed his clammy hands along his jerkin. ‘No, I am sorry, I was daydreaming.’

‘As was I,’ Anselm added quickly. He had noticed his novice’s discomfort and was eager to distract attention. ‘Sir William, you asked about Glastonbury? Well, I also searched the records in the Tower, studying every item of treasure stolen from the crypt. Now, as you know, during the reign of Edward I, the present King’s grandfather, the monks of Glastonbury allegedly opened Arthur’s tomb in their abbey. Arthur’s body, a veritable giant, was discovered along with his flaxen-haired Guinevere. However, according to the abbey chronicle and local legend, they also found Merlin’s Stone and other magical items belonging to that great magus.’

‘What,’ Beauchamp asked abruptly, ‘is Merlin’s Stone?’

‘The philosopher’s stone,’ Anselm replied. ‘The means to perform alchemy, to transmute base metals into gold.’

‘Rishanger believed in that nonsense,’ Sir William barked. ‘I told you the murderer came here, begging me for money to achieve that, do you remember?’

‘I certainly do,’ Anselm agreed. ‘Anyway, I travelled down to Glastonbury; the almoner of that great abbey is a friend of mine. He showed me Arthur’s grave and in the library chronicle, a most fascinating account of the discovery.’

‘I have never been there,’ Sir William intervened. ‘I would love to.’

‘Yes, yes, you must go. Anyway, Edward the King took the stone and the other magical items and kept them amongst his trophies.’

‘Was Puddlicot a warlock?’ Parson Smollat asked.

‘No evidence exists for that.’

‘This business. .’ Beauchamp was eager to bring attention back to the matters in hand.

‘Ah, yes, this business.’ Anselm paused. ‘I thought, prayed, reflected and speculated.’ The exorcist rubbed his hands together slowly. ‘Undoubtedly the Midnight Man and his coven were blood-drinkers. Rishanger certainly was. They used that desolate house and that infernal pit in its dismal, isolated garden to entice young women and subject them to every kind of abuse. No wonder the place was haunted. However, the cemetery at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick is different.’

‘Yet undoubtedly haunted?’ Parson Smollat interjected.

‘Of course, but why?’ Anselm added hastily. ‘Rishanger could carry out his gruesome rites in his own dark temple. However, would young women willingly go into a cemetery? Even if they weren’t enticed but abducted, they could resist, protest — eventually such a crime would be noticed. I mean, God knows who used to wander that place — beggars, lovers, the curious?’

‘I agree,’ Parson Smollat slurred, ‘and yet it is haunted.’

‘When I first thought some innocents had been taken there and murdered, I did wonder if they had been killed and buried in graves already dug.’

‘But that means, Brother Anselm,’ Sir William declared, ‘you suspected Bardolph, even Parson Smollat?’

‘No, no,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Remember, I asked about burials there. A grave is invariably dug the day before the requiem Mass, yes?’

‘Correct,’ Parson Smollat agreed.

‘Accordingly, I wondered if the assassin would use such occasions to kill and, under the cloak of darkness, bury his victim in a grave already dug, then cover her with soil. The funeral takes place. The coffin or shroud cloth is lowered. The grave is filled in and no one is any the wiser!’ Anselm straightened up. ‘I was mistaken. However, I still believe that corpses, horribly murdered, lie somewhere else.’ Anselm gathered together his writing satchel. ‘As for poor Simon’s death — and I rightly call him poor Simon — believe me, my friends, a fiend did that, though not from hell but from Dowgate.’ Smiling grimly at his companions, Anselm rose, made his farewells, then left with Stephen.

Once outside the house the exorcist made his way back towards St Michael’s. The day was quiet. A Franciscan stood on a plinth, begging alms for a group of lepers clustered a short distance away, their faces and hands swathed in bandages. Only their eyes, frenetic and desperate, peered out at a world that had forsaken them. Stephen ran up and told the friar to take his little flock to The Unicorn, where Master Robert would undoubtedly see them well. The Franciscan hopped down as nimble as a cricket, kissed Stephen on the cheeks and shouted at his charges to follow. He led them off singing the ‘Salve Regina’ while the lepers followed at a distance, shaking their rattles and bells. Children, playing with an inflated pig’s bladder, scattered at their approach. Women shouted from the windows of houses, begging their little ones to be careful. A false trader came racing up the lane, breathless and sweaty, as he dodged and twisted in a desperate attempt to escape pursuing market beadles. No sooner were they gone than a relic seller stepped out from an apothecary’s shop, a tray slung around his neck, offering miniature portions of soap. Each was wrapped in a linen cloth which, he proclaimed, Joseph of Arimathea had used for the Lord’s body on the first Good Friday. Stephen stood and watched these sights, aware of the different smells from the various shops and stalls. He glimpsed a necklace of gleaming copper being hawked by a tinker and immediately wondered if Alice would like it. He was about to walk across the lane when a cold breeze wafted against his face. A voice whispered something about the devil’s wolf, hungry for the hunt. Stephen whirled around. A sense of pressing danger agitated him. Were those two beggars at the mouth of the runnel watching him? Or the man, heavily cloaked, who now stood just beneath the sign of the apothecary shop? Was he masked? Was his hand resting on a dagger hilt? The people milling around did not seem so welcoming now. Glittering eyes peered from deep hoods. A bulbous-eyed servitor, apron stained with blood, hastened by then paused to stare slyly at Stephen. Above him a window casement flew open and a man leaned out. Stephen thought he was holding a crossbow, yet when he looked again the casement slammed shut. A fierce whispering broke around him, like the humming of a noisome cloud of flies. Stephen felt the terrors seize him. He was not safe here. He broke free of his panic and hurried after Anselm, finding the exorcist standing at the lychgate to St Michael’s. Stephen paused and took a deep breath.

Anselm turned. ‘Believe me, my friend,’ the exorcist leaned against the heavy wooden gate, ‘this truly is the Kingdom of Cain. Murder was committed here but how, Stephen? Why and when?’

‘Magister, what shall we do?’

‘I’ll stay here.’

‘Stay here?’

‘Yes.’ Anselm left the gate and crouched down with his back to the cemetery wall. ‘I just want to watch and see what happens.’ He shaded his eyes, squinting up at Stephen. ‘You have some money?’

‘Yes.’ Stephen grinned. ‘Why? Are we to beg?’

‘No, to eat,’ the exorcist replied. ‘Stephen, I am famished. A pastry full of minced beef with peppers and a dash of mustard? Master Robert sells the best!’ Stephen, his terrors forgotten, needed no second bidding. Swift as a lurcher he ran to the tavern, bursting breathless into the kitchen, surprising the cook who gently mocked his eagerness, saying that two pastries and a pie were easy to serve. However, the lovely Alice had accompanied her father to St Paul’s to meet a merchant beneath the Great Cross.

Stephen blushed, then grinned at the teasing. Once the linen parcels were ready, stowed in an old leather sack, he left the tavern, turning back into the street. A shout echoed through his mind. A woman’s voice whispered, ‘Ave, ave.’ Stephen whirled around as four figures, hooded and garbed in black leather jerkins and hose, soft boots on their feet, merged out of the shadows. These were no phantasms. They breathed noisily behind their masks while their wicked knives winked in the light. ‘Good morrow, little friar. You must come with us.’

‘I must not.’

One of the nightmare figures stretched out his blade. ‘What are you, little friar, you God-mumbler, you prattler of prayers? You stand there like some rabbit, jerking and trembling at the rustle of life.’

Stephen felt the anger well within him. He stepped back, determined to resist.

‘God save you all! God save the King! God save Holy Mother Church!’ Cutwolf, as if appearing from nowhere, sauntered down the alleyway. Behind him was his companion, face and head all oiled and shaved — Stephen knew this must be Bolingbrok, just by the way he swaggered. Beyond them, at the mouth of the alleyway, others thronged. Stephen heard a sound. He glanced back. His sinister assailants had disappeared into the spindle-thin runnel which stretched through the old houses in this quarter. Breathing in deeply, Stephen tried to ignore the clamouring voices. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok approached, sauntering along without a care in the world, confident in their own strength, the weapons strapped to their war belts. Bolingbrok stopped before him and bowed. ‘The Lord hath delivered thee,’ he intoned, ‘as he did Israel from Og King of Bashan and Sihon King of the Amorites.’

‘Blueberry.’ Cutwolf laughed. ‘That is what he is calling himself now. But we shall always know him as Bolingbrok. Anyway, young Stephen, we have kept you under close scrutiny. You really should be more careful.’

‘Who were they?’

‘Oh, undoubtedly the Midnight Man’s messengers, but come,’ Cutwolf beckoned, ‘Brother Anselm is starving.’

‘What did they want with me?’

‘To see what you know, because the trap is closing, Stephen. But don’t you worry. Where you go, your shadows will also follow.’

‘Why didn’t you try to arrest them?’

‘For what? No, my friend,’ Cutwolf grinned, ‘too dangerous and, I suspect, they are merely hired bully boys who know very little.’

They returned to St Michael’s. Anselm still sat sunning himself against the wall, watching the people drift by. Stephen joined him, handing over the linen parcel, making no mention of what had happened. Cutwolf and his companions drifted into the cemetery, squatting down in the long grass, shouting and laughing with each other. Stephen bit into the still-warm pastry and watched, as Anselm did, the shifting scenes. A group of pilgrims, armed with iron-tipped staves and preceded by a priest swinging a smoking thurible, hurried down to Queenhithe, chanting the litany of St James of Compostella, whose shrine at Santiago they hoped to visit. Tumblers and tinkers, moon men and mountebanks, jongleurs and the tellers of tall tales swarmed by. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok joined the two Carmelites, sitting like young boys with their backs to the walls, faces to the sun, commenting on all who passed: the court fops in their prigging fineries, the beadles and bailiffs, the staggering drunks and sober-clad officials.

As the daylight began to fade, the more colourful of Dowgate citizens, those who lived in the Mansions of Darkness, emerged fresh for a night’s mischief. Cutwolf knew many of them by name and reputation. ‘Hedge-Popper’ and ‘Hob the Knob’ were two pickpockets; ‘Peck Face’ a professional beggar and ‘Rattle Ears’ a well-known cheat. Anselm seemed to enjoy himself and yet the more Stephen watched, he realized his master was mostly interested in the young drabs, whores and doxies who passed by. ‘I have learned something,’ Anselm breathed, ‘the Holy Spirit be thanked. I confess my arrogance. I can now begin to learn.’

He finished the pastry and was about to get up when the two Franciscan Minoresses suddenly appeared in the mouth of the alleyway opposite and hobbled across. ‘Light immortal, light divine,’ a voice whispered, only to be answered by the snarl of a fierce dog — a chilling, resounding sound which sent Stephen scrambling to his feet. He wiped the sweat on his jerkin as the two women approached. The first was very elderly and venerable with a seamed, wizened face, eyes like small black currants in a flour-white skin. The other was also old but still vigorous, sharp of eye and firm of mouth, with the natural authority of a Mother Superior. They paused and bowed at Anselm, who returned the courtesy. ‘You are Anselm, the Carmelite, the exorcist?’

‘Yes!’

‘We have much in common, Brother Anselm.’

‘Such as?’

‘Richard Puddlicot.’

Anselm just gasped.

‘Puddlicot!’ Stephen stared at the older woman, thinning hair peeping from beneath her wimple, eyes milky blue, mouth chomping on pinkish-red gums.

‘Who are you?’

‘Joanne Picard,’ the old woman whispered. ‘God have mercy on me, and on him. I was Puddlicot’s mistress. Now I am his relict.’

She leaned on her companion and smiled. Despite her age, Joanne Picard was resolute in both speech and manner.

‘You must be. .?’

‘Close to my eighty-eighth winter.’ The old woman laughed softly. ‘I was barely sixteen when I lost the love of my life.’ The bony, black-spotted, vein-streaked hand clutching her companion squeezed hard. ‘And this is Eleanor, our daughter.’ Anselm stood surprised and shocked.

‘Magister?’

‘Not here, Stephen, sisters.’ Anselm grasped both of them by the hand. ‘Stephen, run ahead and tell Master Robert at The Unicorn that he has guests.’

‘But not the royal clerk,’ Eleanor Picard declared firmly. ‘Not him!’

‘Why not?’

‘I trust you, exorcist, we trust you, novice, but not him.’

Anselm glanced at Cutwolf, gently shaking his head. The henchman just lifted his hand in reply, then he and Bolingbrok sauntered back into the cemetery to join their companions. Stephen hurried off. Master Robert and Alice had returned to The Unicorn. Busy in the taproom, hair a little dishevelled, her pretty face tickled with sweat and her eyes rounded in mock grief, Alice confessed, flicking flour from her sleeves, how she’d had to distract herself while her beloved had disappeared without a word.

Stephen recited a list of apologies, which only put Alice into a fit of giggles. She kissed him merrily on the mouth and demanded to know why he was in such haste. When he told her, Alice immediately called her father and, dragging Stephen in to help, they prepared the most private of the window-seats. Anselm eventually arrived with the two ladies and Stephen joined them behind the screen. Now he could tease Alice, shaking his head in mock solemnity at her enquiries. Both women refused to eat, saying they would do so later in the day at their convent, although they gratefully accepted a jug of Rhenish and a dish of marzipan which Joanne merrily declared to be her favourite. Anselm did not need to question them. Eleanor Picard, once she had taken a deep mouthful of the sweet white wine, moved the decorated horn box with its bright tallow candle to the centre of the table. She talked swiftly and pointedly. She declared how her mother had been Puddlicot’s mistress after he had returned to London from Flanders. A carpenter by trade from a reputable Oxford family, Puddlicot had dabbled in the export of wool, which had been severely disrupted by Edward I’s sharp disagreement with the Flemings. Puddlicot arrived in London full of anger at the King and determined to make a fortune at the Crown’s expense by robbing the crypt. Eleanor described how Puddlicot had suborned the leading monks of Westminster and others, enticing them into his outrageous scheme. Finally she explained how both Puddlicot and his gang had been broken by a royal clerk, John Drokensford, later Bishop of Bath and Wells.

‘My father, as you know,’ Eleanor fought back tears, ‘fled for sanctuary at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He sheltered there. The parson at the time, Henry Spigurnel, gave him sanctuary.’

‘Was he part of your father’s coven?’ Anselm asked.

‘I think so. I suspect he helped my father hide most of the looted treasure.’

‘Where?’

‘Richard never told me,’ Joanne Picard whispered. Despite her age, Stephen realized that her wits were sharp, even wary of eavesdroppers in the tavern.

‘What did he tell you?’

‘How the treasure lay under the protection of God’s guardian!’

‘Saint Michael the Archangel?’

‘I suppose so.’ Joanne laughed quietly. ‘I visited him when he was in sanctuary. Puddlicot was a true roaring boy. He didn’t give a fig about life or death. He told me how he’d buried two pieces of treasure, the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger, in the garden of our house in Hagbut Lane.’

‘The same one occupied by Rishanger?’

‘The same,’ Joanne agreed. ‘Richard told me that and how he had left me a message with those two items about how he’d put the rest of the treasure under the protection of God’s guardian. He said he would give me further details but later that day he was taken by force. During the attack Parson Henry Spigurnel was injured and died shortly afterwards.’

‘Spigurnel resisted?’

‘Yes, yes, he did. He received a blow to the back of his head which staved his crown in. He never regained either his sense or wits but died in his sleep. I never saw my beloved again.’ The old woman wiped her tear-streaked face. ‘They took Richard to the Tower. They confined him close. Once they had finished — and I know they did not break him — they bound him in a wheelbarrow and paraded him through the city before hanging him on the gallows outside the main gate of the abbey. The King let his corpse dangle for a day then ordered Richard’s body to be flayed and the skin fixed to a door close to the abbey crypt.’ The old woman swallowed hard. ‘They hired a skinner from the Shambles to do it. He peeled Richard’s skin as you would an apple, hanging it like a costume next to Richard’s blood-red corpse.’ She paused, crossing herself. ‘They later cut his corpse down and carted it like a hunk of meat to the Chapel of the Damned. I believe you saw us there.’

‘And so it ended.’ Eleanor spoke up. ‘My mother was pregnant with me. She searched the garden of her house but could find nothing.’

‘I had to be careful,’ the ancient one intervened. ‘The King’s surveyors were watching. I had no choice but to return to my family in Somerset. My father was kindly; he supported me. Eleanor was born. I eventually received my inheritance and moved back to London to work at what I am gifted — a seamstress. The old King was dead; his son then ruled. I lived comfortably enough.’ She paused. ‘I truly loved Puddlicot.’ Only then did her voice break. ‘I truly did. I visited our old haunts. Of course, all those involved in his great escapade were either dead or witless. I heard his skin had been left to rot on the abbey door.’

Joanne caught her breath and greedily slurped from the goblet. ‘I also heard the stories. How both the monks’ cemetery as well as that at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick were haunted. By then my lover’s name had entered legend and folklore. According to the common tongue Puddlicot’s ghost could not, would not, rest.’ She paused, head down, her thin, bony shoulders shaking.

‘The harrowing of hell has begun,’ a voice lisped close to Stephen, ‘sharper than the eagle’s talon is the vengeance which ploughs the infernal meadows. The trumpet sounds, a clarion call. Stephen, the dead gather. The fires burn!’

The novice glanced in the direction of the window and saw faces pressed there, eyes beseeching, lips curled in supplication.

‘I tried to make peace,’ Eleanor’s voice rasped, drawing Stephen from his reverie. ‘I wanted to live a normal life. I became betrothed but that was not to be. As I grew older I became more and more aware of my father, his spirit, the evil he had done. I visited the Franciscans at their house in Greyfriars and confessed all. The good brothers gave me wise counsel. I decided on a life of reparation. I sold all my possessions. I joined the Minoresses and entered their house at Aldgate on one condition: that my mother was given a corrody there, a pension. The good sisters agreed.’ She paused. Stephen ignored the tapping on the window, like that of a sharp-beaked bird or the fingers of someone desperate to get in.

‘We settled down. We loved the horarium of the house. Brother Anselm, we found peace until the present troubles began. We heard of Rishanger, his murder in the abbey, the two treasures found and the stories about the hauntings at Saint Michael’s.’

Stephen tried to shake off the keen cold; he peered around the screen in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alice. Cutwolf stood there, deep in conversation with Master Robert. The henchman glanced up. Stephen withdrew behind the screen.

‘We watched you,’ Eleanor continued, ‘we heard of you, Brother Anselm. We needed to trust you.’

‘But not Sir Miles Beauchamp?’

‘Oh no, not the royal clerk. Drokensford was a royal clerk. He dragged Puddlicot from the sanctuary, loaded him with chains and sent him to the Tower. After he had been condemned, Drokensford put him in a wheelbarrow — an object of derision — and had him carted through the streets to a gruesome death.’ Eleanor sipped at her wine. ‘Drokensford never allowed my mother to visit her beloved. Afterwards, I understand, he harassed her constantly.’

‘Just for a while.’ Joanne spoke up. ‘He thought I had information.’ The ancient one grinned, pert as a sparrow. ‘I did,’ she sighed, ‘but what was the use?’ She blinked, staring up above their heads as if searching for something. ‘Richard organized that robbery. He brought the treasure to our house and then moved it to Saint Michael’s. I believe Parson Spigurnel was going to help by securing safe passage abroad for both of us, but then Drokensford struck. So yes, I don’t like royal clerks, particularly Beauchamp with his secretive, sly ways, hiding in that strange house which only his henchmen enter. Anyway, Richard had to flee to Saint Michael’s at the dead of night. I only visited him once. I drew as close as I could to the sanctuary chair. I know my daughter has told you this but it is worth repeating: Richard whispered how he had left me a package, wrapped in a leather casing buried in our garden, containing the Cross of Neath and Eleanor’s dagger, along with a message. I asked him about the rest of the treasure — that’s when he repeated the message that it was under the protection of God’s guardian. I suspect he hoped that I would find the treasure and perhaps use it to negotiate with Drokensford, but I could not — that clerk was too sharp. He had already ransacked our house and the garden. Remember, Anselm, I was only sixteen and bearing a child. I was truly terrified.’ She began to sob. Eleanor put a protective arm around her shoulder.

‘Tell me,’ Anselm leaned across the table, ‘did Puddlicot ever talk about the Merlin Stone? I will be even blunter, mistress: did Puddlicot ever dabble in the black arts?’ The ancient one glanced up, watery eyes creased in an impish smile. ‘God bless you, Brother Anselm, but I find that amusing. Puddlicot was a merry fellow. He could dance a jig and tell a tale. He was a jongleur, a bully boy, deeply in love with life. He did not pray. He lived recklessly for the moment so he had no time for magic, wizards, witches or warlocks. He dismissed them all as charlatans.’

‘The Merlin Stone,’ Anselm insisted, ‘was part of the treasure stolen from the crypt?’ The ancient one looked at Anselm then threw her head back, cackling with laughter. ‘I do remember that, small and round as a ball, smooth and polished.’ She wiped her tired eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Merlin Stone!’ she scoffed. ‘Richard tossed it into the carp pond as a useless piece of rock. He claimed it was man-made, the type of stone you carve from a falling star which has burned out and fallen to earth. He said the good monks of Glastonbury must have been hard at work to smooth that out! As far as I know,’ she chuckled, ‘Merlin’s Stone is still lying at the bottom of that carp pond!’

Even Anselm grinned, lifting his goblet of water in salute. He then told them about the Midnight Man, the disappearance of young women and the grisly murders at St Michael’s. Both women sat in shocked silence. Eleanor raised her hand. ‘Brother Anselm, how will this end? You say my father’s ghost still hovers, that even our prayers have not helped. Will my father’s spirit ever find peace?’

‘How will it end, Eleanor,’ Anselm replied kindly, ‘is in the hands of the Lord. I shall tell you something I have not yet told others. I am beginning to understand what happened and that opens further doors. Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the Midnight Man’s coven; that nest of vipers always had an interest in Puddlicot’s treasure, probably because of the Merlin Stone. Rishanger and his fellow demons searched that house but found nothing. However, they were also blood-drinkers, feasting and revelling on the bodies of young women whom they slaughtered and buried in that hellish garden. During one such foray, Rishanger stumbled on those two treasures as well as the information Puddlicot had buried with them. This provided further impetus; hence the satanic revels at Westminster and particularly at Saint Michael’s. They were intrigued by the written reference to Puddlicot’s plunder being guarded by God’s protector.’

‘The church of Saint Michael’s?’

‘Of course!’ Anselm agreed. ‘So, Mistress Eleanor, they performed their rites but these became entangled in some other wickedness and came to nothing.’

‘What wickedness?’

‘I shall tell you, mistress. I trust you. I will tell you something I have not yet told Sir Miles and the rest: somewhere in that church or cemetery lie other corpses.’

‘Why do you say this?’

‘Satanic covens need consecrated ground for their filthy blood sacrifices. More practically, I suspect, Rishanger’s garden could not hide any more corpses.’

‘So many were slaughtered?’

‘We are talking of a coven, all blood-drinkers. Perhaps a few of them are women but mostly men.’ The exorcist paused. ‘I do wonder why cemeteries fascinate the human soul. Is it all the ceremony which goes into them? I have been to the Innocents in Paris, a forest of ornate, carved stone. The rich even try to make their dead flesh sweet, paying butchers to scoop out their entrails and fill their insides with fragrant spices.’ Anselm laughed sharply. ‘It only makes them tastier for the worms. What does it matter? I was also in Paris when the Pestilence returned. I heard her swish her scythe as she combed the streets, gathering her victims. I saw corpses piled high, the flesh turning a purplish-black, bereft of all soul and spirit. If people like the Midnight Man reflected on such an end, they would give up their filthy ways.’

‘Brother Anselm,’ Eleanor intervened gently, ‘when will you put paid to these nightmares?’ The exorcist did not reply but rose to his feet, helping her and her mother, who had now grown sleepy-eyed. The exorcist simply blessed them. Stephen helped both women out from behind the screen. The taproom was now filling up. Tradesmen and tinkers jostled each other. A wandering scholar, his pet weasel in a cage, was offering to chant a poem but no one took any notice. Two relic sellers were inspecting the contents of their sacks. They caught Stephen’s eye and invited him over. He ignored them and escorted the two women to the door. The sunshine had gone and a thin drizzle peppered the cobblestones. A man strode through the gates, face hidden in a deep hood, dark cloak billowing out like the wings of a bat. Cutwolf! He did not stop but glanced, mice-eyed, at the two ladies, brushed past Stephen and into the tavern. The ancient one patted Stephen on the arm and leaned heavily against her daughter, who smiled at Stephen.

‘So young! I hope what we told your master is of use?’

‘I am sure it is,’ Stephen reassured her. ‘As he said, all these are pointers to the truth.’

‘Will we ever be free of it?’ Eleanor murmured. ‘Years ago I heard a story about a child who found an evil-looking toad in a field. The girl was so frightened, she killed it. That dead toad pursued her night and day, giving her no rest. The girl killed it time and again but the pursuit continued even after it was torched to ashes. The hapless, persecuted girl, to be eternally free of the torment, let her loathsome enemy bite her but escaped death by cutting away the venom-filled wound. Vengeance appeased, and the toad was seen no more.’

‘Mistress?’

‘Sometimes evil dogs our lives — a host of bats blacking out the sunlight.’ She leaned over and kissed Stephen on each cheek. ‘I do believe your master will free us from the evil which seems to hound our souls. But remember, Stephen, there will be a terrible price to pay.’ Then they were gone, two lonely figures shuffling into the gloaming.

Stephen returned to the taproom to find Cutwolf closeted with his master in the window-seat. ‘Sir Miles wants to know what our two guests told us,’ Anselm declared drily. ‘I have given Brother Cutwolf the gist of it. Sir Miles believes more mischief is afoot, but we also have an invitation to dine with him. You, me, Master Robert and Mistress Alice — it will be grand.’

‘My master is most appreciative of your work.’ Cutwolf, despite the heavy cloak over his mailed shirt and clinking war belt, was friendly enough. ‘The day after tomorrow, just before vespers, he insists that you sup with him.’ Cutwolf’s voice became teasing. ‘Master Stephen, you did ask about my master’s house. .?’

Stephen blushed.

‘And now,’ Anselm rose, ‘we have an appointment with a soul bound for God. Master Bolingbrok awaits us inside Saint-Olaf-all-alone.’

‘A small tavern, deep in White Friars,’ Cutwolf answered Stephen’s puzzled look, ‘as different from this as hell from heaven. Don’t be disappointed,’ Cutwolf added kindly, ‘Mistress Alice will be here when you return and remember, the evening after tomorrow, we have our festivities to celebrate.’

Stephen hid his disappointment. He gathered his cloak and sword belt with its long stabbing dirk and sought out Alice. He feverishly kissed her then joined Anselm and Cutwolf, already striding across the tavern yard. They went up through the constant drizzle towards St Michael’s, a dark mass against the cloudy sky. They paused for a while by the dripping gates of that evil-festering cemetery with its heap of tumbled stones and crosses. Anselm stood staring out over the desolation. Stephen, busy with his cloak and belt, his mind still full of regret at leaving Alice, felt the crowding ghosts close in. He gazed down the empty lane. Figures moved. A shadow rose out of a puddle; others followed. Restless shapes, as if a mob of demons and spirits, were mustering. Faint traces of song and conversation teased Stephen’s ear. A waft of heavy perfume came and went. A raucous voice shouted, ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ The air turned abruptly cold. Cutwolf clapped gloved hands on the hilt of both sword and dagger. Stephen caught his breath. He glanced towards St Michael’s. The cemetery was no longer just a stretch of moving grass. Tall trees now grew there bristling with thorns, their leaves like blades of red-hot iron. Near the lychgate a cauldron, seething with oil, pitch and resin, belched flames of black, smoky plumes. A huge snake, coiled round the cauldron, reared its ugly head and breathed out fiery sparks which assumed a life of their own. Somewhere in the darkness a filthy, grunting herd of swine rooted and snouted for food, their stench hanging like a heavy veil. The drizzle seemed to be raining down fresh horrors.

‘Stephen, Stephen!’ Anselm was shaking him. The novice broke from his nightmare, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his own head. ‘Stephen,’ Anselm whispered, ‘I can feel the same. This night is as restless as an evil conscience in a tumbled bed. Something is about to happen. Pray God we keep safe!’ They walked on. Cutwolf drew sword and dagger as they left the thoroughfares of Dowgate. They entered the little, crooked, dog-legged alleys of White Friars, which ran under houses so dingy they’d turned black, and were so ancient and corrupt they had to be supported by wooden crutches. Now and again little knots of figures would break from wallowing in the dirt and dart like bats into the doorways or alley-mouths. Here human wolves alongside crime, filth and disease lurked in the shadows or behind dark doors leading down to even darker vaults and cellars. Underfoot the path was nothing more than slimy mud and stinking water. The dungeon-like doors and prison-like windows remained shut. Nevertheless, voices called and trailed. An occasional light flared and dimmed. Cutwolf was recognized, the two Carmelites noted as they made their way through the squalid, hellish maze of the needle-thin paths, their ill-dug sewers crammed with disgusting refuse.

Stephen had to cover his mouth against the constant, pressing, infected smell. He felt frightened. A hideous presence hovered close, hurrying breathless to his right then to the left, only to slip behind him like some threatening assassin. The sweat started on his body. Stephen fought the mounting panic until suddenly, without being bidden, Cutwolf broke into song, his harsh voice intoning St Patrick’s Breastplate, a powerful invocation for God’s help.

‘Christ be with me,

Christ behind me,

Christ before me,

Christ beneath me.’

Anselm joined in. Stephen grew calm, and also took up the refrain:

‘Christ in danger,

Christ in the mind of friend and stranger. .’

The darkness thinned. The terrors receded as they swung into a narrow street and stopped before the ill-lit St-Olaf-all-alone, the creaking sign with its rough depiction of the northern saint almost hidden by dirt and grime. They pushed open the door into the drinking chamber, a gloomy place lit by the occasional taper glow. The taverner, standing by the board, recognized Cutwolf and snapped at the two oafs guarding the makeshift staircase built into the corner to stand aside. These gallowbirds, who rejoiced in the names of ‘Vole’ and ‘Fang’, stepped back into the darkness. Cutwolf led the Carmelites up into the stygian, stinking blackness along a narrow gallery lit by a lantern horn perched on a stool, and into a shabby chamber. Bolingbrok crouched by a pile of sacking which served as a bed. On this sprawled a narrow-faced man; in the mean light of the tallow candle his pallid, unshaven skin shimmered with sweat and blood bubbled between chapped lips as he clutched his belly wound, a soggy, gruesome mess.

‘This is Basilisk,’ Bolingbrok murmured. ‘Thief, assassin, God knows what else. Stabbed over a cogged dice and now bound for judgement.’ He leaned down. ‘Aren’t you, my bully boy?’

Basilisk could only gasp. ‘Miserere!’

‘Yes, yes,’ Bolingbrok replied. ‘I keep my eyes and ears open for the likes of Basilisk. He needs a priest. He couldn’t care now about this or that. He has told me one thing, even though he recognized me as a cast-off priest, a defrocked one. We have chattered, Basilisk and I, and he has confessed.’

‘To what?’

‘To being a retainer of the Midnight Man’s coven.’

‘As God be my witness,’ Basilisk still had his senses, ‘I was recruited over a year ago.’

‘And how do you meet?’ Anselm pushed his way forward to kneel by the bed. Bolingbrok gently withdrew, allowing the exorcist to lean over the dying man. ‘The day after every full moon,’ Basilisk gasped, ‘the summons is posted in terms only we understand. On the great post near the Si Quis door at Saint Paul’s. The date, the time and the place.’

‘But anyone curious could note these?’

‘No, no,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘the place is numbered — fourteen, for example. We then look for a second bill, written out simply, the number reversed so it is forty-one, which stands for Saint Michael’s. The places are well known to us, usually along the mud flats or beyond the city walls.’

‘And the Midnight Man?’

‘He appears hooded and masked, well-guarded.’

‘And the ceremonies?’

‘No.’ Basilisk glanced at Anselm beseechingly. ‘I was only a guard, a retainer — not a member of their coven. I was not present at their filthy rites at Rishanger’s house or elsewhere.’

‘So what did you do exactly?’

‘He was an assassin,’ Bolingbrok hissed. ‘He was summoned whenever there was killing to be done.’

‘Who?’ Anselm placed a hand gently on the dying man’s chest. ‘Who?’ he repeated. ‘You are to go before God’s dread judgement, Basilisk. Hell awaits you, that blind world, mute of all light, dark, deep and cloud-filled. Hell is a horrible valley where the devils rain down the souls of murderers to melt like lard in a frying pan and seep through the iron-grilled floor as molten wax does through a straining cloth. Do you wish to escape such a place? Then repent, confess, be absolved!’

‘I and others,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘imposed order on the coven.’

‘You mean those who strayed or disobeyed?’

‘In morte veritas,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘in death truth.’

‘You are schooled? You are a clerk?’

‘As God be my witness, a clerk, schooled in the hornbook. A scholar of Oxford. I served in the King’s array and returned steeped in blood.’

‘You were given the names of those the Midnight Man marked down?’

‘Yes, it always meant sentence of death. A grocer in Poultry, a tanner in Walbrook. We were given both the name and the house — we never failed. Most of the deaths were judged as an accident: a fall from a chamber, crushed by a cart or a boating mishap near London Bridge.’

‘And Rishanger?’

‘We were ordered to follow him and, if he tried to flee, kill him. We attacked him at Queenhithe but he fought like a man possessed.’

Basilisk paused, breathing out noisily, gargling on the blood filling the back of his throat. He abruptly braced himself against a shaft of pain.

‘I gave him an opiate mixed in heavy wine,’ Bolingbrok whispered. ‘He cannot last much longer.’ Basilisk began to ramble, chattering in Norman French, the words ‘Mother’ and ‘Edith’ being repeated time and again. Stephen, who had stood with his back against the shabby door, wiped the sweat from his face. The chamber was growing unbearably hot; the only window was a mere arrow slit. Stephen’s gaze was drawn to it. He tensed at the bony, taloned fingers which grasped the rim of the narrow opening as if some repulsive creature clung to the rotting masonry outside, desperate to pull it out and force an entry. ‘The hour of greatest darkness!’ a voice murmured. ‘See the fluttering banners of Hell’s Host. The Lords of the Night gather. The Knights of the Pit prepare for chavauchee. The Dragon’s archers string their bows. Judas time! Darkness falls! The Armies of Hell have received their dread writ of array.’ Stephen forced himself to look away, to concentrate on Anselm, who was gently stroking the dying man’s face. The exorcist paused in a fit of coughing, shoulders shaking at the violent retching. Stephen’s heart missed a beat. When this was over, he promised himself, Anselm must visit the best physicians. He wondered if he should write to his own father.

‘Rishanger?’ The exorcist recovered from his coughing fit.

‘We pursued him. Killed him in the abbey but we were unable to find the treasure he had hidden.’

‘And?’

‘The Midnight Man was furious. We were summoned to a meeting in the ruins of Portsoken but did not go. Since then all has been quiet. There are rumours of a great stirring but. .’

‘A great stirring?’

‘The Midnight Man is whistling up his coven — that is all I know.’

‘And the other two who were with you at Rishanger’s death?’

‘Dead,’ the man gasped. ‘Strange, isn’t it? We failed so we, too, were marked for death.’

‘And the Midnight Man?’

‘I know nothing of him or his coven. Father, please absolve me.’

‘Stay outside.’ Anselm spoke over his shoulder.

Bolingbrok, Cutwolf and Stephen stepped into the ill-lit narrow gallery. Beauchamp’s henchmen stood silently, shadows against the shadows. Stephen glanced through the narrow window — nothing was there, yet he could hear a distant chanting. Stephen closed his eyes and prayed. The gathering was imminent. He recalled Eleanor’s words. She was certainly right: this would end in blood. They stayed for a while. The door opened. Anselm stepped out. ‘He could tell me no more.’

‘He still lives?’ Bolingbrok asked.

‘Just.’

Bolingbrok stepped around Anselm and, opening the door, entered the chamber. The bolts were drawn; a short while later they were pulled back. Bolingbrok, dagger in hand, stepped out. ‘He is gone,’ he murmured. ‘A mercy cut. No physician could save him. When the opiate faded he would have known hideous pain. He is past all caring and gone to God. We must leave.’

Anselm put his fingers to his lips and, abruptly, without warning, burst into tears. Cutwolf seized his arm but the exorcist shook him off. ‘I weep,’ he explained, ‘at the sheer, soul-harrowing sadness of it all.’ The exorcist took a deep breath and crossed himself. ‘Let us go.’

They left St Olaf-all-alone and walked briskly back through the streets. Even before they reached Dowgate the smell of burning curled heavy in the air, while a bright orange glow suffused the night sky. Bells began to toll. Lantern horns appeared. Doors opened and shut as they turned through the maze of lanes leading to Saint Michael’s. ‘The church is on fire!’ Anselm exclaimed. They hastened on; the closer they drew, the deeper their alarm. Stephen followed his master who, he noticed, had to stop to relieve his hacking cough. Tendrils of smoke brushed their faces; the smell of burning grew thicker. They rounded a corner and stared in horror. A fire raged through St Michael’s; its vivid glow illuminated the church set on top of a slight rise. The windows of the nave were bright with an unholy light. Tongues of flame shot up through the roof. The ward had been alerted. Sir Miles, swathed in a cloak, stood under the rain-drenched lychgate. Beside him, Sir William Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn. A figure lurched out of the darkness, slipping and slithering on the grass. Holyinnocent stepped into the pool of torch light. ‘The very fires of hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sir Miles, you must come. It is safe. You must see this.’

Beauchamp turned to the two Carmelites, ‘Good evening,’ he whispered, ‘pax et bonum. You met Master Bolingbrok?’

‘We did.’

Sir Miles nodded and indicated that they all accompany Holyinnocent across the cemetery. Stephen followed, staring fearfully at the furious inferno ravaging the black shell of the nave. Window glass had disappeared and all wooden structures must have burst into flame.

‘How?’ Anselm called out.

‘We do not know,’ Sir William replied. ‘I was a-bed when the tocsin sounded and the alarm was raised. I thought your man Holyinnocent was guarding the lychgate?’

‘He was,’ Beauchamp snapped tersely, ‘while your squire was in the death house.’

‘I heard nothing,’ Gascelyn declared. ‘I woke to the roaring flames. It was so sudden.’ Any further conversation was cut off as Holyinnocent led them under the great, canopied yew tree where they’d found the log to breach the sacristy door. At first Stephen thought it was a vision: two shapes hung above the ground, moving soundlessly from side to side. Only when Holyinnocent walked across, joined by Cutwolf, who had fired another sconce, was the full horror revealed. Necks twisted, faces a ghastly blueish-white, eyes popping, mouths gaping, Parson Smollat and his woman Isolda hung from the end of ropes, the nooses tied so tightly around their necks that their flesh was ploughed a rough, bloody furrow. Smollat was dressed in his robes; one boot had slipped off, lying next to the bench both must have stood on then kicked over. Isolda was garbed in a simple robe, soft buskins on her swinging feet, her hands, like those of Smollat, hanging listlessly by her side. Both just dangled, slightly twisting, the yew tree’s branches now creaking in protest.

‘Their hands?’ Holyinnocent muttered.

Anselm inspected them, lifting them up. Even in the poor light, Stephen, standing beside the exorcist, could see that they were blackened. Anselm sniffed at Parson Smollat’s and let them drop. ‘Oil,’ he declared, ‘possibly saltpetre. Did they start the fire then come here and hang themselves?’

‘So it would seem,’ Beauchamp answered. ‘Let us inspect them more closely. Bolingbrok, cut them down.’

Sir Miles walked off towards the blazing inferno now consuming St Michael’s; even as he did, part of the roof cracked and collapsed in a furious surge of fire and spark. Standing behind him, Stephen stared back across the cemetery.

At the gate Beauchamp and Sir William’s retainers were holding back the gathering crowd, assuring them there was nothing to be done. The fire would be left to burn. Sir William had already proclaimed that as there were no buildings standing nearby, the danger was slight. So, apart from the usual warnings about every household being wary of sparks and to have ladders, hooks and buckets of water at the ready, there was nothing to be done for the church.

‘A cleansing fire, eh, Stephen?’ Anselm, who had finished his inspection, came up to stand beside him.

‘What truly happened here, Magister?’

‘God knows, but Saint Michael’s church is finished.’

Anselm turned away as Beauchamp, along with Cutwolf, strode off towards the priest’s house. The henchman’s flaring cresset streaked the darkness, the flames flickering in the direction of the church as if they were eager to join that violent conflagration. Stephen continued to watch the fire. Molten lead streaked down the walls, a grey, moving sludge, and the fire had now spread to the tower; an ominous red glow already lit the high open windows. The more Stephen stared at that maelstrom of flame, the deeper his anxiety grew — a chilling apprehension that this fire would do little to cure the evil which hung over this place just as heavy and as real as the thick clouds of smoke now pouring into the night. Stephen caught his breath. He glimpsed movement against the hellish red nimbus around the windows. Figures and shapes moved swiftly, as if the gargoyles and babewyns had come to life and were leaping about the fire.

‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,’ the voices sang. ‘Dominus Deus Sabaoth — Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts.’

The choir of voices shrilled across the cemetery. Stephen looked over his shoulder; Bolingbrok and the rest were cutting down the corpses. Gascelyn had managed to provide canvas sheets. They worked unaware of anything apart from the burning church and those two ghastly bodies. The singing, however, low and carrying, came from the other side of the cemetery. Stephen walked across and stared into the night. He swallowed hard, clenching his mouth tight against the apparitions. No longer tendrils of mist or vapour but figures, stark and clear, now gathered threateningly amongst the tombstones and crosses. He could not make out individual faces but they stood unmoving, staring across at either him or the burning church. Gathering his courage, Stephen walked slowly towards them. The cowled figures shifted gently in the gloom. ‘Light and peace,’ a voice whispered. Stephen started as something raced through the gorse in front of him, rustling the grass: a dark, darting shadow of an animal, snorting and snarling like some fierce dog. Stephen blinked at the abrupt flashes of light. He felt himself shoved in the chest. A face, horrible in every aspect, gasped and mouthed before him. Crouching down, Stephen tried hard to control his panic. The vision disappeared; nothing but the bleak night lit by that conflagration.

Stephen rejoined the rest. Bolingbrok had finished sheeting the corpses. They followed the torch-bearers through the cemetery, across the enclosure and into the priest’s house. Stephen was immediately struck by its ordinariness: the kitchen was clean, well-swept and tidy, the great carving table scrubbed a dull white, clear except for a bunch of keys lying on top of a piece of greasy parchment. The rushes on the floor were green and wax-like, the pink-painted walls shiny in the candlelight. The fire in the grate had burnt low, the small ovens either side still warm, the copper and brass pans, pots and cutlery hung orderly on their hooks. The corpses were laid out on the floor. Stephen stared at the ghoul-like faces, twisted and frozen in their final death agonies. Beauchamp and Cutwolf, who had conducted a swift search of the other chambers, strode into the kitchen. ‘Nothing!’ Beauchamp declared. ‘Nothing at all.’ Everyone remained silent while Anselm administered the last rites. Once completed and the corpses covered, Cutwolf and the rest guarded the door. The two Carmelites, Beauchamp, Sir William, Gascelyn and Almaric gathered around the great kitchen table.

‘The fire broke out suddenly, without warning,’ Sir William began. ‘It would seem Parson Smollat, God save him, together with his woman Isolda, started it. They moved oil, kindling and other combustibles into the church.’ He pointed at the keys. ‘Parson Smollat apparently had these all the time. Brother Anselm, you found them and that scrap of parchment on his corpse. Both his hands and those of Isolda were stained with oil and pitch, saltpetre and even grains of cannon powder.’

‘I would agree,’ Anselm declared.

‘Did they commit suicide?’ Stephen asked abruptly.

‘So it would seem.’ Anselm sighed. ‘There is no trace of force or imprisonment on their corpses; I was most vigorous in my inspection. My only conclusion is that Parson Smollat and Isolda, for God knows what reason, started that fire then hanged themselves in the shade of that yew tree.’ He gestured around. ‘Look at this house. Sir Miles, you have searched as carefully as any royal surveyor — nothing is out of place! Both the parson and Isolda appear to have lived a normal life. They apparently finished their evening meal in the kitchen then decided on their own deaths and the destruction of the church they served. Parson Smollat must have quietly purchased oil and other materials.’ Anselm paused to clear his throat. ‘Parson Smollat even wrote what might be a confession. We shall come to that. However, did he and Isolda act in their right minds? I don’t know. The parson also held the keys, which raises the strong possibility that he may have had a hand in Simon the sexton’s mysterious death. Was all this deliberate? Or did the infernal powers which haunt this site possess both him and his woman?’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Sir William, I would be grateful if you would make a careful search of what Parson Smollat bought over the last few days.’

‘I can answer that.’ Almaric spoke up. ‘Parson Smollat was very busy. A cart-load of purveyance was delivered just before Nones today. I thought they were the usual supplies but he must have bought oil and the other kindling.’

‘Perhaps,’ Sir William spoke up, ‘the poor be-knighted fool thought he could cleanse this place.’ The merchant knight scratched his unshaven, sweaty cheek. ‘Perhaps he and Isolda then regretted it and decided to take their own lives. I shall miss them,’ he added sadly. ‘Smollat was a good man, though easily frightened. Perhaps he viewed all that had happened as a judgement on himself. Yet in a way he was correct about the purification.’

‘What do you mean?’ Beauchamp asked sharply.

‘Sir Miles, our church is burning. There is nothing we can do about that — let it burn. The ward has been alerted — let the flames spend themselves. Once it is done, we will cleanse this site. I promise,’ Sir William became more invigorated, ‘a new and splendid church will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.’

‘The corpses?’ asked Anselm gently. ‘If they are suicides, can they have Christian burials? When the news spreads, Sir William, not everyone will be as charitable as you. They will demand that both cadavers be taken to a crossroads outside the city, a stake driven through their hearts and their remains buried beneath some gallows post. Deranged, possessed?’ Anselm stretched across the table. ‘I cannot say. Parson Smollat certainly scrawled this note. He had it with the keys.’ Anselm picked it up. ‘It is Parson Smollat’s writing?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Sir William replied. ‘Both myself and Almaric have compared it to other documents found here. Yet it is strange, Brother Anselm. Read it again.’

‘“Habeo igne gladioque destruxi ecclesiam nostram” — I have, with fire and sword, destroyed our church.’ Anselm shrugged. ‘Is that a confession? Is he admitting to the fire?’

Beauchamp leaned across and took the parchment script. He read it and handed it back, a fleeting smile crossing his lean, saturnine face. Anselm, too, stared at the parchment and gave it to Stephen, who studied the large bold letters, ‘Habeo igne gladioque destruxi ecclesiam nostram’.

As the novice stared down at the text he felt a shift, a tug at his very soul. ‘Now!’ a voice whispered. ‘All will be revealed. For the fowler’s snare will spring, as it shall on every living soul.’

‘We should leave.’ Beauchamp rose, gathering his cloak and staring at Anselm. ‘Let the fire burn itself out. Keep the wardsmen vigilant against sparks. Sir William, I will have my henchmen remove both corpses to the Chapel of Saint Peter Ad Vincula in the Tower. The chaplains will bury them there. No one need know. I have searched this house — there is nothing to prove Smollat or Isolda were members of any coven. Once the corpses are removed, my men will lock and seal the house. .’ He stopped short at the sound of a hideous crash which echoed across the cemetery. Beauchamp picked up his cloak and hurried out, the others following.

‘It’s the roof,’ Cutwolf explained. They entered the cemetery and stared across, the flames leaping through where the roof had been. ‘So intense,’ Stephen whispered.

‘Remember,’ Anselm murmured, ‘the benches, the chantry chapels, the pulpit, all the furnishings, the drapes, the carvings, those heavy rafter beams. Parson Smollat must have soaked the place in oil.’ Anselm’s voice trailed off. ‘Sir Miles is certainly correct — there is nothing more to be done, and all,’ he added in a whisper, ‘for a piece of useless rock which is probably lying at the bottom of a slime-filled pond.’

‘And the rest of the treasure,’ Stephen added.

‘That, too,’ Anselm declared. ‘So many deaths, Stephen — for what? Does it really profit a man if he gains the whole world’s treasure but suffers the loss of his immortal soul?’