The Midnight Man

The Physician’s Tale
Part Six

The fire at St Michael’s had burnt itself out by late the following morning. A heavy pall of smoke hung over the blackened remains of the church. The roof and east wall had collapsed, as had the top sections of the tower. At Beauchamp’s order the mysterious deaths of Parson Smollat and Isolda were kept secret; for the rest Sir William Higden came into his own. He hired bully boys under Gascelyn to guard both the cemetery and the church. Of course the gossip and tittle-tattle swept through Dowgate swifter than the wind. Anselm absented himself, returning to White Friars, promising to meet Stephen the following evening at The Unicorn before going on to Beauchamp’s house to enjoy a great and splendid supper. Stephen felt a deep disquiet about his master. Anselm was more secretive than ever and the novice sensed that something had happened between the exorcist and the royal clerk.

Alice, however, was full of curiosity about what had occurred. Bright of eye and pert of tongue, she would sidle up to Stephen and ask if this or that were true. Was that rumour genuine? Where was Parson Smollat? What would Sir William do? And did Sir Miles have any news about Margotta Sumerhull? Alice danced around him as merry as a robin in spring. Stephen loved every second of it, although he found it impossible to throw off the growing sense of disquiet, a menacing threat as if some malignancy was gathering beyond the veil.

On the night after the fire, Minehost Robert insisted that everyone retire early as he was sure that the magnificent feast at Sir Miles’ the following evening would go on into the early hours, long after the monks had finished their chants at Matins and Prime. Alice, eyes all teasing, said she had to bathe and lay out her gown and kirtle which, she proclaimed, would outshine that of Lady Moon, Mistress Alice Perrers, the resplendent mistress of the old King. Stephen pretended to be shocked that Alice could even know of such things. Alice then delved into her wallet and produced a beautiful, oval-shaped medal of St Joseph, a thin wafer of silver on its own chain. She slipped this around Stephen’s neck, nuzzling his cheek with her hair as she breathlessly whispered how she must fix the clasp properly. Stephen felt her warm, full breasts against his chest and tried to kiss her but, laughing softly, she stepped back out of reach. Stephen glanced down at the medal. ‘You told me about your father,’ she murmured, ‘so I brought you a medal of Saint Joseph. I mean, if he guarded the Lord God, he will certainly guard you. Now,’ she grinned cheekily, ‘I must be gone.’ And away she whirled, but not before dragging Marisa from a shadowy corner where ‘the little imp’, as she called her younger sister, was hiding and spying once again.

As they both scurried away, Stephen looked down at the medal with its slightly embossed figure of Joseph holding the Divine Child. He recalled the ancient wooden statue of the same saint on its plinth in the small chantry chapel at St Michael’s. The fire would have reduced all that to ash. A thought occurred to him about the riddle Puddlicot, also a carpenter, had left. He dismissed this. Stephen wanted to forget all that, at least for a while. He bade Minehost Robert good night and climbed the stairs. Stephen reached his own small garret and, feeling suddenly tired, lay down on the bed. When he awoke, night had fallen, black against the small casement window. An ominous humming made him sit up. He stared in horror at the figure seated on the corner stool. The old woman’s face, subtle and cruel as a hunting cat, could be seen through the red net mesh, lit clearly by the candle pot held between her hands. She just sat, a figure of heart-rending terror — not moving, just staring wickedly at him. Panic seethed within him. Stephen shivered at the pressing cold, repelled by the reek as if from the foulest latrine. ‘In God’s name!’ he exclaimed. He felt his cheek brushed, turned and screamed as the old woman’s face now pressed close to his, those milky green eyes, the purple lips curled back to reveal blood-red, toothless gums, her skin black-spotted with age. He threw himself off the bed, feverishly clutching the medal Alice had given him, and pulled open the door. Stepping into the stairwell Stephen felt a savage jab to his back which would have sent him crashing down the steep stairs but, catching the guide rope attached to the wall, he was able to stop and turn. The stairwell was empty. Nursing a bruised arm, Stephen cautiously re-entered the bed chamber, quietly mouthing a prayer for protection. He heard a siren’s voice call his name and walked over to the casement window, pushed it open and stared down. The cobbled yard below was full of young women with straggling hair. They were staring up at him beseechingly, dark-ringed eyes in deathly white faces, hands raised in supplication. The window swung back; he caught it and looked again. The courtyard was empty.

Stephen returned to a fitful sleep. He awoke, heavy-headed, and found even Alice’s glee at the prospect of Sir Miles’ supper difficult to bear. Anselm appeared, coughing into his rag. He asked Stephen to accompany him up to St Michael’s, where Higden’s bully boys allowed them through into the godforsaken cemetery. Stephen was aware of presences, of whispering voices on the misty morning air as they walked up the winding path and through the corpse door, which had simply crumbled into blackened shards.

‘Parson Smollat bought oil by the barrel — skins of it, along with saltpetre. He even obtained some precious cannon powder. Drenched the place, he did.’ Anselm’s voice echoed hollowly through the burnt shell of the nave.

Faint sparks still rose and trails of smoke continued to circle and twist. The church had been truly devastated. The sanctuary, altar, pulpit, rood screen, reredos and chantry chapels no longer existed. The fire had licked the plastered walls and stripped them clean. Only a pure stone statute of St John the Baptist, its face now unrecognizable, remained. Stephen walked over to the chantry chapel of St Michael’s and stared at the devastation.

‘The entire site will be levelled,’ Anselm intoned. ‘Not one stone left upon another.’

‘As the lightning strikes from the east,’ a voice called, ‘and appears in the west, so sudden will it be.’

‘The gloom gathers,’ another voice shrilled, ‘the darkness deepens. Where the corpses lie, the vultures will gather.’

Stephen glanced around. Were those dancing sparks, the trails of black and grey smoke, the remains of the fire or something else? And were those motes milling through the air only an outward sign of inward things? ‘I feel apprehensive, Magister.’

Fingering the medal Alice had given him, Stephen wandered over to where the small chantry chapel of St Joseph had stood: everything, including the beautiful wall paintings, had been destroyed. Anselm came over and Stephen showed him the medal. Anselm simply stared then, quietly whispering to himself, walked away. Stephen stood rooted to the spot. He glanced up at the church. A pall of smoke hung over the sanctuary. Stephen started as a figure, veiled in red, moved swiftly through the murk and was gone. A voice shouted. Anselm walked over and stood staring down at the floor.

‘Magister?’

‘Saint Bernadine of Siena,’ the exorcist declared distractedly. ‘He was a Franciscan. He and his order promoted devotion to Saint Joseph. Ah, well.’ They left the church and cemetery. Stephen was glad to be away. Anselm absent-mindedly remarked how they would meet at The Unicorn then he strode off, lost in his own thoughts.

For the rest of the day Stephen tried hard to distract himself as he worked in the tavern kitchen, assisting the cooks, learning the mysteries of minced chicken relish or spiced capon in a nutted wine sauce. He breathed in the fragrances of poached plaice with mustard or the sweetness of veal and custard pie. Now and again that deep sense of foreboding would close in around him; a choir of ghostly voices chanted their verses. ‘Why must we stand and face the ice storm of hell’s spears? The sword blizzards threaten. The she-wolf presses her paw on the swollen, fatted corpse. Hail stones fall. Cloud pebbles clash against the shield wall.’ Eventually the voices faded and a face with snake-sharp eyes and angry mouth appeared, only to merge into a blaze of burning blue embers. Stephen whispered his prayers and kept to the task in hand.

At last the day finished. Master Robert handed over his tavern to the care of his steward and principal cook. The hour of Vespers was approaching; they had to make ready. Alice appeared in a beautiful gold-spotted gown of Lincoln green with a high-encrusted collar of silver lace, a girdle of gold around her slim waist. She wore blood-red ankle boots with silver buckles on her feet. She had prepared her hair and covered it with the lightest of white lawn veils, adding a little paint to her face. Stephen had never seen such beauty. He called her ‘his fairy princess from the bright grassed lands of the west’. She laughed merrily then clapped her hands as her father appeared resplendent in a russet cotehardie with a matching cloak. Anselm arrived, angular, ascetic and distracted. They made their farewells to the leaping Marisa and walked the short distance to Beauchamp’s fine house, standing in its own high walled courtyard. Cutwolf, all sardonic, welcomed them into the plain but sweet-smelling entrance hall and led them through the house, down the paved passageway, past rooms closed and locked and into the courtyard, which overlooked a splendid garden bounded on all three sides by a high, red brick wall.

Sir Miles, garbed in a gorgeous tabard, greeted them and led them into a specially erected garden pavilion embellished with a blue and gold awning with tassels of delicate silver. The sheets on either side had been pulled back and fastened to poles so the fine walnut table, elaborately decorated, was plain to see. Sir William Higden and Gascelyn were already there; the merchant knight, shaven and oiled, was dressed magnificently in cloth of gold robes. Sir Miles clapped his hands, ushering everyone to their seats. Brother Anselm was on his left, Sir William to his right and then Stephen. Alice was beside him and Gascelyn was on the other side, next to Cutwolf. Musicians with citoles, flutes, clarions and fiddles played gentle music in a small covered pavilion further down the garden. Matilda Makejoy, a well-known saltatrix, delighted them with somersaults and handsprings to the heart-plucking sound of an Irish harp. Servitors brought iced wine and drinks of crushed juice. Once Matilda had finished, the soup was served, ground capon thickened with almond milk and spiced with slices of pomegranate and red comfits.

Alice was beside herself with joy, clutching Stephen’s hand, while Master Robert basked in the favour being shown them. Stephen glanced quickly at Beauchamp and Anselm; they sat, heads close together. Both men, despite the festivities, looked grim. They drew apart as the cook, specially hired by Beauchamp, came to announce the main dish or entremet: crayfish set in jelly, loach and young rabbits. The cook withdrew and reappeared with the food to a flourish from the musicians. Evening set in. The coloured lanterns, lashed to poles driven into the green lawn, were lit. Stephen turned to speak to Alice and, as he did, the nightmare swept in. For a few heartbeats, joy and splendour all shattered as the crossbow bolts struck. A musician, hit full in the mouth, half-rose, hands flailing in terror. Silence descended, and then a fresh volley. Servitors and musicians reeled away as the barbed quarrels split their flesh. Stephen rose. Black-garbed figures were scaling the high red brick wall and leaping down into the garden. The music and laughter abruptly died. Cutwolf was on his feet, sword out; Beauchamp, too, screaming over his shoulder, pushing Anselm away. Stephen grabbed Alice, who was sitting round-eyed in shock; only then did he notice the black quarrel embedded deep in her chest. He picked her up, even as the blood bubbled between her lips, aware of Master Robert and Cutwolf thronging beside him. He turned and, carrying Alice, ran back towards the house.

Beauchamp was screaming at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok that Stephen and his companions be protected. The clerk then staggered back, dropping his sword as a bolt took him deep in the shoulder. Anselm went to help but Cutwolf and Bolingbrok pushed him away, driving Stephen and Master Robert back along the stone-vaulted passageway towards the main door. Alice now hung limp in Stephen’s arms. They burst through the entrance, out into the street. More figures garbed in black leather were waiting. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok fought like men possessed, swords and daggers flickering out, sharp and sudden like the fangs of a viper. At last they were clear, running along the dark-filled lanes, throwing themselves into The Unicorn where, sweat-soaked, they collapsed to the floor of the taproom. Stephen laid Alice gently down. She was past all help, eyes staring dully in her corpse-white face. Stephen crouched down beside her, bringing his knees up. He screamed all the pain and anguish which held him tight. Anselm squatted beside him for a while. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok arrived and gently prised loose Stephen’s tight hand clasp on the dead girl. They lifted the corpse up and took it away. Stephen heard the soul-chilling cry of both Alice’s father and the inconsolable Marisa. He laid down on the taproom floor and sobbed.

The following morning Anselm shook him awake and forced a bitter, tangy drink between his lips. Stephen fell asleep and, when he woke, he was in his chamber, lying sweat-soaked on the bed. Anselm sat cross-legged, his back to the chamber door. ‘She is dead, Stephen,’ the exorcist said gently. ‘Alice is dead. Master Robert is in shock. Marisa cries unendingly. Stephen, we must go.’

‘Where, master?’ Stephen retorted, pulling himself up. ‘Shall we pray in church? Gibber some litanies?’

‘Hush now.’ Anselm left and returned with a bowl of broth. He forced Stephen to eat this then put on his boots, collected his cloak and war belt and followed him down to the deserted taproom. The tavern was closed. Cypress branches wrapped in purple and black cloths draped windows and doors. Master Robert was nursing his own grief with Marisa. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok sat on a bench near the courtyard door. Stephen was surprised. Both men were closely shaved, their hair shorn and dressed smartly in the dark green and brown of royal clerks. Both wore chancery rings on their fingers, war belts carrying sword and dagger circled their waists beneath the sleeveless blue, red and gold tabard of the King’s household. The two men were grim and resolute. They offered no sympathy, no condolences, no grieving. Stephen found this strangely welcoming. They just stood, donned their cloaks, adjusted their war belts and led them out into the mid-morning street. Others waited: royal archers from the Tower wearing the livery of the secret chancery, hard-eyed veterans who circled them under Cutwolf’s direction and led them back to Beauchamp’s house.

Stephen felt as if he was going back through a dream: the passageway, the garden with its beautiful awning, the table, the candles and lanterns. All signs of the attack had been cleared away except for the occasional shard or broken platter resting against the leg of a table. Only dark blotches staining the chairs and paving stones or flecks of dried blood against the grass and pavilion poles showed how some outrage had occurred. The garden still stretched, sweet-smelling and orderly, under a strengthening sun. Stephen caught the full echoes of the heinous affray which had shattered his life. ‘The war ghost is aroused,’ a voice murmured, ‘red and slashed is the ground.’ Faint shapes swirled before Stephen’s eyes. ‘Welcome!’ the voice repeated, ‘to the dark-hued war hawks’ blood bath. Beware of the grey eagle’s grasping beak.’

Stephen felt he had to break free of all this. ‘Sir Miles?’ he asked.

‘Stephen, prepare yourself.’ They left the ornate finery of the garden and re-entered the house. Cutwolf, at Anselm’s behest, took them from chamber to chamber. Stephen could only gape. Every single room they entered was bleak, devoid of all furnishings except for a stark black crucifix nailed to the walls. The kitchen had nothing but a fleshing table and stools with different pots, skillets and kitchenware hanging from their hooks. The buttery cupboard was devoid of anything but a loaf, a pot of butter, a jug of milk and a flagon of wine. Upstairs was no different: empty and bleak, free of all ostentation. Only one chamber was in use, the huge aumbry and the deep chest beside it crammed with quilted jerkins, hose, shirts, boots and belts. They entered the bed chamber, as austere as the rest. Again, nothing but the essentials of a lowly chancery clerk. A table with all the necessaries stood beneath the window, beside it a writing stool and an armoured chest. Beauchamp’s corpse, garbed in the flour-white robes of a Carthusian, lay stretched out on the narrow cot bed, the cowl pulled full over his head to frame a face so serene it looked as if he was asleep.

Stephen stumbled, hitting the chest with his knee. ‘I cannot understand,’ he gasped, rubbing his leg.

‘Neither can I, Stephen.’ Anselm led the novice over and pulled down the Carthusian robe to reveal the sharp hair shirt beneath.

Stephen gazed at the now peaceful face, the long fingers embroidered with a set of glass Ave beads. ‘What is this?’ Stephen glanced at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok.

‘You once wondered, Master Stephen.’ Cutwolf, standing on the other side of the bed, replaced the sheet of gauze linen over his master’s face. ‘You did,’ he forced a smile, ‘wonder about my master? Why he invited no one here? Now you know, as does Brother Anselm!’

‘Sir Miles.’ Anselm slumped down exhausted on a stool, a linen rag to his mouth. ‘Sir Miles,’ he repeated, ‘was certainly not what he appeared to be. He dressed and acted like a wealthy, powerful royal clerk, yet in many ways he was an ascetic. I have found only three books in this house: the Bible, Boethius’ Consolations and Augustine’s Confessions. I understand from Cutwolf that Beauchamp often fasted, gave most of his revenue, very discreetly, to the poor and took the Sacrament each day.’ Anselm rubbed his face. ‘When he wanted to, Beauchamp could act the part. Outside he would dine and entertain, even act the cynic but, like his dress, that was only for show. The hair shirt and the fast were more real to him than the silken doublet and the deep bowled cup of claret. He truly followed Christ’s advice about not letting the left hand know what the right was doing.’

‘My master swore us to secrecy,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘He told me once that, if he survived, he would leave this world for a Carthusian cell.’

‘If he survived?’ Stephen asked.

‘Our master,’ Bolingbrok declared, ‘“dealt with” Res Tenebrarum, the Things of the Dark: warlocks, wizards, sorcerers, witches, all the lords and ladies of the night. The Midnight Man was his special quarry. Sir Miles was like a hunting lurcher. He would not give up. He realized that this was a duel to the death in that implacable silence which seems to shroud such wickedness. In a word, Sir Miles recognized that he, as well as other innocents like your beautiful maid, would be caught up in the bloody maelstrom of this horrendous spiritual battle.’ Bolingbrok sighed noisily. ‘He always said he would make a mistake and he did. He never thought the Midnight Man would be so audacious and yes,’ he held up a hand, ‘we are sure that he and his coven were responsible for this.’

‘Did you examine their dead?’ Anselm asked.

‘We had little time,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘Sir Miles was struck mortally in the shoulder. Holyinnocent held him as he died.’ Cutwolf fought back his tears. ‘Sir Miles believed the attackers came for you. He whispered that you, Anselm, would bring justice. Will you?’

‘Their dead?’ Anselm insisted.

‘Musicians and servitors were killed. Sir William received a flesh wound but he and Gascelyn fought their way into a chamber and barred the door. Mad with fury, Sir William has returned to his own mansion. He has dismissed all his servants, fortified his house and despatched urgent letters to the King.’

‘Their dead?’ Anselm persisted, cold and hard as if quoting a refrain.

‘Brother, we killed some of them both in the garden and in the street beyond, but they took their dead and wounded with them.’

Stephen stared at the corpse of a man he now realized he truly liked and admired. Beauchamp was all he wanted to be: courteous, learned, skilful, a powerful presence and now, he had learned shamefacedly, a man of deep spirituality. ‘The wolf’s mane ruffles,’ a voice murmured, ‘the shield wall closes against Satan, a raging boar all tuskered and fiery eyed. The blades, all crimsoned, flicker out, hungry for flesh. The war bands gather.’ Stephen could only listen — he felt useless, weak.

‘My master,’ Cutwolf’s voice was as sharp as the finest blade, ‘Brother Anselm, believed you are close to the truth.’

‘I am,’ the exorcist replied wearily, ‘much closer than I ever thought.’

‘Sir Miles believed that they came for you, to capture or kill you both. You know they will come again?’

‘I know,’ Anselm murmured. He rose to his feet, sketched a blessing above the corpse then grasped Stephen’s hand. ‘Cutwolf, we shall meet later but here in this house. Worlds have died. When, why and how does not concern me so much as the evil which spawned it.’

The two Carmelites left. Stephen felt cold, as if a stone was wedged in his chest. Anselm no longer mattered. The grief and shock of Alice’s swift and brutal death were only feeding the embers of an ever greater fire: hatred for those responsible, revenge for the mortal wrong these demons had inflicted. Stephen felt as if he was walking through a white-hot desert: no colour, no life, no touch, no smell, just a blazing, white rocky path which stretched into a blinding, searing light. He did not know what to do except plod on. Somewhere, surely, he thought, he would find peace and rest.

‘The sunlight’s died,’ a voice whispered, ‘stony inner parts where the flesh throbs and the blood pounds. No eyes, nothing but blinding darkness from empty, staring sockets.’ A face, faithful to such a grisly description, swam in front of the novice.

‘Stephen?’ Anselm gently squeezed his hand. They had arrived at The Unicorn. The exorcist kissed him gently on the brow, pushed him through the half-open door and left. Stephen entered. The taproom, still sweet-smelling, was deserted. Only the chief cook sat in a darkened corner, cradling a tankard of ale. He beckoned Stephen over. ‘Master Robert,’ he whispered, ‘will leave tomorrow. He is taking his daughter’s corpse back to the West Country for burial. He,’ the cook wiped the tears from his cheeks, ‘does not want to look on your face again. He wants you gone.’

Stephen, eyes brimming, thundered up the stairs. He tried to enter Alice’s chamber. The ostlers on guard gently but firmly drove him away. He could not stand the grief, the anger seething within him. He hurtled back down the stairs, across the taproom and out into the yard. He stopped abruptly. Anselm stood waiting by the gateway. ‘I thought that might happen,’ the exorcist called softly. ‘Come, Stephen, let us return to our house and grieve quietly. Pray and prepare.’

They returned to White Friars. Stephen felt as if he was still imprisoned in that hot, arid wasteland, just wandering, struggling along some scorched path past bushes and brambles twisted black by a sun which pounded down like a hammer on an anvil. He attended Mass and divine office but all he could think of was staggering through the streets with Alice’s body, all bedecked in beauty, dying in his arms. On the third day after his return, once the colloquium was finished and the sunlight beginning to fade, Anselm came into his cell. The exorcist’s face was sharp, sallow and sweat-soaked. ‘I have prayed, Stephen, I truly have. I must conduct one final exorcism at Saint Michael’s, but first I must drink. You will come with me.’

They left the convent and made their way through the bustling streets. Hawkers, traders and apprentices bawled for business. Beadles lashed the buttocks of a whore pinioned to the tail of a cart. A beggar, crushed by a runaway horse, lay dying in a doorway ministered to by a Friar of the Sack; three court fops stood close by laying wagers on how soon the man would die. Windows opened and pisspots were emptied. A young moon girl offered posies of flowers for good luck. A jongleur sang about a blood-drinker who had walked the far side of the moon. Further along a trader, standing on a barrel, declared he had imported a new type of leather from Spain. Jumbled, tangled scenes. Stephen felt as if he was being hurried through hot, dusty passageways. He shook his head to be free of such fancies, back to trudging through narrow, noisy streets, where life in all its richness ebbed and flowed.

Anselm abruptly paused outside a small tavern, The Glory of Hebron. He pushed Stephen inside the dark, close taproom. Taking a table near the window, the exorcist demanded a jug of the best claret, two cups and a plate of bread, dried meats and fruit. Once the servitor had laid the table, Anselm leaned over. ‘Listen, Stephen, grief is in your very marrow — it freezes your heart and numbs your soul.’ Anselm paused, beckoning at him to share out the wine. ‘This is the first I have drunk for years.’ The exorcist supped deeply and smacked his lips. ‘As Saint Paul says, “take a little wine for the stomach’s sake” and the Psalmist is correct, “wine truly gladdens the heart of man”. Well, Stephen.’ He waited until the novice had swallowed a generous gulp. ‘The confrontation is imminent; we must be vigilant. We will return to White Friars and, as the Psalmist again says, “pray to the Lord who readies our arms for battle and prepares our hands for war”. I brought you here to stir your wits,’ he grinned, ‘and I believe they are stirred — wine is good for that.’ Anselm lifted his goblet. ‘You are with me, Stephen, usque ad mortem — to the death? I must be sure of this.’

The novice raised his own cup. ‘Magister, as always, a l’outrance de siecle a siecle — to the death and beyond!’

They finished their meal and returned to White Friars. Stephen continued, despite his best efforts, to remain and brood in that bleak landscape of his soul. Anselm became very busy, paying the occasional visit to reassure the novice. Although Stephen tried to act courteously, still all he could think about was Alice. He returned to The Unicorn only to find it locked and barred. The watchman on guard brusquely declared how Master Robert had taken his daughter’s corpse back to the West Country. Only then did the fiery flickers of anger return, a thirst for revenge, an implacable urge to confront and challenge the dark forces which had caused the death of his beloved.

A few days after returning to White Friars, early in the evening, Anselm came looking for him. Stephen was sitting cross-legged in the Lady chapel, staring hard at the carved, beautiful face of the Virgin. Anselm, cloaked and booted, carried ‘his holy bag’, the pannier containing sacred water, oils, crucifix and an asperges rod, all the necessary items for an exorcism.

‘Stephen,’ Anselm snapped his fingers briskly, ‘we must go. I believe we have found the treasure.’ The exorcist would say no more. The novice hurried back to his own cell, putting on a stout pair of sandals and swinging his cloak about him in readiness.

‘The battle lords of hell muster,’ a voice growled from behind him. ‘The strong, grasping warriors of Hades swing sharp swords from their fiery scabbards. The greedy carrion birds’ claws will soon redden. The hawk lords gather.’ Stephen whirled around. A man, hair and face chalky white, garbed in clothes of the same hue, stood staring at him. ‘The dark caves lie open. The serpents’ field awaits.’ The voice came soft as a breath. Stephen dropped his cloak. He bent down and picked it up; when he glanced again both vision and the voice had gone, only Anselm rapping on the door telling him to hurry.

They left and reached St Michael’s. The guards at the cemetery had been withdrawn — only a surly-faced Gascelyn stood vigil under the lychgate. Stephen could feel the tension rise as they made their way up into the cracked, blackened remains of the nave. Anselm wasted no time shouting at Gascelyn, who was trailing behind them, to bring the iron bars and picks he had asked for. Once that sombre custodian of the dead had done so, Anselm, directing Stephen, began to prise loose one of the paving stones which had formed the floor of the small chantry chapel to St Joseph. ‘You know why,’ Anselm whispered hoarsely. ‘Stephen, we could wait to be taken, or we could set our own trap. Go and look at Saint Michael’s.’

The novice put down the iron bar he had been trying to wedge into a small gap between the paving stones and walked over. The floor of the chantry chapel of St Michael’s was now nothing more than a pit, the paving stones from it packed against the wall. Someone had already searched there. He walked back. The church lay threateningly silent except for Anselm trying to prise loose that same paving stone. No visions, no voices — nothing but this empty clanging. Stephen went to assist the exorcist.

‘Good,’ Anselm breathed, ‘it is time!’ Stephen turned. Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn, all heavily cloaked, stood on the top sanctuary step. All three walked slowly down, footsteps echoing through the nave. ‘Good evening, Brother Anselm. I received your message and here I am. What are you doing?’ Higden demanded. His two companions, cloaks billowing about them, sat down on the plinth along which the wooden screen to the chantry chapel had once stood.

‘I am searching for Puddlicot’s treasure. He claimed,’ Anselm broke from his labours, ‘it was guarded by God’s protector. Everyone thought this was Saint Michael Archangel, this church, the cemetery or even the chantry chapel. Sir William, I have read the writings of the Franciscan Bernadine of Siena who fostered the cult to Saint Joseph. He called him God’s protector, which he was, the Guardian of the Divine Child. Puddlicot, like you, Curate Almaric, was once a carpenter, hence my deduction. The treasure must be buried here in this chapel?’

‘But Cutwolf, Bolingbrok?’ Sir William asked.

‘They are busy on other matters. They are spent; I don’t trust them.’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Not since the death of Sir Miles. By the way, your wound?’

‘Only superficial, a cut to the arm,’ Higden replied, slowly getting to his feet. He shrugged off his cloak, and his companions did the same. Stephen shivered. All three, even the curate, wore war belts, while Gascelyn carried a wicked-looking arbalest.

‘Protection,’ Higden murmured, following Stephen’s gaze. ‘We must be on our guard.’ Higden’s face was now feverish. He and his two companions began to help prise loose the paving stones. Stephen privately thought Anselm was being foolish. He, too, had wondered about the phrase ‘God’s protector’, but surely? They loosened one paving stone, pulling it loose. Stephen gaped at what lay beneath. Higden shouted with joy. Anselm crouched in a fierce fit of coughing, nodding his head and pointing at the rotting piece of wood they had now uncovered. It looked like a trapdoor. Gascelyn, as excited as his master, dug in his pick and wrenched it back to expose the pit beneath.

‘I suspected that,’ Anselm declared, recovering from his coughing bout. Stephen’s heart lurched at the sight of the blood-soaked rag in the exorcist’s hand, the red froth bubbling at either corner of Anselm’s mouth.

‘I suspected,’ Anselm breathed heavily, ‘this was once the church’s secure pit, a place to hide sacred vessels and other treasures during times of trouble.’

Higden and his companions ignored this; stretching deep into the pit, they drew out heavy leather sacks coated with dust and tied tightly around the neck with rotting twine. Sack after sack was pulled up — six in all. They shook out the contents: small caskets, coffers, minute chests with leather casings, all crammed with jewels, diamonds, silver and gold ornaments. Pectoral collars, rings, bracelets, gems, pearls and coins rolled out.

‘If you are looking for Merlin’s Stone,’ Anselm murmured, leaning his back against the wall, ‘well, it’s not there. It lies at the bottom of Rishanger’s filthy carp pond, a useless piece of black star rock.’ Higden and his henchmen sobered up, eyes narrowed in their flushed, ugly faces. They got to their feet. Anselm began to laugh, which ended in a choking cough. ‘A piece of stone,’ he mocked, ‘lying in the slime, though I reckon that’s much purer than your souls.’

Stephen felt a deep coldness wrap around him.

‘Brother Anselm, we came because you asked us,’ Higden snapped. ‘We came in peace.’

‘I invited you here, Sir William, because you are the Midnight Man and these are your two minions. I invited you before you could take me and mine as you did Sir Miles.’

‘Nonsense!’ Higden’s voice carried a hideous threat. ‘Remember, I was with Sir Miles. I. .’

‘A simple flesh wound, Sir William. Your assassins were under strict orders as to whom to kill and whom to ignore. Sir Miles had to be removed because he was our protector — he knew too much, he was hunting you. Cutwolf openly proclaimed a reward for knowledge about the Midnight Man. In the end Sir Miles suspected you, Sir William — he told me so. You sensed that. He had to die, then you would deal with us. You must have wondered if we were close to the truth about this treasure — that’s why you tried to abduct Stephen. I dropped hints about how close we were and you couldn’t wait.’

‘Brother Anselm, we are here,’ Almaric protested.

‘Of course you are,’ Anselm pointed at Higden, ‘you two alone know his true identity. The other members of your coven only see the Midnight Man as a powerful, hideously masked figure who deals out death at his night-drenched meetings. Let me guess,’ making himself more comfortable against the wall, Anselm pressed home his attack, ‘we now have the treasure while the cemetery is no longer guarded. Stephen and I, if we were not having this conversation, would be allowed to leave, escorted back to White Friars by Gascelyn. On the way something would happen. Another bloody attack. Gascelyn would be wounded — not seriously — but Stephen and I would die. Two more victims of the Midnight Man, yes?’

‘And this treasure?’ Higden taunted, squatting down. ‘I just keep it? How do I know that you and Sir Miles have not drafted some secret memorandum to the Crown detailing your suspicions about me?’

Anselm pulled a face. ‘And what proof would I offer?’

Higden shrugged.

‘I admit there would be very little — perhaps none at all,’ Anselm conceded. ‘Sir William, I used to gamble. I gambled on your greed. You planned to come here. If we had not found the treasure tonight — well, our deaths could be delayed. But we have and, as I’ve said, something is going to happen to us on our journey back to White Friars. You, Sir William, would take all this to profit yourself. You intend to search this treasure for what you want: Merlin’s Stone and any other magical items you believe might help you in the black arts. You’d keep them hidden for your own use. You would then offer the Crown the rest of this treasure hoard. You would receive, as finder, at least a tenth of its value, a fortune indeed. You would also, by handing it over, win great favour with the Crown. The King would regard you as a close friend. More favours, more patronage, more concessions, more wealth would flow your way. Any suspicions about you would be choked and strangled off. You would emerge more powerful to continue your midnight practices, be it as a blood-drinker or as a warlock. If Sir Miles and I had left any such memorandum, it would be ignored, being flatly contradicted by your actions. You would dazzle the King with this wealth. Any suspicions about your loyalty would disappear like smoke on a summer morning.’

‘So you have no proof.’ Gascelyn picked up the crossbow. Stephen flinched as the henchman took a bolt from the small, stout quiver on his belt.

‘Proof, Gascelyn, proof — what does it matter now? You know, Sir William knows, Almaric knows. You cannot let us walk free.’

Higden edged closer, head slightly to one side. ‘You’re a curious one, Anselm. I am fascinated by you. We could tell each other so much.’ He grinned, eyes widening in mock surprise. ‘Learn from each other.’ He gestured at the heaped treasure. ‘This is ours, you are ours. What can you do? What proof do you really have, eh?’

Anselm got to his feet. Sir William followed, hand going for his sword hilt. Gascelyn slipped a barb into the groove of the small arbalest.

‘I have already told you that I was a gambler, Sir William,’ Anselm replied curtly. ‘I used to be a sinner to the bone. My offences were always before me. Drinking, lechery and above all gambling.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I truly gambled tonight. I gambled that you would come. I wagered that I would find the treasure. I offered odds that you would act as you have.’

‘Odds?’

‘I was right.’ Anselm abruptly threw his head back. ‘De profundis!’ he shouted with all his strength. ‘Clamavi ad te Domine. Domine exaudi vocem meam — Out of the depths I have cried to you, oh Lord. Lord, hear my voice!’

Higden and his two henchmen, taken by surprise, could only finger their weapons. Stephen jumped to his feet as a fire arrow arched through the night sky and smashed in a flutter of heavy sparks on to the floor of the nave. Two more followed before Higden and his henchmen could recover. Dark shapes appeared in the doorways and gaps of the ruined church. Hooded archers, war bows strung, arrows notched. They slowly spread out across the nave; behind them swaggered Cutwolf, Bolingbrok and Holyinnocent, their swords drawn.

‘What is this?’ Higden drew himself up, ‘What is this?’ He pointed accusingly at Anselm. ‘You said you didn’t trust them.’

‘I was deceiving you. I also thank you for withdrawing your own guards. Master Cutwolf, Clerk of the Secret Chancery, has been watching you; he has certainly been watching me. I welcome him to this colloquium — this discussion.’

‘You have levelled serious allegations,’ Almaric blurted out. ‘What real proof do you have?’

‘Oh, I shall show you that,’ Anselm replied. ‘Master Cutwolf, ask your archers to withdraw slightly but be ready to loose.’ Anselm sat down, gesturing with his hand. ‘All of you do likewise.’

Higden looked as if he was going to protest. He looked over his shoulder at Cutwolf then reluctantly obeyed, untying his war belt to sit more comfortably, though his sword hilt was not far from his fingers. The other two followed. Stephen watched. Higden was cunning, powerful, the weight of evidence against him seemed slight; after all, he had come to this church at Anselm’s bidding. They had found the lost treasure. Higden could still hand this over and appear as the King’s own hero.

‘You Higden, Gascelyn and Almaric, are blood-drinkers,’ Anselm began. ‘You hunt and capture young women. You abuse them and kill them. You enjoy the power. You love watching a woman suffer before she dies. I met your like in France and elsewhere. War, for you, is simply an excuse for your filthy, murderous practices.’

‘How dare you!’ Almaric snarled.

‘Shut up!’ Anselm paused over a fit of coughing. ‘All of you, shut up! You three, together with men like Rishanger, served abroad. You plundered the French. You raped and murdered but the great hole in your soul has a deeper, more sinister darkness. You are warlocks, wizards. You dabble in the damned arts and converse with the demon lords of the air. You may have even used your victims’ blood to further this. The sacrifice of cockerels and night birds is nothing compared to that of a human heart, or a chalice full of some young woman’s hot blood.’

‘Proof?’ Higden insisted.

‘Yes, proof?’ Gascelyn repeated. ‘You will need proof before the King’s Bench, for the Justices in Eyre. Your madcap theories are not enough.’

‘You returned to England and continued your filthy practices.’ Anselm’s voice was almost conversational. ‘Rishanger’s lonely garden with its secret cellar or pit was ideal. Young women were invited there. We now know their hideous fate. You act like some blasphemous religious order, cells within cells. You, Higden, your two acolytes and possibly Rishanger, knew the truth behind the Midnight Man. All of you are deeply implicated. Meeting at Rishanger’s house or some other desolate place, using your wealth to swell the number of your coven — men and women like Bardolph and Adele. You also had your bodyguard, your cohort of killers, guards in black leather, to be whistled up like a hunting pack.’

‘Evidence?’ Higden made to rise.

‘Oh, I will come to that by and by. You, Higden, became a peritus, skilled in the black arts. A true nightmare, you would cast about in search of secret rituals and precious items to deepen your so-called powers, artefacts such as the Philosopher’s Stone — the key to all alchemy.’

‘I threw Rishanger out of my house over that.’

‘Mere pretence, a disguise to conceal the truth, a public demonstration that you had nothing to do with such a man. You had that wax figurine of yourself deliberately placed in Rishanger’s house so as to portray yourself as an inveterate enemy of such a wicked soul. I suspect you never really liked or trusted Rishanger. Time proved you right.’ Anselm paused to cough and clear his throat, wiping blood-flecked lips on a piece of cloth.

Stephen glanced around. Almaric and Gascelyn sat, eyes blinking, now and again the occasional nervous gesture. Cutwolf and his companions remained impassive: faces of stone, eyes almost blank as if they had already made up their minds what to do — but what?

‘Now at Glastonbury, the so-called magical stone of Merlin, a rock of allegedly great power, had been found during the reign of the present King’s grandfather and placed along with other precious items in the treasury crypt at Westminster which Puddlicot later pillaged.’

‘I know nothing of Glastonbury. As I said, I have never been there.’

‘Correct — you have never visited the abbey. I checked. I am sure you would love to do so. However, Higden, you like to keep your hand hidden — you cleverly cover your tracks. You,’ Anselm pointed at Almaric, ‘are different. You were born close to Glastonbury, weren’t you? You were at school there. You served as a novice and became a skilled carpenter. You were taught by the abbey artisans before you left. You took to wandering. You were later ordained as a priest, becoming a chaplain under the royal banners and serving in France, where you met your true master here.’

‘What nonsense!’ the curate scoffed.

‘Facts,’ Anselm countered. ‘You knew all about the discoveries at Glastonbury and told your master here. Rich and powerful, he became absorbed with finding such items, along with the rest of the treasure Puddlicot had stolen.’ Anselm paused, head down.

Stephen stared around. No voices, no visions. Nevertheless, he sensed a whole host of invisible witnesses were gathering, pressing in on every side to listen. This ruined, charred nave had become a fearsome judgement hall. Cutwolf and his companions, grim and silent, were the executioners. One way or another, this would end in blood.

‘You, Higden,’ Anselm continued, ‘searched, as secretly as you could, everything about Puddlicot, even though you openly pretended ignorance about him. You secured the advowson to this church. You moved house to be closer. I suspect Rishanger bought Puddlicot’s dwelling at your insistence.’ Anselm took a deep breath. ‘With me and mine, whatever we did you pretended, like mummers in a play, though I noticed you always avoided my attempts to exorcise. Yet you made one mistake very early on. How did you know Rishanger’s particular house in Hagbut Lane once belonged to Puddlicot? Who told you that?’ Higden refused to answer. Anselm shrugged and continued. ‘Time passed. You appointed Parson Smollat to the benefice — a good but very weak priest with more than a fondness for the ladies, someone you could control.’

Higden simply smirked.

‘The cemetery was searched. You used Bardolph for that, digging the earth, preparing graves, but you discovered nothing. Your blood-drinking at Rishanger’s house continued. Eventually you decided that enough corpses were buried there, although I suspect you hated being dependent on Rishanger. By now you had your new death house in Saint Michael’s cemetery. A well-fortified, stout and lonely building with, I suspect, a prison pit beneath. You enticed your victims into it.’

‘How?’ Higden gibed. ‘And if I did, where are they buried?’

‘I sat by the lychgate,’ Anselm retorted. ‘I spent an entire afternoon there. I was surprised at how many young women of various means and livings go by. Before the trouble started, I am quite sure a few would use the cemetery as a place to rest. Margotta Sumerhull, the maid from The Unicorn, went there and disappeared — so did Edith Swan-neck. Who enticed them in? You, Almaric, a priest who could be trusted, or Gascelyn, the handsome squire? An invitation to talk, to sup? Would they like to walk through, perhaps see the new building? Others were easier — whores and prostitutes hired under the cloak of dark. That death house is well-named; once there, they would be imprisoned.’ The exorcist paused. ‘A poor dancer died there, didn’t she, Gascelyn? Eleanora? She came back to haunt you with her perfume and stamping feet. Little wonder you became so wary but Higden made you stay there?’ Anselm leaned forward. ‘The death house will be searched. I am sure a pit lies beneath where those poor girls were pinioned before they were brutally enjoyed and murdered.’

‘There is a pit,’ Gascelyn, face all flushed, protested. ‘But for storing.’

‘Silence!’ Cutwolf held up a hand, snapping his fingers. The captain of archers hurried over, pushing back his cowl to reveal a sharp, nut-brown face. Cutwolf whispered, the man murmured his agreement and left the nave with two of his companions.

‘And the corpses?’ Higden’s steely poise had slipped.

‘Oh, very easy. Saint Michael’s is the parish cemetery of the ward. Many beggars die in Dowgate. They are brought here, wrapped tightly in canvas sheets, bound with cord and placed in the laystall close to the old burial pit. I have seen them. It’s an ideal place. The soil there is always loose and soft from the lime and other elements caked in the ground. Who would dream of untying and unrolling the dirty shrouds to inspect the naked cadaver of some hapless beggar? However, in some cases, those shrouds contained the corpses of murdered young women such as Margotta and Edith. Buried quietly, swiftly, their bodies soon rotted.

‘The pit could be opened?’ Bolingbrok declared.

‘Yes, it could be,’ Anselm agreed. ‘That burial pit was also your unholy sanctuary, Higden, a place you could practice your midnight rites. However, let us return to Rishanger’s gruesome garden. Sometime last year, while burying your victims at Rishanger’s house, the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger were found, along with a parchment script saying how the remaining treasure was under the guardianship of God’s protector. This confirmed your belief that Puddlicot had buried most of the treasure somewhere in or around Saint Michael’s Church, Candlewick. You made secret searches using the likes of Bardolph. He was unsuccessful so you decided to consult the dead. You organized, I am sure, the most malignant of all such ceremonies: a black mass celebrated over that burial pit during the deep heart of the night.

‘I am not a priest!’

‘No, but Almaric is and, as is common with such rites, something truly hideous occurred. You called into the darkness, Sir William, and a demonic chorus sang back. You raised a fiery nest: not only the hapless ghost of Puddlicot and the souls and spirits of those you had murdered both there and, I believe, elsewhere, but the prowling demons — those powerful, malevolent spirits who hunt the arid lands of the spiritual life. So fearsome were they that you and your coven had to flee.’

‘Very interesting!’ Higden snapped. ‘Brother Anselm, I am prepared to surrender myself to the King’s clerks. I will, in a different place and at a different time, demand evidence — proof positive for your outrageous allegations.’

Stephen glanced quickly at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok and a chill seized his heart. Cutwolf, just for a brief moment, betrayed his own uncertainty.

‘Rishanger,’ Anselm continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘became agitated. His relationship with you was not as strong as that of your two henchmen here. Perhaps he resented sharing the treasure found in his garden. More importantly, he had seen your vaunted powers brought to nothing. How the disturbances at St Michael’s were now attracting the attention of both Crown and Church. Rishanger decided to flee. He may have killed his mistress Beatrice, or that might have been the work of your black-garbed assassins who then pursued and murdered Rishanger in Westminster Abbey.’ Anselm chewed the corner of his lips. ‘You also tried to raise the dead there, didn’t you, and failed? No wonder members of your coven became nervous and uncertain. You must have been truly furious at Rishanger’s treachery, his attempt to flee and the bungled work of your assassins. Now the Crown knew what was at stake: they had the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger. Sir Miles Beauchamp and the Secret Chancery were alerted.’

Anselm paused, fingering the wooden cross around his neck. Stephen glanced up and flinched at the evil, gaunt face glaring down at him from the pitch dark. He shifted his gaze.

‘Hate-made holes slick with blood. Soul weary, the spirits gather to sing sorrowful songs,’ a voice taunted. Stephen glanced up at the moving, dancing shapes which floated and darted like shards of ash. A billow of dust swept by, only to dissipate in a pool of light.

‘Shrouded in sadness,’ the voice whispered. ‘Release must come!’

‘You.’ Anselm’s voice cracked under the strain. ‘You, Higden, became convinced that Puddlicot’s treasure hoard was here. You regarded my interference and that of Sir Miles as vexatious but not serious. More importantly, you needed to close this church so that you could search it thoroughly as well as control your own followers. Bardolph was not obeying. Recalcitrant, stubborn, absorbed with Edith Swan-neck, the gravedigger was not a member of your inner cell. However, I think he began to suspect your true identity, Sir William. The night we first attempted to exorcise this haunted place, Bardolph openly grumbled at the lack of burial fees. He was secretly making a barbed sally against you. How he was burying corpses, those of your victims, which brought him no income. He probably resented Gascelyn occupying the death house, assuming duties Bardolph considered his own. Above all, unbeknown to you, Bardolph had become obsessed with the whore Edith Swan-neck from a local brothel. Edith was, I believe, invited to Saint Michael’s by one of your coven who had noticed her beauty when either Gascelyn or Almaric visited the The Oil of Gladness. Was she told how she had caught the eye of no less a person than Sir William Higden? Full of herself, Edith hurried away. She was inveigled into the meadows of murder. She was abducted, killed, her corpse like the rest wrapped tightly in shroud sacking and buried by Gascelyn. Bardolph searched for her. He discovered his beloved definitely left for Saint Michael’s but then disappeared. He later found her necklace in the cemetery. Bardolph became furious, fearing full well what might have happened and holding you, Sir William, responsible. Full of anger and resentment, Bardolph’s twisted heart turned to the prospect of blackmail. He openly boasted about his rich prospects. He may have even mentioned something to Parson Smollat. He had to be silenced. Adele or someone else in the coven alerted the master to the danger. Bardolph was killed in this church by your minions here. His corpse, wrapped in a sheet, was carried to the top of the tower, unwrapped and pushed between the crenellations. It is,’ Anselm smiled grimly, ‘difficult to glimpse anything at the top of that soaring tower, especially when the sun moves into the west and the light begins to fade. More importantly, I stood there when the bells mysteriously tolled; that tower top shook like a tree in a furious gale. Bardolph’s corpse, resting between the turrets, simply toppled over when Simon the sexton began to peal the bells.’ Anselm spread his hands. ‘Just another mysterious death in this haunted church.’

‘But the sexton claimed,’ Almaric taunted, ‘that he heard someone walking up the steps of the tower.’

‘The spirits!’ Higden jibed.

‘No, no,’ Anselm retorted, ‘that was just poor Simon’s imagination and the effects of your minions going up and down the steps; trapdoors being opened, dust stirred, doors unlatched.’ Anselm paused as the captain of the archers came hurrying through the darkness. He leaned down and whispered into Cutwolf’s ear. ‘Well?’

Higden rose and stretched, stamping his feet. Cutwolf also got up to meet him, gesturing that Higden sit down. The merchant knight did so reluctantly. Cutwolf went off to whisper to the archers and came back. ‘There is a pit,’ he announced, ‘cleverly concealed beneath one of the paving stones of the death house. They lifted that and went down.’

‘And?’ Gascelyn could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice.

‘Nothing!’ Cutwolf replied. ‘Nothing but a barrel and some boxes.’

Stephen’s heart sank; Anselm sighed noisily.

‘However!’ Cutwolf snapped his fingers. ‘In moving the bed, Master Gascelyn, we found this.’ An archer handed over a small casket. Cutwolf lifted the lid to reveal a heap of bangles, cheap rings and necklaces. Cutwolf sifted amongst these and handed over a bracelet. ‘Read the inscription.’ Anselm examined the tawdry item and mouthed the word Margotta.

‘You stupid fool!’ Almaric snarled, before Higden shouted a warning. Cutwolf screamed into the darkness and an arrow shaft whirled through the air, smashing into the wall behind them. ‘That proves nothing,’ Higden spluttered. ‘Gascelyn bought. .’

‘Silence!’ Cutwolf took his seat, gesturing at Anselm to continue.

‘Bardolph’s death was necessary for three important reasons.’ Anselm leaned forward, jabbing a finger at Higden who, like his two companions, was clearly agitated. Almaric sat, arms crossed, looking down at his feet; Gascelyn, hands on his knees, stared blindly before him.

‘Three important reasons,’ Anselm repeated. ‘The same applies to all the other mysterious murders here. First, to clear the board, to remove anybody who might get in your way. Secondly, to silence gossiping mouths. Finally, and most importantly, to depict this church and its cemetery as a haunt of demons,’ Anselm chuckled. ‘And that would not be difficult.’

‘Why?’ Cutwolf’s attitude had changed slightly, as if listening to something which would convince him about what he should do.

‘Oh, as I have said — to close this church and pull it down. Sir William would have free rein to explore, dig, pull up and push until he found Puddlicot’s treasure. Lord, the sheer wickedness of the logic! Publicly Sir William is the generous benefactor, promising the world a splendid church, a gorgeous new beginning. In truth, however, he is a Satanist, a blood-drinker, murderer and arsonist.’

‘Smollat burnt this. .’

‘No, no, Sir William, let me explain further. You murdered Bardolph for the reasons I have given. You then silenced Adele, leaving that flask of poisoned wine in her alehouse, a special mourning gift for her. Adele was a greedy woman — she drank the wine full of arsenic. She had to die just in case Bardolph had chattered. You visited her house in the guise of the local justice so one of your minions could search and remove anything suspicious.’ Anselm wiped his hands. ‘All neat and tidy.’ He gestured at Cutwolf. ‘Your water bottle, please.’ Anselm took a deep gulp and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He replaced the stopper and put the water bottle between his feet. ‘Simon the sexton died for the same three reasons. Was he, too, asking awkward questions? We found a scrap of parchment on his chancery desk written in English, Norman French and Latin. What did it say? “Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael’s?” Lucifer, before he fell, was an archangel, too. Was Simon openly hinting about you, Sir William? A friend of Saint Michael’s Church and yet, at the same time, Lucifer, the fallen angel?’ Higden just glared back. ‘And of course, what a tale! A story to reinforce your intentions, Sir William. The poor sexton, driven to suicide, cutting his own throat in his own church — nonsense!’ Anselm sniffed. ‘Simon was lured into this nave. You cut his throat. You locked and bolted both the sacristy door and the main door. As far as the ancient corpse door is concerned — well, it sticks and groans when it opens. You removed the key and, after the murder, Almaric, a carpenter, coated the side of the door with a heavy glue; the type woodworkers use when they fashion a casket. Enough glue to keep that heavy door firmly shut. I found small glue droppings on the path outside. I wondered, why? Now I know.’ Anselm paused. ‘Once inside the church, when we’d discovered Simon’s corpse and became busy with your victim, one of you slipped shut the bolts on the corpse door and proclaimed the key was missing. Of course it wasn’t — you had the keys and so you created a real mystery. A church where all three doors were locked and bolted yet a man within, all alone, had his throat cut. The work of demons, of ghosts. In a way people were right about your work, Higden, you and your two minions here.’ Anselm paused to drink from the water bottle. He offered this to Stephen, who shook his head. The novice was tense, absorbed in the unfolding tale.

‘Parson Smollat and Isolda also had to die. Perhaps the good parson had seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps Bardolph did confide in him, though I cannot prove that. Anyway, you and your kind paid the parson a visit late one evening. Smollat and Isolda must have been terrified. Gascelyn worked with the Inquisition before you turned him. He would know what to do. You forced Smollat to write that message, implicating himself in the destruction of his own church. You then forced him and his woman to drink cups of drugged wine. Once they had, you took them out to that yew tree and hanged them. You stained their hands with oil and saltpetre. Afterwards, you saturated the church with oil, cannon powder and saltpetre and turned it into a hellish inferno.’

‘Parson Smollat bought the oil!’

‘Of course he did — at your request, before you paid him that fatal visit. You’d explained to him how both Crown and Church wanted this building cleansed and razed.’ Anselm took a deep breath. ‘Parson Smollat may have even welcomed that. Finally, you decided on our deaths.’ Anselm grabbed Stephen’s shoulder and pressed hard. ‘At Sir Miles’ sumptuous dinner party, you whistled up your coven of killers. Sir Miles was murdered. Thank God we escaped.’ Anselm got wearily to his feet. ‘You know, Higden, Sir Miles always suspected you were not what you claimed to be.’

‘Proof, proof, proof!’ Higden shouted. ‘Evidence, apart from a casket full of tawdry items.’

‘And the logic of my allegations?’

‘Proof!’

‘The casket and. .’ Anselm dug into his pouch and pulled out the script found in Parson Smollat’s house.

‘You can search my chambers!’ Higden protested.

‘We would find nothing. You have already proved you hide your footsteps well, except,’ Anselm twirled the strip of parchment between his fingers, ‘for Parson Smollat’s last message. You should have studied your hornbook better, Higden. Sir Miles certainly did.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Habeo igne gladioque,’ Anselm read out loud, ‘destruxi ecclesiam nostrum — I have, with fire and sword, destroyed our church. In the Latin original,’ Anselm whispered, ‘if you take the first letter of each word, what do you get?’

‘No,’ Almaric protested, ‘no, it cannot be!’

‘But it is,’ Anselm soothed. ‘The word Higden is formed. Parson Smollat, whatever he was, knew he was going to die. For once he acted the brave priest. I think it is very appropriate, don’t you? A message from the dead, from beyond the grave? Sir Miles certainly understood the message, as did I. We thought we would wait and get further proof — we certainly shall.’ Anselm turned. ‘Master Cutwolf, you have them?’

The clerk whistled into the darkness and the archers brought a sack forward. Cutwolf shook out the long white Carmelite robes. He and Bolingbrok swiftly dressed, both robes had rents at the side so swords and daggers could be drawn in an instant. They pulled up the cowls, had a murmured conversation with the captain and left the nave. Four of the archers followed at a discreet distance. Higden went to move. ‘Stay!’ the Captain of the Archers bellowed. ‘Only the Carmelites may move.’ Stephen watched the line of archers bring up their bows — ghostly hooded figures, their winged death merely a whisper away.

‘Pray, Stephen.’ Anselm touched the novice lightly on the arm and went to kneel on the sanctuary steps. Stephen walked through that ominous line of bowmen to the ruins of the corpse door. He stared out across the night-shrouded cemetery. So much had happened there, and now a gathering was imminent.

‘Dark night. A host of shadows cluster,’ a voice whispered. ‘They will snare the sin-drenched souls in their dizziness. Hem them in their own terror-filled madness.’ Figures merged out of the blackness twisted in deformed infirmity. A faint rottenness teased Stephen’s nostrils. ‘Corruption lays siege,’ a voice hissed, and the visions faded. Far out in the cemetery a light appeared, small but brilliantly white. Then abruptly a baby laughed cheerily. ‘Christ’s tiny voice!’ The very air breathed the words. ‘The Divine Child.’

‘Blessed be he,’ another voice thundered, ‘who prepares my arms for war and my hands for battle.’

‘The shield wall still holds.’ The first voice spoke again. ‘But will the armour fail, the heroes fall?’

Stephen broke from his reverie. Clear on the night air echoed the soul-chilling clash of steel. The ringing scrape of sword on sword, the vicious clatter of dagger blades. Shouts and cries trailed then lapsed into silence. Stephen stared in the direction of the lychgate. A light appeared — the hungry flames of a cresset torch, the murmur of voices, the groans and cries of wounded men. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok strode out of the night; behind them archers dragged two men garbed in black leather. Both were wounded: one had a bubbling cut to the side of his neck while the right leg of the second man simply trailed as a piece of useless, twisted flesh. Hoods and masks had been removed to reveal hard, lean, unshaven faces. Stephen stared closely. He was sure both men had, at some time, visited The Unicorn. He hurriedly stepped aside as the cortege swept into the church. Cutwolf was brutal. Seizing the prisoner with the broken leg and, despite his screams and protests, he forced him to kneel, yanking back his head, pressing the cutting edge of his dagger against the prisoner’s pulsing throat.

‘Who were you to kill?’

The man shook his head, crying to himself.

‘Who?’

‘Two Carmelites,’ the man blurted out. ‘We were told they would leave the church and take the lanes back to White Friars sometime after the Vespers bell sounded. We watched the church. We saw you leave so we withdrew and waited.’

‘For the surprise of your life,’ Bolingbrok jibed. ‘And your orders? Come, man, let your tongue chatter.’

‘We received a message.’

‘From whom?’

‘The tavern master of The Gates of Hell.’

‘The Southwark tavern?’

‘The same.’

‘And?’

‘We were told to visit a haberdasher’s shop in the Mercery. To look for a message in a leather writing case, embroidered with the arms of Castile.’

‘And payment?’

‘To visit the church of Saint Frideswide as the bell for Terce sounded tomorrow, and look for six silver pieces in a pouch pushed into the old leper-squint in the wall.’

Cutwolf, ignoring the man’s protests, pulled him to his feet and thrust him forward so the other prisoner had to catch him. Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn, subdued and watchful, clustered together.

‘Who?’ Anselm strode to stand in front of them. ‘I ask you as the only people who knew that two Carmelites were here at this time, are now with us in this church, so who told these assassins?’

Cutwolf broke the brooding silence. He drew his sword with a rasp and held it up, fingers clutching the cross-hilt. ‘I, Edmund Langley, commonly known as Cutwolf, clerk in the Secret Chancery of England, faithful retainer of Edward King of England, Scotland and France, by the power given to me, adjudge you, Sir William Higden, Squire Gascelyn, Curate Almaric and,’ Cutwolf pointed at the two moaning prisoners, ‘all your adherents, to be traitors taken in arms against the Crown.’

‘We demand a fair trial,’ Higden spluttered, face pale as he realized the full impact of what was happening.

‘Taken in arms against the King.’ Cutwolf stepped back. ‘You murdered my master, a royal clerk. You pillaged the King’s treasure. Your coven attacked the King’s loyal servants. You murdered then revelled in your victims’ blood. You have committed heinous treason, sacrilege and arson.’

‘By what right?’ Higden took a step forward.

‘I am a cleric,’ Almaric bleated.

‘By this.’ Cutwolf, still holding the sword up, dug into his wallet and handed Stephen a small script. ‘Read it aloud, boy, read it so all can hear.’

Stephen, hands shaking, unrolled the stiff, cream-coloured parchment.

‘Out loud!’ Cutwolf repeated.

‘What the bearer of this seal has done, he has done for the Crown, the realm and Holy Mother Church. All officers and loyal subjects of the Crown, on their duty of allegiance and on pain of treason, must give the bearer of this seal and all his work full sustenance and support.’

‘And?’ Cutwolf demanded. ‘What else?’

‘Given under the secret seal at our Palace of Sheen, on the fourth of May in the forty-seventh year of our reign, Edward the King.’

‘And the seals?’

‘Two,’ Stephen replied. ‘The signet seal of the King.’ Stephen peered at the generous blob of purple wax. ‘And that of the Secret Chancery at Westminster.’

‘Taken in arms.’ Cutwolf’s words were full of menace. ‘Adjudged traitors, sentenced to death, punishment immediate.’ He stepped forward. ‘Archers,’ he lifted a gauntleted hand. ‘Notch!’

Stephen shivered at the ominous rattle. Higden fell to his knees. Almaric turned, looking wildly for escape. Gascelyn drew his dagger.

‘Loose!’

The air thrummed with a sombre twang, the hiss of feathered death as the arrow shafts, one volley after another, sped into the exposed group. The two failed assassins simply toppled over. Almaric, his back turned, was hit three times. One shaft pierced his neck, bursting through his gullet. Gascelyn was struck in both face and chest. Higden, caught on all fours, rolled in agony as the shafts pierced deep into his side and belly.

Stephen glanced at Anselm. The exorcist’s face was as white as snow, his lips crusted with blood. He could only sketch a cross in the air. The condemned lay sprawled. Gascelyn and Higden still jerked. Cutwolf, sword sheathed, misericorde dagger in his hand, moved from corpse to corpse, slitting throats as cleanly as a woman would clip a flower head. Once finished he plucked the commission out of Stephen’s icy fingers, winked at the novice and walked away. ‘Do not grieve for them,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘Hell has them and God’s creation is richer for it.’ Cutwolf walked back, tears glittering in his hard eyes. ‘I loved Sir Miles,’ he whispered, ‘more than David loved Jonathan. A good man, Stephen. In my eyes, God’s own child. These villains brought their death on themselves. God will judge them.’

‘What now?’ Anselm moved back to sit wearily on the sanctuary steps.

‘We will burn the corpses,’ Cutwolf replied, spittle wetting his dry, cracked lips. ‘We will have it rumoured abroad how poor Sir William and his loyal servants were trapped in another hideous blaze at Saint Michael’s. The King will know the truth. He will seize all of Higden’s wealth, along with this treasure hoard. He will embrace me as his friend and order chantry priests to sing Masses every day for the repose of Sir Miles’ soul. And you, Brother?’

‘I must finish what I first came here for,’ Anselm replied. ‘Now the root of all this evil has been pulled up — the sheer human wickedness which nourished and sustained it — I must finish the cleansing process.’

‘Here?’ Cutwolf asked.

‘No, in the cemetery, on the burial pit. If you could set up a makeshift altar. .’

Anselm took Stephen deeper into the sanctuary, to the recess where those who fled for protection used to shelter. Anselm made them both as comfortable as possible; they sat with their backs to the blackened wall while Cutwolf and Bolingbrok became busy. The corpses were heaped in the centre of the nave and a funeral pyre of dry wood, kindling and bracken was swiftly built about them. Archers were despatched to find oil and saltpetre. ‘The King’s business!’ Cutwolf shouted after them. ‘Arouse anyone you want.’

‘Do not light the fire,’ Anselm called. ‘Not yet, not until I say.’ Cutwolf nodded in agreement. Stephen, cold and desperate, sat thinking about Alice. The more he did, any compassion or pity for Higden and his adherents ebbed away; their deaths had been shocking, sudden and cruel, but just. He watched as the archers worked. He could tell from the shouts and cries that the priest’s house had been broken into and Anselm’s altar was being raised on the place of slaughter. Stephen’s eyes grew weary and he slept. He awoke to Anselm talking.

‘I have waged war on you all my priestly life.’ The exorcist was pointing at something or someone crouching before him. ‘So this is our last confrontation?’ Anselm paused, nodding as though listening to a reply. ‘If necessary,’ the exorcist murmured, ‘if that is the price, I will pay.’ Stephen could see nothing. No voices sounded, no visions swirled.

The funeral pyre was ready and it rose — a sinister hive of oil-drenched wood and kindling, the bitter smell of saltpetre tainting the air.

‘All is ready, Brother!’ Anselm, coughing and spluttering, clambered to his feet. They walked down to the corpse door.

‘We found these in the priest’s house.’ Cutwolf gestured at the vestments heaped on a stool.

Anselm swiftly dressed in the alb, stole and amice. He crossed himself and walked out into the dark. The altar, a plain table, stood ready in the centre of the burial pit. Candles fluttered in their brass holdings either side of the black crucifix on its wooden stand. A dish of cruets and a plain brass paten and chalice were also there. Stephen placed the exorcist’s pannier close to the altar, opened it and took out the sacred chrism, phial of salt, the small stoup of holy water and asperges rod as well as the exorcist’s battered brown leather psalter. Anselm grasped the latter and, in the light of the lantern horns, placed either side of the altar, sifted through its yellowing pages. ‘We will say the Mass of Michaelmas, Stephen, the Mass of Saint Michael, Lucifer’s great opponent. Help me now!’ Anselm crossed himself and intoned, ‘I will go unto the altar of God, the God of my youth. .’

The Mass began. Stephen was swept up by the power of Anselm’s voice and his vigorous observance of the ritual. An array of cowled archers circled the altar. Stephen was surprised. The night had fallen quiet. There was a deathly calm — no sign of anything, nothing but the wild grass and bramble bush bending under a gentle breeze. Anselm moved to the consecration, bending over the wafer, the thin host Cutwolf had found in the priest’s house. He murmured the words of Christ and was about to raise the paten when he staggered back.

‘Get you gone, prattling, filthy, stupid priest!’ The voice cracked like a whip. Abruptly the air around them was filled with trails of smoke, each formed into the ugly, sinister face of that old woman. A stench like that of the filthiest cesspit swept across, forcing both Carmelites to gag and retch. The candles fluttered out. Red blotches appeared on the white altar clothes. Above these swarmed a horde of black flies.

Stephen was aware of Cutwolf beside him. ‘What is the matter?’ the clerk whispered.

‘Can you see anything?’ Stephen begged.

‘Nothing,’ Cutwolf hissed. ‘The candles have gone out. This stench, and the cold!’

‘Leave us!’ Anselm ordered. The exorcist stepped back to the altar but he was caught by a coughing fit. A dark-feathered bird of the night came swooping over the altar, wings wafting threateningly. Stephen glimpsed its cruel jutting beak and curved claws. A raven appeared as if out of nowhere; the bird sailed slowly down, wings extended, through the gloom to perch on the top of the cross and caw raucously. The archers became agitated; their shouts and cries broke the silence. Shadow-tinged shapes moved through the bristling gorse, long and sinister, as if some wolf or wild dog pack circled ravenous for prey. Wraiths danced around the altar. Anselm had returned to the Mass but his words were drowned by a cacophony of voices hurling blasphemous obscenities. ‘Stephen,’ Anselm declared, ‘we continue. Cutwolf, order your men to pray. Ignore what is happening.’ Anselm continued with the ritual. A horrid face appeared above the altar; only half of this could be glimpsed, a red eye glaring from a deathly pallor. Somewhere a drum sounded the death beat of a tambour. A shape, like that of a war horse caparisoned for battle, clattered through the cemetery, hooves pounding, armour rattling. Anselm, who had finished the consecration, now moved to the exorcism. Armed with the sacred chrism and holy water, he anointed the night air to the east, north, south and west, a circle of protection as he called on the powers of heaven.

‘Bitter blasts!’ a voice called. ‘Look, they come! Shall we be destroyed?’

‘Kill the priest,’ a second voice urged. ‘Shut the shaven pate’s scrawny throat! Silence his tongue!’

Stephen watched as the faces of the night-prowlers, the juddering shapes, gathered around Anselm. The exorcist was now on his knees, leaning back on his heels. Blood dribbled from his mouth; his shroud-white face was drenched in sweat. The hideous sights and sounds faded, leaving the old priest throbbing with pain. Anselm began to cry; tears drenched his cheeks as he shook his head and breathed replies to his tormentors’ questions. The cemetery lay silent; even the breeze had fallen. Anselm was sobbing like a child, praying fervently, striking his breast in an act of contrition. Stephen went to grab his hands and started in horror. Anselm’s right hand was so cold while the left was too hot to even touch.

‘Stay back, Stephen, stay back!’ Anselm’s feverish jerking grew worse. He coughed huge globules of blood and spittle, eyes half-closed he tried to pray. Cutwolf came and crouched beside him. Stephen gazed around helplessly; the night was proving to be a beautiful one. He caught the scent of wild flowers in his nostrils; the air was warm.

‘Light the fire!’ Anselm’s bloodshot eyes opened, staring frantically. ‘Light the fire!’ he repeated. ‘Now, burn the wicked ones.’

Cutwolf hurried to obey. Anselm stretched out a hand and Stephen helped him up. The exorcist insisted on finishing the Mass, mouthing the words quietly. He reached the kiss of peace. ‘Pax vobiscum,’ he called.

‘Pax tecum, Magister.’ The phrase was repeated time and time again out of the darkness. ‘Pax tecum, deo gratias — Peace to you, thanks be to God.’ Stephen heard a sound and whirled around. The funeral pyre had been lit, the flames roaring heavenwards. He turned back just in time to catch Anselm as the exorcist collapsed in a dead faint. Cutwolf came and knelt beside them. ‘The fire is consuming them, Brother.’

‘And they have consumed me.’ The exorcist opened his eyes and smiled up at both of them. ‘The final battle,’ Anselm tapped the side of his head, ‘was in here. The last great temptation. They taunted me, Stephen, with the sins of my youth but they were defeated, driven back. Now,’ he coughed, and a trickle of blood seeped between his lips. ‘My body’s for the dark, my soul for the light. All is finished.’ He paused. ‘Do you hear that, Stephen?’

The novice, tears in his eyes, glanced up, then he heard it. Despite the dark and the raging flames, the liquid, beautiful song of a nightingale carried from somewhere deep in the cemetery.

‘It is finished, completed, consummated.’

The exorcist jerked and fell back, staring blindly up into the star-filled sky.