The Midnight Man

Words Amongst the Pilgrims

The physician finished his tale. One hand leaning on the mantle of the great fireplace, he turned, smiled at his fellow pilgrims and toasted them with his wine cup. ‘No more,’ he declared. ‘My story is done and so am I.’ His words were greeted with cries of applause and appreciation. The pilgrims, busy discussing both his story and their own encounters with the powers of evil, rose and began to leave the taproom. Chaucer remained, as did two others — the Wife of Bath and the summoner. Chaucer watched as they and the physician gathered at the head of the common table, heads together, whispering heatedly. Chaucer rose and sauntered towards them. Curious, yet he would not have stayed if the summoner hadn’t grabbed his arm, indicating that he should join them on the bench. Once he did, Chaucer pointed to the physician. ‘Tell me, sir, you are Stephen of Winchester?’

‘I am.’ The physician smiled. ‘After Anselm’s death, I no longer heard the voices or saw the visions. I also realized I had no vocation for the religious life. Instead, I decided to follow my father’s calling and so I have, to be the most skilled of physicians.’

‘And also a very wealthy man?’

‘Yes, Master Chaucer, he is,’ the summoner replied.

‘And who are you really — Cutwolf?’

The summoner laughed and shook his head.

‘And you?’ Chaucer turned to the Wife of Bath. ‘You must be Marisa.’

‘I am. My father returned to Bath and died of a broken heart. I took my dear departed sister’s name, Alice. I, too, am a wealthy woman.’

‘Because of me,’ the summoner intervened. ‘I am Bolingbrok, Master Chaucer. My life, my energy is dedicated to hunting down and executing every single blood-drinking member of the Midnight Man’s coven. The physician and the Wife of Bath spend generously on achieving this both at home and abroad. Many years have passed but the hunt continues.’

‘So your story is not finished?’

‘No, Master Chaucer,’ the physician replied. ‘Sometimes, very rarely, the visions return. But this does not matter; our pursuit of justice does.’

‘And Cutwolf?’

‘Oh, Master Chaucer,’ a mocking voice answered from the darkness of the deep window embrasure behind him. ‘Do not turn master poet but, believe me, Cutwolf is very much alive and never far away!’