The Midnight Man

The Physician’s Tale
Part Four

‘Questions.’ Anselm tapped the table in Sir William Higden’s chancery chamber. ‘We will deal with this as we would a problem in the halls of Oxford. Put forward certain questions to be addressed. Sir William, Curate Almaric is taking notes for you. Stephen will do the same for myself and Sir Miles. Gentlemen,’ Anselm pointed to Simon the sexton and Gascelyn, ‘you may listen and,’ he shrugged, ‘and add anything we may have overlooked.’

‘Is this really necessary?’ Sir William looked peevish after what appeared to be a poor night’s sleep. The powerful merchant knight’s face was shaven and gleaming with oil, but the dark rings under his eyes betrayed the fact that he had drunk too deeply of the claret he apparently loved. While Anselm made soothing noises, Stephen glanced around the luxurious chamber. He was particularly fascinated by the brilliantly hued tapestries of blue, red, green, silver and gold depicting the legends of King Arthur, be it the Knights of the Round Table or Galahad’s pursuit of the Holy Grail. Stephen recalled how his own father had taken him to the great Abbey of Glastonbury where Arthur and Guinevere were supposed to lie buried, their tomb being discovered during the reign of the present King’s grandfather. Were those happy days? Stephen wondered. The past seemed so distant, so strange, as if he was recalling someone else’s life. His time with Anselm had so changed him. .

‘We should begin,’ Beauchamp insisted. The royal clerk, elegant as ever in a dark green cotehardie over a white cambric shirt and black hose, pointed to the green-ringed hour candle in the centre of the table. ‘Soon the Angelus will ring.’

‘I was only wondering,’ Sir William protested, ‘why a second exorcism cannot take place? I mean. .’ He wandered off into a litany of speculation. Stephen picked up a quill pen and sharpened it. He felt refreshed and eager for the day. Anselm and he had risen early, celebrated a dawn Mass then broken their fast. Afterwards Anselm, without explanation, had instructed Stephen to pack his panniers with a change of clothes and all he might need for a long stay away from White Friars. The exorcist had refused to elaborate but had promised the novice he would like the surprise.

‘Questions.’ Anselm’s voice cracked like a whip, making everyone sit up and concentrate. ‘First question: Saint Michael’s Church is undoubtedly haunted as well as plagued by malevolent spirits, yes? Second question.’ Stephen was now busy writing, using the cipher Anselm had taught him, very similar to that employed in the royal chancery. ‘Second question,’ Anselm repeated. ‘Who are they and why are they acting like this?’

‘Puddlicot?’ Beauchamp broke in.

‘Third question.’ Anselm nodded at the royal clerk in a moment of realization. ‘Why is Saint Michael’s haunted by the ghost of Richard Puddlicot? True, this was his parish church. He took sanctuary here but, despite this, was dragged out. He now protests at the outrage while he also haunts the crypt of Westminster Abbey. The poor soul is lost in his own tormented past. Fourth question,’ Anselm tapped the table, ‘we now tread on firmer ground. At the last All Souls the Midnight Man and his coven celebrated their black rites here at Saint Michael’s. Perhaps they did the same at Westminster? At first we considered the choice of Saint Michael’s to be random — now we are not so sure. This brings us to our fifth question: was the purpose of the Midnight Man’s satanic celebration to search for Puddlicot’s buried treasure? If so, how did they know about it? Sixth question: did they find some of the treasure? Undoubtedly so! The Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger but how, where and when? Question seven.’ Anselm paused to take a sip of water. ‘Was Rishanger a member of the Midnight Man’s coven? How did he seize such treasure? Who killed him and his Mistress Beatrice? Question eight, Bardolph’s death: was he driven to the top of that tower — was he possessed, forced to commit suicide? Question nine: Adele, Bardolph’s wife, a member of this parish — yes, Parson Smollat?’

The priest, pale-faced with anxiety, nodded in agreement.

‘Why was she murdered in her shabby alehouse which possesses not one religious artefact? Oh, by the way, Parson Smollat, did you bring your book of the dead as I asked?’

The parson lifted a sack from where he had placed it, close to his feet, and drew out the leather-bound ledger. ‘What do you want with it?’ Smollat’s voice quavered.

‘In a while,’ Anselm replied. ‘Sir Miles, your men are ready?’

‘Of course!’

‘What is this, Anselm?’ Sir William asserted himself. ‘You ask questions but surely you are here to provide the answer to why Saint Michael’s is haunted.’

‘As yet I cannot do that properly. I do not know what lies at the root of all this. I have one more question, or perhaps two. So, question ten: Bardolph the gravedigger. He desperately searched for his lady love, Edith Swan-neck. He found a necklace he had given her lying in Saint Michael’s cemetery. What happened to Edith, and what are these rumours about other young women disappearing?’

The chamber fell silent. Stephen stopped writing. Abruptly he raised his head. He was sure, certain, that he heard faint chanting.

‘So what do you suggest, exorcist?’ Sir Miles sat, hands clasped, half-concealing his face. ‘I must also give answers to those in authority.’

Anselm snapped his fingers at Parson Smollat. ‘My friend, I want you to give us the names of the last four people buried before the thirty-first of October last year and, when we are ready, take us into the cemetery where, I hope, with the help of your men, Sir Miles, to open their graves.’

‘Why?’ Smollat stuttered, ‘For God’s sake, that is sacrilege!’

‘Not if we are searching for the truth.’

‘Anselm!’ Sir William’s face tensed with anger. ‘Why this, why now?’

‘Because, Sir William, I am trying to answer my own questions. Listen now.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Almaric interrupted, ‘you said you might have two other questions. Do you have a second?’

‘Yes, you did,’ Gascelyn confirmed.

‘Oh, that,’ Anselm smiled icily, ‘is linked to my final proposition. Bardolph, unlike us, God forgive him, discovered something. I am sure it was to his great profit but, more than that, I cannot say.’

‘So what now?’ Sir Miles asked. ‘Anselm, don’t you have any firm conclusions?’

‘Oh, I have propositions, hypotheses. Let me explain. I believe the Midnight Man, whoever he is, discovered the secret of Puddlicot’s treasure. How and when I don’t know.’ Anselm breathed in. ‘I believe he and his coven discovered two items from that lost hoard. How, when and why? Again, I do not know. I believe Rishanger was a member of his coven. He stole those items and tried to flee — he and his mistress were both killed. Rishanger fled because he realized that the Midnight Man had not only failed to establish the whereabouts of the rest of the treasure through the practice of the black arts but had summoned up much more malignant forces. In doing so, the Midnight Man had attracted the attention of both Court and Church. I also suggest that perhaps Bardolph — certainly his wife, Adele — was part of the Midnight Man’s coven.’ Anselm shook his head at the cries of protest from Parson Smollat and Almaric.

‘I confess, I am not too sure about Bardolph but I would suggest Adele definitely was. She was silenced because of what Bardolph may have discovered or may have told her.’

‘Which is what?’ Parson Smollat queried.

‘In truth, I don’t know, parson. Do you? Didn’t Bardolph go to you to be shrived? Did he confess? Can you tell us anything outside the seal of confession?’

‘Nothing.’ Parson Smollat sighed, licking his lips. ‘Bardolph talked of his love for Edith Swan-neck. He asked if I knew of any other young maidens who had disappeared.’ Smollat’s voice faltered. Stephen stared at him. He had met the parson a number of times over the past few days and the priest was certainly changing, becoming more nervous and agitated. A troubled spirit, Stephen concluded, but was he wicked, malicious? Parson Smollat certainly seemed to be losing his confidence by the day, his anxiety clearly expressed in his unshaven face, unkempt robes and dirty fingernails, which constantly scrabbled over the table top.

‘What do you want?’ Smollat bleated. ‘Brother, what do we do now?’

‘Sir Miles.’ Anselm gestured at the royal clerk. ‘I want your men to open the graves of the last four people buried in Saint Michael’s Cemetery before the Feast of All Souls last.’ Anselm rose to his feet. ‘Parson Smollat, Sir William, I suggest you supervise this. Sir Miles, once your henchmen have reached the coffins or shroud cloths of the dead, they are to seek us out at The Unicorn in Eel-Pie Lane or elsewhere.’

Stephen hid his confusion and surprise as Anselm prepared to leave. Sir Miles summoned Cutwolf and the others into the chamber, giving them strict orders on what to do. Parson Smollat was now feverishly consulting the book of the dead, Simon the sexton peering over his shoulder, watched by a very taciturn Sir William. Gascelyn and Almaric had already adjourned to one of the spacious window embrasures, quietly discussing what the exorcist had suggested.

Once they had made their farewells and walked out into the street, Anselm and Beauchamp strode ahead, deep in conversation, with Stephen hurrying behind. The lane was busy, thronged with crowds, so Stephen was pleased to be by himself. He could also reflect on why they were going to The Unicorn and desperately hoped to catch a glimpse of the fair Alice. He only exchanged a few pleasantries with one of Beauchamp’s henchmen, Holyinnocent, who had been chosen to escort them to the tavern. The day was certainly busy. The constant chatter, tramping of feet and crashing wheels of the high-sided carts were a constant din. Hucksters, peddlers, apprentice boys and tinkers screamed and shouted for business, desperate to catch the eye or grasp a cloak to sell some trinket, pot, pan, knife or piece of cloth. Strange sights appeared and merged into the moving crowd. A babbling half-wit rolled a barrel into the street then upended it to stand on; once ready he proclaimed to the puffed up, ribbon-bedecked gallants who gathered around to poke fun at him that he was the Prophet Jonah come again. Beadles and market marshals strode pompously with their wands, ready to wrap the back and legs of those trading without licence. Funeral processions merged with guild solemnities in a bobbing confusion of lighted candles, swinging thurifers as well as different chants and prayers. Anselm and Beauchamp strode on through this noisy bustle. Now and again Holyinnocent would recognize a friend and exchange good-natured banter. Occasionally they had to stand aside for malefactors, all dirty and bedraggled, being marched down to the pillories, stocks and thews. A bawd and her pimp followed tied to the tail of a cart while a fat, sweaty-faced beadle lashed their naked backs and bottoms with a rod, splashing himself and passers-by with specks of blood.

Stephen was aware of the world closing in around him, a stark contrast to the simplicity and serenity of the cloister. Cartwheels squeaked, bawds shrieked, porters grumbled. ‘The Children of this World’, as Anselm called them, swarmed either side in filthy rags or sumptuously embroidered silver brocaded clothes, shuffling and shouldering each other, jostling and jeering, haggling and hustling. They reached The Unicorn, a pleasant-fronted tavern standing in its own courtyard, which stretched up to the main door. Stables and outhouses flanked two sides. The tavern itself was a lofty, three-storey mansion of black timbers and pink plaster on a stone base. Stephen was surprised they did not enter. Instead, Holyinnocent was told to take the baggage in and rejoin them. As soon as he did, Anselm winked at Stephen and declared they had other places to visit. ‘Minehost has your baggage,’ Holyinnocent whispered to Stephen as he rejoined them. ‘And we are off to Newgate.’

They took the broad alleyway leading up to the formidable prison built into the ruins of the old city wall. A grim, slimy-walled lane with every second house a tavern under its creaking, battered sign. The Sanctuary of Dead Man’s Place: this was the haunt of thieves who stared out through chinks and gaps in doors and shutters. They recognized Beauchamp’s insignia and let them pass through. A hunting horn wailed a warning while a hoarse whisper, ‘King’s Man’, ran before them up the long, dark tunnel. The message kept the bullies with their swords and staves, as well as their harridans armed with spits and broomsticks, from sallying forth. They left the alleyway and entered the great, fleshing market, which flourished in the shadow of the huge sombre towers of Newgate, a place swimming in blood. The carcasses of poultry and livestock were being swiftly slaughtered, hacked and then hung from hooks above the stalls. A shambles of blood, stinking guts, entrails and boiling salt. Red-spattered butchers and their boys roared for business while beggars, dogs, cats and kites fought for the juicy scraps.

Beauchamp, escorted by Holyinnocent, elbowed and thrust his way forward. They gained entrance through a narrow iron door into the prison proper, a true vision of hell: a warren of evil-smelling passageways where the reek and stench poisoned the nostrils and stifled the throat. They passed open chambers where key-clanking janitors guarded what they scornfully called ‘human vermin’ — prisoners with long filthy beards and straggling wild hair, all swathed in dirty rags. The keeper who led them into the stygian darkness screamed at everyone to step aside, only to be answered by raucous shouts and curses. They went down some steps lit by flaring torches. The smell grew more rank and unbearable. The walls glistened with snail slime. Spiders big as bumble bees spun their webs to span niches and corners. They reached a circular cavern called Limbo. In the centre rose a huge stone called Black Dog with a squat tallow candle burning on top. Holyinnocent pointed to the heavy doors which faced them, whispering how these were the condemned cells. While the keeper unlocked one of the cell doors, Holyinnocent explained how many a condemned felon had dashed his brains out against Black Dog rather than take the ride in the death-cart.

Stephen, holding a sponge soaked in vinegar against his nose, went and sat on one of the battered benches. This was a truly evil place. The atmosphere oppressed him. Cries, despairing and pleading, pestered his ears. A feathery shadow crept across the floor, spilling over him, creating a wave of deep fear and panic. A haggard face came shooting out of the murk, its bone-white features twisted in an angry snarl, bloodshot eyes full of some nameless fury.

‘Stephen, Stephen?’

The novice shook his head. Anselm stood, beckoning him. The cell door was now flung back. The turnkey had dragged out a shambling figure loaded with iron fetters, barefooted and dressed in the long black gown of the condemned. He was virtually unrecognizable, his head and face being hidden by a mass of tangled hair, moustache and beard. The turnkey pushed the prisoner down a passageway. Beauchamp told Holyinnocent to stay while he and the two Carmelites followed the turnkey along the slime-covered passageway, up a short flight of steps into a surprisingly clean, neat chamber. The walls were painted a brilliant white and a crucifix hung beneath the barred windows high in the wall. There was a sturdy table with benches on all four sides. The turnkey lit the fat tallow candle in the centre of the table and left. Beauchamp made sure the entrance was free of eavesdropping, slammed the door shut and, going across, pushed the prisoner down on a stool.

‘This is the chaplain’s room,’ Anselm explained. ‘I insisted it be fashioned like this. I used to come here to shrive the condemned. Are you condemned?’ Anselm sat down close to the prisoner. All Stephen could glimpse were the man’s bright, smiling eyes.

‘This is another kind of shriving,’ Beauchamp murmured. ‘Everything will be in a whisper. Brothers, may I introduce Roger Bolingbrok, former Dominican friar, also known as William Chattle, Peter Waltham and so on and so on. One of my most redoubtable spies or Judas men. Isn’t that right, Roger?’

The prisoner smiled in a flash of white teeth, lifting his manacled hands to clear the hair from his face.

‘I cannot show you any mercy.’ Beauchamp’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘At least not now.’

‘Will he hang?’ Stephen asked.

The prisoner grinned and winked at the novice.

‘Oh, no,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘Tomorrow a writ will arrive which confirms Master Bolingbrok’s claim to be a cleric. He will be handed over to the Church, tried before an ecclesiastical tribunal at Lambeth and exiled to some monastery in the wilds of Northumberland. He will be shaved, bathed and given fresh clothes for the journey. He will travel no further north than Saint Albans, where Master Bolingbrok will escape to reappear in London under another guise. Now,’ Beauchamp became brisk. ‘Brother Anselm, Brother Stephen, I have made reference to the Midnight Man’s exploits in the cemetery of Saint Michael’s. How his black Mass and dark rites went so wrong he had to flee.’

‘Were you there?’ Anselm asked the prisoner.

‘No, but Rishanger was.’

‘How do you know?’

‘As I told Sir Miles when I was first taken up,’ Bolingbrok explained, voice all cultured, ‘I was condemned and thrown into the common hold before being moved,’ Bolingbrok grinned, ‘to a more comfortable chamber. People regard a condemned man as already dead so they chatter as if you are. The villains of Newgate know all about Rishanger. He was a thief, a receiver of stolen property. He also had a nasty reputation as a warlock. He tried to buy safe passage abroad without a licence. He told a Gascon sailor what had happened at Saint Michael’s — how he had been a spectator of something which had gone horribly wrong.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t say, except that a notorious warlock had tried to raise the spirit of a dead man but instead summoned up all the powers of hell.’

‘Why should Rishanger tell that to a Gascon sailor?’ Stephen queried.

‘Oh, that is easy enough, isn’t it, Sir Miles?’ Anselm replied. ‘To leave England without proper licence, especially for a goldsmith, is very dangerous and just as much for the captain of any ship.’

‘Rishanger daren’t lie.’ Bolingbrok moved in a clatter of chains, his rags exuding an odious smell. ‘He couldn’t point to some petty misdemeanour to explain his flight so he told the truth, as far as he could. Not that he was a member of a coven — merely an observer.’

‘Which is why,’ Anselm broke in, ‘when Rishanger was attacked at Queenhithe, the captain of the cog refused to help any further.’

‘True,’ Bolingbrok agreed. ‘Safe, quiet, illegal passage is one thing, sword and dagger play on one of London’s wharfs is another. Rishanger paid heavily for that passage in more ways than one.’

‘And since then,’ Beauchamp asked, ‘what else have you discovered mingling amongst the dead men?’

‘The assassins who attacked Rishanger, who may have killed his mistress, though Rishanger himself could have done that, must be members of the Midnight Man’s coven. No one knows anything.’ Bolingbrok licked dry, cracked lips. ‘You will be out of here soon enough,’ Beauchamp soothed, ‘eating and drinking merrily.’

‘Rishanger,’ Bolingbrok explained, ‘was attacked at Queenhithe. He fled along the river to be murdered in the King’s own abbey. Rumours abound of a great treasure being found with him. Such news runs like flame amongst the stubble. Usually people know those responsible for such an attack but, on this occasion, nothing! No one, and I mean no one, knows anything about what happened in the abbey.’ The prisoner shook his chains. Stephen became aware of the appalling cries from above.

‘The crying, screeching, swearing, roaring, bawling and shaking of chains,’ Bolingbrok whispered to him, ‘are the plain chant of Newgate, but they hide the true business of London’s Hades, the real chatter. Who does what to whom, where, when, how and why? But not on this business.’ He pushed back his matted hair.

‘Sir Miles, I assure you, I am done here.’

‘Tell me,’ Stephen spoke up, ‘is there chatter amongst all this chaffing, swearing and shaking of chains about young women disappearing?’

Bolingbrok looked at Beauchamp, who nodded. ‘Why is a young Carmelite interested in that?’

‘Because I am,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Is there?’

‘There is,’ Bolingbrok whispered. ‘Some of the pimps are full of it. Young women disappear, but they also reappear in one form or another. This doesn’t happen here. Whispers crackle. They say a blood-drinker is on the loose.’

‘Blood-drinker?’ Stephen asked.

‘Brother Anselm, Sir Miles.’ Bolingbrok rubbed his brow on the back of his hand. ‘You, like me, have served in the King’s armies in France. You, Sir Miles, also read the reports of sheriffs and justices from every shire. You know who the blood-drinkers are.’

‘Blood-drinkers,’ Beauchamp’s face was sombre, ‘are usually men who have served in the array — lunatics, dangerous ones. They like to take a woman and kill her. Oh, yes, Stephen, for them that is the only way their seed can burst out. They lie with a woman whom they terrify; this excites them, even more so because they know this woman is going to die. Abroad in enemy towns and villages, these men hide behind the mask of a soldier. They can do what they wish. They return home but they cannot stop hunting. They regard women as quarry as hunters would a deer.’

‘Any names?’ Anselm asked.

‘No one knows,’ Bolingbrok replied, ‘but they say there may be more than one.’

‘And the Midnight Man?’

‘Why, Brother Anselm? Rumour abounds — they say he could be a priest.’ Bolingbrok grinned. ‘Even a Carmelite.’ Bolingbrok’s smile faded. ‘Or someone powerful.’ Bolingbrok sounded not so confident. ‘Someone who likes whores but not in the way I do. This blood-drinker likes hunting and killing them. Sir Miles, I can tell you no more.’

‘We should go.’ Anselm rose and sketched a blessing over the prisoner. He walked to the door and turned. ‘You were once a friar, Bolingbrok?’

‘Will you always be one, Brother?’ the prisoner retorted. Anselm smiled, shrugged and opened the door. Once free of the prison, Beauchamp and Anselm stood in one of the shadowy recesses of the gatehouse, heads together, murmuring. ‘Stephen,’ Anselm called out, ‘we will visit Rishanger’s house.’

‘Cutwolf!’ Sir Miles stepped from the enclave and whispered into the ear of his henchman. Cutwolf nodded, winked at Stephen and sauntered off. Stephen wished he could question his master but Anselm seemed in a hurry. They crossed the blood-soaked cobbles of the Shambles. The exorcist grasped Stephen’s shoulder and whispered how time was passing, the graves at St Michael’s were about to be opened and they had to be there when it happened. Anselm moved on to walk with Beauchamp. Stephen felt a deep, cloying fear, an agitation of the heart. He stared around, not interested in the slaughter stalls, the hacked flesh or the bizarre characters who thronged the noisy crowds. The reek from the tanner sheds and tallow shops faded, as did the strident noise. Stephen felt as if something was going to happen; he had experienced this before. His father called it a form of the falling sickness, a deep foreboding which seizes all the senses.

As soon as they reached the entrance to Hagbut Lane the warnings swept in. Rishanger’s house, narrow and tall, stood forlornly on the corner of an alleyway. The place reeked of evil. Beauchamp tore at the seals along the rim of the door and kicked it open, leading both the Carmelites into a long, ill-lit passageway. Stephen entered cautiously. This was no longer a house but a gloomy valley. On one side savage fires roared while on the other a storm of white hail and sleet pelted down. At the far end a pit glared with hell’s dark fires. A figure was walking towards Stephen. It reminded the novice of a painting he had glimpsed of the hideous, legendary Medea, who stalked lonely crossroads leading a legion of suicides, their very passing making the fiercest dog howl and shiver.

‘Stephen, Stephen!’ He opened his eyes. There was no valley, only that stinking, dark passageway. Anselm was peering at him. Beauchamp stood further along, cloaked in darkness.

They entered what must have been Rishanger’s chancery chamber; the room was stripped of everything. Beauchamp, protesting at the dank air and gloom, unlocked and threw back the shutters. Columns of light pierced the oiled linen panes. Stephen started as a mouse, jet black, shot across the floor. Anselm, also alerted to the gathering evil, had drawn his Ave beads and wrapped these around his fingers. They moved from chamber to chamber. Stephen was sure that Beauchamp, although blind and deaf to the visions he and Anselm were experiencing, was still sensitive to the oppressive evil which followed them around this soulless house. The longer they stayed, the closer the sheer wickedness perpetrated here wrapped itself around them, a heavy pall of unnamed terrors. A quickening of the breath. A lurching of the heart. A pitching of the stomach as their skin crawled. There was nothing tangible to explain this. The King’s surveyors had stripped the house. The place was relatively clean, yet a cold darkness hung like an arras around them, so much so that Stephen wildly wondered if he would ever be allowed to leave.

‘Magister, what are we searching for?’

‘Anything.’ Beauchamp drew his sword and drove its point into the plastered wall of the clean, swept buttery they had entered. ‘A secret compartment, a hidden casket.’ The clerk walked over to the staircase built into the corner of the entrance hall. They climbed the steps. Stephen blinked at the flashes of light, the leaping sparks which swam before him. Small bursts of red fire, each containing a face which came and swiftly went. Voices cried, including that of a child. Screams and yells echoed. A voice, low and sombre, quoted that dreadful verse from the Apocalypse: ‘I saw a pale rider and his name was Death and all hell followed in his wake.’ Another voice answered, ‘Hell-born souls drift like columns of blackness. This is the night of the weighing of souls. Doom-laden they are, born of hell, fit for hell. Eternal punishment will be theirs.’

‘Ignore them, Stephen,’ Anselm hissed. ‘Dismiss them as shadow dreams, nothing more.’

‘Chilling!’ Beauchamp declared as he led the way into the upper gallery. ‘Even I can feel it.’ He grinned at the two Carmelites. ‘I never did last time I was here. You must attract the spirits.’

‘Our enemies,’ Anselm retorted.

They entered the bedchamber: the outer wall was wet, the liquid gleaming like some evil sweat. The broad, linen-filled window provided some light but the shadow of brooding evil hung even heavier here. The sense of doom thickened. Voices echoed through Stephen’s mind. ‘Miserere, miserere — have mercy, have mercy.’

‘Oh, be quiet!’ a voice growled.

Stephen started as a door downstairs opened and banged shut. Heavy footsteps on the stairs sent Beauchamp hurrying from the room sword out, his left hand clawing for the dagger in its scabbard on the back of his belt. Shapes, faint wisps of mist, trailed across the room. A harsh, barking cough made Stephen whirl around but there was nothing. Cold fingers caressed the side of his face. Anselm was shivering, moving away, flicking his hand to drive off whatever confronted him.

‘Priest!’ The coughing bark was like that of a dog. ‘You shit-ridden priest! How dare you come here?’

‘In Christ’s name,’ Anselm bellowed back. ‘Begone, begone. .!’

‘Oh, don’t be a killjoy!’ The voice changed to that of a wheedling, pampered child. Anselm held up his Ave beads to bless the air. The door to the bedchamber opened and shut with a crash. Silence descended.

Beauchamp kicked the door open and walked in, mouthing curses. ‘Don’t,’ Anselm warned. ‘No curse, no foul language. Evil feeds on evil, like a dog on its vomit.’ Again he blessed the air, breathing out noisily, dramatically, as if using his own life force to drive away the malignancy. The tension disappeared; the chamber just looked forlorn, gaunt and empty.

‘This,’ Anselm declared, ‘was certainly the abode of a malevolent, stagnant soul, immersed deeply in wickedness against the innocent. Yet the source is not here, Beauchamp. We must find it.’

‘The royal surveyors,’ Beauchamp replied, ‘were most thorough.’

‘Not thorough enough!’ Anselm led them out, clattering down the stairs and along the hollow stone passageway. Anselm opened the door and went out into the overgrown garden, nothing more than rambling bramble and briar, grass and sprouting weeds which had burst out of the soil, covering the herb borders, paths, small carp pond and bird house. The garden was enclosed by a high wall on all three sides with no wicket gate or garden door. The small orchard at the far end, a deep cluster of greenery, was completely unpruned and untended. Stephen followed Anselm. Beauchamp, rather reluctantly, hung back.

‘There is nothing here,’ the royal clerk called out. Anselm ignored him. He found a rusty scythe under a clump of bramble and began to hack away. Stephen stood on the rim of the broken fountain. Anselm was searching for something. Stephen stared around. The garden was overgrown but the paving stones just beneath him were covered in branches and other decaying refuse which had been cut. He climbed down and kicked away this thick, matted cluster to reveal a paving stone with an iron ring carefully inserted into a niche.

‘Magister!’ Anselm and Beauchamp hurried over. They lifted the stone, which came up as easily as an oiled trapdoor. They slid it to one side and stared at the neatly cut steps leading down into the darkness. Stephen went first. He put his hand out and felt the walls. Finding a fully primed-sconced torch, he used Anselm’s tinder to light this. He continued down, lighting some more, Anselm and Beauchamp close on his heels. The chamber at the bottom of the steps was circular. Oil lamps and lantern horns stood in carefully carved wall niches. Stephen lit these. He fought back the horrors clinging with icy fingers to his back. The hair on the nape of his neck curled; his stomach twisted. He found it difficult to breathe. He turned, resting his back against the wall. Anselm and Beauchamp, torches lifted high, were inspecting the chamber, especially the grille in the ceiling, cleverly constructed and concealed by the undergrowth above, yet sufficient enough to allow in some light and air.

Stephen sensed the change in the air around him. He braced himself against what was to come. Two shapes raced out of the murk — square-faced gnomes garbed in leather jackets and blood-spattered butcher aprons. Stephen closed his eyes and turned away. When he looked again there was nothing. Anselm and Beauchamp crouched in the centre of the chamber, examining a canvas mattress above which hung a chain fixed to the ceiling. Beside the mattress lay a great black iron dish containing tongs, pincers and fleshing hooks with points as sharp as dragon’s teeth. Stephen crossed to join them. The mattress was soaked in blood. A deep dread seized Stephen, chilling him to the very marrow. Anselm was right: horrid murder had been committed here.

‘Who?’ Beauchamp spoke for them all. ‘Why?’

‘Some devilish practice,’ Anselm replied, rubbing his arms. ‘It’s cold,’ he breathed. ‘This place reeks of evil. We should not stay here long.’

Stephen heard a sound and turned. Shapes, swift and darting, furry shadows like those of a nimble monkey or scurrying squirrel, crossed the wall just below the ceiling.

‘Let us leave here!’ Stephen hissed. He hurried up the steps, gulping the fresh air, turning his face to the sun. Anselm and Beauchamp followed. The exorcist sat on the rim of the broken fountain. ‘You say this was once Puddlicot’s house?’ Anselm asked.

‘Yes, our crypt robber set up household here with his leman Joanne Picard.’ Beauchamp, rubbing his hands, sat down next to the Carmelite, his face pale and drawn.

‘This is what I think,’ Anselm declared. He gestured round the garden. ‘The corpse of Rishanger’s mistress was found here?’

‘In the orchard,’ Beauchamp agreed.

‘I suspect Rishanger purchased this house,’ Anselm continued, ‘so that he could discover whether or not Puddlicot buried his treasure here.’

‘And did he?’

‘No, I don’t think so, though I do wonder about those two items. Anyway, Puddlicot’s treasure is only a part of this bloody tapestry of murder and abomination. Rishanger was a blood-drinker. A man who liked to entice young women, imprison them in that hideous cavern and subject them to all forms of abuse for his own pleasure. He sated his lusts; such bloody acts loosened his seed.’

Beauchamp, alerted by shouting from beyond the walls, got to his feet. ‘One of my henchmen,’ he murmured as he unsheathed his sword.

‘I haven’t yet finished,’ Anselm remarked as he rose. ‘Forget the overgrown herbers, vegetable garden, flower plots — all of this is a disguise. Trust me, Beauchamp. So, alert the ward. Raise the hue and cry. Shout, “Harrow harrow!” Have this entire garden dug up. You will find a carefully concealed burial pit containing the pathetic remains of young women — Rishanger’s victims.’

‘Did he practice his black rites here?’

‘No,’ Anselm replied, ‘they need consecrated ground for that. This house stands alone, the garden protected by a very high wall. Inquisitive neighbours can’t peer in. It’s the perfect place to entice a young street-walker to be taken down to that ungodly crypt to become Rishanger’s plaything.’

‘But Edith Swan-neck’s necklace was found in Saint Michael’s cemetery. Do you think her corpse is buried here?’ Stephen asked.

‘I do not know, Stephen. I cannot answer that.’ The exorcist paused as Holyinnocent came into the garden, shouting that the graves at St Michael’s had been opened and now awaited their inspection.

By the time they reached St Michael’s a crowd had gathered outside the lychgate. The ward was now alerted. The throng of angry people were resentful at what was happening, openly grumbling at this disturbance of the dead following so soon after the macabre death of Bardolph the gravedigger. The afternoon was greying over, the clouds gathering low and threatening. The sunlight had faded, heightening the feeling of sombre menace which Stephen always experienced when entering the cemetery. Cutwolf and his men, who had drunk deeply at a nearby tavern to fortify themselves, had exchanged harsh words with the angry parishioners. The henchmen now sprawled with their backs against tombstones and crosses but scrambled to their feet as Sir William Higden, followed by Almaric, Gascelyn and Parson Smollat, strode out of the church to greet the royal clerk and the two Carmelites.

‘I hope this is necessary,’ Sir William snapped. ‘The graves are open.’

‘I now doubt if we will find anything here,’ Anselm crossed himself, ‘just as we didn’t discover anything at Rishanger’s house. Sir William, you are a royal justice in this ward, yes?’

Sir William, his face now concerned, nodded.

Anselm gestured at Beauchamp, who described in sharp, curt sentences what they had found and what they intended to do. ‘Cutwolf!’ The royal clerk waved at Sir William to hold his questions. ‘Cutwolf, go to Rishanger’s house, take your men and impress every layabout between here and that dead demon’s abode. You have my authority and that of the local justice. Dig up the entire garden until you find what is undoubtedly buried there. Now, Parson Smollat, the first grave?’

They moved across to the deep pit Cutwolf and his men had cleared. At the bottom lay a mouldy coffin, nothing better than a cheap arrow chest. Gascelyn, Smollat and the sexton, helped by the others, seized the ropes Cutwolf had lashed around the coffin and slowly began to raise it.

The chest swayed, hitting the sides of the pit. Shards of wood and lumps of soil broke free. A chilling, difficult task, as if the corpse inside was resisting this violent interruption to its eternal sleep. At last the coffin broke free of the earth, and as they settled it on the side of the grave, the top part of the chest broke away to reveal a yellowing, twisted skull, jaws gaping in a ghastly grin. ‘Master Ralph Fluberval,’ Parson Smollat announced. ‘Once a tanner, certainly a sinner.’ The parson laughed at his grim joke. ‘A widower, miserly he was, went to God after suffering a violent bout of the flux. Bardolph dug the grave.’ Anselm knelt down, making the sign of the cross over the skeleton’s head. Ignoring the protests of the others, he ripped off the rest of the coffin lid, examined its grisly contents and went to stand over the grave. Gascelyn, without being asked, clambered into the yawning hole and dropped down. Sir William handed him a spade which he dug into the packed soil. ‘Brother Anselm,’ he called up, ‘there is nothing here but dirt.’

‘Of course there isn’t,’ Anselm replied, ‘let us examine the others.’ They moved away. Stephen crouched on the grass. He felt hungry, tired and wished they could return to The Unicorn. He watched them walk away. A door banged. He glanced over his shoulder at the church. The corpse door, shifted by the breeze, opened and shut again. Stephen rose, stumbling across the mounds, kicking aside the trailing briar branches and ankle-catching weeds. He reached the corpse door and stepped inside. The church was dark. Light still poured through some of the leaded lattice windows. Strokes of sunlight scarred the paving stones beneath. Candles flamed yet they seemed from afar like the fire of a forge deep in dark woods.

‘More horned than a unicorn,’ a throaty voice mocked. ‘For all your chastity, novice, you have a nose for smelling out a dainty bit, haven’t you, Stephen? Eager to get to her, are you?’ Stephen stood, his back against the rusty, creaking corpse door. He peered through the gloom; his throat turned dry. A shadow against one of the drum-like pillars separated itself and moved towards him like a hunter speeds soft-shoed across the grass. ‘Like a heron pokes a walnut shell, isn’t it, Stephen? Thinking of getting between her thighs, are you?’ Darts of fire flickered and died. The hand of the shifting shadow came out, grasping Stephen’s wrist in an eagle’s grip. Just then he heard a knocking on the door behind him. Breathless, sweating, he turned, eager to escape from the nightmare. He opened the door. An old woman holding a lamp stood waiting. She was almost bent double, clothed in rags, hair covering her shrivelled face. Around her head was a dirty dishcloth, while her face, neck and hands were a mass of wrinkles; toothless, her lips receded over blood-red gums. All around her purple lips sprouted tufts of soft, white hair which gave her the look of a whiskered, demure cat, apart from her eyes — small black holes dancing with malice. ‘Come with me.’ The old head bobbed like that of a sparrow. Her movements were jerky, her eyes glittered and her lips twisted in a grin. She gestured with her hand. ‘Come with me.’ The voice curled in a viper-like hiss. Stephen looked beyond her. There was no graveyard now, just a long, dirty room. The plaster on the walls was crumbling, the blackened beams dotted with cruel hooks. Cobwebs hung thick and heavy as tapestries. A cat lay sprawled on an ash heap; when it lifted its head its face was human like that of the harridan. The cat opened its mouth and spoke. ‘Ah, Stephen,’ it purred, ‘man’s flesh is viler than the skin of a sheep. When sheep are dead their skin still has some use, for it is pulled clear and written upon. But, with men, flesh and blood profit nothing.’

Stephen hastily stepped forward, only to find himself falling.

‘Stephen, Stephen!’

The novice shook his head and opened his eyes. Anselm crouched beside him, gently tapping his face. Close by stood Beauchamp, a dark shape, just like that black shadow which had confronted him in the church. ‘I saw you go into Saint Michael’s,’ the clerk drawled, ‘but then you never came out so. .’ his voice trailed off.

‘Does he suffer from the falling sickness?’ Parson Smollat bustled up. Stephen gazed past him at where the rest stood, heads together.

‘Stephen, you’re just hungry, aren’t you, lad?’ Anselm asked. The novice clambered up. The day was drawing on. Dusk was creeping in. Somewhere a lych bird, the ever chattering nightjar, made its chilling call.

‘There is nothing here,’ Anselm declared, ‘nothing but old bones, shroud shards and crumbling wood. Let us go.’

The Carmelites made their farewells and, accompanied by Beauchamp and his retainers, re-entered the narrow lanes of Dowgate.

‘Who will re-inter the dead?’ Stephen asked.

‘Let Parson Smollat take care of that,’ Anselm replied. ‘I must say our parson does seem a much preoccupied man.’

They continued up the lanes. Trading was drawing to an end and citizens were making their way home along the messy thoroughfares. Apprentices still shouted. Beggars shook their clacking dishes. But, as Anselm murmured, the day was done and they were all for the dark. A cold, stiff breeze forced them to keep their cowls up across their heads. Garish signs displaying all kinds of heraldry, mythical beasts and guild insignia, creaked on rusty chains. Lanterns, lamps and tapers flared at windows or glimmered through the chinks of shutters. They reached The Unicorn, where the stable yard was busy with a line of sumpter ponies and two huge carts delivering purveyance. Coals glowed from the small forge in its narrow shed where the smith still pounded the anvil. The air was a fog of different smells: burning hair, smoking charcoal, the rich tang of manure and the various cooking smells from the kitchen and buttery. Two pie men, who had used the tavern bakery, came out with their trays slung about their necks, eager to entice passers-by with cries of ‘Warm patties, really hot! Warm patties, scorching hot!’ Stephen and his companions shoved through these. Beauchamp’s men went ahead into the tavern. Stephen followed and closed his eyes momentarily in pleasure at its cloying warmth and savoury smells. Alice appeared along a passageway, looking rather dishevelled. Flour dusted her blue veil and gown as well as her hands and face. Nevertheless, she still gave Stephen the sweetest smile and swiftly called for her father, a tall, balding Minehost with a fine face and deep, welcoming voice. The apron he wore was clean, as were the napkins over his left arm. He bowed at Sir Miles and the two Carmelites before ushering them into the taproom; this was very spacious though rather low, with an arched ceiling resting on a huge pillar painted green and gold. Common tables ranged either side of the room with private spacious booths in the large bay windows partitioned from the rest by vividly painted screens.

Minehost, who introduced himself as ‘Master Robert, formerly of Bristol,’ guided them to one of these window-tables. Three places had been laid. The taverner, his voice betraying his West Country burr, assured Beauchamp that Cutwolf, whom he knew very well, and all his companions would be well looked after. Alice stood just behind him, wiping her brow on the back of her wrist, those lovely, smiling eyes still dancing at Stephen. Suddenly her smile faded. ‘They say,’ she called out, ‘you are looking for corpses at Saint Michael’s and Rishanger’s house. News flies faster than swallows in Dowgate.’

‘Hush now, girl.’ Her father made to remonstrate but Sir Miles, who’d doffed his cloak and sword belt, busy making himself comfortable, held up a hand, smiling so appreciatively at Alice that Stephen felt a stab of jealousy.

‘Mistress, you are correct — we are looking for corpses.’

‘Margotta Sumerhull?’ Alice’s voice trembled; her father put his arm around her shoulder and gently led her away. Servitors came to take their orders. Sir Miles declared he would pay and for the best ale and wine, which were brought. Cormanye, pork fillets in wine and black pepper, aloes of beef steeped in thyme and sage with a pot of lumbard mustard, white, soft bread cuts and dishes of buttered vegetables were ordered. Anselm recited the Benedicite and blessed the table. They washed their hands in stoups of rose water and settled back to enjoy the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Stephen hoped Alice would reappear but her father thought otherwise, serving them himself. They ate in silence until Beauchamp put down his horn spoon. He stretched across the table, grabbed Stephen’s wrist and squeezed it. ‘What really happened to you at Saint Michael’s? Is it the falling sickness?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Anselm intervened.

‘It has happened before,’ Stephen added.

‘And the cause?’

‘Magister, you explained it once.’ Stephen forced a grin. ‘You remember, the Irish?’

‘I soldiered in the Holy Isle,’ Anselm confessed. ‘I served Dermot, Prince of Leinster. He defeated a rival clan. After the battle about two hundred heads of his enemies were laid at Dermot’s feet. Dermot turned each head over. When he recognized a face he did a dance of joy like some mummer at midsummer: he was mad with delight. I was in the retinue of an English lord sent from Dublin to help the King’s ally. It was autumn. There were fruit trees nearby, damsons full and ripe. After the battle we plucked these. I was tortured by thirst. I remember eating them as Dermot did his macabre dance. Anyway,’ Anselm sighed, ‘that prince, as lunatic as any moon man, lifted to his mouth the decapitated head of an enemy he particularly loathed and, grasping it by the ears, gnawed at the nose. A cruel and most evil act. I was revolted and sickened. I vomited what I had eaten.’ Anselm paused, taking a gulp of water. ‘I still tremble at the sheer wickedness. Even after all these years, God bless me, the smell of damson juice is enough to take me back to that day of slaughter and outrage and my belly turns nauseous.’ He pointed at Stephen. ‘My friend, you are no different. Scenes, memories come rushing back when the bell in your soul peals out what it has learnt, even if your mind has forgotten it.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘In your case, Stephen, other forces swoop in, eager to exploit such forgotten, hidden memories. So, let it be. Let us not grieve about yesterday.’ He raised his water cup in toast. ‘To us three.’ Beauchamp and Stephen responded. The novice felt relaxed. He gazed around the taproom. Hungry for a glimpse of Alice, Stephen still rejoiced in the ordinariness, the latent merriment of his surroundings. So different from those cold churches, sombre burial pits and haunted houses.

‘You will stay here,’ Anselm declared. ‘It is good for you, Stephen. Don your old clothes, help Minehost.’ He smiled. ‘Get to know Alice better.’

‘Why?’ Stephen exclaimed. ‘Why, Magister?’

‘Are you intended for our order, Stephen? Are you really? You, not I, must answer that question.’ Anselm waved his horn spoon around. ‘A good place for a good life. A man of peace dwells here. I sense that as do you.’

‘Master Cutwolf and his coven,’ Sir Miles added, ‘will protect you. Become our eyes and ears, Stephen. Immerse yourself in the life of the tavern, the street, the ward. Watch and listen.’ Stephen fought to hide his excitement. He wanted to leap up, to sing and dance a jig like some moonstruck madcap.

‘You will be given a small chamber under the eaves,’ Anselm explained. ‘You will help Minehost in a myriad of tasks. Ordinary things along with the Eucharist, prayer, fasting and good works are the best defence against what the sinister Lords of the Dark can hurl against us.’

The next such assault occurred the following morning. Just after the bells for Prime boomed across the ward, Stephen was awakened by Anselm, who’d slept on the floor of the garret the novice had been given, a small but very comfortable chamber with a bed, table, stool and lavarium. The walls were white-washed a gleaming cream and boasted a large painted cloth depicting a maiden feeding a unicorn, and a thick turkey carpet covered the polished wooden floorboards. ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ Anselm urged.

He woke and sat up.

‘Stephen,’ Anselm insisted, ‘it is dawn. Sir Miles is here. We must return to Rishanger’s house.’

‘Dark of soul, hideous in appearance!’ growled a voice. Stephen caught his breath. ‘Night of the cutting knives, the splashing of blood.’ Faces, young and fearful, swam before his gaze. ‘Trapped in darkness and unable to move on!’ The cry was piercing.

Stephen grasped Anselm’s wrist. ‘I feel. .’

‘I know,’ Anselm urged, ‘but come, Sir Miles awaits us. We must go. Ignore what you see, hear and feel.’ Stephen hurriedly dressed in his clean attire: jerkin, hose, boots and cloak. Anselm packed what he called in a merrier mood ‘his holy pannier’. They tumbled down the stairs. Beauchamp was waiting for them at the entrance. The royal clerk looked dishevelled, unshaven and heavy-eyed. He gathered his cloak about him as if to hide what lay beneath and, Stephen noticed, tried to unravel the rosary beads wrapped tightly around his right hand. ‘They are waiting,’ he announced.

The royal clerk led them into the street where Cutwolf and the others were gathered, torches gleaming against the greying light. Shapes and shadows moved. A dog howled; a cat shrieked in defiance. An early river mist had drifted in, distracting the eye and muffling sound. They left the tavern, moving in a pool of light with swords drawn through the morning murk. Bells clanged. Shouts and cries echoed. Carts rumbled, creaking and crashing. But, for Stephen, all that existed was this cortege moving through the morning mist to confront the host of wickedness. He tried to ignore the hasty voices, the pleas for help, the strident cries clamouring his ears. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing but this did not help. Shadowed faces moved before him and vanished. He glanced at a cat squatting on a pile of refuse. The cat assumed human features, a devilish grin. Ghostly fingers caressed Stephen’s face. A hand clutched his belly and squeezed hard. He exclaimed loudly at the pain. Anselm turned and whispered the Jesus prayer; the sensation faded.

The morning was dull and the river mist had yet to dissipate. The creatures of the night, not ready to return to their rat holes to sleep, ate, lurked and waited again for twilight. The streets were filthy with slops of every kind. They passed the pillories and stocks, the malefactors still cruelly fastened there by neck, wrist or feet. During the night the ward watch had surprised a group of housebreakers and carried out summary justice, hanging them from iron brackets fastened to the walls, their corpses dangled by the neck, purple faces twisted into hideous grimaces. Cats slunk beneath the swaying corpses. A yellow-ribbed mongrel sniffed the puffy hand of one of the hanged. Warning shouts carried. Figures hurried down the alleyways into the mildewed cellars where the night-walkers gathered. Stephen felt the weight of depression descend on him, then his hand was touched. He turned. Alice, heavy-eyed with sleep, a cloak wrapped about her, hair a gorgeous tumble about her smiling face, was walking next to him. She pressed a small linen parcel into his hands, kissed him swiftly on the lips and then she was gone, racing back up the street towards The Unicorn.

‘Lucky fellow.’ Cutwolf, striding beside him, winked at Stephen.

‘Love,’ Anselm murmured. ‘How truly boring life would be without it.’ Stephen felt elated. The darkness no longer clung to him. He grasped the linen parcel like a trophy, his lips still burning from the kiss. The sun would rise. The mist would thin and fade. All hell might be invoked against him but Alice was wonderful. She was thinking of him. He felt like dancing, singing alleluia. Stephen opened the parcel and stared at the manchet loaf cut, buttered and laced with thin slices of ham. He broke this, distributing it to his companions.

‘Manna from heaven,’ Anselm whispered. ‘Have you ever tasted anything so delicious, Stephen?’

The novice blushed, hastily swallowing his portion as they moved across an alleyway, stopping before Rishanger’s house. Beauchamp had been busy. Tower archers boasting the royal livery ringed the abandoned mansion. Inside the King’s serjeants in their blue, red and gold tabards guarded the various chambers. Beauchamp swept past these into the gloomy garden, now lit by flaming cressets lashed to poles driven into the ground. These revealed what Anselm could only whisper as the ‘abomination of desolation’. At least six burial pits had been uncovered, each containing a white tangle of bones and skulls.

‘So many,’ Beauchamp breathed.

‘My Lord,’ Cutwolf retorted. ‘They were buried with their possessions.’ He pointed to a pile of tawdry shoes, slippers, bracelets and other dirt-encrusted jewellery. ‘They were all young women.’

‘But killed some time ago,’ Anselm declared, moving to the edge of one of the burial pits. ‘They have been in the ground some time.’

Pausing at the chattering song of a nightjar, Stephen wondered if demons nestled in the branches of the clustered orchard trees. Did the malign ones stare out, gabbling their malevolence? Stephen could not look away. The sheer misery of that place was suffocating. Anselm was correct: these skeletons belonged to the long dead — at least a year. They would not find Edith Swan-neck here.

Stephen returned to the house even as Anselm, cross in hand, solemnly cursed the perpetrators of these wicked acts. ‘May they be cursed by the sun, moon, stars, grasses and trees,’ he declared. ‘May their corpses be left unburied to be devoured by the dogs and birds of the air. May their souls enter the eternal darkness of hell where grief, without consolation, gnaws the heart and evil flourishes like weeds. May their souls be cursed to wander for ever.’