by Paul Doherty
‘I’ll be breaking my fast,’ he declared, ‘for a Mass should be said.’ He gripped Piers’ shoulder. ‘Lord Richard, I would like to thank you for Piers. If I had to choose, I couldn’t have selected a better man.’
Piers blushed with embarrassment: he shuffled his feet, muttering under his breath that it was nothing.
‘Ah well.’ Lord Richard clapped his hands to break the silence. ‘I’d best show you what I’ve done.’
He led them out along a ground-floor gallery to a small chapel at the back of the manor. A jewel of a chamber; dark, wooden wainscoting covered the walls. The altar stood on a wooden dais at the far end under a small rose window. Niches on either side held statues of the Virgin Mary and of St George killing the dragon. The paving slabs in front of the altar had been lifted, the remains interred; servants were re-planing the broad, thick flagstones.
‘They can lie in the small crypt there,’ Lord Richard declared, taking Philip aside. ‘Until, perhaps, the new church is built. I have told my son and his betrothed that they are just the remains of poor monks from High Mount.’ He paused, fighting back the tears. ‘I wish this business was over,’ Lord Richard whispered. ‘Young Henry and Isolda came to see me this morning. Henry acquitted himself so well against the French,’ he forced a smile, ‘he now sees himself as the new Sir Galahad.’ His smile faded. ‘He wants to become handfast, betrothed to Isolda. They have chosen the feast of the Assumption, the fifteenth of August.’
‘And they cannot be persuaded differently?’ Philip asked.
Lord Richard shook his head. ‘No, I’ve already postponed it twice and they are beginning to wonder why. Can’t you see, Father? If they marry in August, and Isolda becomes pregnant, that beautiful girl could be dead within eighteen months.’
Philip looked over his shoulder at Isolda and Henry standing so close together, hands clasped, laughing and chattering to each other.
‘They probably think,’ Lord Richard added, ‘that we are discussing their nuptials.’
‘August has not yet come,’ Philip replied. ‘Let us put our trust in God. These matters will surely come to a head soon.’
Edmund had brought vestments down from the church: black and gold chasubles and amices, the colours for the Mass for the Dead. Philip washed his hands at the lavarium. He put the vestments on and, standing before the altar, intoned the entry antiphon: ‘Eternal rest grant unto them, Oh Lord.’ The service was simple and short. Edmund served as deacon, reading the gospel. In between that and the offertory, Philip blessed the place where the remains had been buried. Once the Mass was ended, he joined Lord Richard and his family in the hall for some wine and a bowl of broth.
‘Where’s Stephen?’ he whispered.
‘At the church,’ Edmund replied grimly. ‘It’s the cemetery which now fascinates him. I still believe he searches for the treasure but now accepts that High Mount is, perhaps, not the place.’
Philip, concerned, ate his soup and drank the wine a little more quickly than he wished. He refused Lord Richard’s invitation to stay. He thanked Piers again, they collected their horses from the stables and rode back to the Priest’s house. Philip was relieved to find Stephen sitting at a table before the kitchen fire immersed in his drawings. They exchanged pleasantries. Philip then walked round the house to ensure all was well. He was about to retire for the night, exhausted and troubled by his visit to High Mount and journey across the marshes, when he heard a loud knocking at the door. Going to the top of the stairs, he sighed with relief that the noise was not caused by some macabre occurrence. A cloaked, cowled figure walked into the hallway. Edmund came to the foot of the stairs.
‘We have a visitor,’ he called up. ‘Brother Anselm. His Lordship the Bishop has sent him.’
Philip came downstairs to greet his guest.
‘You are the exorcist!’ he exclaimed.
The bald, cheery-faced little friar pulled back his cowl and laughed out loud.
‘My name is Anselm Broadbench. I am a Franciscan friar, a priest and, yes, if you want, an exorcist!’ He gestured towards the door. ‘I’ve stabled my palfrey.’ He grinned. ‘I call it Lucifer.’
Philip smiled back. Anselm was of middling stature, broad, well built, his round, cheery face adorned with a grey moustache and beard. The friar patted his bald pate.
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ he intoned. ‘What I’ve lost on top, I’ve gained round the mouth and jowls.’ He scratched his luxuriant beard. ‘I had a word with his Lordship. He sent me here to help. However, I must warn you.’ He took his cloak off and handed it to Edmund. ‘In the end, perhaps, I can only give advice. But, first, I must kill one demon.’
‘Yes?’ Philip asked.
‘Hunger.’ Anselm patted his stomach. ‘I’m cold and I’m hungry and I’d accept anything you have on offer!’
Philip led him into the kitchen. He introduced Anselm to Stephen: the friar plumped himself down at the head of the table. He rubbed his stomach and gazed benevolently at the dishes Philip had served.
‘Oatmeal, roast beef, bread, vegetables, some wine. I thought I’d come to Scawsby and, look, I’ve found myself in Paradise!’
For a while the friar sat and ate, chattering about Rochester, the journey, how the weather was improving. Philip studied him closely: he recognised that the friar was trying to put them at their ease as much as they were him.
‘You are surprised, aren’t you?’ Anselm remarked, pushing away the platter. He stared in mock seriousness. ‘What did you expect? Someone cloaked in black from head to toe with a chain of bones around their necks? Pushing a hand barrow full of relics and phials of holy water?’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Let me explain before I begin. Satan does not like humanity. He fears us. He wants to make us less human, he therefore exploits all our weaknesses. A man who is tired, a man who is starving or dying of thirst or wounded in body or mind – such a person is more vulnerable than a man who feels all is well with himself and God. Satan hates the ordinary things of life: husband and wife making love. He’d much prefer to have them at each other’s throats. Two friends sitting in a tavern sharing a jug of wine. Children playing on a summer’s day. The sun in God’s sky, the stars wheeling at night. These and prayer are the best defences against demons.’
‘But here is different,’ Philip interrupted.
‘I’ll come to that.’ Brother Anselm sipped from his wine cup. ‘I believe,’ he continued, ‘what Holy Mother Church teaches. Man is part of a cosmic battle: the war has already been fought and won by Christ but each man must play his part. Some of that battle we never see because the world is not only visible but invisible. Some we witness every day: a man being stabbed in a tavern; a woman being raped; a child being abused. Sometimes we can get depressed because it seems we are surrounded by darkness but that, too, is one of the devil’s tricks. He wants us to despair, to lose our humanity as well as any hope in God.’ He grasped Philip’s hand. ‘You are not despairing, are you, Father? You still have faith in the Lord Jesus?’
‘Lord, I have faith, please increase the little I have,’ Philip replied, quoting from the gospels.
Anselm laughed and released his hand. ‘His Grace the Bishop told me about you, Philip. You and your brother are good priests. His Lordship also sends his apologies.’ He paused and picked at a crumb on the table. ‘This is a terrible house,’ he whispered.
A shiver ran down Philip’s back. The friar had spoken so nonchalantly.
‘Terrible evil lurks here,’ Anselm murmured. ‘I can feel it, sense it around me, pressing down.’ He crossed himself. ‘In the far corner,’ he added. ‘Over near the hearth there. No, you won’t see it, just a shadow deeper than the rest. A presence watches you.’ He forced a smile. ‘And that’s why his Lordship the Bishop sent his apologies. The records at Rochester list many incumbents who have come here, stayed only a short while, then left complaining about the stench of sin which pervades this place, the oppressive evil of this house. The demon
ic attacks which may be just nightmares yet no one dare talk about them, lest they be dismissed as possessed or witless themselves.’ The friar breathed in deeply through his nose. ‘Before the Bishop sent you, he had already made himself a secret promise that, if you complained about Scawsby, he would do something about it.’ He spread his hands. ‘And that’s why I’m here.’
‘So, what will you do?’ Edmund asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Anselm replied. ‘As I have said, we live in a world of the visible and the invisible. Think of our reality as a mirror, we only see what we can but it does not mean that beyond the mirror another world, another reality does not exist. Most times the two are kept separate. Sometimes, for good or evil, they can merge.’
‘And this is happening here?’ Stephen asked from where he sat.
‘Yes, yes. Perhaps it is.’ Father Anselm rolled back the sleeves of his gown, emphasising his points on slender fingers. ‘Real evil, the work of Satan, can become enmeshed in the affairs of men in a number of ways. First, someone could live such a wicked life that, as the gospel says, the devil finds a home there. Secondly, by direct invocation, by appealing to the powers of darkness, by summoning them through sorcery or the black arts. Thirdly, a violent and evil act can also attract the attention of demons. It can be a house where a terrible murder has taken place. And,’ he paused, staring across the chamber.
‘And?’ Edmund asked hastily.
‘The worst phenomenon of all, a combination of all three.’
The friar shook himself as if he was trying to clear his mind. Philip noticed how subdued he had become. His eyes had lost their twinkle of merriment. Now and again the friar’s lips moved wordlessly as if he was quietly and earnestly praying. Sometimes he glanced quickly at Stephen or stared into the darkness as if he already sensed what was waiting for him. The friar picked up the wine jug and filled his cup to the brim. He closed his eyes and sipped.
‘His Grace the Bishop,’ he continued, ‘told me something about this place. But, Philip, tell me everything you know.’ He opened his eyes quickly before closing them again. ‘And I mean everything!’
Philip did so, haltingly at first, then as he relaxed, the words came out in a rush. He told the friar everything he had experienced since his arrival in Scawsby. He ignored Edmund’s and Stephen’s gasps at those incidents he’d never told them about, particularly what had occurred at High Mount when he’d almost been dragged down the well. He finished with the description of his ride out across the marshes and that mysterious line of horsemen who had shadowed his journey home. When he finished, Brother Anselm rose slowly to his feet. He opened his pouch, took out a large string of rosary beads and put them round his neck.
‘I would like a stoup of holy water,’ he said. ‘That and an asperges rod. Do you mind if I bless the house?’
‘You are going to perform the exorcism now?’ Edmund asked.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Anselm replied. ‘But I will reflect on what your brother has said. I would like your permission to walk the church, the cemetery and this house. What I have to do, I will do tonight! There’s little point in waiting.’
Philip jumped as he heard a loud clattering in the gallery above and the sound of someone coming down the stairs banging their feet. Then from the graveyard came the howl of the dog whilst the feathery wings of some bird dashed against the window glass.
‘Ignore it,’ the friar murmured. ‘Just ignore whatever happens. Whoever is here knows what is about to occur.’ He shrugged. ‘Naturally they don’t like it. But first we will pray.’
At his bidding they knelt on the kitchen floor and said a decade of the rosary. Brother Anselm then began his walk round the house, praying fervently and sprinkling the holy water to left and right. He had given instructions that all three should remain in the kitchen. Philip found this hard to do as the noise and clamour grew: rappings on the walls, the sound of charging feet along galleries and up and down stairs. Invisible hands rapped at the windows. Edmund was sure he saw the shape of a cat scurry across the kitchen floor, the howling of a dog now seemed to come from the chambers above. The air grew very cold: sometimes the stench was offensive as if a pot full of rottenness had been opened, its unsavoury stench seeping through the house. Brother Anselm, however, continued his prayers. He ignored such phenomena as a parent would the mischievous pranks of a child. He went upstairs praying and sprinkling the holy water. When he came down Philip rose to meet him but the friar just shook his head.
‘But, Brother, you look ill,’ Philip gasped, alarmed at how white and drawn the friar’s face had become.
The friar seemed unable to walk forward as if some invisible wind was buffeting him, pressing him back. At one point he had to sit down, gasping for some meat and wine. Philip hurriedly served these. Brother Anselm then continued his task, ordering them to remain.
‘Can’t I come with you, Brother?’ Philip pleaded.
The friar turned his sweat-drenched face. ‘Stay here and pray,’ he replied. ‘But when I call, Philip, and only when I call, you come and join me wherever I am. Do not obey any other summons. I will say to you, “Come in the name of the Lord Jesus.” Whatever else you hear, whatever else you see, close your eyes, close your ears but keep your soul open to God.’
The friar went out of the front door which he slammed behind him. As he did so Philip was sure he heard a voice growl obscenities. He and Edmund needed no second bidding. They knelt on the floor. Stephen; albeit reluctantly, joined them and they continued the decades of the rosary. In the cemetery beyond, a terrible clamour arose. The clash of arms, the beating of a drum, the screeching of some terrible bird, hideous yells and then silence. Philip stopped praying and opened his eyes.
‘Perhaps it’s finished?’ he murmured.
‘Philip! Philip, where are you? What are you doing there? You and Edmund, come now!’
Philip stared at his brother.
‘That’s Mother’s voice!’
For a period of time, Philip and Edmund, their faces soaked in sweat, stomachs churning, had to hear different voices from the past, some demanding, others pleading for them to leave the house. In the end, when Philip found it difficult to control the tensions seething within him, the door opened and Brother Anselm returned. He seemed calmer, more at peace.
‘Is it over?’ Edmund asked anxiously.
‘Oh no.’ The friar shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘We were expecting you to call. We heard different voices!’ Philip explained.
Anselm tapped the side of his head. ‘Outside it is as silent as the grave. I knew you would, that’s why I changed my mind and came in.’
‘You mean there were no voices?’
‘Just fears and anxieties that the darkness can exploit.’ Anselm sat down at the table. ‘It’s not extraordinary. Haven’t you, in your normal life, experienced memories, calls from the past? A certain smell, a certain type of weather and the memories come tumbling back. That’s all that happened now. Just ignore them.’
‘So, what have you done?’ Edmund asked.
‘I’ve walked the church, the graveyard as well as this house. That’s the first part of the exorcism: to identify, to seek out and that’s what I have done. There is undoubtedly an evil presence here but not just one, possibly a dozen, even more. They are lost, trapped souls. Their leader Romanel still holds them in thrall. He thrives on their fears and anxieties as well as his own evil. It’s really strange, I can feel a malevolent presence in the church porch and in the nave but not when I pass the tomb. To whom does that belong?’
‘Sir George Montalt, the Lord I mentioned!’ Philip exclaimed.
Anselm looked surprised. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘The demons will not go beyond that.’
‘Why?’ Edmund asked.
‘God knows. Perhaps it’s the sanctuary and the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. The same evil presence can be found in the cemetery and in this house.’
‘So, this place is haunted?’ Stephe
n exclaimed.
‘Oh yes, haunted by evil. But there’s something quite extraordinary here, it’s also haunted by other powers. These are not evil, they are good. They do not involve themselves but they watch. They stand on the fringe of the darkness and observe.’ Brother Anselm spread his hands. ‘Try and imagine,’ he said. ‘A room full of light except for the centre where there is a pool of darkness. The dark does not affect the light and the light does not affect the dark. But they co-exist together, waiting for something.’ Anselm paused and gnawed on his knuckles. ‘The evil thrives on the wickedness it can find here. You mention poor Father Anthony, his desire for the treasure. The powers of darkness used that and then destroyed him because he allowed them to. He opened his will to them. What you are seeing here, what I suspect has happened, is that the terrible events perpetrated by Romanel still wait to be resolved. The Watchers, those who died with their faces towards God, look for justice and reparation. Romanel, on the other hand, turned his face to the darkness. He still clings to that and holds the others he led into wickedness in his power.’
‘So, you cannot exorcise him?’ Philip asked.
‘I am going to try. I’ll just try once. Philip, you will accompany me. Edmund and Stephen stay here. Do not leave the house. But don’t worry.’ Anselm smiled at the fear in Edmund’s eyes. ‘The powers of darkness must also bend the knee to the name of Jesus. So, when I summon them, they cannot be elsewhere.’
‘What shall I do?’ Philip asked.
‘Nothing,’ the friar replied. ‘You have a crucifix on you?’
‘Yes,’ Philip replied.
‘Then come with me.’
They walked out of the house, across the cemetery and in through the main door of the church. Philip was pleased that the coffin woman was not keeping her vigil; perhaps she sensed what was happening. At the friar’s insistence, he lit a candle and placed it on the baptismal font. Brother Anselm faced directly down the church.