Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  THOSE WHO GO BY NIGHT

  A NOVEL

  Andrew Gaddes

  This book is dedicated to my godmother, Olive Mary Arthur, a remarkable woman who lived a quiet life of selfless love. Gone, but never forgotten.

  Some have asserted that witchcraft is nothing in the world but an imagining of men who ascribed to spells those natural effects the causes of which are hidden … But such assertions are rejected by the true faith whereby we believe that angels fell from heaven, and that the demons exist, and that by reason of their subtle nature they are able to do many things which we cannot; and those who induce them to do such things are called wizards.

  —St. Thomas Aquinas, The Summa Theologica

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge the support of my lovely wife, Kathy, and our two children, Graham and Sophie, who have all been kind enough to read or listen to countless drafts and redrafts. It has been a long journey, but I could not have done it without you. And finally, my agent Mitchell Waters, for believing in a writer and turning him into an author.

  CHAPTER 1

  England, 1324, during the Reign of Edward II

  Nothing quite ages a man like penury, unless perhaps it is disappointment. And in the last few years, Roger Lacy had experienced more than his fair share of both. In fact, had you seen him that night, making his way slowly down the dark village street, you might well have supposed his were the sad, shuffling steps of a vagabond. You might have shaken your head in pity and thought, There goes a man who has been broken on life’s wheel. Just another poor soul who believes that he has little left to live for, and even less to offer the world. And on any other night, you would have been right. But on that particular night, you would have been wrong, because as pitiful as he might have seemed, Roger Lacy’s luck had turned. His luck had turned at last.

  The old man tugged at his cloak, drawing it closer against the chill autumn air. It had once been a wealthy man’s cloak, made of the finest wool and dyed a rich Lincoln green, but the color had long since faded, and rather like its owner, it was now a drab, shabby-looking thing, with loose threads hanging from the hem and several tears sorely in need of mending.

  Roger was ashamed of his attire, of how far he had fallen, but comforted himself that things would be different now. His hand fluttered nervously to the breast of his tunic, and he sighed with relief when he felt the reassuring bulge and crinkle of the precious letters tucked inside. Those few sheets of vellum with their hastily inscribed lines represented a new beginning for him. Tomorrow he could walk into town with his head held high and buy a brand new cloak. If he saw a nice felt cap, he might just buy that as well, and a pair of warm woolen hose and boots made of the supplest Cordova leather.

  “As fine as a lord you’ll look!” he cackled into his ratty white beard. “Oh yes, indeed. As fine as a lord!”

  And didn’t he deserve a little happiness after all that he had endured, after years of wandering village to village like a beggar, eating scraps from other men’s tables, sleeping more often under a hedge than under a roof? It was almost as though he had been cursed or as if God was punishing him for some terrible sin.

  “Now, now, old man,” he chided himself. “Things will be better now. The mistress will see to that.”

  Roger turned his steps from the main street toward the church, feeling an overwhelming need to give thanks, and almost walked straight into the young woman hurrying around the corner in the other direction.

  “A thousand apologies, my lady,” he rasped, offering her a strangely formal and somewhat wobbly bow.

  She was swathed from head to toe in an elegant hooded cloak as black as the night itself. Two eyes glittered with amusement, and from within the shadows of the hood, Roger caught the curve of a cheek and the gleam of an even set of white teeth. A pretty face, he thought. And she had smiled at him! He could scarcely remember when a pretty girl had last smiled at him that way, and it filled him with a pleasant tingling sensation that spread from his belly, across his loins, and all the way down to his toes. Then she swept past him and was gone, leaving behind only a faint fragrance of rosewater and lavender.

  Roger straightened himself up with a groan. He could only imagine she was off to some tryst. Ordinarily he might have scowled with disapproval and made a bitter remark about loosening morals, but his change in fortune found him in a generous frame of mind, and he could honestly say that he felt nothing but joy for the girl and for her lucky young man, whoever he might be.

  Saint Mary’s Church now loomed darkly ahead, its square tower rising up to blot out the night sky. He had half-expected to find it closed and was pleasantly surprised when the wicket door opened under his hand and swung slowly inward, its sullen iron hinges squealing in protest at the unexpected visitor.

  Inside, the church was vast, dark, and empty. Only a little moonlight managed to sift through the stained glass windows, dusting the nave here and there with a sickly yellow color, and the distant glow from the altar lamps cast not so much pools of light as two reddish puddles. Otherwise, the church was shrouded almost completely in shadow and in even deeper darkness.

  And it was quiet. Far too quiet for Roger’s liking. As he shuffled down the nave toward the altar, the only sound he could hear was the scuffing and scraping of his own worn-out shoes on the stone flagged floor. It also smelled funny—a vaguely unpleasant odor of mildew, dust, and decay that made his nose wrinkle. Then there were those several rather disturbing shapes lurking in the deep recesses of the transepts on either side of him. Roger supposed they might have been statues or tombs. At least he hoped so. But he did not know for sure. Nor did he particularly feel like venturing into the gloom to find out.

  The farther he progressed into the church, the more oppressive and ominous the darkness became, and the more he began to wonder if stopping to pray had been such a good idea after all. He stood a moment, frozen in hesitation, gnawing his lip, tempted to turn around and bolt for the door. But he was more than halfway down the nave now, and it was even darker behind him than ahead, so he swallowed slowly and pressed onward, his limping pace quickening to take him past the heavy oak rood screen separating the sanctuary from the rest of the church, and then up the steps to the altar itself.

  Roger knelt down gingerly on stiff, complaining knees and looked despondently at the hands he pressed limply together in front of him. He could no longer unclench them fully since the rheum had set in, and they resembled claws more than anything else, the fingers all twisted and crooked, and the knuckles little more than swollen lumps bedded in wrinkles. Long ago, when he had been the steward of a great estate, many a beggar had come before him, seeking his largesse, honored that a man such as he would even deign to speak with them. Roger supposed that those beggars must have looked much as he did now—men and women in the winter of their years, with one foot already planted firmly in the grave. At the time he had thought them pathetic, naturally, but mostly sad, and had never dreamed that he might one day count himself among them.

  Tearing his eyes away from his broken hands, and mentally adding a nice pair of fleece-lined gloves to the purchases he would make in town, Roger had just begun to move his lips in silent prayer when he heard a faint noise behind him. Turning his head stiffly, he cocked an ear and listened with baited breath. There was nothing, only the wind gusting lightly against the windows.

  “Is anybody there?” he called out in a croaky voice. Nobody answered. He was alone.

  “Silly old fool,” he muttered to himself. “I swear you have become as nervous as a clucking chicken.”

  But there it was again, unmistakable this time: a footfall, soft and furtive, as though someone was trying not to be heard. And there was another, much
closer now, almost at the sanctuary itself. An icy finger traced its way down his spine, and he clambered to his feet, greatly regretting his sudden burst of piety.

  “Who is there?” he shouted, peering long and hard into the blackness.

  Still nobody answered.

  “I am sorry if I am intruding,” he stammered, licking his lips nervously. “I have leave to be in the village. I just felt the need to pray for a moment.”

  He waited anxiously, his ears straining against the silence.

  “I–I am not a vagabond. I am a guest of Lady Isabella.”

  Roger offered up what he hoped was a companionable chuckle that soon died on his lips when the hooded figure slowly emerged into the fringe of light spilling from the altar lamps. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in horror, and he barely noticed the sudden dampness spreading across his loins or the sour scent that assailed his nostrils, because in that dreadful moment Roger Lacy knew that his luck had turned again for one very last time.

  CHAPTER 2

  His Grace, Henry Burghersh, the Bishop of Lincoln, plumped himself down onto a well-padded chair and tossed his miter at the nearest table, where it wobbled about uncertainly before toppling over into a puddle of red wine.

  “Another long day, Thomas,” he said with a sigh, turning to the young man standing in the middle of the room. “I would never have accepted the position had I known it meant sitting through hours of such utter tedium.”

  The bishop was a stocky, jolly fellow with a florid complexion that bespoke either rude health or high living. He had a high-pitched, almost feminine voice and a cherubic face that had deceived many an opponent into underestimating the shrewd, political mind that had propelled him to the bishopric at an astoundingly young age.

  He squirmed about uncomfortably, nestling himself deeper into the cushions. “My back aches fiercely, and my bum has gone completely numb from sitting on that stupid chair they laughingly call my throne. I can’t imagine what my predecessor was thinking having the thing made in the first place. I would burn it for firewood, but then I would no doubt be accused of a terrible break with tradition. Sacrilege even.” He winced and shifted gingerly from one buttock to the other. “I tell you, it doesn’t matter how many cushions you pile on the damned thing, it seems to have been designed as an implement of torture. I swear Bishop Beck must have had an arse made of iron.”

  By now, Thomas was used to the bishop’s complaints and waited patiently for them to run their course.

  “And these wealthy burghers will do anything for a few years off their stay in purgatory, you know. The silversmith’s wife positively offered herself to me in return for a dispensation of fifty years. Can you imagine?”

  Actually, knowing the lady in question, Thomas rather suspected that she would have offered herself for free, but he allowed his benefactor to revel for a moment in his imagined conquest.

  “She got quite desperate when I rejected her. Suggested that she might perform all sorts of depraved acts. I was blushing to my toes, Thomas. To my very toes.”

  Thomas doubted that. Henry Burghersh had been a man of the world long before he had begun his meteoric rise through the ranks of the clergy, and he was rumored to have had quite the appetite where the fairer sex was concerned. Likely he had enjoyed and even encouraged his flirtatious encounter with the lascivious dame.

  The bishop narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “I must confess, some of the things she proposed did sound rather interesting, though, and she still has a shapely figure to her, don’t you think? Nice and plump. Just the way I used to like them.”

  He winked at Thomas and pumped his arms and hips vigorously back and forth to help illustrate his point.

  “For a moment I was sorely tempted to take her up on her offer. Sorely tempted. Though I suppose it would have been truly wicked of me,” he added as an afterthought. “I shan’t tell you what she suggested, Thomas. No, I couldn’t possibly do so. It would be too shocking by half. Quite impolitic of me.”

  He looked up expectantly and was plainly disappointed when Thomas chose not to inquire any further. So instead, he sighed wistfully and sketched a quick cross over his chest.

  “And Baron Linden has been at his scullery maids again.”

  “Scullery maids, Your Grace? Wasn’t it the stable boys last time?”

  The bishop stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm. Yes, I believe you might be right at that. Scullery maids. Stable boys. Either way, it’s all a bit off, isn’t it? He wanted me to grant him some sort of indulgence and didn’t care how much it cost. You should have heard him blubbing away, Thomas: ‘Never again, Your Grace. By all that is holy, I swear, never again.’ The same kind of nonsense all drunkards spout after a particularly rough night on the town. Shocking stuff, really. I told him to keep his breeches on and get his sorry arse to his chaplain for confession. Indulgence, indeed! A sound thrashing would be more to the point. And likely he’ll get one when Lady Linden finds out.”

  He eased the shoes off his feet and stretched out his toes, sighing with pleasure.

  “The Good Book says that it is harder for a rich man to enter heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. I remember reading that once, and I do believe it to be true. Have you ever seen a camel, Thomas?”

  “I cannot say that I have.”

  “No, me neither,” continued the bishop with a sad shake of his head. “I understand it to be an utterly terrifying beast. A grotesque, horselike creature, by all accounts, with a huge snout, cloven feet, and two humps on its back shaped rather like a pair of giant breasts. Imagine trying to fit such a thing through the eye of a needle. No, it’s a sorry lookout for the rich, I am afraid. I fear for Baron Linden’s soul. I surely do.”

  It was Thomas’s turn to sigh. “Why am I here, Your Grace?”

  The bishop looked up in mock surprise. “Why, Thomas, because I have missed you. I barely get to see you these days.”

  After a moment of unimpressed silence from Thomas, he rummaged around on his desk and picked up a sealed letter. “Now that you mention it, however, I should like you to take this letter of introduction to Sir Mortimer de Bray, Lord of Bottesford Manor. He will be expecting you.”

  “Bottesford?” Thomas asked, taking the proffered papers. “Why am I going to Bottesford?”

  “Oh, there’s a terrible fuss, Thomas. A dead priest. Murder. The high altar of Saint Mary’s has been profaned.” He pursed his lips. “A shame that. It’s a lovely little village church. I visited once, you know. I remember there was the prettiest oak reredos behind the altar that had the most vivid depiction of the Messiah’s birth. The look of wonder on the shepherds’ faces was almost lifelike. I had half a mind to bring it back with me and would likely have done so if I had been traveling with a baggage cart.”

  Thomas chose to ignore the apparent laxity with which his benefactor regarded what sounded suspiciously like theft. “How was the high altar profaned?”

  The bishop waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, I don’t know exactly. I am sure you can get the details once you are there. Anyway, I understand the Dominicans are all up in arms about it, crying heresy and sorcery. You know, the usual things.”

  “Bottesford is a long way from Lincoln.”

  “It most certainly is. I suggest that you leave tonight.”

  “That was not what I meant, Your Grace. What is your interest in the matter?”

  The bishop leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. When he next spoke, all the levity was gone from his voice.

  “What I am about to tell you is dangerous, Thomas, very dangerous. I must trust in your discretion.” He paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I am afraid His Holiness, the pope, is not of an entirely sound mind. He sees heretics and assassins leaping out at him from every shadow. Did you know that he believes his enemies are casting spells against him? Actual spells! He truly believes it and spends most of his time huddled in his chambers, surro
unded by the protection of every holy relic he can lay his hands on. How the man became pontiff in the first place, I’ll never know. And I fear he gets worse with each passing year.

  “Then there is that poisonous snake, his mad inquisitor general, Bernard de Gui, whispering in his ear. Scaring him with tall tales of sorcery and witches. Feeding his paranoia. All so he can expand his own little empire of heretic hunters.

  “De Gui is a complete fanatic. They say he has prosecuted a thousand cases of heresy in Toulouse alone, and he is champing at the bit to get his claws into England. He well knows that many of the old customs linger here, and he senses a weakness in our king, as well he might. Edward is not the man his father was. I think he is half mad himself, and still deeply unpopular with the people.

  “The last thing we need over here is some sort of inquisition. Nobody will be safe. No,” he shook his head, a determined look in his eyes, “there will be no return to the shame of the Templar trials in England if I can help it.”

  Thomas’s eye twitched, and the bishop shot him an apologetic glance.

  “I am sorry, Thomas. I sometimes forget. I did not mean to resurrect old injuries, my friend. Anyway, I shan’t have that. Not again. And I am not alone in my concerns. There are certain other interested parties who are of a like mind with me. But we shall not speak of them yet.”

  Thomas replied cautiously. “I have told you that I do not want to become involved in this sort of thing anymore, Your Grace. You know my history.”

  “It is precisely because of your rather unique history that you are most suited to this, Thomas. You of all people know what these fools can be like when they get the bit between their teeth and the stench of heresy in their nostrils.”

  Thomas dropped down wearily into one of the bishop’s fancy chairs.

  “These are turbulent times, Thomas. The rebellion has not been forgotten. The Earl of Lancaster’s supporters are hiding in the rushes. Mortimer has escaped from the Tower. I doubt we have heard the last of him. And now we are at war with the French.”