by Paul Doherty
‘Girls,’ Anselm corrected. ‘Edith Swan-neck?’
‘Or so he called her,’ Rohesia replied. ‘Infatuated with her. Bardolph could not do enough: presents, trinkets, ribbons, gowns, even a furred hood.’
‘And?’
‘Now I will tell you, Anselm. Edith disappeared,’ she drew a deep breath, ‘along with others.’
‘What others?’
‘Brother, I talked of the world of men where we women are regarded as chattels no better than cattle. Young women, Anselm, are disappearing here in Dowgate and beyond. I know,’ her voice grew forceful, ‘girls disappear in London every day, but that is not strictly true. They disappear but their corpses are found, plucked from the reed beds along the Thames, or beneath some filthy laystall or out in the heathland beyond Cripplegate. This is different. Young women like Edith are disappearing without trace, never to be found again.’
Stephen glanced to his right. He glimpsed something fluttering like a bird which swoops then disappears. This comfortable chamber had grown darker. Voices whispered then faded. He shivered from the fear which coursed coldly around the nape of his neck.
‘Magister,’ he murmured, ‘remember the girl from The Unicorn?’
‘What girl?’
Stephen told Rohesia, trying to hide his blush. She smiled sweetly.
‘And the others,’ Stephen added. ‘Do you remember, Magister? The same day we were returning to White Friars? The market beadle, bawling out the description of two missing whores? I mean,’ Stephen hastily corrected himself, ‘two young women.’
‘Whores, Stephen, you are correct.’ Rohesia smiled bleakly. ‘I and others have heard the same. Whores, prostitutes, yet still God’s children. Young women who have disappeared without trace.’
‘Edith Swan-neck was one of these?’
‘Yes, Anselm, but with a difference. In Bardolph’s search for Edith he scoured the streets and runnels. He bribed and cajoled. I helped him but to no effect. Then, by mere chance, Bardolph decided to search the cemetery of Saint Michael’s and found a necklace he had given to Edith. He came here all glowering and solemn. He suspected Edith may have lain with someone else in the graveyard. I told him not to be so stupid.’
‘Why?’
‘Edith only went there to please Bardolph. In fact, the day she disappeared, she had gone out looking for him but never returned. The necklace was the only thing of hers ever found.’
‘And Bardolph?’
‘I heard rumours that he boasted how he would be rich. He would own great treasure.’ She shrugged. ‘Bardolph, our Knight of the Firey Nose, was an empty gong full of sound and fury with little substance. Now, sirs.’ Rohesia made to rise.
‘Rohesia! Rohesia! We are not finished yet. Sir William Higden — does he come here?’
‘No,’ she retorted. ‘They say Sir William loves books and boys but that,’ she pulled a face, ‘is only rumour.’
‘And Edith Swan-neck before she disappeared. . did she say or do anything untoward?’
Rohesia chewed the corner of her lip. ‘Yes, she seemed pleased about something. Well, as if laughing to herself.’ She sniffed noisily. ‘Brother Anselm, the hour is late — I can tell you no more.’ This time Anselm let her rise. They made their farewells, went out into the hallway and back into Gutter Lane. They re-entered the tangle of alleyways, the melancholy wasteland around White Friars. ‘Magister, what do you make of what Rohesia said?’
‘She has a bold heart, a voice of power and a strong countenance,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Do you know Rohesia has asked to be buried with a flagon of wine and a goblet to ready herself to drink the first toast in hell? Somehow I don’t think she will be drinking there.’ He gestured to Stephen to walk alongside him. ‘We are all going to be very surprised about who is chosen for heaven. Anyway, Stephen, to answer your question, Rohesia has pointed us, perhaps not to the truth, but certainly to the way there. Well, now I am going to find my path to a different place.’
Anselm strode on, Stephen hurrying beside him. It was lamplight time, the hour of the Jacob thieves who, armed with ladders, climbed on to the roofs of houses and moved across the narrow gaps between them, searching for an open attic window. The brotherhood of the beggar were also marshalling together with all the other counterfeits, cheats and thieves pouring out of their shabby, underground cellars. Strange cries echoed. The gathering gloom was lit only by the occasional horn box containing a burning tallow candle suspended out of some window. The midnight thieves, however, ignored the Carmelites treading through the slops and dirt of the mean alleyways. This was the dead hour and these malefactors were more interested in fresh prey or spending the fruits of their earlier hunts in the low-ceilinged alehouses and wine shops. Anselm turned and went down a runnel which was more like a covered passageway, the houses on either side closing in over their heads. No candle or lamp gleamed but a light at the far end beckoned them on. Stephen shivered. He turned to his right and stifled a scream at a face peering through the narrow slats of a fence. A pallid, white-haired woman with black, glowing eyes was holding a lamp in both hands just beneath her chin. Stephen blinked and looked again, but the woman had gone.
They reached the end of the alleyway and entered a box-like square, its cobbled ground gleaming in the light of torches fixed to the walls. In the centre of the square stood the bowl, casing and roof of a huge well, illuminated by two roaring braziers. Along three sides of the square ranged black-and-white timbered houses, their windows filled with strengthened linen or clear horn. Lamplight glowed at some of these windows. On the far side of the square rose the dark silhouette of a church, more like a barn, built out of black stone with a ramp rather than steps leading up to the great iron-bound door. A hooded figure sat on a stool to the right of this porch, warming his fingers over a chafing dish. Above him flambeaux fixed in iron clasps licked the air with leaping flames.
‘Magister, what is this?’
‘Mandrake Place. The houses belong to the Fraternity of the Suspercol.’
‘Who?’
‘The Suspercol,’ Anselm repeated, ‘short for the Latin, Suspenditur per collem — hanged by the neck — and that, Stephen, is their Chapel of the Damned.’
As they crossed the square Stephen remarked how clean it was — no refuse or piled mounds of rubbish.
‘That’s because this place is sacred to the Brotherhood of the Twilight,’ Anselm explained. ‘Thieves, cozeners and counterfeits. The dung-carts come here at least four times a day and the guardians wash the cobbles with water from the well.’
They reached the foot of the ramp and walked up. The guard seated on the stool rose to greet them. Stephen was aware of others lurking deep in the shadows on either side of the church. The guard pushed back his cowl to reveal a white, gaunt, bony face like that of a skeleton, his long, scraggy neck scarred by a deep red ring like some ghastly necklace.
‘Half-hanged Malkin, greetings!’
‘Greetings to you and yours, Brother Anselm.’ The man bowed and opened the door, ushering them into the church.
‘Half-hanged?’ Stephen whispered.
‘At Tyburn Forks ten years ago,’ Anselm murmured, ‘he hung for an hour, and when they cut him down he revived. A miracle! He received the King’s pardon and is one of the guardians here.’ Stephen only half-listened, already startled by the church he had entered. A long nave stretched up to a vividly painted red rood screen where pride of place was given to the Good Thief. Eye-catching frescoes, crude but vigorous, decorated the walls, their scenes brought to life by the candle spigots placed along each aisle. The floor was of plain paving stones but in the centre were two broad trapdoors sealed with a clasp. Clearly seen through the rood screen stood the main altar, stark and unadorned beneath a silver pyx and glowing red sanctuary lamp. The Lady chapel to its left was equally sparse and bleak.
The atmosphere of that desolate chapel enveloped Stephen in a sombre embrace. It was a place of sadness and hidden fears. For a few heartbeats the rood s
creen seemed to disappear, replaced by a luxurious, sprouting oak tree from which many corpses hung in manacles. This faded. Stephen became aware of the charcoal crackling in pots and the pleasing wisps of heavy incense.
‘The Chapel of the Damned,’ Anselm explained. ‘Off the beaten track, not visited by many. Certainly not on the eve of the feast of Saint Mark.’
‘The same day Puddlicot broke into the crypt?’
‘Precisely, Stephen and, according to the records, the eve of his grisly execution two years later. All this, Mandrake Place, the church, the houses and the Fraternity of the Suspercol, were once the property of an English leper knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus. He bequeathed it to serve as a place where the corpses of those hanged in London and elsewhere might be brought.’ Anselm pointed to the trapdoor. ‘Beneath that stretch are extensive burial pits of soil and lime. The corpses of many executed are brought here on the death-cart which they roll up that ramp into the church. They wrap each corpse in a sheet and lower it down for burial. I went down there once — a seemingly endless sea of bones and skulls.’
‘And Puddlicot lies here?’
‘Yes, Stephen, he does; his corpse no more than a tangle of bones.’
‘Why have we come here tonight? To catch a sighting?’
‘No, I do not think anything will happen here. We will, however, tarry at this, his last resting place. We shall assure his soul that we are its benefactor, not tormentor, as well as vow to arrange requiem Masses to be sung.’ Anselm walked to the edge of the vault. He knelt and began to thread his rosary beads. As Stephen went to join him the main door opened and two women entered. The first was very old and grey-haired, with stooped shoulders, one hand grasping a walking cane, the other the arm of her companion. Both were dressed in the brown robes and white wimples of the Franciscan Minoresses who had their convent outside the old city wall near Aldgate. The two nuns stood watching them for a while before walking on up under the rood screen. Anselm hardly noticed them but continued reciting the Dirige psalms. Stephen crouched at the foot of a pillar. He tried to pray but his eyes grew heavy, aware of flashes of light around him and the dim murmur of voices. A commotion at the door roused him. He hurried back to find the guardian barring the way to a group of young, heavily-armed men. Former soldiers, Stephen concluded, judging by their close-cropped hair and hard, scarred faces. They were dressed in dark leather jerkins, tight hose pushed into their boots. Six in number, their leader had already drawn both sword and dagger.
‘What is this?’ Anselm came out on to the porch and stood on the top step.
‘Brother Anselm.’ The leader sheathed sword and dagger. ‘The hour is late but Sir Miles Beauchamp. .’
‘What about him?’
‘We are his henchmen. I am Cutwolf.’
‘He mentioned your name to me once.’
‘My companions, Oldtoast and Mutton-monger.’ Cutwolf waved a hand.
‘You have been following us?’
‘Of course, Brother Anselm. Your safety is close to the heart of Sir Miles and what he wants. .’
‘What does he want?’
‘Your presence at Bardolph’s alehouse, The Burning Bush.’ Cutwolf grinned. ‘The widow, the now dead widow, was suddenly taken ill and died over an hour ago.’ Cutwolf pointed to another of his companions. ‘Holyinnocent here brought the news. Sir Miles awaits.’
The Burning Bush was guarded by more of Beauchamp’s men as well as royal archers from the Tower. The taproom inside was cleared, and Adele’s corpse lay stretched out next to her husband. A linen cloth draped the body. Sir William and Sir Miles, together with Almaric, Simon and Gascelyn, were present. One of Adele’s servitors cowered in a shadowy corner. The Carmelites moved into the circle of light around the corpses, where a nervous, shabbily-dressed physician was drying his hands.
‘What happened?’ Anselm asked.
‘We were making ready for the burial of old Bardolph,’ the street physician declared. ‘Adele brought a flask of wine, broached it and drank. Suddenly her head and neck were thrown back, and her throat and stomach swelled up. Her face turned as red as the crest of a cock. Her eyes, horrible to see, started out of her head, her tongue all swollen, turning a purplish-black.’
‘Possessed by demons,’ Almaric whispered.
‘Nonsense!’ Stephen exclaimed. Everyone stared at him.
‘Nonsense?’ Beauchamp queried.
‘Poison,’ Stephen replied, ‘arsenic poisoning.’
‘Tell us, learned physician,’ Almaric taunted.
‘My father was a physician. He made me accompany him on all his visits,’ Stephen retorted. ‘I have seen Adele’s symptoms in at least three of my father’s patients.’
‘Mere prattling!’ Sir William replied.
‘Hush, now,’ Anselm demanded.
‘I have seen these symptoms.’ Stephen felt his confidence rise. ‘A very strong infusion of raw, red or white arsenic will cause such an effect. My father unmasked two poisoners. I watched them burn in the square before Winchester Cathederal.’ Stephen glared around. ‘My father always made me write up the symptoms he examined. Adele’s death was sudden and violent — the infusion must have been very strong. Arsenic,’ he continued heatedly, ‘can be bought commonly enough. Some people — fools — use it either as a cure for stomach cramps or even as an aphrodisiac.’
‘But why?’ Sir William scoffed. ‘Why her, and how did it happen?’
‘Sirs.’ The servitor shuffled out of the darkness carrying a small flask, its stopper pulled back. ‘Sirs, this was delivered at the door. I saw the mistress bring it in. She drank from it, put it down and a short while later she was racked in agony.’ Stephen took the flask; the stopper seal had been broken. The flask was almost empty but when he sniffed he detected something acrid mingling with the strong, fruity odour of claret. ‘If you still don’t believe me,’ Stephen fought off a wave of tiredness, ‘put this down for vermin to drink — they will not survive long.’ Stephen grasped a pewter goblet from the top of a barrel, poured the remaining wine into it and shook the grainy sediment out into the glow of candlelight. ‘There are your demons.’ Stephen pointed at the sediment. ‘The wine is heavily tainted; strong enough to snatch the soul from her body many times over.’
‘Somebody wanted Adele dead,’ Anselm wondered out loud. ‘But who, and why? Let’s search this place.’
‘Why?’ Sir William declared.
‘I’ll tell you when we find it,’ Anselm quipped.
They conducted their search in the squalid taproom, the dirt-encrusted scullery and buttery, the two chambers above and the dust-filled attic. The rooms were filthy and chaotic, reeking of staleness and neglect. They emptied broken caskets and coffers, moved the straw-filled mattresses and black-stained bolsters but found only tawdry items. They all gathered, yawning and stretching, in the taproom, where someone had thrown the sheet back over Adele’s corpse.
‘Magister,’ Stephen whispered, ‘the hour is very late. I am exhausted.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Sir William Higden stood next to both corpses, ‘surely we have finished here? I will take care of the cadavers. The hour of compline is long gone. These matters must wait for the morrow.’
Beauchamp and Anselm agreed. The royal clerk led the two Carmelites out of the shabby alehouse. Cutwolf and the others were waiting outside, torches held high. ‘Come,’ Sir Miles smiled through the dark, ‘we will see you safely to White Friars.’
They moved off deep into the dark, the glow of torch on naked steel keeping the busy shadows at bay. The clink and clatter of weapons, the tramp of booted, spurred feet, stilled all other noise. Beauchamp walked in silence then came between Stephen and Anselm. ‘You do realize what was wrong with our search?’ he asked.
‘We didn’t find anything,’ Anselm murmured. ‘We should have done. More curious still, Bardolph and Adele were parishioners yet never once in that shabby, mean house did I find a crucifix, a statue, a set of Ave beads or any other religious artefact
s.’ Anselm pulled his cowl up against the night breeze. ‘In fact, I suspect that someone went through that house before us and removed certain items.’
‘What?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘Oh, anything associated with magic and the black rites,’ Anselm replied. ‘I suspect Adele, perhaps even Bardolph, were members of a coven.’
‘The Midnight Man’s?’
‘Very possible,’ Anselm replied.
Stephen quickly crossed himself against a thought. Was it sinful, malevolent or the truth? Was the Midnight Man someone very close to them?
Words Amongst the Pilgrims
The physician rose and walked to the canopied hearth where he warmed his hands, rubbing them slowly, staring into the jagged flames. His fellow pilgrims sat in silence for a while before busying themselves. A few hastened out to the latrines and closet chambers. Minehost of The Tabard asked for some platters of dried meat, bread and fruit ‘to ward off’ as he put it, ‘the demons growling in their stomachs’. The food was served, the jugs refilled.
Chaucer watched the physician, who had turned slightly and was now peering over his shoulder. Chaucer followed his gaze. The physician was staring at the Wife of Bath, now recovered from her former state of quiet surprise. She raised her goblet in response to the physician’s stare. Chaucer rose and walked over to the far wall as if interested in the painted cloth, describing in rough brushwork the great epic of Roland and Oliver. He waited. The physician left, walking into the garden, the Wife of Bath soon after. Chaucer, allowing curiosity to reign over courtesy, quietly followed. The buttery yard was empty. Chaucer walked across to the lattice screen over which wild roses sprouted from a thick green bush. Soft-footed as a cat, he stopped short of the flower bed: in the faint light he could see the brittle twigs which would snap under his boots. The physician and the Wife of Bath were sitting on a turf seat on the other side of the rose-covered fence. Straining his ears, Chaucer heard snatches of their hushed conversation. ‘Do souls still hover?’ The Wife of Bath’s question trailed clearer than the whispered reply of the physician. ‘Sometimes,’ Chaucer heard, ‘they sweep in,’ but the rest was hidden by the screech of a night bird deep in the garden. Chaucer heard the phrases ‘grisly murder’ and ‘that hideous burning’. A sound made him turn. The summoner stood in the doorway to the tavern. Chaucer walked over. In the pool of light the summoner’s face appeared leaner, more purposeful than the usual vacuous, slobbery-lipped look, nose red as a rose, skin scabby as a leper’s.