by Paul Doherty
‘See what fear man’s bosom rendeth,
When this from heaven the judge descendeth.
Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth,
All before the throne it bringeth,
Nature’s struck and earth is quaking. .’
‘Stephen!’ Cutwolf was beside him, shaking his shoulder; both vision and voice faded. ‘Stephen!’
‘Your master?’ the novice asked, still staring into the darkness. ‘Where is your master, Beauchamp, Cutwolf? Why doesn’t he entertain visitors at his house?’
‘Because my master is not what he appears to be.’ And, saying no more, Cutwolf turned away.
Anselm appeared a few mornings later. Stephen was in the kitchen being initiated into the mysteries of preparing stewed collops of venison basted in spiced wine. He was carefully mixing the ingredients into a large pan: meat stock, peppercorns, a stick of cinnamon, six cloves, and was about to add the ginger, vinegar and salt when he looked up. Anselm stood like a prophet of old in the doorway, beckoning at him. ‘Stephen,’ he called, as if they had been parted for a short while instead of weeks. ‘Stephen, you must come.’
Stephen smiled his apologies at the cook who had been instructing him, grabbed his cloak from a peg and joined Anselm, who was already striding across the cobbled stable yard.
‘Magister, how are you? I have missed you over the last few weeks.’
‘No, you haven’t.’ Anselm paused at the gates and stared down at him. The exorcist’s lean face looked more austere than ever, though his eyes were friendly. ‘I missed you, Stephen, I really did.’ He paused and coughed, wiping his mouth with a linen cloth. Stephen’s heart lurched when he glimpsed the bloody flecks. Anselm followed his gaze and pushed the cloth up the volum-inous sleeve of his gown. ‘It’s nothing,’ he rasped. Stephen caught the laboured wheeze in Anselm’s chest.
‘Magister.’ Stephen slipped his hand into Anselm’s. ‘Magister, you are coughing blood. I know. .’
‘And so does the prior of Saint Bartholomew’s. I have been there, Stephen, and elsewhere. Anyway, he tapped my chest and listened to my breathing. He has given me a strange concoction: dried moss mixed with soured milk. It seems to help. I have also been to the Tower and elsewhere while you have been with Mistress Alice, lost in her eyes no doubt!’ He strode out into the lane, not waiting for an answer. Stephen, swinging his cloak about him, followed on. Only then did he glimpse the two women dressed in the dark brown robes of the Friar Minoressess. Stephen immediately wondered why they were so far from their house near the Tower. He stared hard. Both women were old, one of them most venerable. Stephen recalled chatter from the tavern, and how these two had been glimpsed before. In fact, the more he stared, the more convinced Stephen became that they were the same two nuns he had glimpsed at the Chapel of the Damned. The women stared back and turned away, the older one leaning heavily on her companion’s arm. Anselm passed them without a glance. Stephen hurriedly followed.
‘It’s Saint Michael’s,’ Anselm declared. ‘Well,’ he stopped to allow a legless beggar crawling on wooden stumps to cross the runnel, ‘it would be, wouldn’t it?’ They hurried on.
‘Sir Miles and I were to meet Sir William Higden,’ Anselm explained, ‘about a possible second exorcism. Our good merchant, however, wants the entire building torn down. I cannot truly fault him on that. We were to adjourn to the church. Simon the sexton was instructed to meet us there with the keys but we cannot find him or gain entrance.’
‘Why did you come for me?’ Stephen asked, fearful that today he would not meet Alice in their secret bower.
‘I am sorry.’ Anselm paused to cough. Stephen caught the bloody flurry on the rag in his master’s hand. Anselm swiftly pushed it back. ‘Enough of that!’ He smiled at Stephen, grasping him by the arm. ‘Here we are!’
They reached the lychgate guarded by Cutwolf and his coven. ‘No joy yet!’ the henchman declared sombrely.
The two Carmelites entered the cemetery. The morning air was cool and crisp, and fleecy clouds streaked the blue sky with white wisps. The sun was strong, yet the light and warmth failed to bring any life to that dismal place. The sprouting weeds and the long, wild grass had grown even higher, masking the tombstones and other monuments of the dead. Before them loomed the sombre, craggy mass of the church with its dark tower and slated roof. Figures moved between the steps leading up to the main entrance and the corpse door to the side of the church. Abruptly a crow called, sharp and strident. Stephen glanced up and the vision descended. A hideous scream shrilled, while the deepest shadows raced swiftly through the long grass of the cemetery. These abruptly stopped. Eyes, red as blood, peered out between black weed stalks. The shapes shifted, fast and fleeting like some night swallow. These wraiths skimmed the bramble tops, turned and vanished.
‘See the night of the deep ploughing!’ a wheedling voice mocked.
‘Close fast like a trap!’ another answered. Stephen stumbled. He glanced down in horror at the white, claw-like hands creeping out from the undergrowth, fingernails long as talons and caked with dirt. ‘Give mercy!’ a soft voice whispered. ‘Give mercy. Have pity on the surprised, unprepared dead.’
‘Jesu Miserere,’ Stephen replied. ‘Jesus, have mercy.’
‘You are well?’
Stephen glanced up. For some strange reason he had crouched down as if to clean soil from his boots. He stared up at a smiling but haggard-looking Beauchamp.
‘I am well.’ Stephen rose to his feet. Anselm had gone ahead, climbing the steps and pulling at the great iron ring on the main door of the church.
‘We cannot get in.’ Sir William Higden, followed by Smollat, Almaric and Gascelyn, came around the corner. He nodded briefly at Stephen. ‘The corpse door is locked. We are tired of hammering. Is Simon asleep, drunk? We need him — we need his key.’ The merchant knight’s face was flushed and petulant, eyes glittering, lips pursed. A hard man, Stephen reflected, insistent on having his own way. Almaric the curate looked sleepy-eyed, rather vacuous. Gascelyn, as unkempt as ever, kept playing with his dagger hilt, staring back over the cemetery as if searching for a glimpse of that eerie death house. Parson Smollat looked and acted as if he was deep in his cups, unshaven, red-eyed, not too steady on his feet.
‘Let’s force the door!’ Gascelyn exclaimed.
‘The corpse door is heavy,’ Almaric retorted. ‘The sacristy door would be easier.’ A brief discussion ensued and the decision was made. A moss-encrusted log was hauled from beneath one of the ancient yew trees, the branches of which hung down like the bars of a cage. They moved to the narrow sacristy door. Stephen stood back and watched. Cutwolf and the others hurried to help. Sir Miles Beauchamp, wiping his hands, once more tried to force the door.
‘It is locked and bolted,’ Almaric confirmed. ‘Brother Anselm, you have tried the corpse door and the main entrance? Simon must have locked himself in.’
‘Begin!’ Sir William shouted, drawing his sword as if besieging an enemy castle. The group of men grasping the log drove its blunt end into the door, aiming for the lock. The door shuddered but held. Again they tried, stopped, rubbed their hands with spittle, grasped the log and returned to the assault, moving their aim from the lock to the thick leather hinges embedded deep in the lintel. At last the ancient wood began to buckle, splinter and crack. The top hinge yielded first, snapping back, followed by the second. The door was pushed open.
‘Wits sharp, pray fervently,’ Anselm whispered to Stephen as they followed Beauchamp into the gloomy sacristy. ‘Check the door!’ Anselm hissed. Stephen did so. The bolts were badly buckled, while the key hung twisted in the lock. The sacristy was musty; cobwebs stretched across the corners. They hurried through into the sanctuary. A cold breeze swept Stephen’s face, bringing the bloody stench of the Shambles.
‘Welcome.’ The muffled voice seemed to come from his left. ‘Welcome to the banquet of Cain, the fruit of his loins.’
‘Master Simon,’ Parson Smollat called from the top of the sa
nctuary steps. ‘Master Simon, where are you?’
They went down the steps and began their search. ‘Here!’ Gascelyn called from a darkened transept, and they hurried over. The sexton lay in a wide, congealing puddle of his own blood, turned on his back, eyes staring up, the savage cut across his throat gaping like a second mouth. His sprawled arms were outstretched, his own dagger grasped in his right hand. Stephen stifled his cries as the others exclaimed at the horror lying there. Anselm demanded some sacking be brought from the church tower. He placed this around the corpse and immediately administered the last rites, whispering hoarsely the words of deliverance followed by the prayers for the dead. Parson Smollat was shaking so much Gascelyn had to take him to sit on the sanctuary steps.
Beauchamp, aided by Sir William and Almaric, immediately searched the church, going into every nook and cranny, but Stephen knew it was futile. This place was a barren wasteland peopled by restless ghosts now clustering hungrily around them. Something crept across Stephen’s booted feet. He glanced down at the moving shadow trailing like black smoke. Tendrils of wet hair swept the side of his face. Cold fingers pressed against his brow. Anselm was still intoning the prayers for the dead. The sacking he knelt on squelched blood which began to bubble. Stephen, mouth dry, had to step away. He flinched at the disfigured, twisted faces drifting out of the gloomy transept: pale and thin, eyes glaring madly, jowls twisted in anger. He glanced over his shoulder. Gascelyn had struck a tinder; he was lighting the torches as well as different candles. Parson Smollat was blubbering like a child, shoulders shaking. Anselm’s voice rose. ‘I command you, Michael Archangel and all the heavenly hosts, to go and meet him.’
‘Ours in life, ours in death!’ a voice snarled in reply.
‘I command you,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Begone to your proper place and stay there. Stephen,’ Anselm insisted, ‘kneel, pray!’ The novice did so, yet all he could think about was Alice, of sitting beside her in that rose-garlanded bower with young Marisa spying on them from the brambles. He prayed but he could only think about them as the cold breeze returned with its offensive stench.
‘Remove the corpse,’ Anselm ordered, getting to his feet. ‘Let us leave here swiftly. This is no longer a place for God or man.’ Anselm swept by Stephen, tapping him on the shoulder as a sign to follow. The exorcist hurried up the sanctuary steps, pausing to deal with a coughing fit which bent him double. Stephen again glimpsed the red specks on the linen cloth but Anselm waved a hand and, taking a deep breath, straightened up. He walked across the sanctuary, took a stool, stood on it and unhooked the silver pyx. He removed the round white host and reverently ate it. He stood for a while, hands clasped, murmuring the Eucharistic prayer, ‘May the body of Christ be to my salvation, not to my damnation’, followed by the ‘Anima Christi’ poem.
Stephen stood with him and, by the time they had returned, Beauchamp had organized Cutwolf and others to use more sacking as a makeshift stretcher. The corpse was removed from the church. They left by the sacristy door. Parson Smollat, now partially recovered, murmured about the corpse door remaining bolted and locked and how its key was still missing. Stephen was just relieved to leave that abode of shadows. He turned, revelling in the sunlight and the pleasing breeze. He watched as Cutwolf hurriedly searched the corpse, now stretched out on the sacking. The sexton, however, only carried a few paltry possessions: coins, rosary beads, a small cross and a few nails but nothing else. No key to the corpse door could be found.
‘Take his corpse back to the priest’s house,’ Beauchamp ordered. ‘Brother Anselm, you accompany it, see that all is well. Sir William,’ Beauchamp turned to the merchant knight, ‘we shall meet in your chamber within the hour, yes?’
Anselm whispered to Stephen to follow him. The exorcist went to walk on but paused, crouching to examine dark stains on the paved path which went round the church. He picked at the congealed specks, plucked a piece up and sniffed at it, rubbing it between his fingers. He scrutinized similar droppings then rose to his feet. ‘Strange,’ he murmured, ‘but let us go on.’ They walked through the cemetery towards a small wicket gate which led into the enclosure before the priest’s house, a fine pink-plastered, black-timbered dwelling built on a grey stone base with a blue-slated sloping roof. Parson Smollat explained how the sexton had two chambers, which could be approached by an outside staircase. The exorcist intoned the De Profundis as they approached the steps.
Stephen, however, remained distracted. He felt as if they were being followed: the sound of dry leaves whirled and rasped behind them, yet when he looked back there was nothing but the swaying wilderness of wild grass. He glanced back at the church. A shape like a gargoyle or babewyn was crouched on the sloping slate roof, black and hideous like some wild ape. He glanced again but it was gone. Stephen’s eye was caught by movement at the top of the tower — shifting shapes as if bowmen, hooded and cloaked, clustered there. ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ a woman’s voice called. He glanced across the bending grass which parted to reveal a black tombstone — from this a wicked white face, hair all a-tangle, glared furiously at him. Stephen stumbled and swiftly crossed himself.
They reached the wicket gate and went through on to the cobbled courtyard before the pretty-fronted priest’s house. Isolda, wimple all awry, hands outstretched, came out. She began to chant a hymn of mourning until Parson Smollat gathered her in his arms and led her away. They took Simon’s corpse up the outside staircase. The door to his two chambers hung unlocked, and they entered. Stephen was immediately struck by their ordinariness. Two white-washed cells with crucifixes and painted cloths on the walls, a few sticks of furniture, coffers and caskets. They placed the corpse on the narrow bed but, even as they arranged the dead man’s limbs into some form of dignity, both Anselm and Beauchamp were busy about the chamber. They examined the tattered, grimy sheets of parish records piled on the chancery table in the second chamber. Coffers and caskets were opened. Stephen was surprised at how swiftly both Beauchamp, looking rather tired and absorbed, and Anselm sifted through the dead man’s possessions. Parson Smollat, accompanied by a now comforted Isolda, came up the outside stairs. Beauchamp asked the woman to look after the corpse, adding that he would leave Cutwolf and his companions to assist her in cleaning and washing the body. ‘We must go,’ the royal clerk declared. ‘Parson Smollat, we shall wait for you below.’
Beauchamp, Anselm and a slightly nervous Stephen left the chamber and went down to wait in the courtyard. ‘Magister,’ Stephen pleaded, ‘where have you been, what have you been doing?’ He glanced swiftly at the royal clerk. ‘You are coughing blood. You should not be involved in this.’
‘Brother Anselm.’ Beauchamp grabbed the exorcist’s arm. ‘What is this spitting blood? Have you been poisoned?’
‘No, no.’ The exorcist smiled, exerting all his charm and beckoning them away from the door of the priest’s house. ‘I have been studying here and there and my cough is as old as I am. Now, Stephen, do not fret or worry.’ He rubbed the side of the novice’s face. ‘Be at peace,’ he urged. ‘Think of God’s goodness and,’ he teased, ‘Alice’s smile. You have enjoyed yourself. No,’ Anselm wagged a finger, ‘I will not talk about myself. Let us talk more about poor Simon.’
‘We discovered nothing,’ Beauchamp declared. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Except this.’ Anselm twisted a piece of parchment, small and greasy with age between his fingers. ‘A mere scrap.’ He handed this to Beauchamp, who simply pulled a face and passed it to Stephen. The novice read the scrawl repeated time and again in dog Latin, Norman French and English. The message was simple and stark: ‘Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael.’ As the Angelus bell abruptly tolled, Stephen thought about the arbour and sitting next to Alice.
‘Stephen?’
‘Er, nothing, Magister.’ He handed the strip of parchment back to Anselm. ‘I don’t know what that means. Look, the others will be waiting.’
They all, Parson Smollat included, eventually gathered in Sir William’s e
legant chancery chamber. The perfume of the quilted leather chairs and stools mingled with the fragrance from the flower pots, chafing dishes and braziers. Stephen wondered how such exquisite beauty could exist alongside the horrors they had just witnessed. ‘Well,’ Sir William asked, lacing his podgy fingers together, ‘we really must close the church now. Yes, Parson Smollat?’
The priest gulped noisily but nodded in agreement.
‘What happened?’ Anselm demanded.