by Paul Doherty
The following morning Anselm shook him awake and forced a bitter, tangy drink between his lips. Stephen fell asleep and, when he woke, he was in his chamber, lying sweat-soaked on the bed. Anselm sat cross-legged, his back to the chamber door. ‘She is dead, Stephen,’ the exorcist said gently. ‘Alice is dead. Master Robert is in shock. Marisa cries unendingly. Stephen, we must go.’
‘Where, master?’ Stephen retorted, pulling himself up. ‘Shall we pray in church? Gibber some litanies?’
‘Hush now.’ Anselm left and returned with a bowl of broth. He forced Stephen to eat this then put on his boots, collected his cloak and war belt and followed him down to the deserted taproom. The tavern was closed. Cypress branches wrapped in purple and black cloths draped windows and doors. Master Robert was nursing his own grief with Marisa. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok sat on a bench near the courtyard door. Stephen was surprised. Both men were closely shaved, their hair shorn and dressed smartly in the dark green and brown of royal clerks. Both wore chancery rings on their fingers, war belts carrying sword and dagger circled their waists beneath the sleeveless blue, red and gold tabard of the King’s household. The two men were grim and resolute. They offered no sympathy, no condolences, no grieving. Stephen found this strangely welcoming. They just stood, donned their cloaks, adjusted their war belts and led them out into the mid-morning street. Others waited: royal archers from the Tower wearing the livery of the secret chancery, hard-eyed veterans who circled them under Cutwolf’s direction and led them back to Beauchamp’s house.
Stephen felt as if he was going back through a dream: the passageway, the garden with its beautiful awning, the table, the candles and lanterns. All signs of the attack had been cleared away except for the occasional shard or broken platter resting against the leg of a table. Only dark blotches staining the chairs and paving stones or flecks of dried blood against the grass and pavilion poles showed how some outrage had occurred. The garden still stretched, sweet-smelling and orderly, under a strengthening sun. Stephen caught the full echoes of the heinous affray which had shattered his life. ‘The war ghost is aroused,’ a voice murmured, ‘red and slashed is the ground.’ Faint shapes swirled before Stephen’s eyes. ‘Welcome!’ the voice repeated, ‘to the dark-hued war hawks’ blood bath. Beware of the grey eagle’s grasping beak.’
Stephen felt he had to break free of all this. ‘Sir Miles?’ he asked.
‘Stephen, prepare yourself.’ They left the ornate finery of the garden and re-entered the house. Cutwolf, at Anselm’s behest, took them from chamber to chamber. Stephen could only gape. Every single room they entered was bleak, devoid of all furnishings except for a stark black crucifix nailed to the walls. The kitchen had nothing but a fleshing table and stools with different pots, skillets and kitchenware hanging from their hooks. The buttery cupboard was devoid of anything but a loaf, a pot of butter, a jug of milk and a flagon of wine. Upstairs was no different: empty and bleak, free of all ostentation. Only one chamber was in use, the huge aumbry and the deep chest beside it crammed with quilted jerkins, hose, shirts, boots and belts. They entered the bed chamber, as austere as the rest. Again, nothing but the essentials of a lowly chancery clerk. A table with all the necessaries stood beneath the window, beside it a writing stool and an armoured chest. Beauchamp’s corpse, garbed in the flour-white robes of a Carthusian, lay stretched out on the narrow cot bed, the cowl pulled full over his head to frame a face so serene it looked as if he was asleep.
Stephen stumbled, hitting the chest with his knee. ‘I cannot understand,’ he gasped, rubbing his leg.
‘Neither can I, Stephen.’ Anselm led the novice over and pulled down the Carthusian robe to reveal the sharp hair shirt beneath.
Stephen gazed at the now peaceful face, the long fingers embroidered with a set of glass Ave beads. ‘What is this?’ Stephen glanced at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok.
‘You once wondered, Master Stephen.’ Cutwolf, standing on the other side of the bed, replaced the sheet of gauze linen over his master’s face. ‘You did,’ he forced a smile, ‘wonder about my master? Why he invited no one here? Now you know, as does Brother Anselm!’
‘Sir Miles.’ Anselm slumped down exhausted on a stool, a linen rag to his mouth. ‘Sir Miles,’ he repeated, ‘was certainly not what he appeared to be. He dressed and acted like a wealthy, powerful royal clerk, yet in many ways he was an ascetic. I have found only three books in this house: the Bible, Boethius’ Consolations and Augustine’s Confessions. I understand from Cutwolf that Beauchamp often fasted, gave most of his revenue, very discreetly, to the poor and took the Sacrament each day.’ Anselm rubbed his face. ‘When he wanted to, Beauchamp could act the part. Outside he would dine and entertain, even act the cynic but, like his dress, that was only for show. The hair shirt and the fast were more real to him than the silken doublet and the deep bowled cup of claret. He truly followed Christ’s advice about not letting the left hand know what the right was doing.’
‘My master swore us to secrecy,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘He told me once that, if he survived, he would leave this world for a Carthusian cell.’
‘If he survived?’ Stephen asked.
‘Our master,’ Bolingbrok declared, ‘“dealt with” Res Tenebrarum, the Things of the Dark: warlocks, wizards, sorcerers, witches, all the lords and ladies of the night. The Midnight Man was his special quarry. Sir Miles was like a hunting lurcher. He would not give up. He realized that this was a duel to the death in that implacable silence which seems to shroud such wickedness. In a word, Sir Miles recognized that he, as well as other innocents like your beautiful maid, would be caught up in the bloody maelstrom of this horrendous spiritual battle.’ Bolingbrok sighed noisily. ‘He always said he would make a mistake and he did. He never thought the Midnight Man would be so audacious and yes,’ he held up a hand, ‘we are sure that he and his coven were responsible for this.’
‘Did you examine their dead?’ Anselm asked.
‘We had little time,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘Sir Miles was struck mortally in the shoulder. Holyinnocent held him as he died.’ Cutwolf fought back his tears. ‘Sir Miles believed the attackers came for you. He whispered that you, Anselm, would bring justice. Will you?’
‘Their dead?’ Anselm insisted.
‘Musicians and servitors were killed. Sir William received a flesh wound but he and Gascelyn fought their way into a chamber and barred the door. Mad with fury, Sir William has returned to his own mansion. He has dismissed all his servants, fortified his house and despatched urgent letters to the King.’
‘Their dead?’ Anselm persisted, cold and hard as if quoting a refrain.
‘Brother, we killed some of them both in the garden and in the street beyond, but they took their dead and wounded with them.’
Stephen stared at the corpse of a man he now realized he truly liked and admired. Beauchamp was all he wanted to be: courteous, learned, skilful, a powerful presence and now, he had learned shamefacedly, a man of deep spirituality. ‘The wolf’s mane ruffles,’ a voice murmured, ‘the shield wall closes against Satan, a raging boar all tuskered and fiery eyed. The blades, all crimsoned, flicker out, hungry for flesh. The war bands gather.’ Stephen could only listen — he felt useless, weak.
‘My master,’ Cutwolf’s voice was as sharp as the finest blade, ‘Brother Anselm, believed you are close to the truth.’
‘I am,’ the exorcist replied wearily, ‘much closer than I ever thought.’
‘Sir Miles believed that they came for you, to capture or kill you both. You know they will come again?’
‘I know,’ Anselm murmured. He rose to his feet, sketched a blessing above the corpse then grasped Stephen’s hand. ‘Cutwolf, we shall meet later but here in this house. Worlds have died. When, why and how does not concern me so much as the evil which spawned it.’
The two Carmelites left. Stephen felt cold, as if a stone was wedged in his chest. Anselm no longer mattered. The grief and shock of Alice’s swift and brutal death were only feeding the e
mbers of an ever greater fire: hatred for those responsible, revenge for the mortal wrong these demons had inflicted. Stephen felt as if he was walking through a white-hot desert: no colour, no life, no touch, no smell, just a blazing, white rocky path which stretched into a blinding, searing light. He did not know what to do except plod on. Somewhere, surely, he thought, he would find peace and rest.
‘The sunlight’s died,’ a voice whispered, ‘stony inner parts where the flesh throbs and the blood pounds. No eyes, nothing but blinding darkness from empty, staring sockets.’ A face, faithful to such a grisly description, swam in front of the novice.
‘Stephen?’ Anselm gently squeezed his hand. They had arrived at The Unicorn. The exorcist kissed him gently on the brow, pushed him through the half-open door and left. Stephen entered. The taproom, still sweet-smelling, was deserted. Only the chief cook sat in a darkened corner, cradling a tankard of ale. He beckoned Stephen over. ‘Master Robert,’ he whispered, ‘will leave tomorrow. He is taking his daughter’s corpse back to the West Country for burial. He,’ the cook wiped the tears from his cheeks, ‘does not want to look on your face again. He wants you gone.’
Stephen, eyes brimming, thundered up the stairs. He tried to enter Alice’s chamber. The ostlers on guard gently but firmly drove him away. He could not stand the grief, the anger seething within him. He hurtled back down the stairs, across the taproom and out into the yard. He stopped abruptly. Anselm stood waiting by the gateway. ‘I thought that might happen,’ the exorcist called softly. ‘Come, Stephen, let us return to our house and grieve quietly. Pray and prepare.’
They returned to White Friars. Stephen felt as if he was still imprisoned in that hot, arid wasteland, just wandering, struggling along some scorched path past bushes and brambles twisted black by a sun which pounded down like a hammer on an anvil. He attended Mass and divine office but all he could think of was staggering through the streets with Alice’s body, all bedecked in beauty, dying in his arms. On the third day after his return, once the colloquium was finished and the sunlight beginning to fade, Anselm came into his cell. The exorcist’s face was sharp, sallow and sweat-soaked. ‘I have prayed, Stephen, I truly have. I must conduct one final exorcism at Saint Michael’s, but first I must drink. You will come with me.’
They left the convent and made their way through the bustling streets. Hawkers, traders and apprentices bawled for business. Beadles lashed the buttocks of a whore pinioned to the tail of a cart. A beggar, crushed by a runaway horse, lay dying in a doorway ministered to by a Friar of the Sack; three court fops stood close by laying wagers on how soon the man would die. Windows opened and pisspots were emptied. A young moon girl offered posies of flowers for good luck. A jongleur sang about a blood-drinker who had walked the far side of the moon. Further along a trader, standing on a barrel, declared he had imported a new type of leather from Spain. Jumbled, tangled scenes. Stephen felt as if he was being hurried through hot, dusty passageways. He shook his head to be free of such fancies, back to trudging through narrow, noisy streets, where life in all its richness ebbed and flowed.
Anselm abruptly paused outside a small tavern, The Glory of Hebron. He pushed Stephen inside the dark, close taproom. Taking a table near the window, the exorcist demanded a jug of the best claret, two cups and a plate of bread, dried meats and fruit. Once the servitor had laid the table, Anselm leaned over. ‘Listen, Stephen, grief is in your very marrow — it freezes your heart and numbs your soul.’ Anselm paused, beckoning at him to share out the wine. ‘This is the first I have drunk for years.’ The exorcist supped deeply and smacked his lips. ‘As Saint Paul says, “take a little wine for the stomach’s sake” and the Psalmist is correct, “wine truly gladdens the heart of man”. Well, Stephen.’ He waited until the novice had swallowed a generous gulp. ‘The confrontation is imminent; we must be vigilant. We will return to White Friars and, as the Psalmist again says, “pray to the Lord who readies our arms for battle and prepares our hands for war”. I brought you here to stir your wits,’ he grinned, ‘and I believe they are stirred — wine is good for that.’ Anselm lifted his goblet. ‘You are with me, Stephen, usque ad mortem — to the death? I must be sure of this.’
The novice raised his own cup. ‘Magister, as always, a l’outrance de siecle a siecle — to the death and beyond!’
They finished their meal and returned to White Friars. Stephen continued, despite his best efforts, to remain and brood in that bleak landscape of his soul. Anselm became very busy, paying the occasional visit to reassure the novice. Although Stephen tried to act courteously, still all he could think about was Alice. He returned to The Unicorn only to find it locked and barred. The watchman on guard brusquely declared how Master Robert had taken his daughter’s corpse back to the West Country. Only then did the fiery flickers of anger return, a thirst for revenge, an implacable urge to confront and challenge the dark forces which had caused the death of his beloved.
A few days after returning to White Friars, early in the evening, Anselm came looking for him. Stephen was sitting cross-legged in the Lady chapel, staring hard at the carved, beautiful face of the Virgin. Anselm, cloaked and booted, carried ‘his holy bag’, the pannier containing sacred water, oils, crucifix and an asperges rod, all the necessary items for an exorcism.
‘Stephen,’ Anselm snapped his fingers briskly, ‘we must go. I believe we have found the treasure.’ The exorcist would say no more. The novice hurried back to his own cell, putting on a stout pair of sandals and swinging his cloak about him in readiness.
‘The battle lords of hell muster,’ a voice growled from behind him. ‘The strong, grasping warriors of Hades swing sharp swords from their fiery scabbards. The greedy carrion birds’ claws will soon redden. The hawk lords gather.’ Stephen whirled around. A man, hair and face chalky white, garbed in clothes of the same hue, stood staring at him. ‘The dark caves lie open. The serpents’ field awaits.’ The voice came soft as a breath. Stephen dropped his cloak. He bent down and picked it up; when he glanced again both vision and the voice had gone, only Anselm rapping on the door telling him to hurry.
They left and reached St Michael’s. The guards at the cemetery had been withdrawn — only a surly-faced Gascelyn stood vigil under the lychgate. Stephen could feel the tension rise as they made their way up into the cracked, blackened remains of the nave. Anselm wasted no time shouting at Gascelyn, who was trailing behind them, to bring the iron bars and picks he had asked for. Once that sombre custodian of the dead had done so, Anselm, directing Stephen, began to prise loose one of the paving stones which had formed the floor of the small chantry chapel to St Joseph. ‘You know why,’ Anselm whispered hoarsely. ‘Stephen, we could wait to be taken, or we could set our own trap. Go and look at Saint Michael’s.’
The novice put down the iron bar he had been trying to wedge into a small gap between the paving stones and walked over. The floor of the chantry chapel of St Michael’s was now nothing more than a pit, the paving stones from it packed against the wall. Someone had already searched there. He walked back. The church lay threateningly silent except for Anselm trying to prise loose that same paving stone. No visions, no voices — nothing but this empty clanging. Stephen went to assist the exorcist.
‘Good,’ Anselm breathed, ‘it is time!’ Stephen turned. Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn, all heavily cloaked, stood on the top sanctuary step. All three walked slowly down, footsteps echoing through the nave. ‘Good evening, Brother Anselm. I received your message and here I am. What are you doing?’ Higden demanded. His two companions, cloaks billowing about them, sat down on the plinth along which the wooden screen to the chantry chapel had once stood.
‘I am searching for Puddlicot’s treasure. He claimed,’ Anselm broke from his labours, ‘it was guarded by God’s protector. Everyone thought this was Saint Michael Archangel, this church, the cemetery or even the chantry chapel. Sir William, I have read the writings of the Franciscan Bernadine of Siena who fostered the cult to Saint Joseph. He called
him God’s protector, which he was, the Guardian of the Divine Child. Puddlicot, like you, Curate Almaric, was once a carpenter, hence my deduction. The treasure must be buried here in this chapel?’
‘But Cutwolf, Bolingbrok?’ Sir William asked.
‘They are busy on other matters. They are spent; I don’t trust them.’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Not since the death of Sir Miles. By the way, your wound?’
‘Only superficial, a cut to the arm,’ Higden replied, slowly getting to his feet. He shrugged off his cloak, and his companions did the same. Stephen shivered. All three, even the curate, wore war belts, while Gascelyn carried a wicked-looking arbalest.
‘Protection,’ Higden murmured, following Stephen’s gaze. ‘We must be on our guard.’ Higden’s face was now feverish. He and his two companions began to help prise loose the paving stones. Stephen privately thought Anselm was being foolish. He, too, had wondered about the phrase ‘God’s protector’, but surely? They loosened one paving stone, pulling it loose. Stephen gaped at what lay beneath. Higden shouted with joy. Anselm crouched in a fierce fit of coughing, nodding his head and pointing at the rotting piece of wood they had now uncovered. It looked like a trapdoor. Gascelyn, as excited as his master, dug in his pick and wrenched it back to expose the pit beneath.