by Paul Doherty
‘What is it? Stephen?’
‘Magister, nothing.’
‘Nonsense!’ Anselm pushed his face close. ‘You saw something, didn’t you?’
Stephen nodded and described what he’d glimpsed.
‘I felt it,’ Anselm murmured, staring at a shaft of window light. ‘Even now, Stephen, at day time, they make their presence felt, but come . . .’
They left by the corpse door going out into the cemetery. At first Stephen considered it to be a different place from the night before. The weak sun’s glowing warmth soothed his fears. The tumbled headstones and crosses didn’t seem so threatening. The ancient yew trees were just solid reminders of how things were rather than threatening shapes through the darkness. The wild grass and flowers exuded a sense of the ordinary. The air was sweet with different scents. Beyond the cemetery wall surged the noise of the ward coming to life: the clatter of carts, the clop of horse hooves and the first cries of tradesmen. Anselm insisted on walking the length and breadth of that unkempt cemetery. They went round the church, Anselm peering up at cornices, sills, ledges and buttresses. He seemed fascinated by the sun sparkling the glass and pointed out the carved faces of gargoyles with their gaping mouths, through which the rain water would pour. Anselm patted the grey stone wall of the square tower built to the right of the main door. He stepped back, shading his eyes as he stared up at the sheer height of this soaring donjon. He then walked on, stopping to rattle the latch of the narrow door to the sacristy, though that had been firmly locked the night before.
‘Magister?’
‘Nothing.’ Anselm walked back into the sunlight. ‘Do you sense or feel anything strange, Stephen?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Too silent, eh?’ Anselm nodded. ‘I also have a feeling of being watched.’ A rustling behind them made Anselm turn.
He strolled back up the low bank through the long grass, pushing aside the tangle of briar and bramble bush. Despite the disturbance there was no muffled pigeon cooing, no chattering jay or raucous gang of sparrows fluttering here and there, no swooping swallow or blackbird singing its heart out. Anselm seemed intent on finding something. Stephen hurried after him. He’d almost caught up with his master when a figure loomed up from behind an ancient, moss-covered tombstone. Stephen stifled a cry of surprise.
Anselm grabbed the stranger’s shoulder and pulled him closer. ‘Who are you?’
The stranger was tall and burly. His black hair hung in lank strips, his bushy moustache and beard almost hiding the sunburnt face. He broke free of the exorcist and held up a wickedly pointed harvest sickle.
‘Don’t threaten us,’ Anselm warned.
‘And don’t seize me!’ the stranger rasped back. ‘I am Owain Gascelyn, hired by Sir William to tidy this cemetery, if I am not harassed by demons, haunted by ghosts, plagued by warlocks or grabbed by exorcists.’
Gascelyn was the same height as Anselm, two yards at least, thick-set and well built, dark eyes bright. He was dressed like a labourer in a smock, leggings and scuffed boots, but his voice was cultured and, in his angry protest, he’d moved fluently from English to Norman French and then into Latin, describing Anselm as ‘Exorcisimus’. Anselm, taken by surprise, stepped back, studying the man from head to toe.
‘A labourer, a gardener with a Welsh first name and a Gascon surname, fluent in both French and Latin! Greetings and blessings to you, Brother! Excuse my surprise but I thought we were being watched . . .’
‘As you were.’ Gascelyn stepped closer, scrutinizing Anselm and Stephen.
The novice stared back; for some reason this man frightened him. Why was that? Stephen wondered. Because he emanated the same violence Stephen’s father had, and still did? Gascelyn had thrown the sickle down but his fingers played with the Welsh stabbing dagger in its sheath on his broad belt.
‘Who are you, really?’ Anselm asked. ‘No, let me guess. Despite your appearance you’re educated, undoubtedly in some cathedral school then in the halls of either Oxford or Cambridge.’ He leaned forward and gently poked the man’s chest. ‘I know who you are, I know what you are. You’re a mailed clerk, aren’t you? A scribe who arms for battle? One who is also prepared to dirty his hands? Sir William’s man, yes? Ostensibly you’re here to clear this tangled mess now winter’s past but, in fact, you’re here to guard and to search, perhaps?’
Gascelyn grinned in a display of white broken teeth. ‘I am he,’ he replied. ‘And Sir William told me about you, Brother Anselm. You are correct. Since All Souls past and the depredations of the Midnight Man, I guard this cemetery. I am,’ he joked, ‘the Custos Mortuorum – the Keeper of the Dead. I warn off those night-walkers who might lurk here once twilight falls.’ Gascelyn grinned lopsidedly. ‘Not to mention the whores with their customers, the gallants with their lemans and the roaring boys with their doxies.’
‘And what have you seen?’
‘Nothing,’ Gascelyn replied. ‘Word has gone out, seeping along the alleyways, runnels and lanes of Candlewick, that this truly is God’s acre. Nothing more exciting happens here than a hunting cat, or that tribe of stoats nesting in the far wall. Come,’ he picked up the sickle, ‘I’ll show you my kingdom.’
Gascelyn led them off along the narrow, beaten trackway, pushing aside bramble and briar. He explained how most of the cemetery was full, pointing to the mounds of milk-white bones thrusting up out of the coarse soil. On one occasion he surprised a mangy, yellow-coated mongrel from the alleyways, nosing at a broken skull. Gascelyn hurled a stone and the dog fled through the long grass, barking noisily. Gascelyn showed them where the great burial pit had been dug, its soil still loose due to the lime and other elements used. Only the occasional sturdy shrub now grew in this great waste ringed by bushes and gorse. It also served as the Poor Man’s Lot, the burial place for strangers as well as Haceldema – the Field of Blood, where victims of violence or those hanged along the nearby banks of the Thames were buried. Nearby stood a simple wooden shed: two walls and a roof like any city laystall. Anselm and Stephen walked over to this. The inside was gloomy and reeked of putrefaction. Three corpses lay there, wrapped in filthy canvas shrouds lashed tightly with thick, tarred rope. Gascelyn explained how all three were the cadavers of beggars found dead in the surrounding streets. Anselm recited the requiem and blessed the remains. Gascelyn thanked him, adding how all three corpses would be later buried in the great burial pit as the soil was looser and easy to dig.
Stephen felt the place was stifling hot. ‘A brooding evil hangs here,’ he whispered.
‘Though that can be for the good,’ Gascelyn offered. ‘It keeps the undesirables away.’
He then answered questions about himself as the exorcist led them out of this dingy shed: how he was the son of a Welsh woman and a Gascon knight who’d served in the King’s wars against the French. How he’d been educated as a clerk, entered Sir William’s retinue and seen military service with his lord both in France and along the Scottish march.
‘And so you’re Sir William’s sworn man by night and day, in peace and war?’
‘I’ve not taken an oath of fealty, but yes.’
‘Were the Midnight Man’s revelries held on the site of the great burial pit?’ Stephen asked, abruptly trying to shake off a deepening unease.
‘Yes, I believe they were.’
‘A place of desolation and devastation where any abomination could flourish,’ Anselm declared. ‘I felt it. I am sure my friend Stephen did also. This is a sad and sombre place.’
Gascelyn never replied but plodded on, Anselm and Stephen close behind. The novice just wished they could leave. At first sight this cemetery had seemed a true place of the dead yet the longer they walked, pushing aside nettles and thorns, their feet cracking fallen twigs, the more this cemetery transformed into a living, ominous place breathing out its own malign spirit. The silence was unsettling. The desolation hung like a veil hiding darker, more sinister forces. Now and again Stephen glimpsed the forbidding church tower a
nd the mass of its leaded roof black against the late spring sky. Stephen took a deep breath. A voice whispered to his right, though when he turned only a bush moved in the morning breeze. Stephen turned away then spluttered at the gust of corruption which caught his mouth and nostrils. He stumbled.
Anselm caught his arm. ‘Be on your guard,’ he whispered, ‘for the devil is like a prowling lion seeking whom he may devour.’ Anselm winked at Stephen and called out to Gaceslyn that they’d seen enough, though he’d like to visit the death house which stood some distance from the church, shaded by a clump of yew trees.
‘My manor,’ Gascelyn called back, ‘my fortress – come and see.’
The death house was a spacious, rather grand building of smart red brick on a grey stone base, its roof tiled with blue slate. The windows were covered in oil-strengthened linen; the framework and heavy shutters, like the door, were of sturdy wood and painted a gleaming black.
‘Sir William had this refurbished,’ Gascelyn explained. ‘He intends to renovate the church and make the cemetery worthy of the name “God’s acre”.’
‘When?’ Anselm asked.
‘Once May has come and gone. Stone masons and painters, glaziers as well as labourers by the score have been indentured.’ Gascelyn waved around. ‘Some will camp here, others in tenements Sir William has bought down near Queenhithe. That’s why he’s asked me to guard this place. So,’ he shrugged, ‘the death house is my dwelling place.’
He lifted the latch and led them inside. Stephen was surprised. The death house was unlike any he had ever seen. Its walls were smoothly plastered and painted a lovely lilac pink; the floor, of evenly cut paving stones, was ankle-deep in lush supple rushes strewn with scented herbs. Capped braziers stood beneath the two windows. The bed in the far corner was neat and compact and covered with a beautiful gold counterpane sprinkled with red shields. The long mortuary table stood against one wall with the parish coffin on top, half-hidden by a thick woollen black fleece embroidered with silver tassels, while pots of flowers ranged beneath this.
At the other end of the room stood a chancery table, a high leather-backed chair and two quilted stools. The room also had a long chest with coffers and caskets neatly stacked on top. Pegs on the back of the door were used to hang cloaks as well as Gascelyn’s gold-stitched war belt with its decorated scabbards for the finely hilted sword and dagger.
‘I sleep well.’ Gascelyn gestured round. ‘Isolda the parson’s woman brings me cooked food.’ He paused as he heard voices. ‘Indeed, I think that is Parson Smollat and his lady now. They’ll be going in for the Jesus Mass – wait here.’
Gascelyn left the death house. Anselm walked round and sat on the edge of the bed, Stephen on a stool. The novice glimpsed a book bound in calfskin, fastened by a silver chain on the chancery table. He rose, walked over and opened the book of hours. He read the first entry, a line from the introit for Easter Sunday: ‘I have risen as I said.’ Stephen admired the silver-jewelled illumination. The ‘R’, the first letter of ‘Resurrexi’, was covered in red-gold ivy and silver acanthus leaves. In the top of the ‘R’ a chalice, in the lower half a milk-white host above the Holy Grail. Stephen was about to read on when he heard a girl’s voice whisper, ‘Eleanora.’ He glanced at Anselm, who’d risen to his feet and was staring at the long mortuary table. The room had grown very cold; a faint perfume tickled their sense of smell. After a few heartbeats the sound of a lute could be heard, then the music faded but the rushes beneath the table shifted and a small puff of dust rose.
‘Someone is dancing!’ Stephen exclaimed. ‘Someone is dancing!’
The rushes ceased moving. No more dust whirled. A harsh sound echoed through the death house like a cry suddenly stifled.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ Gascelyn stood, blocking the doorway. He came in. ‘You heard it, didn’t you?’
Stephen glimpsed the desperate, haunted look in the man’s harsh face. Gascelyn stood hands on hips, staring down where the rushes had moved. He kicked these with the toe of his boot. ‘Perhaps,’ he confessed, ‘I don’t sleep too well. I’ve seen it, I’ve heard things. I wish Sir William would release me from this.’ He lifted his head. ‘Well, is there anything else, Brother Anselm?’
The exorcist simply sketched a blessing in the air, then he and Stephen left.
‘Magister, shouldn’t we ask what causes that?’
Anselm stopped and stared at him. The exorcist’s long, bony face was pale, the sharp, deep-set eyes like those of a falcon, lips tightly drawn, square chin set stubbornly. Stephen recognized that look. Anselm was troubled – deeply troubled – because he was confused. The exorcist had confessed as much as soon as they’d risen that morning, and apparently his mood had not changed. Anselm ran a finger down the stubble on his chin then scratched his head. He opened his mouth to speak but then shrugged and walked into the shade of a yew tree, beckoning at Stephen to follow.
‘Night-time, Stephen,’ Anselm leaned down like a magister in the schools, ‘night-time,’ he repeated, ‘is the devil’s dark book, or so authorities like Caesarius the Cistercian would have us believe. He described Satan as a tall, lank man of sooty and livid complexion, very emaciated, with protuberant fiery eyes, breathing ghastly horrors from his gloomy person. In another place Caesarius describes Satan as a blackened, disfigured angel with great bat-like wings, a bony, hairy body, with horns on his head, a hooked nose and long pointed ears, his hands and feet armed like eagle’s talons.’
‘And you, Magister?’
‘I regard that as pure nonsense – foolishness! Satan is a powerful angel. He is pure intelligence and will. He pulsates with hate against God and man. He does not creep under the cover of darkness or feast on fire. He is arrogant. Dawn or dusk makes no difference to him. Filthy dungeon or opulent palace does not exist for him, only his enemy.’
‘God, Magister?’
‘No, Stephen. Us, the children of God. Satan never accepted God’s creation and rose in rebellion, which lasts from everlasting to everlasting. Satan, Stephen, is no respecter of person or place. He waxes fat in the sombre shadows of vaulted cathedrals, behind the stout pillars and recesses of its choirs. He draws power in the silent cloisters from the secret thoughts and feelings of the good brothers. You’ll find Satan on the ramparts of castles, breathing pride into the lords of war. He can also be found in the lonely corpse where the sorcerer hums his deadly vespers and casts his foul spells. He lurks in the furrow and fans the hatred of peasants who plough the earth for those who own it. He also lurks here, Stephen, feasting on some filthy nastiness. What that is remains a mystery which must be resolved. In the end we must make him fast and drive him out. So, let us collect our satchel and panniers from the church – we will return to White Friars.’
They stepped out of the yew trees and paused. The corpse door swung open. Parson Smollat and Isolda came out. Isolda was about to walk away, then abruptly strode back and kissed the parson full on the mouth.
‘Lord, save us,’ Anselm whispered. ‘So our good parson, like us all, is moved by the lusts of the flesh. Quick, Stephen, collect our baggage and away we go.’
Thankfully Parson Smollat was in the sacristy and didn’t see Stephen enter the church. He collected the panniers he had left in the Galilee porch and hurried to join Anselm, who was standing under the cavernous lychgate.
‘Should we not bid farewell to Sir William or Sir Miles?’
‘We’ll return soon enough,’ Anselm replied. ‘While Sir Miles, believe me, will seek us out.’
They left the precincts of the church, going past All Hallows and into the trading area of Eastcheap. Stephen, lost in his own thoughts, felt his sleeve being plucked. He turned, stared at the young woman brazenly walking beside him and was immediately struck by her: soft and feminine, yet a truly determined young woman. Her skin had a golden, healthy hue; her thick, auburn hair, bound in two plaits, was almost covered by a blue veil. This trailed from a small cap on top of her head, then wrapped around her so
ft throat like a wimple. She wore a woollen fur coat decorated with silver leaves over a dark clean kirtle, with stout leather shoes on her feet. One of these was loose so she gripped Stephen’s arm to steady herself as she put this right.
‘Mistress?’
Anselm, a little further ahead, turned and came back.
‘Mistress?’ Stephen flustered, staring into the young woman’s beautiful grey eyes. ‘What business do you have with me?’
‘None, Brother.’ She smiled cheekily. ‘I am sorry. I’m Alice Palmer. My father owns the tavern The Unicorn on the corner of Eel-Pie Lane close to Saint Michael’s church.’
‘I know it,’ Anselm replied above the noise of the crowd around him. ‘What is that to us?’
‘A scullion, one of our maids, Margotta Sumerhull, has been missing for weeks. Sometimes she’d go to pray before the Lady altar at Saint Michael’s. I’ve asked Parson Smollat.’ She smiled, moving a wisp of hair from her face. ‘My father has also petitioned Sir William but neither can help. Margotta could be wild. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘we’ve heard of you, about the strange happenings at Saint Michael’s, as well as the presence of a King’s man – Sir Miles Beauchamp. We know him. He lives nearby. Sometimes he visits our tavern. Perhaps you would be kind enough to support our petition?’
‘We shall do what we can.’ Stephen stood fascinated by that beautiful smile. The young woman grabbed his arm, kissed him full on the lips and fled into the crowd. Stephen’s fingers slowly went to his mouth. Anselm, smiling, shook him gently.
‘A woman’s kiss,’ the exorcist murmured, ‘one of God’s great gifts. Count yourself lucky, Stephen, and let’s move on.’ They hastened through the crowds. ‘The world and its retinue,’ Anselm murmured, ‘have gathered to buy and sell.’ Stephen kept close to his master. The busy, frenetic atmosphere of the city, hungry for trade, was overwhelming. Carts and sumpter ponies laden with Italian spices, Gascon wine, Spanish leather, Hainault linen and lace as well as timber, iron and rope from the frozen northern kingdoms, forced their way through. The clatter of all these competed with the constant din of chickens, pigs, cows, oxen and geese loaded on, or pulling, heavy wheeled carts and tumbrils. The air was riven by the crack of the whip, the neighing of horses and constant yapping of alleyway dogs. From the cramped alleyways and runnels leading on to the broad thoroughfares of Poultry and Cheapside swarmed London’s other city: the hidden world of the wandering musicians, rogues, cozeners, naps and foists, charlatans and coney catchers, all bedecked in their motley, garish rags and eager for prey. A sweaty tribe, which reeked of every foul odour, these swarmed around the hundreds of market stalls, pitting their wits against the bailiffs and beadles who constantly patrolled the markets. The officials had already caught one miscreant, a toper, his nose as brilliantly red as a full-blown rose; arrested for foisting, he was being led off to stand in the cage on the top of the tun which housed the conduit for Cheapside.