The Midnight Man

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Lucky fellow.’ Cutwolf, striding beside him, winked at Stephen.

  ‘Love,’ Anselm murmured. ‘How truly boring life would be without it.’ Stephen felt elated. The darkness no longer clung to him. He grasped the linen parcel like a trophy, his lips still burning from the kiss. The sun would rise. The mist would thin and fade. All hell might be invoked against him but Alice was wonderful. She was thinking of him. He felt like dancing, singing alleluia. Stephen opened the parcel and stared at the manchet loaf cut, buttered and laced with thin slices of ham. He broke this, distributing it to his companions.

  ‘Manna from heaven,’ Anselm whispered. ‘Have you ever tasted anything so delicious, Stephen?’

  The novice blushed, hastily swallowing his portion as they moved across an alleyway, stopping before Rishanger’s house. Beauchamp had been busy. Tower archers boasting the royal livery ringed the abandoned mansion. Inside the King’s serjeants in their blue, red and gold tabards guarded the various chambers. Beauchamp swept past these into the gloomy garden, now lit by flaming cressets lashed to poles driven into the ground. These revealed what Anselm could only whisper as the ‘abomination of desolation’. At least six burial pits had been uncovered, each containing a white tangle of bones and skulls.

  ‘So many,’ Beauchamp breathed.

  ‘My Lord,’ Cutwolf retorted. ‘They were buried with their possessions.’ He pointed to a pile of tawdry shoes, slippers, bracelets and other dirt-encrusted jewellery. ‘They were all young women.’

  ‘But killed some time ago,’ Anselm declared, moving to the edge of one of the burial pits. ‘They have been in the ground some time.’

  Pausing at the chattering song of a nightjar, Stephen wondered if demons nestled in the branches of the clustered orchard trees. Did the malign ones stare out, gabbling their malevolence? Stephen could not look away. The sheer misery of that place was suffocating. Anselm was correct: these skeletons belonged to the long dead – at least a year. They would not find Edith Swan-neck here.

  Stephen returned to the house even as Anselm, cross in hand, solemnly cursed the perpetrators of these wicked acts. ‘May they be cursed by the sun, moon, stars, grasses and trees,’ he declared. ‘May their corpses be left unburied to be devoured by the dogs and birds of the air. May their souls enter the eternal darkness of hell where grief, without consolation, gnaws the heart and evil flourishes like weeds. May their souls be cursed to wander for ever.’

  Words Amongst the Pilgrims

  The physician coughed and raised his hand, rings sparkling in the light. ‘I have said enough for the moment,’ he declared. ‘My tale runs on but, there again, we promised a late start for the morrow.’ The physician moved to stand once again before the hearth. The other pilgrims also stirred, quietly discussing what they had heard. Master Chaucer, aware of their sharp and changing mood, watched intently. He did not mean to be so curious, yet he felt like a hawk on its branch, keenly surveying the field before him. The Wife of Bath was tearful. She sat crying but quickly wiped her face and rose, demanding to know where the latrines were. Other pilgrims moved. Chaucer noticed how the burly haberdasher had grown very agitated. The summoner, too, had changed, no longer the scab-faced, lecherous, hot-eyed court official, he sat on a stool tapping his fingers against the long Welsh stabbing dirk in its scabbard on his belt.

  Master Chaucer felt the tension. A mystery play was being staged behind the veil of this long spring evening. Ghosts were gathering. People were doffing masks and donning others. Chaucer, dry-mouthed, watched the haberdasher holding his crotch; the man moved swiftly out of the taproom towards the latrines. Immediately the summoner followed, his hand on the hilt of his knife. Chaucer rose to his feet and pursued both men. The haberdasher was walking across the lawn to the lattice fence with the summoner on his heels. Chaucer saw the glint of shimmering steel. The dagger was drawn. Mischief was afoot. The haberdasher paused by the fence, admiring the wild tangle of roses. The summoner, soft-footed, dagger out and hanging by his side, made to follow. Chaucer coughed loudly. The summoner’s dagger disappeared beneath the folds of his robe. The haberdasher turned, his burly face flushed and slackened by wine. He forced a smile and continued on around the lattice fence. The summoner strolled back to Master Chaucer. The court official did not look so bumbling but purposeful and deliberate. He paused beside Chaucer and grinned in an array of jagged, yellowing teeth.

  ‘The dagger?’ Chaucer queried.

  ‘Nothing.’ The summoner simply tapped the coiled hilt of his knife. ‘Even here, Master Chaucer, in the midnight garden of a Kentish tavern, one should be very careful.’ He brushed Chaucer on the shoulder, attempting to pass him by. He tensed as Chaucer grabbed his arm. The summoner’s hand reached again for his dagger.

  ‘Peace, peace,’ Chaucer whispered. ‘The physician tells a tale yet there are strong echoes of it here amongst some of our fellow pilgrims.’

  ‘Some stories,’ the summoner retorted, freeing his arm, ‘never finish and never will, even if all the souls who throng that tale lie cold in their graves. Remember that, master poet.’

  The summoner walked back into the tavern, while Chaucer waited for the haberdasher. The bulbous-eyed individual came from the latrines beyond the fence; he appeared nervous, fumbling, trying to tie the points on his hose. He walked falteringly, his swollen belly full of wine. He staggered by Chaucer and stopped, swaying on his feet. ‘What are you looking at, sir?’ he slurred.

  ‘I was wondering that myself,’ Chaucer quipped. ‘Who are you really, sir? Do you not realize that our physician’s tale has stirred memories amongst our companions?’

  ‘Has it now, has it now?’ The haberdasher put his face in his hands. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘the demons still pursue us.’ He took his hands away. ‘This hunt will never finish. I recognize the summoner now.’

  ‘Master Chaucer?’ The physician stood in the light of the taproom door. ‘Come,’ he beckoned. ‘Come!’ he repeated. ‘And bring your friend.’ The physician’s voice was tinged with sarcasm. ‘My tale is set to resume.’

  The Physician’s Tale

  Part Five

  Stephen tried to forget the grisly horrors of Rishanger’s macabre house. Anselm and Beauchamp busied themselves about the removal of the remains to the city cemeteries. Stephen, on the other hand, now free of the Carmelite rule, settled into his life at The Unicorn. He came to love that warm, welcoming tavern with its sweet-smelling taproom, kitchen garden, scullery, buttery and large stone kitchen. Minehost Master Robert allowed Stephen the free run of the hostelry before deciding that he was best suited to the kitchen. He was soon instructed into the mysteries of that great, stone-flagged cooking chamber with its yawning hearth, furnished with a spit, side ovens, grid irons and what the cook called his ‘sizzling pans and cauldrons’. Stephen was shown the various knives, stone mortars with their wooden pestles, the vivarium for fish, the hooks for fleshing, the skillets and different bowls. He watched the cooks and spit boys prepare a wide range of dishes: fillet of cold boar glazed with honey; capon braised with sweet wine stock; sole in yellow onion sauce. He embraced the world of chopping, smoke, steam and a host of delicious thick smells which tickled his nose, watered his mouth and teased his stomach.

  Master Robert also used him to fetch stock from the different markets: meat from the blood-puddled stalls under the grim hulk of Newgate; chicken and geese from the fowl sellers along Poultry as well as the produce from the various herb and vegetable markets of Cheapside. Alice went with him. She was merry – even shameless – in her flirting. She seized his hand, making Stephen run along with her through the lanes, breathlessly pulling him into some shadowy nook to kiss him full on the lips. Stephen was, in both heart and soul, much taken with her. Every day was an adventure. He would rise early in his small garret, try and recite some prayers, then visit the nearby chapel of St Frideswide, as Anselm had told him to stay well away from St Michael’s, Candlewick. After he had attended Mass, recited an Ave before the Lad
y chapel and lit a taper for the soul of his mother, Stephen was caught up in the hurly burly of the day, which he thoroughly enjoyed. Alice, impetuous and passionate, chattered as merrily as a spring sparrow on the branch. Neat and clean, she greeted him every day with a smiling face and brushed hair, always dressed in an immaculate smock and apron. She adored her father, Master Robert, who proved to be a genial host. He was fair and honest, making the tavern scullions and servants work hard but paying and feeding them well, ensuring they had safe and comfortable lodgings.

  Alice explained how her father’s family had owned two such taverns on the outskirts of Bristol with a similar holding on the Old Roman Road near Bath. On the death of his wife Master Robert had sold all three, moving to Dowgate in London with Alice and her younger sister Marisa where, Robert had vowed, they would manage the best tavern in the city. Stephen was caught up in all the runnings of this, be it the purchase and import of food or Master Robert’s determination to extend the tavern gardens and produce his own vegetables for the kitchen. The Unicorn was certainly popular, the favourite choice of tradesmen, tinkers, ermine-robed lawyers, scarlet-cloaked serjeants, dark-garbed clerks and sailors from nearby Queenhithe as well as the citizens of Dowgate.

  Stephen worked hard from daybreak until noon. Once the Angelus bell sounded, Alice would take Stephen into what she called her ‘secret bower in the greensward where they could sit like Robin and Marion in Sherwood’. In truth, that part of the tavern garden was overgrown, a mass of tangled bushes and climbing sturdy flowers. A former owner had built the bower by twisting saplings together and allowing an array of wild roses to overgrow it. Inside stood a high turf seat and a rickety old table for pots of flowers. The only fly in the ointment, as Alice observed, was her baby sister, Marisa. Alice’s mother had died giving birth to her and Master Robert believed the life force of two souls was trapped in that little body. Marisa was a vivacious handful: six to seven years of age, she was a bundle of energy with a rosy face framed by yellow curls and a constant gap-toothed grin. She was, as Stephen came to realize, a sprite in all her ways. Marisa needed very little sleep – merry as a robin, she rose early to seek him out. From the start, Marisa had decided that if her sister liked Stephen, so would she and she acted accordingly. Where Stephen and Alice went, Marisa always followed, their noonday meetings being no exception.

  Alice tried to ignore her younger sister, more concerned about the dire events in Dowgate. ‘Margotta Sumerhull and I would often come here after the Angelus,’ Alice declared as she made herself more comfortable, placing the linen napkins containing cold meats and fresh bread on the table. She took the tankards of ale from Stephen and placed them down, turning to grasp his hand firmly, her loving eyes now solemn. She would always lean forward and kiss him roundly on the mouth, then draw back. Stephen sometimes wondered if Alice was slightly fey; he had never met a young woman like her – demure but direct.

  ‘We always met here,’ Alice continued, parcelling out the food. ‘We would discuss meeting our perfect gentle knight as the troubadours say we should. Well,’ she pushed a piece of bread between Stephen’s lips, ‘I have met mine. I took to you, Master Stephen, as soon as I met you in the street with Brother Anselm.’ She smiled. ‘You looked so innocent, so trusting, despite all the commotion at the church. You are the young man I decided I should marry.’

  Stephen gulped what he had eaten. ‘But I am a novice,’ he replied, ‘entrusted to the Carmelite order.’

  ‘But you have only taken simple vows, not solemn ones,’ Alice declared blithely. ‘I have checked that. Brother Gilbert – you know, the Benedictine who sells us his produce from the orchard at Westminster?’ She didn’t wait for Stephen’s reply. ‘Well, I have asked him. He explained the difference. He knows about you and Brother Anselm. He says you visited Westminster.’ Alice cut a portion of meat, neatly diced it with a sharp, curved knife, picked up the pieces and popped them into his mouth. ‘You see visions, don’t you? Are you seeing them now?’

  ‘No!’ Stephen exclaimed with a fervour which surprised even himself. ‘No, I am not – not since I came here.’ He swallowed the diced meat and grinned. ‘Perhaps you frightened them off?’

  ‘I probably have.’ Alice chewed on her bread, watching him curiously. ‘I heard about what they discovered at Rishanger’s house. Did you know he used to come here? A weasel-faced, hard-hearted rogue. I never liked him.’ Alice put down the piece of manchet loaf. ‘God knows,’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘one of those may have been Margotta Sumerhull. Tell me,’ and she’d revert to her usual litany of questions, which he tried to answer as best he could.

  Stephen came to realize that Brother Anselm had left him at The Unicorn for many reasons. The exorcist himself had disappeared, lost in his own business. Stephen began to sense that Anselm was not only trying to determine his vocation but also learn what was happening along the needle-thin runnels and alleyways of the Parish of St Michael’s, Candlewick. Stephen remained vigilant. The deaths of Bardolph and his wife, the opening of the graves, the rumours about hauntings, had alarmed everyone. People were now glad that Sir William Higden had decided to keep the church under close ward. Many argued that the church should be closed completely. Sir William should pull down the entire edifice, clear the cemetery, fill the charnel house and begin a new building. The dark rites of the Midnight Man and his coven were common gossip, as well as the horrid finds at Rishanger’s house. Lists of the names of young women who had disappeared were hastily drawn up in this alehouse, tavern or cook shop and passed from lip to lip. Alice, however, was only interested in one name: her bosom friend, Margotta Sumerhull. She pestered Stephen, who could only answer that all they had found was a tangle of bones. Nevertheless, he promised he would ask Anselm and Sir Miles if they could offer further help. Secretly, Stephen wondered more about Edith Swan-neck, Bardolph’s mistress. Stephen, from what he had learned from his father, knew that her corpse would not have decayed completely, so where was she?

  At times, although immersed in the joys of The Unicorn and Alice’s loving presence, Stephen openly fretted about the apparent disappearance of both Anselm and Beauchamp. Alice, in their daily meetings in her ‘secret bower’, would often question Stephen about his master. Did he have secret powers? Could he see the spirits of the departed? Stephen, sworn to silence on such matters by Anselm, could only answer evasively, so Alice would move on to Beauchamp. Stephen had also heard rumours about the royal clerk. How he lived in apparent splendour in his own elegant mansion in Ferrier Lane. ‘A man of great discretion’ was how Alice described Sir Miles, who sometimes supped at The Unicorn. Rumour had it that he was a ladies’ man, yet he was most reluctant to entertain at home and more inclined to visit this tavern or that, constantly escorted by his henchman Cutwolf. Rumour babbled about that enigmatic royal clerk’s private life, though it was more of a case of much suspected but nothing proved. At times Stephen was relieved to be distracted by the young Marisa, who regarded his daily meetings with Alice in their bower as part of a delicious game. The little girl would creep through the garden, or be there hiding already, only betraying herself by a flash of colour or her irresistible giggle. Alice would rise and go searching until she caught her young sister, dragging her out of her hiding place, trying not to laugh at the gap-toothed grin before sending her packing back into the tavern. Marisa, however, also regarded Stephen as hers and, when her sister was not looking, would grasp his hand, jumping up and down, begging to be taken out to this stall or that.

  Cutwolf appeared. He, too, took lodgings at The Unicorn, a narrow, low chamber near the stables. At first he kept to himself, busy with his master’s affairs. Cutwolf could give Stephen little news about Anselm, who had apparently disappeared into the muniment room at the Tower while Beauchamp was absent on Crown matters, though exactly what was never discussed. During the second week of Cutwolf’s stay at The Unicorn, as Minehost and his servants prepared for some May-time celebrations, Cutwolf became more sociable. He took to j
oining Master Robert and the tavern servants in the taproom after the usual customers had left. In the glowing light from a roaring fire and the shafts of flame from candles and tapers, Cutwolf would regale them all with stories about London’s Hades, the dreadful underworld thronged by a host of dark but colourful characters: Melisaunde, the arch mistress of wicked wenches and Duke Jacob Hildebrod, a monstrously fat old man with one gleaming eye in the centre of his forehead. How Duke Jacob ruled what was commonly called ‘The Shire of the Lords of the Huff’, which included all the naps, foists, coneycatchers, cozeners and forgers of London. How this lord of hell could whistle up a blizzard of swords and cudgels as well as a legion of hideous hags who rode on broomsticks. The rifflers and the rufflers from the dank, pig-licked cobbles of Southwark and Smithfield were also his retainers . . .

  Stephen, with Alice next to him on a bench close to the inglenook, Marisa sitting on the floor between them, would listen round-eyed as owls as Cutwolf described the evil smelling ‘Hole-in-the-Wall’ tavern with its spacious bailey, ‘The Court of Miracles’. Here the Ringers of the Dead would summon all the thieves of London to account to their lord, Duke Jacob. Cutwolf would delight them with such tales of mystery while Minehost passed around a steaming posset in a broad-rimmed, loving cup, along with dishes of finely-sliced bread and roast meat. Stephen’s admiration for Cutwolf deepened as the henchman proved that verse from the Gospel – how the children of this world are more cunning in their affairs than the children of the light. Stephen discovered that Cutwolf was in fact a royal clerk schooled at Stapleton Hall, Oxford; a mailed clerk who had fought in battle. A secret, subtle man who hid his true identity beneath the mask and guise of a street riffler. Cutwolf was not just acting the troubadour, the jongleur, the travelling minstrel, he was also Beauchamp’s spy. Cutwolf was a clever spider, spinning a web to cover them all and entice others into the trap. Once he’d finished minstrelling, he would invite others to make their contribution about life along the alleyways of Dowgate and the surrounding wards. Everyone was eager to participate and, in anticipation during the day, garner as much tittle-tattle and gossip as possible.