by Paul Doherty
They left and reached St Michael’s. The guards at the cemetery had been withdrawn – only a surly-faced Gascelyn stood vigil under the lychgate.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.
‘I suspected that,’ Anselm declared, recovering from his coughing bout. Stephen’s heart lurched at the sight of the blood-soaked rag in the exorcist’s hand, the red froth bubbling at either corner of Anselm’s mouth.
‘I suspected,’ Anselm breathed heavily, ‘this was once the church’s secure pit, a place to hide sacred vessels and other treasures during times of trouble.’
Higden and his companions ignored this; stretching deep into the pit, they drew out heavy leather sacks coated with dust and tied tightly around the neck with rotting twine. Sack after sack was pulled up – six in all. They shook out the contents: small caskets, coffers, minute chests with leather casings, all crammed with jewels, diamonds, silver and gold ornaments. Pectoral collars, rings, bracelets, gems, pearls and coins rolled out.
‘If you are looking for Merlin’s Stone,’ Anselm murmured, leaning his back against the wall, ‘well, it’s not there. It lies at the bottom of Rishanger’s filthy carp pond, a useless piece of black star rock.’ Higden and his henchmen sobered up, eyes narrowed in their flushed, ugly faces. They got to their feet. Anselm began to laugh, which ended in a choking cough. ‘A piece of stone,’ he mocked, ‘lying in the slime, though I reckon that’s much purer than your souls.’
Stephen felt a deep coldness wrap around him.
‘Brother Anselm, we came because you asked us,’ Higden snapped. ‘We came in peace.’
‘I invited you here, Sir William, because you are the Midnight Man and these are your two minions. I invited you before you could take me and mine as you did Sir Miles.’
‘Nonsense!’ Higden’s voice carried a hideous threat. ‘Remember, I was with Sir Miles. I . . .’
‘A simple flesh wound, Sir William. Your assassins were under strict orders as to whom to kill and whom to ignore. Sir Miles had to be removed because he was our protector – he knew too much, he was hunting you. Cutwolf openly proclaimed a reward for knowledge about the Midnight Man. In the end Sir Miles suspected you, Sir William – he told me so. You sensed that. He had to die, then you would deal with us. You must have wondered if we were close to the truth about this treasure – that’s why you tried to abduct Stephen. I dropped hints about how close we were and you couldn’t wait.’
‘Brother Anselm, we are here,’ Almaric protested.
‘Of course you are,’ Anselm pointed at Higden, ‘you two alone know his true identity. The other members of your coven only see the Midnight Man as a powerful, hideously masked figure who deals out death at his night-drenched meetings. Let me guess,’ making himself more comfortable against the wall, Anselm pressed home his attack, ‘we now have the treasure while the cemetery is no longer guarded. Stephen and I, if we were not having this conversation, would be allowed to leave, escorted back to White Friars by Gascelyn. On the way something would happen. Another bloody attack. Gascelyn would be wounded – not seriously – but Stephen and I would die. Two more victims of the Midnight Man, yes?’
‘And this treasure?’ Higden taunted, squatting down. ‘I just keep it? How do I know that you and Sir Miles have not drafted some secret memorandum to the Crown detailing your suspicions about me?’
Anselm pulled a face. ‘And what proof would I offer?’
Higden shrugged.
‘I admit there would be very little – perhaps none at all,’ Anselm conceded. ‘Sir William, I used to gamble. I gambled on your greed. You planned to come here. If we had not found the treasure tonight – well, our deaths could be delayed. But we have and, as I’ve said, something is going to happen to us on our journey back to White Friars. You, Sir William, would take all this to profit yourself. You intend to search this treasure for what you want: Merlin’s Stone and any other magical items you believe might help you in the black arts. You’d keep them hidden for your own use. You would then offer the Crown the rest of this treasure hoard. You would receive, as finder, at least a tenth of its value, a fortune indeed. You would also, by handing it over, win great favour with the Crown. The King would regard you as a close friend. More favours, more patronage, more concessions, more wealth would flow your way. Any suspicions about you would be choked and strangled off. You would emerge more powerful to continue your midnight practices, be it as a blood-drinker or as a warlock. If Sir Miles and I had left any such memorandum, it would be ignored, being flatly contradicted by your actions. You would dazzle the King with this wealth. Any suspicions about your loyalty would disappear like smoke on a summer morning.’
‘So you have no proof.’ Gascelyn picked up the crossbow. Stephen flinched as the henchman took a bolt from the small, stout quiver on his belt.
‘Proof, Gascelyn, proof – what does it matter now? You know, Sir William knows, Almaric knows. You cannot let us walk free.’
Higden edged closer, head slightly to one side. ‘
You’re a curious one, Anselm. I am fascinated by you. We could tell each other so much.’ He grinned, eyes widening in mock surprise. ‘Learn from each other.’ He gestured at the heaped treasure. ‘This is ours, you are ours. What can you do? What proof do you really have, eh?’
Anselm got to his feet. Sir William followed, hand going for his sword hilt. Gascelyn slipped a barb into the groove of the small arbalest.
‘I have already told you that I was a gambler, Sir William,’ Anselm replied curtly. ‘I used to be a sinner to the bone. My offences were always before me. Drinking, lechery and above all gambling.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I truly gambled tonight. I gambled that you would come. I wagered that I would find the treasure. I offered odds that you would act as you have.’
‘Odds?’
‘I was right.’ Anselm abruptly threw his head back. ‘De profundis!’ he shouted with all his strength. ‘Clamavi ad te Domine. Domine exaudi vocem meam – Out of the depths I have cried to you, oh Lord. Lord, hear my voice!’
Higden and his two henchmen, taken by surprise, could only finger their weapons. Stephen jumped to his feet as a fire arrow arched through the night sky and smashed in a flutter of heavy sparks on to the floor of the nave. Two more followed before Higden and his henchmen could recover. Dark shapes appeared in the doorways and gaps of the ruined church. Hooded archers, war bows strung, arrows notched. They slowly spread out across the nave; behind them swaggered Cutwolf, Bolingbrok and Holyinnocent, their swords drawn.
‘What is this?’ Higden drew himself up, ‘What is this?’ He pointed accusingly at Anselm. ‘You said you didn’t trust them.’
‘I was deceiving you. I also thank you for withdrawing your own guards. Master Cutwolf, Clerk of the Secret Chancery, has been watching you; he has certainly been watching me. I welcome him to this colloquium – this discussion.’
‘You have levelled serious allegations,’ Almaric blurted out. ‘What real proof do you have?’
‘Oh, I shall show you that,’ Anselm replied. ‘Master Cutwolf, ask your archers to withdraw slightly but be ready to loose.’ Anselm sat down, gesturing with his hand. ‘All of you do likewise.’
Higden looked as if he was going to protest. He looked over his shoulder at Cutwolf then reluctantly obeyed, untying his war belt to sit more comfortably, though his sword hilt was not far from his fingers. The other two followed. Stephen watched. Higden was cunning, powerful, the weight of evidence against him seemed slight; after all, he had come to this church at Anselm’s bidding. They had found the lost treasure. Higden could still hand this over and appear as the King’s own hero.
‘You Higden, Gascelyn and Almaric, are blood-drinkers,’ Anselm began. ‘You hunt and capture young women. You abuse them and kill them. You enjoy the power. You love watching a woman suffer before she dies. I met your like in France and elsewhere. War, for you, is simply an excuse for your filthy, murderous practices.’
‘How dare you!’ Almaric snarled.
‘Shut up!’ Anselm paused over a fit of coughing. ‘All of you, shut up! You three, together with men like Rishanger, served abroad. You plundered the French. You raped and murdered but the great hole in your soul has a deeper, more sinister darkness. You are warlocks, wizards. You dabble in the damned arts and converse with the demon lords of the air. You may have even used your victims’ blood to further this. The sacrifice of cockerels and night birds is nothing compared to that of a human heart, or a chalice full of some young woman’s hot blood.’
‘Proof?’ Higden insisted.
‘Yes, proof?’ Gascelyn repeated. ‘You will need proof before the King’s Bench, for the Justices in Eyre. Your madcap theories are not enough.’
‘You returned to England and continued your filthy practices.’ Anselm’s voice was almost conversational. ‘Rishanger’s lonely garden with its secret cellar or pit was ideal. Young women were invited there. We now know their hideous fate. You act like some blasphemous religious order, cells within cells. You, Higden, your two acolytes and possibly Rishanger, knew the truth behind the Midnight Man. All of you are deeply implicated. Meeting at Rishanger’s house or some other desolate place, using your wealth to swell the number of your coven – men and women like Bardolph and Adele. You also had your bodyguard, your cohort of killers, guards in black leather, to be whistled up like a hunting pack.’
‘Evidence?’ Higden made to rise.
‘Oh, I will come to that by and by. You, Higden, became a peritus, skilled in the black arts. A true nightmare, you would cast about in search of secret rituals and precious items to deepen your so-called powers, artefacts such as the Philosopher’s Stone – the key to all alchemy.’
‘I threw Rishanger out of my house over that.’
‘Mere pretence, a disguise to conceal the truth, a public demonstration that you had nothing to do with such a man. You had that wax figurine of yourself deliberately placed in Rishanger’s house so as to portray yourself as an inveterate enemy of such a wicked soul. I suspect you never really liked or trusted Rishanger. Time proved you right.’ Anselm paused to cough and clear his throat, wiping blood-flecked lips on a piece of cloth.
Stephen glanced around. Almaric and Gascelyn sat, eyes blinking, now and again the occasional nervous gesture. Cutwolf and his companions remained impassive: faces of stone, eyes almost blank as if they had already made up their minds what to do – but what?
‘Now at Glastonbury, the so-called magical stone of Merlin, a rock of allegedly great power, had been found during the reign of the present King’s grandfather and placed along with other precious items in the treasury crypt at Westminster which Puddlicot later pillaged.’
‘I know nothing of Glastonbury. As I said, I have never been there.’
‘Correct – you have never visited the abbey. I checked. I am sure you would love to do so. However, Higden, you like to keep your hand hidden – you cleverly cover your tracks. You,’ Anselm pointed at Almaric, ‘are different. You were born close to Glastonbury, weren’t you? You were at school there. You served as a novice and became a skilled carpenter. You were taught by the abbey artisans before you left. You took to wandering. You were later ordained as a priest, becoming a chaplain under the royal banners and serving in France, where you met your true master here.’
‘What nonsense!’ the curate scoffed.
‘Facts,’ Anselm countered. ‘You knew all about the discoveries at Glastonbury and told your master here. Rich and powerful, he became absorbed with finding such items, along with the rest of the treasure Puddlicot had stolen.’ Anselm paused, head down.
Stephen stared around. No voices, no visions. Nevertheless, he sensed a whole host of invisible witnesses were gathering, pressing in on every side to listen. This ruined, charred nave had become a fearsome judgement hall. Cutwolf and his companions, grim and silent, were the executioners. One way or another, this would end in blood.
‘You, Higden,’ Anselm continued, ‘searched, as secretly as you could, everything about Puddlicot, even though you openly pretended ignorance about him. You secured the advowson to this church. You moved house to be closer. I suspect Rishanger bought Puddlicot’s dwelling at your insistence.’ Anselm took a deep breath. ‘With me and mine, whatever we did you pretended, like mummers in a play, though I noticed you always avoided my attempts to exorcise. Yet you made one mistake very early on. How did you know Rishanger’s particular house in Hagbut Lane once belonged to Puddlicot? Who told you that?’ Higden refused to answer. Anselm shrugged and continued. ‘Time passed. You appointed Parson Smollat to the benefice – a good but very weak priest with more than a fondness for the ladies, someone you could control.’
Higden simply smirked.
‘The cemetery was searched. You used Bardolph for that, digging the earth, preparing graves, but you discovered nothing. Your blood-drinking at Rishanger’s house continued. Eventually you decided that enough corpses were buried there, although I suspect you hated being dependent on Rishanger. By now you had your new death
house in Saint Michael’s cemetery. A well-fortified, stout and lonely building with, I suspect, a prison pit beneath. You enticed your victims into it.’
‘How?’ Higden gibed. ‘And if I did, where are they buried?’
‘I sat by the lychgate,’ Anselm retorted. ‘I spent an entire afternoon there. I was surprised at how many young women of various means and livings go by. Before the trouble started, I am quite sure a few would use the cemetery as a place to rest. Margotta Sumerhull, the maid from The Unicorn, went there and disappeared – so did Edith Swan-neck. Who enticed them in? You, Almaric, a priest who could be trusted, or Gascelyn, the handsome squire? An invitation to talk, to sup? Would they like to walk through, perhaps see the new building? Others were easier – whores and prostitutes hired under the cloak of dark. That death house is well-named; once there, they would be imprisoned.’ The exorcist paused. ‘A poor dancer died there, didn’t she, Gascelyn? Eleanora? She came back to haunt you with her perfume and stamping feet. Little wonder you became so wary but Higden made you stay there?’ Anselm leaned forward. ‘The death house will be searched. I am sure a pit lies beneath where those poor girls were pinioned before they were brutally enjoyed and murdered.’
‘There is a pit,’ Gascelyn, face all flushed, protested. ‘But for storing.’
‘Silence!’ Cutwolf held up a hand, snapping his fingers. The captain of archers hurried over, pushing back his cowl to reveal a sharp, nut-brown face. Cutwolf whispered, the man murmured his agreement and left the nave with two of his companions.
‘And the corpses?’ Higden’s steely poise had slipped.
‘Oh, very easy. Saint Michael’s is the parish cemetery of the ward. Many beggars die in Dowgate. They are brought here, wrapped tightly in canvas sheets, bound with cord and placed in the laystall close to the old burial pit. I have seen them. It’s an ideal place. The soil there is always loose and soft from the lime and other elements caked in the ground. Who would dream of untying and unrolling the dirty shrouds to inspect the naked cadaver of some hapless beggar? However, in some cases, those shrouds contained the corpses of murdered young women such as Margotta and Edith. Buried quietly, swiftly, their bodies soon rotted.