by Paul Doherty
‘It began this morning,’ Proctor Ormiston interrupted, ‘when a scholar from Sparrow Hall posted a bill in the Swindlestock tavern seeking a beadsman to pray for the souls of townspeople who were not yet dead but who soon would be, because of their “crimes”.’ Ormiston rubbed his tired face. ‘As usual one thing led to another. A citizen read this bill, tore it down and said that the scholars were nothing but putrid murderers. Knives were drawn and a brawl broke out which then spread. The great bell of St Martin’s was tolled, ox horns blown and both sides took to the streets. In one hall Fulke, rector of Piglesthorne, poured a cauldron of boiling water over a group of citizens who, in turn, stormed into the hall, setting fire to its gates.’ Ormiston looked at Beauchamp. ‘The riot’s spreading,’ he repeated. ‘And there’s little we can do about it.’
‘The Strigoi are behind this,’ Dame Edith declared. ‘They provoke violence and blood and exploit it to veil their own murderous activities.’
Beauchamp looked pleadingly at Sir Godfrey. ‘We need your help. We have to restore order. God knows what terrible crimes will be committed. Sir Godfrey, you are the king’s fighting man. All I have are rustic levies, with a few serjeants to strengthen them.’
‘I’ll come too.’ Alexander spoke up before even Sir Godfrey could reply.
A short while later they left the convent, the sheriff’s soldiers encircling them, and rode down the High Street. It was apparent that the riots were getting out of hand. No stalls were open and gangs of students and townspeople fought in the streets. At the entrance to one hall a man had been hanged by his ankles and a fire lit beneath his head. On a dung hill near Carfax a young scholar, his robes all torn, lay bleeding. In the alleys and runnels that ran off the main thoroughfares the crash of broken glass mingled with shrieks of rage and fear. Columns of smoke were beginning to pour up, hanging above the roofs. No one approached the sheriff or his armed men but, on a number of occasions, arrows and stones whistled above their heads.
Sir Oswald led his group through the city and up to the castle, where he collected reinforcements. He divided them into two parties, one under himself, the other under Sir Godfrey and McBain. It was then a matter of moving from street to street. They tore down the black banners of rebellion, released prisoners, knocked rioters on the head and broke up roving gangs whether of scholars or citizens. Water carriers and bailiffs were organized to douse fires and arrest any looters. McBain admired the knight’s ruthlessly cold methods; a street would be cleared, order imposed and a guard left.
Sometimes a group of rioters put up a token resistance, but usually they fled in a flurry of catcalls and jeers. Only once were Sir Godfrey and McBain really threatened. Four scholars in ragged hoods, with leather masks over their faces, appeared at the windows of a hall and fired crossbows, injuring two of Beauchamp’s soldiers, one mortally. Sir Godfrey dismounted and with a small party stormed the hall, arrested the malefactors, established who had shot the fatal bow and immediately hanged him before the main gates. Alexander McBain did not interfere; he believed such ruthlessness was necessary. He had seen similar riots in Cambridge; if they were not controlled, arson, pillage and the death of innocent women and children would become the norm. As dusk fell, peace was restored and Sir Godfrey and McBain met up with Beauchamp, who had taken his party to the other section of the city, north of the High Street.
Opposite the Saracen’s Head, they all took a respite for they were exhausted, their faces black and streaked with sweat, marked by a myriad of minor cuts and bruises. Then they made one final sweep through the city. By the time they reached the castle, congregating outside Trillocks inn, the sheriff’s party and Sir Godfrey’s had between them arrested over four dozen rioters. Some of these were herded into the castle dungeons, others led off, roped together, to cool their heels in the Bocardo gaol.
‘A good day’s work,’ Beauchamp breathed, mopping his brow. ‘Sir Godfrey, you will join us for some wine?’
The knight shook his head, nursing a wrist where a rioter had struck him with a metal bar.
‘Sir Oswald, I thank you, but one day’s work is enough. If I dismounted and drank, I’d fall asleep on the ground. What do you say, McBain?’
Alexander nodded. He was saddle-sore, cold and hungry. Above all, he was fearful of what might have happened while he, Sir Godfrey and the city authorities were busily quelling the riots.
They made their farewells and rode back through the now quiet streets of Oxford. Soldiers, bailiffs and men hired by the university stood at the corner of each street and at the mouth of every alleyway. Criers, armed with bells, loudly proclaimed the curfew, threatening dire punishment on any found wandering the streets that night. They reached St Anne’s and left their horses to the grooms. Sir Godfrey ordered the gates to be locked and barred and they both returned to the guest house to shave, wash and eat. The exorcist came over and quietly listened as Sir Godfrey, between mouthfuls of bread and meat, explained what had happened. She nodded, now and again interrupting with a question. Alexander watched her intently.
‘You think the riot was a veil for something else don’t you?’ he asked.
Dame Edith adjusted the blindfold over her eyes and smiled thinly.
‘In any village or town,’ she replied, ‘there are always latent jealousies, hatred and rivalries. The Strigoi love these. In Wallachia there was the hatred between the inhabitants and the Turks, the clash between cultures, countries and religions. Oxford’s really no different. Northerner hates southerner. Welshman hates Scot. Frenchman detests Spaniard. Scholars detest the townspeople. And so on.’ She picked up a small loaf of bread from a platter and broke it into small pieces. ‘I just wonder who spread those rumours?’
Her question went unanswered because of a loud knocking at the door.
‘Come in!’ Sir Godfrey shouted.
A dirty, bedraggled soldier from the castle entered.
‘Messages from Sir Oswald,’ he gabbled.
‘Why?’ Alexander asked, half rising from his seat. ‘What has happened?’
‘Oh, nothing, sir,’ the soldier replied. He closed his eyes to remember the message. ‘But Sir Oswald says this: “the black metal disc he found on the girl’s body”—’ He opened his eyes. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, it does,’ Alexander replied.
‘Well,’ the soldier continued, closing his eyes again. ‘Sir Oswald says that when he went through the belongings of the Hospitaller, the one murdered in the woods, he found a similar one in the pocket of his jerkin.’
‘Is that all?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
‘Oh yes, sir. That’s all he said. Except thank you for today.’
Sir Godfrey nodded and tossed a penny to the messenger, who left as hurriedly as he had entered.
‘Black metal discs,’ Alexander said. ‘What do they mean?’
Sir Godfrey blew his cheeks out and drained his wine goblet.
‘God knows, master clerk. Dame Edith, you must excuse me. I find it difficult to keep my eyes open, so I bid you good night.’
He tramped up the stairs. McBain sat down opposite the exorcist, who made no move to leave.
‘You must be tired,’ she murmured.
‘Yes and no,’ Alexander replied. ‘Tired, yes, but the brain still whirls, the blood beats strong.’
‘Get the boy,’ Dame Edith said abruptly.
‘The boy?’
‘Yes, young Robert, whose family were murdered. I understand he rarely sleeps. You have some sweet comfits or marchpane?’
Alexander nodded.
‘Then bring them here.’
Alexander had his hand on the latch when the exorcist called out.
‘McBain!’ Dame Edith controlled the shiver she felt. ‘Go nowhere without your sword!’
Alexander was about to argue, but the exorcist had turned her face towards him as if willing him to obey her.
‘Please!’ she pleaded. ‘Do what I say!’
Alexander shrugged, went up to his chamber
and fastened his sword belt around his waist. He left the guest house and walked across the dark, silent grounds of the convent towards the infirmary. He found the boy in a small, white-washed cubicle off the main dormitory. He was sitting on the bed, half-heartedly playing counters with the aged and rather forbidding-looking infirmarian. He smiled as Alexander entered and, when the clerk told him to come, leapt from the bed, slipping his little hand into McBain’s. The clerk, embarrassed by such tenderness, half muttered an explanation to the infirmarian and took the boy downstairs.
‘Are we going home?’ Robert asked. ‘Are Mother and Father coming back?’
‘No,’ McBain replied gently. ‘But I have some sweetmeats for you, and perhaps I can show you how to cheat the infirmarian at counters.’
The boy gave a little skip. McBain stopped and looked down at him. The gesture probably saved his life for, as he turned, he glimpsed the dark, cloaked figure swooping out of the blackness, softly rushing across the grass, sword raised. McBain pushed the boy away, ducking sideways as the sword blade hissed by his head and struck the earth. McBain, light as a cat, pulled out both sword and dagger, but the attacker swerved from him and, sword half-raised, ran towards the little boy who lay sprawled wide-eyed on the ground.
‘Au secours! Au secours!’ Alexander shouted, rushing towards the attacker.
His assailant turned. In the bright moonlight Alexander glimpsed eyes dancing with malice behind the black mask. The assassin sprang back, his sword snaking out to catch McBain’s. Then they parted. McBain dropped his dagger and gripped the hilt of his sword with two hands. He moved to the left, then to the right, trying to draw the cowled, masked figure away from the boy. The attacker advanced, sword high, and suddenly dipped low, aiming for McBain’s belly. The clerk blocked the stroke and their swords scraped together before breaking loose. They separated. Again the assailant moved in, light as a dancer on the balls of his feet. The silent yet killing speed of his attacker disconcerted McBain, who could only block his blows. His heart hammered with fear and his stomach curdled; he was no match for this assailant. Sensing this, the attacker closed again. This time the sword came in short, sharp jabs towards Alexander’s face. McBain stepped back, praying he would not trip over any obstacle.
‘Go, boy!’ he screamed. ‘Run!’
The attacker paused. McBain moved in, but the man blocked his clumsy stroke. Robert needed no second bidding, he rose but, to McBain’s dismay, did not run towards the guest house but back to the infirmary. Again the assailant closed, sweeping his sword, a deadly swathe of steel, aiming for the soft part of McBain’s neck. The clerk parried, their blades clashing in a shrill scream of steel. Again the clerk retreated, chest heaving. Sooner or later his assailant would recognize his weakness and close in for the kill.
‘Take him now!’ McBain shouted. ‘Now, Sir Godfrey!’
The black garbed figure turned, though only for a few seconds before he sensed the trick. He swung back, but it was too late. McBain rushed in, moving slightly to his assailant’s right. The man’s sword thrust was hampered. McBain lunged with all his might and felt the throbbing thud as his sword bit into the sinew and muscle of his assailant’s neck. The man staggered back. He tried to lift his sword but it slipped from his bloodied hands. He slumped to his knees, then sideways to the ground; the rich red blood spurted from his deep neck wound. McBain felt its hot splashes on the back of his hand before he, too, fell to his knees, digging the point of his sword into the soft, wet grass. He knelt, sobbing for breath, now and again muttering a prayer or a curse at his narrow escape. His body was coated in sweat, which began to chill in the cold night air. He heard voices, the sound of running footsteps, Dame Edith’s voice, strident with fear, asking what had happened and Sir Godfrey’s gruff replies. Then the knight prised Alexander’s fingers loose from the sword hilt and helped him to his feet. McBain could only point, hand quivering, at the fallen man. Sir Godfrey took his misericorde dagger from its sheath and drove it into the fallen man’s chest. As he pulled it out with a loud, sucking noise, McBain turned away, vomiting and retching.
‘Are you all right?’ Sir Godfrey asked.
McBain nodded. He felt the exorcist’s thin arm around his shoulders, a damp cloth wiping away the spittle and vomit from his mouth.
‘Shush!’ Dame Edith rocked him gently. ‘You are a good man, McBain, a fierce fighter.’
‘Aye, you killed the bastard!’ Sir Godfrey murmured. ‘His head’s almost taken from his shoulders.’
He pulled back the cowl and peeled the mask from the dead man’s face. Some of the nuns came out.
‘Go back!’ Sir Godfrey ordered.
The nuns retreated. Sir Godfrey pulled the mask off and stared down at the ashen face of a young man, his black hair clammy with sweat. The lips were full and red.
‘Have you ever seen him before?’
Sir Godfrey looked over his shoulder at Alexander, who blessed himself hastily and shook his head.
‘You are to burn the corpse,’ Dame Edith interrupted. ‘Burn it now!’
‘For God’s sake, lady!’ Sir Godfrey snarled, ‘this man could be just some hired assassin.’
Dame Edith crossed her arms and shook her head. ‘He’s one of them,’ she whispered. ‘Lift his lip.’
Sir Godfrey stared at Alexander.
‘Do as I say!’ Dame Edith ordered. ‘Lift his upper lip!’
Sir Godfrey did so carefully and flinched as he saw the sharp dogteeth on either side of the man’s mouth.
‘You see what I mean, Sir Godfrey? Even though I have no sight, I know the Strigoi. His body must be burnt before the spirit leaves the corpse, recognizes itself and wanders the earth.’
‘Children’s nightmares,’ Sir Godfrey murmured. ‘Dame Edith, I must summon both the sheriff and the proctor, they may recognize this man. This corpse may provide some evidence about who the Strigoi are and where they hide.’
‘Then do it quickly!’ Dame Edith hissed. ‘Now, within the hour! Before the devil comes to claim his own!’
Chapter 4
Sir Godfrey pulled the corpse by the legs towards the guest house. He asked Dame Edith to tend the clerk and went back through the darkness to assure Dame Constance and the nuns that all was in hand. He also sent a sleepy-eyed ostler to summon both the sheriff and the proctor, then kept his own vigil over the corpse until both officials arrived. They looked dishevelled and unshaven, but their anger at being so rudely disturbed soon disappeared when Sir Godfrey told them what had happened. They both carefully examined the dead man’s features and shook their heads.
‘I have never seen him before,’ Ormiston declared, ‘nor has the sheriff. And he carries nothing on his person to identify him. Perhaps if we stripped him and thew him on the steps of a church someone might recognize him?’
‘No! No!’ Dame Edith vigorously interrupted. ‘The corpse is to be burnt now. I insist on it or I will return to London!’
Sir Godfrey looked in surprise at this defiant little woman, noticing the beads of sweat running down her cheeks. He realized that, in her state of agitation, she would not be mollified so he agreed to her demand. The sheriff and Ormiston left. Alexander, after bathing his hands and face and drinking a cup of claret, declared himself fit and well. He went across to ensure that little Robert Cotterill was well and found him fast asleep after being given a mild sleeping potion.
On his return he found Sir Godfrey in the courtyard, fastening the corpse across a sumpter pony which neighed and whinnied, nervous at the strange burden it carried. Dame Edith insisted on going with him and Sir Godfrey was too tired to object, so they left the convent building together. Sir Godfrey led the pony, Dame Edith rode on a palfrey and Alexander walked beside her, carrying a large jar of oil taken from the convent stores. At one of the city’s postern gates they woke a guard who, after seeing Sir Godfrey’s warrant, allowed them through. They threaded their way along the narrow pathways that snaked out of the city into the night-shrouded countryside. An
eerie journey. The stars shimmered like gems and a hunter’s moon slipped between the clouds. The fields on either side were quiet. Now and again the mournful hoot of an owl or the bloody hunt of night creatures in the bracken along the ditches broke the silence. No one spoke; Alexander was still revelling in his narrow escape and Sir Godfrey was too aware of the evil menace that seemed to emanate from the corpse, even though it was swung across the pony like a sack of grain. Dame Edith prayed, time and again repeating the paternoster, emphasizing the phrase Sed libera nos a malo, ‘but deliver us from evil’.
They followed the pathway over the brow of a small hill and down to a small copse of trees near a thin, silvery stream. In a moonlit glade Sir Godfrey stopped and stared around, then moved into the darkness, ordering the clerk to collect dry twigs and branches. They built a small pyre and the knight laid the corpse on top, dousing it with oil, and struck a tinder, lighting the small bundles of kindling beneath the branches. At first the wood seemed impervious to the flames and Alexander shivered.
Was the corpse resisting? But then, as if in answer to a prayer, tongues of fire caught the oil and, within minutes, the pyre was covered in a sheet of flame which roared up towards the starlit sky. Sir Godfrey threw on more branches, the fire grew, lighting up the entire glade. Alexander felt as if he was in Hell, watching a soul being burnt, as the fire greedily devoured the corpse of the Strigoi. Dame Edith kept up her prayers.
They stood for at least an hour and a half. Only when the flames began to die and a light breeze wafted the acrid smoke towards them, did they go back among the trees where they had left their horses. For a while they stood there; only when Sir Godfrey was satisfied that the raging inferno had reduced the corpse to black ash and yellowing bone did he order their return to the convent. For a while the stench of the fire seemed to follow them, like some evil spirit moving through the cold night air, and Alexander was relieved to slip back through the postern gate into the city. A heavy-eyed porter let them into the convent and took their horses. Dame Edith, lost in her own thoughts, was about to make her way towards the Galilee porch of the convent church when Alexander caught her by the arm.