by Paul Doherty
‘Of course,’ Anselm murmured, ‘the abbey church is closed because of the slayings.’
‘And will be for some time.’ Beauchamp waved them along to the red-tiled guest house, a magnificent building of Reigate stone with glass-filled windows. The guest master, an old, wrinkled-faced monk, greeted them warmly. He asked no questions but took them along a corridor, the walls whitewashed and gleaming, the paving stones sprinkled with herb dust. He stopped before a door, pushed it open and motioned them in. The stark, austere chamber lacked any ornamentation except for a crucifix nailed above a painted cloth displaying the IHS symbol. In each corner stood a narrow cot bed draped with a counterpane displaying the abbey’s coat of arms, a blue shield bearing a gold cross with silver fleur de lys and five golden doves. In the centre of the chamber stood a square table with stools on each side — this had been set up for dining with tranchers, napkins, knives, horn spoons and pewter goblets for water and wine. Two large jugs carved in the likeness of a dove stood on a side table beneath the light-filled, latchet window. Next to this was a squat lavarium with stoups of rose water, towels and pieces of precious Castilian soap in a copper dish. The guest master explained how the garderobe and latrines were in a special shed outside. He then hurriedly assured Beauchamp that all was prepared. They only had to ask for anything. Food would be served as soon as divine office finished and the abbey kitchens were ready.
Beauchamp, throwing cloak and sword belt on to a peg against the wall, courteously thanked him, then shut the door firmly behind the guest master, drawing across the bolts and turning the key.
‘Sir Miles,’ Anselm sat down on one of the beds, ‘Father Guardian told me that His Grace the King demanded my presence here. He talked of the need for an exorcism in the ancient crypt beneath the abbey, of the recent terrible crimes here. .?’
Beauchamp pulled the latchet window shut and walked slowly over to the table. He picked up a taper and, taking a flame from the solitary candle burning on its six-pronged spigot, carefully lit the other five. ‘Let there be light,’ he whispered.
‘Let there be light indeed,’ Anselm replied, pausing as the melodious plain chant from St Margaret’s carried across on the evening breeze:
‘They rise up, the kings of this world.
Princes conspire against the Lord and his Anointed. .’
Anselm nodded in agreement, then whispered the next lines from the same psalm:
‘You break them with your rod of iron.
You shatter them like a potter’s jar.’
‘All in God’s good time,’ Beauchamp added in a tone so eloquent in its disbelief of the very words he’d spoken.
‘Be careful, Beauchamp. Remember, the Lord comes like a thief in the night.’
‘And I shall render to God what is God’s,’ the clerk replied blithely. ‘But, for the moment, I must give, or I must return to Caesar, what is Caesar’s.’
‘What do you mean?’
Beauchamp, clutching a chancery pannier, sat down at the table, pushing aside the trancher and goblets. He drew out sheets of parchment as well as two velvet pouches bearing the royal coats of arms and tied at the neck with red twine. He undid these and gently shook out the contents. The first was a Saracen ivory-hilted dagger bound with fine copper wire, its curved blade of the finest Toledo steel. From the hilt and blade, Stephen guessed it was of considerable age: both were blotched and stained though they could easily be refurbished. Stephen then gasped loudly at the contents of the second pouch: a beautiful, pure gold cross studded with the most precious rubies and amethysts; even to the untrained eye the cross was a most costly item. It dazzled in the light, assuming a life of its own, as if some power within was making itself felt. Anselm, usually so reticent about anything, also exclaimed in amazement. He and Stephen handled the precious item, about six inches long and the same across. Although small the cross weighed heavy, Stephen lifted it up, staring at the sparking jewels, noting the intricate Celtic design.
‘Beautiful,’ Anselm whispered. ‘Angelic! The work of God’s own goldsmith.’
‘The Cross of Neath,’ Beauchamp explained, plucking the relic from Stephen’s hand. He then picked up the Saracen dagger. ‘Eleanor’s knife.’ He smiled at their look of puzzlement. Stephen felt a deep unease as soon as he had touched both precious items.
‘I will be succinct.’ Beauchamp put the items back in their pouches. ‘On the Octave of Candlemas last in the middle of February of this year, Adam Rishanger, a petty goldsmith, tried to flee the kingdom. He had sold most of his paltry possessions and went down to Queenhithe where a cog out of Bordeaux waited to take him to foreign parts. On the quayside Rishanger became involved in vicious dagger play with three masked assailants. Rishanger, with the help of some sailors, drove his attackers off. The captain of the cog, however, was reluctant to allow Rishanger on board, so our goldsmith fled down river. He was pursued. He managed to reach the King’s steps and sought sanctuary in the abbey, clinging on to the corner of the Confessor’s tomb. But his assailants followed him in. A lay brother who tried to intervene was killed — a blow to the heart, close to the rood screen. The assassins then seized Rishanger, stabbed him to death and fled. The abbey was put under interdict and closed, as you have said, and will remain so until the Lord Abbot decrees that reparation has been done and the church reconsecrated.’
‘And the killers?’
‘Fled, disappeared. You must have heard about this hideous affray?’
‘Of course,’ Anselm acknowledged. ‘I thought it was just a sign of the times.’
‘Yes and no,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘What was not made public,’ he tapped the pouches, ‘was that Rishanger’s killers did not have time to linger long after the murder; they fled, leaving their victim in a widening puddle of blood. Some of the good brothers tended to him. As they did, they found a sack Rishanger had pushed into one of the recesses beneath the Confessor’s tomb. Inside were these precious items.’
‘Plunder from some robbery?’
‘True, Brother Anselm, though a robbery which took place over seventy years ago.’
‘What?’
‘In the April of 1303, during the reign of the present King’s grandfather, the Hammer of the Scots, Edward I.’ Beauchamp paused, as if listening to the faint plain chant from St Margaret’s. ‘Now, as you may know, the abbey is the royal mausoleum of the Plantagenet family. It also used to be the royal treasury. The Crown Jewels and all the King’s personal wealth and precious items were stored in the crypt, at least until that robbery. Afterwards the crypt was abandoned. It, too, has a tale to tell, but that must wait for a while.’ Beauchamp paused to collect his thoughts. ‘In April 1303, around the feast of Saint Mark, a failed London merchant, Richard Puddlicot, seeking revenge against the King and eager for plunder, broke into the crypt.’
‘What?’ Anselm exclaimed. ‘I deal with magic and things supernal. I’ve seen the crypt: it’s an underground fortress, a bastion!’
‘I know,’ Beauchamp conceded. ‘The abbot at the time, Wenlock, was being blackmailed by two of his leading monks, Sub-Prior Alexander of Pershore and his sacristan, the monk in charge of securing the abbey and keeping it safe, Adam Warfeld. These two reprobates enjoyed an unsavoury reputation with certain ladies of the town. They conspired with Puddlicot, who sowed fast-growing hempen seeds in the monks’ cemetery close to the six windows of the crypt, which are on ground level. They set up a watch and hired a stonemason, John of Saint Albans who, as you will see, worked on the furthest window. They gained entry and passed up the treasure.’
‘But they were caught?’
‘Yes, Stephen, they eventually were. Some of the monks enjoyed a long stay in the Tower. A royal clerk, John Drokensford, who later became Bishop of Bath and Wells, rounded up the ring leaders and their coven.’
‘Including Puddlicot. .?’
‘Including Puddlicot. Drokensford then began to hunt for the missing treasure. Some he found, a great deal he did not. No one has ever di
scovered the rest of the horde, which included items precious to the royal household. This Saracen dagger was once wielded against the present King’s grandfather when he was on crusade in Outremer. A sect known as the Assassins despatched a killer who entered the royal pavilion and actually struck the King with a poisoned blade.’
‘The same as you’ve just shown us?’
‘Yes, Stephen. The King was wounded but his beloved wife, Queen Eleanor, or so the story has it, sucked the poison from the cut. In thanksgiving Edward dedicated the dagger to the Confessor and had it placed in his treasure house. The Cross of Neath is also symbolic. Once owned by the Princes of Wales, Edward crushed and killed these and seized their most sacred relic, the Cross of Neath, for his own use. Both these sacred items disappeared during the robbery of 1303. They were never seen again until the Octave of Candlemas past.’
‘How did Rishanger come to have them?’ Anselm asked. ‘And what has that got to do with us or the business at Saint Michael’s?’
Beauchamp drew a deep breath. ‘My apologies,’ he murmured, ‘for the secrecy. I wish to finish before the good brothers complete their chanting. We searched Rishanger’s house, which also lies in the parish of Saint Michael’s, Candlewick, within the ward of Dowgate. It was stripped clean. Rishanger had also drawn all his gold and silver from his bankers in Lombard Street. He intended to flee the realm with these items. Rishanger never married. He had a mistress, Beatrice Lampeter — a courtesan, a woman of notorious reputation. She, too, had apparently disappeared, but we found her mutilated corpse, her eyes removed, buried in the garden behind Rishanger’s house. Brother Anselm, you know how the removal of the eyes of a corpse is a curse intended to blight the soul after death. We suspect Rishanger killed Beatrice to keep her mouth shut. We also discovered amulets, inverted crosses, wax figurines, a pentangle.’ Beauchamp shrugged. ‘All the instruments of a warlock. Now,’ Beauchamp kept his head down, ‘the city, the court, even the church, houses those who secretly practice the black rites. Rishanger must have belonged to one of these covens. He certainly hated Sir William Higden.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘According to witnesses, Rishanger once approached Sir William with a scheme to fashion the philosopher’s stone. Higden threw him out of his house. When we discovered Rishanger’s secret cache we also found a wax figure, allegedly of Sir William, wrapped in a scrap of parchment which contained the filthiest curses against the King’s good friend. Sir William also believed Rishanger was one of those who frequented Saint Michael’s graveyard. He and others of that devilish crew were witches and sorcerers.’
‘But the treasure?’
‘To be brief, Rishanger may have been an associate of the Midnight Man and his coven. We know how that warlock held his satanic ceremonies here in the monks’ cemetery, as well as that disastrous attempt at Saint Michael’s.’
‘How do you know this?’ Anselm retorted.
‘For the moment,’ Beauchamp held up a hand, ‘I ask you to be patient. Now, it’s alleged that ghosts throng close about Westminster. An abbey has stood here when all the land around it was described as the Island of Thorns. Generations of monks have lived and died here. Many good, some indifferent, a few downright evil. Stories are rife about this or that haunting. However, recently, frightening phantasms have begun to trouble the monks: screams, cries, ghostly figures, the banging of doors.’
‘Throughout the abbey?’
‘No, just around the pyx chamber and the chapter house, as well as the crypt which lies beneath.’
‘And?’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Your statements, master clerk, are like beads, but what is the string which holds them all together?’
‘Rishanger lodged near Saint Michael’s, Candlewick. The Midnight Man performed his rites there. He did the same here at Westminster. We ask ourselves: did he raise ghosts to question them about where the hidden treasure from Puddlicot’s robbery lay hidden? Did the Midnight Man disturb what you call the spirits, malevolent or not, human or not, to achieve this?’ Beauchamp paused, staring hard at the exorcist. ‘Some would dismiss all you do, Brother Anselm, as arrant nonsense, yet you and I, we have seen the disturbances at Saint Michael’s. Others also have — Sir William Higden is certainly very concerned. More importantly,’ Beauchamp picked up the leather pouches, ‘how did a petty goldsmith find such precious treasures over seventy years after they were stolen? Rishanger must have been part of some coven — hence his pursuit, his taking sanctuary and consequent murder. Finally, Rishanger’s acquisition of such treasure must have been fairly recent. I reckon it was discovered early this year, perhaps in January?’
‘I follow your logic,’ Anselm retorted. ‘It must have been very recent. Rishanger secured possession of those items. He was overwhelmed by their riches. He did not care about the others in his coven. He sells everything he has; in a twisted way he imitated the man in Christ’s parable who finds treasure in a field so he sells everything he has in order to purchase that field. Rishanger was determined to keep such treasures — certainly the Cross of Neath. If he had sold it to the bankers in Marseilles, Genoa or Florence he would have been able to live like Croesus for the rest of his life.’
‘His Grace the King must be greatly concerned,’ Stephen declared, immediately blushing at Beauchamp’s cold, hard stare.
Then the clerk relaxed, smiled and leaned across to touch Stephen lightly on the cheek. ‘We’ll make a courtier of you yet, Stephen. You have said it! That’s why we are really here. Of course,’ Beauchamp emphasized, ‘the Royal Council is concerned at the hauntings both here and at Saint Michael’s. The King, however, in a word, wants that treasure — the precious horde of his warrior grandfather. Look, my dear friars, our King is at war. The Commons sit at Westminster only an arrow flight away. They demand this and that before they vote taxes to the King.’ Beauchamp sighed. ‘That’s before we try to collect such taxes. Now I have seen the list, kept in the remembrance chamber at the Tower, of all the treasures Puddlicot stole but were never returned. Pouches of precious stones, bags of jewellery, gold and silver coins, gold bars by the casket. A King’s ransom, my dear friars — pure, unadulterated bullion. If it’s here, our King wants it.’
‘So we have been brought to Westminster not only to exorcize a ghost but to question it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Beauchamp murmured, ‘you will also discover that His Grace has persuaded our Lord Abbot here at Westminster that the monks’ cemetery is crammed with mouldering corpses, so it is time to open the graves and remove the bones to their ossuary or charnel house.’
‘A good excuse to search the grounds,’ Anselm countered. ‘You, like the Midnight Man, believe that Puddlicot may have buried his plunder here?’
‘I do, but — ’ Sir Miles paused at a knock on the door.
Two servitors entered carrying food and drink: bowls of beef broth, dishes of diced quail spiced with ginger, pots of mixed vegetables, freshly-baked manchet loaves as well as goblets of wine. Once they had served the food and left, Anselm recited the Benedicite and they ate in silence.
Stephen now and again watched Sir Miles eat with all the delicacy of a born courtier, even as the clerk sat lost in thought. Eventually Anselm coughed and took a sip of water.
Beauchamp lifted his head. ‘Brother?’
‘You don’t believe in any of this, do you? Do you even believe in the good Lord, Sir Miles? I mean, sitting here, if not as friends then at least as comrades, I must know. It matters as to why you brought us here. It certainly influences what happens at Saint Michael’s. If someone is present who doesn’t really believe, that can affect an exorcism.’
‘You are not from the Inquisition?’ Sir Miles joked, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘You will not lodge my name with them?’
‘I regard you as a friend.’
Beauchamp pulled a face and dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘Let me explain,’ he replied, ‘you are wrong about me. I struggle very hard to believe after all I have seen, heard and fel
t in my life. No, no,’ he shook a hand, ‘I am not talking about the present ills of the church, be it the priest who is lecherous or,’ Beauchamp grinned, ‘the friar who might be even more so. God knows we are all sinners, born weak. No, I remember being in one of the King’s chevauchees in France. I led a posse of mounted archers into a village south of Rouen. Marauding mercenaries had just swept through.’ Beauchamp blinked, clearing his throat. ‘I shall never forget what I saw.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Corpses stripped, bellies ripped from crotch to throat, men, women and children. The village priest had been hung upside down in his own church; he’d been castrated. Children, babes in arms, lay with their skulls shattered like eggs. I found it difficult to accept a loving God would allow that. So,’ he picked up his goblet, ‘if that is life here on earth, is it any different beyond the veil? Isn’t that what you investigate?’ He glanced sharply at Stephen. ‘Of course, you’re the innocent. You believe different, that we really haven’t lost Eden?’
‘You know he does,’ Anselm retorted. ‘You are the Keeper of the King’s Secrets. You must have heard the gossip, the tittle-tattle, and read the reports? You know more about Stephen and myself than we do about you.’
‘You want to be a Carmelite?’ Beauchamp gestured at Stephen. ‘Do you really? Are you one because of your father, or in spite of him?’
Stephen felt a flush of anger. He ignored Anselm’s swift intake of breath and moved his arm from the exorcist’s reassuring grasp. Something about Beauchamp, as with Gascelyn, reminded Stephen of his own father. He felt the furies gather.
‘I became a Carmelite. .’
Beauchamp abruptly stretched across the table and squeezed Stephen’s hand. ‘I am sorry,’ he soothed placatingly. ‘I know you are the son of a famous, well-respected physician of Winchester.’
‘One who was also famous for being free with both his fist and his cane?’
‘You are also a young man who had visions from an early age, or so they say?’
