by Paul Doherty
They hastened up the steps, through the doorway and left through the narrow entrance into the bell tower. Simon the sexton ceased pulling the two oiled, hempen ropes. He stood gasping for breath, almost oblivious to Sir William’s constant questions. Gascelyn came clattering down the tower steps. ‘Nothing,’ he exclaimed. ‘No one is there.’
‘Simon,’ Sir William gently touched the sexton’s face with his gloved hand, ‘Simon, what happened in this benighted church?’
‘I er, came in,’ Simon stammered. ‘All was quiet.’ He gestured around the bare-walled chamber furnished with a stool, table and a battered, iron-ribbed chest, its concave lid thrown back. ‘I took out my gloves and the woollen clasp for the ropes. All was quiet. I prepared myself saying the usual prayer to Saint Michael.’ He smiled, though his eyes were full of fear, his red-poxed face deeply flushed. ‘Then one to Saint Gabriel and Saint Raphael — they are also archangels. Our two bells are named after them.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sir William urged. ‘And?’
‘I began to pull, trying to establish a rhythm. I heard movement further up the stairwell. There are chambers above; they serve as lofts. I wondered whether children were playing there or if a beggar hid hoping for a warm night’s sleep.’ Simon scratched his thinning hair. ‘I am sure I heard footsteps. Anyway, I began the peal. I heard screams, shouts and cries. A guild member came hurrying in saying that someone had fallen from the tower.’
Simon grasped the bell rope as if to give it another pull.
‘Take him away,’ Beauchamp ordered. ‘Sir William, please tell the guild there will be no meeting here tonight.’
Stephen stared across the bleak bell chamber, its corners rich in cobwebs and drenched in dirt. He noticed the coils of rope, the pots of oil and grease, the empty buckets. Stephen left and walked into the nave. He stared down at the huge rood screen, above it the cross and on either side of that life-sized carvings of Our Lady and St John. The evening light pouring through the window was dappled and emphasized the darting shadows. Stephen peered closer. He glimpsed the red sanctuary light winking beside the pyx hanging on its chain. To the left tapers still glowed in the Lady chapel.
‘This truly is,’ he whispered, ‘the walking place for wraiths, the domain of demons and a hall of beseeching ghosts.’
Was Christ really present here? Stephen reflected. Or was this church the mouth of hell yawning for its prey, breathing out terrors while the demons gathered like millions of grunting hogs?
‘Stephen!’ Anselm stood outside the bell chamber, beckoning him over even as Sir William and Gascelyn escorted a sobbing Simon to the main door where Beauchamp, half-hidden by the shadows, stood waiting. ‘Stephen,’ Anselm urged, ‘come with me!’ The novice hurried over. Anselm plucked him by the sleeve and led him back into the deserted bell tower. They climbed the steep spiral staircase. Anselm explained how the tower had been built over successive generations with one storey raised upon another. Stephen, breathless by the climb, could only grunt a reply. Now and again they stopped so that Anselm could rest. Once again Stephen heard the rasping deep in his master’s chest.
At last they reached the first storey, prized open the wooden trapdoor and climbed into the deserted loft. The evening breeze pierced the window-shafts, whirling the dust and stirring the pungent odour from the bird droppings which coated the chamber. The air grew colder as they continued their climb. Stephen felt he was being followed. No candlelight or cresset flared in the winding stairwell. The blackness closed in, stifling and threatening. Now and again a bird, like some disembodied soul, flittered, a threatening blur across the lancet window. They reached other lofts, the stone staircase being replaced by wooden ladders leading up from one storey to the next. The breeze became more vigorous. Anselm was having trouble climbing. Stephen was wary. At any other time, Stephen, advised by Anselm, would have dismissed his feelings as wild imaginings, yet he was sure they were being closely watched. A brushing sensation against his cheek, a fluttering around his eyes and against his ears, a faint whispering as if people were gathered in the loft above chattering quietly amongst themselves. A voice abruptly called: ‘Another is here!’ followed by silence.
Anselm, despite his age and racking cough, clambered resolutely up the different ladders, the sweat drenching his face. At last they reached the belfry, a cavernous chamber. The windows in each wall were at least a yard high and the same across. The two great bells, Gabriel and Raphael, hung on a massive, oil-drenched beam separated by a huge half-wheel with cogs from which the ropes dangled through the gaps of the different storeys they’d entered. The belfry reeked of iron, cordage and a thick layer of bird droppings which covered everything, particularly the wooden parapet walk which ran around the belfry at least two feet beneath each of the oblong-shaped windows. Anselm, despite the rigours of the climb, the stench and the eerie call of the birds, ignored the sinister presence which had accompanied them. The exorcist asked Stephen to stand by the hatch through which they’d entered. Stephen was only too happy to obey. Staring through one of the windows, he realized how dizzingly high they had climbed. The darkened city stretching out below seemed a different world. Anselm, however, chattering to himself, impervious to everything else, walked hastily around the parapet, stopping at each of the windows to scrupulously study the stains on the floor beneath. ‘Nothing!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come, Stephen!’ He barely waited for the novice before grasping the rungs of the ladder reaching up to the trapdoor and on to the roof of the tower.
‘Magister, must we?’
‘I must, you must, we must.’ Anselm stared down at him. ‘We search for the root, young Stephen. I believe we are on the path leading to that; only then can we pull it up. Now, trust in God.’ He grinned. ‘He will send his angels lest we dash our foot against a stone.’
Breathing prayers to St Michael and all the heavenly host, Stephen hitched his robe, thanked God for the firm, tough sandals and followed Anselm up through the trapdoor to the wind-blown roof of the tower. The strong breeze buffeted him. Below spread a swathe of pinpricks of light; to his left Stephen could glimpse the lofty tower of St Paul’s in the gathering murk. He stared around. The roof of the tower was slightly concave so water would drain off through the gargoyle spouts. Near the trapdoor stood a huge brazier crammed with kindling which served as a beacon light. The floor of the tower was covered in tightly-packed shale which provided firm grip. The four sides of the tower, at least a yard high, were crennelated with iron bars between each of the jutting crennelations. Stephen stood near the brazier, grasping it firmly against the buffeting wind. He never did like heights and this was truly fearsome.
‘Stephen.’
He reluctantly joined Anselm, who was kneeling before one of the crennelations, examining the packed gravel. The exorcist picked up pieces of fresh mud and then plucked coarse fibres from the nearby brickwork.
‘Bardolph’s, I am sure of it. The mud is fresh and these fibres are from a fustian jerkin or hose. But what was Bardolph doing up here?’ Anselm got to his feet. ‘Come,’ he urged, ‘I can see you prefer not to be so near heaven.’
Anselm smiled at his own joke but this faded as his gaze caught something behind Stephen. The novice turned and stared in chilling horror at the shape on the other side of the tower, a pluming pillar of black smoke which did not move, even in the gusty wind.
‘Magister!’ Stephen warned.
‘Magister, Magister!’ came the hissing, mocking echo. ‘Magister this, Magister that! Anselm is no magister,’ the voice continued, ‘he is nothing more than a dirty little mud worm.’
Stephen shivered against the cold horror pressing in around him. Anselm staggered back towards the wall. The exorcist was whispering the Jesus prayer: ‘Jesus, son of the living God, have mercy on us.’ Abruptly the icy buffeting wind ceased but the pillar of blackness moved to hover over the closed trapdoor.
Anselm grabbed Stephen’s arm and pulled him towards it. The air reeked of corruption. Stephen knelt to pull o
pen the trapdoor. The freezing wind returned, pummelling them hard. Stephen desperately tried to pull back the trapdoor but it held fast as if bolted from the inside. Anselm, still reciting his prayer, knelt down to help. The reeking stench made them gag. The wind beat against them. Stephen glanced up. The plume of blackness descended. Stephen could not breathe. He recoiled with horror at the stricken face which chased towards him. He felt himself being pulled back. A slap on his face made him open his eyes. Anselm, soaked in sweat, crouched by the now open trapdoor.
‘Stephen. .’ Anselm’s exclamation was cut off as Raphael and Gabriel began to toll. Stephen felt the force of the reverberation. The floor of the tower shook like the deck of a ship hit by a huge wave.
‘In God’s name!’ Anselm dragged Stephen towards the opening. The bells tolled fiercely as Anselm dragged Stephen on to the ladder. They hastened down. As they did the tolling ceased as abruptly as it had begun. They reached the bell chamber. The bells hung silently yet Stephen flinched at the oppressive atmosphere. He glimpsed a shifting shape. Some being, dark as night, fluttered around the bell chamber.
‘Magister!’
‘I know.’ Anselm grasped his arm and pulled him on. ‘Let us go down.’
They did so, carefully. Stephen noticed how Anselm would stop now and again to inspect the rungs on the ladder and the steps below.
By the time they had left the tower and entered God’s acre, everyone had gone. They walked down the path, through the gate and across the now empty lane. Stephen glanced to the right and left. Householders had hung out lantern horns on the door-posts; these now glowed and glittered through the gathering gloom. A voice shouted. A child cried. Dogs barked but the sounds faded. Anselm was whispering verses from a psalm as they crossed the street and made their way to Higden’s stately mansion. They were ushered up into the luxurious dining hall, a low-rafted chamber comfortable and warm with linen panelling and vividly painted triptychs on the wall. The merchant knight rose as they entered and ushered them both to their stools, shouting at the servants to serve the beef broth soup and slices of soft, buttered manchet loaves. Stephen, still shaken by what had happened on the tower, quietly admired Anselm’s serenity as he swiftly blessed himself and began to question the rest about what they had discovered. Beauchamp remained engrossed, bending over his platter, intent on his dish, lifting the horn spoon as if quietly enjoying every mouthful. Parson Smollat wailed about how the church might have to be closed and purified. Sir William assured him that would not be necessary; he would inform the Bishop of London. After all, it was an accident.
‘How do you know that?’ Anselm asked, stilling the conversation. ‘I mean, did anyone actually see Bardolph fall?’
‘A guild member did.’ Simon spoke up. ‘He saw Bardolph drop like a bird, clear against the sky. He hit the slate roof, bounced, then fell into the cemetery.’
‘And you were tolling the bells?’
‘Yes. By the way, we heard them peal just now. Was it you?’
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Anselm retorted. ‘The bells tolled while we were on top of the tower. We thought. .’
‘Nobody there.’ Amalric spoke up. ‘We were. .’
‘All gathered here.’ Beauchamp finished his broth, pushing away the bowl. ‘We really did think it was you — I mean, the bells.’
‘Sometimes that can happen,’ Simon offered. ‘The ropes which pull the bell wheel, if left hurriedly, slacken and drop. The wheels turn, the bells toll.’
‘Never mind that.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘What was Bardolph doing there? Why should he go up to the top of the tower?’
‘I don’t know,’ Simon replied. ‘As God is my witness, Brother Anselm, I truly don’t.’
‘Can anyone answer that?’ Beauchamp insisted. He pointed at Anselm. ‘What makes you ask, Brother? What have you found?’
‘I am not too sure. Did anyone see Bardolph enter the church?’
‘Nobody in this room,’ Sir William declared. ‘I have already established that.’
‘Simon?’ Anselm asked. ‘You went in to peal the bells. You said you heard movement in the tower stairwell?’
‘I am sure I did. I began the peal, then a guild member hurried in to tell me what had happened.’
‘Bardolph definitely toppled from the top of the tower,’ Anselm confirmed. ‘A sheer fall?’
‘His corpse is no better than a pulp of flesh,’ Almaric observed mournfully. ‘Not a bone unbroken. I had his corpse taken to the shabby alehouse he and his wife own in Hogled Lane. She’s laid out the corpse and invited her friends to drink themselves sottish. Is he to be buried at Saint Michael’s?’
‘No,’ Sir William retorted. ‘Perhaps at Saint Martin’s. I think it is more appropriate.’
‘Did Bardolph ever climb to the top of the tower?’ Anselm asked.
‘No,’ Parson Smollat replied between mouthfuls of meat.
‘Did he talk about anything untoward before his death?’
‘You heard what we all heard,’ Parson Smollat replied, ‘the night you attempted your exorcism. Bardolph explained how he fiercely resented what was happening at Saint Michael’s: the disturbance to his routine, the lack of fees, not to mention that Sir William had asked Gascelyn to guard the cemetery. Brother Anselm, we knew very little about the man, except. .’ Parson Smollat glanced at Sir William and raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘Except what?’ Anselm pressed.
‘Bardolph liked the ladies. Meet his widow,’ Sir William declared. ‘She will hardly mourn him. Bardolph bewailed his lack of fees but also felt he had been driven from what I can only call his rutting meadow.’
‘He brought his whores into the cemetery,’ Parson Smollat explained. ‘During inclement weather into the old death house or, if the season was warm enough, they would lie amongst the gravestones. Bardolph would stretch out with this drab or that. He seemed to enjoy such lewdry. He ignored my strictures, saying he didn’t give a fig.’
Anselm stared down at his platter. ‘Dusk is falling,’ he murmured. ‘Soon the darkness will shroud us all. I cannot understand why Bardolph fell from that tower. Was he driven up there by some malignant spirit? Was he forced to commit suicide? God save him, because he went to God unshriven. You gave him the last rites?’
Parson Smollat nodded.
‘Yes,’ Anselm murmured. ‘It is a terrible thing for any soul to fall into the hands of the living God.’ The exorcist stared hard at Parson Smollat, who had retreated deeper into the shadows. ‘Did Bardolph ever confide in you, parson?’
‘Why, no. Why should he?’
‘I thought he did.’ Amalric, who’d drunk copiously, declared.
‘No, no,’ the parson became flustered, ‘Bardolph was not the kind.’
‘I thought I saw him in the shriving queue at the beginning of Lent, I am sure.’ Almaric caught the annoyance in Parson Smollat’s face. ‘Anyway,’ the curate shrugged, ‘he has gone to God now.’
Stephen stared around the table. Sir William and Beauchamp sat lost in their own thoughts. Gascelyn murmured he should return to the cemetery but then made a plaintive plea about how long was he supposed to keep up supervision of that hell-haunted place? Sir William cut him short with an abrupt gesture of his hands. Servants came in to clear the platters. Anselm plucked at Stephen’s sleeve, a sign they should leave. They bade farewell, collected their cloaks, panniers and satchels and made their way out. Darkness had fallen. The streets were emptying. This was lamp-lighting time, when shutters and doors were slammed shut. The only glow of gold was the flare between the chinks of wood or from the lanterns slung on door hooks. The rain had turned the dirt underneath to a squelchy mess. Shadows moved. Cries and shouts echoed eerily. They passed houses where doors were abruptly flung open to reveal scenes inside. It was like passing paintings on a church wall. A drunk collapsed inside a hallway; a corpse sheeted in white resting on a wheelbarrow ready to be moved elsewhere; a group of dicers gathered around a pool of light from a shabby table lamp, p
inched faces intent on their game. Different smells and odours wafted out. The sickening reek of raw meat being fried in cheap oil, the pungent aroma of rotting vegetables, the faint fragrance from incense pots; all these competed with the offensive odour of the slops being deposited on the streets from jakes’ jars and urine bowls, as well as pails and buckets of filthy water.
‘Magister, where are we going?’
Anselm pulled his cowl forward. ‘Stephen, we shall be busy this eve of Saint Mark’s. First, we shall visit Hogled Lane to pay our respects to Mistress Bardolph. Truth,’ he peered through the dark, ‘will break through eventually.’ With that enigmatic remark the exorcist strode on. They took directions from a woman trimming a doorway lantern, turned up an alleyway and entered Hogled Lane, a mean, shabby runnel with a narrow, evil-smelling sewer channel along its centre. They found the alehouse, the sheaf of decaying greenery pushed into a crack above its doorway hung next to a peeling sign which proclaimed: The Burning Bush. The taproom inside was as bleak and squalid as the exterior, a low-ceilinged room with square open windows on the far wall. Bread, cheese and other perishables hung in nets from the rafters well away from the vermin which scuttled and squeaked between the ale barrels on either side. Under foot the dry rushes had snapped, split and corrupted to a mushy slime by those who had come in to pay their final respects to Master Bardolph. The dead man lay in his shroud, only his face exposed, on the long common table down the centre of the room. Cheap tallow candles ranged either side; these made Bardolph’s face even more gruesome, while the small pots of smoking incense around the swathed feet did little to make the hot, close air any less offensive.
