by Paul Doherty
The assembled mourners moved like sinister ghouls through the gloom. They huddled in the dark either side of the candlelight watching the sin-eater, a gnarled old man with long dirty hair, moustache and beard. He wore a crown of ivy, his face was painted black, his eyelids and lips a deep scarlet hue. He muttered some chant as he moved along the corpse, picking up with painted lips the offerings of sin symbolized by pieces of bread and dried meat. Now and again he would stop and chew noisily, throwing his head back like a dog, clap his hands softly, gesture towards the ceiling and move on to the next piece. Stephen expected Anselm to intervene but the exorcist just stood and watched. The old man’s chanting grew louder. Greedily and noisily he devoured the sin offerings. Stephen did not like the ceremony; other beings were busy thronging in. Stephen could see, and he was sure Anselm also did, their swarthy, worn faces. These flocked close to his own, cheek by jowl, with pointed beards, glittering, dagger-like eyes, their chattering tongues crudely imitating the sin-eater’s words. Stephen stared at the corpse; the more he did the stronger the visions grew: a road was opening up, long and dark, lit by a full moon and lined by shiny green cypresses, the moon-washed path glittered as the light sparkled on its polished pebbles. An owl, wings extended, passed like a ghost over the bedraggled figure staggering down the path. Stephen recognized the mud-splattered Bardolph. The dead gravedigger had lost his swagger and used the spade he carried as a crutch. As this hideous figure staggered closer, Stephen recoiled at the sight of Bardolph’s eyes and mouth tightly stitched with black twine.
‘Stephen!’ Anselm shook him vigorously; the figure disappeared. The sin-eater had gobbled all the offerings. Someone was playing a lute. The mourners were drifting back to the casks where dirty-winged chickens roosted on their iron-hooped rims. A woman broke away from the rest and came towards them. She had a heavy, leathery face, hard eyes and a rat-trap mouth. She brusquely asked their business while she scratched her face, fingers glittering with tawdry rings. She forced a smile when Anselm courteously introduced himself and Stephen. She replied that she was Adele, Bardolph’s relict or widow. Anselm leaned down and whispered in her ear. Her puffy arrogance and shrewish ways abruptly faded. She stared, mouth gaping, and gestured that they follow her into the buttery at the back of the alehouse.
‘What did you say?’ Stephen hissed.
‘I told her that, unless she told the truth,’ Anselm whispered, ‘I had a vision of how, within a year and a day, she would join her husband in purgatory.’ He nudged Stephen playfully. ‘It always works; it still might.’
Adele took them into the buttery, a squalid room with chipped shelves, battered cups and tranchers, small casks and barrels. ‘What do you want?’ She sat down on a stool and nodded back at the taproom where raucous singing had begun. ‘I have guests to cater for.’
‘And a tidy profit to make on your husband’s death, Mistress Adele? I will be brief. You do not seem to be the grieving widow?’
‘That, Reverend Brother, is because I am not.’ Adele wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘I am no hypocrite. Bardolph was dead to me long before he was pushed from that tower.’
‘Pushed?’
‘Yes, Brother, pushed! What was Bardolph, a gravedigger and womanizer, doing on the top of Saint Michael’s tower? Why go there?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he ever go there before?’
‘Never. I tell you, Bardolph didn’t like heights.’
‘So why should someone push him? Did he have enemies?’
‘Were you your husband’s enemy?’ Stephen asked.
‘Bardolph had no time for me. We were indifferent to each other. He was only interested in his whores from that nugging house, The Oil of Gladness in Gullet Lane.’
‘Nugging house?’ Stephen asked.
‘Brothel,’ Anselm whispered.
‘He was a mutton-monger.’ Adele paused to listen to a cackle of laughter from the taproom. Stephen scrutinized this cunning woman, her soul steeped in malice. She had an aura of squalid unease, a dirtiness of spirit.
‘He was always one for the ladybirds.’ She continued: ‘Prostitutes.’ Adele sniggered. ‘Well, not now.’ She fingered the silver chain around her thick, sweaty neck: a small gold swan hung delicately from it. Both looked out of place next to the dirt-lined seams and wrinkles of her skin. ‘One in particular.’ Adele sniffed. ‘Edith Swan-neck is what that princess of the night called herself. Bought her this as a present, he did.’
‘And?’
‘The little whore disappeared, God knows where. Bardolph searched but even her sisters of the night at The Oil of Gladness couldn’t tell him.’
‘So the necklace?’ Anselm asked.
‘Bardolph claimed he found it in the cemetery at Saint Michael’s, lying in the grass. Oh, that was some time ago. Anyway, after that he’d say strange things. .’
‘Mistress?’ Anselm drew a coin from his belt purse and put it on top of an upturned barrel.
‘He said he would have his revenge against Parson Smollat.’
‘Revenge?’
‘I don’t know why. Bardolph also boasted how he would be rich one day — then I would see him in a different light. I have, haven’t I?’ she sneered. ‘Corpse light!’ Again, she sniffed. ‘I can tell you no more. He left this morning as usual, told me to look after the alehouse. God alone knows what happened.’ Adele’s fingers edged towards the coin on the barrel but Anselm picked it up and slipped it back into his purse.
‘If you have anything more, Mistress, but not until then.’
They left the alehouse and walked through the gloaming towards the torches flickering on the main thoroughfare. These had been lit by the wardsmen who had also fired the rubbish heaps to create more light and some warmth for the destitute slinking out of their corners and recesses. Some of these brought scraps of raw meat to grill and cook over the flames. The smell of rancid fat swirled everywhere. Stephen kept close to Anselm for this was the haunt of the night-walkers, the brothers and sisters of the dark, the fraternity of the bone: carrion-hunters, snakes-men, moonrakers, slop-collectors and all the rest who waited for the cover of night to do their work. The two Carmelites were swiftly inspected and ignored. A group of mounted archers appeared and the bobbing shadows and weasel-faces, all cowled and hooded, quickly disappeared. Anselm took advantage of this, stopping by a fire, watching the archers clatter by.
‘Magister, Bardolph?’
‘What do you think, Stephen?’ Anselm replied. ‘What do I think? Are we thinking what we are supposed to be thinking?’
‘Magister, you are talking in riddles.’
‘So I am — my apologies. Was Bardolph’s death the result of the haunting? Did he become possessed? Was he forced up to the top of that tower and made to jump? Or was he fleeing from some horror which crawled out of the walls?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Stephen replied, looking to his right as the people of the dark began to gather again. ‘I reflected on what happened while Adele was chattering. I saw Bardolph’s corpse, all pure in its white shroud, except for that sin-eater.’
‘Paganism,’ Anselm intervened, ‘but continue, Stephen.’
‘In life Bardolph was a man cloaked in dirt and mud. We found traces of that on the tower near the place where he fell.’
‘And?’
‘I watched you, Magister, as we went down that tower. You found no trace of mud or dirt on the steps or stairwell. Is that right?’
‘Yes, correct. You are the most observant of novices. What else?’
‘Bardolph didn’t like heights. True, he could have been possessed but why should demons take someone they already have? A man immersed in the lusts of the flesh.’
Anselm softly clapped his hands. ‘The most subtle of novices. And?’
‘I believe Bardolph was carried to the top of that tower and thrown down. He was probably taken up wrapped in a sheet or a piece of canvas which would account for no trace of mud being left on the stairs or s
teps.’
‘Stephen, I believe the same. Yet, when Bardolph fell, was not everybody clustered around that table in Sir William’s house?’
‘Except for the Midnight Man and his coven?’
‘I agree. Bardolph’s assassins, whoever they may be, want us to regard Bardolph as the victim of secret, dark forces. He was, but those powers were of this world rather than the next.’
‘Magister, what do you think is happening?’
‘It is very simple.’ Anselm stretched his hands out to the flame. ‘Now you are cold, you draw close to this fire. What came first? Why, the idea, of course. If you were warm would you even give this bonfire a second glance? Now, Stephen, think of something unpleasant.’
‘My father!’
Anselm laughed softly. ‘If you must. However, do you feel your body react at the thought of this man who believes you are madcap and fey-witted, so much so that he wanted to lock you away in some convent home? He dismissed what you saw, heard and felt, as the result of upset humours. He cast you out. Now, Stephen, what do you feel? A beating of the heart? A tumult in the stomach and bowels? So, change your thoughts and think of something pleasant. Alice Palmer, the maid who kissed you?’ He nudged Stephen. ‘That will not be difficult. Think of her lovely lips, the gentle cusp of her cheek, her pretty eyes. Oh, God be thanked,’ Anselm murmured, ‘for the vision of women. You feel happy, contented, flattered?’ Anselm grasped a piece of stick and prodded the flames making the sparks flutter and rise. ‘The business of Saint Michael’s and the abbey is very similar. Powerful emotions are expressing themselves in the phenomena we see. The cause is not human weakness but something much darker: ice-cold malice.’
‘Such as?’
‘Murder, Stephen — horrid, cruel, calculating murder allied to a malicious interference from the spirit world.’
‘Murder?’
‘Oh, yes, Stephen — the slaughter of innocents. Some hideous crime which shrieks for justice — not Bardolph’s, but whose, as yet, we do not know. Now,’ he sighed, ‘your august but severe father asked me to educate you and so I shall.’ Anselm swiftly glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he whispered, ‘I think we are being followed. Anyway, Stephen, have you ever been to a brothel? No, I don’t think you have. Well, it’s The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane for us.’
Anselm asked directions from a surprised beadle supervising the feeding of the different bonfires now burning merrily along the runnel. The Carmelites strode off, pushing through the now gathering throng as the Worms of London, the poor and all their associates, swarmed out of their rat-like dens to search for what the city had left them. The streets were busy as the different fraternities from the guilds dispensed their charity: the Brotherhood of the Heavenly Manna, the Society of the Crumb, the Sisterhood of Martha, the Brethren of Lazarus — men and women garbed in penitential robes pulling hand-carts and barrows full of food, meat, bread and fruit rejected by the markets. Torches glowed. Flames juddered against the whipping breeze. Smells and cries carried. Beadles, bailiffs and wardsmen wandered armed with cudgels, swords, pikes and ropes, searching for those sanctuary men who thought they could leave the safety of their havens at St Paul’s and St Martin’s to wander the streets hunting for food, plunder and further mischief. London’s underworld had opened up. Anselm, clutching his satchel, walked fast. He kept to the centre of the street though he was careful of the filth-crammed sewer.
They reached The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane. From the outside it looked like a small, prosperous tavern with smartly-painted red woodwork and mullioned glass windows in all three stories. The door was guarded by two well-known water-pads: thieves who stole from barges on the river. Anselm greeted both like old friends. ‘This is my companion, a novice,’ Anselm declared.
The two monsters stepped fully into the pool of light created by the torches flaring either side of the doorway. ‘Stephen, this is Stubface. You can see why. He had the pox which pitted his face while the other,’ Anselm gestured at the smaller of the two, ‘is Wintersday, called so because, allegedly, he is short and very nasty. Well, my beloveds?’
The two oafs muffled in their cloaks shuffled even further forward, their bewhiskered, ugly faces furrowed in puzzlement. Both reeked heavily of ale. Stephen was wary of the nail-studded maces they carried. Wintersday was the first to regain whatever wits he had, his misshapen, grey features cracking into a broken-toothed smile. ‘Why, God bless us all, Brother Anselm! What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Surely you are not looking for a mort, a doxy?’
‘No, my brother in the Lord, just words with your mistress.’
‘You mean the Lady Abbess?’ Stubface barked.
‘You can call her that,’ Anselm retorted, ‘I don’t.’ He strode between both men and gripped their shoulders. ‘Let us proceed in God’s name.’ Anselm turned both men by the shoulder and marched them up the steps. Wintersday lifted the iron clasp on the door, carved in the form of a penis, and clattered it against the wood. The door swung open and a young woman dressed in white like a novice nun invited them in. She looked both Carmelites from head to toe, pulled a face and muttered something about everyone being welcome. She then ushered them into a small, very comfortable antechamber, its walls decorated with frescoes which immediately intrigued Anselm but made Stephen blush. The novice nun stood in the doorway a little longer, grinning at Stephen until the two burly guards, left standing in the hall, insisted she let them out. She closed the door behind her. Stephen, in his embarrassment, continued to stare down at the soft turkey cloths which covered the floor, now and again darting glances around the comfortable chamber with its elegantly carved dressers for wine and goblets, the quilted stools and leather-backed chairs.
‘Interesting,’ said Anselm as he turned away from the fresco depicting the god Pan playing with two fauns. ‘Stephen, don’t be embarrassed. I saw worse at a house in Paris. It is just wonderful,’ he sighed, ‘how humans are fascinated by love in all its many aspects. It constantly intrigues me.’
‘Magister,’ Stephen asked, eager to change the subject, ‘how do you know those two guards outside?’
‘Oh, Stubface and Wintersday? Once, for my many sins, I served as chaplain to the prisons of Newgate, Fleet and Marshalsea, and those two beloveds were regular members of my parish. God knows how they’ve escaped hanging at the Elms at Smithfield or the Forks near Tyburn stream. Of course, they have a powerful patron, our so-called Lady Abbess, proprietor of this house. Indeed, someone I also consider a former member of my parish, Lady Rohesia Clamath, self-styled Irish princess, a famous whore and former courtesan, probably knows more about the human heart than a whole convent of Carmelites.’
The door opened and a stately woman dressed completely in a dark blue veil and gown swept into the chamber, her long, unpainted, severe face framed by a starched white wimple. A gold cord circled her slender waist while the buskins she wore were of silver satin and decorated with small roses of red damask. She glared disapprovingly at Stephen but her face broke into a brilliant smile as Anselm, who’d decided to study the fresco once more, turned and walked over to her, grasping her hands to kiss them gently.
‘Anselm,’ she murmured, clutching his fingers, ‘you have not come. .?’
‘No.’ The exorcist shook his head and ushered her to a seat. He drew up a stool, beckoning at Stephen to do likewise. ‘There will be no Lady Abbess nonsense here, Rohesia Clamath. Bardolph the gravedigger?’
‘Blunt as usual.’ Rohesia grinned. ‘Still, good to see you. I will never forget. .’
‘Please,’ Anselm tapped her knee, ‘leave the dead to bury their dead. The past is gone. Bardolph the gravedigger from Saint Michael’s, Candlewick?’
‘Bardolph was a frequent visitor, like so many of his parish.’
‘Mistress?’
‘Almaric the curate, Simon the sexton. .’ Rohesia was enjoying herself, using her long, delicate fingers to list more names, ‘. . and Bardolph the gravedigger.’ She smiled.
‘Parson Smollat?’
‘Never but, there again, Anselm, why should he? His woman Isolda once worked here and, by all accounts, was very popular.’
‘Sir Miles Beauchamp?’
‘Oh, our mysterious clerk who slinks like a shadow? No, he has never graced my house with his presence, but you never know.’
Anselm sat with his fingers to his lips.
‘Don’t be surprised,’ Rohesia caressed his cheek softly, ‘that so many of Saint Michael’s parish come here. Welcome to the world of men, Brother Anselm, where fornication and swiving are as natural and common as eating and drinking. You all eventually come here,’ she added, softly pausing at a laugh which echoed from deep in the house. ‘I am breaking confidence, Anselm, because I trust you, I like you. I am in your debt. And,’ she made a moue with her mouth, ‘I have also heard about the commotion at Saint Michael’s — the news, the gossip, the chatter which runs through these alleyways swifter than a colony of rats. Even more so now that Bardolph has flown from his church tower, poor man.’ Rohesia bowed her head, fingers picking at a thread in her beautiful gown.
Stephen sat, fascinated. He had never met anyone like Rohesia — so serene, so confident. She talked about the world of men; what, Stephen reflected, would it be like to enter the world of women? This chamber, so delicately painted, elegantly furnished, its air sweet with the most alluring of fragrances.
Rohesia stared at Stephen, her face more gentle. ‘Another man of visions,’ she murmured. ‘Bardolph,’ she turned back, her tone brisker, ‘often came here. He was infatuated with one of my nuns.’
