by Paul Doherty
‘Good evening, Master Chaucer. What do you think of our physician’s tale? Truth? Fable?’
‘Do you know, master summoner? I suspect some of the characters of this miracle play do live and breathe and are not so far from us.’
‘Really?’
‘Summoner, what is your name? Do not reply, we are legion because we are so many. I suspect your demons thrive at the bottom of a deep-bowled wine goblet.’
‘True, true,’ the summoner glanced over Chaucer’s shoulder, ‘but now our physician returns.’
‘Your name, friend?’
‘Why, Master Chaucer, I am Bardolph, come again,’ and, laughing softly to himself, the summoner went back into the taproom.
‘Master Chaucer?’ The physician, the Wife of Bath trailing behind him, strode through the darkness. ‘Master Chaucer,’ he repeated, ‘you are curious whether this is fable or fact?’ He grabbed Chaucer by the elbow. ‘Believe me,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘the dead do speak to the living, as my tale will prove.’
The Physician’s Tale
Part Four
‘Questions.’ Anselm tapped the table in Sir William Higden’s chancery chamber. ‘We will deal with this as we would a problem in the halls of Oxford. Put forward certain questions to be addressed. Sir William, Curate Almaric is taking notes for you. Stephen will do the same for myself and Sir Miles. Gentlemen,’ Anselm pointed to Simon the sexton and Gascelyn, ‘you may listen and,’ he shrugged, ‘and add anything we may have overlooked.’
‘Is this really necessary?’ Sir William looked peevish after what appeared to be a poor night’s sleep. The powerful merchant knight’s face was shaven and gleaming with oil, but the dark rings under his eyes betrayed the fact that he had drunk too deeply of the claret he apparently loved. While Anselm made soothing noises, Stephen glanced around the luxurious chamber. He was particularly fascinated by the brilliantly hued tapestries of blue, red, green, silver and gold depicting the legends of King Arthur, be it the Knights of the Round Table or Galahad’s pursuit of the Holy Grail. Stephen recalled how his own father had taken him to the great Abbey of Glastonbury where Arthur and Guinevere were supposed to lie buried, their tomb being discovered during the reign of the present King’s grandfather. Were those happy days? Stephen wondered. The past seemed so distant, so strange, as if he was recalling someone else’s life. His time with Anselm had so changed him. .
‘We should begin,’ Beauchamp insisted. The royal clerk, elegant as ever in a dark green cotehardie over a white cambric shirt and black hose, pointed to the green-ringed hour candle in the centre of the table. ‘Soon the Angelus will ring.’
‘I was only wondering,’ Sir William protested, ‘why a second exorcism cannot take place? I mean. .’ He wandered off into a litany of speculation. Stephen picked up a quill pen and sharpened it. He felt refreshed and eager for the day. Anselm and he had risen early, celebrated a dawn Mass then broken their fast. Afterwards Anselm, without explanation, had instructed Stephen to pack his panniers with a change of clothes and all he might need for a long stay away from White Friars. The exorcist had refused to elaborate but had promised the novice he would like the surprise.
‘Questions.’ Anselm’s voice cracked like a whip, making everyone sit up and concentrate. ‘First question: Saint Michael’s Church is undoubtedly haunted as well as plagued by malevolent spirits, yes? Second question.’ Stephen was now busy writing, using the cipher Anselm had taught him, very similar to that employed in the royal chancery. ‘Second question,’ Anselm repeated. ‘Who are they and why are they acting like this?’
‘Puddlicot?’ Beauchamp broke in.
‘Third question.’ Anselm nodded at the royal clerk in a moment of realization. ‘Why is Saint Michael’s haunted by the ghost of Richard Puddlicot? True, this was his parish church. He took sanctuary here but, despite this, was dragged out. He now protests at the outrage while he also haunts the crypt of Westminster Abbey. The poor soul is lost in his own tormented past. Fourth question,’ Anselm tapped the table, ‘we now tread on firmer ground. At the last All Souls the Midnight Man and his coven celebrated their black rites here at Saint Michael’s. Perhaps they did the same at Westminster? At first we considered the choice of Saint Michael’s to be random — now we are not so sure. This brings us to our fifth question: was the purpose of the Midnight Man’s satanic celebration to search for Puddlicot’s buried treasure? If so, how did they know about it? Sixth question: did they find some of the treasure? Undoubtedly so! The Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger but how, where and when? Question seven.’ Anselm paused to take a sip of water. ‘Was Rishanger a member of the Midnight Man’s coven? How did he seize such treasure? Who killed him and his Mistress Beatrice? Question eight, Bardolph’s death: was he driven to the top of that tower — was he possessed, forced to commit suicide? Question nine: Adele, Bardolph’s wife, a member of this parish — yes, Parson Smollat?’
The priest, pale-faced with anxiety, nodded in agreement.
‘Why was she murdered in her shabby alehouse which possesses not one religious artefact? Oh, by the way, Parson Smollat, did you bring your book of the dead as I asked?’
The parson lifted a sack from where he had placed it, close to his feet, and drew out the leather-bound ledger. ‘What do you want with it?’ Smollat’s voice quavered.
‘In a while,’ Anselm replied. ‘Sir Miles, your men are ready?’
‘Of course!’
‘What is this, Anselm?’ Sir William asserted himself. ‘You ask questions but surely you are here to provide the answer to why Saint Michael’s is haunted.’
‘As yet I cannot do that properly. I do not know what lies at the root of all this. I have one more question, or perhaps two. So, question ten: Bardolph the gravedigger. He desperately searched for his lady love, Edith Swan-neck. He found a necklace he had given her lying in Saint Michael’s cemetery. What happened to Edith, and what are these rumours about other young women disappearing?’
The chamber fell silent. Stephen stopped writing. Abruptly he raised his head. He was sure, certain, that he heard faint chanting.
‘So what do you suggest, exorcist?’ Sir Miles sat, hands clasped, half-concealing his face. ‘I must also give answers to those in authority.’
Anselm snapped his fingers at Parson Smollat. ‘My friend, I want you to give us the names of the last four people buried before the thirty-first of October last year and, when we are ready, take us into the cemetery where, I hope, with the help of your men, Sir Miles, to open their graves.’
‘Why?’ Smollat stuttered, ‘For God’s sake, that is sacrilege!’
‘Not if we are searching for the truth.’
‘Anselm!’ Sir William’s face tensed with anger. ‘Why this, why now?’
‘Because, Sir William, I am trying to answer my own questions. Listen now.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Almaric interrupted, ‘you said you might have two other questions. Do you have a second?’
‘Yes, you did,’ Gascelyn confirmed.
‘Oh, that,’ Anselm smiled icily, ‘is linked to my final proposition. Bardolph, unlike us, God forgive him, discovered something. I am sure it was to his great profit but, more than that, I cannot say.’
‘So what now?’ Sir Miles asked. ‘Anselm, don’t you have any firm conclusions?’
‘Oh, I have propositions, hypotheses. Let me explain. I believe the Midnight Man, whoever he is, discovered the secret of Puddlicot’s treasure. How and when I don’t know.’ Anselm breathed in. ‘I believe he and his coven discovered two items from that lost hoard. How, when and why? Again, I do not know. I believe Rishanger was a member of his coven. He stole those items and tried to flee — he and his mistress were both killed. Rishanger fled because he realized that the Midnight Man had not only failed to establish the whereabouts of the rest of the treasure through the practice of the black arts but had summoned up much more malignant forces. In doing so, the Midnight Man had attracted the attention of both Co
urt and Church. I also suggest that perhaps Bardolph — certainly his wife, Adele — was part of the Midnight Man’s coven.’ Anselm shook his head at the cries of protest from Parson Smollat and Almaric.
‘I confess, I am not too sure about Bardolph but I would suggest Adele definitely was. She was silenced because of what Bardolph may have discovered or may have told her.’
‘Which is what?’ Parson Smollat queried.
‘In truth, I don’t know, parson. Do you? Didn’t Bardolph go to you to be shrived? Did he confess? Can you tell us anything outside the seal of confession?’
‘Nothing.’ Parson Smollat sighed, licking his lips. ‘Bardolph talked of his love for Edith Swan-neck. He asked if I knew of any other young maidens who had disappeared.’ Smollat’s voice faltered. Stephen stared at him. He had met the parson a number of times over the past few days and the priest was certainly changing, becoming more nervous and agitated. A troubled spirit, Stephen concluded, but was he wicked, malicious? Parson Smollat certainly seemed to be losing his confidence by the day, his anxiety clearly expressed in his unshaven face, unkempt robes and dirty fingernails, which constantly scrabbled over the table top.
‘What do you want?’ Smollat bleated. ‘Brother, what do we do now?’
‘Sir Miles.’ Anselm gestured at the royal clerk. ‘I want your men to open the graves of the last four people buried in Saint Michael’s Cemetery before the Feast of All Souls last.’ Anselm rose to his feet. ‘Parson Smollat, Sir William, I suggest you supervise this. Sir Miles, once your henchmen have reached the coffins or shroud cloths of the dead, they are to seek us out at The Unicorn in Eel-Pie Lane or elsewhere.’
Stephen hid his confusion and surprise as Anselm prepared to leave. Sir Miles summoned Cutwolf and the others into the chamber, giving them strict orders on what to do. Parson Smollat was now feverishly consulting the book of the dead, Simon the sexton peering over his shoulder, watched by a very taciturn Sir William. Gascelyn and Almaric had already adjourned to one of the spacious window embrasures, quietly discussing what the exorcist had suggested.
Once they had made their farewells and walked out into the street, Anselm and Beauchamp strode ahead, deep in conversation, with Stephen hurrying behind. The lane was busy, thronged with crowds, so Stephen was pleased to be by himself. He could also reflect on why they were going to The Unicorn and desperately hoped to catch a glimpse of the fair Alice. He only exchanged a few pleasantries with one of Beauchamp’s henchmen, Holyinnocent, who had been chosen to escort them to the tavern. The day was certainly busy. The constant chatter, tramping of feet and crashing wheels of the high-sided carts were a constant din. Hucksters, peddlers, apprentice boys and tinkers screamed and shouted for business, desperate to catch the eye or grasp a cloak to sell some trinket, pot, pan, knife or piece of cloth. Strange sights appeared and merged into the moving crowd. A babbling half-wit rolled a barrel into the street then upended it to stand on; once ready he proclaimed to the puffed up, ribbon-bedecked gallants who gathered around to poke fun at him that he was the Prophet Jonah come again. Beadles and market marshals strode pompously with their wands, ready to wrap the back and legs of those trading without licence. Funeral processions merged with guild solemnities in a bobbing confusion of lighted candles, swinging thurifers as well as different chants and prayers. Anselm and Beauchamp strode on through this noisy bustle. Now and again Holyinnocent would recognize a friend and exchange good-natured banter. Occasionally they had to stand aside for malefactors, all dirty and bedraggled, being marched down to the pillories, stocks and thews. A bawd and her pimp followed tied to the tail of a cart while a fat, sweaty-faced beadle lashed their naked backs and bottoms with a rod, splashing himself and passers-by with specks of blood.
Stephen was aware of the world closing in around him, a stark contrast to the simplicity and serenity of the cloister. Cartwheels squeaked, bawds shrieked, porters grumbled. ‘The Children of this World’, as Anselm called them, swarmed either side in filthy rags or sumptuously embroidered silver brocaded clothes, shuffling and shouldering each other, jostling and jeering, haggling and hustling. They reached The Unicorn, a pleasant-fronted tavern standing in its own courtyard, which stretched up to the main door. Stables and outhouses flanked two sides. The tavern itself was a lofty, three-storey mansion of black timbers and pink plaster on a stone base. Stephen was surprised they did not enter. Instead, Holyinnocent was told to take the baggage in and rejoin them. As soon as he did, Anselm winked at Stephen and declared they had other places to visit. ‘Minehost has your baggage,’ Holyinnocent whispered to Stephen as he rejoined them. ‘And we are off to Newgate.’
They took the broad alleyway leading up to the formidable prison built into the ruins of the old city wall. A grim, slimy-walled lane with every second house a tavern under its creaking, battered sign. The Sanctuary of Dead Man’s Place: this was the haunt of thieves who stared out through chinks and gaps in doors and shutters. They recognized Beauchamp’s insignia and let them pass through. A hunting horn wailed a warning while a hoarse whisper, ‘King’s Man’, ran before them up the long, dark tunnel. The message kept the bullies with their swords and staves, as well as their harridans armed with spits and broomsticks, from sallying forth. They left the alleyway and entered the great, fleshing market, which flourished in the shadow of the huge sombre towers of Newgate, a place swimming in blood. The carcasses of poultry and livestock were being swiftly slaughtered, hacked and then hung from hooks above the stalls. A shambles of blood, stinking guts, entrails and boiling salt. Red-spattered butchers and their boys roared for business while beggars, dogs, cats and kites fought for the juicy scraps.
Beauchamp, escorted by Holyinnocent, elbowed and thrust his way forward. They gained entrance through a narrow iron door into the prison proper, a true vision of hell: a warren of evil-smelling passageways where the reek and stench poisoned the nostrils and stifled the throat. They passed open chambers where key-clanking janitors guarded what they scornfully called ‘human vermin’ — prisoners with long filthy beards and straggling wild hair, all swathed in dirty rags. The keeper who led them into the stygian darkness screamed at everyone to step aside, only to be answered by raucous shouts and curses. They went down some steps lit by flaring torches. The smell grew more rank and unbearable. The walls glistened with snail slime. Spiders big as bumble bees spun their webs to span niches and corners. They reached a circular cavern called Limbo. In the centre rose a huge stone called Black Dog with a squat tallow candle burning on top. Holyinnocent pointed to the heavy doors which faced them, whispering how these were the condemned cells. While the keeper unlocked one of the cell doors, Holyinnocent explained how many a condemned felon had dashed his brains out against Black Dog rather than take the ride in the death-cart.
Stephen, holding a sponge soaked in vinegar against his nose, went and sat on one of the battered benches. This was a truly evil place. The atmosphere oppressed him. Cries, despairing and pleading, pestered his ears. A feathery shadow crept across the floor, spilling over him, creating a wave of deep fear and panic. A haggard face came shooting out of the murk, its bone-white features twisted in an angry snarl, bloodshot eyes full of some nameless fury.
‘Stephen, Stephen?’
The novice shook his head. Anselm stood, beckoning him. The cell door was now flung back. The turnkey had dragged out a shambling figure loaded with iron fetters, barefooted and dressed in the long black gown of the condemned. He was virtually unrecognizable, his head and face being hidden by a mass of tangled hair, moustache and beard. The turnkey pushed the prisoner down a passageway. Beauchamp told Holyinnocent to stay while he and the two Carmelites followed the turnkey along the slime-covered passageway, up a short flight of steps into a surprisingly clean, neat chamber. The walls were painted a brilliant white and a crucifix hung beneath the barred windows high in the wall. There was a sturdy table with benches on all four sides. The turnkey lit the fat tallow candle in the centre of the table and left. Beauchamp made sure t
he entrance was free of eavesdropping, slammed the door shut and, going across, pushed the prisoner down on a stool.
‘This is the chaplain’s room,’ Anselm explained. ‘I insisted it be fashioned like this. I used to come here to shrive the condemned. Are you condemned?’ Anselm sat down close to the prisoner. All Stephen could glimpse were the man’s bright, smiling eyes.
‘This is another kind of shriving,’ Beauchamp murmured. ‘Everything will be in a whisper. Brothers, may I introduce Roger Bolingbrok, former Dominican friar, also known as William Chattle, Peter Waltham and so on and so on. One of my most redoubtable spies or Judas men. Isn’t that right, Roger?’
The prisoner smiled in a flash of white teeth, lifting his manacled hands to clear the hair from his face.
‘I cannot show you any mercy.’ Beauchamp’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘At least not now.’
‘Will he hang?’ Stephen asked.
The prisoner grinned and winked at the novice.
‘Oh, no,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘Tomorrow a writ will arrive which confirms Master Bolingbrok’s claim to be a cleric. He will be handed over to the Church, tried before an ecclesiastical tribunal at Lambeth and exiled to some monastery in the wilds of Northumberland. He will be shaved, bathed and given fresh clothes for the journey. He will travel no further north than Saint Albans, where Master Bolingbrok will escape to reappear in London under another guise. Now,’ Beauchamp became brisk. ‘Brother Anselm, Brother Stephen, I have made reference to the Midnight Man’s exploits in the cemetery of Saint Michael’s. How his black Mass and dark rites went so wrong he had to flee.’
