by Paul Doherty
They moved across to the deep pit Cutwolf and his men had cleared. At the bottom lay a mouldy coffin, nothing better than a cheap arrow chest. Gascelyn, Smollat and the sexton, helped by the others, seized the ropes Cutwolf had lashed around the coffin and slowly began to raise it.
The chest swayed, hitting the sides of the pit. Shards of wood and lumps of soil broke free. A chilling, difficult task, as if the corpse inside was resisting this violent interruption to its eternal sleep. At last the coffin broke free of the earth, and as they settled it on the side of the grave, the top part of the chest broke away to reveal a yellowing, twisted skull, jaws gaping in a ghastly grin. ‘Master Ralph Fluberval,’ Parson Smollat announced. ‘Once a tanner, certainly a sinner.’ The parson laughed at his grim joke. ‘A widower, miserly he was, went to God after suffering a violent bout of the flux. Bardolph dug the grave.’ Anselm knelt down, making the sign of the cross over the skeleton’s head. Ignoring the protests of the others, he ripped off the rest of the coffin lid, examined its grisly contents and went to stand over the grave. Gascelyn, without being asked, clambered into the yawning hole and dropped down. Sir William handed him a spade which he dug into the packed soil. ‘Brother Anselm,’ he called up, ‘there is nothing here but dirt.’
‘Of course there isn’t,’ Anselm replied, ‘let us examine the others.’ They moved away. Stephen crouched on the grass. He felt hungry, tired and wished they could return to The Unicorn. He watched them walk away. A door banged. He glanced over his shoulder at the church. The corpse door, shifted by the breeze, opened and shut again. Stephen rose, stumbling across the mounds, kicking aside the trailing briar branches and ankle-catching weeds. He reached the corpse door and stepped inside. The church was dark. Light still poured through some of the leaded lattice windows. Strokes of sunlight scarred the paving stones beneath. Candles flamed yet they seemed from afar like the fire of a forge deep in dark woods.
‘More horned than a unicorn,’ a throaty voice mocked. ‘For all your chastity, novice, you have a nose for smelling out a dainty bit, haven’t you, Stephen? Eager to get to her, are you?’ Stephen stood, his back against the rusty, creaking corpse door. He peered through the gloom; his throat turned dry. A shadow against one of the drum-like pillars separated itself and moved towards him like a hunter speeds soft-shoed across the grass. ‘Like a heron pokes a walnut shell, isn’t it, Stephen? Thinking of getting between her thighs, are you?’ Darts of fire flickered and died. The hand of the shifting shadow came out, grasping Stephen’s wrist in an eagle’s grip. Just then he heard a knocking on the door behind him. Breathless, sweating, he turned, eager to escape from the nightmare. He opened the door. An old woman holding a lamp stood waiting. She was almost bent double, clothed in rags, hair covering her shrivelled face. Around her head was a dirty dishcloth, while her face, neck and hands were a mass of wrinkles; toothless, her lips receded over blood-red gums. All around her purple lips sprouted tufts of soft, white hair which gave her the look of a whiskered, demure cat, apart from her eyes — small black holes dancing with malice. ‘Come with me.’ The old head bobbed like that of a sparrow. Her movements were jerky, her eyes glittered and her lips twisted in a grin. She gestured with her hand. ‘Come with me.’ The voice curled in a viper-like hiss. Stephen looked beyond her. There was no graveyard now, just a long, dirty room. The plaster on the walls was crumbling, the blackened beams dotted with cruel hooks. Cobwebs hung thick and heavy as tapestries. A cat lay sprawled on an ash heap; when it lifted its head its face was human like that of the harridan. The cat opened its mouth and spoke. ‘Ah, Stephen,’ it purred, ‘man’s flesh is viler than the skin of a sheep. When sheep are dead their skin still has some use, for it is pulled clear and written upon. But, with men, flesh and blood profit nothing.’
Stephen hastily stepped forward, only to find himself falling.
‘Stephen, Stephen!’
The novice shook his head and opened his eyes. Anselm crouched beside him, gently tapping his face. Close by stood Beauchamp, a dark shape, just like that black shadow which had confronted him in the church. ‘I saw you go into Saint Michael’s,’ the clerk drawled, ‘but then you never came out so. .’ his voice trailed off.
‘Does he suffer from the falling sickness?’ Parson Smollat bustled up. Stephen gazed past him at where the rest stood, heads together.
‘Stephen, you’re just hungry, aren’t you, lad?’ Anselm asked. The novice clambered up. The day was drawing on. Dusk was creeping in. Somewhere a lych bird, the ever chattering nightjar, made its chilling call.
‘There is nothing here,’ Anselm declared, ‘nothing but old bones, shroud shards and crumbling wood. Let us go.’
The Carmelites made their farewells and, accompanied by Beauchamp and his retainers, re-entered the narrow lanes of Dowgate.
‘Who will re-inter the dead?’ Stephen asked.
‘Let Parson Smollat take care of that,’ Anselm replied. ‘I must say our parson does seem a much preoccupied man.’
They continued up the lanes. Trading was drawing to an end and citizens were making their way home along the messy thoroughfares. Apprentices still shouted. Beggars shook their clacking dishes. But, as Anselm murmured, the day was done and they were all for the dark. A cold, stiff breeze forced them to keep their cowls up across their heads. Garish signs displaying all kinds of heraldry, mythical beasts and guild insignia, creaked on rusty chains. Lanterns, lamps and tapers flared at windows or glimmered through the chinks of shutters. They reached The Unicorn, where the stable yard was busy with a line of sumpter ponies and two huge carts delivering purveyance. Coals glowed from the small forge in its narrow shed where the smith still pounded the anvil. The air was a fog of different smells: burning hair, smoking charcoal, the rich tang of manure and the various cooking smells from the kitchen and buttery. Two pie men, who had used the tavern bakery, came out with their trays slung about their necks, eager to entice passers-by with cries of ‘Warm patties, really hot! Warm patties, scorching hot!’ Stephen and his companions shoved through these. Beauchamp’s men went ahead into the tavern. Stephen followed and closed his eyes momentarily in pleasure at its cloying warmth and savoury smells. Alice appeared along a passageway, looking rather dishevelled. Flour dusted her blue veil and gown as well as her hands and face. Nevertheless, she still gave Stephen the sweetest smile and swiftly called for her father, a tall, balding Minehost with a fine face and deep, welcoming voice. The apron he wore was clean, as were the napkins over his left arm. He bowed at Sir Miles and the two Carmelites before ushering them into the taproom; this was very spacious though rather low, with an arched ceiling resting on a huge pillar painted green and gold. Common tables ranged either side of the room with private spacious booths in the large bay windows partitioned from the rest by vividly painted screens.
Minehost, who introduced himself as ‘Master Robert, formerly of Bristol,’ guided them to one of these window-tables. Three places had been laid. The taverner, his voice betraying his West Country burr, assured Beauchamp that Cutwolf, whom he knew very well, and all his companions would be well looked after. Alice stood just behind him, wiping her brow on the back of her wrist, those lovely, smiling eyes still dancing at Stephen. Suddenly her smile faded. ‘They say,’ she called out, ‘you are looking for corpses at Saint Michael’s and Rishanger’s house. News flies faster than swallows in Dowgate.’
‘Hush now, girl.’ Her father made to remonstrate but Sir Miles, who’d doffed his cloak and sword belt, busy making himself comfortable, held up a hand, smiling so appreciatively at Alice that Stephen felt a stab of jealousy.
‘Mistress, you are correct — we are looking for corpses.’
‘Margotta Sumerhull?’ Alice’s voice trembled; her father put his arm around her shoulder and gently led her away. Servitors came to take their orders. Sir Miles declared he would pay and for the best ale and wine, which were brought. Cormanye, pork fillets in wine and black pepper, aloes of beef steeped in thyme and sage with a pot of lumbar
d mustard, white, soft bread cuts and dishes of buttered vegetables were ordered. Anselm recited the Benedicite and blessed the table. They washed their hands in stoups of rose water and settled back to enjoy the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Stephen hoped Alice would reappear but her father thought otherwise, serving them himself. They ate in silence until Beauchamp put down his horn spoon. He stretched across the table, grabbed Stephen’s wrist and squeezed it. ‘What really happened to you at Saint Michael’s? Is it the falling sickness?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Anselm intervened.
‘It has happened before,’ Stephen added.
‘And the cause?’
‘Magister, you explained it once.’ Stephen forced a grin. ‘You remember, the Irish?’
‘I soldiered in the Holy Isle,’ Anselm confessed. ‘I served Dermot, Prince of Leinster. He defeated a rival clan. After the battle about two hundred heads of his enemies were laid at Dermot’s feet. Dermot turned each head over. When he recognized a face he did a dance of joy like some mummer at midsummer: he was mad with delight. I was in the retinue of an English lord sent from Dublin to help the King’s ally. It was autumn. There were fruit trees nearby, damsons full and ripe. After the battle we plucked these. I was tortured by thirst. I remember eating them as Dermot did his macabre dance. Anyway,’ Anselm sighed, ‘that prince, as lunatic as any moon man, lifted to his mouth the decapitated head of an enemy he particularly loathed and, grasping it by the ears, gnawed at the nose. A cruel and most evil act. I was revolted and sickened. I vomited what I had eaten.’ Anselm paused, taking a gulp of water. ‘I still tremble at the sheer wickedness. Even after all these years, God bless me, the smell of damson juice is enough to take me back to that day of slaughter and outrage and my belly turns nauseous.’ He pointed at Stephen. ‘My friend, you are no different. Scenes, memories come rushing back when the bell in your soul peals out what it has learnt, even if your mind has forgotten it.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘In your case, Stephen, other forces swoop in, eager to exploit such forgotten, hidden memories. So, let it be. Let us not grieve about yesterday.’ He raised his water cup in toast. ‘To us three.’ Beauchamp and Stephen responded. The novice felt relaxed. He gazed around the taproom. Hungry for a glimpse of Alice, Stephen still rejoiced in the ordinariness, the latent merriment of his surroundings. So different from those cold churches, sombre burial pits and haunted houses.
‘You will stay here,’ Anselm declared. ‘It is good for you, Stephen. Don your old clothes, help Minehost.’ He smiled. ‘Get to know Alice better.’
‘Why?’ Stephen exclaimed. ‘Why, Magister?’
‘Are you intended for our order, Stephen? Are you really? You, not I, must answer that question.’ Anselm waved his horn spoon around. ‘A good place for a good life. A man of peace dwells here. I sense that as do you.’
‘Master Cutwolf and his coven,’ Sir Miles added, ‘will protect you. Become our eyes and ears, Stephen. Immerse yourself in the life of the tavern, the street, the ward. Watch and listen.’ Stephen fought to hide his excitement. He wanted to leap up, to sing and dance a jig like some moonstruck madcap.
‘You will be given a small chamber under the eaves,’ Anselm explained. ‘You will help Minehost in a myriad of tasks. Ordinary things along with the Eucharist, prayer, fasting and good works are the best defence against what the sinister Lords of the Dark can hurl against us.’
The next such assault occurred the following morning. Just after the bells for Prime boomed across the ward, Stephen was awakened by Anselm, who’d slept on the floor of the garret the novice had been given, a small but very comfortable chamber with a bed, table, stool and lavarium. The walls were white-washed a gleaming cream and boasted a large painted cloth depicting a maiden feeding a unicorn, and a thick turkey carpet covered the polished wooden floorboards. ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ Anselm urged.
He woke and sat up.
‘Stephen,’ Anselm insisted, ‘it is dawn. Sir Miles is here. We must return to Rishanger’s house.’
‘Dark of soul, hideous in appearance!’ growled a voice. Stephen caught his breath. ‘Night of the cutting knives, the splashing of blood.’ Faces, young and fearful, swam before his gaze. ‘Trapped in darkness and unable to move on!’ The cry was piercing.
Stephen grasped Anselm’s wrist. ‘I feel. .’
‘I know,’ Anselm urged, ‘but come, Sir Miles awaits us. We must go. Ignore what you see, hear and feel.’ Stephen hurriedly dressed in his clean attire: jerkin, hose, boots and cloak. Anselm packed what he called in a merrier mood ‘his holy pannier’. They tumbled down the stairs. Beauchamp was waiting for them at the entrance. The royal clerk looked dishevelled, unshaven and heavy-eyed. He gathered his cloak about him as if to hide what lay beneath and, Stephen noticed, tried to unravel the rosary beads wrapped tightly around his right hand. ‘They are waiting,’ he announced.
The royal clerk led them into the street where Cutwolf and the others were gathered, torches gleaming against the greying light. Shapes and shadows moved. A dog howled; a cat shrieked in defiance. An early river mist had drifted in, distracting the eye and muffling sound. They left the tavern, moving in a pool of light with swords drawn through the morning murk. Bells clanged. Shouts and cries echoed. Carts rumbled, creaking and crashing. But, for Stephen, all that existed was this cortege moving through the morning mist to confront the host of wickedness. He tried to ignore the hasty voices, the pleas for help, the strident cries clamouring his ears. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing but this did not help. Shadowed faces moved before him and vanished. He glanced at a cat squatting on a pile of refuse. The cat assumed human features, a devilish grin. Ghostly fingers caressed Stephen’s face. A hand clutched his belly and squeezed hard. He exclaimed loudly at the pain. Anselm turned and whispered the Jesus prayer; the sensation faded.
The morning was dull and the river mist had yet to dissipate. The creatures of the night, not ready to return to their rat holes to sleep, ate, lurked and waited again for twilight. The streets were filthy with slops of every kind. They passed the pillories and stocks, the malefactors still cruelly fastened there by neck, wrist or feet. During the night the ward watch had surprised a group of housebreakers and carried out summary justice, hanging them from iron brackets fastened to the walls, their corpses dangled by the neck, purple faces twisted into hideous grimaces. Cats slunk beneath the swaying corpses. A yellow-ribbed mongrel sniffed the puffy hand of one of the hanged. Warning shouts carried. Figures hurried down the alleyways into the mildewed cellars where the night-walkers gathered. Stephen felt the weight of depression descend on him, then his hand was touched. He turned. Alice, heavy-eyed with sleep, a cloak wrapped about her, hair a gorgeous tumble about her smiling face, was walking next to him. She pressed a small linen parcel into his hands, kissed him swiftly on the lips and then she was gone, racing back up the street towards The Unicorn.
‘Lucky fellow.’ Cutwolf, striding beside him, winked at Stephen.
‘Love,’ Anselm murmured. ‘How truly boring life would be without it.’ Stephen felt elated. The darkness no longer clung to him. He grasped the linen parcel like a trophy, his lips still burning from the kiss. The sun would rise. The mist would thin and fade. All hell might be invoked against him but Alice was wonderful. She was thinking of him. He felt like dancing, singing alleluia. Stephen opened the parcel and stared at the manchet loaf cut, buttered and laced with thin slices of ham. He broke this, distributing it to his companions.
‘Manna from heaven,’ Anselm whispered. ‘Have you ever tasted anything so delicious, Stephen?’
The novice blushed, hastily swallowing his portion as they moved across an alleyway, stopping before Rishanger’s house. Beauchamp had been busy. Tower archers boasting the royal livery ringed the abandoned mansion. Inside the King’s serjeants in their blue, red and gold tabards guarded the various chambers. Beauchamp swept past these into the gloomy garden, now lit by flaming cressets lashed to poles driven into the ground. T
hese revealed what Anselm could only whisper as the ‘abomination of desolation’. At least six burial pits had been uncovered, each containing a white tangle of bones and skulls.
‘So many,’ Beauchamp breathed.
‘My Lord,’ Cutwolf retorted. ‘They were buried with their possessions.’ He pointed to a pile of tawdry shoes, slippers, bracelets and other dirt-encrusted jewellery. ‘They were all young women.’
‘But killed some time ago,’ Anselm declared, moving to the edge of one of the burial pits. ‘They have been in the ground some time.’
Pausing at the chattering song of a nightjar, Stephen wondered if demons nestled in the branches of the clustered orchard trees. Did the malign ones stare out, gabbling their malevolence? Stephen could not look away. The sheer misery of that place was suffocating. Anselm was correct: these skeletons belonged to the long dead — at least a year. They would not find Edith Swan-neck here.
Stephen returned to the house even as Anselm, cross in hand, solemnly cursed the perpetrators of these wicked acts. ‘May they be cursed by the sun, moon, stars, grasses and trees,’ he declared. ‘May their corpses be left unburied to be devoured by the dogs and birds of the air. May their souls enter the eternal darkness of hell where grief, without consolation, gnaws the heart and evil flourishes like weeds. May their souls be cursed to wander for ever.’
Words Amongst the Pilgrims
The physician coughed and raised his hand, rings sparkling in the light. ‘I have said enough for the moment,’ he declared. ‘My tale runs on but, there again, we promised a late start for the morrow.’ The physician moved to stand once again before the hearth. The other pilgrims also stirred, quietly discussing what they had heard. Master Chaucer, aware of their sharp and changing mood, watched intently. He did not mean to be so curious, yet he felt like a hawk on its branch, keenly surveying the field before him. The Wife of Bath was tearful. She sat crying but quickly wiped her face and rose, demanding to know where the latrines were. Other pilgrims moved. Chaucer noticed how the burly haberdasher had grown very agitated. The summoner, too, had changed, no longer the scab-faced, lecherous, hot-eyed court official, he sat on a stool tapping his fingers against the long Welsh stabbing dirk in its scabbard on his belt.
