by Paul Doherty
‘Stephen, Stephen!’ Anselm was shaking him. The novice broke from his nightmare, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in his own head. ‘Stephen,’ Anselm whispered, ‘I can feel the same. This night is as restless as an evil conscience in a tumbled bed. Something is about to happen. Pray God we keep safe!’ They walked on. Cutwolf drew sword and dagger as they left the thoroughfares of Dowgate. They entered the little, crooked, dog-legged alleys of White Friars, which ran under houses so dingy they’d turned black, and were so ancient and corrupt they had to be supported by wooden crutches. Now and again little knots of figures would break from wallowing in the dirt and dart like bats into the doorways or alley-mouths. Here human wolves alongside crime, filth and disease lurked in the shadows or behind dark doors leading down to even darker vaults and cellars. Underfoot the path was nothing more than slimy mud and stinking water. The dungeon-like doors and prison-like windows remained shut. Nevertheless, voices called and trailed. An occasional light flared and dimmed. Cutwolf was recognized, the two Carmelites noted as they made their way through the squalid, hellish maze of the needle-thin paths, their ill-dug sewers crammed with disgusting refuse.
Stephen had to cover his mouth against the constant, pressing, infected smell. He felt frightened. A hideous presence hovered close, hurrying breathless to his right then to the left, only to slip behind him like some threatening assassin. The sweat started on his body. Stephen fought the mounting panic until suddenly, without being bidden, Cutwolf broke into song, his harsh voice intoning St Patrick’s Breastplate, a powerful invocation for God’s help.
‘Christ be with me,
Christ behind me,
Christ before me,
Christ beneath me.’
Anselm joined in. Stephen grew calm, and also took up the refrain:
‘Christ in danger,
Christ in the mind of friend and stranger. .’
The darkness thinned. The terrors receded as they swung into a narrow street and stopped before the ill-lit St-Olaf-all-alone, the creaking sign with its rough depiction of the northern saint almost hidden by dirt and grime. They pushed open the door into the drinking chamber, a gloomy place lit by the occasional taper glow. The taverner, standing by the board, recognized Cutwolf and snapped at the two oafs guarding the makeshift staircase built into the corner to stand aside. These gallowbirds, who rejoiced in the names of ‘Vole’ and ‘Fang’, stepped back into the darkness. Cutwolf led the Carmelites up into the stygian, stinking blackness along a narrow gallery lit by a lantern horn perched on a stool, and into a shabby chamber. Bolingbrok crouched by a pile of sacking which served as a bed. On this sprawled a narrow-faced man; in the mean light of the tallow candle his pallid, unshaven skin shimmered with sweat and blood bubbled between chapped lips as he clutched his belly wound, a soggy, gruesome mess.
‘This is Basilisk,’ Bolingbrok murmured. ‘Thief, assassin, God knows what else. Stabbed over a cogged dice and now bound for judgement.’ He leaned down. ‘Aren’t you, my bully boy?’
Basilisk could only gasp. ‘Miserere!’
‘Yes, yes,’ Bolingbrok replied. ‘I keep my eyes and ears open for the likes of Basilisk. He needs a priest. He couldn’t care now about this or that. He has told me one thing, even though he recognized me as a cast-off priest, a defrocked one. We have chattered, Basilisk and I, and he has confessed.’
‘To what?’
‘To being a retainer of the Midnight Man’s coven.’
‘As God be my witness,’ Basilisk still had his senses, ‘I was recruited over a year ago.’
‘And how do you meet?’ Anselm pushed his way forward to kneel by the bed. Bolingbrok gently withdrew, allowing the exorcist to lean over the dying man. ‘The day after every full moon,’ Basilisk gasped, ‘the summons is posted in terms only we understand. On the great post near the Si Quis door at Saint Paul’s. The date, the time and the place.’
‘But anyone curious could note these?’
‘No, no,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘the place is numbered — fourteen, for example. We then look for a second bill, written out simply, the number reversed so it is forty-one, which stands for Saint Michael’s. The places are well known to us, usually along the mud flats or beyond the city walls.’
‘And the Midnight Man?’
‘He appears hooded and masked, well-guarded.’
‘And the ceremonies?’
‘No.’ Basilisk glanced at Anselm beseechingly. ‘I was only a guard, a retainer — not a member of their coven. I was not present at their filthy rites at Rishanger’s house or elsewhere.’
‘So what did you do exactly?’
‘He was an assassin,’ Bolingbrok hissed. ‘He was summoned whenever there was killing to be done.’
‘Who?’ Anselm placed a hand gently on the dying man’s chest. ‘Who?’ he repeated. ‘You are to go before God’s dread judgement, Basilisk. Hell awaits you, that blind world, mute of all light, dark, deep and cloud-filled. Hell is a horrible valley where the devils rain down the souls of murderers to melt like lard in a frying pan and seep through the iron-grilled floor as molten wax does through a straining cloth. Do you wish to escape such a place? Then repent, confess, be absolved!’
‘I and others,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘imposed order on the coven.’
‘You mean those who strayed or disobeyed?’
‘In morte veritas,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘in death truth.’
‘You are schooled? You are a clerk?’
‘As God be my witness, a clerk, schooled in the hornbook. A scholar of Oxford. I served in the King’s array and returned steeped in blood.’
‘You were given the names of those the Midnight Man marked down?’
‘Yes, it always meant sentence of death. A grocer in Poultry, a tanner in Walbrook. We were given both the name and the house — we never failed. Most of the deaths were judged as an accident: a fall from a chamber, crushed by a cart or a boating mishap near London Bridge.’
‘And Rishanger?’
‘We were ordered to follow him and, if he tried to flee, kill him. We attacked him at Queenhithe but he fought like a man possessed.’
Basilisk paused, breathing out noisily, gargling on the blood filling the back of his throat. He abruptly braced himself against a shaft of pain.
‘I gave him an opiate mixed in heavy wine,’ Bolingbrok whispered. ‘He cannot last much longer.’ Basilisk began to ramble, chattering in Norman French, the words ‘Mother’ and ‘Edith’ being repeated time and again. Stephen, who had stood with his back against the shabby door, wiped the sweat from his face. The chamber was growing unbearably hot; the only window was a mere arrow slit. Stephen’s gaze was drawn to it. He tensed at the bony, taloned fingers which grasped the rim of the narrow opening as if some repulsive creature clung to the rotting masonry outside, desperate to pull it out and force an entry. ‘The hour of greatest darkness!’ a voice murmured. ‘See the fluttering banners of Hell’s Host. The Lords of the Night gather. The Knights of the Pit prepare for chavauchee. The Dragon’s archers string their bows. Judas time! Darkness falls! The Armies of Hell have received their dread writ of array.’ Stephen forced himself to look away, to concentrate on Anselm, who was gently stroking the dying man’s face. The exorcist paused in a fit of coughing, shoulders shaking at the violent retching. Stephen’s heart missed a beat. When this was over, he promised himself, Anselm must visit the best physicians. He wondered if he should write to his own father.
‘Rishanger?’ The exorcist recovered from his coughing fit.
‘We pursued him. Killed him in the abbey but we were unable to find the treasure he had hidden.’
‘And?’
‘The Midnight Man was furious. We were summoned to a meeting in the ruins of Portsoken but did not go. Since then all has been quiet. There are rumours of a great stirring but. .’
‘A great stirring?’
‘The Midnight Man is whistling up his coven — that is all I know.’
‘And the other t
wo who were with you at Rishanger’s death?’
‘Dead,’ the man gasped. ‘Strange, isn’t it? We failed so we, too, were marked for death.’
‘And the Midnight Man?’
‘I know nothing of him or his coven. Father, please absolve me.’
‘Stay outside.’ Anselm spoke over his shoulder.
Bolingbrok, Cutwolf and Stephen stepped into the ill-lit narrow gallery. Beauchamp’s henchmen stood silently, shadows against the shadows. Stephen glanced through the narrow window — nothing was there, yet he could hear a distant chanting. Stephen closed his eyes and prayed. The gathering was imminent. He recalled Eleanor’s words. She was certainly right: this would end in blood. They stayed for a while. The door opened. Anselm stepped out. ‘He could tell me no more.’
‘He still lives?’ Bolingbrok asked.
‘Just.’
Bolingbrok stepped around Anselm and, opening the door, entered the chamber. The bolts were drawn; a short while later they were pulled back. Bolingbrok, dagger in hand, stepped out. ‘He is gone,’ he murmured. ‘A mercy cut. No physician could save him. When the opiate faded he would have known hideous pain. He is past all caring and gone to God. We must leave.’
Anselm put his fingers to his lips and, abruptly, without warning, burst into tears. Cutwolf seized his arm but the exorcist shook him off. ‘I weep,’ he explained, ‘at the sheer, soul-harrowing sadness of it all.’ The exorcist took a deep breath and crossed himself. ‘Let us go.’
They left St Olaf-all-alone and walked briskly back through the streets. Even before they reached Dowgate the smell of burning curled heavy in the air, while a bright orange glow suffused the night sky. Bells began to toll. Lantern horns appeared. Doors opened and shut as they turned through the maze of lanes leading to Saint Michael’s. ‘The church is on fire!’ Anselm exclaimed. They hastened on; the closer they drew, the deeper their alarm. Stephen followed his master who, he noticed, had to stop to relieve his hacking cough. Tendrils of smoke brushed their faces; the smell of burning grew thicker. They rounded a corner and stared in horror. A fire raged through St Michael’s; its vivid glow illuminated the church set on top of a slight rise. The windows of the nave were bright with an unholy light. Tongues of flame shot up through the roof. The ward had been alerted. Sir Miles, swathed in a cloak, stood under the rain-drenched lychgate. Beside him, Sir William Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn. A figure lurched out of the darkness, slipping and slithering on the grass. Holyinnocent stepped into the pool of torch light. ‘The very fires of hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sir Miles, you must come. It is safe. You must see this.’
Beauchamp turned to the two Carmelites, ‘Good evening,’ he whispered, ‘pax et bonum. You met Master Bolingbrok?’
‘We did.’
Sir Miles nodded and indicated that they all accompany Holyinnocent across the cemetery. Stephen followed, staring fearfully at the furious inferno ravaging the black shell of the nave. Window glass had disappeared and all wooden structures must have burst into flame.
‘How?’ Anselm called out.
‘We do not know,’ Sir William replied. ‘I was a-bed when the tocsin sounded and the alarm was raised. I thought your man Holyinnocent was guarding the lychgate?’
‘He was,’ Beauchamp snapped tersely, ‘while your squire was in the death house.’
‘I heard nothing,’ Gascelyn declared. ‘I woke to the roaring flames. It was so sudden.’ Any further conversation was cut off as Holyinnocent led them under the great, canopied yew tree where they’d found the log to breach the sacristy door. At first Stephen thought it was a vision: two shapes hung above the ground, moving soundlessly from side to side. Only when Holyinnocent walked across, joined by Cutwolf, who had fired another sconce, was the full horror revealed. Necks twisted, faces a ghastly blueish-white, eyes popping, mouths gaping, Parson Smollat and his woman Isolda hung from the end of ropes, the nooses tied so tightly around their necks that their flesh was ploughed a rough, bloody furrow. Smollat was dressed in his robes; one boot had slipped off, lying next to the bench both must have stood on then kicked over. Isolda was garbed in a simple robe, soft buskins on her swinging feet, her hands, like those of Smollat, hanging listlessly by her side. Both just dangled, slightly twisting, the yew tree’s branches now creaking in protest.
‘Their hands?’ Holyinnocent muttered.
Anselm inspected them, lifting them up. Even in the poor light, Stephen, standing beside the exorcist, could see that they were blackened. Anselm sniffed at Parson Smollat’s and let them drop. ‘Oil,’ he declared, ‘possibly saltpetre. Did they start the fire then come here and hang themselves?’
‘So it would seem,’ Beauchamp answered. ‘Let us inspect them more closely. Bolingbrok, cut them down.’
Sir Miles walked off towards the blazing inferno now consuming St Michael’s; even as he did, part of the roof cracked and collapsed in a furious surge of fire and spark. Standing behind him, Stephen stared back across the cemetery.
At the gate Beauchamp and Sir William’s retainers were holding back the gathering crowd, assuring them there was nothing to be done. The fire would be left to burn. Sir William had already proclaimed that as there were no buildings standing nearby, the danger was slight. So, apart from the usual warnings about every household being wary of sparks and to have ladders, hooks and buckets of water at the ready, there was nothing to be done for the church.
‘A cleansing fire, eh, Stephen?’ Anselm, who had finished his inspection, came up to stand beside him.
‘What truly happened here, Magister?’
‘God knows, but Saint Michael’s church is finished.’
Anselm turned away as Beauchamp, along with Cutwolf, strode off towards the priest’s house. The henchman’s flaring cresset streaked the darkness, the flames flickering in the direction of the church as if they were eager to join that violent conflagration. Stephen continued to watch the fire. Molten lead streaked down the walls, a grey, moving sludge, and the fire had now spread to the tower; an ominous red glow already lit the high open windows. The more Stephen stared at that maelstrom of flame, the deeper his anxiety grew — a chilling apprehension that this fire would do little to cure the evil which hung over this place just as heavy and as real as the thick clouds of smoke now pouring into the night. Stephen caught his breath. He glimpsed movement against the hellish red nimbus around the windows. Figures and shapes moved swiftly, as if the gargoyles and babewyns had come to life and were leaping about the fire.
‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,’ the voices sang. ‘Dominus Deus Sabaoth — Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts.’
The choir of voices shrilled across the cemetery. Stephen looked over his shoulder; Bolingbrok and the rest were cutting down the corpses. Gascelyn had managed to provide canvas sheets. They worked unaware of anything apart from the burning church and those two ghastly bodies. The singing, however, low and carrying, came from the other side of the cemetery. Stephen walked across and stared into the night. He swallowed hard, clenching his mouth tight against the apparitions. No longer tendrils of mist or vapour but figures, stark and clear, now gathered threateningly amongst the tombstones and crosses. He could not make out individual faces but they stood unmoving, staring across at either him or the burning church. Gathering his courage, Stephen walked slowly towards them. The cowled figures shifted gently in the gloom. ‘Light and peace,’ a voice whispered. Stephen started as something raced through the gorse in front of him, rustling the grass: a dark, darting shadow of an animal, snorting and snarling like some fierce dog. Stephen blinked at the abrupt flashes of light. He felt himself shoved in the chest. A face, horrible in every aspect, gasped and mouthed before him. Crouching down, Stephen tried hard to control his panic. The vision disappeared; nothing but the bleak night lit by that conflagration.
Stephen rejoined the rest. Bolingbrok had finished sheeting the corpses. They followed the torch-bearers through the cemetery, across the enclosure and into the priest’s house. Stephen was imme
diately struck by its ordinariness: the kitchen was clean, well-swept and tidy, the great carving table scrubbed a dull white, clear except for a bunch of keys lying on top of a piece of greasy parchment. The rushes on the floor were green and wax-like, the pink-painted walls shiny in the candlelight. The fire in the grate had burnt low, the small ovens either side still warm, the copper and brass pans, pots and cutlery hung orderly on their hooks. The corpses were laid out on the floor. Stephen stared at the ghoul-like faces, twisted and frozen in their final death agonies. Beauchamp and Cutwolf, who had conducted a swift search of the other chambers, strode into the kitchen. ‘Nothing!’ Beauchamp declared. ‘Nothing at all.’ Everyone remained silent while Anselm administered the last rites. Once completed and the corpses covered, Cutwolf and the rest guarded the door. The two Carmelites, Beauchamp, Sir William, Gascelyn and Almaric gathered around the great kitchen table.
‘The fire broke out suddenly, without warning,’ Sir William began. ‘It would seem Parson Smollat, God save him, together with his woman Isolda, started it. They moved oil, kindling and other combustibles into the church.’ He pointed at the keys. ‘Parson Smollat apparently had these all the time. Brother Anselm, you found them and that scrap of parchment on his corpse. Both his hands and those of Isolda were stained with oil and pitch, saltpetre and even grains of cannon powder.’
‘I would agree,’ Anselm declared.
‘Did they commit suicide?’ Stephen asked abruptly.
‘So it would seem.’ Anselm sighed. ‘There is no trace of force or imprisonment on their corpses; I was most vigorous in my inspection. My only conclusion is that Parson Smollat and Isolda, for God knows what reason, started that fire then hanged themselves in the shade of that yew tree.’ He gestured around. ‘Look at this house. Sir Miles, you have searched as carefully as any royal surveyor — nothing is out of place! Both the parson and Isolda appear to have lived a normal life. They apparently finished their evening meal in the kitchen then decided on their own deaths and the destruction of the church they served. Parson Smollat must have quietly purchased oil and other materials.’ Anselm paused to clear his throat. ‘Parson Smollat even wrote what might be a confession. We shall come to that. However, did he and Isolda act in their right minds? I don’t know. The parson also held the keys, which raises the strong possibility that he may have had a hand in Simon the sexton’s mysterious death. Was all this deliberate? Or did the infernal powers which haunt this site possess both him and his woman?’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Sir William, I would be grateful if you would make a careful search of what Parson Smollat bought over the last few days.’
