by Paul Doherty
Anselm paused, fingering the wooden cross around his neck. Stephen glanced up and flinched at the evil, gaunt face glaring down at him from the pitch dark. He shifted his gaze.
‘Hate-made holes slick with blood. Soul weary, the spirits gather to sing sorrowful songs,’ a voice taunted. Stephen glanced up at the moving, dancing shapes which floated and darted like shards of ash. A billow of dust swept by, only to dissipate in a pool of light.
‘Shrouded in sadness,’ the voice whispered. ‘Release must come!’
‘You.’ Anselm’s voice cracked under the strain. ‘You, Higden, became convinced that Puddlicot’s treasure hoard was here. You regarded my interference and that of Sir Miles as vexatious but not serious. More importantly, you needed to close this church so that you could search it thoroughly as well as control your own followers. Bardolph was not obeying. Recalcitrant, stubborn, absorbed with Edith Swan-neck, the gravedigger was not a member of your inner cell. However, I think he began to suspect your true identity, Sir William. The night we first attempted to exorcise this haunted place, Bardolph openly grumbled at the lack of burial fees. He was secretly making a barbed sally against you. How he was burying corpses, those of your victims, which brought him no income. He probably resented Gascelyn occupying the death house, assuming duties Bardolph considered his own. Above all, unbeknown to you, Bardolph had become obsessed with the whore Edith Swan-neck from a local brothel. Edith was, I believe, invited to Saint Michael’s by one of your coven who had noticed her beauty when either Gascelyn or Almaric visited the The Oil of Gladness. Was she told how she had caught the eye of no less a person than Sir William Higden? Full of herself, Edith hurried away. She was inveigled into the meadows of murder. She was abducted, killed, her corpse like the rest wrapped tightly in shroud sacking and buried by Gascelyn. Bardolph searched for her. He discovered his beloved definitely left for Saint Michael’s but then disappeared. He later found her necklace in the cemetery. Bardolph became furious, fearing full well what might have happened and holding you, Sir William, responsible. Full of anger and resentment, Bardolph’s twisted heart turned to the prospect of blackmail. He openly boasted about his rich prospects. He may have even mentioned something to Parson Smollat. He had to be silenced. Adele or someone else in the coven alerted the master to the danger. Bardolph was killed in this church by your minions here. His corpse, wrapped in a sheet, was carried to the top of the tower, unwrapped and pushed between the crenellations. It is,’ Anselm smiled grimly, ‘difficult to glimpse anything at the top of that soaring tower, especially when the sun moves into the west and the light begins to fade. More importantly, I stood there when the bells mysteriously tolled; that tower top shook like a tree in a furious gale. Bardolph’s corpse, resting between the turrets, simply toppled over when Simon the sexton began to peal the bells.’ Anselm spread his hands. ‘Just another mysterious death in this haunted church.’
‘But the sexton claimed,’ Almaric taunted, ‘that he heard someone walking up the steps of the tower.’
‘The spirits!’ Higden jibed.
‘No, no,’ Anselm retorted, ‘that was just poor Simon’s imagination and the effects of your minions going up and down the steps; trapdoors being opened, dust stirred, doors unlatched.’ Anselm paused as the captain of the archers came hurrying through the darkness. He leaned down and whispered into Cutwolf’s ear. ‘Well?’
Higden rose and stretched, stamping his feet. Cutwolf also got up to meet him, gesturing that Higden sit down. The merchant knight did so reluctantly. Cutwolf went off to whisper to the archers and came back. ‘There is a pit,’ he announced, ‘cleverly concealed beneath one of the paving stones of the death house. They lifted that and went down.’
‘And?’ Gascelyn could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice.
‘Nothing!’ Cutwolf replied. ‘Nothing but a barrel and some boxes.’
Stephen’s heart sank; Anselm sighed noisily.
‘However!’ Cutwolf snapped his fingers. ‘In moving the bed, Master Gascelyn, we found this.’ An archer handed over a small casket. Cutwolf lifted the lid to reveal a heap of bangles, cheap rings and necklaces. Cutwolf sifted amongst these and handed over a bracelet. ‘Read the inscription.’ Anselm examined the tawdry item and mouthed the word Margotta.
‘You stupid fool!’ Almaric snarled, before Higden shouted a warning. Cutwolf screamed into the darkness and an arrow shaft whirled through the air, smashing into the wall behind them. ‘That proves nothing,’ Higden spluttered. ‘Gascelyn bought. .’
‘Silence!’ Cutwolf took his seat, gesturing at Anselm to continue.
‘Bardolph’s death was necessary for three important reasons.’ Anselm leaned forward, jabbing a finger at Higden who, like his two companions, was clearly agitated. Almaric sat, arms crossed, looking down at his feet; Gascelyn, hands on his knees, stared blindly before him.
‘Three important reasons,’ Anselm repeated. ‘The same applies to all the other mysterious murders here. First, to clear the board, to remove anybody who might get in your way. Secondly, to silence gossiping mouths. Finally, and most importantly, to depict this church and its cemetery as a haunt of demons,’ Anselm chuckled. ‘And that would not be difficult.’
‘Why?’ Cutwolf’s attitude had changed slightly, as if listening to something which would convince him about what he should do.
‘Oh, as I have said — to close this church and pull it down. Sir William would have free rein to explore, dig, pull up and push until he found Puddlicot’s treasure. Lord, the sheer wickedness of the logic! Publicly Sir William is the generous benefactor, promising the world a splendid church, a gorgeous new beginning. In truth, however, he is a Satanist, a blood-drinker, murderer and arsonist.’
‘Smollat burnt this. .’
‘No, no, Sir William, let me explain further. You murdered Bardolph for the reasons I have given. You then silenced Adele, leaving that flask of poisoned wine in her alehouse, a special mourning gift for her. Adele was a greedy woman — she drank the wine full of arsenic. She had to die just in case Bardolph had chattered. You visited her house in the guise of the local justice so one of your minions could search and remove anything suspicious.’ Anselm wiped his hands. ‘All neat and tidy.’ He gestured at Cutwolf. ‘Your water bottle, please.’ Anselm took a deep gulp and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He replaced the stopper and put the water bottle between his feet. ‘Simon the sexton died for the same three reasons. Was he, too, asking awkward questions? We found a scrap of parchment on his chancery desk written in English, Norman French and Latin. What did it say? “Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael’s?” Lucifer, before he fell, was an archangel, too. Was Simon openly hinting about you, Sir William? A friend of Saint Michael’s Church and yet, at the same time, Lucifer, the fallen angel?’ Higden just glared back. ‘And of course, what a tale! A story to reinforce your intentions, Sir William. The poor sexton, driven to suicide, cutting his own throat in his own church — nonsense!’ Anselm sniffed. ‘Simon was lured into this nave. You cut his throat. You locked and bolted both the sacristy door and the main door. As far as the ancient corpse door is concerned — well, it sticks and groans when it opens. You removed the key and, after the murder, Almaric, a carpenter, coated the side of the door with a heavy glue; the type woodworkers use when they fashion a casket. Enough glue to keep that heavy door firmly shut. I found small glue droppings on the path outside. I wondered, why? Now I know.’ Anselm paused. ‘Once inside the church, when we’d discovered Simon’s corpse and became busy with your victim, one of you slipped shut the bolts on the corpse door and proclaimed the key was missing. Of course it wasn’t — you had the keys and so you created a real mystery. A church where all three doors were locked and bolted yet a man within, all alone, had his throat cut. The work of demons, of ghosts. In a way people were right about your work, Higden, you and your two minions here.’ Anselm paused to drink from the water bottle. He offered this to Stephen, who shook his head. The novice was
tense, absorbed in the unfolding tale.
‘Parson Smollat and Isolda also had to die. Perhaps the good parson had seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps Bardolph did confide in him, though I cannot prove that. Anyway, you and your kind paid the parson a visit late one evening. Smollat and Isolda must have been terrified. Gascelyn worked with the Inquisition before you turned him. He would know what to do. You forced Smollat to write that message, implicating himself in the destruction of his own church. You then forced him and his woman to drink cups of drugged wine. Once they had, you took them out to that yew tree and hanged them. You stained their hands with oil and saltpetre. Afterwards, you saturated the church with oil, cannon powder and saltpetre and turned it into a hellish inferno.’
‘Parson Smollat bought the oil!’
‘Of course he did — at your request, before you paid him that fatal visit. You’d explained to him how both Crown and Church wanted this building cleansed and razed.’ Anselm took a deep breath. ‘Parson Smollat may have even welcomed that. Finally, you decided on our deaths.’ Anselm grabbed Stephen’s shoulder and pressed hard. ‘At Sir Miles’ sumptuous dinner party, you whistled up your coven of killers. Sir Miles was murdered. Thank God we escaped.’ Anselm got wearily to his feet. ‘You know, Higden, Sir Miles always suspected you were not what you claimed to be.’
‘Proof, proof, proof!’ Higden shouted. ‘Evidence, apart from a casket full of tawdry items.’
‘And the logic of my allegations?’
‘Proof!’
‘The casket and. .’ Anselm dug into his pouch and pulled out the script found in Parson Smollat’s house.
‘You can search my chambers!’ Higden protested.
‘We would find nothing. You have already proved you hide your footsteps well, except,’ Anselm twirled the strip of parchment between his fingers, ‘for Parson Smollat’s last message. You should have studied your hornbook better, Higden. Sir Miles certainly did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Habeo igne gladioque,’ Anselm read out loud, ‘destruxi ecclesiam nostrum — I have, with fire and sword, destroyed our church. In the Latin original,’ Anselm whispered, ‘if you take the first letter of each word, what do you get?’
‘No,’ Almaric protested, ‘no, it cannot be!’
‘But it is,’ Anselm soothed. ‘The word Higden is formed. Parson Smollat, whatever he was, knew he was going to die. For once he acted the brave priest. I think it is very appropriate, don’t you? A message from the dead, from beyond the grave? Sir Miles certainly understood the message, as did I. We thought we would wait and get further proof — we certainly shall.’ Anselm turned. ‘Master Cutwolf, you have them?’
The clerk whistled into the darkness and the archers brought a sack forward. Cutwolf shook out the long white Carmelite robes. He and Bolingbrok swiftly dressed, both robes had rents at the side so swords and daggers could be drawn in an instant. They pulled up the cowls, had a murmured conversation with the captain and left the nave. Four of the archers followed at a discreet distance. Higden went to move. ‘Stay!’ the Captain of the Archers bellowed. ‘Only the Carmelites may move.’ Stephen watched the line of archers bring up their bows — ghostly hooded figures, their winged death merely a whisper away.
‘Pray, Stephen.’ Anselm touched the novice lightly on the arm and went to kneel on the sanctuary steps. Stephen walked through that ominous line of bowmen to the ruins of the corpse door. He stared out across the night-shrouded cemetery. So much had happened there, and now a gathering was imminent.
‘Dark night. A host of shadows cluster,’ a voice whispered. ‘They will snare the sin-drenched souls in their dizziness. Hem them in their own terror-filled madness.’ Figures merged out of the blackness twisted in deformed infirmity. A faint rottenness teased Stephen’s nostrils. ‘Corruption lays siege,’ a voice hissed, and the visions faded. Far out in the cemetery a light appeared, small but brilliantly white. Then abruptly a baby laughed cheerily. ‘Christ’s tiny voice!’ The very air breathed the words. ‘The Divine Child.’
‘Blessed be he,’ another voice thundered, ‘who prepares my arms for war and my hands for battle.’
‘The shield wall still holds.’ The first voice spoke again. ‘But will the armour fail, the heroes fall?’
Stephen broke from his reverie. Clear on the night air echoed the soul-chilling clash of steel. The ringing scrape of sword on sword, the vicious clatter of dagger blades. Shouts and cries trailed then lapsed into silence. Stephen stared in the direction of the lychgate. A light appeared — the hungry flames of a cresset torch, the murmur of voices, the groans and cries of wounded men. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok strode out of the night; behind them archers dragged two men garbed in black leather. Both were wounded: one had a bubbling cut to the side of his neck while the right leg of the second man simply trailed as a piece of useless, twisted flesh. Hoods and masks had been removed to reveal hard, lean, unshaven faces. Stephen stared closely. He was sure both men had, at some time, visited The Unicorn. He hurriedly stepped aside as the cortege swept into the church. Cutwolf was brutal. Seizing the prisoner with the broken leg and, despite his screams and protests, he forced him to kneel, yanking back his head, pressing the cutting edge of his dagger against the prisoner’s pulsing throat.
‘Who were you to kill?’
The man shook his head, crying to himself.
‘Who?’
‘Two Carmelites,’ the man blurted out. ‘We were told they would leave the church and take the lanes back to White Friars sometime after the Vespers bell sounded. We watched the church. We saw you leave so we withdrew and waited.’
‘For the surprise of your life,’ Bolingbrok jibed. ‘And your orders? Come, man, let your tongue chatter.’
‘We received a message.’
‘From whom?’
‘The tavern master of The Gates of Hell.’
‘The Southwark tavern?’
‘The same.’
‘And?’
‘We were told to visit a haberdasher’s shop in the Mercery. To look for a message in a leather writing case, embroidered with the arms of Castile.’
‘And payment?’
‘To visit the church of Saint Frideswide as the bell for Terce sounded tomorrow, and look for six silver pieces in a pouch pushed into the old leper-squint in the wall.’
Cutwolf, ignoring the man’s protests, pulled him to his feet and thrust him forward so the other prisoner had to catch him. Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn, subdued and watchful, clustered together.
‘Who?’ Anselm strode to stand in front of them. ‘I ask you as the only people who knew that two Carmelites were here at this time, are now with us in this church, so who told these assassins?’
Cutwolf broke the brooding silence. He drew his sword with a rasp and held it up, fingers clutching the cross-hilt. ‘I, Edmund Langley, commonly known as Cutwolf, clerk in the Secret Chancery of England, faithful retainer of Edward King of England, Scotland and France, by the power given to me, adjudge you, Sir William Higden, Squire Gascelyn, Curate Almaric and,’ Cutwolf pointed at the two moaning prisoners, ‘all your adherents, to be traitors taken in arms against the Crown.’
‘We demand a fair trial,’ Higden spluttered, face pale as he realized the full impact of what was happening.
‘Taken in arms against the King.’ Cutwolf stepped back. ‘You murdered my master, a royal clerk. You pillaged the King’s treasure. Your coven attacked the King’s loyal servants. You murdered then revelled in your victims’ blood. You have committed heinous treason, sacrilege and arson.’
‘By what right?’ Higden took a step forward.
‘I am a cleric,’ Almaric bleated.
‘By this.’ Cutwolf, still holding the sword up, dug into his wallet and handed Stephen a small script. ‘Read it aloud, boy, read it so all can hear.’
Stephen, hands shaking, unrolled the stiff, cream-coloured parchment.
‘Out loud!’ Cutwolf repeated.
‘What the bearer of this seal has done, he has done for the Crown, the realm and Holy Mother Church. All officers and loyal subjects of the Crown, on their duty of allegiance and on pain of treason, must give the bearer of this seal and all his work full sustenance and support.’
‘And?’ Cutwolf demanded. ‘What else?’
‘Given under the secret seal at our Palace of Sheen, on the fourth of May in the forty-seventh year of our reign, Edward the King.’
‘And the seals?’
‘Two,’ Stephen replied. ‘The signet seal of the King.’ Stephen peered at the generous blob of purple wax. ‘And that of the Secret Chancery at Westminster.’
‘Taken in arms.’ Cutwolf’s words were full of menace. ‘Adjudged traitors, sentenced to death, punishment immediate.’ He stepped forward. ‘Archers,’ he lifted a gauntleted hand. ‘Notch!’
Stephen shivered at the ominous rattle. Higden fell to his knees. Almaric turned, looking wildly for escape. Gascelyn drew his dagger.
‘Loose!’
The air thrummed with a sombre twang, the hiss of feathered death as the arrow shafts, one volley after another, sped into the exposed group. The two failed assassins simply toppled over. Almaric, his back turned, was hit three times. One shaft pierced his neck, bursting through his gullet. Gascelyn was struck in both face and chest. Higden, caught on all fours, rolled in agony as the shafts pierced deep into his side and belly.
Stephen glanced at Anselm. The exorcist’s face was as white as snow, his lips crusted with blood. He could only sketch a cross in the air. The condemned lay sprawled. Gascelyn and Higden still jerked. Cutwolf, sword sheathed, misericorde dagger in his hand, moved from corpse to corpse, slitting throats as cleanly as a woman would clip a flower head. Once finished he plucked the commission out of Stephen’s icy fingers, winked at the novice and walked away. ‘Do not grieve for them,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘Hell has them and God’s creation is richer for it.’ Cutwolf walked back, tears glittering in his hard eyes. ‘I loved Sir Miles,’ he whispered, ‘more than David loved Jonathan. A good man, Stephen. In my eyes, God’s own child. These villains brought their death on themselves. God will judge them.’
