by Paul Doherty
The others grouped around the table were subdued. Parson Smollat, neat and fussy, his rosy cheeks now full-red from the claret he’d generously supped, his piggy eyes ever darting, his clean little face screwed up in concentration as he listened to the conversations swirling about him. Simon the sexton was no different. A smug little man with a streak of vanity betrayed by the way he let his scrawny, silver-grey hair tumble down to his shoulders. Curate Amalric was different. A scion of a noble Somerset family, or so he often proclaimed, Amalric disdained what he dismissed as ‘courtly fancy’ and dressed simply in a long black robe, heavily stained with food, wine and other unmentionables. Amalric, head and face completely shaved, was bony and angular – so much so that the curate reminded Stephen of a skeleton.
‘You want more claret?’
Stephen glanced down at the other end of the table where their host, Sir William Higden, sat enthroned, holding up the wine jug, gazing expectantly around at his guests. A plump city merchant knighted by the King, dressed in a beautiful quilted jerkin of dark murrey, Sir William was trying to remain cheerful despite what was happening in his parish church of which he was the lord, holding its advowson, the right to appoint the parson and other clerics. Sir William’s podgy face under its mop of thinning reddish hair gleamed with oil.
‘More wine, sirs, surely?’
Sir William’s question was politely refused. Amalric gazed longingly into the far corner where the flame of the hour candle was slowly sinking to the next ring – compline time.
‘Are you sure?’ Sir William’s face was now drained of all good humour: his small black eyes hard as pebbles, no longer wrinkled in a smile. The merchant knight put the wine jug down. He played with the medallion on the chain around his neck then started to slip on and off the rings decorating his podgy fingers. A strange man, Stephen reflected, Sir William had fought strenuously for King Edward in France before amassing a fortune in the wool trade. He had raised loans for the King who’d rewarded him with a knighthood and a secure place in the Commons where, of course, Sir William could defend the Crown’s rights. A warrior turned merchant, Sir William’s stately mansion overlooked the sprawling cemetery of St Michael’s, Candlewick. He was a lord who took a keen interest in his local church and all things parochial. He now used the wine jug to bang on the table and still the desultory conversation. He was about to speak but paused at a knock on the door. This swung open immediately and Sir Miles Beauchamp, Chief Clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal, swept into the room. Beauchamp arrogantly surveyed them all as he undid the clasps of his heavy, dark blue cloak; he swung this off, tossing it over an old chair just within the doorway.
‘Gentlemen, kind sirs, good evening.’ Beauchamp undid his war belt carefully, folding it around the two blood-red scabbards carrying sword and dagger. He placed this carefully on the cloak and pulled down the quilted jerkin so its high collar showed off the snow-white cambric shirt beneath, the tight-fitting waist and padded shoulders emphasizing Beauchamp’s slim figure. The royal clerk walked the length of the table, studying each of them carefully. Dressed in black, the silver spurs on his high-heeled boots clinking at every step, Beauchamp carried himself as if his person was sacred and his very presence of crucial importance. Just past his thirtieth summer, Beauchamp was a clerk greatly favoured by the old King. He looked and dressed like a fop with his be-ringed fingers, tight-fitting hose and languid ways, almost womanish with his handsome features, blond hair coifed and pricked like any court lady. Beauchamp could be dismissed as one of those decadent minions whom the preachers thundered against with cutting references to the secret sin of Sodom.
Brother Anselm, however, after he and Stephen had met Beauchamp earlier in the evening, had warned the young novice: ‘Cacullus non facit monachum – the cowl does not make the monk. Sir Miles is not what he appears. In truth, he is a ferocious warrior much trusted by the Crown and a true ladies’ man. Indeed,’ Anselm smiled, a rare occurrence which transformed his face, ‘he reminds me of myself before.’ The smile then faded. ‘He reminds me, that’s all,’ and he had refused to elaborate further.
Sir Miles stopped at the end of the table, lazy blue eyes studying both Carmelites. Stephen noticed the slight cast in the clerk’s right eye, which enhanced rather than retracted from Beauchamp’s good looks. He smiled faintly at both, nodded and sauntered back to slide easily into the chair to the right of Sir William.
The merchant spread his hands. ‘Welcome, Sir Miles. I am sorry you could not be with us for the exorcism, which—’
‘I am not finished,’ Anselm abruptly interrupted. ‘I must leave. I have to because I want to, not because I am being forced to. Stephen and I,’ Anselm glanced at his companion, ‘must go back.’
The exorcist rose so swiftly he took the rest by surprise. Amalric the curate threw his hands up in horror. Simon the sexton flapped his arms like a spring sparrow caught in a net.
‘You cannot.’ Sir William half-rose but then sat down as Sir Miles gently pressed the back of his hand.
‘I have eaten and I have prayed,’ Anselm replied. ‘God will give me the strength.’ He leaned down, snatched up the leather satchel resting against the leg of the table and thrust it into Stephen’s hand.
Sir William made to object again but Beauchamp rose languidly to his feet. ‘The priest desires to go. If our exorcist wishes to run one more tilt in this demonic tournament so be it, I shall join him.’
Anselm half-raised his hand, as if to protest.
‘I shall go,’ Beauchamp declared, ‘or no one goes.’
They left the solar, going across the spacious entrance hall with its monumental fireplace surmounted by a giant hood, its pure stone studded with diamonds to defend against poison and magical incantation as well as gleaming topaz, a sure protection against sudden death. Just in case neither of these worked, above the fireplace hung the Cross of San Damiano, much beloved by Saint Francis, while triptychs on either side displayed in brilliant colours dramatic scenes from the life of St Christopher. The rest of the walls were hidden by painted cloths brought to life by the darting light of candle and taper; the windows were glazed while Persian carpets and woven mats covered the paved floor. A servant standing by the main door handed them their cloaks. Outside the April night had turned dark and cold. One of Higden’s retainers, a large, thick-set man holding a torch, led them across the rich gardens Stephen had glimpsed earlier, out through a small postern door and across to the huge, brooding lychgate of St Michael’s. They entered the broad, rambling cemetery. In daylight hours it stretched quiet and still, a mass of wooden crosses and weather-beaten stones, a wild garden with shady yew trees planted to fend off wandering cattle. Here and there clumps of flowers, violets, lavender, peonies and lilies planted years ago by some enterprising parson or his woman. Now night cloaked everything in darkness. For Stephen this ancient burial place, God’s acre or not, seemed a domain of brooding menace dominated by the sheer stone mass of the old Norman church. Some of its glazed windows caught the light; others, covered by stretched oiled pig’s bladders, simply gazed sightlessly out into the darkness.
‘Look!’ The retainer pointed to the top of the soaring tower. ‘No light! The beacon fire has been extinguished.’
‘But I relit it,’ Simon the sexton declared hoarsely. ‘The beacon was firmly packed, and there’s been no rain.’
‘I am tired of this.’ The retainer turned and came back.
Sir William stepped forward to urge him on but Anselm placed a restraining hand on the merchant’s arm.
‘You are tired of what, my friend?’ Anselm asked. He took the torch and raised it high. ‘What’s your name?’
Stephen stared at the man, his burly, unshaven face all pocked and marked, furry eyebrows either side of a fat drinker’s nose, with the jutting lips and protuberant jaw of a mastiff.
‘Bardolph.’ The man’s voice was grating. ‘My name is Bardolph, Brother. I serve the parish as a gravedigger and corpse-mover. My wife and I al
so own a small alehouse nearby. We used to sell ale here in the churchyard after Mass on Sundays and holy days. Now, because of this, there are no fees for digging, no fees for corpse-moving and no fees for ale stoups.’
‘I had no choice.’ Parson Smollat stepped forward. ‘The eerie happenings here, God save us.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘Sir William wants that, don’t you, Sir William?’
‘I certainly do. The cemetery will be closed until these matters are settled.’
‘This is our parish church.’ Bardolph wouldn’t give way.
‘Enough!’ Sir William declared. ‘Bardolph, this can be discussed elsewhere.’
‘God will resolve all these problems,’ Anselm offered.
‘Then I hope He does so soon.’ Bardolph grasped the torch and stomped off up the path.
They were about to follow when a loud banging echoed from the church. Anselm ordered everyone to go on. They did, following the pool of light thrown by the fluttering torch up to the narrow corpse door. The path turned and twisted between the stark, fading memorials of the dead. Briar, bramble and bush snaked out to catch the ankle or snare the cloak. The ominous banging continued. Simon explained how it might be the door leading down to the crypt, the charnel house where the gleaming white bones and skulls of the long dead were stored. Bardolph, holding the torch, began to tremble, the flame shaking and juddering. Stephen could even hear the man’s teeth chattering. Beauchamp seized the torch and dismissed Bardolph back to the house.
‘We are in the realm of the rat and rot,’ Beauchamp turned, face all smiling, ‘of corruption and decay. If you have the words, you can even summon up each soul buried here and ask them if they’re damned or not.’
‘Walk on,’ Anselm insisted. ‘The dead gather here but so do a horde of angry, hostile spirits.’
‘Or,’ Beauchamp, still trying to make light of it, lifted the torch and stood blocking the narrow path, ‘I remember the story of a man who, every time he passed a cemetery, recited the De Profundis for the departed. One night, as he did so, he was attacked by robbers but was saved by the dead who rose up, each holding the tool they’d used in their lifetime to defend him vigorously.’
‘Not here,’ Anselm whispered hoarsely. ‘This is not the place for your mockery. I am an exorcist – ghosts gather here. I can hear their faint chatter. Listen!’
‘Nothing!’ Beauchamp retorted.
‘Exactly,’ Anselm replied. ‘Can you hear anything? Where’s the snouting fox, the furtive rat, the floating, ghost-winged owl?’
Beauchamp stared around, lowering the torch. ‘True, true,’ he conceded. ‘There’s nothing but silence.’
‘And the dead.’ Stephen spoke before he could stop himself. The novice pushed his hands up the sleeve of his gown. He knew he could see and hear things others, like Beauchamp, could not. In spite of Beauchamp’s mockery, this was happening. Strange lights had appeared. Sparks of flame leaped up only to sink into the blackness, followed by chattering, whispered conversation where one word could not be distinguished from the next. Across the cemetery shapes and shadows moved, darting shifts between the headstones. A hideous scream rang out.
Beauchamp cursed, fumbling with the torch. ‘Now I hear,’ he declared. ‘Let us . . .’
Anselm didn’t wait but, clutching his leather satchel in one hand, the other on Stephen’s shoulder, stepped round the royal clerk and marched swiftly through the darkness. Simon hurried behind, jangling his keys. They reached the narrow door with its rusty iron studs. Simon unlocked and pushed back the creaking door. Anselm, Beauchamp and Stephen entered. The royal clerk lit one of the sconce torches just inside. Immediately a cold wind swept by them; the torch flickered and died. Higden and the rest hastily retreated.
‘You should also go,’ Anselm warned Beauchamp. The clerk just shrugged. Anselm walked into the church and pulled across a bench into the centre of the nave. He sat down with Stephen on his right. Once again the exorcist began the ritual. ‘Oh, God, come to our aid . . .’
Stephen and Beauchamp murmured the responses. The novice began to tremble. Anselm grasped his hand and squeezed it. Beauchamp was at a loss, aware of the cold, the rank stench, though he could not see the faces which swarmed out of the gloom, white and drawn, eyes black holes of fire, hair like trailing wisps of mist.
‘You see them, Stephen?’
‘Aye, Magister.’
‘What?’ Beauchamp whispered.
Anselm ignored him as he concentrated on the gathering malevolence. The dire memories those terrors of the night summoned up swept in to distract his mind and chill his soul. Anselm was back as a soldier in that French city the English had stormed, its streets full of wild animals feeding on human flesh. Drunken ribauds, armed to the teeth, looting and raping as they moved like a horde of demons through the fallen town. Old women dragging out corpses from houses filled with fire and smoke. Packs of rats, bellies full, snouts stained with a bloody froth. Corpses stacked like firewood in the middle of squares. The black smoke of funeral pyres winding everywhere. The screams and yells of souls in their last extremity. The gallows breaking under the weight of cadavers while corpses crammed the wells and polluted the streams. Anselm forgot the rite and began to mouth the memories which plagued him.
‘Magister!’
Anselm heeded the cry. He began to recite the Credo as he stared at the haunting, nightmare faces massing close. Beside him, Stephen could take no more. He fell to his knees, head bowed, hands clenched in prayer. Beauchamp, cloak tight about him, drew his sword and half-raised it. Anselm pressed on the clerk’s arm until he lowered the blade.
‘By the grace of God,’ he whispered at the wraiths which surged all around him. ‘By the grace of God, in the name of that same God, by the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, who are you? Why are you here? Why do you haunt this place? In the Lord’s name, tell me, here in the House of God and at the very gate of heaven.’ Anselm closed his eyes and prayed. Neither he nor Stephen knew if the phantasms spoke or whether their own souls echoed the desperate pleas for forgiveness, for justice.
‘Against whom?’ Anselm begged. ‘Take comfort. I shall light tapers and sing Masses for the repose of your souls. Tell me, who are you? Why are you here?’
‘Thrust out!’ a voice hissed close to Stephen. ‘Thrust out, our souls winkled out of their shells; now we swim amongst the dark ones.’
‘Except for me!’ A man’s voice, mocking and strident, called out. ‘Taken, plucked from my rightful place but then . . .’ The voice faded like the rest.
Stephen strained to hear but it was like listening to the murmured conversation of a crowd passing beneath a window. He caught some words and phrases, some in English, others in French or a patois he couldn’t understand. Stephen opened his eyes. ‘They’re going,’ he murmured. He felt the press around him ease. The cold faded. The stench seeped away, turning back to the general mustiness of that old church. Stephen sat back on the bench. Beauchamp began to softly whistle the tune of a song.
‘What happened . . .?’ A clatter and clash stilled the clerk’s question. Beauchamp jumped to his feet as around the church kneeling rods, stools, benches and other furniture were violently overturned.
‘They are leaving,’ Anselm explained. ‘They vent their temper at not being believed or not being helped. They are withdrawing for a while but I think they’ll return.’
‘But why are they here?’ Beauchamp insisted.
‘In a little while . . .’ Anselm sighed. ‘Sir Miles, that will have to wait. For the time being, we are finished here . . .’
Sir William Higden gathered all his guests into his dining parlour, a fine pink-washed room with a gleaming oaken table. A mantled hearth, the carved face of a dragon in its centre, warmed the chamber, while on the walls either side of it hung tapestries celebrating David’s victory over Goliath. Green, supple rushes, tossed with herbs and sharp garden spices, covered the floor and sweetened the air as they were crushed underfoot. A partition to the petty kitchen ha
d been removed. A cook, assisted by two sleepy-eyed servitors, prepared bowls of diced chicken smothered in mushrooms, cream and garlic sauce. Sir William had broached his finest cask of wine sent from Bordeaux four years earlier. Goblets were filled, except for Anselm’s – he never drank. The exorcist had once confided to Stephen that if he started to drink the delicious juice of the grape he’d never stop.
When the food had been served and blessed, the kitchen shutters replaced, the fire built up and the doors closed over, Beauchamp raised his goblet in toast towards Anselm, who replied by lifting his beaker of water.
‘Well,’ the royal clerk dabbed his lips with a napkin, ‘Brother Anselm, I have business with you. However,’ he shrugged, ‘that can wait. Why did you go back to the church?’
‘I had to,’ Anselm retorted. ‘An important principle. An exorcist never lets himself be driven out, though God only knows the truth behind all this.’
‘I began it,’ Parson Smollat put his horn spoon down, ‘or rather, I noticed it first, both me and my good friend, Simon.’
The sexton nodded in agreement.
‘Tell them all,’ Sir William urged, ‘from the beginning.’
‘I was provided with the benefice here,’ Parson Smollat began, ‘two years ago by the grace and favour of Sir William, who has the right of advowson to Saint Michael’s, Candlewick.’
