The Midnight Man (29 page)

The two Carmelites left. Stephen felt cold, as if a stone was wedged in his chest. Anselm no longer mattered. The grief and shock of Alice's swift and brutal death were only feeding the embers of an ever greater fire: hatred for those responsible, revenge for the mortal wrong these demons had inflicted. Stephen felt as if he was walking through a white-hot desert: no colour, no life, no touch, no smell, just a blazing, white rocky path which stretched into a blinding, searing light. He did not know what to do except plod on. Somewhere, surely, he thought, he would find peace and rest.

‘The sunlight's died,' a voice whispered, ‘stony inner parts where the flesh throbs and the blood pounds. No eyes, nothing but blinding darkness from empty, staring sockets.' A face, faithful to such a grisly description, swam in front of the novice.

‘Stephen?' Anselm gently squeezed his hand. They had arrived at The Unicorn. The exorcist kissed him gently on the brow, pushed him through the half-open door and left. Stephen entered. The taproom, still sweet-smelling, was deserted. Only the chief cook sat in a darkened corner, cradling a tankard of ale. He beckoned Stephen over. ‘Master Robert,' he whispered, ‘will leave tomorrow. He is taking his daughter's corpse back to the West Country for burial. He,' the cook wiped the tears from his cheeks, ‘does not want to look on your face again. He wants you gone.'

Stephen, eyes brimming, thundered up the stairs. He tried to enter Alice's chamber. The ostlers on guard gently but firmly drove him away. He could not stand the grief, the anger seething within him. He hurtled back down the stairs, across the taproom and out into the yard. He stopped abruptly. Anselm stood waiting by the gateway. ‘I thought that might happen,' the exorcist called softly. ‘Come, Stephen, let us return to our house and grieve quietly. Pray and prepare.'

They returned to White Friars. Stephen felt as if he was still imprisoned in that hot, arid wasteland, just wandering, struggling along some scorched path past bushes and brambles twisted black by a sun which pounded down like a hammer on an anvil. He attended Mass and divine office but all he could think of was staggering through the streets with Alice's body, all bedecked in beauty, dying in his arms. On the third day after his return, once the colloquium was finished and the sunlight beginning to fade, Anselm came into his cell. The exorcist's face was sharp, sallow and sweat-soaked. ‘I have prayed, Stephen, I truly have. I must conduct one final exorcism at Saint Michael's, but first I must drink. You will come with me.'

They left the convent and made their way through the bustling streets. Hawkers, traders and apprentices bawled for business. Beadles lashed the buttocks of a whore pinioned to the tail of a cart. A beggar, crushed by a runaway horse, lay dying in a doorway ministered to by a Friar of the Sack; three court fops stood close by laying wagers on how soon the man would die. Windows opened and pisspots were emptied. A young moon girl offered posies of flowers for good luck. A jongleur sang about a blood-drinker who had walked the far side of the moon. Further along a trader, standing on a barrel, declared he had imported a new type of leather from Spain. Jumbled, tangled scenes. Stephen felt as if he was being hurried through hot, dusty passageways. He shook his head to be free of such fancies, back to trudging through narrow, noisy streets, where life in all its richness ebbed and flowed.

Anselm abruptly paused outside a small tavern, The Glory of Hebron. He pushed Stephen inside the dark, close taproom. Taking a table near the window, the exorcist demanded a jug of the best claret, two cups and a plate of bread, dried meats and fruit. Once the servitor had laid the table, Anselm leaned over. ‘Listen, Stephen, grief is in your very marrow – it freezes your heart and numbs your soul.' Anselm paused, beckoning at him to share out the wine. ‘This is the first I have drunk for years.' The exorcist supped deeply and smacked his lips. ‘As Saint Paul says, “take a little wine for the stomach's sake” and the Psalmist is correct, “wine truly gladdens the heart of man”. Well, Stephen.' He waited until the novice had swallowed a generous gulp. ‘The confrontation is imminent; we must be vigilant. We will return to White Friars and, as the Psalmist again says, “pray to the Lord who readies our arms for battle and prepares our hands for war”. I brought you here to stir your wits,' he grinned, ‘and I believe they are stirred – wine is good for that.' Anselm lifted his goblet. ‘You are with me, Stephen,
usque ad mortem
– to the death? I must be sure of this.'

The novice raised his own cup. ‘Magister, as always,
a l'outrance de siècle à siècle
– to the death and beyond!'

They finished their meal and returned to White Friars. Stephen continued, despite his best efforts, to remain and brood in that bleak landscape of his soul. Anselm became very busy, paying the occasional visit to reassure the novice. Although Stephen tried to act courteously, still all he could think about was Alice. He returned to The Unicorn only to find it locked and barred. The watchman on guard brusquely declared how Master Robert had taken his daughter's corpse back to the West Country. Only then did the fiery flickers of anger return, a thirst for revenge, an implacable urge to confront and challenge the dark forces which had caused the death of his beloved.

A few days after returning to White Friars, early in the evening, Anselm came looking for him. Stephen was sitting cross-legged in the Lady chapel, staring hard at the carved, beautiful face of the Virgin. Anselm, cloaked and booted, carried ‘his holy bag', the pannier containing sacred water, oils, crucifix and an asperges rod, all the necessary items for an exorcism.

‘Stephen,' Anselm snapped his fingers briskly, ‘we must go. I believe we have found the treasure.' The exorcist would say no more. The novice hurried back to his own cell, putting on a stout pair of sandals and swinging his cloak about him in readiness.

‘The battle lords of hell muster,' a voice growled from behind him. ‘The strong, grasping warriors of Hades swing sharp swords from their fiery scabbards. The greedy carrion birds' claws will soon redden. The hawk lords gather.' Stephen whirled around. A man, hair and face chalky white, garbed in clothes of the same hue, stood staring at him. ‘The dark caves lie open. The serpents' field awaits.' The voice came soft as a breath. Stephen dropped his cloak. He bent down and picked it up; when he glanced again both vision and the voice had gone, only Anselm rapping on the door telling him to hurry.

They left and reached St Michael's. The guards at the cemetery had been withdrawn – only a surly-faced Gascelyn stood vigil under the lychgate. Stephen could feel the tension rise as they made their way up into the cracked, blackened remains of the nave. Anselm wasted no time shouting at Gascelyn, who was trailing behind them, to bring the iron bars and picks he had asked for. Once that sombre custodian of the dead had done so, Anselm, directing Stephen, began to prise loose one of the paving stones which had formed the floor of the small chantry chapel to St Joseph. ‘You know why,' Anselm whispered hoarsely. ‘Stephen, we could wait to be taken, or we could set our own trap. Go and look at Saint Michael's.'

The novice put down the iron bar he had been trying to wedge into a small gap between the paving stones and walked over. The floor of the chantry chapel of St Michael's was now nothing more than a pit, the paving stones from it packed against the wall. Someone had already searched there. He walked back. The church lay threateningly silent except for Anselm trying to prise loose that same paving stone. No visions, no voices – nothing but this empty clanging. Stephen went to assist the exorcist.

‘Good,' Anselm breathed, ‘it is time!' Stephen turned. Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn, all heavily cloaked, stood on the top sanctuary step. All three walked slowly down, footsteps echoing through the nave. ‘Good evening, Brother Anselm. I received your message and here I am. What are you doing?' Higden demanded. His two companions, cloaks billowing about them, sat down on the plinth along which the wooden screen to the chantry chapel had once stood.

‘I am searching for Puddlicot's treasure. He claimed,' Anselm broke from his labours, ‘it was guarded by God's protector. Everyone thought this was Saint Michael Archangel, this church, the cemetery or even the chantry chapel. Sir William, I have read the writings of the Franciscan Bernadine of Siena who fostered the cult to Saint Joseph. He called him God's protector, which he was, the Guardian of the Divine Child. Puddlicot, like you, Curate Almaric, was once a carpenter, hence my deduction. The treasure must be buried here in this chapel?'

‘But Cutwolf, Bolingbrok?' Sir William asked.

‘They are busy on other matters. They are spent; I don't trust them.' Anselm shook his head. ‘Not since the death of Sir Miles. By the way, your wound?'

‘Only superficial, a cut to the arm,' Higden replied, slowly getting to his feet. He shrugged off his cloak, and his companions did the same. Stephen shivered. All three, even the curate, wore war belts, while Gascelyn carried a wicked-looking arbalest.

‘Protection,' Higden murmured, following Stephen's gaze. ‘We must be on our guard.' Higden's face was now feverish. He and his two companions began to help prise loose the paving stones. Stephen privately thought Anselm was being foolish. He, too, had wondered about the phrase ‘God's protector', but surely? They loosened one paving stone, pulling it loose. Stephen gaped at what lay beneath. Higden shouted with joy. Anselm crouched in a fierce fit of coughing, nodding his head and pointing at the rotting piece of wood they had now uncovered. It looked like a trapdoor. Gascelyn, as excited as his master, dug in his pick and wrenched it back to expose the pit beneath.

‘I suspected that,' Anselm declared, recovering from his coughing bout. Stephen's heart lurched at the sight of the blood-soaked rag in the exorcist's hand, the red froth bubbling at either corner of Anselm's mouth.

‘I suspected,' Anselm breathed heavily, ‘this was once the church's secure pit, a place to hide sacred vessels and other treasures during times of trouble.'

Higden and his companions ignored this; stretching deep into the pit, they drew out heavy leather sacks coated with dust and tied tightly around the neck with rotting twine. Sack after sack was pulled up – six in all. They shook out the contents: small caskets, coffers, minute chests with leather casings, all crammed with jewels, diamonds, silver and gold ornaments. Pectoral collars, rings, bracelets, gems, pearls and coins rolled out.

‘If you are looking for Merlin's Stone,' Anselm murmured, leaning his back against the wall, ‘well, it's not there. It lies at the bottom of Rishanger's filthy carp pond, a useless piece of black star rock.' Higden and his henchmen sobered up, eyes narrowed in their flushed, ugly faces. They got to their feet. Anselm began to laugh, which ended in a choking cough. ‘A piece of stone,' he mocked, ‘lying in the slime, though I reckon that's much purer than your souls.'

Stephen felt a deep coldness wrap around him.

‘Brother Anselm, we came because you asked us,' Higden snapped. ‘We came in peace.'

‘I invited you here, Sir William, because you are the Midnight Man and these are your two minions. I invited you before you could take me and mine as you did Sir Miles.'

‘Nonsense!' Higden's voice carried a hideous threat. ‘Remember, I was with Sir Miles. I . . .'

‘A simple flesh wound, Sir William. Your assassins were under strict orders as to whom to kill and whom to ignore. Sir Miles had to be removed because he was our protector – he knew too much, he was hunting you. Cutwolf openly proclaimed a reward for knowledge about the Midnight Man. In the end Sir Miles suspected you, Sir William – he told me so. You sensed that. He had to die, then you would deal with us. You must have wondered if we were close to the truth about this treasure – that's why you tried to abduct Stephen. I dropped hints about how close we were and you couldn't wait.'

‘Brother Anselm, we are here,' Almaric protested.

‘Of course you are,' Anselm pointed at Higden, ‘you two alone know his true identity. The other members of your coven only see the Midnight Man as a powerful, hideously masked figure who deals out death at his night-drenched meetings. Let me guess,' making himself more comfortable against the wall, Anselm pressed home his attack, ‘we now have the treasure while the cemetery is no longer guarded. Stephen and I, if we were not having this conversation, would be allowed to leave, escorted back to White Friars by Gascelyn. On the way something would happen. Another bloody attack. Gascelyn would be wounded – not seriously – but Stephen and I would die. Two more victims of the Midnight Man, yes?'

‘And this treasure?' Higden taunted, squatting down. ‘I just keep it? How do I know that you and Sir Miles have not drafted some secret memorandum to the Crown detailing your suspicions about me?'

Anselm pulled a face. ‘And what proof would I offer?'

Higden shrugged.

‘I admit there would be very little – perhaps none at all,' Anselm conceded. ‘Sir William, I used to gamble. I gambled on your greed. You planned to come here. If we had not found the treasure tonight – well, our deaths could be delayed. But we have and, as I've said, something is going to happen to us on our journey back to White Friars. You, Sir William, would take all this to profit yourself. You intend to search this treasure for what you want: Merlin's Stone and any other magical items you believe might help you in the black arts. You'd keep them hidden for your own use. You would then offer the Crown the rest of this treasure hoard. You would receive, as finder, at least a tenth of its value, a fortune indeed. You would also, by handing it over, win great favour with the Crown. The King would regard you as a close friend. More favours, more patronage, more concessions, more wealth would flow your way. Any suspicions about you would be choked and strangled off. You would emerge more powerful to continue your midnight practices, be it as a blood-drinker or as a warlock. If Sir Miles and I had left any such memorandum, it would be ignored, being flatly contradicted by your actions. You would dazzle the King with this wealth. Any suspicions about your loyalty would disappear like smoke on a summer morning.'