Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

‘Friars, white-garbed!’ The cry went out. Doors slammed, shutters clinked. Anselm and Stephen hurried on. The figures who confronted them seemed to merge out of the gloom: three women, street-walkers, their hair dyed different stripes of colour, their feet bare and their loose-fitting gowns open at the neck and chest to expose nipples painted a bright orange. The women blocked their way. At first Stephen thought they were drunk but, as he grew more accustomed to the dim light from the lantern horn the woman in the middle held, cold dread seized him. All three stared, hard-faced and glassy-eyed. Creatures from beyond the edge of darkness.

‘Out of our way!’ Anselm ordered.

‘Preacher! Peddling preacher! Interfering mumble-mouth! Another shaven pate comes with his cub to confront and oppose,’ the woman opposite Stephen snarled, bringing the long stabbing knife out of the folds of her gown to glitter in the juddering light. ‘Who are you?’ the woman jibed mockingly.

‘Anselm the do-gooder,’ one of her companions replied. ‘Mind you, he’s seen enough hot blood gurgle and splash. So, who set you up as a prophet in Israel? Why have you come to meddle?’

‘To spoil our little games with your stupid chuntering,’ her snarling friend jeered. ‘You whoreson bastard! Why have you come into our domain? You, Anselm, a filthy sinner with your dirty thoughts and foul moods.’

‘And you, Stephen of Winchester,’ the third woman took up the litany of insults, ‘a friar, are you — why? No vocation, surely? Fleeing your father?’ The voice was harsh, mocking and ugly.

Stephen, mouth dry, was aware of other dark shapes creeping along the walls on either side — scuttling shadows, as if a horde of hairless rats were swarming around.

Anselm stepped forward. ‘In the name of the Lord Jesus, by what are you called?’

‘The hordes of hell greet you,’ one of the women retorted.

‘And the power of heaven responds.’ Anselm grasped the tau crucifix. ‘In His name. .’

One of the women darted forward, dagger blade snaking towards Stephen, but Anselm knocked her aside with his satchel even as he cried. ‘ Deus vult, Deus vult — God wills it, God wills it.’

The third woman lunged with the club she was hiding by her side. Anselm punched her full in the face. She staggered back. The attack faded. The sinister scrabbling along the alleyways disappeared. The darkness thinned. All three women dropped what they were carrying and withdrew, looking fearfully down at their hands then up at the exorcist, faces vacant, eyes staring, mouths gaping. They backed away, then turned and fled. Anselm leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

‘Magister, what were those?’

‘ Succubi ,’ Anselm replied, ‘the demons we tried to exorcize last night. They swarm like flies seeking entrances to souls. Well, they found an open door to those three ladies.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘They came to threaten, even to kill. God knows.’ He sketched a blessing above Stephen’s head. ‘And what did they tell us? That we are sinners? Well, we know that already! I am also very hungry and our refectory awaits. .’

Stephen knelt on the prie-dieu before the Lady altar in the Church of the White Friars. The Angelus bell had sounded. Stephen had listened to its peals, recalling the ancient tradition that tolling church bells were a sure defence against demons and diabolic attack. He stared around the lovely shrine. The three walls of the chapel were painted a deep blue. The silver borders at top and bottom were decorated by resplendent, bejewelled gold fleur de lys with a gleaming ruby at the base of the middle stalk of every flower. The chapel ceiling was of a fainter blue; it depicted a scene from the Apocalypse, of the Virgin about to give birth while confronting a scarlet, seven-headed dragon. The floor of the Lady chapel was tiled in a glossy stone, which sparkled in the pool of taper light fixed from silver spigots in front of the magnificent statue. The sculptor had carved the Virgin in the brilliant likeness of a young court maiden, her dark hair half-hidden beneath a gold-edged, gauze white veil, her body clothed in a sheer silk gown under a robe of imperial purple edged with gold. The Virgin’s feet, encased in diamond-studded sandals, crushed the head of a writhing serpent. Stephen, however, as always, was fascinated by the face: not pious or holy but wreathed in a warm, welcoming smile. Such a look, Stephen had come to realize, was all he could remember of his beloved mother bending over him, her face full of concern, a lock of hair out of place — then she had gone. All that remained was a stern father, an esteemed physician who had no time for his son’s flights of fancy.

Now in safety, Stephen’s mind drifted back to the events at St Michael’s and the assault in that eerie, smelly alleyway. Was this what he really wanted? Anselm he liked, respected and even loved, but this constant battle with the lords of the air, the barons and earls of hell? Stephen drew deep breaths to calm himself. Anselm had taught him to do this while repeating the Jesus prayer. Anselm maintained this would lead Stephen to meditation and contemplation but, invariably, it always put him to sleep. He was shaken awake by a servitor, face all anxious.

‘Brother Stephen, Brother Stephen, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Master Anselm and Sir Miles Beauchamp are waiting for you in the parlour.’

Still heavy-eyed with sleep, Stephen was ushered into the elegant chamber overlooking the main courtyard of the friary. A spacious but austere room dominated by a gaunt, crucified Christ and an embroidered cloth telling the story of the Virgin’s miraculous appearance on Mount Carmel. Sir Miles and Anselm were sitting opposite each other at the oval table, which ran down the centre of the room. Shafts of afternoon light, in which a host of dust motes danced, pierced the glass windows high on the outside wall. Anselm beckoned him to sit on his left and returned to watching Sir Miles. The clerk, as elegant as ever in his blue quilted jerkin and matching hose, was sifting through a sheaf of documents on the table before him. He looked as if he had stepped out of the royal presence chamber: hair neatly combed, jewels sparking on his fingers. Stephen caught sight of the chancery ring emblazoned with the royal arms which could demand entrance to any building as well as insist on the allegiance of those who lived there. Beauchamp had slung his thick war cloak over the prior’s chair at the head of the table and looped his sword belt around the chair’s high post.

Stephen, embarrassed by the brooding silence, apologized once again, explaining where he’d been and how he had fallen asleep. Anselm brushed him gently on the arm. Sir Miles kept shuffling the pile of manuscripts before him. Stephen glimpsed red and purple seals and wondered what the Clerk of the Secret Chancery would want with them.

‘I apologize.’ Sir Miles lifted his head and smiled dazzlingly at both of them. ‘Master Anselm, I apologize for dragging you from your meeting with Father Guardian, and you, Brother Stephen, from your prayerful sleep. Yet,’ he pulled a face, ‘ tempus fugit and, cometh the hour, cometh the man.’ He abruptly pushed back the stool on which he was sitting and got to his feet. He thrust the parchments back into a leather pannier, strapped on his war belt and slung the heavy cloak about his shoulder. ‘You have eaten and rested?’

‘We have eaten,’ Anselm replied sharply, ‘but not rested.’

‘You must come.’ Sir Miles was no longer smiling. ‘I, or rather my master, has permission from your masters to take you to Westminster. By the time we reach there the light will be fading.’

‘The abbey or the palace?’ Anselm asked.