Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

Stephen, with Alice next to him on a bench close to the inglenook, Marisa sitting on the floor between them, would listen round-eyed as owls as Cutwolf described the evil smelling ‘Hole-in-the-Wall’ tavern with its spacious bailey, ‘The Court of Miracles’. Here the Ringers of the Dead would summon all the thieves of London to account to their lord, Duke Jacob. Cutwolf would delight them with such tales of mystery while Minehost passed around a steaming posset in a broad-rimmed, loving cup, along with dishes of finely-sliced bread and roast meat. Stephen’s admiration for Cutwolf deepened as the henchman proved that verse from the Gospel — how the children of this world are more cunning in their affairs than the children of the light. Stephen discovered that Cutwolf was in fact a royal clerk schooled at Stapleton Hall, Oxford; a mailed clerk who had fought in battle. A secret, subtle man who hid his true identity beneath the mask and guise of a street riffler. Cutwolf was not just acting the troubadour, the jongleur, the travelling minstrel, he was also Beauchamp’s spy. Cutwolf was a clever spider, spinning a web to cover them all and entice others into the trap. Once he’d finished minstrelling, he would invite others to make their contribution about life along the alleyways of Dowgate and the surrounding wards. Everyone was eager to participate and, in anticipation during the day, garner as much tittle-tattle and gossip as possible.

The bloody, mysterious affairs at St Michael’s and Rishanger’s house were raised in disgust. The common opinion was that Bardolph had been hurled from the tower by a demon who lurked in the cemetery and stalked the tombs. Stephen held his peace because, as the days passed, he realized that Cutwolf was after greater prey — the identity of the Midnight Man! That title certainly cast its own deep shadow of evil over the ward. Warlocks and wizards, witches and moon women were common enough, but the Midnight Man and his coven were different. One evening Cutwolf opened his purse and laid six thick silver pieces on the table, bringing the candle spigot closer and allowing the precious coins to glitter like gifts from heaven. These, Cutwolf promised, would be given to anyone who brought fresh information about the Midnight Man and his company. Master Robert openly supported Cutwolf. More people thronged the taproom before the curfew bell tolled and so more remained to share the gossip after the main lantern horns were doused and the tavern door officially locked and sealed for the night. The ward patrol took no issue with this; instead its members would knock on the courtyard gates and be granted admission. Yet, if Cutwolf hoped for a revelation, he was disappointed. Legend and lie abounded about the Midnight Man. Rumour had it that Rishanger was one of the coven, even its leader, yet the identity of that notorious warlock remained stubbornly hidden.

One night Simon the sexton appeared in the taproom. He was so deep in his cups that he failed to recognize Stephen but sat slack-mouthed, listening to Cutwolf, when the henchman produced his coins and asked about the Midnight Man. Stephen, deep in the shadows around the inglenook, wondered if Simon had come of his own accord or been sent by Parson Smollat. Any doubt about that dissipated the following evening when the good parson himself, accompanied by the sexton, also attended Master Robert’s joyous vespers. On that particular evening Cutwolf related a chilling ghost story about St Mary-le-Bow, the gathering place of Laurence Duket’s ghost, who had taken sanctuary there decades earlier and was found hanging from a window-bracket. Afterwards the discussion returned to the hauntings at St Michael’s. Everyone glanced curiously at the parson who, red-faced with drink, could only shake his head and stutter at what he slurred was, ‘the sheer wickedness of the thing’.

‘The Midnight Man must be a powerful person,’ Alice declared, her lilting voice ringing through the taproom. ‘Someone who can dominate and terrify a soul.’ Everyone agreed, nodding their heads at the horror surrounding this warlock. Cutwolf realized he would learn little from the evening and, as he always did, turned the conversation back to some other topic. Alice’s intervention, however, had forced Parson Smollat to stare in Stephen’s direction. Despite his many gulps from the loving cup, the parson recognized Stephen and afterwards, just before he left, pompously sauntered over. He did not question why Stephen was there or why he was not wearing the Carmelite robe, but clutched the novice’s arm and demanded to know the whereabouts of Anselm. Why had he disappeared, and what could be done about the strange doings at his church? Despite Parson Smollat’s wine-soaked arrogance, Stephen felt his real fear. He could only fend off his questions as he helped the priest through the door and into the cold night air. The parson called for the sexton to wait for him before tapping the side of his red, fleshy nose as if he and Stephen were fellow conspirators. ‘Cutwolf is right,’ he slurred. ‘That malignant, the Midnight Man, must be found. He is the root of all this evil nonsense.’ Parson Smollat sighed noisily. ‘God knows, I am tired of all this. I wish I was free of Saint Michael’s.’ Turning away, he walked off into the darkness to join Simon. Stephen watched them go. The lane leading to the tavern side door emptied, silent except for the slipping and slurry of hunted and hunter across a pile of refuse further down. Stephen was about to return to the cheery taproom when a glow of light abruptly appeared. A cowl, empty except for blackness, swam towards him out of the dark.

‘See what fear man’s bosom rendeth,

When this from heaven the judge descendeth.

Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth,

All before the throne it bringeth,

Nature’s struck and earth is quaking. .’

‘Stephen!’ Cutwolf was beside him, shaking his shoulder; both vision and voice faded. ‘Stephen!’

‘Your master?’ the novice asked, still staring into the darkness. ‘Where is your master, Beauchamp, Cutwolf? Why doesn’t he entertain visitors at his house?’

‘Because my master is not what he appears to be.’ And, saying no more, Cutwolf turned away.

Anselm appeared a few mornings later. Stephen was in the kitchen being initiated into the mysteries of preparing stewed collops of venison basted in spiced wine. He was carefully mixing the ingredients into a large pan: meat stock, peppercorns, a stick of cinnamon, six cloves, and was about to add the ginger, vinegar and salt when he looked up. Anselm stood like a prophet of old in the doorway, beckoning at him. ‘Stephen,’ he called, as if they had been parted for a short while instead of weeks. ‘Stephen, you must come.’

Stephen smiled his apologies at the cook who had been instructing him, grabbed his cloak from a peg and joined Anselm, who was already striding across the cobbled stable yard.

‘Magister, how are you? I have missed you over the last few weeks.’

‘No, you haven’t.’ Anselm paused at the gates and stared down at him. The exorcist’s lean face looked more austere than ever, though his eyes were friendly. ‘I missed you, Stephen, I really did.’ He paused and coughed, wiping his mouth with a linen cloth. Stephen’s heart lurched when he glimpsed the bloody flecks. Anselm followed his gaze and pushed the cloth up the volum-inous sleeve of his gown. ‘It’s nothing,’ he rasped. Stephen caught the laboured wheeze in Anselm’s chest.

‘Magister.’ Stephen slipped his hand into Anselm’s. ‘Magister, you are coughing blood. I know. .’

‘And so does the prior of Saint Bartholomew’s. I have been there, Stephen, and elsewhere. Anyway, he tapped my chest and listened to my breathing. He has given me a strange concoction: dried moss mixed with soured milk. It seems to help. I have also been to the Tower and elsewhere while you have been with Mistress Alice, lost in her eyes no doubt!’ He strode out into the lane, not waiting for an answer. Stephen, swinging his cloak about him, followed on. Only then did he glimpse the two women dressed in the dark brown robes of the Friar Minoressess. Stephen immediately wondered why they were so far from their house near the Tower. He stared hard. Both women were old, one of them most venerable. Stephen recalled chatter from the tavern, and how these two had been glimpsed before. In fact, the more he stared, the more convinced Stephen became that they were the same two nuns he had glimpsed at the Chapel of the Damned. The women stared back and turned away, the older one leaning heavily on her companion’s arm. Anselm passed them without a glance. Stephen hurriedly followed.