Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

Stephen returned to a fitful sleep. He awoke, heavy-headed, and found even Alice’s glee at the prospect of Sir Miles’ supper difficult to bear. Anselm appeared, coughing into his rag. He asked Stephen to accompany him up to St Michael’s, where Higden’s bully boys allowed them through into the godforsaken cemetery. Stephen was aware of presences, of whispering voices on the misty morning air as they walked up the winding path and through the corpse door, which had simply crumbled into blackened shards.

‘Parson Smollat bought oil by the barrel — skins of it, along with saltpetre. He even obtained some precious cannon powder. Drenched the place, he did.’ Anselm’s voice echoed hollowly through the burnt shell of the nave.

Faint sparks still rose and trails of smoke continued to circle and twist. The church had been truly devastated. The sanctuary, altar, pulpit, rood screen, reredos and chantry chapels no longer existed. The fire had licked the plastered walls and stripped them clean. Only a pure stone statute of St John the Baptist, its face now unrecognizable, remained. Stephen walked over to the chantry chapel of St Michael’s and stared at the devastation.

‘The entire site will be levelled,’ Anselm intoned. ‘Not one stone left upon another.’

‘As the lightning strikes from the east,’ a voice called, ‘and appears in the west, so sudden will it be.’

‘The gloom gathers,’ another voice shrilled, ‘the darkness deepens. Where the corpses lie, the vultures will gather.’

Stephen glanced around. Were those dancing sparks, the trails of black and grey smoke, the remains of the fire or something else? And were those motes milling through the air only an outward sign of inward things? ‘I feel apprehensive, Magister.’

Fingering the medal Alice had given him, Stephen wandered over to where the small chantry chapel of St Joseph had stood: everything, including the beautiful wall paintings, had been destroyed. Anselm came over and Stephen showed him the medal. Anselm simply stared then, quietly whispering to himself, walked away. Stephen stood rooted to the spot. He glanced up at the church. A pall of smoke hung over the sanctuary. Stephen started as a figure, veiled in red, moved swiftly through the murk and was gone. A voice shouted. Anselm walked over and stood staring down at the floor.

‘Magister?’

‘Saint Bernadine of Siena,’ the exorcist declared distractedly. ‘He was a Franciscan. He and his order promoted devotion to Saint Joseph. Ah, well.’ They left the church and cemetery. Stephen was glad to be away. Anselm absent-mindedly remarked how they would meet at The Unicorn then he strode off, lost in his own thoughts.

For the rest of the day Stephen tried hard to distract himself as he worked in the tavern kitchen, assisting the cooks, learning the mysteries of minced chicken relish or spiced capon in a nutted wine sauce. He breathed in the fragrances of poached plaice with mustard or the sweetness of veal and custard pie. Now and again that deep sense of foreboding would close in around him; a choir of ghostly voices chanted their verses. ‘Why must we stand and face the ice storm of hell’s spears? The sword blizzards threaten. The she-wolf presses her paw on the swollen, fatted corpse. Hail stones fall. Cloud pebbles clash against the shield wall.’ Eventually the voices faded and a face with snake-sharp eyes and angry mouth appeared, only to merge into a blaze of burning blue embers. Stephen whispered his prayers and kept to the task in hand.

At last the day finished. Master Robert handed over his tavern to the care of his steward and principal cook. The hour of Vespers was approaching; they had to make ready. Alice appeared in a beautiful gold-spotted gown of Lincoln green with a high-encrusted collar of silver lace, a girdle of gold around her slim waist. She wore blood-red ankle boots with silver buckles on her feet. She had prepared her hair and covered it with the lightest of white lawn veils, adding a little paint to her face. Stephen had never seen such beauty. He called her ‘his fairy princess from the bright grassed lands of the west’. She laughed merrily then clapped her hands as her father appeared resplendent in a russet cotehardie with a matching cloak. Anselm arrived, angular, ascetic and distracted. They made their farewells to the leaping Marisa and walked the short distance to Beauchamp’s fine house, standing in its own high walled courtyard. Cutwolf, all sardonic, welcomed them into the plain but sweet-smelling entrance hall and led them through the house, down the paved passageway, past rooms closed and locked and into the courtyard, which overlooked a splendid garden bounded on all three sides by a high, red brick wall.

Sir Miles, garbed in a gorgeous tabard, greeted them and led them into a specially erected garden pavilion embellished with a blue and gold awning with tassels of delicate silver. The sheets on either side had been pulled back and fastened to poles so the fine walnut table, elaborately decorated, was plain to see. Sir William Higden and Gascelyn were already there; the merchant knight, shaven and oiled, was dressed magnificently in cloth of gold robes. Sir Miles clapped his hands, ushering everyone to their seats. Brother Anselm was on his left, Sir William to his right and then Stephen. Alice was beside him and Gascelyn was on the other side, next to Cutwolf. Musicians with citoles, flutes, clarions and fiddles played gentle music in a small covered pavilion further down the garden. Matilda Makejoy, a well-known saltatrix, delighted them with somersaults and handsprings to the heart-plucking sound of an Irish harp. Servitors brought iced wine and drinks of crushed juice. Once Matilda had finished, the soup was served, ground capon thickened with almond milk and spiced with slices of pomegranate and red comfits.

Alice was beside herself with joy, clutching Stephen’s hand, while Master Robert basked in the favour being shown them. Stephen glanced quickly at Beauchamp and Anselm; they sat, heads close together. Both men, despite the festivities, looked grim. They drew apart as the cook, specially hired by Beauchamp, came to announce the main dish or entremet : crayfish set in jelly, loach and young rabbits. The cook withdrew and reappeared with the food to a flourish from the musicians. Evening set in. The coloured lanterns, lashed to poles driven into the green lawn, were lit. Stephen turned to speak to Alice and, as he did, the nightmare swept in. For a few heartbeats, joy and splendour all shattered as the crossbow bolts struck. A musician, hit full in the mouth, half-rose, hands flailing in terror. Silence descended, and then a fresh volley. Servitors and musicians reeled away as the barbed quarrels split their flesh. Stephen rose. Black-garbed figures were scaling the high red brick wall and leaping down into the garden. The music and laughter abruptly died. Cutwolf was on his feet, sword out; Beauchamp, too, screaming over his shoulder, pushing Anselm away. Stephen grabbed Alice, who was sitting round-eyed in shock; only then did he notice the black quarrel embedded deep in her chest. He picked her up, even as the blood bubbled between her lips, aware of Master Robert and Cutwolf thronging beside him. He turned and, carrying Alice, ran back towards the house.

Beauchamp was screaming at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok that Stephen and his companions be protected. The clerk then staggered back, dropping his sword as a bolt took him deep in the shoulder. Anselm went to help but Cutwolf and Bolingbrok pushed him away, driving Stephen and Master Robert back along the stone-vaulted passageway towards the main door. Alice now hung limp in Stephen’s arms. They burst through the entrance, out into the street. More figures garbed in black leather were waiting. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok fought like men possessed, swords and daggers flickering out, sharp and sudden like the fangs of a viper. At last they were clear, running along the dark-filled lanes, throwing themselves into The Unicorn where, sweat-soaked, they collapsed to the floor of the taproom. Stephen laid Alice gently down. She was past all help, eyes staring dully in her corpse-white face. Stephen crouched down beside her, bringing his knees up. He screamed all the pain and anguish which held him tight. Anselm squatted beside him for a while. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok arrived and gently prised loose Stephen’s tight hand clasp on the dead girl. They lifted the corpse up and took it away. Stephen heard the soul-chilling cry of both Alice’s father and the inconsolable Marisa. He laid down on the taproom floor and sobbed.