Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

The following morning Anselm shook him awake and forced a bitter, tangy drink between his lips. Stephen fell asleep and, when he woke, he was in his chamber, lying sweat-soaked on the bed. Anselm sat cross-legged, his back to the chamber door. ‘She is dead, Stephen,’ the exorcist said gently. ‘Alice is dead. Master Robert is in shock. Marisa cries unendingly. Stephen, we must go.’

‘Where, master?’ Stephen retorted, pulling himself up. ‘Shall we pray in church? Gibber some litanies?’

‘Hush now.’ Anselm left and returned with a bowl of broth. He forced Stephen to eat this then put on his boots, collected his cloak and war belt and followed him down to the deserted taproom. The tavern was closed. Cypress branches wrapped in purple and black cloths draped windows and doors. Master Robert was nursing his own grief with Marisa. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok sat on a bench near the courtyard door. Stephen was surprised. Both men were closely shaved, their hair shorn and dressed smartly in the dark green and brown of royal clerks. Both wore chancery rings on their fingers, war belts carrying sword and dagger circled their waists beneath the sleeveless blue, red and gold tabard of the King’s household. The two men were grim and resolute. They offered no sympathy, no condolences, no grieving. Stephen found this strangely welcoming. They just stood, donned their cloaks, adjusted their war belts and led them out into the mid-morning street. Others waited: royal archers from the Tower wearing the livery of the secret chancery, hard-eyed veterans who circled them under Cutwolf’s direction and led them back to Beauchamp’s house.

Stephen felt as if he was going back through a dream: the passageway, the garden with its beautiful awning, the table, the candles and lanterns. All signs of the attack had been cleared away except for the occasional shard or broken platter resting against the leg of a table. Only dark blotches staining the chairs and paving stones or flecks of dried blood against the grass and pavilion poles showed how some outrage had occurred. The garden still stretched, sweet-smelling and orderly, under a strengthening sun. Stephen caught the full echoes of the heinous affray which had shattered his life. ‘The war ghost is aroused,’ a voice murmured, ‘red and slashed is the ground.’ Faint shapes swirled before Stephen’s eyes. ‘Welcome!’ the voice repeated, ‘to the dark-hued war hawks’ blood bath. Beware of the grey eagle’s grasping beak.’

Stephen felt he had to break free of all this. ‘Sir Miles?’ he asked.

‘Stephen, prepare yourself.’ They left the ornate finery of the garden and re-entered the house. Cutwolf, at Anselm’s behest, took them from chamber to chamber. Stephen could only gape. Every single room they entered was bleak, devoid of all furnishings except for a stark black crucifix nailed to the walls. The kitchen had nothing but a fleshing table and stools with different pots, skillets and kitchenware hanging from their hooks. The buttery cupboard was devoid of anything but a loaf, a pot of butter, a jug of milk and a flagon of wine. Upstairs was no different: empty and bleak, free of all ostentation. Only one chamber was in use, the huge aumbry and the deep chest beside it crammed with quilted jerkins, hose, shirts, boots and belts. They entered the bed chamber, as austere as the rest. Again, nothing but the essentials of a lowly chancery clerk. A table with all the necessaries stood beneath the window, beside it a writing stool and an armoured chest. Beauchamp’s corpse, garbed in the flour-white robes of a Carthusian, lay stretched out on the narrow cot bed, the cowl pulled full over his head to frame a face so serene it looked as if he was asleep.

Stephen stumbled, hitting the chest with his knee. ‘I cannot understand,’ he gasped, rubbing his leg.

‘Neither can I, Stephen.’ Anselm led the novice over and pulled down the Carthusian robe to reveal the sharp hair shirt beneath.

Stephen gazed at the now peaceful face, the long fingers embroidered with a set of glass Ave beads. ‘What is this?’ Stephen glanced at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok.

‘You once wondered, Master Stephen.’ Cutwolf, standing on the other side of the bed, replaced the sheet of gauze linen over his master’s face. ‘You did,’ he forced a smile, ‘wonder about my master? Why he invited no one here? Now you know, as does Brother Anselm!’

‘Sir Miles.’ Anselm slumped down exhausted on a stool, a linen rag to his mouth. ‘Sir Miles,’ he repeated, ‘was certainly not what he appeared to be. He dressed and acted like a wealthy, powerful royal clerk, yet in many ways he was an ascetic. I have found only three books in this house: the Bible, Boethius’ Consolations and Augustine’s Confessions . I understand from Cutwolf that Beauchamp often fasted, gave most of his revenue, very discreetly, to the poor and took the Sacrament each day.’ Anselm rubbed his face. ‘When he wanted to, Beauchamp could act the part. Outside he would dine and entertain, even act the cynic but, like his dress, that was only for show. The hair shirt and the fast were more real to him than the silken doublet and the deep bowled cup of claret. He truly followed Christ’s advice about not letting the left hand know what the right was doing.’

‘My master swore us to secrecy,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘He told me once that, if he survived, he would leave this world for a Carthusian cell.’

‘If he survived?’ Stephen asked.

‘Our master,’ Bolingbrok declared, ‘“dealt with” Res Tenebrarum , the Things of the Dark: warlocks, wizards, sorcerers, witches, all the lords and ladies of the night. The Midnight Man was his special quarry. Sir Miles was like a hunting lurcher. He would not give up. He realized that this was a duel to the death in that implacable silence which seems to shroud such wickedness. In a word, Sir Miles recognized that he, as well as other innocents like your beautiful maid, would be caught up in the bloody maelstrom of this horrendous spiritual battle.’ Bolingbrok sighed noisily. ‘He always said he would make a mistake and he did. He never thought the Midnight Man would be so audacious and yes,’ he held up a hand, ‘we are sure that he and his coven were responsible for this.’

‘Did you examine their dead?’ Anselm asked.

‘We had little time,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘Sir Miles was struck mortally in the shoulder. Holyinnocent held him as he died.’ Cutwolf fought back his tears. ‘Sir Miles believed the attackers came for you. He whispered that you, Anselm, would bring justice. Will you?’

‘Their dead?’ Anselm insisted.

‘Musicians and servitors were killed. Sir William received a flesh wound but he and Gascelyn fought their way into a chamber and barred the door. Mad with fury, Sir William has returned to his own mansion. He has dismissed all his servants, fortified his house and despatched urgent letters to the King.’

‘Their dead?’ Anselm persisted, cold and hard as if quoting a refrain.

‘Brother, we killed some of them both in the garden and in the street beyond, but they took their dead and wounded with them.’

Stephen stared at the corpse of a man he now realized he truly liked and admired. Beauchamp was all he wanted to be: courteous, learned, skilful, a powerful presence and now, he had learned shamefacedly, a man of deep spirituality. ‘The wolf’s mane ruffles,’ a voice murmured, ‘the shield wall closes against Satan, a raging boar all tuskered and fiery eyed. The blades, all crimsoned, flicker out, hungry for flesh. The war bands gather.’ Stephen could only listen — he felt useless, weak.

‘My master,’ Cutwolf’s voice was as sharp as the finest blade, ‘Brother Anselm, believed you are close to the truth.’