The Midnight Man

chatter and clatter were deafening. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry and eager to impress with their business. Stephen, trailing behind Beauchamp and Anselm, noticed how, when the royal clerk passed, gossip died and people hastily drew aside, glancing away as if unwilling to catch Beauchamp’s gaze. In turn, the royal clerk neither looked to the right nor left but swept on towards the heavily guarded abbey gates. A knight banneret of the royal household hurried up and, under Beauchamp’s instructions, he opened the gate and allowed them through into the abbey grounds.

Stephen had been there before but, as always, he was struck by the sheer magnificence of the abbey: a breathtaking vision of stone with its many walls and sides, turrets and towers, chapels radiating out like jewelled stems, all supported by a double tier of lofty buttresses. To the far right rose the spires of the parish church of St Margaret of Antioch, and between this and the abbey ranged the domestic granges, courtyards, gardens, orchards, carp ponds, vineyards, mills, guest houses and other outbuildings. Just as they entered the precincts the abbey bells began to toll the next hour of divine office. However, the black-garbed monks of St Benedict now streaming out of the cloisters where they’d washed and prepared themselves, did not hurry to their abbey church but along the path leading to St Margaret’s.

‘Of course,’ Anselm murmured, ‘the abbey church is closed because of the slayings.’

‘And will be for some time.’ Beauchamp waved them along to the red-tiled guest house, a magnificent building of Reigate stone with glass-filled windows. The guest master, an old, wrinkled-faced monk, greeted them warmly. He asked no questions but took them along a corridor, the walls whitewashed and gleaming, the paving stones sprinkled with herb dust. He stopped before a door, pushed it open and motioned them in. The stark, austere chamber lacked any ornamentation except for a crucifix nailed above a painted cloth displaying the IHS symbol. In each corner stood a narrow cot bed draped with a counterpane displaying the abbey’s coat of arms, a blue shield bearing a gold cross with silver fleur de lys and five golden doves. In the centre of the chamber stood a square table with stools on each side — this had been set up for dining with tranchers, napkins, knives, horn spoons and pewter goblets for water and wine. Two large jugs carved in the likeness of a dove stood on a side table beneath the light-filled, latchet window. Next to this was a squat lavarium with stoups of rose water, towels and pieces of precious Castilian soap in a copper dish. The guest master explained how the garderobe and latrines were in a special shed outside. He then hurriedly assured Beauchamp that all was prepared. They only had to ask for anything. Food would be served as soon as divine office finished and the abbey kitchens were ready.

Beauchamp, throwing cloak and sword belt on to a peg against the wall, courteously thanked him, then shut the door firmly behind the guest master, drawing across the bolts and turning the key.

‘Sir Miles,’ Anselm sat down on one of the beds, ‘Father Guardian told me that His Grace the King demanded my presence here. He talked of the need for an exorcism in the ancient crypt beneath the abbey, of the recent terrible crimes here. .?’

Beauchamp pulled the latchet window shut and walked slowly over to the table. He picked up a taper and, taking a flame from the solitary candle burning on its six-pronged spigot, carefully lit the other five. ‘Let there be light,’ he whispered.

‘Let there be light indeed,’ Anselm replied, pausing as the melodious plain chant from St Margaret’s carried across on the evening breeze:

‘They rise up, the kings of this world.

Princes conspire against the Lord and his Anointed. .’

Anselm nodded in agreement, then whispered the next lines from the same psalm:

‘You break them with your rod of iron.

You shatter them like a potter’s jar.’

‘All in God’s good time,’ Beauchamp added in a tone so eloquent in its disbelief of the very words he’d spoken.

‘Be careful, Beauchamp. Remember, the Lord comes like a thief in the night.’

‘And I shall render to God what is God’s,’ the clerk replied blithely. ‘But, for the moment, I must give, or I must return to Caesar, what is Caesar’s.’

‘What do you mean?’

Beauchamp, clutching a chancery pannier, sat down at the table, pushing aside the trancher and goblets. He drew out sheets of parchment as well as two velvet pouches bearing the royal coats of arms and tied at the neck with red twine. He undid these and gently shook out the contents. The first was a Saracen ivory-hilted dagger bound with fine copper wire, its curved blade of the finest Toledo steel. From the hilt and blade, Stephen guessed it was of considerable age: both were blotched and stained though they could easily be refurbished. Stephen then gasped loudly at the contents of the second pouch: a beautiful, pure gold cross studded with the most precious rubies and amethysts; even to the untrained eye the cross was a most costly item. It dazzled in the light, assuming a life of its own, as if some power within was making itself felt. Anselm, usually so reticent about anything, also exclaimed in amazement. He and Stephen handled the precious item, about six inches long and the same across. Although small the cross weighed heavy, Stephen lifted it up, staring at the sparking jewels, noting the intricate Celtic design.

‘Beautiful,’ Anselm whispered. ‘Angelic! The work of God’s own goldsmith.’

‘The Cross of Neath,’ Beauchamp explained, plucking the relic from Stephen’s hand. He then picked up the Saracen dagger. ‘Eleanor’s knife.’ He smiled at their look of puzzlement. Stephen felt a deep unease as soon as he had touched both precious items.

‘I will be succinct.’ Beauchamp put the items back in their pouches. ‘On the Octave of Candlemas last in the middle of February of this year, Adam Rishanger, a petty goldsmith, tried to flee the kingdom. He had sold most of his paltry possessions and went down to Queenhithe where a cog out of Bordeaux waited to take him to foreign parts. On the quayside Rishanger became involved in vicious dagger play with three masked assailants. Rishanger, with the help of some sailors, drove his attackers off. The captain of the cog, however, was reluctant to allow Rishanger on board, so our goldsmith fled down river. He was pursued. He managed to reach the King’s steps and sought sanctuary in the abbey, clinging on to the corner of the Confessor’s tomb. But his assailants followed him in. A lay brother who tried to intervene was killed — a blow to the heart, close to the rood screen. The assassins then seized Rishanger, stabbed him to death and fled. The abbey was put under interdict and closed, as you have said, and will remain so until the Lord Abbot decrees that reparation has been done and the church reconsecrated.’

‘And the killers?’

‘Fled, disappeared. You must have heard about this hideous affray?’

‘Of course,’ Anselm acknowledged. ‘I thought it was just a sign of the times.’

‘Yes and no,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘What was not made public,’ he tapped the pouches, ‘was that Rishanger’s killers did not have time to linger long after the murder; they fled, leaving their victim in a widening puddle of blood. Some of the good brothers tended to him. As they did, they found a sack Rishanger had pushed into one of the recesses beneath the Confessor’s tomb. Inside were these precious items.’

‘Plunder from some robbery?’

‘True, Brother Anselm, though a robbery which took place over seventy years ago.’

‘What?’

‘In the April of 1303, during the reign of the present King’s grandfather, the Hammer of the Scots, Edward I.’ Beauchamp paused, as if listening to the faint plain chant from St Margaret’s. ‘Now, as you may know, the abbey is the royal mausoleum of the Plantagenet family. It also used to be the royal treasury. The Crown Jewels and all the King’s personal wealth and precious items were stored in the crypt, at least until that robbery. Afterwards the crypt was abandoned. It, too, has a tale to tell, but that must wait for a while.’ Beauchamp paused to collect his thoughts. ‘In April 1303, around the feast of Saint Mark, a failed London merchant, Richard Puddlicot, seeking revenge against the King and eager for plunder, broke into the crypt.’

‘What?’ Anselm exclaimed. ‘I deal with magic and things supernal. I’ve seen the crypt: it’s an underground fortress, a bastion!’

‘I know,’ Beauchamp conceded. ‘The abbot at the time, Wenlock, was being blackmailed by two of his leading monks, Sub-Prior Alexander of Pershore and his sacristan, the monk in charge of securing the abbey and keeping it safe, Adam Warfeld. These two reprobates enjoyed an unsavoury reputation with certain ladies of the town. They conspired with Puddlicot, who sowed fast-growing hempen seeds in the monks’ cemetery close to the six windows of the crypt, which are on ground level. They set up a watch and hired a stonemason, John of Saint Albans who, as