here?’
Stephen glanced at the parson. A good man, he thought, but weak and reluctant to grasp the tangled root of the evil festering here. Despite the warmth, the wine, the sturdy furniture and brightly painted wall cloths, the evil, the bleak despair, the heinous malice Stephen had experienced in that church had followed them here. It lurked watching in the shadows, away from the light. Some malevolent ghost or hell-born creature was dragging itself through the murk across that great barrier between the visible and invisible. The exorcist was also alert; he fingered his Ave beads, the other hand touching the small wooden tau cross on a cord around his neck. Stephen recalled one of Anselm’s sayings: ‘Thistles of the souls bring forth sin and despair. Satan and his demons can only feast on what we offer them’. What was at stake here? Stephen broke from his reverie as Parson Smollat pointed to the red cross with trefoiled ends painted on a shield which hung on the wall above the mantled hearth. Next to it a second shield displayed the Agnus Dei, a white lamb with a nimbus of gold showing three red rays. The lamb held a scarlet cross against a field of deep azure and a banner which had a silver staff with a gilt crown on top.
‘For all our weaknesses and stupid sins,’ Parson Smollat confessed, ‘I thought we were a godly community shielded against evil, protected by the Lord and his great henchman, Archangel Michael.’ Parson Smollat took a deep breath. ‘All that changed last year around the Feast of All Souls. You know,’ he swallowed hard, ‘that the eve of All Saints, thirty-first of October, Saint Walpurgis, is one of the most solemn black feasts of the sorcerers and other practitioners of the dark arts. I was absent that evening, when our cemetery was invaded by a warlock well- served by the knights of hell, the one who calls himself “The Midnight Man”.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Anselm broke in. ‘One day I would like to meet him.’
‘One day you shall!’ Beauchamp retorted. ‘You can shrive him just before he’s burnt as a warlock at Smithfield.’
Anselm turned in his chair and stared at the subtle clerk. ‘God,’ he whispered, ‘has ordained all our ends. Pray God we are not consumed by his fire in the second death.’
Beauchamp’s smile faded. He looked sharply at Anselm, then indicated that Parson Smollat should continue.
‘As I said,’ Anselm would not be outfaced, ‘I would like to meet the Midnight Man — he claims to be constantly attended by a spirit dressed in a flesh-coloured tunic under a dark robe. I wonder,’ he mused, ‘why warlocks and sorcerers place such great emphasis on petty demons like that?’
‘I do not know any of this, nor does anyone here.’ Parson Smollat sniffed. ‘Nor do I know what went wrong, what horrid sights and hideous manifestations made their presence felt. Murderous chants, snatches and war cries were heard amongst the howling of a pack of wild dogs which invaded the cemetery and drove off a herd of pigs, snouting around the dead. Apparitions were glimpsed, ghouls and night-stalkers. Menacing shadows with strange lights were also seen.’ Parson Smollat crossed himself. ‘All I know is that sooty souls, their evil minds fastened in wicked sins, came into our cemetery and sang their own devilish vespers. They opened the very doors of hell. According to rumour and, it is only rumour, the Midnight Man and all his devilish crew were so terrified at what they’d provoked, they fled.’ The parson mopped his fleshy face with a napkin. ‘I should have been content with that. The rogues and villains fled but, no sooner had the Feast of All Souls come and gone, than the hauntings began.’
‘At first they were minor matters.’ The sexton took up the story while the parson wetted his throat. ‘Tombstones were tumbled. Crosses were knocked over, then those who crept into the cemetery after dark, the night-lovers, stopped coming, eager to avoid the place.’
‘Why?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘They talked of prowlers, sinister shapes and threatening shades snaking around the tombs. Cries and strident screams were heard. Strange lights and tongues of flames licking the darkness.’
‘The same also appeared in the church,’ Parson Smollat intervened.
‘Frightful.’ Curate Almaric spoke up, clawing at his hair. ‘I heard similar tales when I was a boy at my father’s manor. .’
‘Well, yes,’ Parson Smollat glared at his curate, ‘but we’re talking about our church where tables and benches were overthrown. Triptychs pulled down from the walls. Cruets and thuribles smashed in the sacristy. A tun of wine was shattered.’ Parson Smollat paused to gulp more claret.
‘Even at Mass,’ Sir William Higden declared mournfully, ‘I was there. Candle spigots dashed to the ground. The pyx chain sent swinging. Foul smells, horrid sounds.’
‘All the same, I thought ghosts and demons could not haunt a hallowed place?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘Not true.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘Christ was taunted by demons. Read the scriptures: devils thronged around him, even if it was to beg for mercy. Evil can open up the gates of hell. Demons swarm up, drawn by feelings of hate, resentment, malevolence, wickedness and malicious evil. Like soldiers laying siege they seek paths into our souls, drawbridges across the great void which separates us from them.’
‘Like an enemy horde attacking a castle?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘Precisely. The demon lords, the restless spirits, pound on our doors and clatter like the wind against the shutters of our souls. Some castles can be taken by direct assault, others by siege or attack from afar with catapults, mangonels and the siege towers of hell. Sometimes the attack is very violent; the soul can be devastated by fire and sword as deadly as any kingdom being put to the torch. For most of us, thank God,’ Anselm crossed himself, ‘it’s just a quiet, desperate struggle.’ He paused. ‘No one is safe; holy men and women suffer the most vicious assaults. Look at Saint Anthony of the Desert, Benedict or the great Francis of Assisi.’
‘But why here? Why now?’ Almaric protested.
‘I don’t know. I am trying to discover why. Isn’t that the reason you asked for me?’
‘True, true.’ Parson Smollat’s fingers went to his mouth. He acted like a frightened child, staring down at Anselm. ‘I thought that tonight. .’
‘What did happen?’ Beauchamp had dropped his world-weary airs: he was harsh, accusatory. ‘Did you fail, exorcist?’
Stephen glanced expectantly at Anselm. He, too, was deeply curious about what he had seen and heard. Why had old memories come floating back? Why had his master, the man he reverenced as the magister, appeared so lost? The rest of the company were also attentive, waiting for the exorcist’s reply.
‘I did not fail,’ Anselm declared, ‘but neither did I succeed. However, I am not a cozener, a cheat. I do not draw pentangles and circles. True, I would like to meet the Midnight Man and discover his tricks but,’ Anselm drew himself up, his voice forceful and carrying as it was when he delivered a homily to a crowd in Cheapside, or harangued a group of fops in their brocaded fineries, their palfreys, saddled and harnessed, glittering with gold and silver, ‘what I do is not some sleight of hand. Let me assure you: we are not only dealing with ghosts and relics of the past, but something very evil.’ Anselm breathed in deeply. ‘Let me explain — what is a ghost? We have the Lord’s own words that ghosts do exist. When he walked on the water his disciples thought he was a ghost. After his resurrection Christ had to assure them that he could eat and drink and was no phantasm.’ Anselm paused, listening to the gathering sounds of the night. ‘No one,’ he continued softly, ‘knows what truly happens to a soul after death.’ He joined his hands together. ‘Perhaps it’s like a child being born. There is confusion, chaos. Perhaps the immediate aftermath of death can be like someone caught at a lonely crossroads not knowing why they are there, where they are going or even who they are. Awareness in the soul after death dawns, I am sure, slowly, according to the way we have lived. Most souls take their chosen path; some, God alone knows why, do not — they linger. They believe they have unfinished business so delay by possessing a house, a church — even another soul. They press for their business to be completed.’ He paused. Anslem now had their full attention. ‘I believe that is what’s happening here but,’ he held up a warning hand and his voice thrilled, ‘even more, these spirits are in the grip of some malignancy which has fastened tight about them. It blocks their path — why? I do not know. I suspect the practices of the Midnight Man did not help. He invoked something which now prowls your cemetery and church like a ravenous wolf.’
‘Why don’t these souls tell you?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘They cannot,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Only God’s grace conveys knowledge of what is truly beyond the veil. Think of us as looking through the bars of a prison door. We can see the captives within. We can watch their torment. They may even know we watch. We sympathize with them but they cannot truly explain why they are there, who they are or what they are doing. We are witnessing souls twisting in pain and torment. The noises, the lights, the horrid stench, the rank odours are simply manifestations.’
Anselm stared hard at a painted cloth on the far wall celebrating the legend of the Lady of the Lake. He sat
