‘By this.’ Cutwolf, still holding the sword up, dug into his wallet and handed Stephen a small script. ‘Read it aloud, boy, read it so all can hear.’
Stephen, hands shaking, unrolled the stiff, cream-coloured parchment.
‘Out loud!’ Cutwolf repeated.
‘What the bearer of this seal has done, he has done for the Crown, the realm and Holy Mother Church. All officers and loyal subjects of the Crown, on their duty of allegiance and on pain of treason, must give the bearer of this seal and all his work full sustenance and support.’
‘And?’ Cutwolf demanded. ‘What else?’
‘Given under the secret seal at our Palace of Sheen, on the fourth of May in the forty-seventh year of our reign, Edward the King.’
‘And the seals?’
‘Two,’ Stephen replied. ‘The signet seal of the King.’ Stephen peered at the generous blob of purple wax. ‘And that of the Secret Chancery at Westminster.’
‘Taken in arms.’ Cutwolf’s words were full of menace. ‘Adjudged traitors, sentenced to death, punishment immediate.’ He stepped forward. ‘Archers,’ he lifted a gauntleted hand. ‘Notch!’
Stephen shivered at the ominous rattle. Higden fell to his knees. Almaric turned, looking wildly for escape. Gascelyn drew his dagger.
‘Loose!’
The air thrummed with a sombre twang, the hiss of feathered death as the arrow shafts, one volley after another, sped into the exposed group. The two failed assassins simply toppled over. Almaric, his back turned, was hit three times. One shaft pierced his neck, bursting through his gullet. Gascelyn was struck in both face and chest. Higden, caught on all fours, rolled in agony as the shafts pierced deep into his side and belly.
Stephen glanced at Anselm. The exorcist’s face was as white as snow, his lips crusted with blood. He could only sketch a cross in the air. The condemned lay sprawled. Gascelyn and Higden still jerked. Cutwolf, sword sheathed, misericorde dagger in his hand, moved from corpse to corpse, slitting throats as cleanly as a woman would clip a flower head. Once finished he plucked the commission out of Stephen’s icy fingers, winked at the novice and walked away. ‘Do not grieve for them,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘Hell has them and God’s creation is richer for it.’ Cutwolf walked back, tears glittering in his hard eyes. ‘I loved Sir Miles,’ he whispered, ‘more than David loved Jonathan. A good man, Stephen. In my eyes, God’s own child. These villains brought their death on themselves. God will judge them.’
‘What now?’ Anselm moved back to sit wearily on the sanctuary steps.
‘We will burn the corpses,’ Cutwolf replied, spittle wetting his dry, cracked lips. ‘We will have it rumoured abroad how poor Sir William and his loyal servants were trapped in another hideous blaze at Saint Michael’s. The King will know the truth. He will seize all of Higden’s wealth, along with this treasure hoard. He will embrace me as his friend and order chantry priests to sing Masses every day for the repose of Sir Miles’ soul. And you, Brother?’
‘I must finish what I first came here for,’ Anselm replied. ‘Now the root of all this evil has been pulled up — the sheer human wickedness which nourished and sustained it — I must finish the cleansing process.’
‘Here?’ Cutwolf asked.
‘No, in the cemetery, on the burial pit. If you could set up a makeshift altar. .’
Anselm took Stephen deeper into the sanctuary, to the recess where those who fled for protection used to shelter. Anselm made them both as comfortable as possible; they sat with their backs to the blackened wall while Cutwolf and Bolingbrok became busy. The corpses were heaped in the centre of the nave and a funeral pyre of dry wood, kindling and bracken was swiftly built about them. Archers were despatched to find oil and saltpetre. ‘The King’s business!’ Cutwolf shouted after them. ‘Arouse anyone you want.’
‘Do not light the fire,’ Anselm called. ‘Not yet, not until I say.’ Cutwolf nodded in agreement. Stephen, cold and desperate, sat thinking about Alice. The more he did, any compassion or pity for Higden and his adherents ebbed away; their deaths had been shocking, sudden and cruel, but just. He watched as the archers worked. He could tell from the shouts and cries that the priest’s house had been broken into and Anselm’s altar was being raised on the place of slaughter. Stephen’s eyes grew weary and he slept. He awoke to Anselm talking.
‘I have waged war on you all my priestly life.’ The exorcist was pointing at something or someone crouching before him. ‘So this is our last confrontation?’ Anselm paused, nodding as though listening to a reply. ‘If necessary,’ the exorcist murmured, ‘if that is the price, I will pay.’ Stephen could see nothing. No voices sounded, no visions swirled.
The funeral pyre was ready and it rose — a sinister hive of oil-drenched wood and kindling, the bitter smell of saltpetre tainting the air.
‘All is ready, Brother!’ Anselm, coughing and spluttering, clambered to his feet. They walked down to the corpse door.
‘We found these in the priest’s house.’ Cutwolf gestured at the vestments heaped on a stool.
Anselm swiftly dressed in the alb, stole and amice. He crossed himself and walked out into the dark. The altar, a plain table, stood ready in the centre of the burial pit. Candles fluttered in their brass holdings either side of the black crucifix on its wooden stand. A dish of cruets and a plain brass paten and chalice were also there. Stephen placed the exorcist’s pannier close to the altar, opened it and took out the sacred chrism, phial of salt, the small stoup of holy water and asperges rod as well as the exorcist’s battered brown leather psalter. Anselm grasped the latter and, in the light of the lantern horns, placed either side of the altar, sifted through its yellowing pages. ‘We will say the Mass of Michaelmas, Stephen, the Mass of Saint Michael, Lucifer’s great opponent. Help me now!’ Anselm crossed himself and intoned, ‘I will go unto the altar of God, the God of my youth. .’
The Mass began. Stephen was swept up by the power of Anselm’s voice and his vigorous observance of the ritual. An array of cowled archers circled the altar. Stephen was surprised. The night had fallen quiet. There was a deathly calm — no sign of anything, nothing but the wild grass and bramble bush bending under a gentle breeze. Anselm moved to the consecration, bending over the wafer, the thin host Cutwolf had found in the priest’s house. He murmured the words of Christ and was about to raise the paten when he staggered back.
‘Get you gone, prattling, filthy, stupid priest!’ The voice cracked like a whip. Abruptly the air around them was filled with trails of smoke, each formed into the ugly, sinister face of that old woman. A stench like that of the filthiest cesspit swept across, forcing both Carmelites to gag and retch. The candles fluttered out. Red blotches appeared on the white altar clothes. Above these swarmed a horde of black flies.
Stephen was aware of Cutwolf beside him. ‘What is the matter?’ the clerk whispered.
‘Can you see anything?’ Stephen begged.
‘Nothing,’ Cutwolf hissed. ‘The candles have gone out. This stench, and the cold!’
‘Leave us!’ Anselm ordered. The exorcist stepped back to the altar but he was caught by a coughing fit. A dark-feathered bird of the night came swooping over the altar, wings wafting threateningly. Stephen glimpsed its cruel jutting beak and curved claws. A raven appeared as if out of nowhere; the bird sailed slowly down, wings extended, through the gloom to perch on the top of the cross and caw raucously. The archers became agitated; their shouts and cries broke the silence. Shadow-tinged shapes moved through the bristling gorse, long and sinister, as if some wolf or wild dog pack circled ravenous for prey. Wraiths danced around the altar. Anselm had returned to the Mass but his words were drowned by a cacophony of voices hurling blasphemous obscenities. ‘Stephen,’ Anselm declared, ‘we continue. Cutwolf, order your men to pray. Ignore what is happening.’ Anselm continued with the ritual. A horrid face appeared above the altar; only half of this could be glimpsed, a red eye glaring from a deathly pallor. Somewhere a drum sounded the death beat of a tambour. A shape, like that of a war horse caparisoned for battle, clattered through the cemetery, hooves pounding, armour rattling. Anselm, who had finished the consecration, now moved to the exorcism. Armed with the sacred chrism and holy water, he anointed the night air to the east, north, south and west, a circle of protection as he called on the powers of heaven.
‘Bitter blasts!’ a voice called. ‘Look, they come! Shall we be destroyed?’
‘Kill the priest,’ a second voice urged. ‘Shut the shaven pate’s scrawny throat! Silence his tongue!’
Stephen watched as the faces of the night-prowlers, the juddering shapes, gathered around Anselm. The exorcist was now on his knees, leaning back on his heels. Blood dribbled from his mouth; his shroud-white face was drenched in sweat. The hideous sights and sounds faded, leaving the old priest throbbing with pain. Anselm began to cry; tears drenched his cheeks as he shook his head and breathed replies to his tormentors’ questions. The cemetery lay silent; even the breeze had fallen. Anselm was sobbing like a child, praying fervently, striking his
