breast in an act of contrition. Stephen went to grab his hands and started in horror. Anselm’s right hand was so cold while the left was too hot to even touch.
‘Stay back, Stephen, stay back!’ Anselm’s feverish jerking grew worse. He coughed huge globules of blood and spittle, eyes half-closed he tried to pray. Cutwolf came and crouched beside him. Stephen gazed around helplessly; the night was proving to be a beautiful one. He caught the scent of wild flowers in his nostrils; the air was warm.
‘Light the fire!’ Anselm’s bloodshot eyes opened, staring frantically. ‘Light the fire!’ he repeated. ‘Now, burn the wicked ones.’
Cutwolf hurried to obey. Anselm stretched out a hand and Stephen helped him up. The exorcist insisted on finishing the Mass, mouthing the words quietly. He reached the kiss of peace. ‘
‘
‘And they have consumed me.’ The exorcist opened his eyes and smiled up at both of them. ‘The final battle,’ Anselm tapped the side of his head, ‘was in here. The last great temptation. They taunted me, Stephen, with the sins of my youth but they were defeated, driven back. Now,’ he coughed, and a trickle of blood seeped between his lips. ‘My body’s for the dark, my soul for the light. All is finished.’ He paused. ‘Do you hear that, Stephen?’
The novice, tears in his eyes, glanced up, then he heard it. Despite the dark and the raging flames, the liquid, beautiful song of a nightingale carried from somewhere deep in the cemetery.
‘It is finished, completed, consummated.’
The exorcist jerked and fell back, staring blindly up into the star-filled sky.
Words Amongst the Pilgrims
The physician finished his tale. One hand leaning on the mantle of the great fireplace, he turned, smiled at his fellow pilgrims and toasted them with his wine cup. ‘No more,’ he declared. ‘My story is done and so am I.’ His words were greeted with cries of applause and appreciation. The pilgrims, busy discussing both his story and their own encounters with the powers of evil, rose and began to leave the taproom. Chaucer remained, as did two others — the Wife of Bath and the summoner. Chaucer watched as they and the physician gathered at the head of the common table, heads together, whispering heatedly. Chaucer rose and sauntered towards them. Curious, yet he would not have stayed if the summoner hadn’t grabbed his arm, indicating that he should join them on the bench. Once he did, Chaucer pointed to the physician. ‘Tell me, sir, you are Stephen of Winchester?’
‘I am.’ The physician smiled. ‘After Anselm’s death, I no longer heard the voices or saw the visions. I also realized I had no vocation for the religious life. Instead, I decided to follow my father’s calling and so I have, to be the most skilled of physicians.’
‘And also a very wealthy man?’
‘Yes, Master Chaucer, he is,’ the summoner replied.
‘And who are you really — Cutwolf?’
The summoner laughed and shook his head.
‘And you?’ Chaucer turned to the Wife of Bath. ‘You must be Marisa.’
‘I am. My father returned to Bath and died of a broken heart. I took my dear departed sister’s name, Alice. I, too, am a wealthy woman.’
‘Because of me,’ the summoner intervened. ‘I am Bolingbrok, Master Chaucer. My life, my energy is dedicated to hunting down and executing every single blood-drinking member of the Midnight Man’s coven. The physician and the Wife of Bath spend generously on achieving this both at home and abroad. Many years have passed but the hunt continues.’
‘So your story is not finished?’
‘No, Master Chaucer,’ the physician replied. ‘Sometimes, very rarely, the visions return. But this does not matter; our pursuit of justice does.’
‘And Cutwolf?’
‘Oh, Master Chaucer,’ a mocking voice answered from the darkness of the deep window embrasure behind him. ‘Do not turn master poet but, believe me, Cutwolf is very much alive and never far away!’
