‘I’ve wasted my life. I might as well whistle across the graveyard. It’s so futile.’
‘It’s not futile!’ Ralph found it difficult to speak. ‘It’s not futile at all, Father!’
The priest looked as if he was going to leave the altar. He placed the Host down and stood, slightly swaying, as if he wanted to walk away but could not.
‘Take him away!’ the voice urged Ralph. ‘What he needs is a good cup of claret and a warm pair of tits!’
‘Let’s be away,’ Father Aylred hissed. ‘I say Mass and God doesn’t listen!’
A chorus swelled up, demonic voices shouting, ‘Go! Go!’ The rattling on the stairs, an icy coldness. Ralph realised that Aylred had reached the doxology of the Mass. He stretched out and picked up the chalice and the sacred Host. They both felt hot to the touch.
‘Say the words!’ he whispered.
Aylred swayed, face white, eyes dark pools of anguish.
‘Say the words!’ Ralph insisted.
Aylred turned away to retch. He leaned against the wall, spluttering and coughing. He began to edge towards the door. Ralph seized him and brought him back. He thrust him against the altar, eyes on the Host and chalice, ignoring the nagging insistence of the voice within. Ralph grasped the chalice and Host.
‘Say the words!’
‘Per Ipsum, in Ipso, et cum Ipso. Through Him, in Him and with Him
…’ intoned Father Aylred.
Ralph lifted the Host above the chalice.
‘All honour and glory and power are yours, Oh Heavenly Father!’
Ralph suddenly felt warm and relaxed. One, two then three spheres of light appeared as if from nowhere, like the brilliant flames of glowing beeswax candles. The sensation of being shut in disappeared. A warm fragrance rose up from the altar. Aylred sighed and continued with the Mass. The Our Father, the Kiss of Peace, the Communion; in the end all was peaceful. Ralph had to help Father Aylred to a stool.
‘What happened there?’ he asked.
‘Can’t you feel it, Ralph?’
‘Are you well, Father?’
‘Can’t you feel it?’ the Franciscan repeated. ‘So warm, so peaceful.’
‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘I can feel it.’
‘When I was younger and more handsome,’ Father Aylred smiled, ‘I was an exorcist. This is not the first time I’ve confronted demons.’
‘So you are not the hedge-priest you pretend to be?’
The Franciscan blinked. ‘Once, Ralph, I lectured in the Halls of Oxford. I was arrogant, so full of myself I had no room for God. I was a demon-hunter. One day I was called to an exorcism, a young woman in Binsey. I didn’t prepare myself well. The exorcism went wrong and the young woman died.’ He glanced up. ‘But I’ve been doing penance ever since. I pray to St Thomas a Becket. You know how our order has a great devotion to him. I would love to go on pilgrimage to his shrine, Ralph, but I’m too weak, too frail. Each year I promise, each year I fail. One year I must.’ He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands. ‘And if I don’t, Ralph?’
‘Oh, you will.’ Ralph smiled. ‘And I’ll go with you.’
Father Aylred shook his head. ‘I learnt a secret tonight, Ralph. I’ll come through this. But, before Christmas, I am going to die. I must prepare for the long journey I have to make.’ He got up and began to divest, laying out the robes. He swayed on his feet but Ralph caught him.
‘Come on, Father. I’ll take you back to your chamber. We’ll share a cup of wine.’
Chapter 3
Beatrice had watched the soul-catching drama which unfolded in the stairwell of Midnight Tower. All the shades and phantasms she had glimpsed in Ravenscroft assembled there: Black Malkyn, Lady Johanna, Crispin and Clothilde, other shades and shapes and, standing near the door, the Minstrel Man.
Beatrice felt as if all reality was on the verge of crumbling, like it had when she had fallen from the parapet. At times the tower disappeared and the altar stood in a snow-covered field fringed by dark, threatening forests or a red sandy waste where a hot wind blasted all forms of terrors around the altar.
She could see that Father Aylred was weakening though Ralph stood his ground. Black Malkyn and Lady Johanna screamed. Other ghouls gathered, bathing the altar in their fetid breath, running up and down the steps in a clatter of feet and a rattle of weapons. All the time the Minstrel Man watched with hate-filled eyes as the priest celebrated the divine sacrifice. Beatrice found herself unable to help. She was torn between anxiety for Ralph and the sudden changes of vista and landscape. They were in the field again. Father Aylred was bracing himself against freezing gusts of wind. Mailed horsemen left the forest and charged, lances levelled, at both priest and clerk. Beatrice stared around. This was the Mass surely. Someone would help.
The Minstrel Man appeared to be drawing closer. He seemed unaware of the other phantasms, eyes intent on the priest. Beatrice had never seen such malice, such a tangible hatred. She could almost stretch out and touch his desire to kill. As Father Aylred began the consecration, the Minstrel Man lifted his hands, talking in a gibberish tongue to the darkness around him. A silver disc of light appeared but then vanished. They were on a lake, the altar was in the centre, the water was frozen solid. Beatrice gazed in horror at the heads just above the ice, fastened tight, hair awry, mouths gaping, eyes staring. Then they were in that burning desert and all sorts of terrors seized her soul. Large feather-winged birds massed over the altar. Horsemen milled about on the far horizon. The earth cracked like a crust of bread and columns of fire appeared. Across the desert trooped a legion of the damned with sightless eyes and yawning mouths. Beside them carts rattled on iron-rimmed wheels. They bore makeshift scaffolds from which white-purplish cadavers danced in the final throes of death.
Beatrice moaned. She wanted to move from here, to go into the darkness, seal her eyes against such hideous horrors. She saw the look on Ralph’s face, sensed his fear, the desperate sense of loneliness. Yet, also, his firm courage to continue. Now and again there were moments of peace: the tower disappeared and she glimpsed a hill with three crosses on top, soaring shapes against a setting sun, or Elizabeth Lockyer smiling at her. A group of children, happy and contented, unaware of the terrors, clustered together smiling up at the priest and Ralph as if fascinated by what they were doing.
The Minstrel Man drew closer to the altar. He was reciting a mocking echo of Father Aylred’s words. Beatrice recognised the issue at hand. The Minstrel Man had released hideous images but they were harmless enough. They could do little except weaken the resolve of the priest, make him give up and flee this place. He’d thereby acknowledge, by his lack of faith, the supremacy of this demon lord who’d swept up from Hell.
Sheets of molten metal appeared as if from nowhere, screening off the altar, boxing both priest and clerk inside. They were transparent but gave off a power which repelled Beatrice. It seemed as if both Father Aylred and the man she loved had been trapped in some hideous cell fashioned by Hell. The reason was simple. Aylred’s faith was failing. Beatrice recalled her encounter with the Moon people on the road. She moved closer to the altar, willing the priest to continue but Father Aylred was unreceptive. He moved away, going towards the wall to retch and vomit. Beatrice turned her attention to Ralph, willing with all her soul that he stand his ground.
The Minstrel Man drew closer. A look of triumph played on his lips. The other phantasms he had summoned up, the hideous, repellent shapes, appeared outside the cage he had formed.
Again the tower disappeared. They were now in the hall of some castle. All around was a brooding darkness, broken only by flickering red candles. For the first time since her fall from the parapet, Beatrice experienced true terror, a soul-crushing sensation of despondency and despair.
‘Pray, Beatrice Arrowner!’ Brother Antony was kneeling beside her. She fell to her knees, hands clasped.
‘This is the Mass,’ she hissed. ‘The sacrifice of God’s own Son!’
‘Pray,’ Brother Antony repeated. ‘It depends on man’s faith.’
She obeyed and, when she looked up, they were back in the vestibule of the Midnight Tower. Ralph was forcing the chalice into Father Aylred’s hands. The priest began the words of the solemn doxology. Abruptly there
