‘I sleep well.’ Gascelyn gestured round. ‘Isolda the parson’s woman brings me cooked food.’ He paused as he heard voices. ‘Indeed, I think that is Parson Smollat and his lady now. They’ll be going in for the Jesus Mass — wait here.’
Gascelyn left the death house. Anselm walked round and sat on the edge of the bed, Stephen on a stool. The novice glimpsed a book bound in calfskin, fastened by a silver chain on the chancery table. He rose, walked over and opened the book of hours. He read the first entry, a line from the introit for Easter Sunday: ‘I have risen as I said.’ Stephen admired the silver-jewelled illumination. The ‘R’, the first letter of ‘
‘Someone is dancing!’ Stephen exclaimed. ‘Someone is dancing!’
The rushes ceased moving. No more dust whirled. A harsh sound echoed through the death house like a cry suddenly stifled.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ Gascelyn stood, blocking the doorway. He came in. ‘You heard it, didn’t you?’
Stephen glimpsed the desperate, haunted look in the man’s harsh face. Gascelyn stood hands on hips, staring down where the rushes had moved. He kicked these with the toe of his boot. ‘Perhaps,’ he confessed, ‘I don’t sleep too well. I’ve seen it, I’ve heard things. I wish Sir William would release me from this.’ He lifted his head. ‘Well, is there anything else, Brother Anselm?’
The exorcist simply sketched a blessing in the air, then he and Stephen left.
‘Magister, shouldn’t we ask what causes that?’
Anselm stopped and stared at him. The exorcist’s long, bony face was pale, the sharp, deep-set eyes like those of a falcon, lips tightly drawn, square chin set stubbornly. Stephen recognized that look. Anselm was troubled — deeply troubled — because he was confused. The exorcist had confessed as much as soon as they’d risen that morning, and apparently his mood had not changed. Anselm ran a finger down the stubble on his chin then scratched his head. He opened his mouth to speak but then shrugged and walked into the shade of a yew tree, beckoning at Stephen to follow.
‘Night-time, Stephen,’ Anselm leaned down like a magister in the schools, ‘night-time,’ he repeated, ‘is the devil’s dark book, or so authorities like Caesarius the Cistercian would have us believe. He described Satan as a tall, lank man of sooty and livid complexion, very emaciated, with protuberant fiery eyes, breathing ghastly horrors from his gloomy person. In another place Caesarius describes Satan as a blackened, disfigured angel with great bat-like wings, a bony, hairy body, with horns on his head, a hooked nose and long pointed ears, his hands and feet armed like eagle’s talons.’
‘And you, Magister?’
‘I regard that as pure nonsense — foolishness! Satan is a powerful angel. He is pure intelligence and will. He pulsates with hate against God and man. He does not creep under the cover of darkness or feast on fire. He is arrogant. Dawn or dusk makes no difference to him. Filthy dungeon or opulent palace does not exist for him, only his enemy.’
‘God, Magister?’
‘No, Stephen. Us, the children of God. Satan never accepted God’s creation and rose in rebellion, which lasts from everlasting to everlasting. Satan, Stephen, is no respecter of person or place. He waxes fat in the sombre shadows of vaulted cathedrals, behind the stout pillars and recesses of its choirs. He draws power in the silent cloisters from the secret thoughts and feelings of the good brothers. You’ll find Satan on the ramparts of castles, breathing pride into the lords of war. He can also be found in the lonely corpse where the sorcerer hums his deadly vespers and casts his foul spells. He lurks in the furrow and fans the hatred of peasants who plough the earth for those who own it. He also lurks here, Stephen, feasting on some filthy nastiness. What that is remains a mystery which must be resolved. In the end we must make him fast and drive him out. So, let us collect our satchel and panniers from the church — we will return to White Friars.’
They stepped out of the yew trees and paused. The corpse door swung open. Parson Smollat and Isolda came out. Isolda was about to walk away, then abruptly strode back and kissed the parson full on the mouth.
‘Lord, save us,’ Anselm whispered. ‘So our good parson, like us all, is moved by the lusts of the flesh. Quick, Stephen, collect our baggage and away we go.’
Thankfully Parson Smollat was in the sacristy and didn’t see Stephen enter the church. He collected the panniers he had left in the Galilee porch and hurried to join Anselm, who was standing under the cavernous lychgate.
‘Should we not bid farewell to Sir William or Sir Miles?’
‘We’ll return soon enough,’ Anselm replied. ‘While Sir Miles, believe me, will seek us out.’
They left the precincts of the church, going past All Hallows and into the trading area of Eastcheap. Stephen, lost in his own thoughts, felt his sleeve being plucked. He turned, stared at the young woman brazenly walking beside him and was immediately struck by her: soft and feminine, yet a truly determined young woman. Her skin had a golden, healthy hue; her thick, auburn hair, bound in two plaits, was almost covered by a blue veil. This trailed from a small cap on top of her head, then wrapped around her soft throat like a wimple. She wore a woollen fur coat decorated with silver leaves over a dark clean kirtle, with stout leather shoes on her feet. One of these was loose so she gripped Stephen’s arm to steady herself as she put this right.
‘Mistress?’
Anselm, a little further ahead, turned and came back.
‘Mistress?’ Stephen flustered, staring into the young woman’s beautiful grey eyes. ‘What business do you have with me?’
‘None, Brother.’ She smiled cheekily. ‘I am sorry. I’m Alice Palmer. My father owns the tavern The Unicorn on the corner of Eel-Pie Lane close to Saint Michael’s church.’
‘I know it,’ Anselm replied above the noise of the crowd around him. ‘What is that to us?’
‘A scullion, one of our maids, Margotta Sumerhull, has been missing for weeks. Sometimes she’d go to pray before the Lady altar at Saint Michael’s. I’ve asked Parson Smollat.’ She smiled, moving a wisp of hair from her face. ‘My father has also petitioned Sir William but neither can help. Margotta could be wild. Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘we’ve heard of you, about the strange happenings at Saint Michael’s, as well as the presence of a King’s man — Sir Miles Beauchamp. We know him. He lives nearby. Sometimes he visits our tavern. Perhaps you would be kind enough to support our petition?’
‘We shall do what we can.’ Stephen stood fascinated by that beautiful smile. The young woman grabbed his arm, kissed him full on the lips and fled into the crowd. Stephen’s fingers slowly went to his mouth. Anselm, smiling, shook him gently.
‘A woman’s kiss,’ the exorcist murmured, ‘one of God’s great gifts. Count yourself lucky, Stephen, and let’s move on.’ They hastened through the crowds. ‘The world and its retinue,’ Anselm murmured, ‘have gathered to buy and sell.’ Stephen kept close to his master. The busy, frenetic atmosphere of the city, hungry for trade, was overwhelming. Carts and sumpter ponies laden with Italian spices, Gascon wine, Spanish leather, Hainault linen and lace as well as timber, iron and rope from the frozen northern kingdoms, forced their way through. The clatter of all these competed with the constant din of chickens, pigs, cows, oxen and geese loaded on, or pulling, heavy wheeled carts and tumbrils. The air was riven by the crack of the whip, the neighing of horses and constant yapping of alleyway dogs. From the cramped alleyways and runnels leading on to the broad thoroughfares of Poultry and Cheapside swarmed London’s other city: the hidden world of the wandering musicians, rogues, cozeners, naps and foists, charlatans and coney catchers, all bedecked in their motley, garish rags and eager for prey. A sweaty tribe, which reeked of every foul odour, these swarmed around the hundreds of market stalls, pitting their wits against the bailiffs and beadles who constantly patrolled the markets. The officials had already caught one miscreant, a toper, his nose as brilliantly red as a full-blown rose; arrested for foisting, he was being led off to stand in the cage on the top of the tun which housed the conduit for Cheapside.
The crowd surged, broke and met again. Apprentice boys hopped like frogs, shouting for custom. Fur-gowned burgesses, arm-in-arm with their richly dressed spouses, rubbed shoulders with fish-wives hurling obscenities at each other over a cohort of men-at-arms marching down to the Tower. A market beadle proclaimed the names of two whores missing from their brothel. A juggler leading a mule decorated with cymbals stopped to ask two
