The Midnight Man

he had fallen asleep. Anselm brushed him gently on the arm. Sir Miles kept shuffling the pile of manuscripts before him. Stephen glimpsed red and purple seals and wondered what the Clerk of the Secret Chancery would want with them.

‘I apologize.’ Sir Miles lifted his head and smiled dazzlingly at both of them. ‘Master Anselm, I apologize for dragging you from your meeting with Father Guardian, and you, Brother Stephen, from your prayerful sleep. Yet,’ he pulled a face, ‘tempus fugit and, cometh the hour, cometh the man.’ He abruptly pushed back the stool on which he was sitting and got to his feet. He thrust the parchments back into a leather pannier, strapped on his war belt and slung the heavy cloak about his shoulder. ‘You have eaten and rested?’

‘We have eaten,’ Anselm replied sharply, ‘but not rested.’

‘You must come.’ Sir Miles was no longer smiling. ‘I, or rather my master, has permission from your masters to take you to Westminster. By the time we reach there the light will be fading.’

‘The abbey or the palace?’ Anselm asked.

‘Why, Magister, the abbey.’

‘But that has been shut, closed by interdict since the murders there.’

‘To others, yes.’ Sir Miles shrugged. ‘To me and mine, no. Now, Brothers, I suggest you go cloaked and hooded. Bring what you have to.’

Within the hour Anselm and Stephen clambered into the royal barge waiting by the narrow quayside near the friary river gate. A dozen royal archers escorted it. Four served as oarsmen either side; the rest clustered in the prow behind the jutting, gilt-edged lion head. The archers wore dark brown fustian under brilliantly coloured surcotes boasting the golden leopards of England and the silver fleur de lys of France. They looked sinister, deep cowls hiding both head and face, and they moved to the clatter of weapons and a reeking, sweaty stench. Once Sir Miles and the two Carmelites were seated in the leather-canopied stern, the order was given to cast off and, with the cries of the serjeant ringing out, they moved swiftly midstream, the oarsmen on either side bending and pulling in unison. Now and again the serjeant would blow a hunting horn, a powerful braying call warning all other craft to pull aside and recognize the royal pennant snapping prominently in its clasps on the lion-headed prow. The weather was calm; the stiff spring breeze had subsided. The barge moved serenely, cutting through the water, rising and falling now and again as it met a surge in the choppy tide.

Sir Miles opened a small fosser lined with costly samite and brought out linen parcels of fresh bread, diced ham and shredded cheese which they could open on their laps. All three ate in silence, then Sir Miles, winking at Stephen, put the linen cloths back into the fosser and drew out a loving cup which he filled from a stoppered wineskin. He took a generous sip himself then circulated the cup. Anselm just sniffed and handed it to Stephen. Once it was drained, Sir Miles smiled across at the two friars.

‘I am sure we’ll eat at Westminster, yet an empty belly can also attract demons — yes, Magister Anselm?’

The exorcist made the sign of the cross in the air as a gesture of thanks. Sir Miles busied himself with the fosser while Stephen peered out over the river. Anselm called it a true road of ghosts; he had told him some heart- chilling tales about the dead, doomed to float there like tendrils of mist. How the drowned, the victims of murders or suicide, gather in ghastly choir to sing their own haunting plain chant. Great evil was also perpetrated by those who lived in the marshes or along the tide-washed river bank — creatures of the dark who emerged after sunset to prey on lonely craft or use false beacons to lure wherries stacked high with produce into some night-shrouded ambush.

‘An interesting meeting yesterday. What did you make of our company?’

Stephen glanced across at Beauchamp, now muffled in his cloak.

‘Brother Anselm, Stephen, I know a great deal about you. What do you know about them?’

‘Only what you tell us,’ Anselm retorted sharply, ‘and, by the way, we know very little about you.’

Beauchamp laughed softly. ‘Sir William Higden,’ the royal clerk declared, ‘is much beloved by the Crown — a warrior who has seen service in France and along the Scottish march; a merchant who has proved himself most generous to our king. Sir William truly loves the church of Saint Michael’s, Candlewick. He has lavish plans to pull it down, rebuild it and put that cemetery to better purpose.’

‘He lives by himself?’ Anselm asked, steadying himself as the barge met with a swell. A seagull, strident in its shrieking, swooped low over them.

‘His wife died; he is childless. He regards Saint Michael’s parish as his adopted son. He wishes to build something magnificent there.’

‘And Parson Smollat?’

‘A London priest of good reputation, he has served a number of parishes.’

‘And Isolda, his woman?’

‘You mean his kinswoman,’ the clerk grinned, ‘or so common rumour has it. The rest,’ Beauchamp moved swiftly on, ‘are what they appear. Simon the sexton had held that position for a number of years.’

‘You seem well-acquainted with Saint Michael’s?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Sir Miles put on his elegant, gold-edged gauntlet. ‘I should have told you. I live in the parish. I have a house in Ferrier Lane on the other side of Saint Michael’s. As for the others, Almaric the curate is a butterfly who constantly moves and never settles. A man of good family, Almaric was apprenticed in his youth as a carpenter. From the little I know he enjoyed a fine reputation as a craftsman but left when God called him’ — Sir Miles steadied himself as the barge shuddered slightly — ‘to be a priest. He served as a chaplain in the commissions of array both at home and abroad. Sir William’s man, both body and soul. He is perhaps not the devoutest of priests or the most assiduous of scholars, yet a good man.’ Beauchamp paused as the serjeant of archers rapped out an order to the oarsmen. The barge shifted slightly in a swell shimmering under the glow of the late afternoon sun.

‘And Gascelyn the Custos Mortuorum — the dweller in the haunted death house?’

Beauchamp glanced away as if distracted. ‘So,’ he turned back, ‘Gascelyn told you?’

‘He let us see it.’

Beauchamp pulled a face. ‘Gascelyn is Sir William’s squire by day and night, in peace and war. A man hot against witches and warlocks. In Bordeaux he served as man-at-arms for the Dominicans, the Inquisition, in their fight against sorcerers. Oh, yes, Sir William couldn’t have a better man or stronger guard.’

‘And the Midnight Man?’ Anselm’s voice remained sharp.

‘I know what you do, Magister.’ Beauchamp’s voice was low, as if abruptly fearful that the oarsmen might overhear.

‘And that is very little,’ Anselm retorted, ‘except by reputation. They say he is a lord of the night, an enemy of the sun, the close companion and friend of the darkness. A being who rejoices at the cries of the screech-owl and the barking of dogs in the ungodly hours. They say he wanders among tombs and sups on human blood.’ Anselm crossed himself. ‘These are only legends, stories to frighten. In the end, however, the Midnight Man has a reputation as a great magus.’ He paused. ‘Or a great sham. Nevertheless, one whom the King’s Council, not to mention the tribunals of Holy Mother Church, would love to question.’

Beauchamp lifted his hand for silence as the barge moved in towards the quayside at Westminster. Stephen glimpsed the soaring turrets of both abbey and palace, the lights sparkling on windows, gilded crosses and cornices. Anselm was now threading his beads and Stephen recalled how the exorcist had a great fear of water. The barge serjeant blew hard on the hunting horn. The barge thrust against the tide and swept into the landing at King’s Steps. Beauchamp led them out, up the steps, under an archway guarded by men-at-arms and into the palace precincts. A busy place thronged with sweat-stained clerks, ostlers and scriveners, busy lawyers in their ermine- lined cloaks and judges in their scarlet silks. They pushed by officials from the Exchequer, the chancery or the many courts which sat next to the great hall nearby: King’s Bench, Common Pleas and others. They passed the Jewel Tower and went down a hollow, vaulted passageway. They reached New Palace Yard, thronged with plaintiffs and pleaders, men-at-arms and a horde of clerks, scriveners and ink-stained officials from the different departments of the royal household, be it the Buttery or the Wardrobe. The day was drawing on and all these royal servants were now eager to eat and drink at the different cook shops set up in the yard by the itinerant food-sellers with their movable grills, ovens and charcoal braziers. The air was heavy with roast meat, richly spiced and salted to curb hunger and quicken the thirst, so the ale-sellers and wine-tipplers could do an even more prosperous trade. The