rumour.’
‘And Edith Swan-neck before she disappeared. . did she say or do anything untoward?’
Rohesia chewed the corner of her lip. ‘Yes, she seemed pleased about something. Well, as if laughing to herself.’ She sniffed noisily. ‘Brother Anselm, the hour is late — I can tell you no more.’ This time Anselm let her rise. They made their farewells, went out into the hallway and back into Gutter Lane. They re-entered the tangle of alleyways, the melancholy wasteland around White Friars. ‘Magister, what do you make of what Rohesia said?’
‘She has a bold heart, a voice of power and a strong countenance,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Do you know Rohesia has asked to be buried with a flagon of wine and a goblet to ready herself to drink the first toast in hell? Somehow I don’t think she will be drinking there.’ He gestured to Stephen to walk alongside him. ‘We are all going to be very surprised about who is chosen for heaven. Anyway, Stephen, to answer your question, Rohesia has pointed us, perhaps not to the truth, but certainly to the way there. Well, now I am going to find my path to a different place.’
Anselm strode on, Stephen hurrying beside him. It was lamplight time, the hour of the Jacob thieves who, armed with ladders, climbed on to the roofs of houses and moved across the narrow gaps between them, searching for an open attic window. The brotherhood of the beggar were also marshalling together with all the other counterfeits, cheats and thieves pouring out of their shabby, underground cellars. Strange cries echoed. The gathering gloom was lit only by the occasional horn box containing a burning tallow candle suspended out of some window. The midnight thieves, however, ignored the Carmelites treading through the slops and dirt of the mean alleyways. This was the dead hour and these malefactors were more interested in fresh prey or spending the fruits of their earlier hunts in the low-ceilinged alehouses and wine shops. Anselm turned and went down a runnel which was more like a covered passageway, the houses on either side closing in over their heads. No candle or lamp gleamed but a light at the far end beckoned them on. Stephen shivered. He turned to his right and stifled a scream at a face peering through the narrow slats of a fence. A pallid, white-haired woman with black, glowing eyes was holding a lamp in both hands just beneath her chin. Stephen blinked and looked again, but the woman had gone.
They reached the end of the alleyway and entered a box-like square, its cobbled ground gleaming in the light of torches fixed to the walls. In the centre of the square stood the bowl, casing and roof of a huge well, illuminated by two roaring braziers. Along three sides of the square ranged black-and-white timbered houses, their windows filled with strengthened linen or clear horn. Lamplight glowed at some of these windows. On the far side of the square rose the dark silhouette of a church, more like a barn, built out of black stone with a ramp rather than steps leading up to the great iron-bound door. A hooded figure sat on a stool to the right of this porch, warming his fingers over a chafing dish. Above him
‘Magister, what is this?’
‘Mandrake Place. The houses belong to the Fraternity of the Suspercol.’
‘Who?’
‘The Suspercol,’ Anselm repeated, ‘short for the Latin,
As they crossed the square Stephen remarked how clean it was — no refuse or piled mounds of rubbish.
‘That’s because this place is sacred to the Brotherhood of the Twilight,’ Anselm explained. ‘Thieves, cozeners and counterfeits. The dung-carts come here at least four times a day and the guardians wash the cobbles with water from the well.’
They reached the foot of the ramp and walked up. The guard seated on the stool rose to greet them. Stephen was aware of others lurking deep in the shadows on either side of the church. The guard pushed back his cowl to reveal a white, gaunt, bony face like that of a skeleton, his long, scraggy neck scarred by a deep red ring like some ghastly necklace.
‘Half-hanged Malkin, greetings!’
‘Greetings to you and yours, Brother Anselm.’ The man bowed and opened the door, ushering them into the church.
‘Half-hanged?’ Stephen whispered.
‘At Tyburn Forks ten years ago,’ Anselm murmured, ‘he hung for an hour, and when they cut him down he revived. A miracle! He received the King’s pardon and is one of the guardians here.’ Stephen only half-listened, already startled by the church he had entered. A long nave stretched up to a vividly painted red rood screen where pride of place was given to the Good Thief. Eye-catching frescoes, crude but vigorous, decorated the walls, their scenes brought to life by the candle spigots placed along each aisle. The floor was of plain paving stones but in the centre were two broad trapdoors sealed with a clasp. Clearly seen through the rood screen stood the main altar, stark and unadorned beneath a silver pyx and glowing red sanctuary lamp. The Lady chapel to its left was equally sparse and bleak.
The atmosphere of that desolate chapel enveloped Stephen in a sombre embrace. It was a place of sadness and hidden fears. For a few heartbeats the rood screen seemed to disappear, replaced by a luxurious, sprouting oak tree from which many corpses hung in manacles. This faded. Stephen became aware of the charcoal crackling in pots and the pleasing wisps of heavy incense.
‘The Chapel of the Damned,’ Anselm explained. ‘Off the beaten track, not visited by many. Certainly not on the eve of the feast of Saint Mark.’
‘The same day Puddlicot broke into the crypt?’
‘Precisely, Stephen and, according to the records, the eve of his grisly execution two years later. All this, Mandrake Place, the church, the houses and the Fraternity of the Suspercol, were once the property of an English leper knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus. He bequeathed it to serve as a place where the corpses of those hanged in London and elsewhere might be brought.’ Anselm pointed to the trapdoor. ‘Beneath that stretch are extensive burial pits of soil and lime. The corpses of many executed are brought here on the death-cart which they roll up that ramp into the church. They wrap each corpse in a sheet and lower it down for burial. I went down there once — a seemingly endless sea of bones and skulls.’
‘And Puddlicot lies here?’
‘Yes, Stephen, he does; his corpse no more than a tangle of bones.’
‘Why have we come here tonight? To catch a sighting?’
‘No, I do not think anything will happen here. We will, however, tarry at this, his last resting place. We shall assure his soul that we are its benefactor, not tormentor, as well as vow to arrange requiem Masses to be sung.’ Anselm walked to the edge of the vault. He knelt and began to thread his rosary beads. As Stephen went to join him the main door opened and two women entered. The first was very old and grey-haired, with stooped shoulders, one hand grasping a walking cane, the other the arm of her companion. Both were dressed in the brown robes and white wimples of the Franciscan Minoresses who had their convent outside the old city wall near Aldgate. The two nuns stood watching them for a while before walking on up under the rood screen. Anselm hardly noticed them but continued reciting the Dirige psalms. Stephen crouched at the foot of a pillar. He tried to pray but his eyes grew heavy, aware of flashes of light around him and the dim murmur of voices. A commotion at the door roused him. He hurried back to find the guardian barring the way to a group of young, heavily-armed men. Former soldiers, Stephen concluded, judging by their close-cropped hair and hard, scarred faces. They were dressed in dark leather jerkins, tight hose pushed into their boots. Six in number, their leader had already drawn both sword and dagger.
‘What is this?’ Anselm came out on to the porch and stood on the top step.
‘Brother Anselm.’ The leader sheathed sword and dagger. ‘The hour is late but Sir Miles Beauchamp. .’
‘What about him?’
‘We are his henchmen. I am Cutwolf.’
‘He mentioned your name to me once.’
‘My companions, Oldtoast and Mutton-monger.’ Cutwolf waved a hand.
‘You have been following us?’
‘Of course, Brother Anselm. Your safety is close to the heart of Sir Miles and what he wants. .’
‘What does he want?’
‘Your presence at Bardolph’s alehouse, The Burning Bush.’ Cutwolf grinned. ‘The widow, the now dead widow, was suddenly taken ill and died over an hour ago.’ Cutwolf pointed to another of his companions. ‘Holyinnocent here brought the news. Sir Miles awaits.’
