church and all things parochial. He now used the wine jug to bang on the table and still the desultory conversation. He was about to speak but paused at a knock on the door. This swung open immediately and Sir Miles Beauchamp, Chief Clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal, swept into the room. Beauchamp arrogantly surveyed them all as he undid the clasps of his heavy, dark blue cloak; he swung this off, tossing it over an old chair just within the doorway.
‘Gentlemen, kind sirs, good evening.’ Beauchamp undid his war belt carefully, folding it around the two blood-red scabbards carrying sword and dagger. He placed this carefully on the cloak and pulled down the quilted jerkin so its high collar showed off the snow-white cambric shirt beneath, the tight-fitting waist and padded shoulders emphasizing Beauchamp’s slim figure. The royal clerk walked the length of the table, studying each of them carefully. Dressed in black, the silver spurs on his high-heeled boots clinking at every step, Beauchamp carried himself as if his person was sacred and his very presence of crucial importance. Just past his thirtieth summer, Beauchamp was a clerk greatly favoured by the old King. He looked and dressed like a fop with his be-ringed fingers, tight-fitting hose and languid ways, almost womanish with his handsome features, blond hair coifed and pricked like any court lady. Beauchamp could be dismissed as one of those decadent minions whom the preachers thundered against with cutting references to the secret sin of Sodom.
Brother Anselm, however, after he and Stephen had met Beauchamp earlier in the evening, had warned the young novice: ‘
Sir Miles stopped at the end of the table, lazy blue eyes studying both Carmelites. Stephen noticed the slight cast in the clerk’s right eye, which enhanced rather than retracted from Beauchamp’s good looks. He smiled faintly at both, nodded and sauntered back to slide easily into the chair to the right of Sir William.
The merchant spread his hands. ‘Welcome, Sir Miles. I am sorry you could not be with us for the exorcism, which-’
‘I am not finished,’ Anselm abruptly interrupted. ‘I must leave. I have to because I want to, not because I am being forced to. Stephen and I,’ Anselm glanced at his companion, ‘must go back.’
The exorcist rose so swiftly he took the rest by surprise. Amalric the curate threw his hands up in horror. Simon the sexton flapped his arms like a spring sparrow caught in a net.
‘You cannot.’ Sir William half-rose but then sat down as Sir Miles gently pressed the back of his hand.
‘I have eaten and I have prayed,’ Anselm replied. ‘God will give me the strength.’ He leaned down, snatched up the leather satchel resting against the leg of the table and thrust it into Stephen’s hand.
Sir William made to object again but Beauchamp rose languidly to his feet. ‘The priest desires to go. If our exorcist wishes to run one more tilt in this demonic tournament so be it, I shall join him.’
Anselm half-raised his hand, as if to protest.
‘I shall go,’ Beauchamp declared, ‘or no one goes.’
They left the solar, going across the spacious entrance hall with its monumental fireplace surmounted by a giant hood, its pure stone studded with diamonds to defend against poison and magical incantation as well as gleaming topaz, a sure protection against sudden death. Just in case neither of these worked, above the fireplace hung the Cross of San Damiano, much beloved by Saint Francis, while triptychs on either side displayed in brilliant colours dramatic scenes from the life of St Christopher. The rest of the walls were hidden by painted cloths brought to life by the darting light of candle and taper; the windows were glazed while Persian carpets and woven mats covered the paved floor. A servant standing by the main door handed them their cloaks. Outside the April night had turned dark and cold. One of Higden’s retainers, a large, thick-set man holding a torch, led them across the rich gardens Stephen had glimpsed earlier, out through a small postern door and across to the huge, brooding lychgate of St Michael’s. They entered the broad, rambling cemetery. In daylight hours it stretched quiet and still, a mass of wooden crosses and weather-beaten stones, a wild garden with shady yew trees planted to fend off wandering cattle. Here and there clumps of flowers, violets, lavender, peonies and lilies planted years ago by some enterprising parson or his woman. Now night cloaked everything in darkness. For Stephen this ancient burial place, God’s acre or not, seemed a domain of brooding menace dominated by the sheer stone mass of the old Norman church. Some of its glazed windows caught the light; others, covered by stretched oiled pig’s bladders, simply gazed sightlessly out into the darkness.
‘Look!’ The retainer pointed to the top of the soaring tower. ‘No light! The beacon fire has been extinguished.’
‘But I relit it,’ Simon the sexton declared hoarsely. ‘The beacon was firmly packed, and there’s been no rain.’
‘I am tired of this.’ The retainer turned and came back.
Sir William stepped forward to urge him on but Anselm placed a restraining hand on the merchant’s arm.
‘You are tired of what, my friend?’ Anselm asked. He took the torch and raised it high. ‘What’s your name?’
Stephen stared at the man, his burly, unshaven face all pocked and marked, furry eyebrows either side of a fat drinker’s nose, with the jutting lips and protuberant jaw of a mastiff.
‘Bardolph.’ The man’s voice was grating. ‘My name is Bardolph, Brother. I serve the parish as a gravedigger and corpse-mover. My wife and I also own a small alehouse nearby. We used to sell ale here in the churchyard after Mass on Sundays and holy days. Now, because of this, there are no fees for digging, no fees for corpse-moving and no fees for ale stoups.’
‘I had no choice.’ Parson Smollat stepped forward. ‘The eerie happenings here, God save us.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘Sir William wants that, don’t you, Sir William?’
‘I certainly do. The cemetery will be closed until these matters are settled.’
‘This is our parish church.’ Bardolph wouldn’t give way.
‘Enough!’ Sir William declared. ‘Bardolph, this can be discussed elsewhere.’
‘God will resolve all these problems,’ Anselm offered.
‘Then I hope He does so soon.’ Bardolph grasped the torch and stomped off up the path.
They were about to follow when a loud banging echoed from the church. Anselm ordered everyone to go on. They did, following the pool of light thrown by the fluttering torch up to the narrow corpse door. The path turned and twisted between the stark, fading memorials of the dead. Briar, bramble and bush snaked out to catch the ankle or snare the cloak. The ominous banging continued. Simon explained how it might be the door leading down to the crypt, the charnel house where the gleaming white bones and skulls of the long dead were stored. Bardolph, holding the torch, began to tremble, the flame shaking and juddering. Stephen could even hear the man’s teeth chattering. Beauchamp seized the torch and dismissed Bardolph back to the house.
‘We are in the realm of the rat and rot,’ Beauchamp turned, face all smiling, ‘of corruption and decay. If you have the words, you can even summon up each soul buried here and ask them if they’re damned or not.’
‘Walk on,’ Anselm insisted. ‘The dead gather here but so do a horde of angry, hostile spirits.’
‘Or,’ Beauchamp, still trying to make light of it, lifted the torch and stood blocking the narrow path, ‘I remember the story of a man who, every time he passed a cemetery, recited the
‘Not here,’ Anselm whispered hoarsely. ‘This is not the place for your mockery. I am an exorcist — ghosts gather here. I can hear their faint chatter. Listen!’
‘Nothing!’ Beauchamp retorted.
‘Exactly,’ Anselm replied. ‘Can you hear anything? Where’s the snouting fox, the furtive rat, the floating, ghost-winged owl?’
Beauchamp stared around, lowering the torch. ‘True, true,’ he conceded. ‘There’s nothing but silence.’
‘And the dead.’ Stephen spoke before he could stop himself. The novice pushed his hands up the sleeve of his gown. He knew he could see and hear things others, like Beauchamp, could not. In spite of Beauchamp’s mockery, this was happening. Strange lights had appeared. Sparks of flame leaped up only to sink into the blackness, followed by chattering, whispered conversation where one word could not be distinguished from the next. Across the cemetery shapes and shadows moved, darting shifts between the headstones. A hideous scream rang out.
