mouth the decapitated head of an enemy he particularly loathed and, grasping it by the ears, gnawed at the nose. A cruel and most evil act. I was revolted and sickened. I vomited what I had eaten.’ Anselm paused, taking a gulp of water. ‘I still tremble at the sheer wickedness. Even after all these years, God bless me, the smell of damson juice is enough to take me back to that day of slaughter and outrage and my belly turns nauseous.’ He pointed at Stephen. ‘My friend, you are no different. Scenes, memories come rushing back when the bell in your soul peals out what it has learnt, even if your mind has forgotten it.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘In your case, Stephen, other forces swoop in, eager to exploit such forgotten, hidden memories. So, let it be. Let us not grieve about yesterday.’ He raised his water cup in toast. ‘To us three.’ Beauchamp and Stephen responded. The novice felt relaxed. He gazed around the taproom. Hungry for a glimpse of Alice, Stephen still rejoiced in the ordinariness, the latent merriment of his surroundings. So different from those cold churches, sombre burial pits and haunted houses.
‘You will stay here,’ Anselm declared. ‘It is good for you, Stephen. Don your old clothes, help Minehost.’ He smiled. ‘Get to know Alice better.’
‘Why?’ Stephen exclaimed. ‘Why, Magister?’
‘Are you intended for our order, Stephen? Are you really? You, not I, must answer that question.’ Anselm waved his horn spoon around. ‘A good place for a good life. A man of peace dwells here. I sense that as do you.’
‘Master Cutwolf and his coven,’ Sir Miles added, ‘will protect you. Become our eyes and ears, Stephen. Immerse yourself in the life of the tavern, the street, the ward. Watch and listen.’ Stephen fought to hide his excitement. He wanted to leap up, to sing and dance a jig like some moonstruck madcap.
‘You will be given a small chamber under the eaves,’ Anselm explained. ‘You will help Minehost in a myriad of tasks. Ordinary things along with the Eucharist, prayer, fasting and good works are the best defence against what the sinister Lords of the Dark can hurl against us.’
The next such assault occurred the following morning. Just after the bells for Prime boomed across the ward, Stephen was awakened by Anselm, who’d slept on the floor of the garret the novice had been given, a small but very comfortable chamber with a bed, table, stool and lavarium. The walls were white-washed a gleaming cream and boasted a large painted cloth depicting a maiden feeding a unicorn, and a thick turkey carpet covered the polished wooden floorboards. ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ Anselm urged.
He woke and sat up.
‘Stephen,’ Anselm insisted, ‘it is dawn. Sir Miles is here. We must return to Rishanger’s house.’
‘Dark of soul, hideous in appearance!’ growled a voice. Stephen caught his breath. ‘Night of the cutting knives, the splashing of blood.’ Faces, young and fearful, swam before his gaze. ‘Trapped in darkness and unable to move on!’ The cry was piercing.
Stephen grasped Anselm’s wrist. ‘I feel. .’
‘I know,’ Anselm urged, ‘but come, Sir Miles awaits us. We must go. Ignore what you see, hear and feel.’ Stephen hurriedly dressed in his clean attire: jerkin, hose, boots and cloak. Anselm packed what he called in a merrier mood ‘his holy pannier’. They tumbled down the stairs. Beauchamp was waiting for them at the entrance. The royal clerk looked dishevelled, unshaven and heavy-eyed. He gathered his cloak about him as if to hide what lay beneath and, Stephen noticed, tried to unravel the rosary beads wrapped tightly around his right hand. ‘They are waiting,’ he announced.
The royal clerk led them into the street where Cutwolf and the others were gathered, torches gleaming against the greying light. Shapes and shadows moved. A dog howled; a cat shrieked in defiance. An early river mist had drifted in, distracting the eye and muffling sound. They left the tavern, moving in a pool of light with swords drawn through the morning murk. Bells clanged. Shouts and cries echoed. Carts rumbled, creaking and crashing. But, for Stephen, all that existed was this cortege moving through the morning mist to confront the host of wickedness. He tried to ignore the hasty voices, the pleas for help, the strident cries clamouring his ears. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing but this did not help. Shadowed faces moved before him and vanished. He glanced at a cat squatting on a pile of refuse. The cat assumed human features, a devilish grin. Ghostly fingers caressed Stephen’s face. A hand clutched his belly and squeezed hard. He exclaimed loudly at the pain. Anselm turned and whispered the Jesus prayer; the sensation faded.
The morning was dull and the river mist had yet to dissipate. The creatures of the night, not ready to return to their rat holes to sleep, ate, lurked and waited again for twilight. The streets were filthy with slops of every kind. They passed the pillories and stocks, the malefactors still cruelly fastened there by neck, wrist or feet. During the night the ward watch had surprised a group of housebreakers and carried out summary justice, hanging them from iron brackets fastened to the walls, their corpses dangled by the neck, purple faces twisted into hideous grimaces. Cats slunk beneath the swaying corpses. A yellow-ribbed mongrel sniffed the puffy hand of one of the hanged. Warning shouts carried. Figures hurried down the alleyways into the mildewed cellars where the night-walkers gathered. Stephen felt the weight of depression descend on him, then his hand was touched. He turned. Alice, heavy-eyed with sleep, a cloak wrapped about her, hair a gorgeous tumble about her smiling face, was walking next to him. She pressed a small linen parcel into his hands, kissed him swiftly on the lips and then she was gone, racing back up the street towards The Unicorn.
‘Lucky fellow.’ Cutwolf, striding beside him, winked at Stephen.
‘Love,’ Anselm murmured. ‘How truly boring life would be without it.’ Stephen felt elated. The darkness no longer clung to him. He grasped the linen parcel like a trophy, his lips still burning from the kiss. The sun would rise. The mist would thin and fade. All hell might be invoked against him but Alice was wonderful. She was thinking of him. He felt like dancing, singing alleluia. Stephen opened the parcel and stared at the manchet loaf cut, buttered and laced with thin slices of ham. He broke this, distributing it to his companions.
‘Manna from heaven,’ Anselm whispered. ‘Have you ever tasted anything so delicious, Stephen?’
The novice blushed, hastily swallowing his portion as they moved across an alleyway, stopping before Rishanger’s house. Beauchamp had been busy. Tower archers boasting the royal livery ringed the abandoned mansion. Inside the King’s serjeants in their blue, red and gold tabards guarded the various chambers. Beauchamp swept past these into the gloomy garden, now lit by flaming cressets lashed to poles driven into the ground. These revealed what Anselm could only whisper as the ‘abomination of desolation’. At least six burial pits had been uncovered, each containing a white tangle of bones and skulls.
‘So many,’ Beauchamp breathed.
‘My Lord,’ Cutwolf retorted. ‘They were buried with their possessions.’ He pointed to a pile of tawdry shoes, slippers, bracelets and other dirt-encrusted jewellery. ‘They were all young women.’
‘But killed some time ago,’ Anselm declared, moving to the edge of one of the burial pits. ‘They have been in the ground some time.’
Pausing at the chattering song of a nightjar, Stephen wondered if demons nestled in the branches of the clustered orchard trees. Did the malign ones stare out, gabbling their malevolence? Stephen could not look away. The sheer misery of that place was suffocating. Anselm was correct: these skeletons belonged to the long dead — at least a year. They would not find Edith Swan-neck here.
Stephen returned to the house even as Anselm, cross in hand, solemnly cursed the perpetrators of these wicked acts. ‘May they be cursed by the sun, moon, stars, grasses and trees,’ he declared. ‘May their corpses be left unburied to be devoured by the dogs and birds of the air. May their souls enter the eternal darkness of hell where grief, without consolation, gnaws the heart and evil flourishes like weeds. May their souls be cursed to wander for ever.’
Words Amongst the Pilgrims
The physician coughed and raised his hand, rings sparkling in the light. ‘I have said enough for the moment,’ he declared. ‘My tale runs on but, there again, we promised a late start for the morrow.’ The physician moved to stand once again before the hearth. The other pilgrims also stirred, quietly discussing what they had heard. Master Chaucer, aware of their sharp and changing mood, watched intently. He did not mean to be so curious, yet he felt like a hawk on its branch, keenly surveying the field before him. The Wife of Bath was tearful. She sat crying but quickly wiped her face and rose, demanding to know where the latrines were. Other pilgrims moved. Chaucer noticed how the burly haberdasher had grown very agitated. The summoner, too, had changed, no longer the scab-
