He swallowed the diced meat and grinned. ‘Perhaps you frightened them off?’
‘I probably have.’ Alice chewed on her bread, watching him curiously. ‘I heard about what they discovered at Rishanger’s house. Did you know he used to come here? A weasel-faced, hard-hearted rogue. I never liked him.’ Alice put down the piece of manchet loaf. ‘God knows,’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘one of those may have been Margotta Sumerhull. Tell me,’ and she’d revert to her usual litany of questions, which he tried to answer as best he could.
Stephen came to realize that Brother Anselm had left him at The Unicorn for many reasons. The exorcist himself had disappeared, lost in his own business. Stephen began to sense that Anselm was not only trying to determine his vocation but also learn what was happening along the needle-thin runnels and alleyways of the Parish of St Michael’s, Candlewick. Stephen remained vigilant. The deaths of Bardolph and his wife, the opening of the graves, the rumours about hauntings, had alarmed everyone. People were now glad that Sir William Higden had decided to keep the church under close ward. Many argued that the church should be closed completely. Sir William should pull down the entire edifice, clear the cemetery, fill the charnel house and begin a new building. The dark rites of the Midnight Man and his coven were common gossip, as well as the horrid finds at Rishanger’s house. Lists of the names of young women who had disappeared were hastily drawn up in this alehouse, tavern or cook shop and passed from lip to lip. Alice, however, was only interested in one name: her bosom friend, Margotta Sumerhull. She pestered Stephen, who could only answer that all they had found was a tangle of bones. Nevertheless, he promised he would ask Anselm and Sir Miles if they could offer further help. Secretly, Stephen wondered more about Edith Swan-neck, Bardolph’s mistress. Stephen, from what he had learned from his father, knew that her corpse would not have decayed completely, so where was she?
At times, although immersed in the joys of The Unicorn and Alice’s loving presence, Stephen openly fretted about the apparent disappearance of both Anselm and Beauchamp. Alice, in their daily meetings in her ‘secret bower’, would often question Stephen about his master. Did he have secret powers? Could he see the spirits of the departed? Stephen, sworn to silence on such matters by Anselm, could only answer evasively, so Alice would move on to Beauchamp. Stephen had also heard rumours about the royal clerk. How he lived in apparent splendour in his own elegant mansion in Ferrier Lane. ‘A man of great discretion’ was how Alice described Sir Miles, who sometimes supped at The Unicorn. Rumour had it that he was a ladies’ man, yet he was most reluctant to entertain at home and more inclined to visit this tavern or that, constantly escorted by his henchman Cutwolf. Rumour babbled about that enigmatic royal clerk’s private life, though it was more of a case of much suspected but nothing proved. At times Stephen was relieved to be distracted by the young Marisa, who regarded his daily meetings with Alice in their bower as part of a delicious game. The little girl would creep through the garden, or be there hiding already, only betraying herself by a flash of colour or her irresistible giggle. Alice would rise and go searching until she caught her young sister, dragging her out of her hiding place, trying not to laugh at the gap-toothed grin before sending her packing back into the tavern. Marisa, however, also regarded Stephen as hers and, when her sister was not looking, would grasp his hand, jumping up and down, begging to be taken out to this stall or that.
Cutwolf appeared. He, too, took lodgings at The Unicorn, a narrow, low chamber near the stables. At first he kept to himself, busy with his master’s affairs. Cutwolf could give Stephen little news about Anselm, who had apparently disappeared into the muniment room at the Tower while Beauchamp was absent on Crown matters, though exactly what was never discussed. During the second week of Cutwolf’s stay at The Unicorn, as Minehost and his servants prepared for some May-time celebrations, Cutwolf became more sociable. He took to joining Master Robert and the tavern servants in the taproom after the usual customers had left. In the glowing light from a roaring fire and the shafts of flame from candles and tapers, Cutwolf would regale them all with stories about London’s Hades, the dreadful underworld thronged by a host of dark but colourful characters: Melisaunde, the arch mistress of wicked wenches and Duke Jacob Hildebrod, a monstrously fat old man with one gleaming eye in the centre of his forehead. How Duke Jacob ruled what was commonly called ‘The Shire of the Lords of the Huff’, which included all the naps, foists, coneycatchers, cozeners and forgers of London. How this lord of hell could whistle up a blizzard of swords and cudgels as well as a legion of hideous hags who rode on broomsticks. The rifflers and the rufflers from the dank, pig-licked cobbles of Southwark and Smithfield were also his retainers. .
Stephen, with Alice next to him on a bench close to the inglenook, Marisa sitting on the floor between them, would listen round-eyed as owls as Cutwolf described the evil smelling ‘Hole-in-the-Wall’ tavern with its spacious bailey, ‘The Court of Miracles’. Here the Ringers of the Dead would summon all the thieves of London to account to their lord, Duke Jacob. Cutwolf would delight them with such tales of mystery while Minehost passed around a steaming posset in a broad-rimmed, loving cup, along with dishes of finely-sliced bread and roast meat. Stephen’s admiration for Cutwolf deepened as the henchman proved that verse from the Gospel — how the children of this world are more cunning in their affairs than the children of the light. Stephen discovered that Cutwolf was in fact a royal clerk schooled at Stapleton Hall, Oxford; a mailed clerk who had fought in battle. A secret, subtle man who hid his true identity beneath the mask and guise of a street riffler. Cutwolf was not just acting the troubadour, the jongleur, the travelling minstrel, he was also Beauchamp’s spy. Cutwolf was a clever spider, spinning a web to cover them all and entice others into the trap. Once he’d finished minstrelling, he would invite others to make their contribution about life along the alleyways of Dowgate and the surrounding wards. Everyone was eager to participate and, in anticipation during the day, garner as much tittle-tattle and gossip as possible.
The bloody, mysterious affairs at St Michael’s and Rishanger’s house were raised in disgust. The common opinion was that Bardolph had been hurled from the tower by a demon who lurked in the cemetery and stalked the tombs. Stephen held his peace because, as the days passed, he realized that Cutwolf was after greater prey — the identity of the Midnight Man! That title certainly cast its own deep shadow of evil over the ward. Warlocks and wizards, witches and moon women were common enough, but the Midnight Man and his coven were different. One evening Cutwolf opened his purse and laid six thick silver pieces on the table, bringing the candle spigot closer and allowing the precious coins to glitter like gifts from heaven. These, Cutwolf promised, would be given to anyone who brought fresh information about the Midnight Man and his company. Master Robert openly supported Cutwolf. More people thronged the taproom before the curfew bell tolled and so more remained to share the gossip after the main lantern horns were doused and the tavern door officially locked and sealed for the night. The ward patrol took no issue with this; instead its members would knock on the courtyard gates and be granted admission. Yet, if Cutwolf hoped for a revelation, he was disappointed. Legend and lie abounded about the Midnight Man. Rumour had it that Rishanger was one of the coven, even its leader, yet the identity of that notorious warlock remained stubbornly hidden.
One night Simon the sexton appeared in the taproom. He was so deep in his cups that he failed to recognize Stephen but sat slack-mouthed, listening to Cutwolf, when the henchman produced his coins and asked about the Midnight Man. Stephen, deep in the shadows around the inglenook, wondered if Simon had come of his own accord or been sent by Parson Smollat. Any doubt about that dissipated the following evening when the good parson himself, accompanied by the sexton, also attended Master Robert’s joyous vespers. On that particular evening Cutwolf related a chilling ghost story about St Mary-le-Bow, the gathering place of Laurence Duket’s ghost, who had taken sanctuary there decades earlier and was found hanging from a window-bracket. Afterwards the discussion returned to the hauntings at St Michael’s. Everyone glanced curiously at the parson who, red-faced with drink, could only shake his head and stutter at what he slurred was, ‘the sheer wickedness of the thing’.
‘The Midnight Man must be a powerful person,’ Alice declared, her lilting voice ringing through the taproom. ‘Someone who can dominate and terrify a soul.’ Everyone agreed, nodding their heads at the horror surrounding this warlock. Cutwolf realized he would learn little from the evening and, as he always did, turned the conversation back to some other topic. Alice’s intervention, however, had forced Parson Smollat to stare in Stephen’s direction. Despite his many gulps from the loving cup, the parson recognized Stephen and afterwards, just before he left, pompously sauntered over. He did not question why Stephen was there or why he was not wearing the Carmelite robe, but clutched the novice’s arm and demanded to know the whereabouts of Anselm. Why had he disappeared, and what could be done about the strange doings at his church? Despite Parson Smollat’s wine-soaked arrogance, Stephen felt his real fear. He could only fend off his questions as he helped the priest through the door and into the cold night air. The parson called for the sexton to wait for him before tapping the side of his red, fleshy nose as if he and Stephen were fellow conspirators. ‘Cutwolf is right,’ he slurred. ‘That malignant, the Midnight Man, must be found. He is the root of all this evil nonsense.’ Parson Smollat sighed noisily. ‘God knows, I am tired of all this. I wish I was free of Saint Michael’s.’ Turning away, he walked off into the darkness to join Simon. Stephen watched them go. The lane leading to the tavern side door emptied, silent except for the slipping and slurry of hunted and hunter across a pile of refuse further down. Stephen was about to return to the cheery taproom when a glow of
