Michael’s. I believe Parson Spigurnel was going to help by securing safe passage abroad for both of us, but then Drokensford struck. So yes, I don’t like royal clerks, particularly Beauchamp with his secretive, sly ways, hiding in that strange house which only his henchmen enter. Anyway, Richard had to flee to Saint Michael’s at the dead of night. I only visited him once. I drew as close as I could to the sanctuary chair. I know my daughter has told you this but it is worth repeating: Richard whispered how he had left me a package, wrapped in a leather casing buried in our garden, containing the Cross of Neath and Eleanor’s dagger, along with a message. I asked him about the rest of the treasure — that’s when he repeated the message that it was under the protection of God’s guardian. I suspect he hoped that I would find the treasure and perhaps use it to negotiate with Drokensford, but I could not — that clerk was too sharp. He had already ransacked our house and the garden. Remember, Anselm, I was only sixteen and bearing a child. I was truly terrified.’ She began to sob. Eleanor put a protective arm around her shoulder.
‘Tell me,’ Anselm leaned across the table, ‘did Puddlicot ever talk about the Merlin Stone? I will be even blunter, mistress: did Puddlicot ever dabble in the black arts?’ The ancient one glanced up, watery eyes creased in an impish smile. ‘God bless you, Brother Anselm, but I find that amusing. Puddlicot was a merry fellow. He could dance a jig and tell a tale. He was a jongleur, a bully boy, deeply in love with life. He did not pray. He lived recklessly for the moment so he had no time for magic, wizards, witches or warlocks. He dismissed them all as charlatans.’
‘The Merlin Stone,’ Anselm insisted, ‘was part of the treasure stolen from the crypt?’ The ancient one looked at Anselm then threw her head back, cackling with laughter. ‘I do remember that, small and round as a ball, smooth and polished.’ She wiped her tired eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Merlin Stone!’ she scoffed. ‘Richard tossed it into the carp pond as a useless piece of rock. He claimed it was man-made, the type of stone you carve from a falling star which has burned out and fallen to earth. He said the good monks of Glastonbury must have been hard at work to smooth that out! As far as I know,’ she chuckled, ‘Merlin’s Stone is still lying at the bottom of that carp pond!’
Even Anselm grinned, lifting his goblet of water in salute. He then told them about the Midnight Man, the disappearance of young women and the grisly murders at St Michael’s. Both women sat in shocked silence. Eleanor raised her hand. ‘Brother Anselm, how will this end? You say my father’s ghost still hovers, that even our prayers have not helped. Will my father’s spirit ever find peace?’
‘How will it end, Eleanor,’ Anselm replied kindly, ‘is in the hands of the Lord. I shall tell you something I have not yet told others. I am beginning to understand what happened and that opens further doors. Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the Midnight Man’s coven; that nest of vipers always had an interest in Puddlicot’s treasure, probably because of the Merlin Stone. Rishanger and his fellow demons searched that house but found nothing. However, they were also blood-drinkers, feasting and revelling on the bodies of young women whom they slaughtered and buried in that hellish garden. During one such foray, Rishanger stumbled on those two treasures as well as the information Puddlicot had buried with them. This provided further impetus; hence the satanic revels at Westminster and particularly at Saint Michael’s. They were intrigued by the written reference to Puddlicot’s plunder being guarded by God’s protector.’
‘The church of Saint Michael’s?’
‘Of course!’ Anselm agreed. ‘So, Mistress Eleanor, they performed their rites but these became entangled in some other wickedness and came to nothing.’
‘What wickedness?’
‘I shall tell you, mistress. I trust you. I will tell you something I have not yet told Sir Miles and the rest: somewhere in that church or cemetery lie other corpses.’
‘Why do you say this?’
‘Satanic covens need consecrated ground for their filthy blood sacrifices. More practically, I suspect, Rishanger’s garden could not hide any more corpses.’
‘So many were slaughtered?’
‘We are talking of a coven, all blood-drinkers. Perhaps a few of them are women but mostly men.’ The exorcist paused. ‘I do wonder why cemeteries fascinate the human soul. Is it all the ceremony which goes into them? I have been to the Innocents in Paris, a forest of ornate, carved stone. The rich even try to make their dead flesh sweet, paying butchers to scoop out their entrails and fill their insides with fragrant spices.’ Anselm laughed sharply. ‘It only makes them tastier for the worms. What does it matter? I was also in Paris when the Pestilence returned. I heard her swish her scythe as she combed the streets, gathering her victims. I saw corpses piled high, the flesh turning a purplish-black, bereft of all soul and spirit. If people like the Midnight Man reflected on such an end, they would give up their filthy ways.’
‘Brother Anselm,’ Eleanor intervened gently, ‘when will you put paid to these nightmares?’ The exorcist did not reply but rose to his feet, helping her and her mother, who had now grown sleepy-eyed. The exorcist simply blessed them. Stephen helped both women out from behind the screen. The taproom was now filling up. Tradesmen and tinkers jostled each other. A wandering scholar, his pet weasel in a cage, was offering to chant a poem but no one took any notice. Two relic sellers were inspecting the contents of their sacks. They caught Stephen’s eye and invited him over. He ignored them and escorted the two women to the door. The sunshine had gone and a thin drizzle peppered the cobblestones. A man strode through the gates, face hidden in a deep hood, dark cloak billowing out like the wings of a bat. Cutwolf! He did not stop but glanced, mice-eyed, at the two ladies, brushed past Stephen and into the tavern. The ancient one patted Stephen on the arm and leaned heavily against her daughter, who smiled at Stephen.
‘So young! I hope what we told your master is of use?’
‘I am sure it is,’ Stephen reassured her. ‘As he said, all these are pointers to the truth.’
‘Will we ever be free of it?’ Eleanor murmured. ‘Years ago I heard a story about a child who found an evil- looking toad in a field. The girl was so frightened, she killed it. That dead toad pursued her night and day, giving her no rest. The girl killed it time and again but the pursuit continued even after it was torched to ashes. The hapless, persecuted girl, to be eternally free of the torment, let her loathsome enemy bite her but escaped death by cutting away the venom-filled wound. Vengeance appeased, and the toad was seen no more.’
‘Mistress?’
‘Sometimes evil dogs our lives — a host of bats blacking out the sunlight.’ She leaned over and kissed Stephen on each cheek. ‘I do believe your master will free us from the evil which seems to hound our souls. But remember, Stephen, there will be a terrible price to pay.’ Then they were gone, two lonely figures shuffling into the gloaming.
Stephen returned to the taproom to find Cutwolf closeted with his master in the window-seat. ‘Sir Miles wants to know what our two guests told us,’ Anselm declared drily. ‘I have given Brother Cutwolf the gist of it. Sir Miles believes more mischief is afoot, but we also have an invitation to dine with him. You, me, Master Robert and Mistress Alice — it will be grand.’
‘My master is most appreciative of your work.’ Cutwolf, despite the heavy cloak over his mailed shirt and clinking war belt, was friendly enough. ‘The day after tomorrow, just before vespers, he insists that you sup with him.’ Cutwolf’s voice became teasing. ‘Master Stephen, you did ask about my master’s house. .?’
Stephen blushed.
‘And now,’ Anselm rose, ‘we have an appointment with a soul bound for God. Master Bolingbrok awaits us inside Saint-Olaf-all-alone.’
‘A small tavern, deep in White Friars,’ Cutwolf answered Stephen’s puzzled look, ‘as different from this as hell from heaven. Don’t be disappointed,’ Cutwolf added kindly, ‘Mistress Alice will be here when you return and remember, the evening after tomorrow, we have our festivities to celebrate.’
Stephen hid his disappointment. He gathered his cloak and sword belt with its long stabbing dirk and sought out Alice. He feverishly kissed her then joined Anselm and Cutwolf, already striding across the tavern yard. They went up through the constant drizzle towards St Michael’s, a dark mass against the cloudy sky. They paused for a while by the dripping gates of that evil-festering cemetery with its heap of tumbled stones and crosses. Anselm stood staring out over the desolation. Stephen, busy with his cloak and belt, his mind still full of regret at leaving Alice, felt the crowding ghosts close in. He gazed down the empty lane. Figures moved. A shadow rose out of a puddle; others followed. Restless shapes, as if a mob of demons and spirits, were mustering. Faint traces of song and conversation teased Stephen’s ear. A waft of heavy perfume came and went. A raucous voice shouted, ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ The air turned abruptly cold. Cutwolf clapped gloved hands on the hilt of both sword and dagger.
