The Midnight Man

Matilda Makejoy, a well-known saltatrix, delighted them with somersaults and handsprings to the heart-plucking sound of an Irish harp. Servitors brought iced wine and drinks of crushed juice. Once Matilda had finished, the soup was served, ground capon thickened with almond milk and spiced with slices of pomegranate and red comfits.

Alice was beside herself with joy, clutching Stephen’s hand, while Master Robert basked in the favour being shown them. Stephen glanced quickly at Beauchamp and Anselm; they sat, heads close together. Both men, despite the festivities, looked grim. They drew apart as the cook, specially hired by Beauchamp, came to announce the main dish or entremet: crayfish set in jelly, loach and young rabbits. The cook withdrew and reappeared with the food to a flourish from the musicians. Evening set in. The coloured lanterns, lashed to poles driven into the green lawn, were lit. Stephen turned to speak to Alice and, as he did, the nightmare swept in. For a few heartbeats, joy and splendour all shattered as the crossbow bolts struck. A musician, hit full in the mouth, half-rose, hands flailing in terror. Silence descended, and then a fresh volley. Servitors and musicians reeled away as the barbed quarrels split their flesh. Stephen rose. Black-garbed figures were scaling the high red brick wall and leaping down into the garden. The music and laughter abruptly died. Cutwolf was on his feet, sword out; Beauchamp, too, screaming over his shoulder, pushing Anselm away. Stephen grabbed Alice, who was sitting round-eyed in shock; only then did he notice the black quarrel embedded deep in her chest. He picked her up, even as the blood bubbled between her lips, aware of Master Robert and Cutwolf thronging beside him. He turned and, carrying Alice, ran back towards the house.

Beauchamp was screaming at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok that Stephen and his companions be protected. The clerk then staggered back, dropping his sword as a bolt took him deep in the shoulder. Anselm went to help but Cutwolf and Bolingbrok pushed him away, driving Stephen and Master Robert back along the stone-vaulted passageway towards the main door. Alice now hung limp in Stephen’s arms. They burst through the entrance, out into the street. More figures garbed in black leather were waiting. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok fought like men possessed, swords and daggers flickering out, sharp and sudden like the fangs of a viper. At last they were clear, running along the dark-filled lanes, throwing themselves into The Unicorn where, sweat-soaked, they collapsed to the floor of the taproom. Stephen laid Alice gently down. She was past all help, eyes staring dully in her corpse- white face. Stephen crouched down beside her, bringing his knees up. He screamed all the pain and anguish which held him tight. Anselm squatted beside him for a while. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok arrived and gently prised loose Stephen’s tight hand clasp on the dead girl. They lifted the corpse up and took it away. Stephen heard the soul- chilling cry of both Alice’s father and the inconsolable Marisa. He laid down on the taproom floor and sobbed.

The following morning Anselm shook him awake and forced a bitter, tangy drink between his lips. Stephen fell asleep and, when he woke, he was in his chamber, lying sweat-soaked on the bed. Anselm sat cross-legged, his back to the chamber door. ‘She is dead, Stephen,’ the exorcist said gently. ‘Alice is dead. Master Robert is in shock. Marisa cries unendingly. Stephen, we must go.’

‘Where, master?’ Stephen retorted, pulling himself up. ‘Shall we pray in church? Gibber some litanies?’

‘Hush now.’ Anselm left and returned with a bowl of broth. He forced Stephen to eat this then put on his boots, collected his cloak and war belt and followed him down to the deserted taproom. The tavern was closed. Cypress branches wrapped in purple and black cloths draped windows and doors. Master Robert was nursing his own grief with Marisa. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok sat on a bench near the courtyard door. Stephen was surprised. Both men were closely shaved, their hair shorn and dressed smartly in the dark green and brown of royal clerks. Both wore chancery rings on their fingers, war belts carrying sword and dagger circled their waists beneath the sleeveless blue, red and gold tabard of the King’s household. The two men were grim and resolute. They offered no sympathy, no condolences, no grieving. Stephen found this strangely welcoming. They just stood, donned their cloaks, adjusted their war belts and led them out into the mid-morning street. Others waited: royal archers from the Tower wearing the livery of the secret chancery, hard-eyed veterans who circled them under Cutwolf’s direction and led them back to Beauchamp’s house.

Stephen felt as if he was going back through a dream: the passageway, the garden with its beautiful awning, the table, the candles and lanterns. All signs of the attack had been cleared away except for the occasional shard or broken platter resting against the leg of a table. Only dark blotches staining the chairs and paving stones or flecks of dried blood against the grass and pavilion poles showed how some outrage had occurred. The garden still stretched, sweet-smelling and orderly, under a strengthening sun. Stephen caught the full echoes of the heinous affray which had shattered his life. ‘The war ghost is aroused,’ a voice murmured, ‘red and slashed is the ground.’ Faint shapes swirled before Stephen’s eyes. ‘Welcome!’ the voice repeated, ‘to the dark-hued war hawks’ blood bath. Beware of the grey eagle’s grasping beak.’

Stephen felt he had to break free of all this. ‘Sir Miles?’ he asked.

‘Stephen, prepare yourself.’ They left the ornate finery of the garden and re-entered the house. Cutwolf, at Anselm’s behest, took them from chamber to chamber. Stephen could only gape. Every single room they entered was bleak, devoid of all furnishings except for a stark black crucifix nailed to the walls. The kitchen had nothing but a fleshing table and stools with different pots, skillets and kitchenware hanging from their hooks. The buttery cupboard was devoid of anything but a loaf, a pot of butter, a jug of milk and a flagon of wine. Upstairs was no different: empty and bleak, free of all ostentation. Only one chamber was in use, the huge aumbry and the deep chest beside it crammed with quilted jerkins, hose, shirts, boots and belts. They entered the bed chamber, as austere as the rest. Again, nothing but the essentials of a lowly chancery clerk. A table with all the necessaries stood beneath the window, beside it a writing stool and an armoured chest. Beauchamp’s corpse, garbed in the flour-white robes of a Carthusian, lay stretched out on the narrow cot bed, the cowl pulled full over his head to frame a face so serene it looked as if he was asleep.

Stephen stumbled, hitting the chest with his knee. ‘I cannot understand,’ he gasped, rubbing his leg.

‘Neither can I, Stephen.’ Anselm led the novice over and pulled down the Carthusian robe to reveal the sharp hair shirt beneath.

Stephen gazed at the now peaceful face, the long fingers embroidered with a set of glass Ave beads. ‘What is this?’ Stephen glanced at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok.

‘You once wondered, Master Stephen.’ Cutwolf, standing on the other side of the bed, replaced the sheet of gauze linen over his master’s face. ‘You did,’ he forced a smile, ‘wonder about my master? Why he invited no one here? Now you know, as does Brother Anselm!’

‘Sir Miles.’ Anselm slumped down exhausted on a stool, a linen rag to his mouth. ‘Sir Miles,’ he repeated, ‘was certainly not what he appeared to be. He dressed and acted like a wealthy, powerful royal clerk, yet in many ways he was an ascetic. I have found only three books in this house: the Bible, Boethius’ Consolations and Augustine’s Confessions. I understand from Cutwolf that Beauchamp often fasted, gave most of his revenue, very discreetly, to the poor and took the Sacrament each day.’ Anselm rubbed his face. ‘When he wanted to, Beauchamp could act the part. Outside he would dine and entertain, even act the cynic but, like his dress, that was only for show. The hair shirt and the fast were more real to him than the silken doublet and the deep bowled cup of claret. He truly followed Christ’s advice about not letting the left hand know what the right was doing.’

‘My master swore us to secrecy,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘He told me once that, if he survived, he would leave this world for a Carthusian cell.’

‘If he survived?’ Stephen asked.

‘Our master,’ Bolingbrok declared, ‘“dealt with” Res Tenebrarum, the Things of the Dark: warlocks, wizards, sorcerers, witches, all the lords and ladies of the night. The Midnight Man was his special quarry. Sir Miles was like a hunting lurcher. He would not give up. He realized that this was a duel to the death in that implacable silence which seems to shroud such wickedness. In a word, Sir Miles recognized that he, as well as other innocents like your beautiful maid, would be caught up in the bloody maelstrom of this horrendous spiritual battle.’ Bolingbrok sighed noisily. ‘He always said he would make a mistake and he did. He never thought the Midnight Man would be so audacious and yes,’ he held up a hand, ‘we are sure that he and his coven were responsible for this.’

‘Did you examine their dead?’ Anselm asked.

‘We had little time,’ Cutwolf declared. ‘Sir Miles was struck mortally in the shoulder. Holyinnocent held him as he died.’ Cutwolf fought back his tears. ‘Sir Miles believed the attackers came for you. He whispered that you, Anselm, would bring justice. Will you?’

‘Their dead?’ Anselm insisted.

‘Musicians and servitors were killed. Sir William received a flesh wound but he and Gascelyn fought their way