Enough glue to keep that heavy door firmly shut. I found small glue droppings on the path outside. I wondered, why? Now I know.’ Anselm paused. ‘Once inside the church, when we’d discovered Simon’s corpse and became busy with your victim, one of you slipped shut the bolts on the corpse door and proclaimed the key was missing. Of course it wasn’t — you had the keys and so you created a real mystery. A church where all three doors were locked and bolted yet a man within, all alone, had his throat cut. The work of demons, of ghosts. In a way people were right about your work, Higden, you and your two minions here.’ Anselm paused to drink from the water bottle. He offered this to Stephen, who shook his head. The novice was tense, absorbed in the unfolding tale.
‘Parson Smollat and Isolda also had to die. Perhaps the good parson had seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps Bardolph did confide in him, though I cannot prove that. Anyway, you and your kind paid the parson a visit late one evening. Smollat and Isolda must have been terrified. Gascelyn worked with the Inquisition before you turned him. He would know what to do. You forced Smollat to write that message, implicating himself in the destruction of his own church. You then forced him and his woman to drink cups of drugged wine. Once they had, you took them out to that yew tree and hanged them. You stained their hands with oil and saltpetre. Afterwards, you saturated the church with oil, cannon powder and saltpetre and turned it into a hellish inferno.’
‘Parson Smollat bought the oil!’
‘Of course he did — at your request, before you paid him that fatal visit. You’d explained to him how both Crown and Church wanted this building cleansed and razed.’ Anselm took a deep breath. ‘Parson Smollat may have even welcomed that. Finally, you decided on our deaths.’ Anselm grabbed Stephen’s shoulder and pressed hard. ‘At Sir Miles’ sumptuous dinner party, you whistled up your coven of killers. Sir Miles was murdered. Thank God we escaped.’ Anselm got wearily to his feet. ‘You know, Higden, Sir Miles always suspected you were not what you claimed to be.’
‘Proof, proof, proof!’ Higden shouted. ‘Evidence, apart from a casket full of tawdry items.’
‘And the logic of my allegations?’
‘Proof!’
‘The casket and. .’ Anselm dug into his pouch and pulled out the script found in Parson Smollat’s house.
‘You can search my chambers!’ Higden protested.
‘We would find nothing. You have already proved you hide your footsteps well, except,’ Anselm twirled the strip of parchment between his fingers, ‘for Parson Smollat’s last message. You should have studied your hornbook better, Higden. Sir Miles certainly did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘
‘No,’ Almaric protested, ‘no, it cannot be!’
‘But it is,’ Anselm soothed. ‘The word Higden is formed. Parson Smollat, whatever he was, knew he was going to die. For once he acted the brave priest. I think it is very appropriate, don’t you? A message from the dead, from beyond the grave? Sir Miles certainly understood the message, as did I. We thought we would wait and get further proof — we certainly shall.’ Anselm turned. ‘Master Cutwolf, you have them?’
The clerk whistled into the darkness and the archers brought a sack forward. Cutwolf shook out the long white Carmelite robes. He and Bolingbrok swiftly dressed, both robes had rents at the side so swords and daggers could be drawn in an instant. They pulled up the cowls, had a murmured conversation with the captain and left the nave. Four of the archers followed at a discreet distance. Higden went to move. ‘Stay!’ the Captain of the Archers bellowed. ‘Only the Carmelites may move.’ Stephen watched the line of archers bring up their bows — ghostly hooded figures, their winged death merely a whisper away.
‘Pray, Stephen.’ Anselm touched the novice lightly on the arm and went to kneel on the sanctuary steps. Stephen walked through that ominous line of bowmen to the ruins of the corpse door. He stared out across the night-shrouded cemetery. So much had happened there, and now a gathering was imminent.
‘Dark night. A host of shadows cluster,’ a voice whispered. ‘They will snare the sin-drenched souls in their dizziness. Hem them in their own terror-filled madness.’ Figures merged out of the blackness twisted in deformed infirmity. A faint rottenness teased Stephen’s nostrils. ‘Corruption lays siege,’ a voice hissed, and the visions faded. Far out in the cemetery a light appeared, small but brilliantly white. Then abruptly a baby laughed cheerily. ‘Christ’s tiny voice!’ The very air breathed the words. ‘The Divine Child.’
‘Blessed be he,’ another voice thundered, ‘who prepares my arms for war and my hands for battle.’
‘The shield wall still holds.’ The first voice spoke again. ‘But will the armour fail, the heroes fall?’
Stephen broke from his reverie. Clear on the night air echoed the soul-chilling clash of steel. The ringing scrape of sword on sword, the vicious clatter of dagger blades. Shouts and cries trailed then lapsed into silence. Stephen stared in the direction of the lychgate. A light appeared — the hungry flames of a cresset torch, the murmur of voices, the groans and cries of wounded men. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok strode out of the night; behind them archers dragged two men garbed in black leather. Both were wounded: one had a bubbling cut to the side of his neck while the right leg of the second man simply trailed as a piece of useless, twisted flesh. Hoods and masks had been removed to reveal hard, lean, unshaven faces. Stephen stared closely. He was sure both men had, at some time, visited The Unicorn. He hurriedly stepped aside as the cortege swept into the church. Cutwolf was brutal. Seizing the prisoner with the broken leg and, despite his screams and protests, he forced him to kneel, yanking back his head, pressing the cutting edge of his dagger against the prisoner’s pulsing throat.
‘Who were you to kill?’
The man shook his head, crying to himself.
‘Who?’
‘Two Carmelites,’ the man blurted out. ‘We were told they would leave the church and take the lanes back to White Friars sometime after the Vespers bell sounded. We watched the church. We saw you leave so we withdrew and waited.’
‘For the surprise of your life,’ Bolingbrok jibed. ‘And your orders? Come, man, let your tongue chatter.’
‘We received a message.’
‘From whom?’
‘The tavern master of The Gates of Hell.’
‘The Southwark tavern?’
‘The same.’
‘And?’
‘We were told to visit a haberdasher’s shop in the Mercery. To look for a message in a leather writing case, embroidered with the arms of Castile.’
‘And payment?’
‘To visit the church of Saint Frideswide as the bell for Terce sounded tomorrow, and look for six silver pieces in a pouch pushed into the old leper-squint in the wall.’
Cutwolf, ignoring the man’s protests, pulled him to his feet and thrust him forward so the other prisoner had to catch him. Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn, subdued and watchful, clustered together.
‘Who?’ Anselm strode to stand in front of them. ‘I ask you as the only people who knew that two Carmelites were here at this time, are now with us in this church, so who told these assassins?’
Cutwolf broke the brooding silence. He drew his sword with a rasp and held it up, fingers clutching the cross-hilt. ‘I, Edmund Langley, commonly known as Cutwolf, clerk in the Secret Chancery of England, faithful retainer of Edward King of England, Scotland and France, by the power given to me, adjudge you, Sir William Higden, Squire Gascelyn, Curate Almaric and,’ Cutwolf pointed at the two moaning prisoners, ‘all your adherents, to be traitors taken in arms against the Crown.’
‘We demand a fair trial,’ Higden spluttered, face pale as he realized the full impact of what was happening.
‘Taken in arms against the King.’ Cutwolf stepped back. ‘You murdered my master, a royal clerk. You pillaged the King’s treasure. Your coven attacked the King’s loyal servants. You murdered then revelled in your victims’ blood. You have committed heinous treason, sacrilege and arson.’
‘By what right?’ Higden took a step forward.
‘I am a cleric,’ Almaric bleated.
