‘Brother Anselm, Stephen, I know a great deal about you. What do you know about them?’
‘Only what you tell us,’ Anselm retorted sharply, ‘and, by the way, we know very little about you.’
Beauchamp laughed softly. ‘Sir William Higden,’ the royal clerk declared, ‘is much beloved by the Crown — a warrior who has seen service in France and along the Scottish march; a merchant who has proved himself most generous to our king. Sir William truly loves the church of Saint Michael’s, Candlewick. He has lavish plans to pull it down, rebuild it and put that cemetery to better purpose.’
‘He lives by himself?’ Anselm asked, steadying himself as the barge met with a swell. A seagull, strident in its shrieking, swooped low over them.
‘His wife died; he is childless. He regards Saint Michael’s parish as his adopted son. He wishes to build something magnificent there.’
‘And Parson Smollat?’
‘A London priest of good reputation, he has served a number of parishes.’
‘And Isolda, his woman?’
‘You mean his kinswoman,’ the clerk grinned, ‘or so common rumour has it. The rest,’ Beauchamp moved swiftly on, ‘are what they appear. Simon the sexton had held that position for a number of years.’
‘You seem well-acquainted with Saint Michael’s?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Sir Miles put on his elegant, gold-edged gauntlet. ‘I should have told you. I live in the parish. I have a house in Ferrier Lane on the other side of Saint Michael’s. As for the others, Almaric the curate is a butterfly who constantly moves and never settles. A man of good family, Almaric was apprenticed in his youth as a carpenter. From the little I know he enjoyed a fine reputation as a craftsman but left when God called him’ — Sir Miles steadied himself as the barge shuddered slightly — ‘to be a priest. He served as a chaplain in the commissions of array both at home and abroad. Sir William’s man, both body and soul. He is perhaps not the devoutest of priests or the most assiduous of scholars, yet a good man.’ Beauchamp paused as the serjeant of archers rapped out an order to the oarsmen. The barge shifted slightly in a swell shimmering under the glow of the late afternoon sun.
‘And Gascelyn the Custos Mortuorum — the dweller in the haunted death house?’
Beauchamp glanced away as if distracted. ‘So,’ he turned back, ‘Gascelyn told you?’
‘He let us see it.’
Beauchamp pulled a face. ‘Gascelyn is Sir William’s squire by day and night, in peace and war. A man hot against witches and warlocks. In Bordeaux he served as man-at-arms for the Dominicans, the Inquisition, in their fight against sorcerers. Oh, yes, Sir William couldn’t have a better man or stronger guard.’
‘And the Midnight Man?’ Anselm’s voice remained sharp.
‘I know what you do, Magister.’ Beauchamp’s voice was low, as if abruptly fearful that the oarsmen might overhear.
‘And that is very little,’ Anselm retorted, ‘except by reputation. They say he is a lord of the night, an enemy of the sun, the close companion and friend of the darkness. A being who rejoices at the cries of the screech-owl and the barking of dogs in the ungodly hours. They say he wanders among tombs and sups on human blood.’ Anselm crossed himself. ‘These are only legends, stories to frighten. In the end, however, the Midnight Man has a reputation as a great magus.’ He paused. ‘Or a great sham. Nevertheless, one whom the King’s Council, not to mention the tribunals of Holy Mother Church, would love to question.’
Beauchamp lifted his hand for silence as the barge moved in towards the quayside at Westminster. Stephen glimpsed the soaring turrets of both abbey and palace, the lights sparkling on windows, gilded crosses and cornices. Anselm was now threading his beads and Stephen recalled how the exorcist had a great fear of water. The barge serjeant blew hard on the hunting horn. The barge thrust against the tide and swept into the landing at King’s Steps. Beauchamp led them out, up the steps, under an archway guarded by men-at-arms and into the palace precincts. A busy place thronged with sweat-stained clerks, ostlers and scriveners, busy lawyers in their ermine-lined cloaks and judges in their scarlet silks. They pushed by officials from the Exchequer, the chancery or the many courts which sat next to the great hall nearby: King’s Bench, Common Pleas and others. They passed the Jewel Tower and went down a hollow, vaulted passageway. They reached New Palace Yard, thronged with plaintiffs and pleaders, men-at-arms and a horde of clerks, scriveners and ink-stained officials from the different departments of the royal household, be it the Buttery or the Wardrobe. The day was drawing on and all these royal servants were now eager to eat and drink at the different cook shops set up in the yard by the itinerant food-sellers with their movable grills, ovens and charcoal braziers. The air was heavy with roast meat, richly spiced and salted to curb hunger and quicken the thirst, so the ale-sellers and wine-tipplers could do an even more prosperous trade. The chatter and clatter were deafening. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry and eager to impress with their business. Stephen, trailing behind Beauchamp and Anselm, noticed how, when the royal clerk passed, gossip died and people hastily drew aside, glancing away as if unwilling to catch Beauchamp’s gaze. In turn, the royal clerk neither looked to the right nor left but swept on towards the heavily guarded abbey gates. A knight banneret of the royal household hurried up and, under Beauchamp’s instructions, he opened the gate and allowed them through into the abbey grounds.
Stephen had been there before but, as always, he was struck by the sheer magnificence of the abbey: a breathtaking vision of stone with its many walls and sides, turrets and towers, chapels radiating out like jewelled stems, all supported by a double tier of lofty buttresses. To the far right rose the spires of the parish church of St Margaret of Antioch, and between this and the abbey ranged the domestic granges, courtyards, gardens, orchards, carp ponds, vineyards, mills, guest houses and other outbuildings. Just as they entered the precincts the abbey bells began to toll the next hour of divine office. However, the black-garbed monks of St Benedict now streaming out of the cloisters where they’d washed and prepared themselves, did not hurry to their abbey church but along the path leading to St Margaret’s.
‘Of course,’ Anselm murmured, ‘the abbey church is closed because of the slayings.’
‘And will be for some time.’ Beauchamp waved them along to the red-tiled guest house, a magnificent building of Reigate stone with glass-filled windows. The guest master, an old, wrinkled-faced monk, greeted them warmly. He asked no questions but took them along a corridor, the walls whitewashed and gleaming, the paving stones sprinkled with herb dust. He stopped before a door, pushed it open and motioned them in. The stark, austere chamber lacked any ornamentation except for a crucifix nailed above a painted cloth displaying the IHS symbol. In each corner stood a narrow cot bed draped with a counterpane displaying the abbey’s coat of arms, a blue shield bearing a gold cross with silver fleur de lys and five golden doves. In the centre of the chamber stood a square table with stools on each side — this had been set up for dining with tranchers, napkins, knives, horn spoons and pewter goblets for water and wine. Two large jugs carved in the likeness of a dove stood on a side table beneath the light-filled, latchet window. Next to this was a squat lavarium with stoups of rose water, towels and pieces of precious Castilian soap in a copper dish. The guest master explained how the garderobe and latrines were in a special shed outside. He then hurriedly assured Beauchamp that all was prepared. They only had to ask for anything. Food would be served as soon as divine office finished and the abbey kitchens were ready.
Beauchamp, throwing cloak and sword belt on to a peg against the wall, courteously thanked him, then shut the door firmly behind the guest master, drawing across the bolts and turning the key.