‘Bardolph didn’t like heights. True, he could have been possessed but why should demons take someone they already have? A man immersed in the lusts of the flesh.’
Anselm softly clapped his hands. ‘The most subtle of novices. And?’
‘I believe Bardolph was carried to the top of that tower and thrown down. He was probably taken up wrapped in a sheet or a piece of canvas which would account for no trace of mud being left on the stairs or steps.’
‘Stephen, I believe the same. Yet, when Bardolph fell, was not everybody clustered around that table in Sir William’s house?’
‘Except for the Midnight Man and his coven?’
‘I agree. Bardolph’s assassins, whoever they may be, want us to regard Bardolph as the victim of secret, dark forces. He was, but those powers were of this world rather than the next.’
‘Magister, what do you think is happening?’
‘It is very simple.’ Anselm stretched his hands out to the flame. ‘Now you are cold, you draw close to this fire. What came first? Why, the idea, of course. If you were warm would you even give this bonfire a second glance? Now, Stephen, think of something unpleasant.’
‘My father!’
Anselm laughed softly. ‘If you must. However, do you feel your body react at the thought of this man who believes you are madcap and fey-witted, so much so that he wanted to lock you away in some convent home? He dismissed what you saw, heard and felt, as the result of upset humours. He cast you out. Now, Stephen, what do you feel? A beating of the heart? A tumult in the stomach and bowels? So, change your thoughts and think of something pleasant. Alice Palmer, the maid who kissed you?’ He nudged Stephen. ‘That will not be difficult. Think of her lovely lips, the gentle cusp of her cheek, her pretty eyes. Oh, God be thanked,’ Anselm murmured, ‘for the vision of women. You feel happy, contented, flattered?’ Anselm grasped a piece of stick and prodded the flames making the sparks flutter and rise. ‘The business of Saint Michael’s and the abbey is very similar. Powerful emotions are expressing themselves in the phenomena we see. The cause is not human weakness but something much darker: ice-cold malice.’
‘Such as?’
‘Murder, Stephen — horrid, cruel, calculating murder allied to a malicious interference from the spirit world.’
‘Murder?’
‘Oh, yes, Stephen — the slaughter of innocents. Some hideous crime which shrieks for justice — not Bardolph’s, but whose, as yet, we do not know. Now,’ he sighed, ‘your august but severe father asked me to educate you and so I shall.’ Anselm swiftly glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he whispered, ‘I think we are being followed. Anyway, Stephen, have you ever been to a brothel? No, I don’t think you have. Well, it’s The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane for us.’
Anselm asked directions from a surprised beadle supervising the feeding of the different bonfires now burning merrily along the runnel. The Carmelites strode off, pushing through the now gathering throng as the Worms of London, the poor and all their associates, swarmed out of their rat-like dens to search for what the city had left them. The streets were busy as the different fraternities from the guilds dispensed their charity: the Brotherhood of the Heavenly Manna, the Society of the Crumb, the Sisterhood of Martha, the Brethren of Lazarus — men and women garbed in penitential robes pulling hand-carts and barrows full of food, meat, bread and fruit rejected by the markets. Torches glowed. Flames juddered against the whipping breeze. Smells and cries carried. Beadles, bailiffs and wardsmen wandered armed with cudgels, swords, pikes and ropes, searching for those sanctuary men who thought they could leave the safety of their havens at St Paul’s and St Martin’s to wander the streets hunting for food, plunder and further mischief. London’s underworld had opened up. Anselm, clutching his satchel, walked fast. He kept to the centre of the street though he was careful of the filth-crammed sewer.
They reached The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane. From the outside it looked like a small, prosperous tavern with smartly-painted red woodwork and mullioned glass windows in all three stories. The door was guarded by two well-known water-pads: thieves who stole from barges on the river. Anselm greeted both like old friends. ‘This is my companion, a novice,’ Anselm declared.
The two monsters stepped fully into the pool of light created by the torches flaring either side of the doorway. ‘Stephen, this is Stubface. You can see why. He had the pox which pitted his face while the other,’ Anselm gestured at the smaller of the two, ‘is Wintersday, called so because, allegedly, he is short and very nasty. Well, my beloveds?’
The two oafs muffled in their cloaks shuffled even further forward, their bewhiskered, ugly faces furrowed in puzzlement. Both reeked heavily of ale. Stephen was wary of the nail-studded maces they carried. Wintersday was the first to regain whatever wits he had, his misshapen, grey features cracking into a broken-toothed smile. ‘Why, God bless us all, Brother Anselm! What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Surely you are not looking for a mort, a doxy?’
‘No, my brother in the Lord, just words with your mistress.’
‘You mean the Lady Abbess?’ Stubface barked.
‘You can call her that,’ Anselm retorted, ‘I don’t.’ He strode between both men and gripped their shoulders. ‘Let us proceed in God’s name.’ Anselm turned both men by the shoulder and marched them up the steps. Wintersday lifted the iron clasp on the door, carved in the form of a penis, and clattered it against the wood. The door swung open and a young woman dressed in white like a novice nun invited them in. She looked both Carmelites from head to toe, pulled a face and muttered something about everyone being welcome. She then ushered them into a small, very comfortable antechamber, its walls decorated with frescoes which immediately intrigued Anselm but made Stephen blush. The novice nun stood in the doorway a little longer, grinning at Stephen until the two burly guards, left standing in the hall, insisted she let them out. She closed the door behind her. Stephen, in his embarrassment, continued to stare down at the soft turkey cloths which covered the floor, now and again darting glances around the comfortable chamber with its elegantly carved dressers for wine and goblets, the quilted stools and leather-backed chairs.
‘Interesting,’ said Anselm as he turned away from the fresco depicting the god Pan playing with two fauns. ‘Stephen, don’t be embarrassed. I saw worse at a house in Paris. It is just wonderful,’ he sighed, ‘how humans are fascinated by love in all its many aspects. It constantly intrigues me.’
‘Magister,’ Stephen asked, eager to change the subject, ‘how do you know those two guards outside?’
‘Oh, Stubface and Wintersday? Once, for my many sins, I served as chaplain to the prisons of Newgate, Fleet and Marshalsea, and those two beloveds were regular members of my parish. God knows how they’ve escaped hanging at the Elms at Smithfield or the Forks near Tyburn stream. Of course, they have a powerful patron, our so-called Lady Abbess, proprietor of this house. Indeed, someone I also consider a former member of my parish, Lady Rohesia Clamath, self-styled Irish princess, a famous whore and former courtesan, probably knows more about the human heart than a whole convent of Carmelites.’
The door opened and a stately woman dressed completely in a dark blue veil and gown swept into the chamber, her long, unpainted, severe face framed by a starched white wimple. A gold cord circled her slender waist while the buskins she wore were of silver satin and decorated with small roses of red damask. She glared disapprovingly at Stephen but her face broke into a brilliant smile as Anselm, who’d decided to study the fresco once more, turned and walked over to her, grasping her hands to kiss them gently.
‘Anselm,’ she murmured, clutching his fingers, ‘you have not come. .?’
‘No.’ The exorcist shook his head and ushered her to a seat. He drew up a stool, beckoning at Stephen to do likewise. ‘There will be no Lady Abbess nonsense here, Rohesia Clamath. Bardolph the gravedigger?’