Stephen was aware of the world closing in around him, a stark contrast to the simplicity and serenity of the cloister. Cartwheels squeaked, bawds shrieked, porters grumbled. ‘The Children of this World’, as Anselm called them, swarmed either side in filthy rags or sumptuously embroidered silver brocaded clothes, shuffling and shouldering each other, jostling and jeering, haggling and hustling. They reached The Unicorn, a pleasant-fronted tavern standing in its own courtyard, which stretched up to the main door. Stables and outhouses flanked two sides. The tavern itself was a lofty, three-storey mansion of black timbers and pink plaster on a stone base. Stephen was surprised they did not enter. Instead, Holyinnocent was told to take the baggage in and rejoin them. As soon as he did, Anselm winked at Stephen and declared they had other places to visit. ‘Minehost has your baggage,’ Holyinnocent whispered to Stephen as he rejoined them. ‘And we are off to Newgate.’
They took the broad alleyway leading up to the formidable prison built into the ruins of the old city wall. A grim, slimy-walled lane with every second house a tavern under its creaking, battered sign. The Sanctuary of Dead Man’s Place: this was the haunt of thieves who stared out through chinks and gaps in doors and shutters. They recognized Beauchamp’s insignia and let them pass through. A hunting horn wailed a warning while a hoarse whisper, ‘King’s Man’, ran before them up the long, dark tunnel. The message kept the bullies with their swords and staves, as well as their harridans armed with spits and broomsticks, from sallying forth. They left the alleyway and entered the great, fleshing market, which flourished in the shadow of the huge sombre towers of Newgate, a place swimming in blood. The carcasses of poultry and livestock were being swiftly slaughtered, hacked and then hung from hooks above the stalls. A shambles of blood, stinking guts, entrails and boiling salt. Red-spattered butchers and their boys roared for business while beggars, dogs, cats and kites fought for the juicy scraps.
Beauchamp, escorted by Holyinnocent, elbowed and thrust his way forward. They gained entrance through a narrow iron door into the prison proper, a true vision of helclass="underline" a warren of evil-smelling passageways where the reek and stench poisoned the nostrils and stifled the throat. They passed open chambers where key-clanking janitors guarded what they scornfully called ‘human vermin’ — prisoners with long filthy beards and straggling wild hair, all swathed in dirty rags. The keeper who led them into the stygian darkness screamed at everyone to step aside, only to be answered by raucous shouts and curses. They went down some steps lit by flaring torches. The smell grew more rank and unbearable. The walls glistened with snail slime. Spiders big as bumble bees spun their webs to span niches and corners. They reached a circular cavern called Limbo. In the centre rose a huge stone called Black Dog with a squat tallow candle burning on top. Holyinnocent pointed to the heavy doors which faced them, whispering how these were the condemned cells. While the keeper unlocked one of the cell doors, Holyinnocent explained how many a condemned felon had dashed his brains out against Black Dog rather than take the ride in the death-cart.
Stephen, holding a sponge soaked in vinegar against his nose, went and sat on one of the battered benches. This was a truly evil place. The atmosphere oppressed him. Cries, despairing and pleading, pestered his ears. A feathery shadow crept across the floor, spilling over him, creating a wave of deep fear and panic. A haggard face came shooting out of the murk, its bone-white features twisted in an angry snarl, bloodshot eyes full of some nameless fury.
‘Stephen, Stephen?’
The novice shook his head. Anselm stood, beckoning him. The cell door was now flung back. The turnkey had dragged out a shambling figure loaded with iron fetters, barefooted and dressed in the long black gown of the condemned. He was virtually unrecognizable, his head and face being hidden by a mass of tangled hair, moustache and beard. The turnkey pushed the prisoner down a passageway. Beauchamp told Holyinnocent to stay while he and the two Carmelites followed the turnkey along the slime-covered passageway, up a short flight of steps into a surprisingly clean, neat chamber. The walls were painted a brilliant white and a crucifix hung beneath the barred windows high in the wall. There was a sturdy table with benches on all four sides. The turnkey lit the fat tallow candle in the centre of the table and left. Beauchamp made sure the entrance was free of eavesdropping, slammed the door shut and, going across, pushed the prisoner down on a stool.
‘This is the chaplain’s room,’ Anselm explained. ‘I insisted it be fashioned like this. I used to come here to shrive the condemned. Are you condemned?’ Anselm sat down close to the prisoner. All Stephen could glimpse were the man’s bright, smiling eyes.
‘This is another kind of shriving,’ Beauchamp murmured. ‘Everything will be in a whisper. Brothers, may I introduce Roger Bolingbrok, former Dominican friar, also known as William Chattle, Peter Waltham and so on and so on. One of my most redoubtable spies or Judas men. Isn’t that right, Roger?’
The prisoner smiled in a flash of white teeth, lifting his manacled hands to clear the hair from his face.
‘I cannot show you any mercy.’ Beauchamp’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘At least not now.’
‘Will he hang?’ Stephen asked.
The prisoner grinned and winked at the novice.
‘Oh, no,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘Tomorrow a writ will arrive which confirms Master Bolingbrok’s claim to be a cleric. He will be handed over to the Church, tried before an ecclesiastical tribunal at Lambeth and exiled to some monastery in the wilds of Northumberland. He will be shaved, bathed and given fresh clothes for the journey. He will travel no further north than Saint Albans, where Master Bolingbrok will escape to reappear in London under another guise. Now,’ Beauchamp became brisk. ‘Brother Anselm, Brother Stephen, I have made reference to the Midnight Man’s exploits in the cemetery of Saint Michael’s. How his black Mass and dark rites went so wrong he had to flee.’
‘Were you there?’ Anselm asked the prisoner.
‘No, but Rishanger was.’
‘How do you know?’
‘As I told Sir Miles when I was first taken up,’ Bolingbrok explained, voice all cultured, ‘I was condemned and thrown into the common hold before being moved,’ Bolingbrok grinned, ‘to a more comfortable chamber. People regard a condemned man as already dead so they chatter as if you are. The villains of Newgate know all about Rishanger. He was a thief, a receiver of stolen property. He also had a nasty reputation as a warlock. He tried to buy safe passage abroad without a licence. He told a Gascon sailor what had happened at Saint Michael’s — how he had been a spectator of something which had gone horribly wrong.’
‘What?’
‘He didn’t say, except that a notorious warlock had tried to raise the spirit of a dead man but instead summoned up all the powers of hell.’
‘Why should Rishanger tell that to a Gascon sailor?’ Stephen queried.