‘And so it ended.’ Eleanor spoke up. ‘My mother was pregnant with me. She searched the garden of her house but could find nothing.’
‘I had to be careful,’ the ancient one intervened. ‘The King’s surveyors were watching. I had no choice but to return to my family in Somerset. My father was kindly; he supported me. Eleanor was born. I eventually received my inheritance and moved back to London to work at what I am gifted — a seamstress. The old King was dead; his son then ruled. I lived comfortably enough.’ She paused. ‘I truly loved Puddlicot.’ Only then did her voice break. ‘I truly did. I visited our old haunts. Of course, all those involved in his great escapade were either dead or witless. I heard his skin had been left to rot on the abbey door.’
Joanne caught her breath and greedily slurped from the goblet. ‘I also heard the stories. How both the monks’ cemetery as well as that at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick were haunted. By then my lover’s name had entered legend and folklore. According to the common tongue Puddlicot’s ghost could not, would not, rest.’ She paused, head down, her thin, bony shoulders shaking.
‘The harrowing of hell has begun,’ a voice lisped close to Stephen, ‘sharper than the eagle’s talon is the vengeance which ploughs the infernal meadows. The trumpet sounds, a clarion call. Stephen, the dead gather. The fires burn!’
The novice glanced in the direction of the window and saw faces pressed there, eyes beseeching, lips curled in supplication.
‘I tried to make peace,’ Eleanor’s voice rasped, drawing Stephen from his reverie. ‘I wanted to live a normal life. I became betrothed but that was not to be. As I grew older I became more and more aware of my father, his spirit, the evil he had done. I visited the Franciscans at their house in Greyfriars and confessed all. The good brothers gave me wise counsel. I decided on a life of reparation. I sold all my possessions. I joined the Minoresses and entered their house at Aldgate on one condition: that my mother was given a corrody there, a pension. The good sisters agreed.’ She paused. Stephen ignored the tapping on the window, like that of a sharp-beaked bird or the fingers of someone desperate to get in.
‘We settled down. We loved the horarium of the house. Brother Anselm, we found peace until the present troubles began. We heard of Rishanger, his murder in the abbey, the two treasures found and the stories about the hauntings at Saint Michael’s.’
Stephen tried to shake off the keen cold; he peered around the screen in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alice. Cutwolf stood there, deep in conversation with Master Robert. The henchman glanced up. Stephen withdrew behind the screen.
‘We watched you,’ Eleanor continued, ‘we heard of you, Brother Anselm. We needed to trust you.’
‘But not Sir Miles Beauchamp?’
‘Oh no, not the royal clerk. Drokensford was a royal clerk. He dragged Puddlicot from the sanctuary, loaded him with chains and sent him to the Tower. After he had been condemned, Drokensford put him in a wheelbarrow — an object of derision — and had him carted through the streets to a gruesome death.’ Eleanor sipped at her wine. ‘Drokensford never allowed my mother to visit her beloved. Afterwards, I understand, he harassed her constantly.’
‘Just for a while.’ Joanne spoke up. ‘He thought I had information.’ The ancient one grinned, pert as a sparrow. ‘I did,’ she sighed, ‘but what was the use?’ She blinked, staring up above their heads as if searching for something. ‘Richard organized that robbery. He brought the treasure to our house and then moved it to Saint Michael’s. I believe Parson Spigurnel was going to help by securing safe passage abroad for both of us, but then Drokensford struck. So yes, I don’t like royal clerks, particularly Beauchamp with his secretive, sly ways, hiding in that strange house which only his henchmen enter. Anyway, Richard had to flee to Saint Michael’s at the dead of night. I only visited him once. I drew as close as I could to the sanctuary chair. I know my daughter has told you this but it is worth repeating: Richard whispered how he had left me a package, wrapped in a leather casing buried in our garden, containing the Cross of Neath and Eleanor’s dagger, along with a message. I asked him about the rest of the treasure — that’s when he repeated the message that it was under the protection of God’s guardian. I suspect he hoped that I would find the treasure and perhaps use it to negotiate with Drokensford, but I could not — that clerk was too sharp. He had already ransacked our house and the garden. Remember, Anselm, I was only sixteen and bearing a child. I was truly terrified.’ She began to sob. Eleanor put a protective arm around her shoulder.
‘Tell me,’ Anselm leaned across the table, ‘did Puddlicot ever talk about the Merlin Stone? I will be even blunter, mistress: did Puddlicot ever dabble in the black arts?’ The ancient one glanced up, watery eyes creased in an impish smile. ‘God bless you, Brother Anselm, but I find that amusing. Puddlicot was a merry fellow. He could dance a jig and tell a tale. He was a jongleur, a bully boy, deeply in love with life. He did not pray. He lived recklessly for the moment so he had no time for magic, wizards, witches or warlocks. He dismissed them all as charlatans.’
‘The Merlin Stone,’ Anselm insisted, ‘was part of the treasure stolen from the crypt?’ The ancient one looked at Anselm then threw her head back, cackling with laughter. ‘I do remember that, small and round as a ball, smooth and polished.’ She wiped her tired eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Merlin Stone!’ she scoffed. ‘Richard tossed it into the carp pond as a useless piece of rock. He claimed it was man-made, the type of stone you carve from a falling star which has burned out and fallen to earth. He said the good monks of Glastonbury must have been hard at work to smooth that out! As far as I know,’ she chuckled, ‘Merlin’s Stone is still lying at the bottom of that carp pond!’
Even Anselm grinned, lifting his goblet of water in salute. He then told them about the Midnight Man, the disappearance of young women and the grisly murders at St Michael’s. Both women sat in shocked silence. Eleanor raised her hand. ‘Brother Anselm, how will this end? You say my father’s ghost still hovers, that even our prayers have not helped. Will my father’s spirit ever find peace?’
‘How will it end, Eleanor,’ Anselm replied kindly, ‘is in the hands of the Lord. I shall tell you something I have not yet told others. I am beginning to understand what happened and that opens further doors. Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the Midnight Man’s coven; that nest of vipers always had an interest in Puddlicot’s treasure, probably because of the Merlin Stone. Rishanger and his fellow demons searched that house but found nothing. However, they were also blood-drinkers, feasting and revelling on the bodies of young women whom they slaughtered and buried in that hellish garden. During one such foray, Rishanger stumbled on those two treasures as well as the information Puddlicot had buried with them. This provided further impetus; hence the satanic revels at Westminster and particularly at Saint Michael’s. They were intrigued by the written reference to Puddlicot’s plunder being guarded by God’s protector.’
‘The church of Saint Michael’s?’
‘Of course!’ Anselm agreed. ‘So, Mistress Eleanor, they performed their rites but these became entangled in some other wickedness and came to nothing.’
‘What wickedness?’
‘I shall tell you, mistress. I trust you. I will tell you something I have not yet told Sir Miles and the rest: somewhere in that church or cemetery lie other corpses.’
‘Why do you say this?’
‘Satanic covens need consecrated ground for their filthy blood sacrifices. More practically, I suspect, Rishanger’s garden could not hide any more corpses.’
‘So many were slaughtered?’
‘We are talking of a coven, all blood-drinkers. Perhaps a few of them are women but mostly men.’ The exorcist paused. ‘I do wonder why cemeteries fascinate the human soul. Is it all the ceremony which goes into them? I have been to the Innocents in Paris, a forest of ornate, carved stone. The rich even try to make their dead flesh sweet, paying butchers to scoop out their entrails and fill their insides with fragrant spices.’ Anselm laughed sharply. ‘It only makes them tastier for the worms. What does it matter? I was also in Paris when the Pestilence returned. I heard her swish her scythe as she combed the streets, gathering her victims. I saw corpses piled high, the flesh turning a purplish-black, bereft of all soul and spirit. If people like the Midnight Man reflected on such an end, they would give up their filthy ways.’