‘Why do you say that?’
‘According to witnesses, Rishanger once approached Sir William with a scheme to fashion the philosopher’s stone. Higden threw him out of his house. When we discovered Rishanger’s secret cache we also found a wax figure, allegedly of Sir William, wrapped in a scrap of parchment which contained the filthiest curses against the King’s good friend. Sir William also believed Rishanger was one of those who frequented Saint Michael’s graveyard. He and others of that devilish crew were witches and sorcerers.’
‘But the treasure?’
‘To be brief, Rishanger may have been an associate of the Midnight Man and his coven. We know how that warlock held his satanic ceremonies here in the monks’ cemetery, as well as that disastrous attempt at Saint Michael’s.’
‘How do you know this?’ Anselm retorted.
‘For the moment,’ Beauchamp held up a hand, ‘I ask you to be patient. Now, it’s alleged that ghosts throng close about Westminster. An abbey has stood here when all the land around it was described as the Island of Thorns. Generations of monks have lived and died here. Many good, some indifferent, a few downright evil. Stories are rife about this or that haunting. However, recently, frightening phantasms have begun to trouble the monks: screams, cries, ghostly figures, the banging of doors.’
‘Throughout the abbey?’
‘No, just around the pyx chamber and the chapter house, as well as the crypt which lies beneath.’
‘And?’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Your statements, master clerk, are like beads, but what is the string which holds them all together?’
‘Rishanger lodged near Saint Michael’s, Candlewick. The Midnight Man performed his rites there. He did the same here at Westminster. We ask ourselves: did he raise ghosts to question them about where the hidden treasure from Puddlicot’s robbery lay hidden? Did the Midnight Man disturb what you call the spirits, malevolent or not, human or not, to achieve this?’ Beauchamp paused, staring hard at the exorcist. ‘Some would dismiss all you do, Brother Anselm, as arrant nonsense, yet you and I, we have seen the disturbances at Saint Michael’s. Others also have — Sir William Higden is certainly very concerned. More importantly,’ Beauchamp picked up the leather pouches, ‘how did a petty goldsmith find such precious treasures over seventy years after they were stolen? Rishanger must have been part of some coven — hence his pursuit, his taking sanctuary and consequent murder. Finally, Rishanger’s acquisition of such treasure must have been fairly recent. I reckon it was discovered early this year, perhaps in January?’
‘I follow your logic,’ Anselm retorted. ‘It must have been very recent. Rishanger secured possession of those items. He was overwhelmed by their riches. He did not care about the others in his coven. He sells everything he has; in a twisted way he imitated the man in Christ’s parable who finds treasure in a field so he sells everything he has in order to purchase that field. Rishanger was determined to keep such treasures — certainly the Cross of Neath. If he had sold it to the bankers in Marseilles, Genoa or Florence he would have been able to live like Croesus for the rest of his life.’
‘His Grace the King must be greatly concerned,’ Stephen declared, immediately blushing at Beauchamp’s cold, hard stare.
Then the clerk relaxed, smiled and leaned across to touch Stephen lightly on the cheek. ‘We’ll make a courtier of you yet, Stephen. You have said it! That’s why we are really here. Of course,’ Beauchamp emphasized, ‘the Royal Council is concerned at the hauntings both here and at Saint Michael’s. The King, however, in a word, wants that treasure — the precious horde of his warrior grandfather. Look, my dear friars, our King is at war. The Commons sit at Westminster only an arrow flight away. They demand this and that before they vote taxes to the King.’ Beauchamp sighed. ‘That’s before we try to collect such taxes. Now I have seen the list, kept in the remembrance chamber at the Tower, of all the treasures Puddlicot stole but were never returned. Pouches of precious stones, bags of jewellery, gold and silver coins, gold bars by the casket. A King’s ransom, my dear friars — pure, unadulterated bullion. If it’s here, our King wants it.’
‘So we have been brought to Westminster not only to exorcize a ghost but to question it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Beauchamp murmured, ‘you will also discover that His Grace has persuaded our Lord Abbot here at Westminster that the monks’ cemetery is crammed with mouldering corpses, so it is time to open the graves and remove the bones to their ossuary or charnel house.’
‘A good excuse to search the grounds,’ Anselm countered. ‘You, like the Midnight Man, believe that Puddlicot may have buried his plunder here?’
‘I do, but — ’ Sir Miles paused at a knock on the door.
Two servitors entered carrying food and drink: bowls of beef broth, dishes of diced quail spiced with ginger, pots of mixed vegetables, freshly-baked manchet loaves as well as goblets of wine. Once they had served the food and left, Anselm recited the Benedicite and they ate in silence.
Stephen now and again watched Sir Miles eat with all the delicacy of a born courtier, even as the clerk sat lost in thought. Eventually Anselm coughed and took a sip of water.
Beauchamp lifted his head. ‘Brother?’
‘You don’t believe in any of this, do you? Do you even believe in the good Lord, Sir Miles? I mean, sitting here, if not as friends then at least as comrades, I must know. It matters as to why you brought us here. It certainly influences what happens at Saint Michael’s. If someone is present who doesn’t really believe, that can affect an exorcism.’
‘You are not from the Inquisition?’ Sir Miles joked, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘You will not lodge my name with them?’
‘I regard you as a friend.’
Beauchamp pulled a face and dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘Let me explain,’ he replied, ‘you are wrong about me. I struggle very hard to believe after all I have seen, heard and felt in my life. No, no,’ he shook a hand, ‘I am not talking about the present ills of the church, be it the priest who is lecherous or,’ Beauchamp grinned, ‘the friar who might be even more so. God knows we are all sinners, born weak. No, I remember being in one of the King’s chevauchees in France. I led a posse of mounted archers into a village south of Rouen. Marauding mercenaries had just swept through.’ Beauchamp blinked, clearing his throat. ‘I shall never forget what I saw.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Corpses stripped, bellies ripped from crotch to throat, men, women and children. The village priest had been hung upside down in his own church; he’d been castrated. Children, babes in arms, lay with their skulls shattered like eggs. I found it difficult to accept a loving God would allow that. So,’ he picked up his goblet, ‘if that is life here on earth, is it any different beyond the veil? Isn’t that what you investigate?’ He glanced sharply at Stephen. ‘Of course, you’re the innocent. You believe different, that we really haven’t lost Eden?’
‘You know he does,’ Anselm retorted. ‘You are the Keeper of the King’s Secrets. You must have heard the gossip, the tittle-tattle, and read the reports? You know more about Stephen and myself than we do about you.’
‘You want to be a Carmelite?’ Beauchamp gestured at Stephen. ‘Do you really? Are you one because of your father, or in spite of him?’