‘I know what?’
‘We have met before, at the other church where the injustice was done.’
Anselm tensed. ‘What other church? Saint Michael’s, Candlewick? What injustice?’
‘I cannot say,’ the voice rasped. ‘The guardians are here. You search for the treasure, like the rest?’
‘Are you Puddlicot the thief? The executed felon?’
‘The others asked the same.’
‘Which others?’
‘How can you describe a dream? Faces you see, all distorted, like gazing through running water? Give me peace; let me be buried. The sheer shame. How can I break free? Even Picard’s prayers do not help.’
‘Who is Picard? I adjure you to tell me the truth.’
‘The guardians have come, swift and deadly. You cannot see them. They are here.’ The voice crumbled into incoherent phrases, the occasional mumbled word. The clamour in the stairwell outside began again: the clatter of mailed feet followed by an incessant banging on the door, the latch rattling as if pressed by a mad man. Ice-cold draughts swept the crypt. The sound of dripping water grew as if a barrel was filling to the brim and splashing over. Spikes of fire appeared then faded. The blackness began to thin. The threat of impending danger receded. Anselm moved across to the table, searching for a tinder. After a few scrapes he forced a flame and lit the candles and cressets. The crypt flared into light. Stephen glanced fearfully at the pools of darkness. A disembodied hand appeared in one of these, long, white fingers curling as if searching for something, like the hand of a drowning man making one last desperate attempt to find something to cling on to, then it was gone.
‘Stephen, look at the walls.’
He did so. Hand prints scorched the stone, the same on the table and pillar as if some being, cloaked in fire, had crept around the crypt desperate for an opening. Stephen watched these fade even as Anselm, sitting by the table, began to slice the bread and cheese.
‘Eat, Stephen, drink.’
The novice did so though his belly rumbled. His throat felt dry, sore and sticky.
‘Is it over, Magister?’
‘It is never over, Stephen. Not until we free the nets and break the snares which keep these souls bound.’
‘The snares?’
‘Their own guilt, remorse and fear. Above all, the injustices done to them.’
‘And the guardians?’
‘Demons, Stephen, who prowl the wastelands between life and death, between heaven and hell.’
‘He talked about Saint Michael’s?’
Stephen bit into a piece of cheese and startled at the voice which bellowed: ‘We’ve shut him up, forced his mouth closed.’
Stephen dropped the cheese and whirled around in terror. Something moved in the pool of darkness. Abruptly the noise outside began again; this was repeated by the pounding on the door opening on to the steps to the crypt.
‘Enough is enough!’ Anselm sprang to his feet. ‘Why the door? I am sure it’s the door, Stephen. God knows why. Is it seen as a barrier or a representation of guilt? Why?’ Anselm opened the crypt door. He asked Stephen to bring the lantern horn and both began the arduous climb through the freezing stairwell. Every so often Anselm had to pause in a fit of coughing. They reached the wooden steps. An icy draught buffeted them. The wooden steps began to shake and, to Stephen’s horror, slightly buckle, as if some unseen power beneath was striving to break free. He clutched his lantern horn, steadying himself against the wall as Anselm prayed. The wooden steps rattled but then settled. They reached the top and opened the ancient door. Stephen was glad to be free of the crypt. He welcomed the rich night air, the comforting sight of torches flickering in their holders. Anselm, angry at what had happened, strode up and down the hollow-stone passageway, peering into the darkness before coming back to examine the door. ‘Nothing!’ Anselm exclaimed. He sat down on a stone plinth.
‘I’m satisfied about what we saw, heard and felt. I assure you Stephen, it was not of human origin.’
Words Amongst the Pilgrims
The physician, who stood narrating his tale fluently and lucidly, now sat down, grasped the wine jug and filled his goblet to the brim.
‘Is this a tale?’ the pardoner jibed. ‘Or the truth?’
‘What is truth?’ the physician quipped back.
‘But these voices, shapes and shades?’ The man of law spoke up.
‘My friends,’ the poor parson declared, ‘listen to my advice. If God has his contemplatives and mystics so does Satan; he can immerse them in raptures. I’ve seen Satan,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘like a deformed bird winging through my own church. Once a parishioner of mine beheaded two old beldames. She later confessed how she’d been walking in Summer Meadow when a devil appeared to her in the form of a man, garbed and cowled. He handed her a scythe so she could do his bloody deed.
‘And?’ the man of law asked.
‘She was hanged then burnt.’
‘Satan stabs the heart with terror,’ the prioress murmured, stretching out to clasp her chaplain’s hand.
The conversation now descended into the pilgrim’s personal experiences. Tales about gruesome demons with horns and tails, fire spurting from every orifice with harsh, horrifying voices. How demon ghosts had spindly bodies, bulging eyes, lipless mouths, horns, beaks and claws. Master Chaucer watched this carefully. Most of the pilgrims joined in, though the summoner sat stock-still, lost in his own dark memories. The knight, too, was silent, staring down at the table top, tapping it with his fingers. Master Chaucer had his own misgivings. The physician was sitting in his costly robes all serene, yet there was a tension here. Chaucer shivered. Wispy shapes swirled around the physician’s head, which disappeared. Were these, Chaucer wondered, just his imaginings? Ghosts or traces of smoke from the chafing dishes and braziers? The taproom was decked out to be merry with its long table. Sweet-smelling hams, bacon and vegetables hung in nets from the smartly-painted rafter beams. The rushes on the floor were spring-green, glossy and powdered with herbs. Candlelight, lamplight and lantern horn all danced vigorously, yet there was something wrong. The physician’s story had summoned up a dark cloud which housed its own macabre secrets. The friar looked not so merry now while the haberdasher, dyer, weaver and carpet-maker, so trim and fresh in all their livery, sat heads together, locked in hushed conversation. Next to them the cook, scratching his leg ulcer, listened in, his scabby head nodding vigorously.
‘Master physician,’ Minehost of The Tabard also sensed the unease, ‘your tale is unsettling.’
‘We’ve heard about this.’ The fat-faced haberdasher, eyes all choleric, half-rose. ‘Oh, yes, the great mystery at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick.’ He swallowed nervously. ‘Hidden crimes, scandalous secrets. .?’
‘And I know of The Unicorn.’ The cook spoke up. ‘I’ve worked there. Master Robert Palmer and his daughter Alice. .’
‘Please,’ the physician spread his hands, ‘do not spoil my tale.’
‘These ghosts and demons. .’ the bulbous-eyed manciple exclaimed. Thankfully his interjection forced the conversation back on to the personal experiences of ghosts, hauntings and visions of hell the pilgrims had either been told of or dreamed of. How the violent are boiled in blood while murderers turn into trees, their leaves and bark shredded and eaten by hog-faced harpies. The only exception was the Wife of Bath. She sat all flush-faced, slightly sweating. She did not join in the conversation but sat quietly, hands on her lap. She had taken out a pair of Ave beads and was threading these through her fingers, eyes glazed, lost in her own memories.
Minehost banged his tankard on the table. ‘Enough!’ he declared. ‘The flame on the hour candle has eaten another ring. Master physician, your story, please?’
The Physician’s Tale