‘You want more claret?’
Stephen glanced down at the other end of the table where their host, Sir William Higden, sat enthroned, holding up the wine jug, gazing expectantly around at his guests. A plump city merchant knighted by the King, dressed in a beautiful quilted jerkin of dark murrey, Sir William was trying to remain cheerful despite what was happening in his parish church of which he was the lord, holding its advowson, the right to appoint the parson and other clerics. Sir William’s podgy face under its mop of thinning reddish hair gleamed with oil.
‘More wine, sirs, surely?’
Sir William’s question was politely refused. Amalric gazed longingly into the far corner where the flame of the hour candle was slowly sinking to the next ring — compline time.
‘Are you sure?’ Sir William’s face was now drained of all good humour: his small black eyes hard as pebbles, no longer wrinkled in a smile. The merchant knight put the wine jug down. He played with the medallion on the chain around his neck then started to slip on and off the rings decorating his podgy fingers. A strange man, Stephen reflected, Sir William had fought strenuously for King Edward in France before amassing a fortune in the wool trade. He had raised loans for the King who’d rewarded him with a knighthood and a secure place in the Commons where, of course, Sir William could defend the Crown’s rights. A warrior turned merchant, Sir William’s stately mansion overlooked the sprawling cemetery of St Michael’s, Candlewick. He was a lord who took a keen interest in his local church and all things parochial. He now used the wine jug to bang on the table and still the desultory conversation. He was about to speak but paused at a knock on the door. This swung open immediately and Sir Miles Beauchamp, Chief Clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal, swept into the room. Beauchamp arrogantly surveyed them all as he undid the clasps of his heavy, dark blue cloak; he swung this off, tossing it over an old chair just within the doorway.
‘Gentlemen, kind sirs, good evening.’ Beauchamp undid his war belt carefully, folding it around the two blood-red scabbards carrying sword and dagger. He placed this carefully on the cloak and pulled down the quilted jerkin so its high collar showed off the snow-white cambric shirt beneath, the tight-fitting waist and padded shoulders emphasizing Beauchamp’s slim figure. The royal clerk walked the length of the table, studying each of them carefully. Dressed in black, the silver spurs on his high-heeled boots clinking at every step, Beauchamp carried himself as if his person was sacred and his very presence of crucial importance. Just past his thirtieth summer, Beauchamp was a clerk greatly favoured by the old King. He looked and dressed like a fop with his be-ringed fingers, tight-fitting hose and languid ways, almost womanish with his handsome features, blond hair coifed and pricked like any court lady. Beauchamp could be dismissed as one of those decadent minions whom the preachers thundered against with cutting references to the secret sin of Sodom.
Brother Anselm, however, after he and Stephen had met Beauchamp earlier in the evening, had warned the young novice: ‘Cacullus non facit monachum — the cowl does not make the monk. Sir Miles is not what he appears. In truth, he is a ferocious warrior much trusted by the Crown and a true ladies’ man. Indeed,’ Anselm smiled, a rare occurrence which transformed his face, ‘he reminds me of myself before.’ The smile then faded. ‘He reminds me, that’s all,’ and he had refused to elaborate further.
Sir Miles stopped at the end of the table, lazy blue eyes studying both Carmelites. Stephen noticed the slight cast in the clerk’s right eye, which enhanced rather than retracted from Beauchamp’s good looks. He smiled faintly at both, nodded and sauntered back to slide easily into the chair to the right of Sir William.
The merchant spread his hands. ‘Welcome, Sir Miles. I am sorry you could not be with us for the exorcism, which-’
‘I am not finished,’ Anselm abruptly interrupted. ‘I must leave. I have to because I want to, not because I am being forced to. Stephen and I,’ Anselm glanced at his companion, ‘must go back.’
The exorcist rose so swiftly he took the rest by surprise. Amalric the curate threw his hands up in horror. Simon the sexton flapped his arms like a spring sparrow caught in a net.
‘You cannot.’ Sir William half-rose but then sat down as Sir Miles gently pressed the back of his hand.
‘I have eaten and I have prayed,’ Anselm replied. ‘God will give me the strength.’ He leaned down, snatched up the leather satchel resting against the leg of the table and thrust it into Stephen’s hand.
Sir William made to object again but Beauchamp rose languidly to his feet. ‘The priest desires to go. If our exorcist wishes to run one more tilt in this demonic tournament so be it, I shall join him.’
Anselm half-raised his hand, as if to protest.
‘I shall go,’ Beauchamp declared, ‘or no one goes.’
They left the solar, going across the spacious entrance hall with its monumental fireplace surmounted by a giant hood, its pure stone studded with diamonds to defend against poison and magical incantation as well as gleaming topaz, a sure protection against sudden death. Just in case neither of these worked, above the fireplace hung the Cross of San Damiano, much beloved by Saint Francis, while triptychs on either side displayed in brilliant colours dramatic scenes from the life of St Christopher. The rest of the walls were hidden by painted cloths brought to life by the darting light of candle and taper; the windows were glazed while Persian carpets and woven mats covered the paved floor. A servant standing by the main door handed them their cloaks. Outside the April night had turned dark and cold. One of Higden’s retainers, a large, thick-set man holding a torch, led them across the rich gardens Stephen had glimpsed earlier, out through a small postern door and across to the huge, brooding lychgate of St Michael’s. They entered the broad, rambling cemetery. In daylight hours it stretched quiet and still, a mass of wooden crosses and weather-beaten stones, a wild garden with shady yew trees planted to fend off wandering cattle. Here and there clumps of flowers, violets, lavender, peonies and lilies planted years ago by some enterprising parson or his woman. Now night cloaked everything in darkness. For Stephen this ancient burial place, God’s acre or not, seemed a domain of brooding menace dominated by the sheer stone mass of the old Norman church. Some of its glazed windows caught the light; others, covered by stretched oiled pig’s bladders, simply gazed sightlessly out into the darkness.
‘Look!’ The retainer pointed to the top of the soaring tower. ‘No light! The beacon fire has been extinguished.’
‘But I relit it,’ Simon the sexton declared hoarsely. ‘The beacon was firmly packed, and there’s been no rain.’
‘I am tired of this.’ The retainer turned and came back.
Sir William stepped forward to urge him on but Anselm placed a restraining hand on the merchant’s arm.
‘You are tired of what, my friend?’ Anselm asked. He took the torch and raised it high. ‘What’s your name?’
Stephen stared at the man, his burly, unshaven face all pocked and marked, furry eyebrows either side of a fat drinker’s nose, with the jutting lips and protuberant jaw of a mastiff.
‘Bardolph.’ The man’s voice was grating. ‘My name is Bardolph, Brother. I serve the parish as a gravedigger and corpse-mover. My wife and I also own a small alehouse nearby. We used to sell ale here in the churchyard after Mass on Sundays and holy days. Now, because of this, there are no fees for digging, no fees for corpse-moving and no fees for ale stoups.’