Minehost, who introduced himself as ‘Master Robert, formerly of Bristol,’ guided them to one of these window-tables. Three places had been laid. The taverner, his voice betraying his West Country burr, assured Beauchamp that Cutwolf, whom he knew very well, and all his companions would be well looked after. Alice stood just behind him, wiping her brow on the back of her wrist, those lovely, smiling eyes still dancing at Stephen. Suddenly her smile faded. ‘They say,’ she called out, ‘you are looking for corpses at Saint Michael’s and Rishanger’s house. News flies faster than swallows in Dowgate.’
‘Hush now, girl.’ Her father made to remonstrate but Sir Miles, who’d doffed his cloak and sword belt, busy making himself comfortable, held up a hand, smiling so appreciatively at Alice that Stephen felt a stab of jealousy.
‘Mistress, you are correct — we are looking for corpses.’
‘Margotta Sumerhull?’ Alice’s voice trembled; her father put his arm around her shoulder and gently led her away. Servitors came to take their orders. Sir Miles declared he would pay and for the best ale and wine, which were brought. Cormanye, pork fillets in wine and black pepper, aloes of beef steeped in thyme and sage with a pot of lumbard mustard, white, soft bread cuts and dishes of buttered vegetables were ordered. Anselm recited the Benedicite and blessed the table. They washed their hands in stoups of rose water and settled back to enjoy the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Stephen hoped Alice would reappear but her father thought otherwise, serving them himself. They ate in silence until Beauchamp put down his horn spoon. He stretched across the table, grabbed Stephen’s wrist and squeezed it. ‘What really happened to you at Saint Michael’s? Is it the falling sickness?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Anselm intervened.
‘It has happened before,’ Stephen added.
‘And the cause?’
‘Magister, you explained it once.’ Stephen forced a grin. ‘You remember, the Irish?’
‘I soldiered in the Holy Isle,’ Anselm confessed. ‘I served Dermot, Prince of Leinster. He defeated a rival clan. After the battle about two hundred heads of his enemies were laid at Dermot’s feet. Dermot turned each head over. When he recognized a face he did a dance of joy like some mummer at midsummer: he was mad with delight. I was in the retinue of an English lord sent from Dublin to help the King’s ally. It was autumn. There were fruit trees nearby, damsons full and ripe. After the battle we plucked these. I was tortured by thirst. I remember eating them as Dermot did his macabre dance. Anyway,’ Anselm sighed, ‘that prince, as lunatic as any moon man, lifted to his mouth the decapitated head of an enemy he particularly loathed and, grasping it by the ears, gnawed at the nose. A cruel and most evil act. I was revolted and sickened. I vomited what I had eaten.’ Anselm paused, taking a gulp of water. ‘I still tremble at the sheer wickedness. Even after all these years, God bless me, the smell of damson juice is enough to take me back to that day of slaughter and outrage and my belly turns nauseous.’ He pointed at Stephen. ‘My friend, you are no different. Scenes, memories come rushing back when the bell in your soul peals out what it has learnt, even if your mind has forgotten it.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘In your case, Stephen, other forces swoop in, eager to exploit such forgotten, hidden memories. So, let it be. Let us not grieve about yesterday.’ He raised his water cup in toast. ‘To us three.’ Beauchamp and Stephen responded. The novice felt relaxed. He gazed around the taproom. Hungry for a glimpse of Alice, Stephen still rejoiced in the ordinariness, the latent merriment of his surroundings. So different from those cold churches, sombre burial pits and haunted houses.
‘You will stay here,’ Anselm declared. ‘It is good for you, Stephen. Don your old clothes, help Minehost.’ He smiled. ‘Get to know Alice better.’
‘Why?’ Stephen exclaimed. ‘Why, Magister?’
‘Are you intended for our order, Stephen? Are you really? You, not I, must answer that question.’ Anselm waved his horn spoon around. ‘A good place for a good life. A man of peace dwells here. I sense that as do you.’
‘Master Cutwolf and his coven,’ Sir Miles added, ‘will protect you. Become our eyes and ears, Stephen. Immerse yourself in the life of the tavern, the street, the ward. Watch and listen.’ Stephen fought to hide his excitement. He wanted to leap up, to sing and dance a jig like some moonstruck madcap.
‘You will be given a small chamber under the eaves,’ Anselm explained. ‘You will help Minehost in a myriad of tasks. Ordinary things along with the Eucharist, prayer, fasting and good works are the best defence against what the sinister Lords of the Dark can hurl against us.’
The next such assault occurred the following morning. Just after the bells for Prime boomed across the ward, Stephen was awakened by Anselm, who’d slept on the floor of the garret the novice had been given, a small but very comfortable chamber with a bed, table, stool and lavarium. The walls were white-washed a gleaming cream and boasted a large painted cloth depicting a maiden feeding a unicorn, and a thick turkey carpet covered the polished wooden floorboards. ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ Anselm urged.
He woke and sat up.
‘Stephen,’ Anselm insisted, ‘it is dawn. Sir Miles is here. We must return to Rishanger’s house.’
‘Dark of soul, hideous in appearance!’ growled a voice. Stephen caught his breath. ‘Night of the cutting knives, the splashing of blood.’ Faces, young and fearful, swam before his gaze. ‘Trapped in darkness and unable to move on!’ The cry was piercing.
Stephen grasped Anselm’s wrist. ‘I feel. .’
‘I know,’ Anselm urged, ‘but come, Sir Miles awaits us. We must go. Ignore what you see, hear and feel.’ Stephen hurriedly dressed in his clean attire: jerkin, hose, boots and cloak. Anselm packed what he called in a merrier mood ‘his holy pannier’. They tumbled down the stairs. Beauchamp was waiting for them at the entrance. The royal clerk looked dishevelled, unshaven and heavy-eyed. He gathered his cloak about him as if to hide what lay beneath and, Stephen noticed, tried to unravel the rosary beads wrapped tightly around his right hand. ‘They are waiting,’ he announced.
The royal clerk led them into the street where Cutwolf and the others were gathered, torches gleaming against the greying light. Shapes and shadows moved. A dog howled; a cat shrieked in defiance. An early river mist had drifted in, distracting the eye and muffling sound. They left the tavern, moving in a pool of light with swords drawn through the morning murk. Bells clanged. Shouts and cries echoed. Carts rumbled, creaking and crashing. But, for Stephen, all that existed was this cortege moving through the morning mist to confront the host of wickedness. He tried to ignore the hasty voices, the pleas for help, the strident cries clamouring his ears. He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing but this did not help. Shadowed faces moved before him and vanished. He glanced at a cat squatting on a pile of refuse. The cat assumed human features, a devilish grin. Ghostly fingers caressed Stephen’s face. A hand clutched his belly and squeezed hard. He exclaimed loudly at the pain. Anselm turned and whispered the Jesus prayer; the sensation faded.
The morning was dull and the river mist had yet to dissipate. The creatures of the night, not ready to return to their rat holes to sleep, ate, lurked and waited again for twilight. The streets were filthy with slops of every kind. They passed the pillories and stocks, the malefactors still cruelly fastened there by neck, wrist or feet. During the night the ward watch had surprised a group of housebreakers and carried out summary justice, hanging them from iron brackets fastened to the walls, their corpses dangled by the neck, purple faces twisted into hideous grimaces. Cats slunk beneath the swaying corpses. A yellow-ribbed mongrel sniffed the puffy hand of one of the hanged. Warning shouts carried. Figures hurried down the alleyways into the mildewed cellars where the night-walkers gathered. Stephen felt the weight of depression descend on him, then his hand was touched. He turned. Alice, heavy-eyed with sleep, a cloak wrapped about her, hair a gorgeous tumble about her smiling face, was walking next to him. She pressed a small linen parcel into his hands, kissed him swiftly on the lips and then she was gone, racing back up the street towards The Unicorn.