‘This is Basilisk,’ Bolingbrok murmured. ‘Thief, assassin, God knows what else. Stabbed over a cogged dice and now bound for judgement.’ He leaned down. ‘Aren’t you, my bully boy?’
Basilisk could only gasp. ‘Miserere!’
‘Yes, yes,’ Bolingbrok replied. ‘I keep my eyes and ears open for the likes of Basilisk. He needs a priest. He couldn’t care now about this or that. He has told me one thing, even though he recognized me as a cast-off priest, a defrocked one. We have chattered, Basilisk and I, and he has confessed.’
‘To what?’
‘To being a retainer of the Midnight Man’s coven.’
‘As God be my witness,’ Basilisk still had his senses, ‘I was recruited over a year ago.’
‘And how do you meet?’ Anselm pushed his way forward to kneel by the bed. Bolingbrok gently withdrew, allowing the exorcist to lean over the dying man. ‘The day after every full moon,’ Basilisk gasped, ‘the summons is posted in terms only we understand. On the great post near the Si Quis door at Saint Paul’s. The date, the time and the place.’
‘But anyone curious could note these?’
‘No, no,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘the place is numbered — fourteen, for example. We then look for a second bill, written out simply, the number reversed so it is forty-one, which stands for Saint Michael’s. The places are well known to us, usually along the mud flats or beyond the city walls.’
‘And the Midnight Man?’
‘He appears hooded and masked, well-guarded.’
‘And the ceremonies?’
‘No.’ Basilisk glanced at Anselm beseechingly. ‘I was only a guard, a retainer — not a member of their coven. I was not present at their filthy rites at Rishanger’s house or elsewhere.’
‘So what did you do exactly?’
‘He was an assassin,’ Bolingbrok hissed. ‘He was summoned whenever there was killing to be done.’
‘Who?’ Anselm placed a hand gently on the dying man’s chest. ‘Who?’ he repeated. ‘You are to go before God’s dread judgement, Basilisk. Hell awaits you, that blind world, mute of all light, dark, deep and cloud-filled. Hell is a horrible valley where the devils rain down the souls of murderers to melt like lard in a frying pan and seep through the iron-grilled floor as molten wax does through a straining cloth. Do you wish to escape such a place? Then repent, confess, be absolved!’
‘I and others,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘imposed order on the coven.’
‘You mean those who strayed or disobeyed?’
‘In morte veritas,’ Basilisk whispered, ‘in death truth.’
‘You are schooled? You are a clerk?’
‘As God be my witness, a clerk, schooled in the hornbook. A scholar of Oxford. I served in the King’s array and returned steeped in blood.’
‘You were given the names of those the Midnight Man marked down?’
‘Yes, it always meant sentence of death. A grocer in Poultry, a tanner in Walbrook. We were given both the name and the house — we never failed. Most of the deaths were judged as an accident: a fall from a chamber, crushed by a cart or a boating mishap near London Bridge.’
‘And Rishanger?’
‘We were ordered to follow him and, if he tried to flee, kill him. We attacked him at Queenhithe but he fought like a man possessed.’
Basilisk paused, breathing out noisily, gargling on the blood filling the back of his throat. He abruptly braced himself against a shaft of pain.
‘I gave him an opiate mixed in heavy wine,’ Bolingbrok whispered. ‘He cannot last much longer.’ Basilisk began to ramble, chattering in Norman French, the words ‘Mother’ and ‘Edith’ being repeated time and again. Stephen, who had stood with his back against the shabby door, wiped the sweat from his face. The chamber was growing unbearably hot; the only window was a mere arrow slit. Stephen’s gaze was drawn to it. He tensed at the bony, taloned fingers which grasped the rim of the narrow opening as if some repulsive creature clung to the rotting masonry outside, desperate to pull it out and force an entry. ‘The hour of greatest darkness!’ a voice murmured. ‘See the fluttering banners of Hell’s Host. The Lords of the Night gather. The Knights of the Pit prepare for chavauchee. The Dragon’s archers string their bows. Judas time! Darkness falls! The Armies of Hell have received their dread writ of array.’ Stephen forced himself to look away, to concentrate on Anselm, who was gently stroking the dying man’s face. The exorcist paused in a fit of coughing, shoulders shaking at the violent retching. Stephen’s heart missed a beat. When this was over, he promised himself, Anselm must visit the best physicians. He wondered if he should write to his own father.
‘Rishanger?’ The exorcist recovered from his coughing fit.
‘We pursued him. Killed him in the abbey but we were unable to find the treasure he had hidden.’
‘And?’
‘The Midnight Man was furious. We were summoned to a meeting in the ruins of Portsoken but did not go. Since then all has been quiet. There are rumours of a great stirring but. .’
‘A great stirring?’
‘The Midnight Man is whistling up his coven — that is all I know.’
‘And the other two who were with you at Rishanger’s death?’
‘Dead,’ the man gasped. ‘Strange, isn’t it? We failed so we, too, were marked for death.’
‘And the Midnight Man?’
‘I know nothing of him or his coven. Father, please absolve me.’
‘Stay outside.’ Anselm spoke over his shoulder.
Bolingbrok, Cutwolf and Stephen stepped into the ill-lit narrow gallery. Beauchamp’s henchmen stood silently, shadows against the shadows. Stephen glanced through the narrow window — nothing was there, yet he could hear a distant chanting. Stephen closed his eyes and prayed. The gathering was imminent. He recalled Eleanor’s words. She was certainly right: this would end in blood. They stayed for a while. The door opened. Anselm stepped out. ‘He could tell me no more.’
‘He still lives?’ Bolingbrok asked.
‘Just.’
Bolingbrok stepped around Anselm and, opening the door, entered the chamber. The bolts were drawn; a short while later they were pulled back. Bolingbrok, dagger in hand, stepped out. ‘He is gone,’ he murmured. ‘A mercy cut. No physician could save him. When the opiate faded he would have known hideous pain. He is past all caring and gone to God. We must leave.’
Anselm put his fingers to his lips and, abruptly, without warning, burst into tears. Cutwolf seized his arm but the exorcist shook him off. ‘I weep,’ he explained, ‘at the sheer, soul-harrowing sadness of it all.’ The exorcist took a deep breath and crossed himself. ‘Let us go.’
They left St Olaf-all-alone and walked briskly back through the streets. Even before they reached Dowgate the smell of burning curled heavy in the air, while a bright orange glow suffused the night sky. Bells began to toll. Lantern horns appeared. Doors opened and shut as they turned through the maze of lanes leading to Saint Michael’s. ‘The church is on fire!’ Anselm exclaimed. They hastened on; the closer they drew, the deeper their alarm. Stephen followed his master who, he noticed, had to stop to relieve his hacking cough. Tendrils of smoke brushed their faces; the smell of burning grew thicker. They rounded a corner and stared in horror. A fire raged through St Michael’s; its vivid glow illuminated the church set on top of a slight rise. The windows of the nave were bright with an unholy light. Tongues of flame shot up through the roof. The ward had been alerted. Sir Miles, swathed in a cloak, stood under the rain-drenched lychgate. Beside him, Sir William Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn. A figure lurched out of the darkness, slipping and slithering on the grass. Holyinnocent stepped into the pool of torch light. ‘The very fires of hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sir Miles, you must come. It is safe. You must see this.’