The novice raised his own cup. ‘Magister, as always, a l’outrance de siecle a siecle — to the death and beyond!’
They finished their meal and returned to White Friars. Stephen continued, despite his best efforts, to remain and brood in that bleak landscape of his soul. Anselm became very busy, paying the occasional visit to reassure the novice. Although Stephen tried to act courteously, still all he could think about was Alice. He returned to The Unicorn only to find it locked and barred. The watchman on guard brusquely declared how Master Robert had taken his daughter’s corpse back to the West Country. Only then did the fiery flickers of anger return, a thirst for revenge, an implacable urge to confront and challenge the dark forces which had caused the death of his beloved.
A few days after returning to White Friars, early in the evening, Anselm came looking for him. Stephen was sitting cross-legged in the Lady chapel, staring hard at the carved, beautiful face of the Virgin. Anselm, cloaked and booted, carried ‘his holy bag’, the pannier containing sacred water, oils, crucifix and an asperges rod, all the necessary items for an exorcism.
‘Stephen,’ Anselm snapped his fingers briskly, ‘we must go. I believe we have found the treasure.’ The exorcist would say no more. The novice hurried back to his own cell, putting on a stout pair of sandals and swinging his cloak about him in readiness.
‘The battle lords of hell muster,’ a voice growled from behind him. ‘The strong, grasping warriors of Hades swing sharp swords from their fiery scabbards. The greedy carrion birds’ claws will soon redden. The hawk lords gather.’ Stephen whirled around. A man, hair and face chalky white, garbed in clothes of the same hue, stood staring at him. ‘The dark caves lie open. The serpents’ field awaits.’ The voice came soft as a breath. Stephen dropped his cloak. He bent down and picked it up; when he glanced again both vision and the voice had gone, only Anselm rapping on the door telling him to hurry.
They left and reached St Michael’s. The guards at the cemetery had been withdrawn — only a surly-faced Gascelyn stood vigil under the lychgate. Stephen could feel the tension rise as they made their way up into the cracked, blackened remains of the nave. Anselm wasted no time shouting at Gascelyn, who was trailing behind them, to bring the iron bars and picks he had asked for. Once that sombre custodian of the dead had done so, Anselm, directing Stephen, began to prise loose one of the paving stones which had formed the floor of the small chantry chapel to St Joseph. ‘You know why,’ Anselm whispered hoarsely. ‘Stephen, we could wait to be taken, or we could set our own trap. Go and look at Saint Michael’s.’
The novice put down the iron bar he had been trying to wedge into a small gap between the paving stones and walked over. The floor of the chantry chapel of St Michael’s was now nothing more than a pit, the paving stones from it packed against the wall. Someone had already searched there. He walked back. The church lay threateningly silent except for Anselm trying to prise loose that same paving stone. No visions, no voices — nothing but this empty clanging. Stephen went to assist the exorcist.
‘Good,’ Anselm breathed, ‘it is time!’ Stephen turned. Higden, Almaric and Gascelyn, all heavily cloaked, stood on the top sanctuary step. All three walked slowly down, footsteps echoing through the nave. ‘Good evening, Brother Anselm. I received your message and here I am. What are you doing?’ Higden demanded. His two companions, cloaks billowing about them, sat down on the plinth along which the wooden screen to the chantry chapel had once stood.
‘I am searching for Puddlicot’s treasure. He claimed,’ Anselm broke from his labours, ‘it was guarded by God’s protector. Everyone thought this was Saint Michael Archangel, this church, the cemetery or even the chantry chapel. Sir William, I have read the writings of the Franciscan Bernadine of Siena who fostered the cult to Saint Joseph. He called him God’s protector, which he was, the Guardian of the Divine Child. Puddlicot, like you, Curate Almaric, was once a carpenter, hence my deduction. The treasure must be buried here in this chapel?’
‘But Cutwolf, Bolingbrok?’ Sir William asked.
‘They are busy on other matters. They are spent; I don’t trust them.’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Not since the death of Sir Miles. By the way, your wound?’
‘Only superficial, a cut to the arm,’ Higden replied, slowly getting to his feet. He shrugged off his cloak, and his companions did the same. Stephen shivered. All three, even the curate, wore war belts, while Gascelyn carried a wicked-looking arbalest.
‘Protection,’ Higden murmured, following Stephen’s gaze. ‘We must be on our guard.’ Higden’s face was now feverish. He and his two companions began to help prise loose the paving stones. Stephen privately thought Anselm was being foolish. He, too, had wondered about the phrase ‘God’s protector’, but surely? They loosened one paving stone, pulling it loose. Stephen gaped at what lay beneath. Higden shouted with joy. Anselm crouched in a fierce fit of coughing, nodding his head and pointing at the rotting piece of wood they had now uncovered. It looked like a trapdoor. Gascelyn, as excited as his master, dug in his pick and wrenched it back to expose the pit beneath.
‘I suspected that,’ Anselm declared, recovering from his coughing bout. Stephen’s heart lurched at the sight of the blood-soaked rag in the exorcist’s hand, the red froth bubbling at either corner of Anselm’s mouth.
‘I suspected,’ Anselm breathed heavily, ‘this was once the church’s secure pit, a place to hide sacred vessels and other treasures during times of trouble.’
Higden and his companions ignored this; stretching deep into the pit, they drew out heavy leather sacks coated with dust and tied tightly around the neck with rotting twine. Sack after sack was pulled up — six in all. They shook out the contents: small caskets, coffers, minute chests with leather casings, all crammed with jewels, diamonds, silver and gold ornaments. Pectoral collars, rings, bracelets, gems, pearls and coins rolled out.
‘If you are looking for Merlin’s Stone,’ Anselm murmured, leaning his back against the wall, ‘well, it’s not there. It lies at the bottom of Rishanger’s filthy carp pond, a useless piece of black star rock.’ Higden and his henchmen sobered up, eyes narrowed in their flushed, ugly faces. They got to their feet. Anselm began to laugh, which ended in a choking cough. ‘A piece of stone,’ he mocked, ‘lying in the slime, though I reckon that’s much purer than your souls.’
Stephen felt a deep coldness wrap around him.
‘Brother Anselm, we came because you asked us,’ Higden snapped. ‘We came in peace.’
‘I invited you here, Sir William, because you are the Midnight Man and these are your two minions. I invited you before you could take me and mine as you did Sir Miles.’
‘Nonsense!’ Higden’s voice carried a hideous threat. ‘Remember, I was with Sir Miles. I. .’
‘A simple flesh wound, Sir William. Your assassins were under strict orders as to whom to kill and whom to ignore. Sir Miles had to be removed because he was our protector — he knew too much, he was hunting you. Cutwolf openly proclaimed a reward for knowledge about the Midnight Man. In the end Sir Miles suspected you, Sir William — he told me so. You sensed that. He had to die, then you would deal with us. You must have wondered if we were close to the truth about this treasure — that’s why you tried to abduct Stephen. I dropped hints about how close we were and you couldn’t wait.’
‘Brother Anselm, we are here,’ Almaric protested.
‘Of course you are,’ Anselm pointed at Higden, ‘you two alone know his true identity. The other members of your coven only see the Midnight Man as a powerful, hideously masked figure who deals out death at his night-drenched meetings. Let me guess,’ making himself more comfortable against the wall, Anselm pressed home his attack, ‘we now have the treasure while the cemetery is no longer guarded. Stephen and I, if we were not having this conversation, would be allowed to leave, escorted back to White Friars by Gascelyn. On the way something would happen. Another bloody attack. Gascelyn would be wounded — not seriously — but Stephen and I would die. Two more victims of the Midnight Man, yes?’