‘And this treasure?’ Higden taunted, squatting down. ‘I just keep it? How do I know that you and Sir Miles have not drafted some secret memorandum to the Crown detailing your suspicions about me?’
Anselm pulled a face. ‘And what proof would I offer?’
Higden shrugged.
‘I admit there would be very little — perhaps none at all,’ Anselm conceded. ‘Sir William, I used to gamble. I gambled on your greed. You planned to come here. If we had not found the treasure tonight — well, our deaths could be delayed. But we have and, as I’ve said, something is going to happen to us on our journey back to White Friars. You, Sir William, would take all this to profit yourself. You intend to search this treasure for what you want: Merlin’s Stone and any other magical items you believe might help you in the black arts. You’d keep them hidden for your own use. You would then offer the Crown the rest of this treasure hoard. You would receive, as finder, at least a tenth of its value, a fortune indeed. You would also, by handing it over, win great favour with the Crown. The King would regard you as a close friend. More favours, more patronage, more concessions, more wealth would flow your way. Any suspicions about you would be choked and strangled off. You would emerge more powerful to continue your midnight practices, be it as a blood-drinker or as a warlock. If Sir Miles and I had left any such memorandum, it would be ignored, being flatly contradicted by your actions. You would dazzle the King with this wealth. Any suspicions about your loyalty would disappear like smoke on a summer morning.’
‘So you have no proof.’ Gascelyn picked up the crossbow. Stephen flinched as the henchman took a bolt from the small, stout quiver on his belt.
‘Proof, Gascelyn, proof — what does it matter now? You know, Sir William knows, Almaric knows. You cannot let us walk free.’
Higden edged closer, head slightly to one side. ‘You’re a curious one, Anselm. I am fascinated by you. We could tell each other so much.’ He grinned, eyes widening in mock surprise. ‘Learn from each other.’ He gestured at the heaped treasure. ‘This is ours, you are ours. What can you do? What proof do you really have, eh?’
Anselm got to his feet. Sir William followed, hand going for his sword hilt. Gascelyn slipped a barb into the groove of the small arbalest.
‘I have already told you that I was a gambler, Sir William,’ Anselm replied curtly. ‘I used to be a sinner to the bone. My offences were always before me. Drinking, lechery and above all gambling.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I truly gambled tonight. I gambled that you would come. I wagered that I would find the treasure. I offered odds that you would act as you have.’
‘Odds?’
‘I was right.’ Anselm abruptly threw his head back. ‘De profundis!’ he shouted with all his strength. ‘Clamavi ad te Domine. Domine exaudi vocem meam — Out of the depths I have cried to you, oh Lord. Lord, hear my voice!’
Higden and his two henchmen, taken by surprise, could only finger their weapons. Stephen jumped to his feet as a fire arrow arched through the night sky and smashed in a flutter of heavy sparks on to the floor of the nave. Two more followed before Higden and his henchmen could recover. Dark shapes appeared in the doorways and gaps of the ruined church. Hooded archers, war bows strung, arrows notched. They slowly spread out across the nave; behind them swaggered Cutwolf, Bolingbrok and Holyinnocent, their swords drawn.
‘What is this?’ Higden drew himself up, ‘What is this?’ He pointed accusingly at Anselm. ‘You said you didn’t trust them.’
‘I was deceiving you. I also thank you for withdrawing your own guards. Master Cutwolf, Clerk of the Secret Chancery, has been watching you; he has certainly been watching me. I welcome him to this colloquium — this discussion.’
‘You have levelled serious allegations,’ Almaric blurted out. ‘What real proof do you have?’
‘Oh, I shall show you that,’ Anselm replied. ‘Master Cutwolf, ask your archers to withdraw slightly but be ready to loose.’ Anselm sat down, gesturing with his hand. ‘All of you do likewise.’
Higden looked as if he was going to protest. He looked over his shoulder at Cutwolf then reluctantly obeyed, untying his war belt to sit more comfortably, though his sword hilt was not far from his fingers. The other two followed. Stephen watched. Higden was cunning, powerful, the weight of evidence against him seemed slight; after all, he had come to this church at Anselm’s bidding. They had found the lost treasure. Higden could still hand this over and appear as the King’s own hero.
‘You Higden, Gascelyn and Almaric, are blood-drinkers,’ Anselm began. ‘You hunt and capture young women. You abuse them and kill them. You enjoy the power. You love watching a woman suffer before she dies. I met your like in France and elsewhere. War, for you, is simply an excuse for your filthy, murderous practices.’
‘How dare you!’ Almaric snarled.
‘Shut up!’ Anselm paused over a fit of coughing. ‘All of you, shut up! You three, together with men like Rishanger, served abroad. You plundered the French. You raped and murdered but the great hole in your soul has a deeper, more sinister darkness. You are warlocks, wizards. You dabble in the damned arts and converse with the demon lords of the air. You may have even used your victims’ blood to further this. The sacrifice of cockerels and night birds is nothing compared to that of a human heart, or a chalice full of some young woman’s hot blood.’
‘Proof?’ Higden insisted.
‘Yes, proof?’ Gascelyn repeated. ‘You will need proof before the King’s Bench, for the Justices in Eyre. Your madcap theories are not enough.’
‘You returned to England and continued your filthy practices.’ Anselm’s voice was almost conversational. ‘Rishanger’s lonely garden with its secret cellar or pit was ideal. Young women were invited there. We now know their hideous fate. You act like some blasphemous religious order, cells within cells. You, Higden, your two acolytes and possibly Rishanger, knew the truth behind the Midnight Man. All of you are deeply implicated. Meeting at Rishanger’s house or some other desolate place, using your wealth to swell the number of your coven — men and women like Bardolph and Adele. You also had your bodyguard, your cohort of killers, guards in black leather, to be whistled up like a hunting pack.’
‘Evidence?’ Higden made to rise.
‘Oh, I will come to that by and by. You, Higden, became a peritus, skilled in the black arts. A true nightmare, you would cast about in search of secret rituals and precious items to deepen your so-called powers, artefacts such as the Philosopher’s Stone — the key to all alchemy.’
‘I threw Rishanger out of my house over that.’
‘Mere pretence, a disguise to conceal the truth, a public demonstration that you had nothing to do with such a man. You had that wax figurine of yourself deliberately placed in Rishanger’s house so as to portray yourself as an inveterate enemy of such a wicked soul. I suspect you never really liked or trusted Rishanger. Time proved you right.’ Anselm paused to cough and clear his throat, wiping blood-flecked lips on a piece of cloth.
Stephen glanced around. Almaric and Gascelyn sat, eyes blinking, now and again the occasional nervous gesture. Cutwolf and his companions remained impassive: faces of stone, eyes almost blank as if they had already made up their minds what to do — but what?
‘Now at Glastonbury, the so-called magical stone of Merlin, a rock of allegedly great power, had been found during the reign of the present King’s grandfather and placed along with other precious items in the treasury crypt at Westminster which Puddlicot later pillaged.’