‘The same also appeared in the church,’ Parson Smollat intervened.
‘Frightful.’ Curate Almaric spoke up, clawing at his hair. ‘I heard similar tales when I was a boy at my father’s manor. .’
‘Well, yes,’ Parson Smollat glared at his curate, ‘but we’re talking about our church where tables and benches were overthrown. Triptychs pulled down from the walls. Cruets and thuribles smashed in the sacristy. A tun of wine was shattered.’ Parson Smollat paused to gulp more claret.
‘Even at Mass,’ Sir William Higden declared mournfully, ‘I was there. Candle spigots dashed to the ground. The pyx chain sent swinging. Foul smells, horrid sounds.’
‘All the same, I thought ghosts and demons could not haunt a hallowed place?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘Not true.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘Christ was taunted by demons. Read the scriptures: devils thronged around him, even if it was to beg for mercy. Evil can open up the gates of hell. Demons swarm up, drawn by feelings of hate, resentment, malevolence, wickedness and malicious evil. Like soldiers laying siege they seek paths into our souls, drawbridges across the great void which separates us from them.’
‘Like an enemy horde attacking a castle?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘Precisely. The demon lords, the restless spirits, pound on our doors and clatter like the wind against the shutters of our souls. Some castles can be taken by direct assault, others by siege or attack from afar with catapults, mangonels and the siege towers of hell. Sometimes the attack is very violent; the soul can be devastated by fire and sword as deadly as any kingdom being put to the torch. For most of us, thank God,’ Anselm crossed himself, ‘it’s just a quiet, desperate struggle.’ He paused. ‘No one is safe; holy men and women suffer the most vicious assaults. Look at Saint Anthony of the Desert, Benedict or the great Francis of Assisi.’
‘But why here? Why now?’ Almaric protested.
‘I don’t know. I am trying to discover why. Isn’t that the reason you asked for me?’
‘True, true.’ Parson Smollat’s fingers went to his mouth. He acted like a frightened child, staring down at Anselm. ‘I thought that tonight. .’
‘What did happen?’ Beauchamp had dropped his world-weary airs: he was harsh, accusatory. ‘Did you fail, exorcist?’
Stephen glanced expectantly at Anselm. He, too, was deeply curious about what he had seen and heard. Why had old memories come floating back? Why had his master, the man he reverenced as the magister, appeared so lost? The rest of the company were also attentive, waiting for the exorcist’s reply.
‘I did not fail,’ Anselm declared, ‘but neither did I succeed. However, I am not a cozener, a cheat. I do not draw pentangles and circles. True, I would like to meet the Midnight Man and discover his tricks but,’ Anselm drew himself up, his voice forceful and carrying as it was when he delivered a homily to a crowd in Cheapside, or harangued a group of fops in their brocaded fineries, their palfreys, saddled and harnessed, glittering with gold and silver, ‘what I do is not some sleight of hand. Let me assure you: we are not only dealing with ghosts and relics of the past, but something very evil.’ Anselm breathed in deeply. ‘Let me explain — what is a ghost? We have the Lord’s own words that ghosts do exist. When he walked on the water his disciples thought he was a ghost. After his resurrection Christ had to assure them that he could eat and drink and was no phantasm.’ Anselm paused, listening to the gathering sounds of the night. ‘No one,’ he continued softly, ‘knows what truly happens to a soul after death.’ He joined his hands together. ‘Perhaps it’s like a child being born. There is confusion, chaos. Perhaps the immediate aftermath of death can be like someone caught at a lonely crossroads not knowing why they are there, where they are going or even who they are. Awareness in the soul after death dawns, I am sure, slowly, according to the way we have lived. Most souls take their chosen path; some, God alone knows why, do not — they linger. They believe they have unfinished business so delay by possessing a house, a church — even another soul. They press for their business to be completed.’ He paused. Anslem now had their full attention. ‘I believe that is what’s happening here but,’ he held up a warning hand and his voice thrilled, ‘even more, these spirits are in the grip of some malignancy which has fastened tight about them. It blocks their path — why? I do not know. I suspect the practices of the Midnight Man did not help. He invoked something which now prowls your cemetery and church like a ravenous wolf.’
‘Why don’t these souls tell you?’ Beauchamp asked.
‘They cannot,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Only God’s grace conveys knowledge of what is truly beyond the veil. Think of us as looking through the bars of a prison door. We can see the captives within. We can watch their torment. They may even know we watch. We sympathize with them but they cannot truly explain why they are there, who they are or what they are doing. We are witnessing souls twisting in pain and torment. The noises, the lights, the horrid stench, the rank odours are simply manifestations.’
Anselm stared hard at a painted cloth on the far wall celebrating the legend of the Lady of the Lake. He sat as if fascinated by the snow-white hand breaking free from the dark green water bathed in a setting sun to grasp the great jewel-encrusted sword Excalibur.
‘And?’ Beauchamp asked gently.
‘Something else is also there — retainers of the apostate angel, hell’s dark robber.’
‘What are you saying?’ Sir William insisted.
‘The Midnight Man, in his foolish blundering, drew in the rankest lords of the air. However,’ Anselm’s voice grew sharper, ‘some great evil,’ he pointed in the direction of the church, ‘has definitely occurred there. No,’ he hushed their protests, ‘let me assure you of that. I have great experience, God forgive me, of hauntings, ghosts and exorcisms. I tell you all, such spiritual manifestations have their suppurating roots firmly in human wickedness. Let me explain. Once,’ Anselm paused, his head down. ‘Once,’ he repeated, ‘I was summoned to an old manor house. I shall not give you the name but it stood in the Romney marshes, a forbidding, gloomy place built of stone, wood and plaster. It was much decayed, a desolate habitation abandoned after the great pestilence. The nearby village was also an abode of ghosts.’ Anselm shrugged. ‘No life, no work. Once a thriving community, the angel of devastation had swept through as it had so many places. A sheer nothingness brooded over it. No crops, cattle or sheep. The trackways around it lay abandoned as traders and tinkers saw little profit in going there. Now, the King, freshly returned from France, wished to reward one of his young knights. He granted him that manor and all the land attached to it. This young paladin received his chancery writ to take up possession.’ Anselm waved a hand. ‘He also married a young noblewoman. Both knight and lady moved into their new home.’
‘Romney?’ Beauchamp abruptly asked. ‘Why, Sir Thomas de-’
‘Please,’ Anselm interjected, ‘I beg you — such matters are best kept secret. I promised.’
Beauchamp pulled a face, shrugged then sat back cradling his goblet, watching Anselm intently.
‘The knight and his beloved bride occupied this manor on Romney marsh. Retainers and servants were hired, ditches dug, fields cleared, the house and outbuildings were repaired.’ Anselm sipped at his beaker of water. ‘Few of the retainers stayed. The house was declared accursed. Like you, Sir William, the knight appealed for help. .’
‘Not really,’ Beauchamp interrupted.
‘Sir William, you do want our help, yes?’
The merchant knight murmured his agreement.
‘But there was more,’ the royal clerk insisted. ‘The King’s Justices of Oyer and Terminer have just completed their circuit through the London wards. They received many petitions that the hauntings at Saint Michael’s be investigated. Similar pleas were sent to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the King’s council.’