The Midnight Man Read online

  ‘As well as other parish officials,’ Simon, his spotty face flushed with claret, quickly added.

  ‘Saint Michael’s is an ancient church,’ the parson continued, ‘built during the time of William the Norman. You can see that from its nave – the thick, clumsy pillars have none of the beauty of Westminster or La Chapelle. The great tower is built on the side and has been strengthened and extended by successive generations. To the north-east of the church lie the sacristy and store rooms, and there is a cellar and a crypt which serve as our charnel house. The cemetery itself is sprawling, the soil very coarse, difficult to cultivate. The dead have been buried there for at least three hundred years. During the day, despite my protestations, the people used to flock there to trade. Well,’ Smollat’s fat face creased in embarrassment, ‘it depends on what they were trading. Prostitutes, tinkers and hawkers. During summertime the cemetery is the trysting place of lovers of either sex or both. At night, well, sorcerers, wizards, warlocks and practitioners of the dark arts creep in to sacrifice black cockerels and offer their blood to the full moon.’ The parson’s voice grew weary. ‘I did my best. The parish is, or was, a busy, thriving community – baptisms, shrivings, weddings, funerals, ale-tastings. We observe the liturgical feasts, especially Michaelmas, the solemnity of the great Archangel. We have a fine statue to him.’ The parson paused as the door opened. A woman came in, round as a dumpling with cherry-red cheeks, a smiling mouth and eyes bright as a sparrow. She was garbed in a blue dress with a silver cord around her plump waist. A thick white veil covered her black hair, streaked with slivers of silver, and over her arm she carried a heavy cloak.

  ‘My housekeeper, Isolda,’ Parson Smollat explained. The woman bobbed a curtsey to the assembled guests. ‘She came with me tonight,’ the parson continued. ‘Isolda, what do you want?’

  ‘Shall I stay, Parson Smollat, or do you want me to go?’

  ‘It’s best if you left.’

  ‘Ask one of my men to act as Lucifer,’ Sir William joked, ‘light-bearer.’ He answered the woman’s puzzled look. ‘One of them will see you safely across to the priest’s house.’

  Isolda again bobbed a curtsey. Stephen noticed the smiling glance she threw Parson Smollat as she made her farewells to the rest of the guests.

  ‘God be with you,’ Anselm called out.

  ‘And you too, Brother.’ Isolda gazed hard at the exorcist then left.

  ‘Very good, very good,’ Beauchamp softly declared once the door closed behind Isolda, ‘but why are we really here?’

  Stephen glanced at the parson. A good man, he thought, but weak and reluctant to grasp the tangled root of the evil festering here. Despite the warmth, the wine, the sturdy furniture and brightly painted wall cloths, the evil, the bleak despair, the heinous malice Stephen had experienced in that church had followed them here. It lurked watching in the shadows, away from the light. Some malevolent ghost or hell-born creature was dragging itself through the murk across that great barrier between the visible and invisible. The exorcist was also alert; he fingered his Ave beads, the other hand touching the small wooden tau cross on a cord around his neck. Stephen recalled one of Anselm’s sayings: ‘Thistles of the souls bring forth sin and despair. Satan and his demons can only feast on what we offer them’. What was at stake here? Stephen broke from his reverie as Parson Smollat pointed to the red cross with trefoiled ends painted on a shield which hung on the wall above the mantled hearth. Next to it a second shield displayed the Agnus Dei, a white lamb with a nimbus of gold showing three red rays. The lamb held a scarlet cross against a field of deep azure and a banner which had a silver staff with a gilt crown on top.

  ‘For all our weaknesses and stupid sins,’ Parson Smollat confessed, ‘I thought we were a godly community shielded against evil, protected by the Lord and his great henchman, Archangel Michael.’ Parson Smollat took a deep breath. ‘All that changed last year around the Feast of All Souls. You know,’ he swallowed hard, ‘that the eve of All Saints, thirty-first of October, Saint Walpurgis, is one of the most solemn black feasts of the sorcerers and other practitioners of the dark arts. I was absent that evening, when our cemetery was invaded by a warlock well-served by the knights of hell, the one who calls himself “The Midnight Man”.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ Anselm broke in. ‘One day I would like to meet him.’

  ‘One day you shall!’ Beauchamp retorted. ‘You can shrive him just before he’s burnt as a warlock at Smithfield.’

  Anselm turned in his chair and stared at the subtle clerk. ‘God,’ he whispered, ‘has ordained all our ends. Pray God we are not consumed by his fire in the second death.’

  Beauchamp’s smile faded. He looked sharply at Anselm, then indicated that Parson Smollat should continue.

  ‘As I said,’ Anselm would not be outfaced, ‘I would like to meet the Midnight Man – he claims to be constantly attended by a spirit dressed in a flesh-coloured tunic under a dark robe. I wonder,’ he mused, ‘why warlocks and sorcerers place such great emphasis on petty demons like that?’

  ‘I do not know any of this, nor does anyone here.’ Parson Smollat sniffed. ‘Nor do I know what went wrong, what horrid sights and hideous manifestations made their presence felt. Murderous chants, snatches and war cries were heard amongst the howling of a pack of wild dogs which invaded the cemetery and drove off a herd of pigs, snouting around the dead. Apparitions were glimpsed, ghouls and night-stalkers. Menacing shadows with strange lights were also seen.’ Parson Smollat crossed himself. ‘All I know is that sooty souls, their evil minds fastened in wicked sins, came into our cemetery and sang their own devilish vespers. They opened the very doors of hell. According to rumour and, it is only rumour, the Midnight Man and all his devilish crew were so terrified at what they’d provoked, they fled.’ The parson mopped his fleshy face with a napkin. ‘I should have been content with that. The rogues and villains fled but, no sooner had the Feast of All Souls come and gone, than the hauntings began.’

  ‘At first they were minor matters.’ The sexton took up the story while the parson wetted his throat. ‘Tombstones were tumbled. Crosses were knocked over, then those who crept into the cemetery after dark, the night-lovers, stopped coming, eager to avoid the place.’

  ‘Why?’ Beauchamp asked.

  ‘They talked of prowlers, sinister shapes and threatening shades snaking around the tombs. Cries and strident screams were heard. Strange lights and tongues of flames licking the darkness.’

  ‘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 violen
t; 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.’

  ‘I encouraged these,’ Higden declared. ‘Didn’t I, Smollat?’ He turned to the parson, who nodded vigorously even as he stifled a yawn.

  ‘The same,’ Anselm continued, ‘occurred with this hapless knight. I was asked to visit the manor and exorcize whatever lurked there.’ He stretched out and grabbed Stephen by the arm. ‘This was before my young friend here joined me.’

  Stephen smiled at the word ‘friend’.

  ‘When I arrived at Romney,’ Anselm continued, ‘the manor house was gloomy, a place bereft of joy. I walked its chambers, store rooms and galleries, its cellars and outhouses. The very walls exuded a deep sadness, a horrid despair. Ghosts truly gathered there. It was one of those arid places where demons loved to lurk, well away from the light. I celebrated Mass in its small chapel and felt a malevolent presence just beyond the door, a rank horde of venomous spirits mouthing their own foul curses as they controlled who or whatever was also there. I searched that manor, and the more I did the deeper the darkness grew. A heavy pall of misery stifled my own spirit – never more so than in a narrow chamber, a dusty room with peeling plaster and dirty boards. Cobwebs cloaked every corner and niche; its lancet window was divided by a thick, rusting iron bar. I grasped this and stared out into the weed-filled kitchen yard. As I did I heard a voice.’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Let me explain. When I say I hear a voice, or see anything supernal, as God is my witness, I am never certain if it’s within or without me.’

  ‘And this voice?’ Almaric asked.

  ‘A woman’s voice.’

  ‘And she said?’

  ‘“Help me, for the love of God, help me! Let me be free.
Let me move into the light. Break the chains which bind me to him.” I asked her who she was and what she meant.’

  ‘And?’ Almaric asked.

  ‘The door behind me opened and shut with a crash. I heard a scream, something brushed my face – the ice-cold fingers of some ghostly hand – then it was gone. I stayed and searched that manor. The more I did, the more I returned to that morbid chamber at the back of the house and the long, gloomy paved passageway leading down to the kitchen and buttery.’

  ‘Did you attempt an exorcism, as you did here?’ Sir William asked.

  ‘I attempted, and I failed. I could hear a woman’s voice but some hell-lurker, a darkness-dweller, always intervened. I blessed and sanctified. I also prayed that the Lord would send me an angel of light.’ Anselm gave a rare smile. ‘Angels come in many forms and guises. Near the manor stood a hermitage, an ancient, small dovecote hidden in a dense clump of trees. The land around it was so marshy and treacherous, the hermitage could only be approached carefully. I tried to speak to the old man who lived there, locked in his fasting and prayers. I failed but one morning he came to see me, a true ancient with his white hair and beard. He asked to be shriven. I cannot reveal what he told me except that afterwards he agreed to help me lift the paving stones of the passageway stretching from the kitchen to that godforsaken prison chamber.’

  ‘Why?’ Beauchamp asked.

  ‘Let me explain without breaking the seal of confession,’ Anselm retorted. He glanced quickly at Stephen. ‘I certainly could have used your help there. I, the manor lord, his henchman and even his lady helped. The henchman had to retreat, as did the knight’s wife.’

  ‘Why? Why?’ Almaric sat like a rabbit petrified by a stoat.

  ‘Evil swept that gallery like the winds of hell. Full of hideous terrors, rank smells, fearful faces, curses and obscenities. Sometimes it turned hot as if a blast of wind blew from the seething deserts of Outremer, only to turn so cold we could scarcely grasp the picks and poles we used.’ Anselm lifted the Ave beads wrapped around his left hand. ‘I prayed and sprinkled holy water. I insisted that the candles in front of the cross on the table set up in the passageway stay alight. At last we found it – a pit beneath the paving stones containing the skeleton of a woman. We could tell that from the remnants of her robe and sandals. She lay in an oiled sheet drenched in pine juice with no cross, pyx holder or Ave beads; instead, between her legs, laid the severed head of a man.’ Anselm stilled their gasps and exclamations. ‘The head and face had been preserved though these were shrunken and ghastly. Severed cleanly at the neck, the head had been soaked in brine and tarred like those of traitors polled on London Bridge. I blessed these gruesome remnants. I thanked the hermit. I could now question him outside the seal of the sacrament, and he confessed the most macabre tale. Years earlier, before the great pestilence, the manor lord who lived there married a local woman of outstanding beauty. He loved her to obsession but, during the King’s early wars against the Scots, this knight was called away by the commissioners of array. He obeyed the writ, fought valiantly along the Scottish march then returned to his manor . . .’