The Midnight Man Read Free Page A

carefully. Dressed in black, the silver spurs on his high-heeled boots clinking at every step, Beauchamp carried himself as if his person was sacred and his very presence of crucial importance. Just past his thirtieth summer, Beauchamp was a clerk greatly favoured by the old King. He looked and dressed like a fop with his be-ringed fingers, tight-fitting hose and languid ways, almost womanish with his handsome features, blond hair coifed and pricked like any court lady. Beauchamp could be dismissed as one of those decadent minions whom the preachers thundered against with cutting references to the secret sin of Sodom.
    Brother Anselm, however, after he and Stephen had met Beauchamp earlier in the evening, had warned the young novice: ‘
Cacullus non facit monachum
– the cowl does not make the monk. Sir Miles is not what he appears. In truth, he is a ferocious warrior much trusted by the Crown and a true ladies’ man. Indeed,’ Anselm smiled, a rare occurrence which transformed his face, ‘he reminds me of myself before.’ The smile then faded. ‘He reminds me, that’s all,’ and he had refused to elaborate further.
    Sir Miles stopped at the end of the table, lazy blue eyes studying both Carmelites. Stephen noticed the slight cast in the clerk’s right eye, which enhanced rather than retracted from Beauchamp’s good looks. He smiled faintly at both, nodded and sauntered back to slide easily into the chair to the right of Sir William.
    The merchant spread his hands. ‘Welcome, Sir Miles. I am sorry you could not be with us for the exorcism, which—’
    â€˜I am not finished,’ Anselm abruptly interrupted. ‘I must leave. I have to because I want to, not because I am being forced to. Stephen and I,’ Anselm glanced at his companion, ‘must go back.’
    The exorcist rose so swiftly he took the rest by surprise. Amalric the curate threw his hands up in horror. Simon the sexton flapped his arms like a spring sparrow caught in a net.
    â€˜You cannot.’ Sir William half-rose but then sat down as Sir Miles gently pressed the back of his hand.
    â€˜I have eaten and I have prayed,’ Anselm replied. ‘God will give me the strength.’ He leaned down, snatched up the leather satchel resting against the leg of the table and thrust it into Stephen’s hand.
    Sir William made to object again but Beauchamp rose languidly to his feet. ‘The priest desires to go. If our exorcist wishes to run one more tilt in this demonic tournament so be it, I shall join him.’
    Anselm half-raised his hand, as if to protest.
    â€˜I shall go,’ Beauchamp declared, ‘or no one goes.’
    They left the solar, going across the spacious entrance hall with its monumental fireplace surmounted by a giant hood, its pure stone studded with diamonds to defend against poison and magical incantation as well as gleaming topaz, a sure protection against sudden death. Just in case neither of these worked, above the fireplace hung the Cross of San Damiano, much beloved by Saint Francis, while triptychs on either side displayed in brilliant colours dramatic scenes from the life of St Christopher. The rest of the walls were hidden by painted cloths brought to life by the darting light of candle and taper; the windows were glazed while Persian carpets and woven mats covered the paved floor. A servant standing by the main door handed them their cloaks. Outside the April night had turned dark and cold. One of Higden’s retainers, a large, thick-set man holding a torch, led them across the rich gardens Stephen had glimpsed earlier, out through a small postern door and across to the huge, brooding lychgate of St Michael’s. They entered the broad, rambling cemetery. In daylight hours it stretched quiet and still, a mass of wooden crosses and weather-beaten stones, a wild garden with shady yew trees planted to fend off wandering cattle. Here and there clumps of