Free The Midnight Man by Paul Doherty Page B

Yet,’ he pulled a face, ‘
tempus fugit
and, cometh the hour, cometh the man.’ He abruptly pushed back the stool on which he was sitting and got to his feet. He thrust the parchments back into a leather pannier, strapped on his war belt and slung the heavy cloak about his shoulder. ‘You have eaten and rested?’
    â€˜We have eaten,’ Anselm replied sharply, ‘but not rested.’
    â€˜You must come.’ Sir Miles was no longer smiling. ‘I, or rather my master, has permission from your masters to take you to Westminster. By the time we reach there the light will be fading.’
    â€˜The abbey or the palace?’ Anselm asked.
    â€˜Why, Magister, the abbey.’
    â€˜But that has been shut, closed by interdict since the murders there.’
    â€˜To others, yes.’ Sir Miles shrugged. ‘To me and mine, no. Now, Brothers, I suggest you go cloaked and hooded. Bring what you have to.’
    Within the hour Anselm and Stephen clambered into the royal barge waiting by the narrow quayside near the friary river gate. A dozen royal archers escorted it. Four served as oarsmen either side; the rest clustered in the prow behind the jutting, gilt-edged lion head. The archers wore dark brown fustian under brilliantly coloured
surcotes
boasting the golden leopards of England and the silver
fleur de lys
of France. They looked sinister, deep cowls hiding both head and face, and they moved to the clatter of weapons and a reeking, sweaty stench. Once Sir Miles and the two Carmelites were seated in the leather-canopied stern, the order was given to cast off and, with the cries of the serjeant ringing out, they moved swiftly midstream, the oarsmen on either side bending and pulling in unison. Now and again the serjeant would blow a hunting horn, a powerful braying call warning all other craft to pull aside and recognize the royal pennant snapping prominently in its clasps on the lion-headed prow. The weather was calm; the stiff spring breeze had subsided. The barge moved serenely, cutting through the water, rising and falling now and again as it met a surge in the choppy tide.
    Sir Miles opened a small fosser lined with costly samite and brought out linen parcels of fresh bread, diced ham and shredded cheese which they could open on their laps. All three ate in silence, then Sir Miles, winking at Stephen, put the linen cloths back into the fosser and drew out a loving cup which he filled from a stoppered wineskin. He took a generous sip himself then circulated the cup. Anselm just sniffed and handed it to Stephen. Once it was drained, Sir Miles smiled across at the two friars.
    â€˜I am sure we’ll eat at Westminster, yet an empty belly can also attract demons – yes, Magister Anselm?’
    The exorcist made the sign of the cross in the air as a gesture of thanks. Sir Miles busied himself with the fosser while Stephen peered out over the river. Anselm called it a true road of ghosts; he had told him some heart-chilling tales about the dead, doomed to float there like tendrils of mist. How the drowned, the victims of murders or suicide, gather in ghastly choir to sing their own haunting plain chant. Great evil was also perpetrated by those who lived in the marshes or along the tide-washed river bank – creatures of the dark who emerged after sunset to prey on lonely craft or use false beacons to lure wherries stacked high with produce into some night-shrouded ambush.
    â€˜An interesting meeting yesterday. What did you make of our company?’
    Stephen glanced across at Beauchamp, now muffled in his cloak.
    â€˜Brother Anselm, Stephen, I know a great deal about you. What do you know about them?’
    â€˜Only what you tell us,’ Anselm retorted sharply, ‘and, by the way, we know very little about you.’
    Beauchamp laughed softly. ‘Sir William Higden,’ the royal clerk declared, ‘is much beloved by the Crown – a warrior who has seen