Read Online The Midnight Man by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online

‘R’ a chalice, in the lower half a milk-white host above the Holy Grail. Stephen was about to read on when he heard a girl’s voice whisper, ‘Eleanora.’ He glanced at Anselm, who’d risen to his feet and was staring at the long mortuary table. The room had grown very cold; a faint perfume tickled their sense of smell. After a few heartbeats the sound of a lute could be heard, then the music faded but the rushes beneath the table shifted and a small puff of dust rose.
    â€˜Someone is dancing!’ Stephen exclaimed. ‘Someone is dancing!’
    The rushes ceased moving. No more dust whirled. A harsh sound echoed through the death house like a cry suddenly stifled.
    â€˜Is there anything wrong?’ Gascelyn stood, blocking the doorway. He came in. ‘You heard it, didn’t you?’
    Stephen glimpsed the desperate, haunted look in the man’s harsh face. Gascelyn stood hands on hips, staring down where the rushes had moved. He kicked these with the toe of his boot. ‘Perhaps,’ he confessed, ‘I don’t sleep too well. I’ve seen it, I’ve heard things. I wish Sir William would release me from this.’ He lifted his head. ‘Well, is there anything else, Brother Anselm?’
    The exorcist simply sketched a blessing in the air, then he and Stephen left.
    â€˜Magister, shouldn’t we ask what causes that?’
    Anselm stopped and stared at him. The exorcist’s long, bony face was pale, the sharp, deep-set eyes like those of a falcon, lips tightly drawn, square chin set stubbornly. Stephen recognized that look. Anselm was troubled – deeply troubled – because he was confused. The exorcist had confessed as much as soon as they’d risen that morning, and apparently his mood had not changed. Anselm ran a finger down the stubble on his chin then scratched his head. He opened his mouth to speak but then shrugged and walked into the shade of a yew tree, beckoning at Stephen to follow.
    â€˜Night-time, Stephen,’ Anselm leaned down like a magister in the schools, ‘night-time,’ he repeated, ‘is the devil’s dark book, or so authorities like Caesarius the Cistercian would have us believe. He described Satan as a tall, lank man of sooty and livid complexion, very emaciated, with protuberant fiery eyes, breathing ghastly horrors from his gloomy person. In another place Caesarius describes Satan as a blackened, disfigured angel with great bat-like wings, a bony, hairy body, with horns on his head, a hooked nose and long pointed ears, his hands and feet armed like eagle’s talons.’
    â€˜And you, Magister?’
    â€˜I regard that as pure nonsense – foolishness! Satan is a powerful angel. He is pure intelligence and will. He pulsates with hate against God and man. He does not creep under the cover of darkness or feast on fire. He is arrogant. Dawn or dusk makes no difference to him. Filthy dungeon or opulent palace does not exist for him, only his enemy.’
    â€˜God, Magister?’
    â€˜No, Stephen. Us, the children of God. Satan never accepted God’s creation and rose in rebellion, which lasts from everlasting to everlasting. Satan, Stephen, is no respecter of person or place. He waxes fat in the sombre shadows of vaulted cathedrals, behind the stout pillars and recesses of its choirs. He draws power in the silent cloisters from the secret thoughts and feelings of the good brothers. You’ll find Satan on the ramparts of castles, breathing pride into the lords of war. He can also be found in the lonely corpse where the sorcerer hums his deadly vespers and casts his foul spells. He lurks in the furrow and fans the hatred of peasants who plough the earth for those who own it. He also lurks here, Stephen, feasting on some filthy nastiness. What that is remains a mystery which must be resolved. In the end we must make him fast and drive him out. So, let us collect our satchel and panniers