The Whispering Swarm by Michael Moorcock

Turpin story Tom Browne himself might have illustrated, rode a dramatically pretty young woman. Kitted in some sort of eccentric hunting outfit, with shining black thigh-high boots, doeskin breeches, a cutaway velvet midnight-blue coat, frothing lace at throat and wrists, she wore a befeathered tricorne on her long, red-gold curls. Pure Howard Pyle stuff. Even though she probably was dressed to rehearse for a coming pantomime, with herself as the ‘principal boy’, I fell instantly in love with the woman’s huge violet eyes and full, red lips. Almost riding us down, she struck one bold, appraising look back at me before cantering into the innyard yelling, I’d swear, for an ostler. An ostler ? Was there a film crew in the upper galleries? Her horse was a beautiful chestnut stallion, furnished in oiled leather and silvered steel, his flanks flecked with sweat. Those brass-wrapped holsters on her saddle were big enough for monstrous horse pistols the size of carbines. I laughed, guessing they were making a movie about rural Ireland, and watched her long legs as she swung off her horse. My heart beat rapidly. I recognised her.
    She’d appeared often in a recurring dream I’d experienced several years earlier. Probably puberty had something to do with it! Then I’d seen her as my sister. Now the feelings she sparked were not brotherly. I wanted to follow her, find out her name. Of course I couldn’t possibly leave Friar Isidore, but the urge to do so was strong. I might never have the luck to dream of her again!
    Then the tavern was behind us. We turned left. With the fog still thickening, we reached a large stone building at the end of a cul-de-sac. We had reached a narrow Gothic archway and a door whose battered ancient oak and iron were older even than the first. Could that sight or the fog be causing the pressure in my chest? I drew as deep a breath as possible, observing a massive brass crucifix nailed to the door. No, not a crucifix, but more like the looped Egyptian cross. Beneath it, carved on a piece of wood, was a mysterious Greek inscription, Panta Rhei . Below this an iron grille was set into the door. Friar Isidore lifted the old black knocker and rapped out what was evidently a prearranged sequence. A dark brown eye gleamed on the other side of the grille, blinked as if in surprise, then disappeared.
    A moment later I heard the scrape and squeal of bolts and bars and then, feeling sudden alarm for no obvious reason, I was admitted to the ancient London abbey of that Most Pious Order of Old Flete Carmelite Friars.
    Friar Isidore drew a deep breath, as if in relief, and put his arm around my shoulders.

 
    3
    THE FISH CHALICE
    The door led not into a building but into stone cloisters running around a small courtyard, much of which had been put to lawn. Surrounding this were twelve squat yew trees whose massive trunks must have grown there for a thousand years. Lit at intervals by lanterns, the cloisters encircled the whole courtyard and were entered on the far side through another door, almost the twin of the one we’d used. The priory building enclosing the courtyard was partly of stone, partly of warm-red brick, its black oak beams standing out strongly through the fog, while the stone and mortar, on the other hand, disappeared into it. I loved this effect, especially when concrete was the grey material made to vanish. The smell of the yews and the fog mingled. A familiar stew: London! Town and country were always best when organically entwined.
    We took the mossy path leading directly across the lawn to the other door. I heard a robin ticking at us from the ivy as if we threatened her territory. A plump, cheerful, tonsured monk appeared in the doorway, looked up, recognised Friar Isidore and smiled, did not recognise me, and frowned. He introduced himself as Brother Constantine and fussed with a large key attached to the loose belt tied around his waist. Then, before anyone