by Paul Doherty
‘Keep a civil tongue in your head!’ Shadbolt shouted back.
The woman made a rude gesture with her thumb then turned and whispered in the old one’s ear.
Simon’s unease grew. He wished he wasn’t here. The chamber was dark and it was growing colder. When he breathed in he caught the stench of the charnel house, of decay and putrefaction. Something very evil, a dark malevolent presence, was in this chamber and he wanted to have none of it. Yet what could he do? He realised what must be happening. The three women before him had been accused of some dreadful wrong which the mayor and his colleagues could not reveal. A court had been convened; the horrid crimes, whatever they were, would be tried in secret and punishment would be carried out. He looked across to where Friar Martin sat on a bench at the far end of the room. The friar had drunk deeply. Usually he became sleepy, but now he sat, feet apart, his gaze going to the Dominicans then back around the council chamber.
‘You have asked for evidence.’ The mayor broke the silence. ‘Master Shadbolt, you have just joined us. Our good friends the Dominicans who, I believe, are staying at the Austin Friars, have already given their verdict.’ He tapped the table with his fingers. ‘Go into the antechamber.’ He nodded his head behind him. ‘The sergeant-at-arms will show you.’
Simon glanced quickly at the witches; their arrogance had disappeared, they looked expectantly at each other. The old crone shuffled her feet and muttered under her breath.
Simon followed Shadbolt and the others through the door held open by the sergeant-at-arms. His sense of dread increased. The antechamber was lit by two cresset torches. The window at the far end had been shuttered. The air was rank with the putrid smell from the caskets, three in number, which lay across the trestles. The sergeant-at-arms removed the lids. Simon felt his heart beat more quickly. He heard the groans and gasps of disgust from his companions. He saw then looked away. He could not believe his eyes. Three corpses, all presumably of young women, now much decayed but it wasn’t that which turned his stomach and terrified his soul. More, the black thread which had been sewn to tightly seal their eyes and mouths.
Chapter 5
The trial was a simple recording of judgement. The witches, Agnes Ratolier and her two daughters, Eleanor and Isabella, were found guilty of the charges of sorcery. When the mayor asked if they had anything to say in their defence, old Agnes just hawked and spat vile phlegm.
‘You have been found guilty,’ the mayor told them, ‘of murder, treason and terrible conspiracy. Your crimes are too fearful to describe. They are an abomination both to God and man. So, by the powers invested in this secret court, you are to be condemned. You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead!’ He joined his hands together. ‘My verdict is that of the King and Holy Mother Church.’ He nodded at the two Dominicans. ‘Sentence will be carried out immediately. Sergeant-at-arms, take them down!’
The witches were hustled out. The younger one was smiling, the other was crooning softly to herself, while their mother looked serene. Her gaze took in the court as if memorising every detail.
Once the council chamber was cleared, the mayor rapped the table.
‘Sentence must be carried out immediately!’
‘I would advise against that.’ One of the Dominicans spoke up. ‘My lord mayor, our task is finished. As you know, we have examined the witches. They are as guilty as Judas. Nevertheless, they should be offered the consolations of the Church and the opportunity to recant.’
‘Shouldn’t they be burned?’ Draycott asked.
His question was greeted by a murmur of assent. ‘Shouldn’t their bodies be consumed by flames?’ he insisted. ‘As their souls will burn in those of hell?’
‘I disagree.’ Friar Martin spoke up. ‘I am confessor to the condemned but I am also official chaplain of this council. These matters should be kept secret. No fire, no hangings at King’s Cross. Let them perish at the scene of their wicked crimes, in the darkness of the Forest of Dean.’ He shrugged. ‘It is the only way both justice and secrecy can be served.’
Friar Martin spoke sharply and fervently; the Dominicans nodded.
‘It is fitting,’ one of them said.
‘Can we do that?’ Shipler whined.
‘The law recommends it.’ Shadbolt spoke up, eager to support Friar Martin.
‘I have asked,’ the mayor intervened quickly, ‘in a petition to the council in London that this process be kept secret so the common weal is not disturbed and public order is maintained. To put it bluntly,’ he added wearily, ‘if the witches were burned, it might attract attention. Even in the depths of the Forest of Dean such a fire might draw the curious. I agree with Friar Martin. Tomorrow night after dark, let them be taken back to the place where they carried out their abominations and be hanged. Master Shadbolt, you and your companions will be responsible for carrying out lawful sentence and ensuring they die according to the full rigours of the law.’ He drank from his goblet. ‘You will remain in the Guildhall till you leave then stay at the scene of execution for three days.’ He paused. ‘Three days they’ll hang, then spike their hearts and bury them deep.’ He looked at Shadbolt. ‘You, your companions and Friar Martin will receive special payment as well as permission to draw from the council’s stores for whatever you need.’ He raised his hand. ‘Before we leave each man will take an oath, swearing himself to secrecy on pain of forfeiture of life and limb in this life and his soul in the next!’
Simon shivered. The Dominicans, the mayor, the two members of the council were pale and cowed. Matters were not helped by the dancing light from the candles and torches. He was afraid; a cloying evil had swept into this chamber and still lurked in the shadowy corners or up along the darkened rafters. His companions felt the same. Flyhead’s face jerked and moved. Merry Face had his hands clenched before him as if deep in prayer. Even Shadbolt, who always boasted to be frightened of no one, surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his cheeks. Friar Martin was busy running his Ave beads through his fingers, eyes half-closed, lips moving in silent prayer.
The proceedings ended. One of the aldermen acted as clerk as each one stepped up to take the oath. Afterwards, the sergeant-at-arms showed them up to chambers where straw mattresses had been laid, together with blankets, baskets of bread, dried meat and flagons of ale and wine.
‘You will stay here,’ he ordered them, his fingers drumming on the pommel of his sword. ‘By all that is holy, I’ve never seen such filth!’
‘Why the three days?’ Simon asked. ‘Why not hang them and be done with it?’
‘It’s the custom,’ Friar Martin replied, ‘for witches to know the full rigours of the law, a safeguard against any devilish tricks.’
The sergeant-at-arms wagged a finger. ‘I hope you lads make those witches hang. Let them know what it is to die. They showed no compassion. Let them receive none.’ He grasped the latch of the door. ‘Four burly executioners and a stout friar will be more than enough for three witches shackled in chains.’
‘How will we know where to take them?’ Merry Face asked.
‘There’s a verderer, calls himself Deershound. He was there at the capture. I will lead you to him.’
The sergeant-at-arms left. Shadbolt immediately took a tinder and lit every candle. He filled five goblets and shared them out; his face was still pale and sweat-soaked. He lifted his own cup in a silent toast.
‘You heard what the sergeant-at-arms said,’ he said. ‘There will be no mercy for these. Hang they must and hang they will!’
They soon drained their cups and refilled them. Merry Face lit a fire in the small hearth. Food was shared out and, as the first streaks of dawn appeared through the window, they relaxed. The horrors they had witnessed receded a little to be replaced by an anger, a determination that these dreadful women suffer the full punishment awaiting them.
They spent the rest of the morning sleeping and dozing. The gallery on which their chambers stood was closely guarded by men-at-arms and archers. They were only allo
wed to leave to use the privy in a small recess at the far end of the gallery. Water bowls and jugs were brought up for their ablutions. Late in the afternoon the sergeant-at-arms returned.
‘They want to see you,’ he reported.
Shadbolt, sitting on his mattress with his back to the wall, shook his head.
‘I’ve got a good view of them. I don’t need to see them again.’
‘They want to see the friar,’ the sergeant-at-arms persisted.
Friar Martin reluctantly got to his feet.
‘I’m not going down by myself. Cotterill.’ He winked. ‘You want to be one of us. You haven’t visited the cells. Now’s your chance!’
Simon reluctantly agreed; he and the friar followed the sergeant-at-arms along the gallery and down to the cavernous cellar of the Guildhall. The passageway was narrow, dank and gloomy, lit by the occasional cresset torch. Dungeons and cells were ranged on either side. The turnkey took them to a door at the far end.
‘The bitches are in there,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what’s going on.’ He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
‘Mind your own business!’ the sergeant-at-arms snapped. ‘And, remember, you never go in there. They’ll have one meal before they leave and I’ll see to that.’
The turnkey shrugged, turned the key and swung the door open.
The cell was cavernous and surprisingly clean. No rushes lay on the floor; the furniture consisted of just one rickety table and a stool. A tallow candle glowed in a niche. The three witches lay sprawled against the wall beneath a small barred window. As the sergeant-at-arms slammed the door behind him, all three moved in a clink of chains. Simon wrinkled his nose at the sour smell.
‘What’s the matter, young one?’ Agnes Ratolier mocked. ‘It’s not a lady’s parlour.’ She leaned forward. ‘It’s good to see you, Friar.’
‘What is it you want?’
Ratolier’s eyes shifted. ‘Tell the sergeant-at-arms to stand away from the door.’
Simon looked over his shoulder. On the far side of the door the sergeant-at-arms closed the grille.
‘It’s only right!’ Agnes shouted. ‘No one should hear our confession!’
‘Is it confession you want?’ Friar Martin asked, crouching down before them. ‘Do you wish to confess and be shriven?’
‘In that case I should leave,’ Simon offered.
Agnes beckoned him closer, indicating he kneel next to the friar. Simon obeyed. The old woman exuded an imperious authority, as her small, black eyes held his. Simon didn’t know whether he was frightened of them or of being accused of cowardice by the rest.
Up close the three witches looked even more daunting and formidable. Isabella and Eleanor had cleaned their faces, although their hair was tangled and hung like rat-tails down to their shoulders. They were comely enough, with regular features and large eyes, slightly slanted. They reminded Simon of two cats. Agnes didn’t look so ancient now: her face was not so lined and seamed but smoother, the nose not so hooked, the lips more full. Simon blinked. Were they practising their black arts? Friar Martin, too, seemed in a trance.
‘What do you want?’ Simon stammered. ‘If it’s confession . . .’
‘Shut up!’ Agnes Ratolier hissed. ‘We can offer you gold, more than you’ve ever seen!’
‘For what?’ Friar Martin asked.
‘You know well.’ Agnes gazed slyly at the priest. ‘No Teeth came and sought me out. I know everything that happens in Gloucester!’
‘What do you mean?’ Simon asked.
‘What do I mean, young one?’ She sniggered. ‘I mean the hangmen of Gloucester run a pretty game: some they hang and some they don’t! Why can’t we come to an understanding now? Use those pretty collars as you have on others? Come on, boy.’ Agnes Ratolier’s voice became more cloying. She gestured to her two daughters who crouched on either side. ‘And, when we are freed, you can come and visit us. What a night that would be, eh? All three in a bed.’ She looked him up and down. ‘And, if it’s your fancy, why not four?’
Simon’s mouth went dry. He wished he hadn’t come to confront these three women crouching and staring at him.
‘More gold.’ One of the daughters spoke up.
‘More silver,’ the other echoed. ‘And pleasures neither of you have ever experienced.’
Friar Martin abruptly got to his feet.
‘What are you talking about?’ He crossed himself and grabbed Simon by the shoulder. ‘Bitches from hell!’ he spat out. ‘I’ve got nothing to offer you in life, and nothing in death. I’ve seen the devil’s work, those poor wenches!’ He took a step forward.
The three women glanced up at him.
‘You are going to hang!’ he hissed. ‘And I am going to enjoy it! I am going to stand in the forest glade and watch you dance! Nothing in the world, not all the gold and silver in the King’s treasury, can save you!’
He walked to the door and hammered on it.
‘Master Cotterill!’ Agnes Ratolier’s voice was now a whine.
‘Come on, Simon!’ Friar Martin shouted, hammering on the door.
‘Please!’ the old woman begged him.
Simon looked down to notice that Agnes’ face was now aged, her jaw slack. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
‘What is it?’ he asked sharply.
‘We are all finished.’ She shook her head, her whole body quivering in a rattle of chains. ‘One favour please!’
‘It depends!’ Simon felt a pang of compassion for these three women doomed to a horrible death.
‘Before you leave Gloucester, get a scribe to write a letter . . . !’
Simon made to object.
‘No, no, nothing much!’ She shook a vein-streaked hand. ‘I have a kinsman here! Address it to the kinsman,’ she pointed a finger, ‘of Agnes Ratolier at the Silver Tabard tavern near Blindgate. Say, “Agnes has said farewell, all is lost. I beg pardon and will he pray for me?” Give it to the taverner before we leave. He will pay you well.’
‘Is that all?’ Simon asked.
‘That’s all.’ She smiled in a row of cracked teeth.
‘Simon!’
He looked over his shoulder to where the sergeant-at-arms and the friar stood in the doorway.
‘There is nothing I can do for them,’ Friar Martin declared loudly.
Simon followed him out.
‘And there’s nothing we can do for you, Friar!’ The shout was mocking, echoing along the narrow, gloomy passageway.
‘If I ever meet No Teeth again,’ Friar Martin whispered, ‘it will be a case of no ears and no nose as well!’
Once back in their chamber, Friar Martin told the rest what had happened. Shadbolt agreed.
‘We can do nothing for them,’ he said.
Simon told him what the Ratoliers had asked of him. Shadbolt sniffed, tapping his feet on the floor.
‘I don’t suppose it can do any mischief,’ Friar Martin observed. ‘You can form your letters, Simon?’
‘Of course I can, I went to the parish school.’
The rest returned to their discussion about the wickedness of the three women in the dungeons below. Simon got the sergeant-at-arms to bring a piece of parchment, ink-pot, quill and some sealing wax. He wrote the message in large clumsy letters, rolled the parchment up, sealed it and tucked it into his jerkin.
Darkness fell. They had a last meal and collected their war belts. Each man was given a sword and dagger, and an arbalest or longbow which included a quiver of bolts or yard-long shafts. Boiled leather jerkins were also provided. The sergeant-at-arms came and took them down to the Guildhall yard where their large covered wagon had been prepared. Supplies of food and drink were loaded on. The witches were brought up from the cells. In the poor light they looked like three spiders shuffling across the cobbled yard and up into the cart. Shadbolt climbed into the driver’s seat and took the reins, Merry Face beside him. Friar Martin and Flyhead climbed into the back to guard the prisoners. Simon was told to walk behind.
‘We’ll pass Blindgate,’ Shadbolt said quietly to him as the sergeant-at-arms prepared to leave. ‘We’ll stop for a while there. You deliver the message and make sure you get well paid.’
A short while later the cavalcade left, the sergeant-at-arms issuing his last instructions just before the gates were opened.
‘We’ll go through St Mary’s gate, down Blindgate, past the Priory of St Oswald’s and take the route into the Forest of Dean. Just where Little Meadow begins, the verderer, Deershound, will join you. He will take you into the forest – do what you have to and then return.’
The gate swung open. The sergeant-at-arms, followed by the wagon, Simon walking behind, entered the dark, winding streets of the city. The curfew bell had long sounded. The mayor must have insisted that tonight’s curfew be strictly adhered to. The lanes and runnels were deserted except for the occasional dog or wandering cat. Simon walked at the tail of the cart from where he could hear Merry Face crooning a tune and the ominous rattle of chains. The dark mass of St Peter’s Abbey loomed up. On the corner of Oaklane Alley stood the Silver Tabard. Shadbolt reined in, explaining to the sergeant-at-arms that he had a message to deliver to the tavern-keeper.
‘It’s a personal matter,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ the sergeant-at-arms shouted back through the darkness. ‘But no more than a few minutes!’
Shadbolt looked round the cart and nodded. Simon went and hammered on the door. A greasy-haired slattern opened it.
‘I have a message,’ Simon whispered, ‘for your master.’
He heard footsteps; a tall, thin-faced man, his cheeks holed and pitted, came up behind the girl. He sent her away but kept the door on the chain.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘A message from your kinswoman, Agnes Ratolier! Are you the tavern master?’
‘I am.’ Bony fingers came out.
‘I was told I’d be paid, well paid.’
The tavern master quietly cursed. ‘Then paid you will be.’
A hand came out. Simon glimpsed the small stack of silver coins.
‘Give me the message,’ the voice said, ‘and these are yours.’