by Paul Doherty
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am supposed to be a priest, a man committed to do good works.’
Simon leaned across and gently grasped the man’s scrawny hand. ‘You are not a bad man.’
Flyhead glanced away.
‘Simon, I am supposed to be a good one. I am what I want to be. I refuse to be what God wants me to be, that’s the difference between a sinner and a saint.’
Simon studied this scrawny, hard-bitten hangman.
‘Yes.’ Flyhead smiled, catching his glance. ‘That business in the Forest of Dean has made me think. You defended me, Simon. You challenged that bastard Shadbolt! So, I’ve a duty to discharge before I die!’
‘Don’t talk so despondently,’ Simon replied. ‘There must be a way out of this. I say we go down to the Silver Tabard tavern, take mine host by the throat and choke him until he tells the truth.’
Flyhead sighed noisily, blowing his cheeks out. He snapped his fingers and ordered the pot boy to refill their tankards.
‘I am a dead man,’ he repeated. ‘And it’s only right.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘As for those three, Simon, they are steeped in sin. Shadbolt’s a soldier, a mercenary. He was an écorcheur in France.’
Simon lowered his tankard. Even in Berkeley he had heard of such savage outlaws. Men who had burned, sacked, pillaged and raped; who took French prisoners and stripped them of their skins, torturing them cruelly until they gave up their hidden wealth.
‘And the other two?’ He asked.
‘Merry Face is no better. A man steeped in sin. Friar Martin’s a drunken buffoon. They make a good hanging crew. Talk of the blind leading the blind. In their case, it’s more that those who should be hanged, are hanging others.’ He sighed. ‘How long do you think we can go on, Simon? If the Ratoliers don’t kill us, one day the city council will find out about our deceitful stratagems and bring us to book. We are not so clever.’ Flyhead sipped from his tankard. ‘You ask the taverner here. It almost seems God’s law that hangmen die violent deaths.’
‘But you are changing?’ Simon tried to hide the panic rising within him.
‘Oh, for the love of God, Simon! I’m a former priest! Look at me, I drink, I wench. However, let me come to the point.’ Flyhead put his tankard down and leaned across the table. ‘You are different, Simon. You are a carpenter, a good man. You don’t have the mark of Cain upon you. I feel responsible for you. I mean, if I am going to die, it’s time I put my affairs in order, prepared my soul.’ He forced a smile and raised a hand against Simon’s objections. ‘Don’t lie,’ he pleaded. ‘I know what I am but you are different. So . . .’ Flyhead sipped from his tankard and surveyed the taproom; the taverner was over by the beer barrels flirting with one of the scullion maids. ‘Listen carefully,’ he continued. ‘You are an innocent, Simon, and, if I can do some good before my life is finished, no, don’t interrupt, then I will. We are faced by a great evil: like mischievous children playing a game, we don’t realise what dark corner of the garden we have entered. There is no doubt that the Ratoliers are members of a coven, there must be at least nine others in Gloucester. Men and women of no principles committed to the Evil One. The Ratoliers have survived death through some stratagem of darkness and now they are bent on evil. They want vengeance!’
‘Why?’ Simon interrupted. ‘Why don’t they stay quiet, secretive, hidden in the shadows?’
‘I don’t know,’ Flyhead replied. ‘But they have a vengeance against us hangmen. Even righteous men still accept an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, life for life. Why should the Ratoliers be different? They were humiliated, scorned, punished. We should have burned their corpses and that was my mistake. Fire, both in this world and the next, cleanses and purifies.’ Flyhead wiped away the spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘We are all for the dark, Simon. But at least I can save you. Now listen. No, no.’ He waved a hand. ‘I am deep in this sorry state but, at least, I’ll show you a way out. Go to the Abbey of St Peter. In the cemetery stands an anchor house. The hermit there was once a member of the same Order as myself, a frail, venerable but very holy man. His name is Edward Grace. Once he was an exorcist in the diocese of Gloucester, now he has given his life over to prayer and sacrifice. There’s not much about human evil he doesn’t know.’
‘How can he help us?’
‘Let him hear your confession. Tell him everything you know and act upon his advice.’
‘And what will that be?’ Simon asked.
‘I don’t know but he will impose some sort of penance and demand that you do justice though, in your case, there’s little guilt.’ Flyhead cradled his tankard, rocking gently backwards and forwards on the stool. He glanced sideways at the window. ‘God knows what wickedness will happen tonight but you should protect yourself. So listen now.’ He unclasped the purse from his belt and shook the contents out on the table.
Simon smiled wryly. There were coins, dice, a few pieces of bone. Flyhead sifted these through his fingers.
‘When I am short of a penny or two,’ he said wryly, ‘I sell them as relics. But this.’
He picked up a small golden locket with a sparkling sapphire in the centre and a gold chain which ran through the loop on the top. Flyhead handed this to Simon.
‘Put it round your neck.’ he ordered. ‘No, go on! Do so!’
‘What is it?’ Simon asked.
‘It’s a relic of great value. No, it’s none of my trickery: it’s a relic of St Dunstan. A great monk, a very holy man who lived one hundred years before the Conqueror came to England. A scourge of demons and those who served them. Wear it constantly, Simon, never take it off. Keep yourself in God’s grace and act on the advice of the hermit.’ Flyhead’s fingers went to his lips. ‘And when this is all over,’ he added, ‘and one day it will be,’ he raised tear-filled eyes, ‘pray for me, Simon. Pray that, in my journey, in my long pilgrimage after death, I reach a place of light and peace.’
Simon stared in astonishment. Flyhead had changed, no longer the whining hangman.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ his companion said quietly. ‘I’m two people, Simon. I looked at Deershound’s corpse and all the evil I’ve ever done slipped like a heavy bundle from my back.’ He tapped the table. ‘I watched you in the forest: you were brave, you’re not one of us and I want to do one good deed . . .’
A dog howled in the alleyway beyond.
‘The darkness gathers,’ Flyhead concluded. ‘It’s all I can do!’
Chapter 8
John Shipler, furrier, alderman and member of the city council of Gloucester, made his way through the gloomy alleyways. Against the starlit sky he could see the dark mass of St Peter’s, its great tower pointing up like a finger. He paused and hitched his costly robe around bony shoulders. Such sights brought back memories of when he was a boy attending the abbey school: his father used to tell him that the tower was actually praying to God. The furrier fought the wave of nostalgia. Those were halycon days when John Shipler was adept at his horn book and applied himself so well, he could translate a Latin verse and fill his father’s heart with pride at the way he wrote courtly French.
The years had passed. The furrier, by his sharp mind and keen wits, had become a man to fear and a merchant to be envied. He had drunk well from the pitcher of life, becoming the owner of a great, heavy timbered house, its chambers full of costly hangings and precious cups. A wife, sons and daughters, status in the guild and a seat at the table of power were his. Yet this was not enough. He had other secret pleasures. He sighed and looked down the alleyway. A lantern horn, on a house at the far end, bathed the mouth of the runnel in a pool of light; a cat stepped into it, something dangling from its jaws. It seemed to look directly at the furrier before sliding away. He shivered. An old priest had told him that Death was like a cat, lurking in the shadows from where he could spring. Uncomfortably he recalled that business with the witches, the way they had looked at him in that council chamber.
Shipler leaned again
st the wall feeling the hilt of his dagger, reassured by the silver and gold hilt. He breathed in and grimaced in distaste at the foul odours from the midden-heaps along the alleyway wall. He shouldn’t be here. Then he recalled Lucia’s soft, brown neck, the generous swell of her breasts, her waist slim, her skin as soft as shot silk, those black ringlets which came tumbling down to her shoulders. The silver chain around her neck which winked and glittered when she had taken off her gown and stepped into the candlelight of the chamber John Shipler had bought for her off Grays Loan Lane.
The furrier turned, pulled the cowl over his head and walked quickly down the alleyway. A party of watchmen came round the corner so Shipler slipped into the doorway of a tavern. Few people looked up; once Shipler was sure the watch had passed, he returned to the darkness. He wasn’t afraid, he just thought it was inappropriate for a man such as himself to be caught slipping through the darkness in the dead of night.
He reached Grays Loan Lane, passed the apothecaries and tapped on the metal-studded door. No sound. He tapped again and pushed it open, cursing quietly.
‘I must tell her to be more careful,’ he muttered to himself.
He looked down the gloomy passageway, empty, deserted. The mercer who used the lower part of the shop had long gone. Shipler climbed the stairs, a sliver of light from the half-opened door beckoning him on. He went inside. Lucia’s quarters really consisted of two chambers, the first a small parlour tastefully decorated, the white plaster walls hung with coloured cloths, good oaken furniture, chests, coffers, tables, chairs and stools. Beyond that lay his place of delight: the bedroom with its turkey cloth hangings, woollen rugs, tables, chairs and, above all, the great four-poster bed with its silk canopy and crisp linen sheets.
‘Lucia!’ he called.
No answer.
‘Lucia!’
Shipler bit his tongue in annoyance. Sometimes the minx liked to play games. He pushed open the bedchamber door. At first he thought it was a shadow dancing in the faint candlelight. The furrier looked again.
‘Oh sweet Lord!’ he whispered.
He closed the door behind him. Lucia, her body clothed in a linen shift, swung from a rope tied to one of the poles above the bed. Shipler wiped his sweat-soaked palms on his robe.
‘What can I do?’ he said fearfully.
If he called for the watch how could he, an alderman, a member of the city council, explain what he was doing here? As he tiptoed across, his hands out before him, his fingers brushed the bare leg of the hanged woman, and it was icy cold. Shipler peered into the darkness. He glimpsed the contorted, twisted face of his former paramour. No beauty now, the eyes were staring, the swollen tongue thrust between the teeth. The curtains round the bed had been closed; a stool lay on its side.
Was it suicide, he wondered? Had she taken some rope, lashed it across the pole, stood on the stool and kicked it away? But why? Lucia bubbled with life. Shipler considered her a noddlepate, a butterfly who only thought about today. His hand went out to pull back the bed curtain. He thought again and let his hand drop. He couldn’t understand it. The room showed no sign of violence. But why were the curtains closed? He looked at the window on the far wall, which was closed and shuttered, but then he recalled the open door. Shipler looked at the grisly corpse, his mind teeming, wits turning. For Lucia he felt sorry but there were more pressing problems. If he stayed here questions would be asked. Perhaps even the finger of accusation would be pointed at him? And yet, if he fled? Shipler was about to turn away when he saw the bed curtains ripple. Was it a draught? Then he heard it, a low humming sound, like a woman bent over a spinning wheel, chanting softly to herself. He pulled at the latch but the door wouldn’t open.
‘Why, Master Shipler?’
The furrier’s hand came away. He dared not turn round. This was not happening! He was in some terrible dream. He would wake up beside his fat, comely wife and, once again, make resolutions to repent.
‘Why, Master Shipler? Are you in such a hurry to leave?’
He turned slowly. The bed curtain was now pulled back and, sitting on the edge of the mattress, was Agnes Ratolier, her face white and liverish, black circles under her eyes, her smile full of malice.
‘It can’t be!’ Shipler exclaimed. ‘This cannot be happening!’
He opened his mouth to scream but the sound wouldn’t come out. He turned, scrabbled at the latch but it wouldn’t move. Now he couldn’t care if others heard him. He must get away from this nightmare. So engrossed was he in his own terrors, Shipler began to cry like a baby and hardly noticed the noose being slipped over his head.
The news of the terrible deaths of Shipler and his paramour swept the city, stirring up a delicious sense of horror and scandal. The gossips believed it was suicide, those who knew a little more proclaimed it was murder. Whatever the truth, the two corpses hanging together side by side seemed to represent a judgement of God against a man who had used his power and wealth to offend heaven as well as shock the sensibilities of his fellow citizens. The scandalmongers did a roaring trade, moving from tavern to tavern claiming they had privy knowledge of the truth. They were bought many a free drink and slipped a number of coins to impart what they knew.
Simon heard of it as he broke his fast in the Hangman’s Rest. The others were not present. The carpenter had risen early, determined to act on the good brother’s advice and visit the anchorite at St Peter’s as soon as possible. Mine host told him the news, loudly declaiming against the pleasures of the flesh and how a man should stay with his family and obey God’s law. Simon half heard him out, his mind going back to that darkened council chamber, the torches and lights, the dancing shadows, the aldermen and those three malevolent witches.
Simon had risen, determined, eager to see this matter through but he couldn’t hide the shiver of fear which turned his skin clammy and his belly against further food. He pushed his trencher away and fingered the relic Flyhead had given him. Perhaps it was just a coincidence! Perhaps the alderman, fearful of his secret sins being exposed, had killed his paramour before turning his hand against himself? No, Simon was convinced that Shipler’s death was somehow connected with the Ratoliers and their malevolent powers.
He drained his tankard and went out into the rain-soaked streets. He pulled his hood up, for the wind was strong and still smelt of rain. Hurrying down the lanes and runnels, he did not wish to meet his companions or anyone else he knew. Were they still in Gloucester? he wondered. Or had they fled? Would they be needed by the Guildhall? Did other prisoners await execution?
Simon crossed Westgate, went up Abbey Lane, through St Mary’s and into the grounds of the Abbey, at the far end of which lay the derelict cemetery. The anchor house itself was built of grey ragstone brick, the square window covered by a piece of leather; the metal studded door was off its latch. Somehow Simon had expected something different, more stark and dramatic. He was even more surprised at the small, white-haired, cheery-faced man who answered his impetuous knock.
‘I am looking for Edward Grace,’ Simon blurted out.
‘You’ve found him.’ The sea-grey eyes twinkled in amusement. Grace was old with silver-grey hair and a wrinkled face but his eyes danced with life. A small cat nestled in the crook of his arm.
‘This is Satan.’
Simon looked at the kitten, black as night. Grace held him up. The little cat mewed in a display of small, white teeth and pink tongue.
‘I found him among the gravestones.’ The anchorite put him down on the ground. ‘Well, come in, Simon.’
‘You know my name?’
‘Of course I do. Call me Brother Edward.’
The anchorite gestured at Simon to sit on a small stool on the other side of the fire, a small bed of charcoal in the centre of the room. He put sticks on top of this and peered up at the hole in the thatched roof above him.
‘Now, according to what I have been told, the smoke should always go through that, but sometimes it doesn’t and I have to open the door again. Wel
l, what can I do for you?’
Simon took in his surroundings. The cell was no more than a stone box containing a bed, a table, a rickety chair near the window, a shelf with some pots and pans, a large crucifix and some chests, battered and broken, probably given to the anchorite by the Abbey.
‘It’s not much.’ The anchorite smiled as he sat opposite, stretching out a hand to the fire. ‘But it’s been my home for a good two dozen years. It’s comfortable enough, however, Simon.’
‘You know my name?’
‘That’s the second time you’ve said that.’ Again the anchorite smiled. ‘Flyhead sent me a message. I have been expecting you.’
‘Do you know what it’s about?’ Simon asked.
‘Flyhead and I,’ the anchorite watched the flames curl round the twigs, making them crackle, ‘well, once upon a time we were brothers in the same order. True rapscallions! We took our vows lightly as we did the service of the poor and the worship of God.’
‘And what happened?’ Simon asked.
‘One night I had a vision. I dreamed I was in a room, something like this. It was bare and cold, no food, no comforts, not even a chair to sit on or a bed to lie on.’ The anchorite closed his eyes. ‘“What place is this?” I asked. “Ah,” a voice replied. “Your house for eternity.” I can remember that dream is if it occurred last night.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Brother Simon, I can’t describe the dread I felt. I’ve always thought of hell as a place of roaring flames, demons with grotesque heads and deformed bodies, but the cell I was shown was much more frightening: grey, cold, no doors or windows, nothing at all.’
‘Just a nightmare?’ Simon offered.
The anchorite shook his head. ‘That’s what I thought when I woke up. I’d been out drinking in the city and quietly cursed my toping habits – perhaps a piece of badly cooked veal or ale which had turned sour.’ He picked up some more twigs and threw them on the fire. ‘The following night I had the same dream and the night after. I was a little frightened. However, my fear turned to real terror one evening, just after dark, when I was slipping back, as usual, to my monastery. Brother Luke, or Flyhead as you know him, should have been with me but he was busy elsewhere. I was going down an alleyway. In front of me a dwarf was pushing a barrow piled high with grey rocks. I stopped him, being full of ale, I was a merry soul.’ The anchorite paused. ‘“Why sir?” I asked. “Where are you taking those rocks?” You are not going to believe this.’ The anchorite held Simon’s gaze. ‘But that dwarf had the most foulsome face, twisted and leering. “Why Brother Edward,” he replied. “I’ve been watching you. The rocks in this barrow represent the sins you commit: your drunkenness, your lechery. I am taking them to hell to fortify that room of yours!”’ The anchorite put his face in his hands.