by Paul Doherty
Simon hid his despair and glanced at the doorway. Was this Flyhead’s help? A lonely, crazed hermit? The anchorite’s head came up quickly, his eyes no longer humorous but small, dark pools, his lips a thin, bloodless line.
‘I know what you are thinking, Master Cotterill! He’s an old fool who has visions and has lost the wit to distinguish between day-dreaming and what is real.’ He pulled a face. ‘And you have the truth of it. I’ll tell you worse. If you go and speak to the good brothers of St Peter’s they’ll tell you I have the falling sickness. So, if you want, you can quietly tell yourself you are wasting your time and leave.’
Simon sat stock-still.
‘Good,’ the anchorite murmured. ‘So, I’ll tell you what happened next. I prayed and fasted for a week for a sign that these were not phantasms of a sickly mind. In my dream I saw a figure, like a pillar of burning fire hidden behind a mist. “Look at your wrists,” a voice said, “when you wake, look at your wrists!”’
Simon noticed how the anchorite’s sleeves came down almost covering his hands. He now pulled these back, revealing wrists covered in dirty bandages which he slowly unrolled, first the right and then the left. He stretched out his wrists. Simon gasped. Identical, on each, was a wound: shiny-red, open to the air, as if the blood were about to bubble forth.
‘I changed my life,’ the anchorite continued. ‘I renewed my vows. I came and built a house here in the most forsaken part of St Peter’s cemetery. Every day I celebrate Mass in a chantry chapel. I fast, I pray, while the good brothers allow me to study their library. In my youth I was a good scholar. I knew Latin and even Norman French.’ He sighed and looked towards the door. ‘And then the visitors began to arrive, men and women in the dead of night. They bore dark secrets of how they’d dabbled in magic, conjuring, the craft of the black arts. I began to study the books and manuscripts in the library, the works of the Fathers, especially those saints who, in their lives, had to confront the powers of hell.’ He smiled. ‘And by the way, I apologise, I have no wine to offer you but some will come soon.’
Simon just shook his head, fascinated by what the anchorite was telling him.
‘I suppose I’ve helped many over the years. Above all, I’ve tried to help my friend Flyhead but he wouldn’t listen, at least not till now. He believes it’s too late but it’s never too late for the compassion of God. However, he has asked me to assist you and I will do so. He has told me something about what has happened. However, before you begin, Simon, let me tell you the power of evil is based on trickery and deception, so that things are never what they appear to be. Sin is an illusion: the pursuit of fame, of fair flesh, food and drink. We know, in our heart of hearts, it will turn to ashes in our mouths. So, Simon, begin.’
‘What do we face?’
The anchorite looked up. ‘Why, Simon. The powers of darkness.’
‘But the Ratoliers, are they dead or alive?’
‘Oh, they are alive all right.’
Simon’s jaw dropped in surprise. ‘But I saw them hang! I was there!’
‘You saw them hang,’ the anchorite insisted. ‘But did you see them die?’
‘Is that possible?’ Simon asked.
‘The witches and warlocks practise great deception. You’ve heard the stories of how they can fly at night? Or transform themselves into toads or bats, creatures of the night?’
‘Children’s stories!’
‘No, they are not. They are the product, Simon, of certain herbs, particularly the mushroom, the mandrake and other potions. I could brew you a concoction and make you drink it. You would later swear that you flew through the air high above the Abbey of St Peter’s or that you’d travelled through the darkness of the night to mysterious places.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing but dreams and illusions.’
‘But the Ratoliers were hanged! I saw them dangle for hours.’
‘And I can tell you stories, Simon, of crusaders, friars who have seen the mysteries of the East. Or men who can walk on fire, lie on sharpened daggers, be buried alive and still survive.’
Simon looked puzzled.
‘I suspect,’ the anchorite continued, ‘that the Ratoliers took some secret potion just before they were hanged, which suspended their minds, their souls. What happened to their bodies was only an illusion. Whereas ordinary men and women would have their breaths cut off, the Ratoliers were in some form of dream, a demonic trance.’
‘So, they have no powers?’
‘Oh, I didn’t say that. I merely work from a logical hypothesis. Flyhead said you saw prints in the ground, rocks and stones being thrown; the death of Deershound the verderer. I heard the brothers whispering in the Abbey this morning about the cruel death of Alderman Shipler. Once you are dead, Simon, you are dead. Yes, there are ghosts but the Ratoliers are different. They are flesh and blood. They can move, walk, run and kill. If they were ghosts I doubt they would have been frightened by Friar Martin’s prayers. They are as alive as you are. No Teeth is proof of that.’ The anchorite smiled. ‘You met him in a tavern, didn’t you?’
Simon closed his eyes. Images teemed; of the former hangman eating and drinking.
‘Ghosts don’t need bread and ale,’ the anchorite teased. ‘In fact, No Teeth is the key to the mystery. Flyhead told me about him. I suspect your former colleague was a member of the Ratolier coven. Perhaps he was frightened that he might not survive his execution so he took the same potion.’ He shrugged. ‘I suspect the grave at the Austin Friars was shallow. No more difficult than a boy clambering out of his hiding-place. You know I speak the truth, don’t you?’
Simon recalled his meeting with No Teeth, how the man’s jerkin came up close under his chin to hide his throat and the marks of a noose. He also remembered the ghastly faces of the Ratoliers and he described these to the anchorite. Brother Edward just chuckled and stirred the fire with a stick.
‘Of course they are going to look ghastly. They have hung by their necks. God knows what potions have disturbed the humours of their bodies? But,’ he wagged a warning finger, ‘they do have powers of the body and mind. They are cunning, they are sly and they can exercise that power over other people’s souls. They can also call on the demons.’
Simon’s hand went to his mouth. He didn’t know whether to believe this man or not. He recalled the terrors of that old hunting lodge but then remembered how the witches had stayed well out of bow-shot.
‘Simon! Simon!’ The anchorite leaned across and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Let me tell you what I think happened.’ He held his hands out.
‘The Ratoliers are members of a coven. They strive for special powers and made horrid sacrifice to their demon lords in the darkness of the Forest of Dean. If they were so powerful they would never have been caught but they were, by human ingenuity. Like all felons they wanted to escape. From their comrade No Teeth they knew about the secret practices of you hangmen so they bargained for their lives. Friar Martin and, of course, you, rightly refused and in that you were good, such women deserve death. They are nothing but a stench in the nostrils of the Almighty. When you refused I suspect the Ratoliers gambled on their own powers and potions. Oh, there’s a lot missing there.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘But I’ll come to that in a moment. They were taken out to the scene of their crimes. Before they were hanged they took a potion. Only the lords of hell know how that would work but, I suspect, their minds and bodies would have gone numb. They danced and they jerked but their souls did not leave the flesh which houses them.’ The anchorite jabbed a finger. ‘If you had taken their corpses down and burned them, you would have heard them scream as they truly endured death.’
‘But they were saved by the storm?’
‘Ah!’ The anchorite smiled. ‘And that was your undoing. I did say they had powers.’
‘That rain storm was the work of hell?’
The anchorite nodded. ‘I also suspect that, in the trees beyond that clearing, other members of their coven waited. If the storm hadn’t come, perhaps th
ey would have tried some other means: the bodies couldn’t be allowed to hang too long.’ The anchorite lifted his head and stared up at the hole in the ceiling. ‘But everything they had prayed and sacrificed for, happened. You were driven away, the bodies were cut down, the process of revival carried out and the rest you know.’
‘How many members of the coven are there?’ Simon asked. ‘Thirteen?’
The anchorite laughed. ‘That is a children’s story. I doubt if thirteen people could keep their mouths shut for long. No, no, master carpenter, covens are no more than the square you’ve drawn many a time.’
‘Four?’ Simon queried.
‘I am sorry.’ The anchorite spread his hands. ‘I was thinking more of a chamber. Four walls, a ceiling and the floor which supports them all. Six is their number.’
Simon clicked his tongue and listened for the faint bells of the Abbey pealing out for mid-morning prayer.
‘We know of four of them,’ he said. ‘The three Ratoliers and No Teeth.’
‘In fact you know five.’
‘Ah yes.’ Simon smiled. ‘The tavern master at the Silver Tabard. So, who is the sixth?’
The anchorite paused at a knock on the door. He gestured at Simon to stay still and went to answer it. A lay brother stood there carrying a tray, a jug, two earthenware goblets and a trencher covered by a piece of linen. The anchorite thanked him and brought the tray into the room. Placing it on the floor, he filled a goblet with watered wine and offered him the trencher which bore bread, cheese and some diced, dried meat. They shared this out. The anchorite only ate a small portion, chewing the food carefully, sipping at his goblet.
‘I suspect the sixth member is the dominus, their leader,’ he declared.
‘If they have escaped,’ Simon cleared his mouth, ‘why don’t they just leave us alone? Why kill poor Deershound and Alderman Shipler?’
The anchorite pursed his lips. Pulling back the sleeve of his gown, he rubbed the wound on his wrist.
‘Revenge,’ he replied slowly. ‘Yes, the Ratoliers would like to punish you but, I suspect, it’s more than that, much more pragmatic. Deershound needn’t have died. I wager the night you left the clearing the verderer came back. He may have felt guilty at deserting you. He wanted to see that all was well. He saw your cart had gone, the corpses had disappeared and that dire warning left upon the stone slab. He would have fled, frightened, as the rest of you, so he had to be silenced.’
‘And that’s what the Ratoliers intended doing?’
‘Yes. And they have the measure of you. You were supposed to stay there, guard the corpses and destroy them. Instead you left. Now the Ratoliers know that you won’t come back to Gloucester and confess all but, at the same time, they want to silence your mouths once and for all. You know too much about No Teeth, about themselves.’
‘But we could flee. We are little people. Shadbolt and the rest would dearly love to cross the seas, bury themselves at the other ends of the earth.’
‘Oh, of course they would but the Ratoliers have to make sure. They must kill you, that is their plan.’
‘And, if we flee, they might leave us alone?’
‘They might do but I suspect the silence of the grave is better. For any of you who can flee it might be your salvation. But, there again, Flyhead has also touched upon the nub of the problem: confession comes easily to a troubled soul. One of you might present yourselves at the justices and confess what you witnessed. Can you imagine what will happen then? The Ratoliers would be hunted down as would all other members of their coven.’ He chuckled wryly. ‘I wager a penny to a penny that if you visit the Silver Tabard, no one will know or have ever heard of the Ratoliers.’
‘And Alderman Shipler?’ Simon asked.
‘Now.’ The anchorite joined his hands as if in prayer and pressed them against his lips. ‘Now, master carpenter, that is a mystery. It would be tempting to say Alderman Shipler was one of their coven and they silenced him once and for all. Or, it might just be revenge on one of their judges but I feel something is missing from the puzzle. It’s like a mathematical problem where you are given the answer, but you are not too sure how it was reached.’
‘So, what do you propose I should do?’
‘Let me warn you about this coven. Perhaps you feel comforted that they are not ghouls from beyond the grave but they are just as dangerous. They do have powers and they can use them. Above all, Simon, they have the power of fear over you. You are like a child in a shadowy room. Because you are ignorant, you don’t know what terrors the darkness conceals, and they will play on that. You fight against more than flesh and blood. These beings have the power of darkness behind them. You must have yourself shriven. You must go to Mass and take the sacrament, wear the relic Flyhead has given you. You must clean all disorder from your life. You must become like a castle fortifying its defences against those who lay siege.’
‘And what else?’ Simon asked. ‘Shall I flee?’
‘It’s tempting. If you hurried, you could be on the London road by nightfall. Yet, this evil has to be combatted. I would urge you to stay and fight. Indeed.’ He smiled thinly. ‘That is your penance.’
Words Between the Pilgrims
The carpenter paused in his tale. The rest of the company sat in silence.
‘What’s the matter?’ the pardoner asked, playing with his flaxen hair.
‘I thought I heard something outside,’ the carpenter answered.
Dame Eglantine gave a little scream. Sir Godfrey rose, drawing his sword from the war belt looped over the back of his chair.
‘What is it, my lady?’
‘A face at the window. I am sure!’
Sir Godfrey nodded at the squire and, together with the yeoman, they hurried out of the hall into the garden, formed like a small cloister garth. The raised flower beds around the turfed seats were bathed in the light of a full moon. Against the four walls the brothers had planted rose bushes and other sweet-smelling plants. The squire, sword drawn, returned and took a cresset torch from its holder. He went out and searched but he could see nothing. So, followed by the yeoman, he strode back into the refectory.
‘No one’s there, Father. Perhaps it was one of the good brothers looking in?’
‘I am sorry,’ Dame Eglantine apologised. ‘But your tale, master carpenter, fair frightened me. As lady prioress I have the power of axe, tumbril and scaffold.’ She waved her hands prettily. ‘But someone else always does it for me. Isn’t that right, my sweet?’ She pushed a piece of marzipan into her little lapdog’s mouth.
The miller burped loudly, drawing furious glances from Dame Eglantine.
‘I was a hangman once,’ he announced.
‘Aye, a fellow very worthy of the scaffold,’ the summoner said in a loud mock-whisper.
‘Shut your fat mouth!’ the miller bawled. ‘Or I’ll knock those pimples off your face!’
‘Hush now!’ mine host intervened. ‘Master carpenter, this is a fearsome tale. Is it true?’
‘I’ve heard of such stories,’ the miller continued as if unaware of any interruptions. ‘There’s many a hangman accustomed to reaching a private accord with their customers.’
‘It’s a common enough practice,’ Sir Godfrey agreed. ‘City authorities are always ready to turn a blind eye.’
‘But these Ratoliers?’ the wife of Bath spoke up. She had lost some of her jollity. She tapped the side of her head. ‘They bring back memories.’
‘Aye,’ the friar agreed. ‘And I’m sure I’ve heard of Friar Martin but I can’t remember exactly how.’
‘And Sir Humphrey Baddleton?’ the man of law asked. ‘Didn’t he . . . ?’
Sir Godfrey tapped the table with his hands. ‘Now, now, sirs. Good ladies all. You know the custom. No real questions till the tale is finished. And, whether it’s true or not. Well?’ He gestured with his hand. ‘That really is not our business.’
‘But witches?’ the summoner scoffed. ‘Human sacrifices!’
‘O
h, it goes on,’ Sir Godfrey intervened. He glanced quickly at the monk. ‘I tell you, sir, your flesh would creep at what goes on under the cloak of darkness.’
‘I’ve been to the Forest of Dean,’ the yeoman spoke up. ‘Do you remember, Sir Godfrey, you sent me there with letters for my lord Mortimer?’ He shook his head fearfully. ‘A dark, gloomy place. Do you know, the forest is so deep and dense it stretches for miles. Whole companies of people have been lost there. Gloucester is a pretty enough place but, once you leave its walls, travel west into that green fastness, it is like entering a strange country. I can well believe creatures of the night dwell there.’
The carpenter was playing with a gold chain round his neck. The wife of Bath who, as his story had progressed, had changed seats to study him more closely, noticed the beads of perspiration on his brow. There were strands in his tale which awoke memories in her own soul: whispers of dark secrets, of stories, vague rumours which others had dismissed as tales to terrify the young. If the carpenter’s story was true, did it explain why hanging had special terrors for him? Is that why he had fainted? And what was wrong with him now? The wife of Bath felt uncomfortable. She had travelled to Cologne and Compostella. She was frightened of nothing. Yet, she was sitting with her back to the window and she, too, had heard a sound. Dame Eglantine, although pampered and proud, was not given to the vapours or strange illusions. The lady prioress seemed more interested in her pampered little dog or receiving the murmured compliments of that handsome priest of hers, not to mention the hot glances of the dark-faced, enigmatic lawyer. The wife of Bath turned and glanced through the mullioned glass. And why should one of the brothers be peeping in at them when they were welcome to come in here and join their company? She turned back and leaned across the table.