The Hangman's Hymn

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And this business of the Ratoliers?’ the mayor asked. ‘You say there was great wealth in the caves? I wonder how they accumulated that?’

  ‘By their powers,’ Simon replied.

  ‘I wonder?’ The mayor was lost in a reverie. ‘You can read, Simon?’

  ‘Despite what you say, my lord mayor, I was good at my horn book. A carpenter has to read drawings, study measurements, list figures and costs.’

  ‘Then come with me.’

  The mayor took him out across the council chamber, down a passageway and into the muniment room. Two scriveners sat there, busy filling out a tax roll. The mayor clapped his hands. He introduced Simon and then told them what he wanted.

  ‘I want you to look for the name Ratolier,’ he instructed them. ‘Anything you can find on them. Anything at all. Master Cotterill here will help you.’

  The scriveners looked nonplussed and, when the mayor had left, grumbled under their breath at their new task.

  ‘How far back do we go?’ one of them asked.

  Simon recalled the eldest daughter, a woman of perhaps twenty or twenty-five years.

  ‘Thirty years,’ he said.

  The clerks groaned.

  ‘And what are we looking for?’

  ‘As my lord mayor said, the name of Ratolier in any of the tax rolls for the city or environs of Gloucester. I am afraid I can’t tell you the reason why.’

  The clerks at first proved unwilling workers but their mood soon changed when Simon opened his purse and shook out four pieces of silver on to the desk.

  ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire,’ he declared. ‘And the sooner we find it, the sooner I’m gone!’

  The clerks became busy as bees. Chests and coffers were opened; greasy, yellowing tax rolls were taken out going back to the twenty-second regnal year of King Edward. There wasn’t enough room to work in the scriptorium so they used the council chamber, laying the great rolls along the table. Simon found that each roll had an index at the back, a list of names and places which the clerks showed him how to use.

  As the day wore on, more candles were lit. Sir Humphrey came back to see how matters were progressing and was kind enough to send in pies and wine from a local tavern. Darkness fell and, although Simon felt exhausted after his journey, the energy and commitment of the two clerks kept him to the task.

  ‘The name Ratolier is not of these parts,’ one of the clerks said. ‘We’ve been through a number of rolls, Master Cotterill, and there’s no mention of it.’

  ‘Which means?’ Simon asked with a heavy heart.

  ‘Whoever they were,’ the clerk went on, ‘they may have moved into the area from any part of the kingdom.’

  They continued with their searches. Simon’s eyes grew heavy and he began to doze. He woke with a start when one of the clerks shouted, ‘It’s here! It’s here!’ He pushed across a manuscript roll.

  Simon studied the entry. It mentioned Agnes Ratolier, ‘seamstress’, and her half-brother Edward: ‘two orphans in the parish of Stroud’.

  ‘Let us see if there are any more.’

  The clerks went back to their studies. Simon, restless, paced the floor. He no longer felt sleepy but invigorated by what they had found. An hour passed.

  ‘I am sorry, Master Cotterill.’ One of the clerks shook his head mournfully. ‘But I think that entry is the only one we have.’

  Simon thanked them both.

  ‘We’d best leave things as they are,’ the clerk said. ‘We can clear our desks in the morning. Master Cotterill, you are welcome to stay.’

  ‘Will his worship the mayor return?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  The clerks began to blow the candles out but they left two capped lights as well as the huge lantern horn they placed near the door. They collected their belongings and cloaks, shook Simon’s hand and wished him good night.

  Simon sat for a while going back to what had happened since this business had begun. He dozed for a short time and was woken by a rat scurrying across his boot, making him jump in alarm. The chamber was empty. The candles had burned low. Simon thought he heard a door opening and closing but, when he went to investigate, it was only some clerk working late and preparing to leave. Simon decided to make himself useful. He picked up the taxation rolls and took them back to the chancery office where the clerks had been writing. He put these away on the shelves. He promised himself that, if the mayor did not arrive by the time the candles had gutted, he would leave.

  He stowed the manuscripts away and sat at the clerks’ desk, looking at the different parchments strewn there. He picked up one of the papers; the handwriting was cramped. He recognised the name Adam Draycott and guiltily realised he was reading the alderman’s will, waiting to be approved by the city corporation. He went through the different clauses. Alice was to be her father’s principal heir and, if she died before him without issue, his wealth and goods would go to certain kinsfolk, a niece in the city of Bath and others. Different items caught his eye, then Simon’s blood ran cold. He pulled a candle closer and studied the entry carefully.

  ‘Heavens above!’ he whispered.

  Simon feverishly searched among the manuscripts but could find no trace of Alderman Shipler’s will except a reference to where it was lodged. When he heard voices speaking in the gallery he put the will down, blew out the candles and left. The mayor was standing talking to the sergeant-at-arms. They fell silent as Simon came across to join them.

  ‘Master Cotterill, you are working late.’

  ‘The clerks found one entry,’ Simon replied evasively. ‘But nothing of real import.’

  ‘We’ve been busy on your behalf,’ the sergeant-at-arms remarked. ‘I think it’s best if Master Flyhead didn’t leave Gloucester for a while. We’ve searchers out, scouring the city for him.’

  ‘Hasn’t he returned to his old haunts?’ Simon asked, trying to hide his nervousness and surprise.

  ‘No.’ The sergeant-at-arms clapped Simon on the shoulder. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll find him. Rest assured of that.’

  Simon made his farewells and clattered down the stairs, glad to be away. Outside a light drizzle was falling. He wondered where Flyhead would hide. But what could he do? He had to make other searches for himself.

  The streets were still fairly busy as traders made their way home and shopkeepers put up their boards for the night. Doors were flung open, lights from candles and lantern horns streaming through. Apprentices chattered as they sat on the cobbles outside the shops, ignoring the light rain, grateful for a rest after a day’s labour. Simon made his way across the city and into the sweet-smelling taproom of the Silver Tabard. The mayor had told him that the lease had been abruptly sold; a new taverner and his family had moved into the deserted chambers above the taproom.

  Simon introduced himself and gazed around. It looked ordinary enough, tables and stools, hams and onions hanging from the rafters. Its new owner had given it a touch of paint. Little children staggered about the entrance to the scullery and kitchens. A fire burned in the hearth. It was hard to realise that this homely place once housed a member of the Ratolier coven. Simon ordered a bowl of jugged hare and a tankard of ale. The taverner himself served him.

  ‘Are your slatterns and pot boys also newly hired?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Most of them are.’ The taverner wiped the sweat away from his red, chapped cheeks. ‘The previous owner was a solitary man. He hired slatterns, anyone who wished for the job, but no one slept here except him. Now Isolda, over there, she worked for him for a while.’

  ‘May I have a word with her?’ Simon asked.

  The taverner shrugged. The slattern came over. She had mousey-coloured hair which framed a thin, peaked face; her nose was slightly crooked and she had a cast in one eye. She was surly tempered but changed her mood when Simon put a silver coin down on the table.

  ‘You served here before, with the previous owner?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Her chapped
fingers went to take the silver piece but Simon put his hand over it.

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Joscelyn. Joscelyn Blackwell.’

  ‘And what do you know of him?’

  ‘The mayor’s men have asked me the same question. I am a seamstress during the day. I have a chamber further down the alleyway. I came here at his request. He paid well and some of the customers were generous.’

  ‘But the man himself?’

  ‘He was secretive. He kept nothing here. At night the tavern was always closed when the curfew sounded. He wouldn’t let anyone stay. Nor would he allow us upstairs.’

  ‘Did he talk to the customers?’

  ‘Hardly ever, his mind seemed elsewhere.’

  ‘And he had no family or friends?’

  ‘None that I ever knew.’

  ‘Did you notice anything untoward?’

  ‘I wondered why he hired me and paid me so well. But he seemed very interested that I could read and write. On some evenings he would leave early and return, just before the curfew sounded. Other evenings the tavern would be closed, the doors bolted, the windows shuttered.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I think he went away.’

  Simon took his hand away from the silver piece.

  ‘But you are a sharp-eyed girl,’ he coaxed. ‘You must have noticed something?’

  ‘He was solitary.’ The slattern watched the coin and licked her lips. ‘Sometimes, when the tavern was closed, well, I used to walk down here. You could tell when it was deserted and Master Joscelyn was away. At other times I’d glimpse a light. I had a feeling people were here. But I could never really tell. As I said, the doors were barred and bolted. It was none of my business so I never asked.’

  ‘Do you have a writing tray?’ Simon asked. He placed another coin on the table.

  ‘Certainly.’

  The slattern came back with a battered, wooden tray, a scrap of parchment, an ink horn and a quill. Simon carefully wrote out the list of names.

  ‘You can read?’

  The slattern nodded.

  ‘Look at these. Do any prick your memory?’

  The girl took the scrap of parchment over to where a lantern horn hung from a pillar. She peered at it, her lips moving wordlessly. She came back and put the list on the table.

  ‘I recognise none of them.’

  Simon’s heart sank.

  ‘None whatsoever, but one thing . . .’ She narrowed her eyes.

  Simon put down another coin.

  ‘One night when Blackwell locked up, I was preparing to go. There was a knock on the door. I went to answer it but he insisted on going.’

  ‘What happened?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Blackwell said . . .’ she closed her eyes. ‘Yes, that’s it. “Go away, there’s none of your sort here!” The other person replied, “I bear a message from the dom . . .”’

  ‘Dominus?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Dominus, the word was clear. Blackwell came back in. I could see he was distracted. He had a small roll of parchment in his hand. He snapped at me to go, I did. That was the end of the matter.’

  Simon handed the coins across, re-tightened his sword belt, picked up his cloak and left. He was halfway down the alleyway when he heard the sound. There was a trickle of cold between his shoulders, he whirled round. The figure came at a run from the shadows. He saw the blade held high and glimpsed a young woman’s face, the surviving Ratolier. Simon backed away, desperately trying to draw his own dagger. He tripped and fell. Rolling over in the mud he lashed out with his hands, fearful of the killing blow. When he looked up the figure was gone.

  Simon picked himself up. So soon? He remembered the fight in the caves. He had been one of the first up that rocky escarpment and the Ratolier must have recognised him. If he had arrived back in Gloucester early that morning it wouldn’t have taken much longer for the Ratolier, who knew the paths as well, to slip back into the city. He walked backwards, dagger drawn, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Master Cotterill!’ The woman’s voice sounded eerily on the night air. ‘Master Cotterill, don’t worry. We shall, undoubtedly, meet again!’

  Simon sheathed his dagger and ran, quietly cursing his own stupidity. He thought the Ratolier coven had been wiped out but, of course, the dominus was still alive and the Ratolier woman must have come into Gloucester to seek him out and tell her master what had happened. Nevertheless, he drew comfort from what he had seen in that will. He paused at the mouth of the alleyway before walking out into the thoroughfare, close to where a group of beadles sat near the stocks. He stood there, calming his mind, grateful to be close to anyone. He would never make that mistake again. Where on earth could Flyhead be? By now the beadles were becoming curious. Simon walked on. He had to make sure, clear all doubts from his mind.

  When he arrived at the great square before the Abbey of St Peter he went across to the monastery gate and, using the mayor’s commission, demanded to see Father Abbot. The lay brother shook his head.

  ‘He’s away,’ he said. ‘But one of the sub-priors may be able to help?’

  Simon was taken across the cloisters to well-furnished chambers. The sub-prior was helpful. He listened to Simon and his questions about the will of Alderman Shipler. A copy was brought. Simon studied it closely, trying to control the tremors in his body.

  ‘It’s too late for Flyhead!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can do no more!’

  ‘What do you mean, my son?’ The sub-prior rose, anxious about this strange young man bearing the mayor’s commission.

  ‘Nothing, Father.’ Simon got to his feet. ‘I thank you and bid you good night.’

  Chapter 14

  Simon was awoken early in the Guildhall house by a rapping and kicking on the door. He shouted at the person to wait, dressed hurriedly and fastened on his sword belt. A tipstaff was standing on the stairwell, his face sweaty under dishevelled hair.

  ‘You must come, sir!’ he rasped. He showed Simon the mayor’s seal. ‘Sir Humphrey himself wishes to see you in the Guildhall chamber.’

  The fellow would say no more. Simon hurriedly put his boots on and followed him through the mist-filled streets to the Guildhall. Very few people were about, the silence only broken by the occasional creak and rattle of a cart along the cobbles and the peals of the bells of churches clanging to the cloud-covered heavens for the first Mass of the day.

  Sir Humphrey was waiting in the main porchway, walking up and down. On a stone seat the sergeant-at-arms lounged: both men looked as if they hadn’t slept. The mayor dismissed the tipstaff and gestured at Simon to follow him. They went across the great courtyard through a roofed archway and into an outhouse.

  Simon’s heart sank at the body sprawled out on the handcart, the head lolling over the edge displaying the slashed throat.

  ‘Flyhead! Oh Lord, have mercy!’

  Simon knelt down, sitting back on his heels, the hard ground grazing his knees.

  ‘Christ have mercy on him!’ he prayed. ‘In many ways you were a good man, loyal and brave.’

  ‘His body was brought in this morning. He was found outside Eastgate. From what I can gather,’ the sergeant-at-arms continued, ‘he left just before the curfew sounded. He didn’t travel far before they attacked.’

  ‘They?’ Simon asked.

  ‘It must have taken more than one to kill poor Flyhead.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Simon told them about the attack on him the previous evening. He went through the dead man’s pockets. As he did so he noticed red candle grease marked Flyhead’s tarry jacket.

  ‘What is that?’ the sergeant-at-arms asked.

  ‘Candle grease.’ Simon got to his feet. ‘Sir Humphrey, how soon could you arrange a posse of archers and men-at-arms?’

  ‘Give me an hour,’ the sergeant-at-arms barked, ‘and I’ll have a good dozen of my lads ready.’

  ‘Why?’ the mayor asked.

  Simon plucke
d him by the sleeve and, taking both men out to the cobbled yard, told them the conclusion he had reached and the reasons for it.

  Two hours later, just as the city of Gloucester stirred, the mayor of Gloucester, his sergeant-at-arms, Master Simon Cotterill and a large comitatus of armed men, both mounted and on foot, surrounded the house of the Austin Friars. Sir Humphrey, jangling the large bell before the main gate, demanded an immediate meeting with Father Prior. The sleepy-eyed lay brother objected.

  ‘The brothers are all in church,’ he whined. ‘It is the hour of Matins.’

  ‘If he doesn’t come out now!’ Sir Humphrey barked, ‘I’ll have him arrested and take the consequences!’

  The lay brother hurried away. A short while later Sir Humphrey, the sergeant-at-arms and Simon were ushered into the prior’s parlour. Soon a pale-faced Friar Martin joined them. The prior, all a-fluster, protested at such high-handed treatment, but the mayor cut him short.

  ‘I’ll write to the bishop’s palace,’ he said. ‘Ride to Westminster and come back with all the warrants I need!’

  ‘What is the matter?’ the prior asked, sitting down on his throne-like chair, hands gripping the arm-rests.

  He gestured at Friar Martin, pointing to a chair at the side of the desk then nodded brusquely at the mayor and his companions to sit. Simon did so but the sergeant-of-arms went over and leaned against the door.

  ‘I am here on the King’s business,’ the mayor began. He pointed at Friar Martin. ‘I accuse that man, that so-called friar, that Judas priest, of being a cunning, deceitful murderer. Of being a member, nay, indeed the leader, of the devilish coven he so hypocritically declares he is hiding from.’

  The prior stared back, speechless, his face pale, his mouth sagging. Friar Martin, however, half rose in the chair, his face in a snarl.

  ‘Have you lost your wits, sir?’ he sneered. ‘Simon, for the love of God!’

  ‘Sit down, Friar Martin!’ Simon told him. ‘Or shall I call you by your real name? Edward Ratolier. Once an orphan in the parish of Stroud, half-brother to Agnes, a well-known witch and warlock recently killed in her lair at Savernake.’

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ Friar Martin hid the lower part of his face behind his hands. ‘Simon, have you lost your wits?’