by Paul Doherty
‘Which house were you professed at?’ Simon began. ‘Come on, Friar Martin, tell me which house? We’ll go back through the records. It may take weeks, it may take months, but, by that time, your sole surviving daughter will be hanged. My lord mayor’s men have her in the Guildhall dungeons. She has been put on trial and has confessed. She’ll hang before noon.’
‘Eleanor?’ Friar Martin’s hand went to his mouth.
‘How do you know which one?’ the mayor intervened. ‘The only thing that will save your daughter,’ the mayor continued Simon’s bluff, ‘is if you confess, full and true.’
‘Wait! Wait!’ the prior intervened. ‘Friar Martin is a cleric, he’s under the protection of Holy Mother Church!’
‘Friar Martin is a heretic and a killer!’ the sergeant-at-arms retorted. ‘If you wish, Father Prior, my men can take him by force. All of Gloucester will know what has happened here.’
Friar Martin now sat, his hands on his lap, staring down at the floor.
‘This is truly ridiculous!’ the prior continued. ‘Friar Martin has, true, wandered from the path of righteousness, not been as faithful in his vows as, perhaps, he could. However, over the last few weeks, he has reformed. He has made himself a virtual prisoner in this house.’
‘True, true,’ Simon agreed. ‘And a man who pretends to be frightened, who expresses a wish to hide away, is scarcely watched. Tell me, Father Prior, where is Friar Martin’s cell?’
‘Behind the shrine of St Radegund. You know that!’
‘And if he wished to leave at night? Let us say, for the sake of argument,’ Simon insisted, ‘that Friar Martin wished to sneak out of his cell?’
The prior blinked, his lips moved wordlessly. Simon caught a look of uncertainty in his eyes.
‘I speak the truth, don’t I, Father Prior? If Friar Martin wished to leave, to steal away in the darkness, he could do so. Please! Answer me, yes or no?’
The Prior nodded. ‘It’s possible,’ he conceded.
‘Flyhead’s dead,’ Simon said. ‘He came to see you yesterday, didn’t he, before he left? He wished to say farewell to his comrade-in-arms. Poor Flyhead! Once a priest, always a priest, I suppose. Before he left he must have lit some of those red wax candles at the shrine of St Radegund. When they brought his corpse in I found wax on his jerkin, and only churches have red candles. Flyhead would never enter a church unless he had to. The only hallowed place he would visit would be St Radegund’s shrine to bid his former friend farewell.’
Friar Martin kept his head bowed.
‘Did you hear his confession? Or pretend to?’ Simon asked. ‘Did you give him good comfort? Did you tell him that you might even join him? That he should leave by Eastgate?’
‘What is this?’ the prior asked.
‘Flyhead was a former hangman,’ Simon explained. ‘A comrade of mine and of Father Martin’s. I am sure, Father Prior, that, if you asked among those lay brothers who watch the shrine, they may have noticed this pilgrim. He’d have pulled back his cowl when he entered the church, and his bald pate was covered in black spots.’ Simon paused. He couldn’t tell whether Friar Martin was even listening. ‘And I wager, too, my lord prior, that if you ask those same lay brothers, they will tell you how a young woman also came into the shrine and asked our good Friar Martin to hear her confession. She’d have sat in the pew and told her father.’ He paused at the shock in the prior’s face. ‘Oh yes, I suspect Eleanor Ratolier is Friar Martin’s daughter. When I last visited this friary, he was deeply shocked by my news of the Ratoliers’ deaths. I thought the cause was fear. I now know it was grief. Anyway, Eleanor escaped from Savernake. She would immediately seek the protection of her father and her dominus, the friar we know as Brother Martin. He would tell her about Flyhead’s visit. How she could wreak vengeance for the destruction of the coven and the deaths of her mother and elder sister. Flyhead was always partial to a pretty face. He paid for his mistakes with his life. But she’ll hang! Not secretly. She’ll jerk and she’ll dance. It may take a good hour for her to die.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Friar Martin lifted his head. His face was smoother, younger-looking, as if the mask had slipped; his eyes were watchful, calculating and full of mockery.
‘How you must have laughed,’ Simon jibed. ‘How you must have laughed and sneered at everyone. Nevertheless, my first question: where were you professed?’
‘In our house in London.’
‘And where to then?’
‘To Royston in Hertfordshire.’
‘And then?’
‘To St Asphs in Wales before coming here.’
‘And your name, your true name?’
‘Will she hang?’ Friar Martin spread his hands. ‘Give me your oath, Simon, and yours, my lord mayor. Will Eleanor Ratolier hang?’
‘She’ll go free,’ the mayor replied. ‘She was captured by horsemen fleeing Flyhead’s corpse. We’ll say a mistake’s been made. She’ll be taken to the nearest port.’ The mayor continued Simon’s lie. ‘And told to go to foreign parts.’
‘I have your oath on that?’
‘You have my oath,’ Simon replied.
‘How did you know it was me?’ Friar Martin cocked his head sideways. His eyes were full of curiosity as if he’d posed Simon a riddle and was surprised the carpenter had found the answer.
‘From the beginning,’ Simon said, ‘you knew the Dominicans were visiting Gloucester, that some search was being carried out. However, you were not given enough time to warn the rest of your coven. During the Ratoliers’ trial you recommended they be executed in the forest. Aldermen Shipler and Draycott followed your advice. I will come to the reason for that in a short while.’ Simon cleared his throat. ‘Secondly, after their trial, the Ratoliers wanted to see a priest, but why? They had no intention of being shriven! They hoped against hope that the hangmen might secretly agree to their freedom. Of course that was futile! You probably knew that. Now, when we visited them in their cell, you told them that they were going to be hanged in a forest glade, thus alerting them to the danger ahead. You’d also insisted that I accompany you down to the cell. I was green and fresh, soft-hearted. I agreed to be their messenger to the landlord at the Silver Tabard.’
Friar Martin shook his head knowingly.
‘Clever boy!’ he murmured.
‘If the Ratoliers weren’t to be shriven,’ Simon continued. ‘Why did you come out to the Forest of Dean? I mean, to spend three nights in some lonely, rain-swept glade? You travelled with them in the cart and, unobserved, passed them the potions and philtres they needed to survive the hanging. After their executions, you put the hoods over their faces just in case we noticed anything untoward. You agreed that we should leave the glade. When the Ratoliers attacked us, you told Shadbolt not to waste his arrows. And, of course, how would the Ratoliers know about the sins of their hangmen? You remember, they called them out? You knew all there was to know about our companions. You pretended to be frightened and, in doing so, heightened our own terrors. We were nothing more than a quivering bunch of cowards unable to cope with the phantasms before us while you played the role of the devout priest. Once you returned to Gloucester, you could hide away in the priory. In truth, you were intent on vengeance, slipping out whenever you wished. The hangmen had to die because of what we had seen. The same fate befell poor Deershound but the aldermen were more dangerous, weren’t they?’ Simon paused, studying the friar. ‘They were dangerous, weren’t they?’
Friar Martin nodded.
‘First, they might remember how you advocated the witches be hanged in the forest. They might reflect on what had really happened. Now I wager that you, Friar Martin, had heard rumours about the mayor’s interest in this coven. You said as much to Shadbolt and myself in the Hangman’s Rest. Did you approach Aldermen Shipler and Draycott to find out more?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘You might be confessor to condemned men and chaplain to the council but you were also confessor to
both Draycott and Shipler. You knew all about them. You approached them, making enquiries about rumours of a witches’ coven, about the mayor’s suspicions! About the arrival of the Dominicans in Gloucester!’
‘You made similar enquiries of me!’ the prior hissed.
Friar Martin gazed stonily back.
‘I saw their wills,’ Simon continued. ‘Draycott’s in the Guildhall, Shipler’s in the Abbey of St Peter. Both men had left bequests “to their good friend and confessor Friar Martin”. You might be their confessor but, in time, they might have become suspicious. Of course, you also wanted revenge. Being Shipler’s confessor, you knew all about his paramour, where she lived and when he visited her. Only on that fateful night the Ratoliers were waiting for him, weren’t they?’
‘He was a terrible hypocrite,’ Friar Martin mocked back.
‘And the Draycotts? Good Friar Martin comes to see them, to share a jug of wine. How easy it would have been to slip a potion into their cups and then, in the dead of night, drag their bodies across to the stable to hang them! A busy night’s work eh, Friar? Done under the cloak of darkness. You hanged those unfortunates, returned to the house, cleared the table and kitchen and returned to your hell hole.’
‘Hell hole?’ Friar Martin queried.
‘Be it a church or a cave in the forest, anywhere you lurk is on the path to hell!’
‘But the poisoned wine!’ the prior exclaimed.
‘Oh, the work of the coven, done to depict Friar Martin as an angel of light.’
‘Go on!’ the mayor insisted.
‘The rest were easy to kill. Poor old Merry Face on the forest path. Shadbolt trying to escape along the river and, of course, Flyhead. I suppose, in the last resort he was well named: he walked straight into the spider’s web.’
The prior now reasserted himself. ‘I can scarcely believe my ears. These accusations are horrible, a blasphemy in the eyes of God! What is your real name?’ He banged his knuckles on the desk. ‘I can, if you wish, send couriers to our house in London.’
‘There’ll be no need for that,’ Friar Martin replied languidly.
Simon studied him intently. The friar was revealing himself as a colder, harder man than before: the bluff bonhomie had disappeared. His eyes were dangerous, cold and implacable. His only reaction to his accusers was the occasional licking of his top lip with the tip of his tongue.
‘I have your word,’ he grated. He snapped his fingers at the prior. ‘And you, Reverend Father, must remember that, whatever you think I am, I am still a cleric under the governance of Holy Mother Church. I cannot be handed over to the secular arm.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I am Edward Ratolier, a native of Cripplegate in London. My mother was English, her second husband, my father, came from Brittany. Both died in the great pestilence, leaving me and my half-sister Agnes as orphans. Have you ever been a child on your own, Simon? Thank God you never were.’ He smiled thinly. ‘If there really is a God. Agnes and I knew evil. Men with their lusts and their wants. We wandered the roads and byways of the kingdom. Eventually we arrived in Stroud. A few months later we moved to Norwich where a fat merchant took a fancy to my half-sister Agnes. I was given a good education in Theobald’s School. Agnes and I, to escape the attentions of our so-called father, fell under the true care and protection of Mother Cressingham.’ He saw the mayor start.
‘The same woman who was tried before King’s Bench in London?’
‘Ah, so you have heard of her?’ Friar Martin pulled a face. ‘Mother Cressingham was hanged and burned as a witch but she was the only parent we knew. She introduced us into the mysteries . . .’
‘Devil worship!’ the prior snapped.
‘Shut up!’ Friar Martin sneered. ‘Shut your prattling little mouth!’
‘Continue!’ the mayor barked.
‘Oh, we learned the mysteries. The use of potions and, above all, the secret death.’ He put a hand to his throat. ‘Do you know, Simon, that before Christianity ever came to these shores, the tribes worshipped those who lived in the trees. Their priests used to take potions and strangle themselves; in their dreams they’d enter the halls of the gods and peer into the visions of the night. By the time we were adults, both Agnes and I were masters of the mysteries. We also became handfast.’
‘Married!’ the prior exclaimed. ‘Half-brother and sister!’
‘I know, Reverend Father,’ Friar Martin replied sarcastically. ‘But let’s be honest, I’m not the only priest who’s sinned. That old goat of a merchant had one son. Agnes took care of him and became sole heir. She also became pregnant. The old goat thought it was his doing and Agnes did not disabuse him. To allay suspicion I, who loved no other woman, became a friar. The old merchant died and Agnes sold his property.’
‘So that’s where your wealth came from?’ Simon interrupted.
‘Oh, we have gold and silver deposited in many a city. Where I went, Agnes always followed. She reared our daughters and became steeped in the mysteries.’
‘Of course!’ Simon scratched his head. ‘You are a friar. Your order is well known for its libraries. You would have access to books and manuscripts denied to others.’
Brother Martin smiled. ‘I was right about you, Simon. Sharp and bright as a new pin. I told Agnes that! I had great hopes for you. At last we came to Gloucester,’ he continued. ‘Now, when Agnes and I had been orphans at Stroud, we made friends with an old forester, a verderer. During the few months we were there, he took us out to show us the old secret byways of the woods and we hadn’t forgotten them. It’s easy for a friar to leave his house, to slip out of his cell at night and climb the wall.’
‘And, being chaplain to the hangmen, confessor to the condemned,’ the mayor noted.
‘Sir Humphrey, your wits are not as dim as they appear.’ Friar Martin laughed softly to himself. ‘Ah well, we set up home in the caves of Savernake. We had another hiding place in the forest but we won’t mention that. It would take you years to discover. No, on second thoughts.’ He grinned. ‘It would take you a thousand lifetimes. Now our appetite for the truth behind the great mysteries grew. We had sacrificed before to the hanged ones. Now Agnes insisted that these sacrifices be constant to please the dark lords.’
‘Demons!’ the prior murmured. He sat slumped in his chair, wearied and shocked at these revelations.
‘We took whores,’ Friar Martin continued, dismissing the prior with a look of contempt. ‘Whores and slatterns, poor creatures who would never be missed. I would mark them down. Agnes would seize them.’
‘And the others?’ Simon asked.
‘Every coven must have six members, just like our society.’ He sniggered. ‘Or a priory. I was their Father Abbot. It wasn’t long before mine host at the Silver Tabard was recruited and, of course, No Teeth was invaluable.’
‘But they were dispensable?’ the mayor asked.
‘Naturally. When they had served their time and fulfilled their purpose, they would have gone like the others.’ Friar Martin flicked his fingers. ‘Like that! No Teeth was a problem. He became arrogant, too fond of soft flesh and strong wine. When he killed that man, I said to Agnes, let him hang! But Agnes said, “No. Let us test the true strength of our potions!” Sacrifices were made. No Teeth was spared.’ Friar Martin closed his eyes and chuckled to himself. ‘Agnes was there when I dug him out of that shallow grave. She took him away. I was very angry that you saw him, Simon.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Trust me. No Teeth’s days were numbered. If he had been more vigilant that night, Agnes and my two daughters would never have been taken. He had a huge debt to pay.’ He paused and sighed. ‘I did wonder at first if Shadbolt would agree to his usual trickery but then I thought no, the lord mayor himself wants the death of my women. And so I plotted. I urged the court that they be executed at the place where they had carried out their sacrifices. It wasn’t too difficult either, to convince those noddlepates the Dominicans.’
The prior put his face in his hands. ‘They came here,’ he said
. He was almost talking to himself, waving his hands like a bird. ‘They came here and told me a dreadful story. How such sacrifices had been carried out in other parts of the kingdom. They mentioned Norwich. Yes, and other places.’ He glanced sideways at Friar Martin. ‘Everywhere you went, you left blood and chaos behind you.’
Simon, too, felt a chill of apprehension. Were those women the only victims, he wondered?
‘Whose idea was it?’ he asked. ‘To spare the hanged, the felons who should really have died?’
Friar Martin’s head went down.
‘Answer the question, sir!’ The mayor beat the table with his fist.
‘There’s no need to, is there?’ Simon declared in a horrified whisper. ‘Those who were spared, whom you revived in the lepers’ corner of the graveyard. Many of them were also marked down for sacrifice!’
‘What is this?’ Father Prior demanded.
‘I shall tell you later, Prior,’ the mayor interrupted with a sweep of his hand.
‘You would tell the lonely ones where to go, wouldn’t you?’ Simon urged. ‘To hide in the Forest of Dean. Many of those poor men and women, who thought they had been spared, were handed over to your wife, put under the slaughterer’s knife.’
Friar Martin raised his head.
‘A tangled web, eh, Simon? And I will answer neither nay or yea to your question. However, I was there when Shadbolt and Merry Face died. Agnes took care of old Shipler and I visited the Draycotts. He was an old fool but you are right, Simon, Alice was bright of face and keen of wit.’ He glanced round. ‘In the end they would have had you all, little by little, bit by bit, except No Teeth. He was always trouble. I reserved that pleasure for myself, to wring his neck like a chicken.’ Friar Martin’s face turned ugly.
Simon stared at this horror in human flesh.
‘And me, Brother Martin?’
‘Oh, you would have died last, Simon. I would have given you the opportunity to come across, yet things are never what they appear, eh boy? I sensed that from the beginning. You were different from the rest. Most men, Simon, are like animals. They eat, drink, whore and fornicate but you have a spark, hidden by those plough-boy looks.’ He gazed fondly at Simon like a father would at a favoured son. ‘But it’s all come to a pretty pass now, eh?’