The Hangman's Hymn

by Paul Doherty

  The prior stood up and went to kneel on the prie-dieu beneath the crucifix.

  ‘That’s right, priest! Prattle on!’ Friar Martin glared venomously at his kneeling superior. ‘You were a great help, Father Prior,’ he jibed. ‘You really should keep the Rule more strictly. It is easier to slip in and out of here than it is the door of a tavern. Of course, being custodian of the shrine of St Radegund, that bundle of mouldering bones, I could meet members of my coven when they visited as pilgrims.’

  ‘You are wicked!’ Father Prior turned his head slightly sideways. ‘You should be taken out, hanged and burned!’

  ‘But you won’t allow that, will you?’ Friar Martin mocked. ‘How the tongues would wag! And what would you say to your superiors? And how can my lord mayor punish a priest? Every cleric in the city would be in uproar. All the shaven pates clapping their hands and clucking their tongues. And you, my lord mayor.’ He poked a finger like a vicious child jabbing the air. ‘Are you going to put me on trial, eh? Tell the city your mistakes? And what evidence will you produce? Who’ll stand at the bar and clack their tongues?’

  The prior got to his feet and turned. Simon had never seen a man look so stricken, torn between anger and fear.

  ‘My lord mayor, I must remind you that Friar Martin is a member of this order and a tonsured cleric. He comes under the authority of Holy Mother Church.’ He held a hand up to stifle the mayor’s gasps of protest. The prior kept his hand up as if swearing a great oath. ‘Friar Martin, you called me Reverend Father, your superior, and so I am. I have the law and the authority to punish you.’

  Friar Martin’s face lost some of its arrogant malice.

  ‘What will you do?’ the sergeant-at-arms asked.

  ‘Beneath this priory is a cell with only a small grille in the roof to allow in some light and air. The floor is of stone, the walls thick, the roof is as hard as rock. I am going to order the sergeant-at-arms to take you there. I am going to allow him to bring his men into this monastery.’ He paused. ‘By the authority of Holy Mother Church I shall call our lay brothers, men who have been masons. They will remove the door of that chamber and, apart from the small grille, they shall brick you up alive. You will eat and drink what is pushed through. You will relieve yourself in the latrine provided. You will be given a fresh robe of horse-hair every year. You will be served by someone who is mute. You will never be allowed to meet anyone. You will never leave that room alive. I swear this by all that’s holy! No matter how long you live, you shall, for the rest of your natural life, be immured in a living hell!’

  The sergeant-at-arms came across. He pulled the loop from his belt and expertly tied the prisoner’s hands. Friar Martin, white-faced, stared at Simon.

  ‘But Eleanor will not hang? You’ll keep your oath?’

  Simon rose to his feet and leaned across the desk.

  ‘I told a lie,’ he admitted. ‘Eleanor is not our prisoner. Yet, if I ever meet her, Friar Martin, she will not draw many breaths!’

  Friar Martin would have sprung at him, his face a mask of fury.

  ‘You whoreson bastard!’ he grated, struggling in the sergeant-at-arms’ grip. ‘Remember this, Simon Cotterill, we shall meet again! I tell you, we shall meet again!’

  Words Among the Pilgrims

  The carpenter finished his story. The pilgrims assembled in the long, candlelit hall stared expectantly at him. Was he Simon Cotterill? This man with his greying hair and kindly face? Could he possibly be the same person who had crossed swords with that evil coven in the Forest of Dean? Mine host leaned forward but Sir Godfrey squeezed him by the wrist.

  ‘Remember,’ he cautioned. ‘We must not embarrass the man. It may be a fable or it may be the truth.’

  ‘It is the truth, isn’t it?’ The rubicund-faced friar down the table lifted his goblet, eyes sparkling.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ the carpenter asked.

  ‘You have a fear of hanging, we know that.’

  ‘Why, don’t you, Brother?’ the carpenter retorted, provoking a ripple of laughter.

  Sir Godfrey glanced at the monk, who had his cowl pulled over his dome-like head. His eyes glittered, his bright red lips stained with wine were slightly parted. Aye, Sir Godfrey thought, you’d savour a story like that about creatures of the night!

  ‘I have heard something about this.’ The man of law ran a finger round the collar of his chemise, fingering the jewelled gold pendant hanging there. ‘Sir Humphrey Baddleton, yes, he was mayor until recently. He was killed in an accident, or so they say, along with his sergeant-at-arms. A fire in a tavern where they were staying while travelling to Bristol.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ the carpenter asked, but he didn’t raise his face.

  ‘Oh, it was suspicious circumstances,’ the man of law declared, glancing quickly at Dame Eglantine. ‘Yes, yes. Foul play was suspected. Something about the windows and doors being sealed and both men being unable to break free. The commissioners of assize were despatched to the area, I was one of them.’ He nodded proudly. ‘But no proof was found. We upheld the coroner’s verdict: death by misadventure.’

  ‘So, it is true,’ the friar continued. ‘Brother Martin’s a common name, but I did know of such a fellow in our house at Norwich. I’m sure he was sent to Gloucester.’

  The carpenter stole a glance down the table at the wife of Bath. Usually this red-faced, gap-toothed, middle-aged woman was full of jests and opinions. Now she had fallen silent, staring into her cup, her mind elsewhere.

  Sir Godfrey got to his feet. ‘I think, good sirs, ladies, this tale is done, is it not, Master Carpenter?’

  ‘It is told as far as it can be,’ the fellow replied evasively.

  Sir Godfrey nodded imperceptibly. He knew the tale was true. Anyone could tell that from the haunted look on the carpenter’s face. Sir Godfrey, who’d worked at the House of Secrets in London, quietly promised that, after he had finished his pilgrimage, he would go there and search among the records. He glanced quickly at the monk. He would also deal with Brother Hubert. Sir Godfrey was intent on hunting down and crushing all such creatures of the night: men and women in league with Satan. But now was not the time; the day had proven a long one. The miller was fast asleep, resting on his bagpipes. The summoner was, once again, trying to get close to the franklin, for the rogue seemed intent on slitting that white silk purse. Sir Godfrey clapped his hands.

  ‘We should go now! Retire to our beds!’

  ‘All those who can afford them!’ a voice shouted from down the hall.

  Sir Godfrey spread his hands. ‘My son and I will sleep here. I suggest we make ourselves comfortable.’

  As the pilgrims got to their feet, some glanced through the window and shivered. They recalled the gibbet, those dangling figures and the grim tale told by the carpenter. What monsters moved, they wondered, at night? Did the unhanged follow them here? They busied themselves. They were in good company; tomorrow would be fine and they would continue their journey.

  The carpenter waited quietly until he was no longer the object of attention and, getting to his feet, he walked out of the refectory and along the passageway. He opened a door and entered the cool, sweet-smelling priory garden. He sat on a turf seat and looked up at the stars.

  A beautiful night, he thought. He wondered if Alice’s spirit followed him. He heard footsteps and turned. The wife of Bath stood there, her usual merry face was solemn. She had taken off her broad-brimmed hat which she now held between her hands.

  ‘You are Simon Cotterill, aren’t you?’ she asked.

  The carpenter nodded.

  ‘May I sit with you?’

  The carpenter smiled. The wife of Bath was not accustomed to make such pretty pleas. When the spirit took her she could be as coarse and uncouth as the miller.

  ‘Of course, my lady.’ He half rose as she took her seat.

  ‘I come from Bath,’ she began. ‘I trade in cloth. Thanks to my uncle, his legacy has made me a wealthy woman.’

>   ‘Alderman Draycott?’ Simon asked.

  The wife of Bath nodded. ‘I am the kinswoman mentioned in the will you saw in the Guildhall at Gloucester. I will not tell you about my life. Suffice to say, I always wondered about Uncle’s death.’

  Simon turned and studied her. In the moonlight, if he looked hard enough, he detected glimpses of his beloved Alice, a family likeness.

  ‘That’s why you were frightened of the hanging, wasn’t it?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘But there’s more to it, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘There’s more. I left Gloucester two weeks later, lavishly rewarded by Sir Humphrey. I travelled to Hereford, Worcester and then I settled in a small village, Woodford, in Essex on the Epping Road. I have a good trade there. Even the merchants from London hire me. Sir Humphrey sometimes wrote to me. I regarded the Ratolier girl and Friar Martin as ghosts. I consigned them to the realm of the dead.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Two years ago Sir Humphrey sent me an urgent letter. By sheer force of will and subtle trickery, Friar Martin had escaped from his cell.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ The wife of Bath breathed.

  ‘Shortly afterwards news came of Sir Humphrey’s death and that of the sergeant-at-arms. I made careful search at Blackfriars, the Dominican house in London. The Dominicans involved in the trial of the Ratoliers had also met curious deaths. One was hit, crushed by falling masonry. The other hired a wherry to go across the Thames to Southwark. The boat, its master and the Dominican never reached the far shore. God knows what happened! Whether it hit another craft or was caught in the sudden swirl around London Bridge?’

  ‘But you know different, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I know different. I believe Friar Martin and his daughter Eleanor Ratolier are like hunting dogs loosed upon their quarry. They could be anywhere, here in Kent or the wilds of Cornwall. They will not have forgotten me. Every time I see a hanging, the memories flood back.

  ‘I journeyed to Gloucester. Edward Grace, the anchorite, is still alive. I asked him what I should do. He said pray, do God’s will and, as an act of penance and as a plea for help, every April I should pray for protection before Becket’s shrine in Canterbury.’

  The wife of Bath slipped her arm through the carpenter’s.

  ‘Come in,’ she urged. ‘Come back to the warmth. I’ll take you to the buttery. I’ll pay one of the brothers to pour us two cups of wine.’ She grinned impishly. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No.’ The carpenter smiled. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Good! Oh Lord save us!’ the good dame replied. ‘Perhaps I’ll pay the good brother for a full jug, not just the goblets!’

  They walked back into the priory. Only when they were gone did the figure, one of the hangmen who had executed the felons at the crossroads, come out of the shadows where he had been lurking. He listened to the fading footsteps, the chatter and the laughter of the wife of Bath. He re-sheathed his dagger, climbed the priory wall and raced through the darkness to report back to his dominus what he had seen and heard.

  Author’s Note

  The phrase ‘to be hanged by the purse’ is a medieval one and, like charity, covers a multitude of sins! There was quite a roaring trade in medieval England, and long after, in condemned men reaching a private compact with the hangman and escaping execution. Even as late as the eighteenth century rumours were rife that Jack Shepherd, the master housebreaker, escaped execution at Tyburn, an event which was attended by thousands of people.

  Medieval witches and warlocks used to be dismissed simply as people having rather wild parties in the depths of some forest; their claims to ‘fly through the air’ or be skilled in other powers were dismissed as fanciful nonsense. It may well be, however, that, although drug companies did not exist in the Middle Ages, many people knew the value and power of hallucinogenic drugs contained in the natural properties of certain plants and herbs and the effect these could have on the human mind.

  P.C. Doherty