The Twice-Hanged Man

by Priscilla Royal

  “Could anyone else have killed Father Payn?”

  He shrugged. “I cannot imagine who had cause, other than Hywel on the gallows. Amongst us, there were some who had a quarrel with the priest. He had a sharp tongue on occasion, but no one hated him enough to kill. Even Hywel before his execution. In fact, he least of all. The stonemason was a good man, or so we all thought.”

  “Not the family of the woman the priest treated as a wife?”

  “If this had occurred years ago, I might have conceded the possibility. But after all these years during which they coupled? Maybe her husband didn’t like the horns she put on his head, but he is rarely at home.” He smiled. “And he looks nothing like Hywel.”

  “The ghost has been seen since?”

  “Others have claimed so, but I saw him only the once and that was enough. Lest you think me prone to such sightings, let me remind you that I have been the village hangman for many years. If there were enraged ghosts, I would be the one most likely haunted by those I have executed.” He shrugged. “Yet I walk safely enough at night and have never awakened to any black-faced corpse bending over me with hellfire blazing in his eyes.”

  “Do you remember the names of those who say they have seen the spirit?”

  “Men do not confide in the hangman, Brother. I may overhear much as I wend my way through the stalls on market day, but I never hear the full tale.”

  Thomas finished his ale, thanked Bardolph for his hospitality, and left more troubled than he was before he had spoken to the man.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eleanor was angry.

  Surely it was too early for the next Office. Had she believed otherwise, she never would have begun this intricate review of her accounting rolls. Now that she had, she dare not stop. It was too important. Who was responsible for this terrible error? She must find out!

  Yet the bells were still ringing incessantly, somewhere.

  She fought to ignore the noise. She tried to scream for them to cease. No words came. She pounded the table—except it was too soft to be made of wood.

  Slowly, the Prioress of Tyndal unclenched her fist, opened her eyes, and looked around.

  “How long have I slept?” she murmured to the silence around her. Groggy and disoriented from her troubling dream, she struggled to regain her wits.

  Sitting up, she realized the sun had moved far to the west since she had returned from the village with Robert. He had urged her to lie down for just a little while and insisted she do so in this small enclosed space, far from the cries of her new niece. She had been too weary to argue. Hadn’t he promised to wake her in time to pray at the next Office?

  Rubbing her eyes, she wondered if someone would soon knock at the door. Or had her brother decided to let her sleep, a kindness that honored the demands of mortal flesh more than strict duty to God?

  Robert owned a kind heart, but he was as much a man of the soil as Hugh was of war and intrigue. The two were dutiful about the rituals of faith, but their first concerns were always worldly ones. It was only she who had chosen God to serve above all else. Yet that division of labor amongst the trio of their parents’ children must have found favor in His eyes. Despite all their sins, the Wynethorpes prospered.

  She rose, brushed straw from her habit, and walked over to the basin where she splashed cold water on her face to completely rouse her from the stupor of dreams.

  Now more fully awake, she looked heavenward and decided God would probably forgive her for sleeping through the Office and Robert for letting her.

  After drying her hands and face, she slipped out of the room, peeked at her sleeping sister-in-law, and then hurried down the stairs to find someone to tell her what had happened while she slept.

  Had Brother Thomas returned, or Sister Anne?

  * * *

  Most of the few servants in residence at this small lodge had left to perform whatever duties they normally had. The ones who had accompanied the Wynethorpes to safety had chosen to assist others where they could. Only one woman stood at the bottom of the stairs in case she was needed. When she saw Eleanor, she smiled.

  The prioress stopped. “Have you checked on your mistress? I saw she was asleep and did not wish to disturb her.”

  “She is well, my lady,” the woman whispered. “And the babe is a wonder! She rarely cries.” A look of besotted adoration warmed her face.

  Eleanor was both touched and amused. According to Hugh, she had been like a pack of hunting hounds in full cry herself at the same age, a description that would fit most babies that young, including her new namesake.

  “And is Sister Anne here?”

  “Not yet returned.” The voice behind her was masculine.

  When Eleanor turned around, she saw her brother, a fond expression on his face.

  “Our Alienor looks like you at that age.”

  “And you remember what a baby looked like so many years ago?” She pressed her fingers against her lips to keep from chuckling. “I would have thought you’d have been outside, digging up weeds wherever you could find them, and not in the least interested in your new sister.”

  He gestured for Eleanor to follow him some distance into the hall. “I must speak with you,” he said, his voice dropping into a grave tone.

  The servant discreetly vanished up the stairs to the solar.

  “And perhaps explain why you insisted on accompanying me to the village with Abbot Gerald, when you clearly had no errand there and I had a woman servant by my side.” Now that she was rested, she was more curious and eager to know his purpose.

  “You and I have always understood each other well.” He briefly touched the tip of his finger to her nose in the affectionate gesture he had often used when they were growing up. “I do not trust Abbot Gerald.”

  “In what respect?”

  “I did not fear for your virtue. According to all reports, the man adheres to his vows with impressive rigor. You had an older woman with you and are no innocent after all these years of ruling a priory and dealing with earthly wickedness.”

  “I was in even less danger on a market day amongst a crowd of villagers, nor had I any intention of taking a leisurely tour of his abbey grounds.”

  “His sins lie in another area,” Robert said, then shrugged. “He is an ambitious man who feels his talents have been ignored because he is half-Welsh, although half-Norman as well. Every time I come here, he finds a way to meet with me and beg that I speak to Hugh on his behalf.”

  “I assume he wants our brother to use his friendship with King Edward to urge our liege lord to offer the abbot a fine office, even a bishopric?”

  “Has he also mentioned his treatise on how to conquer the Welsh, and how the king should rule them once he has put down their rebellion, while also offering himself as the best advisor in such matters?”

  Eleanor’s eyebrows shot up.

  “He has already begun that campaign with me.”

  “He is not a man without wit…”

  “But his ancestry curses him. We do not trust the Welsh, and it is quite clear from this recent rebellion that the Welsh do not much like us. A man born with a foot in each camp will be trusted by no one, no matter how valuable his insights might be.”

  “You do not think he has proven his loyalty by writing a work on how to dominate a conquered people, some of whom may be his kin?”

  “I meant only to say I do not trust the force of his ambition, not his allegiance.”

  “Very well, but it is also possible that his choice may be temporary if we do not listen to him or he is dissatisfied with his rewards. Were that the case, he may change his allegiance to the other side and preach ways on how to conquer the English to the Welsh.”

  He stiffened. “A treachery that…”

  She held up her hand. “Robert, I do not know the man well, nor am I suggesting he wil
l become a traitor. I meant only to demonstrate the thinking of others, even our Hugh, in deciding whether to promote the ideas and future of such a man of mixed heritage while a war is going on between Wales and England. Should anyone suggest the abbot might be a spy, for instance, I would probably scoff. This village is not even on a well-traveled route. Yet men of great fear and little wit will suggest that to the king, as well as the other reasons to dismiss Abbot Gerald’s views. It would be difficult to promote the abbot’s ideas and even harder to suggest any lofty recompense. Not impossible, mind, but unlikely.”

  “If our nephew, Richard, takes after his aunt, he will make a fine lawyer in due course. You argue both sides convincingly.”

  “What I might question most is the likelihood of a man, who has spent his life serving God, having practical ideas on military operations.”

  “There have been bishops that rode into battle with mace in hand.”

  “Abbot Gerald? He has the strength of a sparrow before it learns to fly. I doubt he has ever lifted a mace. Again, I think him too ignorant of the reality of war.”

  Robert laughed. “Very well, but do you think me wrong to distrust him for his ambition?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, but I think we must consider how he is handling his longing for advancement. He seems to be a very clever man and that suggests two things. The first is my purer conclusion. This work he wants us to forward to Hugh, so he can send it with his blessing to our king, may have worth, at least in part. I would be willing to consider its merit, especially his recommendations about successfully governing the Welsh once we conquer them. Even if we send his efforts on, however, we must make it clear to him that we cannot offer any promise that the king would even listen to his ideas.”

  Robert nodded. “From what you and Hugh have both said, I doubt King Edward will bother with the abbot’s proposals. His anger over the lack of gratitude by the Welsh, after his generosity five years ago when they last rebelled, is profound. Moreover, he sees them as oath-breakers and traitors. The king is more likely to use the armored fist than an open hand of conciliation after this war. But what was your less pure conclusion?”

  “Is there any way this tale of the ghost feeds the purpose of his ambition? I cannot see how it would, but there is much I do not understand about what is happening here. Could he be using it to his own advantage?”

  Her brother thought for a moment. “It is truly a very odd story, yet I cannot cast any light on the matter myself. I do not come to these lands often enough.”

  “Although I have not told either Brother Thomas or Sister Anne about this particular concern, it is another reason I want to make sure we reveal what is truly happening in the village. Once the phantom is given form and either banished to whatever part of Hell it came from or exposed as mortal fantasy, I can decide if our abbot has used the creature as part of a scheme. If he has not, I shall directly address his more honest, if not strictly admirable, ambition.”

  “I wish you had not had this problem to add to your others.”

  She smiled. “The ghost may yet prove to be the illusion I originally thought it was. We also have much to be grateful for.” She gestured in the direction of the solar. “Our new mother has borne a healthy daughter and both are gaining in strength. We, along with many of those who served us, have escaped any contact with southern raiders.” She folded her arms. “Considering much, sweet brother, we have all had far worse problems than an ambitious abbot.”

  As they walked toward the stairs, a servant ran up to them. “Brother Thomas and Sister Anne have returned, my lady.”

  Eleanor softly clapped her hands. “And, if God is especially kind, we may be rid of the ghost, based on what my monastics have discovered.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “This will not be as easy to resolve as I had hoped,” Eleanor said after hearing what both monk and nun had to tell.

  “The priest’s death seems to have been God’s will,” Anne replied. “Men who show the symptoms Mistress Berta’s servant described often die when the heart fails. If he saw something that startled him, he might have died of fright. Nothing we saw on the corpse suggested violence. What I learned points to a cause of death not uncommon among men of his time on Earth.” She frowned. “I cannot understand why that would not satisfy Abbot Gerald and prove that no evil spirit committed any crime.”

  Eleanor looked at Thomas and shook her head. “I fear that the testimony of Bardolph, the hangman, still supports the idea of a ghost.”

  The monk nodded. “Although I wish I could say otherwise, Bardolph is as credible as the abbot claims. He does not seem to be a man inclined to fantastical visions and even jested that, as a hangman, he should be accompanied everywhere by a hissing mob of irate souls. Yet he has seen only one phantom in his life and that was Hywel, kneeling by Father Payn’s body.”

  “And thus we must prove that the man lied, was drunk, or perhaps saw someone who resembled the hanged man.” Eleanor sighed. “Is there anything the man said that might suggest any one of those three things was possible?”

  “He claimed he had little to drink that night, an easy enough statement to confirm if he was at the only inn in the village. He swears it was Hywel and no one else, not even one of Hywel’s brothers. The light of the full moon was bright enough, and, apart from the fact that Hywel had lived in the village for a long time, Bardolph did hang the man. As for lying, I thought he told the tale in a simple enough fashion. I detected no signs of evasion, but, being mortal, I am very capable of flawed judgment.”

  “You said he jested about ghosts. Might he have spread the tale to make the villagers seem foolish?” Eleanor hesitated. “Might he be sympathetic to the Welsh cause himself and have some reason to make people uneasy about hanging another such marauder?”

  “With a name like Bardolph, he is not likely to be Welsh,” the monk replied.

  “Abbot Gerald is half-Welsh, and his name suggests a Norman ancestry,” the prioress said. “Nor does English birth preclude someone from agreeing with the cause of Llewellyn and Dafydd. Some Englishmen distrust King Edward and may believe that the two Welshmen were treated badly by him. We mortals are prone to seeking justification for our dislikes, whether the tale is true or not, because it pleases us.”

  “Although I agree that not all Englishmen admire our king, it is treason to join with rebels. I saw nothing that suggested Bardolph was in sympathy with the Welsh or with Hywel. Although he had liked him well enough before, the man had been convicted at a fair trial for the deaths of defenseless men. Bardolph even hanged him a second time, although he believed he was dead after the first.”

  “You are most likely right, Brother,” Eleanor replied, “but I mentioned the possibility only because we are flailing in ignorance, and we do not know the man well. Yet Bardolph’s firm testimony does have a ring of truth, and he does seem to be a man disinclined to seeing what is not there.”

  “Ought I to confirm if others agree with Abbot Gerald that the hangman is a reliable witness?”

  “It would be wise, Brother,” the prioress said.

  “It may be difficult. Bardolph was probably right that most people in the village do not view him with fondness. He seems to have no friends.”

  Eleanor noticed that her monk’s skin was gray with exhaustion. “Do what you can,” she said, “but I also trust your perception of the man’s character.”

  Sister Anne shook her head with annoyance. “Despite Father Payn’s death being natural, we must now verify that the witness to the ghost is reliable? How does that help banish the idea that this phantom killed the priest?”

  “Unless we discount the tale that a ghost was seen next to a freshly killed corpse, there will be those who continue to claim that the Devil can make anything look natural and therefore the ghost still managed to kill the priest despite the evidence you have obtained. I had assumed that the priest likely d
ied as God would have it and that the spirit sighting would prove an easily discredited illusion.” Eleanor sighed. “Instead, it seems, the hangman appears to have been temperate in drink and in control of his wits. The villagers may not like Bardolph, but, if he is seen as a rational man, it is hard to dismiss the ghost.”

  “Yet he showed unreliability in one aspect of this strange tale,” Thomas said. “Experienced though he is, he failed to prepare for the weight of two men on the gallows, one of whom was apparently quite fat. The beam did break.”

  “That does not mean he was fallible in what he witnessed that night. The beam could have been weak but flawed in a way the eye could not detect.” Eleanor chewed her lower lip in thought. “What happened to the two brothers of the hanged man after they took his body away?”

  “You still think one of them might have been the person kneeling by the priest?” Sister Anne brightened.

  “If either resembles the hanged man, he might have been the one to blame for the priest’s death. Bardolph confused the face of the hanged man with that of the live brother, and, if proven, we could dismiss the idea that a cursed spirit returned for vengeance.”

  “Confused in the light of a full moon?” Thomas was surprised. Had he not just told his prioress that Bardolph had denied that the ghost was either brother? “He seemed certain it was not one of the brothers.”

  “No matter how bright the moon, it will never match the clarity of God’s sun,” the prioress replied. “Did you ask Bardolph for a description of the two men compared to Hywel?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I did not. He seemed so convinced that it was neither of them that I did not pursue it. I will try to find the two brothers,” he said. “The spice merchant has also offered to take me to the inn tonight and speak with his friends. I intend to find out if others have sighted the spirit, and perhaps learn who has spread the rumor that the ghost walks in the village. I can talk to them more about Bardolph, Hywel, and the brothers.”

  “Do not drink too much ale, Brother.” Sister Anne laughed.