by Paul Doherty
THE HANGMAN'S HYMN
PAUL DOHERTY
headline
Copyright © 2001 Paul Doherty
The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 5052 0
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Letter to the Reader
About the Author
Also by Paul Doherty
Praise for Paul Doherty
Dedication
Chapter 1 – Prologue
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Author’s Note
History has always fascinated me. I see my stories as a time machine. I want to intrigue you with a murderous mystery and a tangled plot, but I also want you to experience what it was like to slip along the shadow-thronged alleyways of medieval London; to enter a soaringly majestic cathedral but then walk out and glimpse the gruesome execution scaffolds rising high on the other side of the square. In my novels you will sit in the oaken stalls of a gothic abbey and hear the glorious psalms of plain chant even as you glimpse white, sinister gargoyle faces peering out at you from deep cowls and hoods. Or there again, you may ride out in a chariot as it thunders across the Redlands of Ancient Egypt or leave the sunlight and golden warmth of the Nile as you enter the marble coldness of a pyramid’s deadly maze. Smells and sounds, sights and spectacles will be conjured up to catch your imagination and so create times and places now long gone. You will march to Jerusalem with the first Crusaders or enter the Colosseum of Rome, where the sand sparkles like gold and the crowds bay for the blood of some gladiator. Of course, if you wish, you can always return to the lush dark greenness of medieval England and take your seat in some tavern along the ancient moon-washed road to Canterbury and listen to some ghostly tale which chills the heart . . . my books will take you there then safely bring you back!
The periods that have piqued my interest and about which I have written are many and varied. I hope you enjoy the read and would love to hear your thoughts – I always appreciate any feedback from readers. Visit my publisher’s website here: www.headline.co.uk and find out more. You may also visit my website: www.paulcdoherty.com or email me on: [email protected].
Paul Doherty
About the Author
Paul Doherty is one of the most prolific, and lauded, authors of historical mysteries in the world today. His expertise in all areas of history is illustrated in the many series that he writes about, from the Mathilde of Westminster series, set at the court of Edward II, to the Amerotke series, set in Ancient Egypt. Amongst his most memorable creations are Hugh Corbett, Brother Athelstan and Roger Shallot.
Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied history at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now headmaster of a school in north-east London and lives with his wife and family near Epping Forest.
Also by Paul Doherty
Mathilde of Westminster
THE CUP OF GHOSTS
THE POISON MAIDEN
THE DARKENING GLASS
Sir Roger Shallot
THE WHITE ROSE MURDERS
THE POISONED CHALICE
THE GRAIL MURDERS
A BROOD OF VIPERS
THE GALLOWS MURDERS
THE RELIC MURDERS
Templar
THE TEMPLAR
THE TEMPLAR MAGICIAN
Mahu (The Akhenaten trilogy)
AN EVIL SPIRIT OUT OF THE WEST
THE SEASON OF THE HYAENA
THE YEAR OF THE COBRA
Canterbury Tales by Night
AN ANCIENT EVIL
A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS
A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS
GHOSTLY MURDERS
THE HANGMAN’S HYMN
A HAUNT OF MURDER
Egyptian Mysteries
THE MASK OF RA
THE HORUS KILLINGS
THE ANUBIS SLAYINGS
THE SLAYERS OF SETH
THE ASSASSINS OF ISIS
THE POISONER OF PTAH
THE SPIES OF SOBECK
Constantine the Great
DOMINA
MURDER IMPERIAL
THE SONG OF THE GLADIATOR
THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT
MURDER’S IMMORTAL MASK
Hugh Corbett
SATAN IN ST MARY’S
THE CROWN IN DARKNESS
SPY IN CHANCERY
THE ANGEL OF DEATH
THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS
MURDER WEARS A COWL
THE ASSASSIN IN THE GREENWOOD
THE SONG OF A DARK ANGEL
SATAN’S FIRE
THE DEVIL’S HUNT
THE DEMON ARCHER
THE TREASON OF THE GHOSTS
CORPSE CANDLE
THE MAGICIAN’S DEATH
THE WAXMAN MURDERS
NIGHTSHADE
THE MYSTERIUM
Standalone Titles
THE ROSE DEMON
THE HAUNTING
THE SOUL SLAYER
THE PLAGUE LORD
THE DEATH OF A KING
PRINCE DRAKULYA
THE LORD COUNT DRAKULYA
THE FATE OF PRINCES
DOVE AMONGST THE HAWKS
THE MASKED MAN
As Vanessa Alexander
THE LOVE KNOT
OF LOVE AND WAR
THE LOVING CUP
Kathryn Swinbrooke (as C L Grace)
SHRINE OF MURDERS
EYE OF GOD
MERCHANT OF DEATH
BOOK OF SHADOWS
SAINTLY MURDERS
MAZE OF MURDERS
FEAST OF POISONS
Nicholas Segalla (as Ann Dukthas)
A TIME FOR THE DEATH OF A KING
THE PRINCE LOST TO TIME
THE TIME OF MURDER AT MAYERLING
IN THE TIME OF THE POISONED QUEEN
Mysteries of Alexander the Great (as Anna Apostolou)
A MURDER IN MACEDON
A MURDER IN THEBES
Alexander the Great
THE HOUSE OF DEATH
THE GODLESS MAN
THE GATES OF HELL
Matthew Jankyn (as P C Doherty)
THE WHYTE HARTE
THE SERPENT AMONGST THE LILIES
Non-fiction
THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF TUTANKHAMUN
ISABELLA AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF EDWARD II
ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE DEATH OF A GOD
THE GREAT CROWN JEWELS ROBBERY OF
1303
THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH I
THE DEATH OF THE RED KING
Praise for Paul Doherty
‘Teems with colour, energy and spills’ Time Out
‘Paul Doherty has a lively sense of history . . . evocative and lyrical descriptions’ New Statesman
‘Extensive and penetrating research coupled with a strong plot and bold characterisation. Loads of adventure and a dazzling evocation of the past’ Herald Sun, Melbourne
‘An opulent banquet to satisfy the most murderous appetite’ Northern Echo
‘As well as penning an exciting plot with vivid characters, Doherty excels at bringing the medieval period to life, with his detailed descriptions giving the reader a strong sense of place and time’ South Wales Argus
To Ned Richardson-Little
of Ferrier Avenue, Toronto
Chapter 1
Prologue
The pilgrims had found their road again. The rain had stopped, the mist had lifted. The morning sky was as blue as Our Lady’s veil and the white wisps of cloud, mere fragments, grew smaller as the sun rose strong and hot, drying up the mud and baking the country trackways. On either side of the pilgrims stretched the sloping green fields of Kent: a veritable paradise, no wonder the pilgrims were in good fettle.
‘By Satan’s cock!’ mine host growled. ‘We’ll have fair travelling today and a few good tales to boot!’
The prioress stroked the little lapdog nestling in her lap. She ignored mine host and, leaning down, whispered to her handsome, olive-skinned priest leading her gentle-eyed palfrey to walk a little faster. Mine host saw the movement and he hung back, his lip curling.
‘Heaven’s tits!’ he breathed to the bright-eyed, cheery-faced Geoffrey Chaucer from the Customs House. ‘But she’s a fine one, isn’t she sir, with her lovelocks peeping under her coif and that medal which proclaims love conquers all! Where’s the poverty of Christ in her, eh? With her soft, woollen robes, cushioned saddle and embroidered harness . . . ?’
‘In God’s eyes we are all sinners,’ Geoffrey quipped back.
‘Aye, but He doesn’t expect us to be arrogant or stupid with it,’ mine host retorted. He spurred his horse on and stopped by the miller who, drunk already, was swaying in the saddle, farting and belching, his great tangle of bagpipes thrust under his arm. ‘Steady now,’ mine host soothed, fearful of this giant of a man with fists like hams. ‘It’s just past noon and you’re already sottish!’
‘Pish off!’ the miller retorted and, putting his lips to the mouthpiece, blew a long, wailing blast on his bagpipes; this startled the crows in a nearby copse and they rose, protesting raucously.
Mine host pulled a face and rode on, making his way past the different pilgrims. The little friar, hot and lecherous as a sparrow, winked lewdly at the wife of Bath, whose broad hips filled her embroidered saddle. The good wife’s skirt rode high, allowing all to see the red-gartered hose beneath: her broad-brimmed hat was slightly askew, her face wet with perspiration. She gave a gap-toothed smile and winked as she caught mine host’s eye. The tavern master travelled on, holding his reins loosely as he studied the different pilgrims. He was quietly amused at how they seemed to know each other yet, if the truth be known, he too knew a few, albeit secretly, a matter for pursed lips and whispers in the shadows!
There was the man of law, dark-eyed and close-faced. Didn’t he know my lady prioress in a former life? Then the franklin, with his costly belt and purse, who always kept an eye on the summoner, that fat, lecherous, pus-filled scandal-monger: a gallows bird if ever there was one. And the pardoner, that strange-looking creature with his white, pasty face and dyed flaxen hair? Mine host was certain that his appearance was a disguise and the screeching voice a mere ploy to hide his true nature. And the quiet ones? Those who kept out of harm’s way and always stayed in the background? The cook with that open ulcer on his shin which looked like one of his own blancmanges turned sour? Didn’t he know the poor priest and parson who’d told them that ghostly tale the night before about the watchers and dark deeds in a lonely, haunted church in Kent? Indeed, there were even more sinister matters! Mine host tightened his lips as he approached the head of the column. The monk, a powerfully built man with a polished face and balding pate, fleshy lips and protruding eyes, always rode behind the knight, those dark empty eyes glaring hatefully ahead of him. Now and again the knight, Sir Godfrey, would turn and stare at the monk as if he knew his true nature. To the left and right of the knight rode his squire and his yeoman: they, too, resented the monk’s presence and were ever-watchful.
Mine host took a piece of dried bacon from his pouch and bit at the salty meat. The knight had told them a fearful tale, about the strigoi, blood-drinkers in the King’s own city of Oxford. How Sir Godfrey had taken a solemn oath to hunt them all down and kill them. Was the monk, with his full red lips, one of these blood-drinkers? A demon from hell? The monk abruptly turned in his saddle; he caught mine host’s stare and sketched a blessing in his direction. The taverner glanced away. He shouldn’t think thoughts like that. After all, the monk was a man of the Church but, there again, so many priests, friars and monks had fallen away from their true vocations.
Mine host urged his horse on. He always liked to ride in front, except when they confronted danger. He secretly saw himself as leader of the pilgrims though, if matters came to push, he would always concede to the wisdom and fighting abilities of Sir Godfrey.
‘Ah, good taverner!’
Sir Godfrey grasped his reins in one hand and, with the other, wiped the perspiration from his sunburned face. He moved in the saddle in a creak of leather and clink of chain, the sounds of a fighting man.
‘It’s good, is it not, mine host, to be travelling the Pilgrims’ Way to Canterbury, to pray before the blessed bones of St Thomas à Becket?’
‘God be thanked, Sir Godfrey,’ the taverner replied. ‘But shall we have another story?’
‘Aye, and a song,’ the golden-haired squire piped up, his blue eyes and smooth face bright with excitement at the journey.
Sir Godfrey turned in his saddle. ‘My lord monk has a good voice, deep and merry.’
The monk grimaced, his eyes fixed on Sir Godfrey.
‘Come on, Sir Monk, be a merry fellow!’
The monk shrugged. ‘My name is Hubert, Sir Godfrey, and my throat is dry.’
Mine host passed across his wineskin. The monk took this in one easy movement and squirted a stream of red juice into his cavernous mouth. He handed the wineskin back, gently burped and launched into a sweet, triumphant song of praise about some young woman who had caught the eye of a painter in a mansion near the Ile du Pont in Paris. He sang in Norman French; many knew that language but the monk’s voice was so lusty and carrying they let him sing alone, enjoying the sound on this pleasant spring day. After he had finished they all cheered and clapped. They then stopped for a while at a well to quench their thirst and eat the dried meats and fruits they had packed away.
They continued their journey late into the afternoon listening to a story told by the squire. The sun lost its warmth as it began to set, turning the blue sky a fiery red. Some of the pilgrims became impatient. They were saddle-sore, weary, and hoped that, for tonight at least, they would shelter at some cheery tavern or well-stocked priory. The countryside was now cut by hedgerows which rose like prickly walls on either side. These cast long shadows and some of the pilgrims recalled the stories they had been told about assassins, blood-drinkers and ghosts.
They rounded a bend. Sir Godfrey had already stopped. The others clustered behind him or fanned out across the lane, trying hard to keep their horses away from the shallow ditches on either side. They had arrived at a crossroads where the trackway climbed before splitting and going a variety of ways. However, it wasn’t that they were lost or confused. The pilgrims just stared in horror at the scene before them.
A huge, three-branched gallows stretched up against the night sky. Beneath this stood a cart, its gre
at dray horses hobbled, a youth grasping their bridles. On the cart stood three felons, hands bound; a group of bailiffs were busy fastening the nooses round their necks. On a horse near the cart, wearing the royal arms and carrying a white wand of office, sat a tipstaff of the court of assizes. He was dressed in dark murrey with a feathered cap on his head. A young, pointed-faced man, he was issuing orders. The felons, dressed in a motley collection of rags, their faces almost hidden by straggly hair, moustaches and beards, were protesting and shouting but the bailiffs held them fast. Around the cart stood royal archers, long bows slung across their backs; each carried a drawn sword. The pilgrims had been so engrossed in their own affairs, while the crossroads had been so well hidden by the hedgerows and trees, that it took some time for them to recover from their shock at this unexpected sight. The execution party, however, continued as if unaware of the pilgrims thronging only a few yards away. Indeed, mine host thought they might be seeing the ghosts from some dreadful execution which had been carried out many years ago. However, the tipstaff turned, holding up the white wand.
‘Proceed no further!’ he cried. ‘In the name of the King!’
Sir Godfrey, his hand held up in the sign of peace, pushed his horse forward.
‘My name is Sir Godfrey Evesden, knight banneret. I, and these gentle pilgrims, are on our way to Canterbury to pray before Becket’s blessed bones.’
On the cart all movement stilled; the bailiffs and their victims now stared at the pilgrims. The tipstaff had doffed his hat as a courtesy to the knight.
‘Sir Godfrey, I know your name. Mine is Luke Tiverton: chief tipstaff to the lords of assize now moving across Kent, dispensing the King’s justice.’
Sir Godfrey nodded. ‘Then, sir, why hang these men in such a desolate spot?’
‘They are brought here because they carried out their horrible robberies, rapes, murders and other violations of the King’s peace along these lonely lanes. They were caught red-handed by the sheriff. The assize lords have ruled that they are to hang on the nearest gallows to the place of their crimes!’
‘Have they been shriven?’ The poor priest nudged his sorry-looking nag to the front of the pilgrims.
