by Paul Doherty
‘Aye, Father, we have but, if you want to do it again!’ one of the felons shouted.
‘Both God’s justice and the King’s have been done,’ the tipstaff replied. He gestured towards the setting sun. ‘My lords of assize have ruled that they must hang before dark and so hang they will. Sir Godfrey, you know the law. If no witnesses are present that is good. But . . .’
‘Now,’ Sir Godfrey added wearily, ‘because we have arrived, we are those witnesses.’
‘Sir Godfrey, you know the law.’ The tipstaff stood up in his stirrups and stared over the pilgrims’ heads. His eyes caught the prioress and the bold, beaming face of the wife of Bath. ‘However, I see you have ladies of quality among you. They and any others, including members of the body spiritual, may turn away.’
Some of the pilgrims did so. Mine host suddenly remembered there was something at the back of his cavalcade he wished to see. The prioress had already dismounted. She stood with her back to the gallows scene. Her priest had his hand across her shoulder though mine host caught the man of law hurrying to assist her.
‘I couldn’t give a bugger!’ the wife of Bath shouted. ‘I’ve seen men hang and I’ll see them hang again.’
She pushed her grey palfrey to the front where the squire, at his father’s insistence, had turned away. However, the summoner, the monk and others craned their necks to get a good view. The evening breeze carried the tipstaff’s voice as he read out the verdict of the court and many of the pilgrims chilled as the list of ‘horrible’ crimes was proclaimed: murder, sodomy, rape, breaking into churches, blasphemy, sacrilege, desertion from the royal levies, poaching. The long litany seemed endless. The felons on the cart, however, just stood staring impassively. The tipstaff’s voice became a gabble. He finished, thrust the parchment back into his pouch and made a slicing movement with his hand.
‘Let the King’s justice be done!’
The bailiffs jumped out of the cart. The horses were unhobbled. One of the archers struck their hindquarters with a leather strap. The horses moved, pulling the cart away, leaving the felons to dance, jerking on the ends of the ropes like landed fish. They turned and twirled, kicking and spluttering as the nooses tightened.
The knight heard a commotion behind him but ignored it. He spurred his horse forward.
‘For the love of God, man!’ he snarled.
The tipstaff pulled a face, snapped his fingers and gestured at the bailiffs. Three hurried forward to grab the felons’ legs and pull them down. Sir Godfrey heard a snap as one of their necks was broken; this act of mercy soon put all three felons out of their misery and finished the executions. The tipstaff ordered the bailiffs to check each body.
‘Dead as nails!’ one of them cried. ‘They’ll be cold and stinking within the hour!’
‘Then do it now!’ the tipstaff ordered.
A huge pot of tar was dragged from the cart. The bailiffs, armed with brushes, began to coat each cadaver in pitch so they would remain much longer as a grim warning to any other wolfs-heads or outlaws who came this way.
‘We can pass now?’ Sir Godfrey wrinkled his nose in disgust at the pungent smell from the cadavers.
‘Sir Godfrey, may God be with you!’
The knight reined his horse in alongside the tipstaff.
‘Which is the route to Canterbury?’
‘Dead ahead, Sir Godfrey.’ The tipstaff kept his face impassive. ‘Two or three miles will bring you to St Bardolph’s Priory. However, I think one of your pilgrims is sore afflicted.’
While the execution party made to leave, the grisly corpses now hanging silently on the end of the tarred ropes, Sir Godfrey dismounted and made his way towards where the pilgrims thronged. His heart sank; on the trackway sprawled the carpenter, a dark-haired, cheery-faced man who kept to himself though he had a quick sense of humour and was always ready to help the other pilgrims.
‘What is the matter?’
The physician kneeling beside the fallen man looked up, his sharp eyes crinkled in amusement.
‘Don’t worry, Sir Godfrey, it’s not the falling sickness or the pestilence.’ He glanced round at the rest of the pilgrims, now shrinking back. ‘The poor fellow’s fainted, that’s all.’
He turned the carpenter over. The man’s face was slightly bruised on one side, his skin as white as a sheet, his closed eyes fluttering, a streak of spittle at the corner of his mouth.
‘Come on now.’
The physician grasped the man’s shoulders and pulled him up. On a command his manservant came running up with a leather bag. The physician delved into this and took out a small pomade. Even from where he stood, Sir Godfrey could smell its acrid stench. As the physician waved the pomade, the carpenter’s eyes opened.
‘They have come!’ he cried, gazing fearfully around.
‘Who has come?’ the physician asked.
‘The nags of the darkness. The birds of the night. They’ll never leave me alone! Agnes Ratolier’s . . . !’
‘Tush man.’ Sir Godfrey knelt down, proffering his wine cup. The carpenter seized this and drank greedily. ‘An execution has been carried out. Perhaps it was that, or hunger. Anyway, you fainted.’
The carpenter took a further gulp of wine and blinked.
‘I am sorry.’ He leaned forward, the colour returning to his face. ‘They are dead, aren’t they?’
‘As Herod and Pilate,’ the physician assured him. ‘Come on man, it’s getting dark and we must seek shelter.’
They helped the carpenter back up on to his horse, the physician offering to ride alongside him. Sir Godfrey urged the pilgrims on. They clattered by, eager to escape this place of death. Sir Godfrey noticed, as the carpenter went by the scaffold, how he averted his head. The knight sighed and remounted. So many secrets, so many mysteries here. When they had left the Tabard in Southwark only a few days ago, Sir Godfrey considered his companions a motley collection, eager to take advantage of the bright spring weather to go and pray before the shrine at Canterbury. Now he was not so sure. They were like himself, men and women who harboured great secrets, who were making this pilgrimage, not just because of the pleasant April weather or to see the sights, but to ask for divine protection: the personal favour of the great saint himself!
‘Father?’
Sir Godfrey glanced up. His son came riding back through the gloom.
‘Father, why do you tarry?’
Sir Godfrey touched his sword which hung from the saddle horn. He knew why his son was anxious. The monk had also held back. Seated on his horse in his gown and cowl, he looked like a great crow studying the three corpses hanging from the end of their tarred ropes.
‘One of these days,’ Sir Godfrey muttered, ‘either before we arrive or when we leave the shrine, I am going to have words with Master Hubert!’
He dug his spurs in and, followed by the squire, clattered over the crossroads eager to join the rest of the pilgrims. The monk, however, sat as if fascinated by the corpses swaying gently in the evening breeze. A raven, probably hunting before nightfall, glided over like a lost, dark soul and perched on one of the arms of the gibbet. The monk caught the glow of its gleaming yellow eye. He stared at the twisted necks of the felons and ran his tongue around his upper lip in a display of fine white teeth, jagged and sharp.
‘Bird of the darkness,’ he whispered. ‘So you’ll feast on the flesh?’
The juices now ran strong and hot in his own mouth. He gathered the reins of his horse. It was so long, he thought, since he too had feasted yet he could not here. He had hoped to prey among the others but then he’d noticed Sir Godfrey Evesden. The monk, like other strigoi, recognised Sir Godfrey’s fearsome reputation: a demon-hunter, a man ready to take his head as this raven here would the eyes of these dead men. The monk shifted, peering through the darkness. He could just make out the retreating backs of Sir Godfrey and his son. He would like to turn his horse, take the other trackway, but that might create suspicion. Yet he must eat and drink, the blood warm and clo
ying. What could he do? His horse stirred restlessly. If he fled through the night Sir Godfrey would certainly pursue him! He, that damnable son and the yeoman whose hands were never far from his sword and dagger.
The monk sighed. There was nothing to do except wait. He turned his horse’s head, dug his spurs in and followed the rest, leaving the gibbet eerie and lonely under the watchful eyes of the raven.
The priory yard of St Bardolph’s was a hive of activity. The prior and guestmaster had come out, eager to welcome the pilgrims who would pay well for the use of their refectory and hall. Lay brothers held the horses, others took off saddles as well as bundles and panniers from the pack horses. The pilgrims had now forgotten the gallows, rejoicing in the warmth, light and fragrant smells from the priory kitchens. They were ushered over to the guest house. Some of the pilgrims could afford one of the small, white-washed chambers above; others would settle for a bed of straw in the hall or the refectory.
The pilgrims first visited the church to give thanks. The dark nave was lit by candles fixed in small iron holders in the pillars. The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of incense. As they knelt in a group before the rood screen the poor priest led them in a hymn of praise and thanksgiving.
Afterwards they went to the refectory. Each pilgrim took their place along the broad trestle tables with Sir Godfrey at the top, the lady prioress on his right and the physician to his left. The carpenter had now recovered his good humour. When the brothers brought in traunchers of roast goose covered in sauce, as well as small bowls of vegetables and baskets of freshly baked bread, the carpenter ate as merrily and eagerly as the others. Jugs of wine, red and white, were passed round and, for those like the miller, large stoups of ale or beer. For a while the pilgrims chattered, discussing their journey and what they would do tomorrow. They all toasted Sir Godfrey, certain that it was the knight’s strong leadership which had brought them so safely to this comfortable place.
Once the meal was finished they all sat patting their stomachs. The miller, who had been drinking since he had risen that morning, got up and tried to do a dance but then, clutching one of the pillars of the refectory as fondly and as warmly as he would a woman, slid gracefully down, stretched out and fell fast asleep. His snores reverberated like claps of thunder until the physician went across, closed his mouth and pinched his nostrils. The pilgrims raised a small cheer. The miller, when drunk, was a troublesome fellow. Mine host tapped his tankard.
‘We have supped and drunk well,’ he announced. ‘Outside,’ he pointed towards the latticed windows, ‘darkness has fallen, given over to the creatures of the night.’ He spoke dramatically and created the desired effect. After all, he was a taverner and, when people sat by a roaring fire, their bellies full of food and good ale, there was no better time to listen to some tale of ghostly terror. And hadn’t the pilgrims agreed to this? To tell one story during the day and another of terror and mystery at night?
‘Haven’t we had enough horror for one day?’ The franklin spoke up.
‘Aye,’ the summoner agreed.
He was still trying to get near the franklin’s purse as he would love to pick it. The franklin knew this and the summoner now saw it as a game which he was determined to win before they reached Canterbury.
‘Why did you faint?’ Dame Eglantine the prioress took a sop of bread, dipped it into a small bowl of milk, and gave it to her little lapdog. ‘I am speaking to you, sir.’ She raised one elegant, be-ringed hand and pointed at the carpenter.
‘Haven’t you seen a hanging before?’ the pardoner screeched, flicking back his flaxen hair. ‘Lord save us, when the great rising was put down, they were hanging rebels along every road. The ravens and crows were so bloated they couldn’t stretch their wings and fly.’
Dame Eglantine pursed her lips in distaste.
‘Hangings be hangings.’ The sharp, waspish-faced reeve spoke up. He’d drunk deeply and his glittering eyes were now looking for an argument. He’d love nothing better than to debate and demonstrate that sharp wit which he used on the poor peasants who didn’t pay their proper dues and tolls.
The carpenter, however, stared down at his empty trencher.
‘It’s not the hangman I’m afeared of,’ he declared. ‘Dead is dead and that is it!’
‘So what?’ the physician asked.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘I certainly do.’ The ploughman spoke up. ‘You know that.’ His hand went to cover that of his brother the poor priest. ‘I truly think,’ the ploughman continued, surprising the company with his sharpness of speech and knowledge, for, in truth, they considered him base born and ill educated, ‘the veil between life and death is very thin and sometimes it can be crossed.’
‘Especially when you are drunk.’ The summoner spoke but his joke did not even produce a smile or a chuckle. All eyes were now on the carpenter.
‘So, you believe in ghosts,’ the carpenter said as if speaking to himself. ‘But what about other horrors? Those who die but come back across the drawbridge out of the darkness, across that eternal moat between life and death. Who can sit here among us, flesh and blood! We think they are our own. Yet they are creatures of the night, spawned by hell’s pit.’
‘Have you seen such beings?’ mine host asked excitedly, winking down the table at the knight.
‘In my previous life,’ the carpenter replied. ‘Now I work in wood and, every time I touch it, like this table or the bench on which we sit, I say a quiet prayer to Jesus, born in a wooden manger and who died on the cruel cross. I can do no other.’ He drank from his wine cup. ‘I have seen such creatures,’ he said again. ‘Hags of hell and it started, well, it really started as a jest.’
‘Tell us more.’ Sir Godfrey leaned forward. ‘Master Carpenter, the meal is finished, the doors are closed, the brothers will not interrupt us. We need a tale and, I think, your tongue is eager to tell one.’
The carpenter looked down at his hands.
‘Can you do it?’ mine host asked. ‘Can you tell us your tale, carpenter?’
‘Have you ever been to Gloucester?’ the carpenter abruptly replied.
‘On many occasions,’ the wife of Bath said.
The carpenter smiled, his now solemn face transformed.
‘Well, good wife, that’s where I hail from. Not Gloucester itself but a small village outside, between the city and Tewkesbury, a fair place near the Severn.’
The wife of Bath smiled at this worker in wood and sucked on her teeth. If the truth be known she thought he was quite a handsome man and carpenters earned many a silver piece. She was lonely. How many husbands had she buried? She sighed. She had drunk so much she had forgotten, but the carpenter was a likeable fellow. She abruptly realised everyone was staring at her so she broke from her reverie.
‘I have often visited Gloucester,’ she repeated.
The wife of Bath felt her thigh touched under the table and lashed out. She glared across at the summoner who was trying to lift her skirt with the toe of his boot.
‘Aye, it’s a fair city,’ Sir Godfrey intervened quickly and glared at the pock-faced summoner, his face now red as a piece of glowing charcoal.
‘A veritable jewel,’ the carpenter agreed. ‘Bound by the Severn. To the north the Priory of St Oswald, just next to the Abbey of St Peter which houses the corpse of our present King’s great-grandfather so foully murdered by his wife Isabella. To the south the castle. It’s a godly city with the White Friars near Northgate, the Black and Grey Friars around Southgate. It’s also a place of trade and commerce. Along Westgate and Eastgate you can buy anything your heart desires.’ The carpenter paused. ‘I had such fancies. But if you travel west,’ he continued, ‘beyond the city lies a forest dark and menacing. A place of shadows! Even the woodcutters and charcoal-burners are afeared of going there at night and they have good reason. Stay well clear of those moonlit glades where the lords of hell meet their worshippers! Oh yes!’ The carpenter nodded. ‘I will tell you a tale w
hich will chill your blood. Never again will you look upon a scaffold without thinking of what I have told you!’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘Listen now . . .’
Chapter 2
Flame-haired Meg left Gloucester by Eastgate as she always did, across Goose Ditch, taking the Barton Road. Darkness was falling and the September weather was beginning to show the first hint of autumn. No sooner was she away from the lights and the safety of the town gates than a fine rain began to fall, made all the more vexatious by a strong, biting breeze. Meg pulled up her hood and grasped the ash cane more firmly. She walked, as she always did, slowly, lost in thought about the day’s happenings.
Meg was from one of the outlying villages. Her father, a peasant farmer, had too many mouths to feed while her mother, grey-faced with exhaustion, dragged herself around their wattle-daubed cottage, too free with both her stick and sharp tongue. There was no work for Meg so she had come into the city and joined the rest of the jobless where they gathered in the porches of churches waiting to be hired. She had been fortunate. The taverner of the Golden Cockerel had espied her flaming red hair and pale face and offered her a job as a pot girl in the tavern. His customers always liked to see a pretty girl and Meg had become accustomed to the whispered comments, salacious remarks, the nipping and the pinching which she simply saw as part of a day’s work. In her purse she now had two pennies, which would please her father.
Meg paused to stare up the trackway. The hedgerows on either side looked dark and sinister. The old oak trees which stood behind spread their great branches down, turning the lane into a darkening tunnel. Meg always felt wary of such a place. Usually there were other travellers, a chapman, a pedlar, some pilgrims from the abbey, but tonight, perhaps because the weather had changed, the trackway was empty. Meg walked on. Perhaps Mother might have made a stew. In the napkin she grasped, Meg carried some loaves the kindly taverner had provided. They were three days old but, if broken up and mixed with the stew, they would soften and fill her belly and those of her large family.
