The Hangman's Hymn

by Paul Doherty

  Now and again in the thicket alongside came a rustling; somewhere a night bird called. Meg kept her head down. It was best if she didn’t let her mind play tricks. She had been in the abbey earlier in the day. She’d gone to sit there, a rest from the turbulence of the tavern. She had sat just within the doorway and studied the great Doom painted on the wall depicting Christ in Judgement. Meg had also seen a painting of Christopher carrying the Infant Jesus Christ. Meg now recalled the legend that, if you looked on St Christopher, you would never die that day.

  ‘Do you have some food?’

  Meg started. A figure stood near the ditch, just under the shade of the great oak tree. The figure moved forward, shuffling, her stick tapping on the trackway. Meg relaxed. It was only an old beggarwoman. In the fading light she could make out the grey wispy hair under the tattered hood, the slightly hooked nose. A bony hand came out.

  ‘Do you have some food for an old one?’

  Meg paused. She opened the napkin and thrust one of the hardened loaves into the old lady’s hand.

  ‘There, Mother. It’s hard but soften it with water and it will fill your belly.’

  The old woman’s face cracked in a smile. Meg still felt uneasy; the face was old but the eyes seemed young and shrewd.

  ‘Travelling far are we, my beauty?’

  ‘Just to the next village, about half a mile. Why, do you want some company?’ Meg clutched the napkin tighter. She just wished the old woman would make her mind up and either go back into the shadows or accompany her.

  ‘A day’s business in Gloucester, eh?’

  ‘I work in the Golden Cockerel.’ Meg forced a smile. ‘But, Mother, the day draws on.’

  Meg brushed by her, walking a little faster, half listening to the thanks and fulsome blessing from the old beggarwoman.

  ‘I don’t like her,’ Meg whispered.

  She walked firmly, swinging the cane, then stopped and looked around. The old woman had disappeared. Meg tried to reason with herself. Why was she frightened of an old crone? Yes, that was it, Meg knew every inch of this trackway. Beggars usually stood by the city gates or some appointed spot. They would never try their luck on a deserted country lane as darkness fell.

  ‘Ah well.’ Meg turned a corner. Through the trees she glimpsed a spark of light, soon she would be home! She slowed her walk and, as she did so, heard the crash of wheels. As she paused and looked back, around the corner came a cart with a canopy, its two horses moving briskly, the driver flicking his whip. Meg drew to the side of the road. Perhaps he would stop and offer her a ride. She held her hand up and the cart stopped. Meg was surprised that the driver was not a man but a young woman, her plump face half-hidden in the hood.

  ‘Do you want a ride?’ she offered.

  ‘Just to the next village,’ Meg replied.

  ‘Then climb in the back. Go on!’

  Meg hurried round. The flap was already open. Another woman was there, a little older than herself, raven-black hair framing a long, white face. Meg climbed on the tail board and the woman grasped her arms.

  ‘In you get,’ she said.

  The inside of the wagon was dark. Meg sat on a bundle of straw. She turned to thank the woman, and saw that sitting opposite her was the old beggarwoman. Meg’s stomach clenched in fear, heart in her throat, she half rose. She didn’t like the way the old woman was looking at her while the other was now blocking any way out.

  ‘I’d prefer to walk.’

  ‘Please yourself!’ The woman pulled back the leather covering.

  Meg stooped to get out. She saw a quick movement out of the corner of her eye but it was too late. The thick club smashed into the side of her head and sent her crashing back into the cart.

  Near Blindgate, in Gloucester, Simon Cotterill, a carpenter from the village of Berkeley, was also fearful of his life. He’d supped and eaten in the Leather Bottle tavern then stepped out into Oxhead Lane, intent on returning to the garret he had hired above a shop in King Street. The dark shadows just seemed to rise from the ground around him. Six men, their faces hidden by cowls and vizards; all were armed with clubs. Simon had drawn his dagger but watched fearfully as the men pushed him back against the tavern wall.

  ‘I’ve got very little money,’ he gasped. ‘I’m only a poor carpenter looking for trade.’

  ‘In which case, Master Cotterill, you should look for work elsewhere and not go sticking your snout into other men’s troughs!’

  Simon’s heart sank, his throat went dry. These were not footpads or night-walkers looking for easy prey. They knew who he was and had been waiting for him.

  ‘We bring a message from Goodman Draycott.’ The leader’s voice was muffled. ‘You are a landless man, you are no member of a guild. You haven’t a penny to your name so why go courting his daughter, eh?’

  ‘Alice is my business!’ Simon retorted. He felt light-headed with fear, his stomach churning and pitching.

  ‘No, no, Master Cotterill, Alice Draycott is not your business: we are here to teach you that.’

  The men drove in with a whirl of clubs, punches and kicks. Simon’s dagger was knocked from his hand. He tried to fight back but it was useless. The blows rained down on him hard and cruel, so that all he could do was cover his head and sink further down the wall. A kick to his ribs sent him sprawling and the bully boys were on him, banging his head against the cobbles, punching his face, rapping his legs with their clubs. Simon’s whole body turned into a sheet of flame, he tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to shout but a smelly hand grasped his face.

  ‘Remember your lesson, Cotterill!’ the voice grated. ‘No more dancing and singing round Master Draycott’s house!’

  Simon groaned and fell back. He felt his belt with its sheath and purse being pulled off, followed by his leather jacket and linen shirt.

  ‘You won’t look the noble suitor now, will you?’

  The men walked off, laughing and talking among themselves. Simon pulled himself up and leaned against the wall. He felt the bruises on his face. His right cheek was swollen, his left ear was angry and sore while one of his bottom teeth was loose and his lips were split. He tried to get up but this only provoked the pain in his stomach and legs.

  ‘Oh, God have mercy!’ he groaned as the biting night wind caught his sore, chapped flesh. He tried to crawl back to the tavern door. A dog came rushing out barking, tail high, the ruff of his hair round his neck standing up. Simon sighed and turned away. He dragged himself to the end of the alleyway where, sore and exhausted, he lay down. He closed his eyes, trying to decide which part of his body hurt the most. What could he do? If he went back to his chamber his landlord would throw him out. Already he was two weeks behind in rent. He felt something furry and cold slide across his hand. Simon thrashed about, screaming even as the rat scuttled away.

  ‘My son, can I help you?’

  The friar was crouched beside him. A small, rotund figure with merry eyes, his face half-hidden by a luxuriant moustache and beard.

  ‘I’ve been attacked,’ Simon blurted through blood-caked lips. ‘They’ve taken all I have.’

  ‘Then, brother, you are about as rich as I am.’ The friar helped Simon to his feet. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Where to?’ he asked, now suspicious of anyone.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to take you before the King.’ The friar put Simon’s arm round his shoulder and grasped the young man’s waist. ‘The hospital of St Bartholomew is not far. Come on!’

  Simon thought the journey would last for ever. They passed between the Priory of St Oswald and the dark, gloomy mass of the Abbey of St Peter, into Westgate and along Bridge Street. Now and again they were stopped by members of the watch who, in the light of their lanterns, gazed suspiciously at the injured man. However, the friar assured them all was well and they were allowed to pass.

  The hospital of St Bartholomew stood in its own grounds, a small park with orchards, lawns and sweet-smelling herb plots. They entered through a lych-gate and up the pebbled pat
h to the main entrance dominated by a huge, wooden porch. The friar told Simon to sit on the steps and he pulled at the bell. There was a sound of footsteps and the door swung open. After a hushed conversation Simon was helped into the clean, paved hallway.

  ‘Bring him along here!’ a voice ordered.

  Simon blinked at the dancing torchlight. The place was warm. Fragrant smells from the kitchen mingled with those of soap, oil and pitch. As he was led along a corridor he glimpsed statues in niches, crucifixes on the walls. The friar helped him into a small chamber and laid him gently on a narrow pallet bed.

  ‘Just lie there.’ The friar stepped back.

  Another man loomed above Simon. He had a square, honest face with gentle eyes. He was dressed in a dark brown robe, and a great metal badge displaying St Bartholomew hung from his neck. The man examined him carefully. He then brought a bowl of sweet scented water and a soft cloth to wipe his wounds and sores. Simon turned his head. The friar was sitting on a stool just inside the doorway.

  ‘Thank you,’ he muttered.

  It was the last thing he remembered. The other man had poured a drink into his mouth and, in seconds, he’d drifted into a deep sleep.

  Simon woke the next morning, bruised and aching in every joint. Of the friar there was no sign but the burly individual who had tended him the night before introduced himself as Thomas Cowley, keeper of the hospital.

  ‘You are in a sad state, my son.’

  Cotterill told him about what had happened the night before. The keeper scratched his head.

  ‘I know Draycott,’ he said. ‘A roaring bully of a man. You could complain to the mayor or the council but you’d get short shrift.’ He helped Simon up against the bolsters. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he added soothingly, noticing the carpenter’s wince of pain. He gestured round the bare cell. ‘It doesn’t look much but it’s the best we can do. We have few candles, just rushlights. No decoration on the walls or floors but the food we’ll give you is nutritious: eggs, herrings and cheese.’ He pointed to a bundle of clothes on the table. ‘Those are for you. A pair of boots, a rather tattered shirt, a gown, tabard and hood. I might even be able to give you a sheepskin wrap. But, before you ask, you can’t stay here. We are a hospital. Three days at the very most and then it’s out of the door!’

  Simon shook his head. ‘I’m grateful. I arrived in Gloucester full of high hopes. I am a carpenter from Berkeley. I was working on the castle when Master Draycott and his daughter visited the lord.’ He shrugged. ‘You know how it goes: a glance at lunchtime, a sweet smile at supper.’

  ‘And so you came here?’

  ‘I came, Master Cowley, because I truly loved Alice Draycott.’

  ‘And does she love you?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to find out. I’ve been seven days here. My money’s all gone. Yesterday I knocked on Draycott’s door. I was told to go away. I thought there was no malice in the man.’

  ‘But now?’

  Simon heaved a sigh. ‘There’s no work for me back in Berkeley and I have no family there.’

  ‘And, in Gloucester, you are not a member of the guild?’ Simon nodded mournfully.

  ‘Ah well.’ Cowley got to his feet. ‘Friar Martin is coming back later this afternoon. Perhaps he can help.’

  Friar Martin did. The little fat friar’s liquid brown eyes filled with sadness as he, too, listened to Simon’s tale of woe.

  ‘So, you’ve got no family, no money, no job, and not even a corner to call your own?’ The friar shook his head despondently. He sat, sandalled feet apart, hands on his knees, staring down at the floor. ‘There is a job.’ He lifted his head. ‘It’s, er, a post recently vacated.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The person . . .’ The friar smacked his lips and combed his tangled beard with stubby fingers. ‘Ah well, I won’t tell you a lie, he was hanged.’

  ‘Hanged?’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid hoist by his own petard would be a very suitable phrase.’

  ‘Brother, what are you saying? Who was this man?’

  ‘He was called “No Teeth”.’ Friar Martin smiled wryly. ‘Well, that’s the only name he ever gave; his mouth was like that of a newborn babe. Not one tooth to boast about! He always had to eat everything softened, mixed with milk like a child.’

  Simon ran his tongue round his mouth, feeling the sores on his gums.

  ‘Brother, if there is a post and it pays money?’

  ‘Oh, it pays very well,’ the friar continued in a rush. ‘I’ll tell you honestly. No Teeth was an assistant hangman to the city council.’

  Simon groaned.

  ‘No, listen. No one knew where he came from, he was like you. He wasn’t bad at his job but he was very sensitive about having no teeth. One night in the Green Hoop tavern someone started making fun of him, one of these apprentices full of arrogance and spite. No Teeth talked in rather a peculiar way and the apprentice mocked him. No Teeth, my companion, my friend-at-arms, my brother in Christ, drew his dagger and killed him. Five days later, having appeared before His Majesty’s justices at the Guildhall, No Teeth was taken out and hanged on the common gallows near High Cross on the corner of Northgate. You know where that stands?’

  Simon nodded. ‘But you called him your companion?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the friar replied. ‘One of my tasks is to visit the condemned and offer them the spiritual comfort of the Church.’

  ‘How many hangmen are there?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Four in all. We make up a happy band of brothers. There’s Shadbolt, he’s the chief hangman. He had three assistants until No Teeth’s execution: Merry Face, you’ll know why we call him that when you meet him, and Flyhead are the two whom you will join.’

  ‘And I’ll know why you call him that when I meet him?’ Simon echoed.

  The friar sighed, shuffling his feet.

  ‘Just wait there.’

  He went out and returned a short while later.

  ‘According to the hour candle, the market horn is about to be sounded. I think you’d best come with me. Don’t worry about saying goodbye. I’ll explain to Master Cowley later.’

  Simon, already dressed, put on his new-found boots and followed the friar out of the hospital of St Bartholomew.

  It was a fine day and the crowds were out along the streets and lanes among the stalls and booths. People were shouting and greeting one another. Apprentices were still trying to catch the eyes of prospective customers. Constables and beadles patrolled the streets. Refuse carts were busy; beggars thronged the bakeries and cook shops, looking for stale bread. A young man, dressed in white, was walking up and down, a variety of hides and skins of fox, cat, squirrel and rabbit draped across his arms and shoulders, or strapped round his body with pieces of rope, a desperate attempt to entice customers to shop at his master’s stall. A number of dogs, attracted by the smell of the hides, were also following him and this novel idea of selling merchandise had provoked more humour than custom. Elsewhere children were playing football with a pig’s bladder filled with oats or chasing a hoop, making it stand and roll with the little hollow sticks they carried.

  Simon looked around anxiously. Perhaps Master Draycott was out or, even better still, Alice? She might catch his eye, be sympathetic, but all he could see were the faces of strangers.

  They went down Westgate past the churches of St Michael and Holy Trinity to where the great market cross stood. Here the market officers patrolled, slapping their white wands of office against their legs. Pompous and full of their own importance, they insisted that all selling and buying cease forthwith on payment of a fine or even a short stay in the stocks which stood at the end of the street. Nevertheless, these and the people they were trying to control soon scattered when a group of young men dressed in finery thundered through on mud-spattered destriers, dogs yapping behind them. The horsemen pounded by, more concerned with the hawks and peregrines on their wrists than the good citizens of Gloucester, who quietly cursed the young bloods
who’d spent the day playing while others worked.

  At the end of Westgate, the crowd was more dense, more difficult to push through. Carts and wagons were preparing to leave the city; disconsolate farmers shepherded the cattle, geese, ducks, pigs and other livestock they had failed to sell to the slaughterers, fleshers and poulterers. Friar Martin led Simon away from these, down an alleyway, thin as a needle and smelling foul as a midden-heap, on to the execution ground. Here the crowd was held back by city bailiffs. In the short space before them a huge branched gallows soared up into the sky. The crowd jostled each other while water-tipplers, apple-sellers and purveyors of sweetmeats swarmed around looking for trade. Friar Martin climbed on to a low-bricked wall and stared over the heads of the crowds.

  ‘They are coming!’ he announced.

  The crowd grew silent. Simon glimpsed a great banner bearing the civic arms of the city, a group of archers and then a death cart trundled into the space before the gallows. The executioners were dressed in black leather with red masks over their faces. One drove the cart, the other two sat with the three prisoners.

  ‘Follow me!’ Friar Martin whispered.

  The little friar pushed his way through the crowd, every so often shouting who he was and why he had to be there. The people respectfully drew aside. Simon felt strange as he followed the friar across the empty space to where the executioners were now dragging the condemned men out of the death cart.

  ‘Good day, Brother!’

  A huge, burly fellow, the driver of the cart, swung himself down and stood, feet apart.

  ‘God bless you, Master Shadbolt,’ Friar Martin replied.

  The chief hangman turned. The prisoners were lined up, a sorry sight in their rags, hands and feet tightly bound.

  ‘Do any of you wish a final word with the good brother here?’ Shadbolt asked.

  One of the prisoners, his face bruised, his right eye almost closed, hawked and spat.

  ‘Piss off, Shadbolt! Do what you have to! Let’s be in hell before sunset!’

  ‘I always try to oblige my customers.’