by Paul Doherty
Simon could scarcely remember when he had eaten or drunk so fast. The hangmen seemed well replenished with silver. Simon noticed how their black jackets, leggings and boots were of the finest quality. Shadbolt’s shirt was white and crisp while the leather war belt, slung on the floor beside him, was broad and shiny, the scabbard of his long Welsh stabbing dagger ornate and cleverly wrought.
They were all treated with great respect by the landlord who filled tankards and dishes whenever Shadbolt raised a hand. Simon was quickly accepted as one of their company. He was wondering how the evening would end when Shadbolt slammed down his tankard and seized his hands, grasping them so hard Simon winced.
‘Well, boyo. You want to hang your fellow kind?’
‘Er, no,’ Simon stammered. ‘To be precise, sir, I don’t want to hang anyone but I am poor and starving.’
‘Sixpence a week,’ Shadbolt replied. ‘A shilling on execution day. You also get, though not as fine as this, jerkins, leggings, boots and a war belt as well as a stipend at Christmas, Easter and midsummer. The council expect you to be law-abiding, not to get drunk in office and carry out your duties faithfully. What do you say, Simon Cotterill, carpenter?’
Merry Face, Flyhead and Friar Martin were all looking at him curiously, as if assessing his true worth. Shadbolt drew a knife and, before Simon could flinch, cut him lightly on the little finger of his left hand. The blood trickled out on the table.
‘Do you swear to be one of our company? Day and night, in fair weather and foul?’
‘I swear!’ Simon replied.
‘Good, Master Cotterill, you have just taken your oath with us.’ Shadbolt re-sheathed his dagger. ‘Break it and I’ll cut your throat!’
Fresh tankards of ale were ordered and, when the tapster had served them, Shadbolt raised his.
‘To the dead! To the hanged! To those who swing between heaven and earth!’
They all accepted the toast and Simon Cotterill, carpenter, became assistant hangman in the King’s city of Gloucester.
Over the next few weeks Simon learned his trade. It included a bewildering array of tasks because the executioners were not only busy on hanging days but on other, diverse duties: the maintenance of the scaffolds; the purchase of hempen ropes; the upkeep of the cart; the exercise of the dray horses. Simon soon became used to the black leather garments which made him feel stronger, more powerful and, when he drew the red mask over his face, like a knight in armour preparing to do battle. The hangmen were not only responsible for executions but also a whole range of punishments imposed by the courts in Gloucester: the branding of forgers and blasphemers; trimming the ears and slitting the noses of felons convicted for a third time; the fitting of branks around the mouths of women found guilty of contumacy, blasphemy and malicious gossip.
Simon found these punishments grisly, gruesome and, at first, quite harrowing. Most of the victims were hardened felons but those who were being punished for the first time screamed and resisted. Shadbolt soon realised that Simon had what he called ‘a tender heart’, unlike Flyhead who took a malicious glee in carrying out his duties. Accordingly, Simon was often just a witness rather than a participant. The birching of whores was also left to Flyhead and he always laid on with relish, smacking his cane across the plump, white buttocks of some street-walker caught soliciting, either out of hours or in the wrong place.
Execution days were different. Simon was expected to play his part. He quickly learned how to climb the dizzyingly high scaffold, fasten the noose round the felon’s neck and turn away the ladder. He accepted Shadbolt’s express orders that the condemned felon’s face should also be masked and the executioner swing on the legs of the hanged so as to ease them, as quickly as possible, from this life to a more blissful state.
Simon soon hardened his heart. Most of the felons condemned, either at the assizes or the city courts, deserved their punishments. At the same time, however, Shadbolt and the others kept him well away from the prisoners. The condemned cells were cavernous chambers beneath the Guildhall. One of the principal tasks of the hangmen was to accompany Friar Martin down to visit the condemned. Shadbolt would measure the doomed felon with his eyes while Friar Martin offered him the comforts of Holy Church. Merry Face and Flyhead often accompanied them but never Simon. The first time he ever met the prisoners was when they were taken out, either in the morning or late in the afternoon, and hoisted up on to the condemned cart. He would sit with them but, as Shadbolt wryly remarked, they were not the best of company. Most just sat dour-faced. Others were drunk, a few cried and begged for mercy.
Simon became curious as to why he was excluded from any visit to the condemned cells as well as when the corpses were removed to the derelict wasteland in the cemetery of the Austin Friars. He would always be told to stay by the gallows and take the ropes down, remove the ladders and wait for them to return. Once, he asked the reason for this exclusion. Shadbolt just grinned and shook his head.
‘In time, my son,’ he declared sonorously, ‘in time, you will enjoy the full rights of our profession.’
Friar Martin and the other two quietly agreed so Simon left the matter alone, though he grew uneasy and curious; Shadbolt called his little group the ‘Hanging Crew’ and composed hymns and songs for them to sing. They would meet in the Hangman’s Rest and drink till they heard the chimes at midnight; one of the concessions the hangmen in Gloucester enjoyed was that they were not bound by the curfews and licensing laws. These were convivial meetings and the wine and ale flowed like water while the landlord served the most savoury dishes. On other occasions, particularly around a great feast like Michaelmas, they would stroll through the markets, attend the fairs and be greeted obsequiously by leading citizens and members of the Guild. Shadbolt’s ‘Hanging Crew’ lived under the shadow of death and this gave them an aura much envied by others. The young whores and street-walkers also sought them out and Simon had his fill of tender wenches, ever ready to offer him their favours free.
At times Simon felt as if he had died and descended into hell and was feasting in some dark, sepulchral chamber surrounded by demons. Shadbolt would hire the taproom of the Hangman’s Rest; the whores and street-walkers would be invited, Friar Martin would say grace and the revelry would last into the early hours.
At first the young carpenter was taken by this but, as the weeks dragged on and autumn turned into winter, Simon hid his growing unease. He was barely aware of the days passing. His mind and soul seemed to be centred on that great soaring gibbet in the marketplace, the rumbling of the death cart, the roar of the crowd and those bodies jerking at the end of their ropes. Simon also became increasingly suspicious about the secrecy of Shadbolt, his companions and Friar Martin and quietly wondered at their constant supply of silver. They were paid well but Shadbolt lived like a lord while Merry Face, one night in a drunken stupor, claimed he had enough wealth to buy a house in Westgate. Simon considered going back to Berkeley, but one look at the beggars clustered in the alleyways around the cathedral, and he changed his mind. Winter was coming on and, as Shadbolt reminded him, beggars rarely lived to see springtime.
He did try to meet the love of his life, flaxen-haired Alice Draycott. One day he accosted her in the marketplace, where she was buying needles and a roll of lawn for the feast of All Saints. She was civil enough but distant; she scrutinised him from head to toe and smiled quietly as he jingled the silver in his purse.
‘You look well, Simon. A man of war in your black leather.’ She picked up her purchases and handed them to the maid standing behind her. ‘But I always thought you were a carpenter, a good one, not a common executioner.’
And, before Simon could reply or object, she was past him, marching stiffly away, head held high.
Simon saw her on a few more occasions in the marketplace but she was colder and would stare in his direction as if he didn’t exist. Shadbolt found out about this and teased Simon mercilessly. The carpenter didn’t object; Shadbolt was shrewd enough to detect his
unease and now he could offer the lovely Alice Draycott as the cause of his sadness.
Simon eventually hired his own chamber above a clothier in Capstall Lane, well furnished with bed, mattress, bolsters of goose feathers, quilts and testers, cushions, stools, chests and even a large aumbrie for the clothes he bought. He would often excuse himself from the revelry at the Hangman’s Rest and go back to his chamber. Yet he’d only sit and stare at the coloured canvas painting he’d bought from an artist who worked near the cathedral. Simon came to dread sleep, when nightmares plagued his mind and roused him sweating in the early hours.
One day Simon felt these gruesome nightmares were invading his waking hours. He had gone for a walk and decided to visit the marble sarcophagus of Edward II in the Abbey of St Peter. He was going down Archdeacon Street when a man brushed by him. Simon apologised. The fellow turned slightly and hurried on.
‘By all heaven’s angels!’ Simon gasped.
He was so surprised he stood stock still and, by the time he had recovered his wits, the man had disappeared.
Simon went into an alehouse, a shabby, ill-lit place. He sat absentmindedly in the corner, ordered a cup of mead and looked across at a tallow candle, placed in a barrel in the centre of the alehouse, watching the flame rise and fall in the draught. Simon was certain that the man he had bumped into was a poacher whose execution he had witnessed.
‘It can’t be!’ he whispered.
A chill of fear gripped him. Was his mind beginning to wander? Were these nightmares coming to haunt him? He stared out of the doorway at the fading daylight. Were all the victims he had hanged out there waiting in the gloom? He finished the mead more quickly than he had intended and rose uncertainly to his feet to make his way back through the lonely streets to the Hangman’s Rest.
Shadbolt, as usual, was holding court. Simon smiled and sat on a stool at the corner of the table. The conversation and laughter echoed like a distant sound.
‘Is anything wrong, Simon?’ Shadbolt pushed his face close to his. ‘Are you wetting your breeches, boy?’
‘Leave him alone!’ Friar Martin intervened. ‘Simon, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’ Simon tried to assert himself. ‘What are you talking about?’
Shadbolt winked and tapped his fleshy nose.
‘Just rumours, Simon.’
‘About what?’
‘Do you remember Pie-hot Prunella?’
Simon grinned. How could he forget the plump little strumpet he had danced with so assiduously?
‘She’s married a baron?’ Simon asked, trying to show his good humour.
Shadbolt shook his head. ‘Oh no!’ He loosened the kerchief round his neck and dabbed at the sweat. ‘Pie-hot’s disappeared. And do you know we’ve just been discussing that. Rumours are growing as thick as weeds in a garden that something nasty has come to Gloucester. She’s not the first to disappear and they say those at the Guildhall know all about it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Simon asked.
‘Rumour.’ Shadbolt glanced sideways at Friar Martin. ‘And our good friar here, well, you tell him the story, Martin.’
The friar folded back the voluminous sleeves of his gown. With his merry eyes and bristling beard, the friar looked like some good-natured gnome. Simon often wondered what his order, the Austin Friars, thought of his consorting with hangmen and whores. Martin simply declared that the Church’s place was to be in the company of sinners.
‘Well, I’ve heard rumours.’ He glanced over Simon’s shoulder to ensure no one was listening. ‘There’s talk of witchcraft!’
‘They are always chattering about that,’ Simon protested. ‘Especially in the forest lands. Every alehouse in Berkeley had a ghost story about Satan and his coven meetings in the darkness.’
‘Aye, and some of it’s true,’ Merry Face broke in. He spoke thickly as he always did, the right corner of his mouth fixed and unmoving. ‘We’ve all heard of the fires at Samain and on St Walpurgis’ night.’
‘Never mind that!’ Friar Martin said. ‘What’s more important is that two good brothers of the Dominican Order have come from Blackfriars in London. They’re claiming that they are simply travelling on to Bristol but that’s not true. They are staying longer than I thought. Brother Shadbolt here has seen those same Dominicans at the Guildhall.’
Simon was now paying attention. He’d heard of the Dominicans, eloquent preachers and members of the Inquisition.
‘If the devil’s work is being done it will end on the gallows,’ Shadbolt declared, leaning back against the wall. He tapped his nose. ‘Mark my words, this will keep us very, very busy. So, cheer up, Simon, and tell us all your troubles! Not poor Alice?’
‘It’s not that.’ Simon decided to tell the truth. ‘I had an eerie experience. I was in an alleyway the other side of Gloucester. Now, I admit daylight was fading . . .’
‘And?’
‘I knocked into a man. He turned and I glimpsed his face.’ Simon paused while the tapster served more tankards of ale. ‘Before God, I don’t tell a lie!’
‘Come on lad!’
‘About two weeks ago we hanged a poacher,’ Simon continued in a rush. He looked at Friar Martin. He repressed a chill of fear, for the friar was staring at him hard-eyed. ‘I’d swear on oath, on the sacrament, that it was the man we hanged. But that’s not possible, is it? I mean, a man who’s been hanged can’t come back?’
He expected guffaws of laughter to greet his revelation but his companions stared coldly at him. Simon gulped nervously.
‘I mean, it’s ridiculous. Once a man’s hanged, he’s hanged, is he not?’
Shadbolt abruptly laughed but Simon wondered why the smile never reached his eyes.
‘It’s that Alice.’ The chief hangman clapped his hands. ‘She’s turned your wits at last!’
Chapter 4
Simon found the atmosphere of their meetings grew more strained over the next week. So much so, that it was almost a relief when Shadbolt told him to take the execution cart and one of the dray horses across the Severn. He was to go into the Forest of Dean to buy supplies, planks of timber and other requirements, for the gaol and scaffold at Gloucester.
‘Take your time.’ Shadbolt clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy the country air. Try and clear your wits.’
Simon did enjoy it. Autumn had turned the leaves a golden brown. The air was fresh but not icy-cold and the forest on either side of the pathway was alive with game. Birdsong rang clear and far-carrying. The rain had stopped and most of the days were crisp and dry.
Simon did take his time. He even made a visit to Berkeley and spent the night in the Cross Keys tavern where those who had known him in former days gaped, open-mouthed, at his new-found wealth. He visited the castle, seeking out friends, but found there was nothing like good fortune to turn men’s faces sour. He returned to the forest, buying up supplies, stopping at the different alehouses for refreshment or to hire a straw bed on the taproom floor.
About six days after leaving Gloucester, Simon realised it was time to return. He took the trackway down to the Severn. The gentle, swaying movement of the cart and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves lulled him into a half-sleep. The day was a fine one and, to stop himself dozing, as well as slake his thirst, Simon left the main trackway, going up to an evil-looking hovel which served as an alehouse. The place was really no more than a cottage, wattle-daubed walls and a thatched roof with an ale bush pushed under the eaves. He hobbled his horse and went inside. Two narrow windows provided light. Smoke from the hearth in the centre mingled with the rancid smell of a thick, tallow candle. Simon would have left but he had made the journey. He ignored the hens standing on the side of the vats soiling the wood with their droppings and asked for a stoup of ale. The harridan of an alewife served it, her manner surly. She banged the tankard down and flounced away. To Simon’s surprise the ale proved tangy and fresh. He looked around; the other customers were charcoal burners and a wandering chapman. The latter
sat in the corner, his broad-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes. He clicked his dirty fingers and ate some bread from a pewter dish. Simon watched him out of the corner of his eye, noticing that every so often the man would pour a little ale on the meat and bread to soften it up, kneading it with his knife. The fellow kept his head down. Eventually he finished and put the plate on the floor. The alewife came by and almost slipped on the greasy platter.
‘No Teeth!’ she shrieked.
‘Shut your gob!’ the man snarled back and gazed fearfully around.
Simon looked into his tankard, pretending to be half-asleep though the hair curled on the nape of his neck. This was the second time he’d met a man supposed to be hanged. Was it a coincidence, mere trickery?
‘I’m sorry, Cuthbert,’ The alewife almost shouted the chapman’s name. She brought across a stoup of ale. ‘Here, drink this free!’
Simon was convinced that the man opposite was the former hangman of Gloucester, supposedly executed for killing a man in a tavern brawl. He ordered another stoup of ale. The time dragged on. When eventually the chapman got up to leave, Simon followed. He unhobbled the horse. The chapman passed him.
‘Sir!’ Simon called. ‘Whither are you going?’
‘South to Bristol.’ No Teeth kept his head turned away.
‘You are welcome to a free ride,’ Simon said. ‘But what are you selling?’
‘Gewgaws, ribbons for your beloved, or needles for your wife.’
‘Sit up beside me,’ Simon invited. ‘Come on! I may even buy!’
The chapman needed no second invitation. He climbed on the cart. Simon grasped the reins, gently easing the horse and cart along the muddy trackway on to the road down to the Severn. All the time he chattered about how he was a peasant farmer out at Berkeley, now intent on selling the supply of wood he had bought in one of the markets at Bristol. The chapman heard him out but, when Simon asked him where he had been and what his business was, the fellow only grunted. Simon continued chattering. The chapman asked if they could stop. He turned his face, wizened and dirty, and displayed red, sore gums.
