The Hangman's Hymn

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I’ve drunk so much bloody ale,’ he rasped. ‘I need to piss!’

  Simon watched him go into the trees. He got down from his seat and took out a small arbalest, slipping a bolt into the groove. He then stood beside the cart. The chapman came back, tying his points, and climbed up. Simon went round the back of the cart and came up beside the chapman. He winched the cord back and held the crossbow up. No Teeth’s jaw sagged.

  ‘For the love of God!’ he protested. ‘I am only a poor chapman! I have neither gold nor silver, only a few pennies!’

  ‘I’m not interested in your coins or what you carry,’ Simon replied. ‘But let me introduce myself. Simon Cotterill, once a carpenter, now assistant hangman in the King’s city of Gloucester, one of Master Shadbolt’s hanging crew.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ No Teeth’s agitation, however, was more than apparent. His hands trembled and he swallowed so hard that the Adam’s apple in his scrawny throat bounced and jerked. Simon came closer and nipped the back of No Teeth’s vein-streaked hand.

  ‘I don’t believe in miracles, No Teeth, but here we have a man who should be dead, mouldering in his grave, feeding a legion of worms. Yet you are sitting here as bright as a spark. Now you can protest your innocence, in which case I’ll take you down to the nearest village and ask the constable to hold you.’

  ‘I’ll kill that prattling alewife!’ No Teeth groaned, hands covering his face.

  ‘Or,’ Simon replied, digging one hand into his purse, ‘I can give you a silver piece and let you go, on one condition! You tell me the truth.’

  No Teeth looked up at the trees.

  ‘I made a mistake. I should have gone into Wales and stayed there.’ He glanced at Cotterill, his eyes full of tears. ‘But I was born here,’ he whined. ‘I became homesick.’

  ‘That can be cured,’ Simon replied.

  No Teeth shrugged. ‘Then get back on the seat, put down the crossbow. You are stronger and brawnier than I am. I’ll tell you my tale, then I’ll be gone.’

  Simon arrived back in Gloucester late the following evening. He took the cart and horse to the stable behind the Guildhall and made his way to the Hangman’s Rest. Shadbolt took one look at Cotterill’s face and told Flyhead to clear the whores and the other hangers-on out of the taproom.

  ‘What is it, Simon? Come!’ Shadbolt leaned over and filled a tankard. ‘You look like a cat who’s taken the cream.’

  ‘I’ve found out,’ Simon said. ‘I know now why I’m never allowed to visit the prisoners or attend their funerals in the cemetery of the Austin Friars.’

  Shadbolt closed his eyes. Flyhead scraped back his stool.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that.’ Simon half turned his head. ‘Flyhead, sit where I can see you and you, Merry Face. Friar Martin, I expect no interference! My wits are not wandering,’ he continued. ‘I did see that poacher, the one who’s supposed to be hanged. He didn’t die, did he?’

  ‘Oh come!’

  ‘Oh come, come you, Master Shadbolt. I’ve also met No Teeth. He was drunk and garrulous as ever. He was hiding in an alehouse in the Forest of Dean.’

  ‘The little dog turd!’ Merry Face retorted. ‘He was supposed to be across the Severn in Wales, either there or Cornwall.’

  Shadbolt chewed the corner of his lip.

  ‘What are you going to do, Simon?’ he asked. ‘Turn us over to the sheriff’s men?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  The hangmen looked uncomfortable, except for Flyhead who was just gaping open-mouthed.

  ‘It’s really an act of mercy,’ Friar Martin explained, his fat face a sheen of sweat. He had lost his usual, jovial ways.

  ‘An act of mercy?’ Simon asked. ‘And one, I wager, which also brings you great wealth.’

  Shadbolt put his tankard down.

  ‘Enough.’ He looked round the table. ‘Sooner or later Simon was to join us. I suppose No Teeth has told you the truth, so let me tell you it once again.’ He wetted dry lips. ‘We are hangmen, Simon, the city’s executioners. We carry out lawful punishment against reprobates, outlaws and wolfs-heads but you’ve seen some of them. Why should a man hang because he takes a plump deer and lets the juices squirt into his chidren’s mouths? There are two groups: those who deserve God’s mercy and pay a little and those who deserve God’s justice but can pay more.’

  ‘And who decides?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I do,’ Friar Martin said. ‘I always visit the condemned in their cell. It began about three years ago. There was a young boy of fifteen, he’d taken one of the King’s swans from the Severn. His father was a trader. The poor man was beside himself with grief, the boy was frightened out of his wits because he would hang. I came and talked to Master Shadbolt, the father offered one mark.’

  ‘I agreed,’ Shadbolt interrupted.

  ‘I heard the boy’s confession.’ Friar Martin took up the story. ‘On the morning of his execution I gave him a cup of wine with an opiate in it, which made him drowsy, his body slack. Beneath his jerkin I fashioned a stout leather collar. Show him, Master Shadbolt.’

  The chief executioner fumbled beneath the table and brought out his sack. He took out four collars of varying lengths. They had been cunningly devised, the leather thick and stitched. Simon felt them; they were reinforced, padded with a strong heavy clasp on the back. Along the edge they had curving hooks, and looked like the collars fastened on a mastiff or guard dog.

  ‘Had those made specially,’ Shadbolt said. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’

  And, before Simon could object, Shadbolt was up behind him. The collar went round his neck, the clasp was secured.

  ‘Now!’

  A piece of rope was looped over Simon’s head; his hand went to his dagger hilt.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Shadbolt scoffed. ‘I’m not going to kill you! See, Simon, how the rope fits on the collar beneath the hooks. The noose knot, which will go round behind your left ear, will be blocked by the clasp; the collar itself will be hidden under the jerkin.’

  ‘And by the mask over the felon’s head?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Precisely.’

  Shadbolt was tightening the rope; Simon felt pressure on his throat but the collar held firm.

  ‘It takes the weight.’ Friar Martin smiled.

  ‘But, surely someone would detect this?’ Simon put his hands behind his neck and undid the clasp.

  ‘Well,’ Shadbolt explained, ‘as you have suspected, the collar itself is hidden by the sack and the condemned man or woman’s jerkin or gown. Moreover, people are not looking at a felon’s neck but his legs, his body. Now, when we have decided that a victim will be saved, the noose is secured round the collar. The felon is pushed off the ladder. Believe me, Simon, the shock of that alone is enough to make a man dance, jerk and swing.’

  ‘It is still very painful,’ Flyhead added. He was acting uneasy, his face pallid and sweating. ‘The muscles in the neck and shoulder, I understand, ache for days afterwards. It’s an experience no one ever forgets.’

  ‘Now,’ Friar Martin leaned forward, rubbing his hands. ‘Only a few have the sense to hang still. I’ll be honest, most faint in a dead swoon. Overcome by shock.’

  ‘And so the bodies are cut down,’ Simon continued. ‘And thrown in a cart and covered with a sheet. Wouldn’t anyone notice? There are archers, tipstaffs?’

  ‘It’s strange.’ Shadbolt smiled. ‘People will turn up to see a man hang. Yet, have you noticed, Simon, how frightened they are of a corpse? They can’t leave fast enough. The poor prisoners lie unconscious in the cart and we take them off to the death house at the Austin Friars. On a few occasions we’ve made a mistake. God knows why but the heart fails and the person is truly dead.’

  ‘But on most occasions?’ Simon asked.

  ‘On most occasions the collar is taken off. They are revived and payment is made. Friar Martin here gives them fresh clothing and, as you know, the Forest of Dean is only across the river.’

  ‘An
d who will object?’ Merry Face laughed, a strange neighing sound. ‘The felon? He does not want to be taken again. His family?’

  ‘And if suspicion is ever raised,’ Shadbolt added, ‘we can always say something went wrong. The condemned man has had the fright of his life, he is only too eager to leave the area. The family, if he has any, are happy while we are considerably richer.’

  ‘So, many of the graves at Austin Friars are empty?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No.’ Friar Martin smiled from behind his tankard. ‘Don’t forget we have a hospital there for the poor and infirm. After a corpse has lain in the earth for a few weeks it looks like any other.’

  ‘And what happens?’ Simon asked, ‘if the Justices order the body to be gibbeted outside the city, placed in a steel cage for all to see?’

  ‘Yes, that can pose problems,’ Shadbolt admitted. ‘But, as Friar Martin said, one corpse looks like another, especially if it’s coated in thick tar.’

  ‘And you make a profit?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Silver and gold. What you’ve been eating and drinking over the last few weeks.’ Shadbolt leaned forward and placed his great paw on Simon’s shoulder. ‘And now you are part of this, Simon, you’re one of us, aren’t you?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ Friar Martin added. ‘Drink the cup with us, Simon. What does it matter? Do you really want to see men hang? Have the life choked out of them? Don’t worry, sooner or later you would have been brought in.’ He shrugged. ‘It was just a matter of time, of making sure.’

  ‘And no one suspects?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Suspects!’ Shadbolt laughed. ‘No one suspects, Simon. It’s been done before and it will be done again. Are you one of us, yea or nay?’

  Simon glanced round. Flyhead was glaring at him. Merry Face had his hands on the hilt of his dagger. Friar Martin was drumming his fingers on the table.

  What does it matter, Simon thought. He felt a great sense of relief, a weight being lifted off his shoulders. Over the last few weeks, he thought he had participated in the deaths of others but now . . .

  ‘How many escape?’ he asked. ‘Is there a list?’

  Shadbolt tapped the side of his head.

  ‘In here, young Cotterill! For every five condemned, let us say two walk free.’

  ‘But you are leaving yourself at risk,’ Simon persisted. ‘I saw a man in the alleyway and I met No Teeth!’

  ‘That’s because you’ve sharp wits, Simon,’ Friar Martin replied. ‘Others wouldn’t look and, if they saw anyone, they’d dismiss it as a fanciful notion.’ The friar’s face grew stern. ‘But I tell you this, when we reach an understanding with the prisoners, we enter into a contract. They put as much distance between themselves and Gloucester as possible: the two you met broke that contract.’

  ‘What Friar Martin is saying,’ Flyhead said as he glowered evilly, ‘is that if we meet them again, we kill them. The poacher should have more sense and, as for No Teeth, did he tell you what he was doing?’

  ‘Yes he did.’ Simon, more relaxed, sipped from the tankard. He lifted a hand. ‘And, before you ask again, Master Shadbolt, I am in your company. What you decide I agree upon, that is my blood oath! Life or death you have my word!’

  Simon could feel the tension ease. Friar Martin called for the tankards to be filled and more candles to be brought. Once this had been done he leaned forward.

  ‘You were saying, Simon, about No Teeth?’

  ‘He claimed to have a little silver left,’ Simon told them. ‘And he had come back to the Forest of Dean to hide.’

  Simon was about to continue when there was a pounding on the door. Shadbolt put a finger to his lips. The taverner went across and drew back the bolts. A tipstaff entered, sweaty-faced and breathless.

  ‘Master Shadbolt, you and your companions, your presence is demanded at the Guildhall!’

  ‘At this hour?’ Shadbolt asked.

  ‘My lord mayor is insistent. You are to go there now. I am to accompany you.’

  The company rose, groaning and protesting. Shadbolt looked worried and stared narrow-eyed at Simon who shook his head.

  ‘I have said nothing,’ told them quietly. ‘You have nothing to fear.’

  They put on their war belts, grabbed their cloaks and followed the tipstaff out into the alleyway. He hurried ahead, along the lanes and runnels, the hangmen of Gloucester trailing behind, hooded and cowled, mysterious in the glow from the lanterns outside the houses they passed. Now and again they would be disturbed by some beggar pleading for bread. On one occasion they all withdrew into a narrow recess to allow a group of lepers, dressed in soiled white sheets, to go by clanging their bells and whining through decayed lips for alms. Dogs barked at their passage. Cats scampered from the midden. Rats squealed and scuttled away. They crossed the deserted marketplace; only the occasional light from a window or the sound of music from some wealthy household broke the silence.

  At the Guildhall, however, all was activity. Men-at-arms and archers guarded the entrances and courtyards. The wooden wainscoted passageways were filled with retainers. Shadbolt could get no sense from any of them. The tipstaff led them up the main staircase and into the council chamber. This long, spacious room was now lit by cresset torches and candelabra; beeswax candles stood along oval tables where the mayor and two of his councillors were gathered. Behind the mayor stood the sergeant-at-arms of the city dressed in half-armour. Simon caught the eye of Master Draycott. He held the alderman’s gaze and was pleased to see the fear in that glance.

  ‘What have we here?’ Flyhead whispered. ‘A council meeting at the dead of night? Has the King died? Has a rebellion broken out along the Marches?’

  The mayor beat his knuckles on the table. He glanced over his shoulder at the sergeant-at-arms.

  ‘Clear the chamber!’

  The men-at-arms and archers were ushered out. Only the sergeant and executioners remained. The mayor waited, staring down the table at Shadbolt.

  ‘Master Shadbolt,’ he began. ‘How many men are here? Including yourselves?’

  Shadbolt counted. ‘Why, my lord mayor, eight.’

  ‘And if I held a court,’ the mayor asked. ‘I would be judge, yes?’

  Shadbolt nodded.

  ‘And Master Draycott here would be prosecutor of the King’s court?’

  ‘If you say so, my lord mayor.’

  ‘While John Shipler,’ the mayor indicated the ferret-faced little merchant swathed in furs who sat on his left, ‘he could offer whatever defence the prisoners wanted?’

  ‘What prisoners, my lord mayor?’

  ‘In a while you’ll see. But tell me, Master Shadbolt, how many would be left?’

  ‘Why, my lord mayor, five men.’

  ‘Five men good and true.’ The mayor smiled thinly. ‘It’s enough!’ He snapped his fingers and looked over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant-at-arms, bring up the prisoners! Master Shadbolt, find stools for you and your companions!’

  The hangmen did. Simon felt strange. Here he was at the dead of night in the council chamber of Gloucester and, if the lord mayor was to be believed, a secret trial was to take place.

  The door opened and two Dominicans, like ghosts in their black and white habits, came into the room. They sat on a bench just within the doorway, arms crossed. A short while later the door was flung open and the sergeant-at-arms pushed three hooded figures into the chamber.

  At first Simon didn’t know whether they were male or female, because their faces were hidden deep in their cowls. They stumbled rather than walked. All turned to look at them. The sergeant-at-arms pulled the hoods back and Simon felt a chill of fear. The one in the centre was stooped, with steel-grey hair framing a lean, cold face with hooded eyes, hooked nose and a twisted, sneering mouth. The other two were younger, plumper, but were similar in face and demeanour. Their black hair straggled down to their shoulders and they had high cheekbones and slanted eyes. They looked defiant and, in spite of their bruised faces and bound hands, unabashed b
y the council.

  The more he looked at them, the more Simon felt a sense of dread, a cold, numbing fear. As a hangman he had been in the presence of murderers, men who took human life at the drop of a coin, who could slit a throat and then sleep as innocently as a babe. These three were different. They had apparently been rough-handled by the gaoler and soldiers but they stood arrogant, undismayed by the great gleaming sword which lay down the centre of the table, its sharp point directed towards them.

  ‘Why are we here?’ the older one sneered.

  The mayor brought his fist crashing down upon the table.

  ‘How dare you?’ he snarled. ‘How dare you treat this court with such contumacy!’

  ‘So, we are being tried,’ the old one riposted. ‘In which case, where is our defence? Where is our accuser? Where is the jury? And, above all,’ she added maliciously. ‘Where is our judge?’

  ‘I am your judge,’ the mayor replied. ‘And there are enough good men and true to hear the evidence!’

  ‘Men! Yet, whether they be good or true is another matter.’ She stared round, slyly sneering at Friar Martin. Then, for some strange reason, her gaze rested on Simon. The young man wished he could run, flee. The old crone’s face seemed to change, grow younger, though the eyes remained ancient in their sin. She blinked and her gaze moved on. Simon felt as if he had been brushed by the angel of death. ‘What crimes have we committed?’ She jerked her head back, staring down at the mayor.

  ‘Murder,’ the mayor replied. ‘The practice of the black rites: witchcraft; the worship of demons!’

  The old woman laughed. ‘You have no proof.’

  ‘What is this?’ Shadbolt whispered into Simon’s ear.

  One of the younger women turned. ‘Silence in court!’ she jibed.

  Simon caught her gaze. He felt repelled by the sneering malevolence in the young woman’s eyes. She wasn’t beautiful, not even comely, but she exuded power. A woman used to riding men, satisfying their wants, be they physical or spiritual.