The Hangman's Hymn

by Paul Doherty

  ‘You did hear someone, didn’t you, Simon?’

  ‘Yes,’ the carpenter replied. He smiled; only he had heard the wife of Bath use his first name.

  ‘I knew Alderman Draycott,’ she whispered.

  The carpenter wiped his brow on the back of his hand.

  ‘Come sir!’ mine host shouted. ‘We’ll fill our tankards once more! And then, master carpenter, take us back into this dark and tangled tale of yours!’

  Chapter 9

  Merry Face sat in the alehouse on a trackway leading down to the London road. For the first time since he had left Gloucester he relaxed, allowing the sweat to cool, sitting back against the plaster wall. He stared up at the hams and onions pegged from the rafters to be cured in the smoke which curled from the log fire in the hearth.

  Merry Face felt weary but happy. In the stable yard an ostler, for a penny, stood guard over his sumpter pony and horse. Merry Face supped from his blackjack of ale, allowing the liquid to soothe his sore gums. A tavern wench came across with a trencher of roast duck diced and covered in a mint sauce, an earthenware dish of vegetables and some freshly baked bread. Merry Face smiled but the woman, frightened, backed away.

  He sighed. It was the same wherever he went. At least in Gloucester he had been someone, a hangman with the power of life and death. He fingered the money belt beneath his jerkin. He had collected every penny he had earned and, when he reached London or some other city, he’d find a trade.

  Merry Face ordered a fresh tankard and ate his meal. He congratulated himself on leaving Gloucester. He would never forget that midnight glade or the awesome occurrences in the derelict hunting lodge. Three witches, undoubtedly hanged, had now returned from the pit of hell to plague their lives. He’d wondered what to do but the news of Alderman Shipler’s death had finally unnerved him. Merry Face had collected every penny he owned, sold the meagre sticks he called furniture, bought a money belt, a sumpter pony and a harnessed horse. He would never go back to Gloucester!

  The former hangman ate hungrily, pushing the bread and the tasty flesh into his mouth, chewing slowly because of the tightness in his cheek and jaw. He drained the tankard and, against his better judgement, ordered two more pots of ale. After he had eaten, Merry Face dozed and woke with a start. He looked across at the hour candle on its iron spigot near the scullery door and swore under his breath. He must have been asleep for an hour. He pushed away the table, collected his cloak and war belt and strode back into the yard. The horse boy was there sunning himself. Merry Face paid him a penny, collected his mounts and walked down the track towards the main highway.

  The rutted path twisted and snaked among the trees. The sun was fairly strong but, every time he glanced to his right and left, memories flooded back of that midnight glade and those three gruesome corpses hanging by their necks. What happened if his companions were right? That the Ratoliers now had power to go wherever they wished?

  The forest was silent. Now and again there would be the occasional caw of a rook or a flurry in the bracken. Merry Face stopped and looked back along the trackway. Perhaps he should have waited for someone else to leave; there again, if he moved quickly enough, he would soon be on the main highway enjoying the jostling throng. He would be safe there. He could hide among the pedlars, chapmen, itinerant quacks, wandering scholars, merchants and pilgrims. Then he turned a corner and his heart leapt into his mouth. Two figures blocked his way, hoods over their heads, vizards across their faces. Merry Face’s hand went to his dagger but he hastily withdrew it as a crossbow bolt smacked into the earth before him.

  ‘I am armed!’ he called out. ‘And there are others coming behind me!’

  ‘You always were a liar, Merry Face!’

  The smaller of the two figures stepped forward, pushing back his hood, pulling down the vizard.

  ‘No Teeth!’ Merry Face exclaimed. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To London.’

  ‘Are you now? And the others, are they going with you?’

  ‘I don’t care what they do,’ Merry Face replied.

  ‘And how many people have you told?’ No Teeth asked. He winked and smiled slyly.

  Merry Face swallowed hard and glanced at the other hooded, cowled assailant. The man just stood there. Merry Face repressed a shiver. A crackle in the bracken made him wonder if the Ratoliers, too, were near. He stared at his former companion. No Teeth didn’t look like a ghost. In fact he looked as alive and as ugly as he ever did.

  ‘How many people know what happened?’ No Teeth’s companion demanded. ‘Just answer the question – that’s all we want to know.’

  ‘We haven’t discussed it with anyone.’ Merry Face dropped the reins and held his hands up. ‘I swear on my life!’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ the sombre figure replied. ‘Your oath’s accepted.’

  He released the catch and the crossbow quarrel found its mark deep in Merry Face’s heart.

  Simon had left the anchorite and returned to his lodgings. He felt relieved at the advice the anchorite had given him. At Brother Edward’s insistence, he had gone to the Abbey church where he had been shriven and taken the sacrament. He had then broken his fast in one of the hostelries which served the pilgrims who visited Edward II’s tomb in the Abbey and made his decision. He would leave Gloucester, at least for a while. It might be a coward’s way but, he reasoned, he had done no wrong and what could he do against the evil which confronted him?

  He went out and bought saddlebags, panniers and some new clothes, and drew the silver and gold he had banked with a goldsmith in Iron Leg Lane, supped at a tavern then retired early to bed. He had no thoughts about Alice or anything which had brought him to Gloucester. He just wanted to be away. The city gates would be opened at first light and Simon had decided to travel south. Perhaps even take ship abroad. Yes, he could do that. From Calais he could wander the roads, as he had sufficient monies and could always work to earn his keep.

  Simon slept fitfully. He’d wake up, his hand going beneath the bolster to the dagger he had concealed there. Or he checked the candles under their metallic caps which he had lit and placed around the chamber. Simon was afraid of the darkness. When the shadows closed in, he recalled Agnes Ratolier’s face.

  He woke just before dawn to the sound of horses and the clink of armour from the street below. The candles had guttered out, the chamber was cold. Simon got up and tiptoed to the small casement window. The alley below was thronged with men-at-arms, archers, city bailiffs and the mayor’s sergeant-at-arms. Simon turned away. What on earth would they want with him? Or was it something else? As if in answer there was a crash of footsteps on the stairs outside and a hammering on the door. Simon hastily pulled on a shirt and removed the dagger from beneath his bolster.

  ‘Open up!’ a voice roared. ‘Open up in the name of the King!’

  Simon raced back towards the window. Men-at-arms still thronged there. Now some were looking up. He glanced fearfully at the door. He had bolted and latched it the night before.

  ‘Why?’ he called out.

  ‘Open up or we’ll break the door down!’

  Simon glanced quickly around. There was no other way out. Something hard crashed against the door, it buckled on its hinges and lock. He could hear the landlord’s vain imprecations and pleas to be more careful. Simon pulled back the bolts and turned the key. The door was flung open, men-at-arms poured in. He was knocked back against the wall. A leather gauntlet smashed into his face, cutting his lip and jarring his head.

  ‘Put the bastard in chains!’ a voice roared.

  Simon had his arms roughly seized. Iron clasps were placed on his wrists and ankles. He tried to protest but someone seized him by the hair, dragged him to the bed and threw him down. Armed men milled about the room.

  ‘In God’s name!’ Simon cried. ‘What have I done? Where is your warrant?’

  Again his hair was seized. He was made to sit up and found himself st
aring full into the face of Sir Humphrey Baddleton, who tapped Simon on the cheek with a small scroll of parchment.

  ‘You are Simon Cotterill, carpenter, former hangman of this city?’

  ‘You know I am!’ Simon snarled. ‘You employed me!’

  ‘Not for murder.’

  Simon’s jaw sagged. ‘I’ve done no wrong!’

  The mayor’s watery blue eyes remained hard.

  ‘Merry Face is dead,’ he accused. ‘Taken by a crossbow bolt near the London road.’

  ‘I’ve been in Gloucester,’ Simon stuttered. ‘I’ve never left the city!’

  ‘That’s not what we hear. We can produce witnesses that you were at the house Merry Face visited.’

  Simon gazed round at the men-at-arms overturning boxes and coffers, shaking out the saddlebags he had so carefully packed.

  ‘And then, of course, there’s Alderman Shipler.’

  ‘I didn’t even know him!’ Simon cried.

  ‘Sir!’ The sergeant-at-arms came forward. In his hands he carried a heavy brocaded belt made out of high-quality Spanish leather with a beautifully ornamented brass buckle. The mayor grabbed it and thrust it under Simon’s nose.

  ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life!’

  The sergeant-at-arms squatted down next to the mayor. He took off his helmet and rubbed stubby fingers through his close-cropped hair. A soldier’s face, thin and harsh, with a scar over his right eye. The stubble on his cheeks and chin made him look all the more sinister. He poked Simon viciously in the chest.

  ‘Is it yours?’ he repeated.

  ‘I’ve never seen it.’

  The sergeant-at-arms drew his hand back and smacked Simon across the face.

  ‘You are a liar, a thief and a murderer!’

  He snatched the gold chain from Simon’s neck, and joined his companions in their search. Simon watched as they began to pocket valuables. He made to rise but the mayor pushed him back. He held the belt up, tapping the leather tongue against Simon’s cheek.

  ‘Alderman Shipler was found hanging in his paramour’s bed chamber! His belt and the money pouch he carried were missing.’

  Simon felt his heart sink. A clammy sweat broke out on his body.

  ‘What trickery is this?’ he gasped. ‘I did not know Alderman Shipler. I am innocent of any crime.’

  The mayor got to his feet.

  ‘You can tell that to the justices.’

  Simon swung to his feet in a clatter of chains.

  ‘I know what this is about.’ He pushed by the mayor and lunged at the sergeant-at-arms. ‘It’s the Ratoliers, isn’t it? It’s your way to silence us!’

  The sergeant-at-arms brought his fist back. Simon tried to move sideways but the blow caught him full in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious to the floor.

  It was dark when he awoke. The pains in his head were intense and he realised his right eye was half-closed. He lifted his hand and tenderly touched the swelling bruise. He could move but the chains were still on his ankles and wrists. He was on a bed with wet sacking; a pitch torch was stuck high in the wall. Simon glanced around and sniffed. The stench was offensive. A grille high in the wall afforded some light. Sounds from the dungeons, the murmur of voices from the passageway outside, filtered in. He closed his eyes and groaned. He must be in the cells beneath the Guildhall: dark, fetid holes. He struggled to his feet. A dish stood on the rickety table but a rat was already gnawing at the slops it contained. Simon knocked it away.

  ‘I am innocent!’ he screamed. ‘This is not right!’

  The rat scampered away, squeaking in protest. Simon lunged at it but he missed, tripped and crashed to the floor. When he scrambled to his knees he felt pain and sore from head to toe. His tongue was swollen and he had a raging thirst.

  ‘I’m innocent!’ he screamed again and beat his fists against the mildewed walls.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ a voice shouted back.

  A bearded face appeared at the grille.

  ‘Shut up, lad!’ the turnkey warned.

  ‘I’m thirsty!’

  The key turned in the lock; the gaoler came in. He held a pitcher of water to Simon’s mouth. It tasted brackish but he drank greedily.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Simon recognised the turnkey, a burly oaf whom Shadbolt had nicknamed the bullock.

  ‘Sad times, eh, Master Cotterill? They say you killed old Merry Face, not to mention Alderman Shipler. You are to stand trial before the justices tomorrow. If you are found guilty . . .’ The bullock’s ugly face creased into what he thought must be a smile of sympathy. ‘They have two new hangmen.’

  ‘Where’s Shadbolt? Flyhead?’

  ‘Can’t say.’ The turnkey got to his feet. ‘Disappeared like puffs of smoke they have. Ignored the mayor’s summons.’ He walked to the door. ‘Do you have any money?’

  Simon shook his head.

  ‘Ah well.’ The turnkey jangled his keys. ‘For old times’ sake I’ll bring you some food. I’ll also ask the hangman to make sure you drop quickly.’

  The door slammed shut.

  ‘I haven’t been tried yet!’ Simon bawled.

  ‘Makes no difference, lad,’ the reply came. ‘From what I gather, hanged they want you, so hanged you will be!’

  The bullock strode away. Simon dozed. The gaoler came back with a mess of meat and bread and a battered cup of wine which must have contained some potion; Simon immediately fell asleep and had to be roughly aroused the next morning.

  He thought he was dreaming, that this was all part of a nightmare. He was hustled up into the Guildhall court, dragged and chained to the bar before the justices’ table. The mayor was one of his judges, the sergeant-at-arms the other while the third was some doddery, local dignitary who seemed half-asleep. The witnesses, whom Simon had never seen before, came forward to say he had been at a tavern where Merry Face had visited just before his death. Merry Face’s horse had also been found in a stable frequented by Simon. The ostler claimed the carpenter had brought it there and tried to sell it to him. Next Alderman Shipler’s belt was produced. Simon tried to protest but he was told to shut up. He felt dazed, tired and weak, the courtroom was hot and packed with spectators. He was sure he glimpsed Alice Draycott’s face.

  ‘This is nonsense!’ he cried after the sergeant-at-arms had summarised the evidence against him. ‘I am innocent of any crime!’

  A soldier smacked him in the mouth. Simon stood horrified as sentence of death was passed. ‘For the foulsome murder of three people, theft and a long list of heinous crimes.’ The mayor, his eyes steely and hard, glared down at Simon.

  ‘You have no hope of pardon,’ he rasped. ‘Sentence will be carried out immediately, before dusk this evening.’

  Simon was pushed from the court, through the hallway, down the steps and thrown back into his fetid cell. A priest came to visit him. Simon didn’t know who he was. He tried to mumble his confession but remembered he had no sins to confess for hadn’t he been shriven the previous day in St Peter’s?

  Late in the afternoon the new hangman visited him, a tall, thickset man who declared he’d filled the same post at Colchester in Essex. He crouched down and tapped Simon’s battered face.

  ‘You know what will happen, lad, so no nonsense please.’ He scrutinised Simon from head to toe. ‘Go up the ladder high.’ he urged. ‘I’ll push you off. It will be quicker that way.’

  Some food and wine were brought and, as soon as he had eaten, Simon regretted it. He felt drowsy, his eyes kept closing while his stomach pitched and heaved. He was aware of the rats scrambling over his legs. Vainly, he lashed out against them. Why was the wine drugged? He stared up at the fading light seeping through the grille. Of course, the mayor and his cronies didn’t want any chatter. They wanted him to die quickly, no speeches, no declamations.

  A short while later Simon heard footsteps in the passageway outside. The door was unlocked and thrown open. The hangman and his assist
ant, garbed in black, red masks over their faces, bustled in. Simon, just about conscious, was hustled to his feet. He glimpsed men-at-arms milling about. He was dragged out, up the steps, chains still clanking round his wrists and ankles, and thrown into a cart. Guards climbed in after him. He heard voices, the crack of the whip and the gates to the Guildhall creak open.

  The grisly cavalcade was soon making its way along the cobbled streets to the hanging ground near High Cross. A small crowd had gathered. Some dirt and refuse was thrown. Simon glanced up; the sky was grey and lonely. Memories jumbled in his fevered brain. He was a boy playing beside the stream or going up to Berkeley Castle. Vague memories of his parents, of the cottage they had lived in; his coming to Gloucester; Draycott’s rejection of him and the hurly-burly world of the executioners. Now he was going to hang. Simon felt a spurt of rage. He had hardly lived. He had done no wrong. He had been trapped between the evil Ratoliers and the cunning politics of the mayor. Why were they so insistent on finding him guilty? Or hanging him for crimes they knew he was innocent of?

  They entered the area round High Cross. Simon saw the great scaffold soaring above him, the high narrow ladder. He barely had time to reflect before he was dragged off the cart. The crowd was thin, a few curiosity-seekers; the rest had decided to stay away from the threatening rain. Simon was aware of faces and the murmur of voices, the steep houses rising up above him, black-timbered and white-plastered. Some of the mullion-glassed windows were shut, others open. A woman was leaning out of one of them, resting her cheek on her hand.