The Hangman's Hymn

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I doubt if she’ll survive,’ Simon declared. ‘The coven is nearly destroyed and she had little time to take any wealth with her.’

  He returned to the mouth of the cave and looked down at the funeral pyre. The flames were now dying, the foresters becoming more and more drunk by the hour as they feasted and revelled in their victory. Simon wished to be away. Flyhead, too, now convinced he was safe, wanted to return to Gloucester.

  ‘I’m going to collect everything I have,’ he said. ‘And move to the far corners of the earth. You’ll never catch me again in the Forest of Dean.’

  The chief verderer was only too willing to help. Now the Ratoliers had been caught and killed, Simon could see they wished to keep most of the plunder for themselves. Three guides were provided with instructions to bring carts from Gloucester.

  ‘We’ll camp here for the night,’ the chief verderer said. ‘The cart should be with us by tomorrow afternoon. Tell my lord mayor we will not enter Gloucester.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Discretion is still important. We’ll journey down to the village of Stroud. There’s a tavern there, the Flambard. If he wishes his share of the booty, he can come and collect it!’

  An hour later, Simon, Flyhead and three of the verderers left Savernake. The journey back was swift and uneventful. This time the verderers took them by forest paths and trackways and, early the following morning, they reached the outskirts of Gloucester. As they were about to enter Northgate, Flyhead plucked Simon by the arm and stretched his hand out.

  ‘I’ll be leaving you now, Simon.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’ll stay one more day in Gloucester but this time tomorrow I hope to be out of this city. I’ll shake its dust from my feet.’

  ‘And where will you go?’

  Flyhead pulled a face. ‘Probably north. There’s a lot of business on the Scottish march for a former priest, soldier and hangman.’

  ‘You should take care,’ Simon warned. ‘We still have to hunt down the dominus, not to mention the last Ratolier woman.’

  ‘They are finished,’ Flyhead scoffed.

  Simon clasped his hand and sadly watched as this final companion slipped down an alleyway.

  Simon found it strange to be back in Gloucester, with its close-backed houses and narrow lanes. The merchants were putting out their stalls, their apprentices piling them high with goods. At High Cross the market beadles were assembled, horns in their hands, watching the light-blue sky. The bells of the Abbey of St Peter began to toll. On the final chime, the market beadles blew their horns declaring the market open.

  For a while Simon just wandered about. He had remained hidden before he left Gloucester; his long journey through the forest and the attack on the Ratoliers’ stronghold had made him feel unreal, as if cut off from life. Now he found it soothing to watch children play with a hoop; two women studying a roll of linen and haggling volubly over the price; a water tippler claiming his water was the purest from the Severn. A pie man, hustled through the crowd by bailiffs, was forced to stand in the stocks. The putrid pastry he’d sold the day before was tied beneath his nose and the bailiffs shouted an invitation for all to come and witness. A hunting party rode through the crowd causing consternation as their lurchers and limners barked and yelped. A wedding group appeared, the groom slightly the worse for wear for drink; they wound their way, garlanded with flowers and accompanied by relatives, up to the main door of St Wilfred’s church.

  Simon went into a tavern, the Griffin of Wales. He ordered a tankard of ale and slices of venison covered in a red sauce with freshly baked loaves and a pot of butter and honey. He ate and drank slowly, taking in the other custom of the tavern. A tinker was busy selling a whippet. The prospective buyer claimed that the dog was blind in one eye and tried to lower the price. Two relic-sellers had, by chance, met and caused deep merriment when the taverner pointed out that both claimed to have among their goods the right hand of St Sebastian. Other customers joined the ribaldry, loudly demanding how any man, even a saint, could have two right hands?

  Simon finished his food and went out. He felt tired and rather sad. His return to Gloucester had awoken memories of when he had first arrived here, his heart burning with love, his hopes full of winning the hand of Alice Draycott. He walked and found himself outside the dead merchant’s spacious, half-timbered house. The doors, guarded by bailiffs, had been sealed by the city corporation. He went down an alleyway and into the stable yard. A bailiff, sleeping in a corner by the water butts, got up and waddled across. Simon took out the mayor’s commission and showed it to the fellow, who held it upside down, gazed blearily but recognised the seal.

  ‘I am on secret business from his worship,’ Simon lied. ‘I have his permission to search both the stable and the house.’

  The fellow agreed. Simon broke the seal on the stable door and went in. The place was warm, musty and reeking of horse dung. Simon walked down and looked up at the beam. Two strands of rope still clung there. He went out across the yard, where at his insistence the bailiff opened the postern door. Simon entered the deserted scullery. The kitchen beyond was large and spacious, the flagstone floor neatly scrubbed, as was the oaken, polished table, where the merchant and his daughter must have taken their last meal. Simon sat down on the chair at the top and blinked away the tears. His love for Alice seemed a lifetime away. A dream he had enjoyed and lost. He looked up at the window. The thick and mullioned glass broke the sunlight which streamed through. He watched the dust motes dance in the empty kitchen. Was Alice here, he wondered? Did her shade, her ghost still linger in this place?

  He joined his hands, closed his eyes and prayed. Could she help him now? Could she intervene? Simon sighed and opened his eyes. The power of the Ratoliers was now destroyed. No Teeth and his companions had been killed. But who had come into this house that night? Surely someone Alice and her father trusted? And why had they so obediently gone to their deaths? Surely they would have struggled, resisted? Simon heard a cough from outside. He half rose then remembered the bailiff. He walked deeper into the house, into the spacious, ornately furnished parlour. The window looked out on to the street so he kept well away, fearful that the other bailiffs might see him and object. He went upstairs but, although the chambers were tidy, he noticed that all papers and other documents had been removed from the counting-house, the little chancery office Alderman Draycott must have used. Simon sat at the top of the stairs. Who would come here? Someone the alderman trusted. The mayor? The sergeant-at-arms? Or even Flyhead?

  Simon rubbed his hands together. He recalled the attack in the caves in the forest. If No Teeth had been a member of the coven then why not another? And the Ratoliers? They seemed to be anxious, fearful that an attack might be launched. Had someone warned them? Simon put his face in his hands. What if Flyhead had got a message to them? They had slept in the forest, near the caves, before the attack was launched. Had Flyhead stolen away, used some secret path? But, if that was the case, why hadn’t the Ratoliers fled? Simon beat his fist against his thighs. Yet there was that attack in Flyhead’s chamber. Was that all a pretence? Had Flyhead known those two assailants would appear? Was that why he had cut his former companion’s throat, to silence him, fearful lest he make other revelations?

  Simon went downstairs, thanked the bailiff and made his way back. He recalled Friar Martin. He must tell the good friar what had happened, even if it meant revealing himself. If Flyhead was the killer, then perhaps he had unfinished business? And what about himself? Simon touched the hilt of his dagger. Perhaps Flyhead would wait a while? Simon made his way across the bustling city to the Austin Friars. The main gate was open, pilgrims thronging up the causeway into the church to pray at the shrine of St Radegund. Simon joined them. Soon he was inside the cavernous church, humming with the murmur of pilgrims.

  Inside the porchway a lay brother sold ale and refreshments. A little further up a stall displayed badges and other keepsakes to entice the pilgrims. Simon avoided these. At
last he reached the shrine of St Radegund to the right of the high altar. It was a large, spacious chancery chapel. The saint’s tomb stood in the centre surrounded with a praying ledge, covered in red leather. Pilgrims were kneeling on this, pressing their faces into the small enclaves around the tomb. At the far end of the chapel stood a statue of the saint with dozens of red candles blazing before it. Simon glanced across. Behind the shrine, in a corner, was the shriving pew. The penitent would kneel on a small prie-dieu sheltered from the priest by a small buttress jutting out; on the other side sat Friar Martin. Simon went over, crossed himself and knelt.

  ‘Bless me, Friar Martin.’

  The friar peered round the pillars, his eyes rounded in amazement.

  ‘It can’t be! My good friend, Simon! Your hair, your face!’

  Simon smiled back.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ the friar stammered.

  Simon studied him closely. Friar Martin had changed. His face was paler, his beard and moustache neatly cropped, his eyes weary.

  ‘I heard you were hanged,’ he whispered behind a cupped hand.

  Simon shook his head. ‘I’ve been through the valley of death, Father, and, if God is good, he’ll bring me out. The rest are dead. Shadbolt, Merry Face, as well as the good Alderman Shipler, Draycott and Alice!’

  ‘Oh no!’ the friar groaned.

  Simon nodded. ‘Both hanged.’

  ‘And Flyhead?’

  ‘He still lives. He has fled the city, says he’ll travel north. No Teeth and the taverner from the Silver Tabard are also dead.’ Simon beamed. ‘As is Mother Ratolier and one of her daughters. The other bitch escaped.’

  Friar Martin began to tremble, his face in his hands. For a few minutes he just sat there, shoulders shaking. Simon glanced over his shoulder, to where other pilgrims were becoming curious. The friar took his hands away. Simon was shocked at the change in him.

  ‘So many deaths,’ he said quietly. ‘Simon, so many, many deaths!’

  ‘But you are safe, Brother. I had to come and see you. I owed you a debt.’

  ‘I’ll never be safe. And neither will you, my son.’

  ‘You are safe here,’ Simon insisted.

  Friar Martin sighed and got to his feet.

  ‘You’d best come with me!’

  Chapter 13

  They left the church, going through a sacristy smelling of beeswax and incense, along a tiled corridor and into a small parlour. Friar Martin immediately fastened the shutters on the window and locked the door. He lit a lantern horn and slung it on a chain which hung down from a beam. He then sat down behind a table. Simon could see that the friar was in a parlous state. His eyes were bright as if suffering from fever, his face had turned a mottled hue and he found it hard to stop trembling. He pointed to a flagon and a tray of cups on a table and asked Simon to fill two. No sooner had Simon done this than there was a knock on the door. He unlocked and opened it. A tall, severe-looking friar stood there, hands beneath the mantle of his robe.

  ‘I heard Friar Martin had left the church.’ He peered down at Simon. ‘And that he came here with a stranger. Who are you, sir?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Father Prior!’ Friar Martin called out. ‘This man is a friend.’

  Simon stepped back as the prior came into the room.

  ‘You are well, Friar Martin?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, Reverend Father.’

  The prior, uninvited, sat down on a bench just inside the door. He gestured at Simon to sit on a box chair near the table.

  ‘Are you sure, Brother?’ he repeated. He turned an eagle eye on Simon and studied him from head to toe.

  ‘This is Simon Cotterill,’ Friar Martin said. ‘He is my friend. Reverend Father, he brings me news.’

  ‘We live in very troubled times,’ the prior declared.

  ‘Friar Martin who, perhaps, was not as strict in his vows as he should have been, has now decided to stay here. Have you told him what has happened?’

  Simon looked swiftly at Friar Martin who swallowed hard and shook his head.

  ‘Friar Martin is welcome to come and go as he wishes,’ the prior continued. ‘But he has chosen to stay here. His life is under threat. On two occasions wine has been left here as gifts for my brother.’ He forced a smile. ‘On both occasions the wine was poisoned.’

  Simon gazed in astonishment at Friar Martin.

  ‘The Ratoliers?’ he asked.

  ‘It must be,’ the friar replied. ‘And there’s worse, isn’t there, Reverend Father?’

  ‘Oh yes, other gifts have been sent: sweetmeats, pastries, left at the friary gates, all heavily tainted. Even in the chapel of St Radegund . . .’

  ‘You didn’t see them?’ Friar Martin broke in. ‘But there’s a small choir loft as you come in the door. It’s so our order can guard St Radegund’s shrine. Two lay brothers watch from there, just in case the coven send someone in to wreak revenge.’

  ‘Friar Martin has told us of how he tried to help destroy this coven.’ The prior got to his feet. ‘And for that he has our thanks. So, you can see, Simon, why I came along.’ He sketched a blessing in the air. ‘Though I can tell from your eyes that you are a goodly man. Friar Martin, Master Cotterill, I bid you adieu.’ The prior left.

  Simon sat and listened to his footsteps fade along the passageway. Friar Martin was still agitated, lost in a reverie, hands clasped together. He was staring at a point beyond Simon’s head, his lips moving wordlessly. Simon wondered if this jovial friar was losing his wits. At last he seemed to remember where he was. He blinked, rubbed his face and, lifting the cup, toasted Simon.

  ‘And where to now, master carpenter? Is it back to Berkeley?’

  ‘Like Flyhead, I would love to flee this city,’ Simon replied. ‘But there is unfinished business: the dominus!’

  ‘The dominus?’

  ‘The dominus,’ Simon confirmed. ‘The master of the coven.’

  ‘How do we know it’s a he?’ The friar tugged at his fleshy jowls.

  ‘It must be.’

  ‘I always thought it might be old Mother Ratolier,’ Friar Martin said. ‘But come, Simon, tell me everything you know.’

  Simon did so, aware of the time passing, broken only now and again by the slap of sandals outside and the clanging of the friary bell. Friar Martin sat, arms folded on the table, head down, listening intently. Occasionally he interrupted Simon with a question. Simon paused when a lay brother brought in a tray of food from the kitchens. Simon found he was ravenous but he noticed Friar Martin only picked at his food. At last he finished and sat, face in hands.

  ‘Who do you think the dominus is?’ he asked, tapping his nails on the table. ‘I do wonder about our lord mayor.’

  ‘But why should he become involved in such trickery?’ Simon scoffed. ‘A man of such status and power? No, no. Sometimes I suspect Flyhead.’

  ‘Why?’ Friar Martin asked curiously. ‘He was in hiding.’

  ‘Who was he hiding from?’ Simon asked. ‘The coven or the power of the law? There are many questions to be asked.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The Ratoliers. A mother and two daughters. I wonder who the father was?’

  ‘What makes you ask that? She could just be an old widow who turned to evil and took her daughters with her.’

  ‘I wish I could go back,’ Simon replied. ‘I wish I could go back in time to that glade. I feel like a carpenter again, Brother, working with wood, but there’re vital pieces missing.’

  He got to his feet. Friar Martin did likewise. He came round and, grasping Simon, held him close.

  ‘You’ll come back, won’t you Simon? You’ll come back and see me again and tell me what happens?’

  Simon agreed and stepped back.

  ‘You’d best go to the mayor,’ the friar said. ‘But, Simon, be very, very careful!’

  Simon left the friary a short while later and went straight to the Guildhall. He found that he no longer slipped along the alleyways, keeping t
o the walls, but walked boldly. The master of the coven, he reasoned, might not be discovered but the power of the Ratoliers was broken once and for all.

  He had to wait for a while in an antechamber until Sir Humphrey agreed to see him. They met in his small chancery office. The mayor closed the door and, leaning across the table, listened carefully to Simon’s report; what had happened in the forest and the attack on the coven at Savernake. Simon also described his visit to Friar Martin and his suspicions about Flyhead. The mayor sat back, flicking his thumb against his teeth. Simon surveyed the wainscoted chamber, a dark, close place, the table before him littered with manuscripts. The mayor’s face was hidden in shadows sent dancing by the cresset torches and the candlelight. A wild thought occurred to Simon. Was he alone with the dominus? Was the mayor the master of the coven? Sir Humphrey looked at him, narrow-eyed.

  ‘What do you find so interesting, Simon?’

  ‘I wonder if we think the same thoughts, my lord mayor?’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Are you the dominus or am I?’

  The mayor threw his head back and laughed. He clapped his hands.

  ‘You should have been a clerk, Simon.’ He wagged a finger playfully. ‘If you had learned your horn book, you’d have been a good clerk. Sharp-witted, quick thinking. And haven’t you changed? No longer the bumbling young carpenter. But, I suppose, life is like a piece of your wood, isn’t it? You are carved out, chipped and clipped, fashioned into something else.’ He spread his hands. ‘I admit the thought had occurred to me and, I suppose, for the same reason. Someone who knew the Draycotts entered their house. Someone they trusted.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘They were drugged first, weren’t they?’

  Simon nodded. ‘They must have been, sir. A potion added to their evening wine. The house was deserted, and they were then dragged out to the stables and hanged.’