The Twice-Hanged Man

by Priscilla Royal

  The sub-infirmarian nodded.

  “He and I were unable to stay apart, although both of us spent hours begging God for the strength to do so. I even married a man who needed a wife to cook and mend for him when he came home from his travels on the road. The peddler is a kind man but has spent little enough time in my bed. For my sins, God has also cursed me with barrenness.”

  With no warning, she began to sway.

  Rushing to her side to keep her from toppling, Anne eased Mistress Berta down on a nearby bench and put an arm around her for support.

  Berta seemed confused and put her hand to her head. “My head hurts,” she mumbled.

  Anne called for the servant who took one look at her mistress and poured another mazer of ale.

  “Drink,” the maid ordered and held it to the woman’s lips. “She’s done this before,” she said to the nun. “She’ll be all right soon. It started after Father Payn’s death.”

  The nun knew the symptoms all too well and suspected that Mistress Berta might not long outlive the man she had loved since childhood.

  “I think she needs to be in bed,” Anne said. “Shall I help you?”

  After the two women had settled Mistress Berta into her bed, the peddler’s wife fell into what appeared to be a tranquil rest.

  “I think you eased her soul,” the servant said. “Whatever the world might say, I call her a good woman who never hurt anyone.” The look she gave the sub-infirmarian dared her to say otherwise.

  “She told me her story,” Anne said. “God may hate the sin, but she said she had struggled. He would have seen that.”

  Taking the nun’s arm, the woman led her further away. “Their bond was chaste enough of late,” she whispered. “Surely God noted that too.”

  Sister Anne raised a questioning eyebrow.

  The servant shrugged. “Payn had lost his manhood. When he arrived at night, he was usually short of breath and red of face. I don’t think he was well. They lay together, for sure, but all they did was hold each other in comfort.”

  Nodding, Anne realized she had gotten what she had come for. Father Payn had most likely died from heart failure on his way back to the priory, and, she suspected, Mistress Berta would soon follow.

  “You and your mistress are very close,” the nun said. “Have you served her long?”

  The woman smiled sadly. “I am her elder sister. When my husband died, Berta took me into her home so I would not starve. Aye, I serve her, but we eat together and confide our thoughts as the sisters we have always been. As for Payn, I liked him. He made Berta as happy as she could be, given the circumstances.”

  “Shall we spend a few moments praying for their souls and that God will find goodness enough here to forgive all sins committed in this house?”

  The two women knelt in front of the door where Mistress Berta now slept very much alone with whatever dreams it pleased God to give her.

  Chapter Nine

  Brother Thomas had a less fraught task ahead of him. Finding the young merchant was easy. As he walked into the aromatic shop, Lambard greeted him with a merry look.

  “Welcome back, Brother! I feared I had seen the last of you.” Then his expression turned grave. “I pray all is well with the family of your prioress.”

  “It is, but I need your help. May we speak in confidence?”

  The merchant nodded, excused himself, and went to explain something to an apprentice.

  “Please come upstairs,” he said to Thomas when he returned. “It is easier to discuss serious matters over a little wine.” He grasped the monk’s shoulder companionably and then led the way.

  As Thomas followed, he prayed none in the shop saw him blush. The man’s brief touch had warmed him with a pleasure that was utterly forbidden and one he believed he had successfully banished. For a fleeting instant, he felt happy, then begged God to forgive him.

  When the men entered the rooms above, a pink-cheeked manservant greeted them and took his master’s orders for refreshment.

  The living quarters were small but neat, and the room where Lambard took him was furnished simply with a bench and table, both smoothly planed, scraped, and apparently rubbed thoroughly with beeswax.

  The merchant invited Thomas to sit on the bench and then sat at the opposite end.

  “Your wife orders the house well,” Thomas said.

  “I am not married, Brother.” The man tilted his head and smiled warmly. “I have been too busy with my efforts to expand my spice and herb sales beyond the village and so have had little time to woo a good lass. Instead, my manservant must take credit, for it is he who takes on the responsibilities of any wife.”

  The aforementioned young man arrived with a sweating ewer of wine and a platter of bread and cheese.

  “Our guest has praised your skills at running this house,” the merchant said to the servant and winked.

  Turning to Thomas, the man curtly bowed and left without a word.

  Although the servant’s response had been just polite enough, Thomas felt he had somehow done something wrong. Or perhaps the young man was simply taciturn by nature? Concluding he was overreacting from fatigue, he dismissed the thought.

  “How may I assist you?” The merchant poured the wine and handed a cup to the monk.

  Thomas took a long drink, cleared his throat, and proceeded to explain how Abbot Gerald had come to Prioress Eleanor and begged her help in banishing a ghost that seemed to be haunting the village.

  Hesitating, he looked at the food but felt no hunger and chose to drink again more deeply. The wine is good, he thought, almost as good as the ones Durant sold. The thought of the wine merchant sharply cut into him, but the warmth of the wine just as quickly began to chase the raw pain away.

  The merchant waited for the monk to say more, then said, “I have heard tales of this ghost, Brother, although I have not seen it myself.” He frowned, lowered his head, and folded his hands against his mouth as he thought.

  “Who is telling the stories? Do you know any who have seen the spirit?”

  Lambard glanced up.

  He has the most beautiful eyes of such an unusual color, Thomas thought. For just an instant, he imagined them to be a sea of violets in which he might happily float. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, realized the wine should have been watered, and swore not to drink more of it. He set down the cup and reached for cheese.

  “I usually meet with friends at the local inn once or twice a week. If you came with me, you could question them about the ghost.”

  “If it is the inn just over there,” Thomas gestured, “the innkeeper was not welcoming to a strange religious breaking his fast there.”

  “Wido?” Lambard laughed. “He’ll sing another ditty if you come with me and are welcomed by my fellow merchants. He’s an innkeeper, Brother, and loves his coin. Wandering religious rarely have much of that, and he balks at the charity of giving gifts of his fare, even if it is for the good of his dark soul.” He laughed again.

  Thomas winced. The sound reminded him of Durant’s laugh.

  Reaching over to lay his hand on the monk’s, the merchant grinned. “He earns enough from us all on a night like tonight, and I shall pay for anything you drink.” He hesitated. “My soul is in greater need of help than Wido’s and welcomes the opportunity to offer that small pittance, Brother.”

  Thomas silently prayed that the man would remove his hand.

  The merchant did.

  “Where shall I meet you?”

  “Here, when dusk comes and the shops are closing. Or you could stay in my house until this evening. Perhaps you would like to pray or even rest since the night may be a long one?”

  “You are kind,” Thomas rose quickly. “I have one more task to perform for my prioress,” he said, grateful he was telling the truth. “Do you know a man named Bardolph? I must speak with him.�
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  “A man well-known in the village, Brother! I can direct you to where he lives.”

  Thomas looked down at his cup, sitting abandoned on the table, and then drained what little was left. It felt like an act of rebellion, but he wasn’t sure whether he was defying God or himself. The liquid burned his throat as if he had an open wound.

  “Shall I take you there?”

  “I would not keep you from your business any longer. If you tell me where to go, I doubt I will get lost in this village.” Thomas did his best to smile and fought to hide his sudden need to flee.

  With that, the two men walked down the stairs to the door where the merchant explained how to reach Bardolph’s hut.

  As Thomas walked away, he felt his back tingle as if Lambard was still watching him. What troubled him most was his hope that the spice merchant was.

  Chapter Ten

  Bardolph lived on the very edge of the village near where the gallows stood. His wood-framed hut with its turf roof was tiny but in good repair, and there was a garden next to it that showed evidence of recent harvesting. On the edge of the plot sat a woven willow basket filled with onions, white beets with bright green tops, and parsnips.

  Thomas knocked on the rough wooden door and was surprised when he saw the man who opened it. Because he had been described as such a reliable witness, the monk had imagined that Bardolph would be a person of more venerable age, the kind usually accorded more respect. Instead, he was closer in years to Thomas.

  The monk explained he had come about the ghost.

  Bardolph tilted his head in surprise but invited him in. “Some ale? It is fresh.”

  “I would welcome it.” Ale, he decided, would counter the aftertaste of Lambard’s wine which had turned bitter in his mouth.

  Thomas looked around. The inside contained only one room. The floor was covered with a fresh layer of straw, and whatever few possessions the man owned must have been stored in the small chest near his narrow bed. Although there was no indication of any woman living here, the place was neat. The small, carefully contained fire in the center provided a dim, albeit cheerful light, and there was a smoky smell of recently roasted meat.

  Bardolph gestured to a spot on the floor near the fire for them to sit. Handing a filled mazer to the monk and placing a clay pitcher between them, he sat with legs crossed, then folded his arms and waited for his uninvited visitor to speak.

  “Abbot Gerald has approached my prioress, Eleanor of Tyndal Priory, who has come here with her brother, Robert of Wynethorpe, about the death of his priest.”

  Bardolph nodded. “And he has told you that I found the corpse and saw the killer.”

  “Did you see a ghost or a mortal?” Thomas liked that the man was plain-spoken without being rude.

  “Indubitably a ghost.” He smiled. “Lest you think I am wont to spectral imaginings, Brother, I assure you that I am not. It was Hywel. No doubt about it.”

  “Not an angry husband or anyone else with a grievance against the priest?”

  “Most certainly not, nor was he either of Hywel’s two brothers.”

  Thomas had already come close to insulting the man by questioning his observations. With some, those who lied or evaded questions, it did not matter if he was abrupt and suspicious, but Bardolph had shown a willingness to reply and seemed a reasonable man.

  As if reading the monk’s mind, Bardolph grinned. “If I were you, I would question how I could be so convinced. Am I correct?”

  Thomas laughed and nodded, then complimented the man on the quality of the ale.

  Bardolph refilled his guest’s mazer and poured more for himself. “I didn’t just know Hywel because he lived here, Brother. I hanged him.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the gallows. “I’m the town executioner, which is why I live on the edge of the village and so close to my work.”

  Thomas was too surprised to speak.

  “Oh, we don’t have that many who need my services in such a small place. I earn bread enough by carpentry, mostly for the abbey, when the gallows are empty. But we have had a few more hangings now that the war is so close to hand. If Welsh rebels or raiders are caught near the border, it is simpler to hang them here.”

  “Can you tell me about Hywel’s hanging?”

  Shifting to get more comfortable, Bardolph settled in for a tale. “It was an odd execution. Not one I’d likely forget. There were two men sent to hang that day. Father Payn was the accompanying priest. The first man, a rapist and murderer, confessed his sins, and was given absolution swiftly enough, but Father Payn denied forgiveness to Hywel because the Welshman refused to confess he had helped slaughter the English soldiers. That was the crime for which he was condemned.”

  “Was there anything to explain why he would go to God’s judgment with a deliberately befouled soul?”

  “None. Hywel may have been Welsh, but he was a Christian and a dutiful one at that. He begged Father Payn to grant him peace, but the priest refused. How could he grant complete absolution, the priest said, if he failed to be truthful?”

  “Surely there was some privacy for the confession. How did you hear it?”

  “The two men shouted at each other. Anyone close to the gallows would have heard it, not just me, although I stood as far away as I could out of respect to both priest and penitent. My job is an efficient death. I have no right to be involved in what comes after for the souls.”

  “And no one wondered if there was a good reason why the Welshman refused to admit the crime for which he had been convicted?”

  Bardolph shrugged. “He had been tried and condemned on good witness, Brother. There was no cause to doubt the justice of the conviction. Besides, the Welsh aren’t like us, are they?” He fell silent for a moment, then looked away. “Well, maybe they are. Hywel was well-liked here, as was his dead wife. The verdict was a shock. I felt sorry for the man, but there was nothing I could say or do. Sentence had been set, and I saw no cause to doubt its fairness.”

  “Was the king’s man there to represent justice?”

  “The sheriff, Sir William? He did not attend the execution but did send a man on his behalf.”

  “So Hywel was hanged.”

  “Oh, there is more to the tale! I hanged him first and, while he finished thrashing in the air, I hanged the second man. Because that fellow was very fat, it took two of us to haul him up. When we did, his weight, with that of Hywel’s, broke the gallows beam!”

  “And both men fell to the ground?”

  “Hywel was dead by then. I checked. The other man was screaming for mercy while I repaired the beam. Claimed he should be released because God had intervened and saved him. The crowd shouted that the Devil must have done it because God was on the side of England. He shat all over himself and was a mess to haul up again, but we managed. This time, the beam held. The crowd loved it, but I prefer neater executions.”

  “Hywel was definitely dead?”

  “I was sure. Not only were the signs there when he dropped to the ground, but he didn’t move during the long wait between hangings. But I pulled his body up after we raised the fat man that second time. The crowd wanted to see both felons swinging in the wind, especially Hywel, and I didn’t cut him down until the other man had stopped jerking around. Hywel was dead, all right. Tongue dark, protruding. Bowels and bladder emptied. No breath.”

  “Was the body still warm?”

  “It takes a while for a corpse to cool, Brother. Neither body was cold. I look for other signs.”

  “After you cut him down, who came forth to bury him and where did they take the body?”

  “His brothers took his corpse. I heard they took him somewhere to prepare his body for burial. No idea where that was, though. My job ends when I confirm the death and release the corpse. There is a plot of ground near the gallows where such bodies are usually put. I assumed he’d be bur
ied there, yet I never noticed freshly turned earth. I don’t know where his body rots.”

  Thomas saw no reason to doubt the man’s competence. The job might be a grim one, but Bardolph seemed to know what he was doing. He chose another issue to direct questions.

  “Why would Hywel’s spirit want to return to kill Father Payn?”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Were I refused absolution, I would come back to haunt the priest too. In Hell, does a soul care if the denial was just? The condemned have no reason not to indulge in great wrath, and Satan does love his wicked ones. As a man vowed to God, surely you have seen how he indulges them to spite the good.”

  Thomas chose that moment to drink ale.

  “As for Father Payn, we all knew he had a longtime mistress in the village and never honestly repented the sin. We are all kin and neighbors here, so easily forgave them both, but God might not have been that eager to protect him when the Devil let Hywel’s soul loose to wreak revenge.”

  “Explain how you saw the ghost, if you will.”

  “I was coming back from the village myself that night. It was a full moon, almost as bright as morning light. When I rounded the bend, I saw a man kneeling beside a body stretched on the ground. He heard my footstep, looked up, and stared at me, which is why I recognized his face. Clear enough in that light.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “I did cry out, then closed my eyes against the sight. No mortal wants to see things from Hell lest our eyeballs fry.” He offered the monk more ale but did not pour himself another. “Although I had had little enough to drink, I thought I must be imagining the scene. Indeed, I prayed I had. When I opened my eyes, the spirit was gone. I ran to the body on the ground, saw who it was, and determined he was dead. The corpse convinced me that I had dreamed nothing. Then I rushed to the abbey and told them what had happened. The abbot sent men to retrieve the corpse of their priest.”