The Hangman's Hymn Read online

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘But I do not like it here. I think we should be gone.’

  ‘We can’t,’ Shadbolt reminded him. ‘We are under strict instructions from the mayor and the council. For all I know, that sergeant-at-arms may well come back to ensure their orders are being carried out.’ He tossed the dregs of his wine on to the fire. ‘We are the hangmen of Gloucester. We fear nothing. We either sleep in the cart or on the ground. When the sun rises it will be better.’

  They had hardly made themselves comfortable when the storm came, the rumble of thunder sounded above them and the first raindrops fell. In a short while the rain came down in sheets, pounding the earth, driving them into the wagon where they sat huddled, fitfully dozing. Nevertheless, it was not just the rain but the sounds from the forest: cries; snatches of song; voices raised, which frayed their nerves and broke their resolve.

  Friar Martin was insistent that they move and, as the cacophony of noises grew, and the rain fell even heavier, Shadbolt reluctantly agreed. The horses, which had been hobbled some distance away, were brought back and placed between the shafts of the cart. They hurriedly fixed the traces, put aboard their possessions and left the macabre glade.

  Marking trees and using stones as signs, the hangmen kept a clear idea of where they were going and the path they took. The rain never let up. They travelled for hours and, just as dawn broke, Simon, who had been going before them, found a large, disused house, the fence around it long collapsed, the outbuildings much decayed. However, the large hall was warm and dry despite the smells of the animals which had sheltered there. He gleefully returned to his companions and described what he had discovered.

  ‘One of the royal hunting lodges,’ Shadbolt said. ‘In the reign of the old king’s great-grandfather, the Forest of Dean provided much sport and hunting.’

  Simon’s find was greeted with crows of triumph. They cleaned the lower rooms. Fires were lit, stores brought in. One of the chambers was even used as a stable for the horses. Flyhead went out hunting and brought back two rabbits. Shadbolt was a good cook, and the hunting lodge was soon full of the sweet smells of woodsmoke and roasted rabbit meat. They ate and drank well. At the end Shadbolt leaned back against the wall, licking his fingers.

  ‘I know what,’ he said. ‘We’ll stay here. We’ll soon find the glade where the three hags hang. In two days, lads, our task will be over and we’ll trot back to Gloucester to collect our earnings. Just think,’ he leaned forward, ‘we now have the mayor and the council in the palm of our hands.’ He grinned. ‘There’s nothing they can ever do against us: they are in our debt.’

  Everyone agreed. Outside, the morning light grew stronger as they speculated on their future good fortune. Even Simon was beginning to wonder whether perhaps he should stay on when he heard a sound from above.

  ‘Hush! What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, don’t start again!’ Flyhead moaned.

  ‘No, no, listen!’ Simon held his hand up.

  They heard it, a footfall, as if someone were walking backwards and forwards.

  ‘You heard it first!’ Shadbolt said. He picked up Simon’s war belt and threw it at him. ‘Go and see!’

  Simon reluctantly wrapped the belt around him, took a firebrand and went out into the cold, gloomy passage. Tendrils of the thick early-morning mist were seeping in. He climbed the stairs, rotten and mildewed, the timber cracking under his boots. Eventually he reached the gallery which stretched away like a black tunnel in front of him. Chambers ran off either side, nothing more than black holes, the windows open to the grey morning light. On one or two, doors still hung, creaking on their sagging leather hinges. Simon drew his dagger, listening to the sounds: the distant call of a bird, the cracking and shifting outside as animals scurried through the undergrowth. He kept his nerve steady.

  ‘Simon! Simon!’ The voice seemed to come from further down the gallery.

  He swallowed hard and walked along, his dagger out before him. He heard footsteps as if someone were walking up and down in the chambers he had just passed.

  ‘Are you all right, Simon?’ Shadbolt’s voice echoed up the stairs.

  Simon didn’t reply but edged into a room. Holding up the firebrand he looked around. It was empty, dirty, reeking of some forest stench. He was about to leave when the door suddenly slammed shut behind him and when he tried to find a handle or latch there was none. He heard a tapping on the door and looked through the metal grille. Agnes Ratolier’s face, eyes bright with malice, lips twisted in a spiteful sneer, was glaring through at him. Simon stared back in horror.

  ‘I told you,’ she hissed, ‘I’d see you again!’

  Simon struck with his dagger at the grille. He heard a laugh, low and throaty, then the door swung open, knocking him aside. He dropped the torch. For a while he sat on one knee, holding his bruised head, then grabbed the firebrand and ran out. The gallery was alive with noise as rats scrabbled away to hide. Simon sheathed his dagger and ran to the top of the stairs. He jumped down, his high-heeled boots cracking the wood as he almost crashed into his companions. He thrust the torch into Friar Martin’s hands.

  ‘What is it?’ Shadbolt asked.

  ‘What do you think! I wish to God I was away from here and from you! I’ve just seen Agnes Ratolier’s face, the bitch didn’t die! She’s up there!’

  ‘That’s impossible!’ Merry Face whined. ‘We saw them hang. There were no tricks.’

  Simon grasped the torch from Friar Martin and thrust it into Merry Face’s hand.

  ‘In which case,’ he yelled, ‘go upstairs and prove me wrong!’

  Merry Face handed the torch back.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Flyhead moaned.

  Simon grasped Friar Martin’s sleeve. ‘You are a priest. Can’t you say some prayers? Bless this place?’

  Friar Martin was trembling, eyes blinking, mouth opening and shutting, a man caught in a dreadful panic, the terrors seething through his body.

  ‘Simon! Shadbolt! Merry Face! Friar Martin! Flyhead!’

  The chorus of voices came from outside. Shadbolt seized the torch and went out on to the steps of the hunting lodge. The others clustered about him, peering through the swirling mist.

  ‘Ah, Master Shadbolt!’

  The chief hangman dropped the torch. Simon glimpsed them: three figures standing under the outstretched branches of a tree. He could make out the outline of their features, the long, straggly hair. Ratolier and her two daughters.

  Shadbolt ran inside, the others followed. They shut the door and hastened back to the room where they’d stored their provisions and arms. Friar Martin had recovered his wits. He immediately blessed some water and salt, scattering it around the floor. He then blessed the chamber and crouched in a corner, eyes closed, hands grasping his Ave beads.

  ‘Stay here!’ he urged them. ‘Do not go outside!’

  The others stood, trying to calm their wits. Simon notched an arrow to a bow he had found. Then the terrors began: knocking and tapping on walls; their names being called. Branches and stones were hurled through the unshuttered windows.

  ‘Why don’t they come?’ Shadbolt asked. ‘If they’re spectres or phantasms, why don’t they attack?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon replied.

  And then, in answer, Agnes Ratolier’s voice cut the silence.

  ‘This is only the beginning!’ she chanted. ‘The game’s commenced!’

  Simon’s blood went cold for he knew this night was going to change his life. These three ghouls from the darkness were not common criminals but true witches, whose executions had not resolved anything. He dare not share his fears with his companions. Indeed, Flyhead was so terrified Simon had to force the crossbow out of his fingers, fearful that the hangman, overcome by fright, might release a bolt and kill one of his companions. They kept the fire built up. Simon watched the mist through the open window, waiting for it to break. When it did, the noises and the terrifying imprecations ceased. Friar Martin clambered to his fee
t, groaning and moaning at the aches in his body.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Shadbolt asked.

  ‘Go back to that glade,’ Simon said decisively.

  He glanced around and felt a spurt of secret pride. Somehow or other his relationship with his companions had changed. He was no longer the follower but the leader. Merry Face and Flyhead looked shaken to the core. Friar Martin seemed lost in his own world. Shadbolt was grey-faced; a muscle high in his cheek kept twitching and he seemed uncertain about what to do.

  Simon left the hunting lodge. Everywhere he could see the signs of disturbance: bits of wood and rock, some tiles which had slipped down from the roof as if the lodge had been shaken by a violent wind. His boots squelching in the wet grass, he crossed to the spot where the three witches had been standing and, crouching down, saw the imprint of boot marks in the soft mud. Then he walked to the back of the hunting lodge. The dray horses were standing quietly in their makeshift stable, still nuzzling at their pots of feed. The wagon, pushed under the gaping roof of an outhouse, looked as if it had suffered no damage. Simon clambered in and sat on the wooden bench. From the hunting lodge he heard Shadbolt calling his name but ignored it. What had happened to them? Had the three witches really died? Had the Ratoliers miraculously cheated death, releasing themselves from those tight nooses to pursue them here? Simon shook his head.

  ‘That’s impossible!’ he whispered.

  He drew his dagger and watched the growing daylight wink in the blade. Recalling the poor education he had received, he smiled to himself. He knew his letters and his numbers. He could write and read a little but he’d always been told that he would be an excellent carpenter and the working of wood had been the trade of the Lord Jesus and of his stepfather Joseph. The Guild of Carpenters proudly proclaimed this, pointing out that carpentry, the shaping and moulding of wood, required as much mental skill, the use of logic as well as common sense, as any study at the Halls of Oxford or Cambridge.

  Simon was also surprised at himself. He thought he would be like the rest, quivering with fear. Yet, secretly, he almost relished the challenge: a break from the tedium of everyday existence, the cloying squalor of his life as a hangman. He recalled an old soldier, an archer who had served in the King’s wars: the fellow had been given a small pension and lived by himself in a cottage on the outskirts of the village. As a boy, Simon used to visit him and listen to the old man’s tales of the savagery of war and the glory and panoply of battle.

  ‘It’s not the battles,’ the old man had hissed through toothless gums. ‘Battles cause the blood to tingle, make the heart leap like a bird. It’s what goes on before that deadens the soul: the boredom of the march, the tedium of the camp.’

  Simon re-sheathed his dagger and climbed out of the cart. He gazed up at the sky where the clouds were breaking.

  ‘I know what you mean, old man,’ he said to himself. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were a fool, but now I know you spoke the truth.’

  Simon crossed himself. Those witches had died yet they’d used some secret power to bring themselves back to life. Simon recalled visiting the Silver Tabard before they’d left Gloucester. Was the message he had delivered something to do with this? Had some sacrifice been carried out? But, if that was the case, why had Agnes Ratolier tried to bargain for her life? And why had she called out his name before the others? And why hadn’t they killed him? Or done further damage? Was it because Friar Martin had prayed? Simon crouched down to scrape the mud off the toe of his boot. As a child he had heard all the stories about the witches of the Forest of Dean, the hags who could fly through the night, those who worshipped demons and constantly lived in the halls of darkness. He’d dismissed them as fables.

  ‘Simon!’

  Shadbolt was leaning through an upper storey window.

  ‘I’m here,’ Simon called.

  He walked back into the hunting lodge, where his companions looked heavy-eyed and still frightened.

  ‘There’s no one there,’ he told them. ‘The horses and cart are untouched.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘What shall we do? What shall we do?’ Simon mimicked. ‘Flyhead, is that all you can say? I am going to tell you what I think.’ He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘First, we are in mortal danger. What we experienced this night is of hell rather than earth. And no, I don’t know how it happened. Secondly, I think Friar Martin, by his prayers and blessings, saved us from a hideous fate. I urge all of you to pray that if you are not in God’s grace, He speedily restore you to it. And, if you are in God’s grace, pray that He keep you there.’

  ‘What else?’ Shadbolt grated.

  ‘These three fiends attacked us but have now disappeared.’

  ‘So?’ Friar Martin insisted.

  ‘I don’t know how these three ghouls have returned to life but they intend to do us a mischief.’

  ‘I’m going to flee.’ Flyhead strapped on his war belt.

  Shadbolt seized him by the shoulder, his face turned ugly.

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’ he threatened, swinging the hangman round. ‘We are in this together. We have nothing to fear. We carried out lawful execution.’

  ‘But we didn’t.’ Simon spoke up. ‘In my view, Master Shadbolt, we should never have left that glade. Friar Martin, you are a priest. You know about things supernatural, of what exists between heaven and hell.’

  ‘If you speak the truth, Simon,’ he replied slowly, ‘we are truly in Satan’s nightmare! Lost in the valley of darkness!’

  ‘I know that,’ Simon retorted. ‘I would like to know how we get out?’

  ‘I have little knowledge of these matters,’ Friar Martin protested. ‘But, on our return to Gloucester, I will make careful study.’

  Simon squatted down before him. ‘Brother, for the love of God!’ he pleaded.

  ‘What I tell you is only guesswork.’ Friar Martin lifted his head. ‘But we have three witches involved in bloody sacrifice to the dark lords. Now, at the beginning, such creatures ask for the good things of life: wine, silks, feather-down mattresses, good food, all the luxuries. But, as you know,’ he smiled bleakly, ‘these things are only passing. Their demands probably became more insistent, their sacrifices more bloody and grotesque. They may have asked for powers over others as well as themselves.’

  ‘The Ratoliers?’ Shadbolt jibed. ‘Who offered to bribe us?’

  ‘True, they bargained for their lives,’ Friar Martin continued as if speaking to himself. ‘And we refused. So they called upon the keepers of the shadows to come to their assistance.’ He sighed. ‘The message left at the Silver Tabard; I suspect that, before we left Gloucester last night, another sacrifice took place.’

  ‘In a tavern!’ Merry Face exclaimed.

  Friar Martin glanced up contemptuously. ‘Hasn’t it dawned on you yet, clodpate! The Ratoliers were members of a coven, and though they were taken others still remain. You don’t think those Dominicans travelled all the way from London because of three smelly hags?’

  ‘Continue,’ Simon demanded.

  Friar Martin swallowed hard. ‘I belong to the Order of Austin Friars. Or at least I am supposed to. There have been rumours, quiet whispers in the religious houses around Gloucester, about a powerful coven being at work. From what I gather young women have been disappearing for months, perhaps even years, but what do the fat lords care about some poor wench? It was more the number of victims. Something had to be done.’

  ‘And you think,’ Simon asked, ‘that the other members of this coven made a sacrifice?’

  ‘I do.’ Friar Martin wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of his hand. ‘Last night I wondered about that storm. The way we were driven out of the glade; the frightening tricks played on our nerves, disturbing the humours of our minds. Perhaps if we had stayed, if we had spiked and buried those witches, this would never have happened.’

  ‘Oh, what can we do?’ Flyhead wailed.

  Simon got to his feet. ‘Return t
o the glade. Come on, let us see what has happened!’

  They hitched up the cart and piled on their possessions and fled from the hunting lodge. They found the trackway soft and muddy. At times it dipped and the hollows were filled with water, the soft mud clogged the wheels but, at last, they reached the path leading back into the glade.

  Simon ran ahead. The clearing was dark, still dripping with rain, but on the execution tree, the makeshift gibbet, all that remained were three empty nooses hanging down from the branch beneath which the chains had been neatly piled. Of Agnes and her daughters there was no sign. Simon felt uneasy. It was so cold here. He was about to go back and inform the rest when he saw the red marks daubed on the great white crag of rock. Simon hastened across. He spelt out the letters and the chilling warning they carried: ‘I told you that we would meet again!’

  Chapter 7

  The carpenter’s discovery agitated and perturbed the other executioners.

  ‘We should return to Gloucester,’ Flyhead announced. ‘I know,’ he added lamely, ‘we should all stay together in this business.’ He smiled weakly at Simon. ‘God forgive us for bringing you to this.’

  ‘If we go back,’ Shadbolt remarked, ‘we will all be in serious trouble. We should never have left the glade.’ He flicked the reins. ‘Three days we’ve got to stay here and three days we will.’

  The others, encouraged by Simon, entered the glade. They unhitched the cart, hobbled the horse then inspected the makeshift altar and its grisly message.

  ‘I would like to say it’s paint.’ Friar Martin spoke up. ‘But it could be blood.’

  ‘Some animal perhaps?’ Simon offered. ‘Or a bird? Whatever, we have two more nights here. I think we should prepare.’

  A fierce discussion took place which threatened to turn into a violent quarrel. Merry Face and Flyhead were urging once again that they should leave. Shadbolt and Simon, with the tacit support of Friar Martin, argued that they should stay. In the end Merry Face and Flyhead conceded, especially when Friar Martin offered to say a Mass in the glade, using the end of the cart as an altar.