The Hangman's Hymn by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780755350520
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Words Between the Pilgrims

The carpenter paused in his tale. The rest of the company sat in silence.

‘What’s the matter?’ the pardoner asked, playing with his flaxen hair.

‘I thought I heard something outside,’ the carpenter answered.

Dame Eglantine gave a little scream. Sir Godfrey rose, drawing his sword from the war belt looped over the back of his chair.

‘What is it, my lady?’

‘A face at the window. I am sure!’

Sir Godfrey nodded at the squire and, together with the yeoman, they hurried out of the hall into the garden, formed like a small cloister garth. The raised flower beds around the turfed seats were bathed in the light of a full moon. Against the four walls the brothers had planted rose bushes and other sweet-smelling plants. The squire, sword drawn, returned and took a cresset torch from its holder. He went out and searched but he could see nothing. So, followed by the yeoman, he strode back into the refectory.

‘No one’s there, Father. Perhaps it was one of the good brothers looking in?’

‘I am sorry,’ Dame Eglantine apologised. ‘But your tale, master carpenter, fair frightened me. As lady prioress I have the power of axe, tumbril and scaffold.’ She waved her hands prettily. ‘But someone else always does it for me. Isn’t that right, my sweet?’ She pushed a piece of marzipan into her little lapdog’s mouth.

The miller burped loudly, drawing furious glances from Dame Eglantine.

‘I was a hangman once,’ he announced.

‘Aye, a fellow very worthy of the scaffold,’ the summoner said in a loud mock-whisper.

‘Shut your fat mouth!’ the miller bawled. ‘Or I’ll knock those pimples off your face!’

‘Hush now!’ mine host intervened. ‘Master carpenter, this is a fearsome tale. Is it true?’

‘I’ve heard of such stories,’ the miller continued as if unaware of any interruptions. ‘There’s many a hangman accustomed to reaching a private accord with their customers.’

‘It’s a common enough practice,’ Sir Godfrey agreed. ‘City authorities are always ready to turn a blind eye.’

‘But these Ratoliers?’ the wife of Bath spoke up. She had lost some of her jollity. She tapped the side of her head. ‘They bring back memories.’

‘Aye,’ the friar agreed. ‘And I’m sure I’ve heard of Friar Martin but I can’t remember exactly how.’

‘And Sir Humphrey Baddleton?’ the man of law asked. ‘Didn’t he . . . ?’

Sir Godfrey tapped the table with his hands. ‘Now, now, sirs. Good ladies all. You know the custom. No real questions till the tale is finished. And, whether it’s true or not. Well?’ He gestured with his hand. ‘That really is not our business.’

‘But witches?’ the summoner scoffed. ‘Human sacrifices!’

‘Oh, it goes on,’ Sir Godfrey intervened. He glanced quickly at the monk. ‘I tell you, sir, your flesh would creep at what goes on under the cloak of darkness.’

‘I’ve been to the Forest of Dean,’ the yeoman spoke up. ‘Do you remember, Sir Godfrey, you sent me there with letters for my lord Mortimer?’ He shook his head fearfully. ‘A dark, gloomy place. Do you know, the forest is so deep and dense it stretches for miles.

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