The Gallows Murders by Paul C. Doherty Read Free Book Online

just off Broad Street. I thought I was safe, but a gang of riflers attacked me, stripping me of my jerkin. The next morning, cold and sore, I joined the other beggars outside the friary, desperate for a morsel of bread and a pannikin of fresh water.
    I continued to wander the city; it was a descent into Hell. The contagion had grown worse. Whole streets were sealed off. Houses daubed with red paint mocked me from every side. Soldiers, armed to the teeth, drove me off with blows when I tried to beg outside a church. The death-carts trundled by. The corpses were stacked high; their legs and arms flailed as the cart rumbled across the cobbles, putting a strange life back into these grey-white cadavers. The mounds of refuse grew higher: fires burned in every street and the city reeked of smoke and sulphur. At night, dark shapes flitted up and down the alleyways, armed with knives and dirks, to fight like wolves over the most paltry possessions. Now and again, those city fathers who had remained tried to impose order. Soldiers were sent into the streets to enforce a curfew, and everything became as quiet as death until they passed.
    I went up towards Newgate. The hunger pains were so sharp I even considered committing a crime so that I could be taken and perhaps be given something to eat or drink. Yet justice had also become poor: those who were caught plundering or breaking the law were summarily hanged. The gibbets along the great, stinking city ditch, some of them six- or seven-branched, each bore the corpse of a condemned felon. I managed to get in to Aldersgate, slipping across into Smithfield only to glimpse greater terrors yet to come.
    Now, in Henry's day, Smithfield not only had its fair and market, it was also the city's execution ground. Catering not only for hangings and burnings, Smithfield also boasted a strong stone pillar which soared as high as the trees; from the top hung a great black iron cage. This could be raised or lowered by a pulley, and was reserved for poisoners, especially those who had killed their masters. It was very rarely used. However, on that day, as I sidled along Little Britain Alleyway leading into the marketplace, a terrible stench caught my throat and wrung my belly even tighter. It was sharp and acrid, like the foul odour from some stinking cookshop. When I reached the great common I discovered the reason. It was early in the morning but a small crowd had gathered around the execution pillar. The cage had been lowered: it still hung above smouldering embers. Ever curious, I pushed my way to the front and saw the cage contained the blackened corpse of a man, or what was left of him. His skin and his hair had shrivelled, the legs and hands were blackened stumps, the face all burnt away.
    ‘What happened?' I asked a fellow standing next to me, thin and miserable-looking as myself.
    ‘I don't know,' he replied in a sing-song fashion. 'But this morning the cage was found lowered and the fire burning. God knows who he is.' 'It's no execution!' another called.
    Two bailiffs shouted for volunteers to bring buckets of water to throw over the cage and cool it off. They offered a small loaf of bread and a pannikin of wine, so I volunteered. I spent the next hour staggering backwards and forwards across the common carrying buckets of water from the great horse-trough to douse the cage and its grisly contents. The smell was so foul, the sight so horrid, that everyone else drew off. Nevertheless, I and the man I had spoken to worked on. We just licked our lips, feeling the juices in our mouths at the prospect of a loaf and a mouthful of wine. Now, being grilled to death is the most macabre of fates. I have only seen it done once since; that was to John de Rous, the Bishop of Rochester's cook: he had tried to kill his master and his entire household by mixing arsenic in the soup. (Oh, by the way, before you ask, my own cooks are hand-picked. The captain of my guard, the jolliest cut-throat you could