The Headsman's Rest

Hello, my name is Eustache and I work as a courier. During my travels, I like to visit places that have, shall we say, a curious history. Here, I will tell you the best places to stay, what the accommodation and food is like, and what you might expect to see as you spend the night in some of the most interesting and out-of-the way places in this great country of ours and beyond – but be warned, wherever you think might be lurking in the shadows, you’re probably right… 

The journey from Paris to the small town not far from Béthune was relatively smooth and trouble-free. Happily, I encountered no robbers on the road, no damsels in distress and no aristocratic families whose coach wheels somehow got stuck in the mud of the roadside. No. This journey had been pleasant enough, though long, amid a countryside gently turning from shades of emerald green to the golds and reds of early autumn.

I delivered the letter I was carrying. Its recipient threw a bag of coins on the desk before me for my expenses and dismissed me with a wave of his delicate hand.

Now, I knew this area quite well, having travelled these roads three or four times in the course of my business. I was aware of an old story that had since become local folklore. The story, at least the version of it I had heard, went like this.

Several years ago, about the time of the Battle of Lens, still spoken of in these parts as the greatest achievement of the Prince de Condé, two young lords brought a badly wounded old man to an inn not far from here. The two young men were the comte de Guiche and the vicomte de Bragelonne, and they were travelling to join Condé at the front.

They had reached these very woods that I am riding through now when they happened upon a robbery taking place. Rushing up to help, they saw that two men are being attacked by Spanish soldiers.

Guiche and Bragelonne were brave young men, and they saw off the robbers, although not without something of a skirmish. When they turned their attention to the victims, they saw immediately that one of them was a member of the clergy, or had been, for he was dead and there was nothing to be done for him. 

The other man was propped against a tree; he was still alive, but barely. The two lords questioned him, asking who he was and why he and his companion were travelling in the area when it was so dangerous. The man was weak but able to talk.

He told them that his dead companion was the curate of Béthune and they were carrying sacred vessels and treasures belonging to the church to safety in anticipation of the arrival of Spanish army, which they feared would descend upon Béthune the next day.

The young men offered to assist this man, to find him a doctor to dress his wounds, but he refused. He told them that he knew he was dying and begged them to find him a confessor.

Guiche and Bragelonne insisted he should see a doctor, perhaps his life might yet be saved.

Their pleas, however, fell again on deaf ears. He explained that, although he was not a doctor, he knew something about wounds and knew all too well that his own was mortal. Again, he asked to be carried to some house where a confessor might be brought so he could receive absolution. He knew he would not live, and he was desperate to save his soul. 

At this, the two young men assured him that he had no need to worry on that count, for he died having performed a good deed.

Still the old man would have none of it. Mustering the last of his strength, he again begged the two lords to help him gain the nearest village, or otherwise bring a monk or a priest to him. His greatest fear, he told them, was not death, but to die unshriven.

The sense of urgency in the old man’s fading eyes struck Bragelonne and Guiche, and they agreed to help him. The old man said that he knew the villages hereabouts where they might look for anyone who had the power of absolution in articulo mortis.

The lords sent M. d’Arminges, their governor, to look for a priest, while they fashioned a makeshift litter out of branches spread with their cloaks. In this way, they were able to carry the dying man to a nearby inn he had pointed out.

Once there, the two lords ordered the landlord to prepare bandages and lint to dress the man’s wounds, and to arrange a bed for him. They then rode off in the direction of Grancy, one of the villages the old man had named, where they hoped to find a priest. As luck would have it, they came across a monk, an Augustinian friar, who was mounted on a mule and riding towards them. They stopped him and asked him to go to the inn and assist the old man he would find there.

For some reason, the monk was reluctant to go. Some say he was hostile. The lords, however, threatened him with violence is he didn’t agree, and so the monk was persuaded to do their bidding. He rode off in the direction indicated, but the comte and the vicomte were suspicious of him, and followed at a distance to make sure he fulfilled his duty.

As soon as they saw that the monk had arrived at the inn, the young lords continued their journey. They left Arminges and two servants behind, presumably to supervise the care of the dying man.

By all accounts, this monk as an ugly man - pale, his complexion a bilious yellow, his hair short. Everyone who saw him said that his eyes, which were of a clear blue, seemed devoid of life. People were frightened in this man’s presence, disturbed by his appearance.

As to the dying man, the landlord did not recognise him, but his wife did. She had been standing to one side as the man was being brought in and had got a good look at his face. He was the former public executioner of Lille.

The Augustinian, rather than caring for the man and offering him the absolution he so desperately desired, instead finished him off, despatching him to the next world with the blade of a poniard through the heart. They say his blood ran through the mattress upon which he lay, leaving a red stain on the floor beneath.

I was aware that the headsman had lived in a cottage near here, and as I came to the edge of a small village, I enquired at the inn. The landlord knew where the cottage was he gave me directions. I rode on in the direction indicated, but soon came to a crossroads. Not knowing which way to go, I waited for someone to pass by. A few people did, but no one wanted to help me find the cottage. Then one man pointed in the general direction, but no amount of persuasion or money would induce him to accompany me.

Luckily, the cottage was not so far away, and I arrived before it within a few minutes. The cottage was sinister indeed. It was painted all over in red, even the door, which I had difficulty finding at first. I knocked but received no answer. Tentatively, I tried to turn the handle, but it refused to move.

‘You won’t get a reply.’

The voice came from nowhere. Startled, I spun round to see a young woman watching me.

‘Are you the current owner?’ I asked, walking up to her.

‘No, but we take care of it.’

The woman was young, with a pale complexion. Her red hair was bound into a chignon, but some strands had broken away, and, caught in the breeze, they brushed her face. 

‘Would it be possible to look inside?’ I asked, hopefully.

‘It should be. We’ll ask my husband.’

As it turned out, the woman’s husband was the landlord at the nearby inn. He was suspicious at first, but when I explained that I was gathering information about various aspects of local lore, he granted me permission to look inside the cottage. 

‘You know the story, then?’ he asked me, and I told him I did. 

He gave his wife, whose name was Madeleine, the key and told her to let me in.

‘Make sure you lock up and bring the key back when you’re finished,’ he said. I was happy to oblige. Madeleine accompanied me back to the cottage. She turned the key in the lock and swung open the door.

‘No one usually comes here,; she said. ‘Certainly, none of the villagers will come anywhere near the cottage, so whatever you plan to do, you won’t be disturbed.’ Then she gave me a long look and asked, ‘what do you plan to do?’

I had no idea, really. I simply wanted to see what the cottage looked like. She must know the story of how the man died, and she said she knew something of it.

We went inside. The cottage had that cold, unsettling stillness of a home that had not been used for many years. Despite this, within, all seemed ordinary enough. There were a few pieces of furniture: a chair, its cushion faded by the sunlight that entered through the window behind it, a table, a chest of draws, a bookshelf. I went over to the bookshelf and gazed at the titles. Quite a few had alchemy for their subject. One book stood out from the rest. As I reached to take it, Madeleine’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

‘You should see this room,’

I went over to where she was standing. I pushed open the door and stepped into one of the strangest rooms I had ever seen. 

‘What are all these bottles.’ I asked her. 

‘I have no idea, but I do know that the headsman used this room as a laboratory.’ 

Of course. It explained the books, well, most of them. 

‘When he died and they came in to clear out the cottage, they found some strange things,’ continued Madeleine. ‘A headless skeleton for one, with the skull nearby. There was a collection of lizards, even some snakes. There were some strange plants, too. Most of them were dried and hanging from the ceiling.’ 

I looked up to see small hooks where, presumably, the various plants and herbs were hung up to dry.

‘The funny things was,’ said Madeleine, ‘the man lived here entirely alone. There was only one portrait of a young priest; no room where a lady of the house might have lived, nor was there a servant’s or a maid’s room.’

Madeleine then said she would leave me in peace to look about. ‘Don’t forget to return the key when you’re finished,’ she called from the door, before closing it firmly behind her. 

Alone now. The cottage was uncomfortably cold and smelled musty. I didn’t want to stay here long. I walked through each room, trying to get a feel of the place, perhaps trying to connect in some way with the man who had lived here. The cottage was small, but adequate for the needs of a single man. In the bedroom I found the frame of a bed. It had been stripped of blankets, pillows and mattress, making the cross that hung on the wall behind it appear strange and out of place. The closets were empty and no curtain hung at the small window. The kitchen contained nothing of interest, so I returned to the salon and to the bookshelf. I was inevitably drawn to the large book that looked so out of place. I picked it up and opened it.

The book was a bible, it’s dog-eared and well-read pages yellowing and aged. Inside was a paper, a letter. I took it out and sat on the old chair down to read. 

To whom it may concern, 

I am the headsman of Lille. I have always exercised my office, distasteful though it is, with honesty and integrity and always in the name of law and justice. This changed when, one dreadful night, I was called upon to act as the instrument of private revenge. I was ordered to raise my sword, not with justice, but with hatred against one of God’s creatures. I gave up my office after that. While I still attended executions, I never again struck the fatal blow. 

Since that time, I have sought to assuage my guilt by doing good works. I have tried to save those in peril, even at the risk of my own life. I have tried to preserve the lives of others in exchange for those lives I had taken away. The wealth I had accumulated in the exercise of my office I distributed to the poor. I attend church regularly. All have pardoned me, some have even befriended me. Still, I believe that God has not pardoned me because the recollection of that unlawful execution has haunted me ever since. 

Every night, the spectre of that women stands before me. I was her assassin, not her executioner, and she haunts me still. 

The order to execute this woman came one evening, when a man, a lord, came to my house and showed me an order. I went with this man and saw that four other lords were waiting for him. One of these men was an Englishman, but the other four were French and wore the dress of musketeers. Together, we rode five or six leagues until, at last, we arrived at a small cottage. The first lord took me to a window and showed me a woman leaning on a table inside.

This woman was young and beautiful. Her long hair was blonde and she had a wonderful expression. When she spoke, her voice was of the strangest softness. I couldn’t imagine why she should have deserved death, but the man who brought me told me she was a monster. She had poisoned her second husband, he said, and had tried to assassinate her brother-in-law. She had poisoned a young woman whom she saw as a rival and she had caused the king of England’s favourite to be stabbed to death.

I was to serve as the instrument of these men, but when I saw this woman, I recalled all the ill she had done to me. For she was someone I could never forget. She had led astray my brother, a young priest with whom she had escaped her convent. They had become lovers, and she had been the cause of his death. Her name, which I will never forget, was Anne de Breuil.

If some kind friend were to find this letter in which I write my confession, I beg him to find a priest who will give me absolution. Oh, how I wish to confess to a priest, who will absolve me and give me peace. I just want to confess 

I read the letter through twice. I pondered whether or not to take it with me and show it to a priest, but decided to leave it where I found it. I did make a copy of it, though, writing out the headsman’s words in the back of my journal. I then folded the letter and placed it back inside the Bible and replaced it on the bookshelf.

The light was beginning to fade now. I locked up the cottage and returned the key. I said goodbye to Madeleine and thanked her for her help, and then I went on my way. I could have spent the night at the inn, but there was another I wanted to stay at, and I knew it was not far from here.

The inn I was looking for stood at the edge of the next town. I followed the narrow, winding road that led through the gentle countryside. It was quite cold now, and I was beginning to feel very hungry. Perhaps I should have eaten at Madeleine’s inn before setting out. Still, my bed for the night wasn’t too far away. I hoped they served good food.

It had rained that afternoon, but it had been only a light shower that made the air smell fresh. The land round about was flat, but the leaves of the few trees that grew along the roadside shone like silver in the moonlight. There was a light breeze now, its voice like gentle whispers. As peaceful as it all seemed, I could not help feeling that I wasn’t the only one travelling this road tonight. Someone was following me - a robber, perhaps… hopefully not; hopefully, only another traveller looking for lodgings for the night. I looked behind me once or twice, but, although the road was now straight, I could see no one behind me, nor could I hear the sound of horse’s hooves. Yet, the feeling that I was not alone persisted.

Before long, I was glad to see the soft, warm glow of lights from the first houses of the village. I spurred on my horse and looked left and right for the inn. It was not difficult to find. I stopped outside the door and looked up at the sign that swayed and groaned in the breeze. It boasted a bloodied sword beneath which was the name in lurid red letters: ‘The Headsman’s Rest.’This was the inn that Bragelonne and Guiche, the two young lords, had brought the headsman of Lille after they discovered him dying by the roadside. I went inside and was immediately bathed in the warmth of the fire roaring in the grate. A handful of men sat in front of it, nursing their brandies before venturing outside and back to their respective homes.

I went up to the bar and was greeted by the landlord. He was from thirty to thirty-five years old, with sandy hair and hazel eyes. He seemed friendly enough and, when I told him I was looking to stay the night, he assured me he could accommodate me and stable my horse.

‘I hear there was a murder here several years ago,’ I said.

‘That’s right. It was in my father’s time,’ he smiled. ‘A man was brought to the inn. He had been attacked on the road and mortally wounded. He wanted a confessor, so one was found for him, but, instead of granting him absolution, the monk finished him off with a dagger.’

‘So, the story is true, then.’

'Oh, yes!’ he said. ‘My father did well out of it, too. He changed the name of the inn to, as you see, ‘The Headsman’s Rest.’ We serve the finest wines – red, of course – and our meat is always served rare.’ 

I was intrigued.

‘A lot of people come to see where the deed happened,’ he continued. ‘We guessed that’s why you came, so we’ve put you in the room where the old man was murdered,’ he added with a disarming smile.

He went to a board behind the bar, its painted numbers fading with age, and took down a key, which he handed to me. He then lighted a lamp, handed that to me as well, and pointed towards a door hidden in the shadows in the corner.

‘Room number seven,’ he grinned. ‘Up the stairs, turn right, you can’t miss it. Oh, and don’t worry about the red rug under the bed – it’s not hiding anything!’

I had expected some help with my bag, but this was not to be. I guessed that, what with the lateness of the hour and all, there were few staff about to help with such things. However, he assured me that a boy would look after my horse, for which I was very grateful.

I asked mine host if food was available, and he told me he would send a light supper up to my room. I had hoped for something more substantial, but it would have to do. I thanked him and he called for the boy to organise my evening repast. 

I made my way upstairs. I found number seven easily enough; it was exactly as mine host had described, at the end of a narrow corridor leading off from the right at the top of the stairs. The room was large but cold. When the boy came up with my supper, I asked him to light the fire. Soon enough the blaze filled the room with warmth and a comforting golden light.

  

My supper consisted of a large quantity of bread and cheese, which were rather good, and a bottle of the house red, which was surprisingly excellent. Having eaten, I settled at a small desk and took my journal from my bag.

I have always kept a journal. I like to make notes about the places my work takes me, many of which, like this one, have rather interesting stories to tell. It was not long, though, before I felt tiredness overcome me. It had been a long day. I slipped into bed, turned down the lamp and drifted off to sleep.

Something woke me. 

I sat up and looked about. 

It struck me that, even though the fire was still burning in the grate, the room had become much colder. Shadows filled the corners of the room, and, for some reason, that awful uneasy feeling returned to overwhelm me. 

I rose and went to the window. Pushing aside the heavy curtains, I looked out. The moon was almost full, its light bathing everything in cold silver. The inn’s tawdry sign creaked and grated as it swayed in the wind. Frost had already begun to draw its intricate design on the glass. I closed the curtains again and went back to bed. 

Silently laughing at my own silliness, I settled down again, but found sleep elusive. 

The hours passed. I listened to the wind as it whistled outside, sounding fierce, even threatening.

I got out of bed again and sat down at the small table. The remains of my supper lay on the platter, some bread and a small amount of wine, so I finished them off. There was something comforting about this, so simply, so ordinary. I picked up my journal and read the copy I had made of the headsman’s letter.

The words he had written lingered in my mind, haunting me. A man who was so used to taking lives scrupled at the thought of executing this young woman, even though she seemed to have deserved it. The deciding factor for him had been that the execution should have been lawful. This one was not. Instead, it had been sanctioned by five lords acting for their own private reasons.

I lifted my eyes from the page and scanned the room. I had stayed in inns like this before, and they always creak during the night as the wooden beams and floorboards settle. This was no different, I told myself. So, why did I still feel so ill at ease? 

Just go to bed and soon it will be morning.

Somehow, probably because I was still so tired, I did manage to fall asleep.

The dreams that came were vague. I saw a man’s face, agitated, afraid even; a woman, young, her eyes wild and frantic; I heard a scream; there was a boat, water, the flash of metal… the incoherent images that come after a troubling day. Then I heard a man’s voice in the darkness, weakly, pitifully pleading…

Confess… I want to confess… 

It was so close, I could swear I felt the warm, damp breath of the speaker.

That was it. No more sleep for me tonight.

Except, it wasn’t tonight, it was this morning. As I threw open the heavy curtains, I saw that, already, the sky was beginning to lighten, chasing away the shadows of the night.

From downstairs, I could smell the inviting aromas of breakfast - fresh bread dripping with butter, a fat chicken leg or two and a bottle of the excellent Headsman’s Red, and I would be on my way.
As I packed up my few things into my bag, I knew I’d be back this way again. After all, I had satisfied my curiosity about the headsman’s story, but, in doing so, I had opened the door to another quest. I was intrigued by the woman the headsman had been forced to execute – assassinate, as he had put it. 

Yes, I would be back this way…

THE HEADSMAN'S REST is inspired by the story of the executioner of Lille as found in The Three Musketeers and Twenty Years After, where he is known as the executioner of Béthune.

The narrative format is inspired by the Strange Resort collection of podcasts from The Stephen King Book Club: 

Stephen King Book Club - YouTube