by Paul Doherty
She’s bored, Simon thought. I am going to die and she’s watching it as if I am a fly to be hit and forgotten. It was like some mummer’s play where the actors mime their parts. The sergeant-at-arms was speaking, reading from a parchment. The assistant was talking to the hangman who was already climbing the ladder: a sea of mumbled words.
Simon walked forward but his legs felt weak. He glanced towards the High Cross and narrowed his eyes. Was that No Teeth sitting on a step, chin propped in his hands? Simon tried to shout but the words wouldn’t come. The sergeant-at-arms had stopped reading and he smacked the scroll on Simon’s shoulder, the official sign for sentence to be carried out. He was climbing the ladder. It seemed to go on for ever as if he were climbing up into the grey clouds. The assistant was following him, his chains were loosened, his arms pinioned behind his back.
‘Where is everyone?’ Simon asked. ‘Where’s Shadbolt, Flyhead, Friar Martin?’
‘God knows!’ the executioner replied, his voice muffled behind the mask. ‘But it’s your time now, lad.’
A mask was put over his face. Simon panicked. He felt something tight around his throat. The hangman was talking to him quietly. He tried to grip the ladder but his arms, pinioned behind his back, wouldn’t move. Then he was falling, like he did when he was asleep, lost in some dream. The pain shot through him as he hit the bottom, terrible pains in his back and neck. He scrambled, kicked his legs up, a roaring in his ears.
‘Oh, make it quick!’ he gasped.
Someone was pulling on his legs. The darkness opened and he fell fast and deep.
Shadbolt, the former chief hangman of Gloucester, hurried along Castle Lane. He stared up at the crenellated wall and glimpsed the sentries standing there. Shadbolt was terrified out of his wits. He’d tried to hide it but the news came in like a shower of arrows. Merry Face had fled, his corpse found on a forest trackway; Alderman Shipler had been discovered hanging by his neck in his paramour’s bedchamber! Now poor Cotterill had been taken. Shadbolt felt a pang of guilt. He’d kept to himself; cowled and hooded he had gone round the taverns and heard the news.
Since his return from the Forest of Dean he had lived in a constant state of terror by day and night. He had visited the Hangman’s Rest and, when he had lurched out, his belly full of beer and his heart full of false courage, he’d seen those two hags waiting on the corner. He was sure they were the Ratoliers. Shadbolt’s nerve had broken. If he could find No Teeth he’d kill the bastard! He’d take his head and stick it on a pole!
Shadbolt hurried on, past the shabby houses, tenements and warehouses and along to the rain-soaked quayside. The river looked swollen, dark and menacing. He slipped into an alehouse where he sat down, pulling his hood over him, his bulging leather saddlebags beside him. Quickly he downed two tankards and shouted for a third.
Flyhead had said he would meet him here, but as yet there was no sign of him. Then a dark shape loomed in the doorway. Shadbolt gulped and spluttered over his tankard. He put it down and groped under his cloak for his knife but relaxed as Flyhead pulled back his cowl and came and sat opposite him.
‘Where are your saddlebags?’ Shadbolt asked crossly.
‘I’m not going,’ Flyhead replied.
‘What?’ The chief hangman gripped him by the arm. ‘What do you mean, you are not going?’
‘I don’t think it’s safe.’
‘We face the powers of hell,’ Shadbolt hissed. He leaned over the table. ‘You were in the forest. You saw those three hanged and then full of life the following morning. And you’ve heard the news? Merry Face lies in a pauper’s grave, gutted like the rabbit he was. And now young Cotterill’s been taken.’
‘I know,’ Flyhead snapped. ‘I’ve just seen his corpse dangling on the scaffold. I’m not going!’ he repeated defiantly, his lean, pinched face set and resolute. ‘I don’t think you should either.’
‘It’s safer,’ Shadbolt insisted. ‘We are dealing with demons, Flyhead. I have asked a wise woman.’
‘Old Meg!’ Flyhead scoffed. ‘The one who lives in Mavedeans Lane? What does she know?’
‘She says demons and witches can’t cross water.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see it. You take your boat. Travel as far as you can.’
Flyhead ordered a blackjack for himself. Once the slattern had served it, Flyhead leaned his arms on the table and sipped from it, his close-set eyes studying Shadbolt. The former chief hangman felt a pang of envy. Flyhead was no coward. He often boasted he feared neither God nor man. For the first time ever Shadbolt believed him.
‘I was a priest, you know,’ Flyhead said. ‘And do you know why I gave up?’
‘What’s this got to do with it?’ Shadbolt retorted. ‘Let’s drink up and be gone.’
‘You drink too fast and you drink too much,’ Flyhead taunted. ‘You can hide away but . . .’
‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’
‘I told you, I was a priest once,’ Flyhead continued coolly. ‘I don’t believe there’s a God. I don’t believe there’s a devil, heaven or hell. When you are dead, you are dead. A colourless nothing.’
Shadbolt repressed a shiver of fear and urged his companion to keep his voice down.
‘Oh, I suspect everyone believes the same,’ Flyhead scoffed. ‘Otherwise men wouldn’t steal, lust, lie, betray, murder and oppress. To put it bluntly, Shadbolt, if there’s nothing after death, the Ratoliers can’t be ghosts or demons.’
‘But we hanged them. You saw that.’
Flyhead leaned back, laughing. ‘Tell me now, Master Shadbolt. How many people have been hanged in Gloucester and lived to tell the tale?’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it now? All we saw were three women hanged and then we fled that glade. I wished I’d stayed.’ Flyhead beat the table with his fists. ‘I wished I’d taken a bucket of tar and reduced their corpses to charred cinders. I don’t believe in demons.’ He drained his tankard and got to his feet. ‘Somehow or other those three bitches survived. Now you can run, frightened as a rabbit, that’s what they want. But I tell you this, Shadbolt, I’ve got a feeling none of us are going to be allowed to leave Gloucester.’ He stretched out his hand, his face softening. ‘But you were a good companion. We drank many a quart and heard the chimes at midnight.’
Shadbolt grasped his hand.
‘I don’t think we’ll ever see each other again,’ Flyhead said softly.
‘What will you do?’
‘I’m not going to stay, but disappear. Why not join me?’
Shadbolt shook his head. Flyhead pulled a face, turned and slipped through the doorway. Shadbolt half rose, meaning to call after him, then sat down.
‘What can I do?’ he asked himself.
He picked up the saddlebags and walked out of the alehouse, down the lane on to the quayside. A light rain was beginning to fall. It was growing dark but he searched out the trader from whom he’d bought the bum-boat.
‘Why not leave it until the morning?’ the fellow asked. ‘The river’s swollen.’
‘I’ll go up-river, keep to the bank,’ Shadbolt offered.
The man shrugged, took the final payment and led the former chief hangman down the quayside steps. The bum-boat was really a wherry, a sturdy craft, fairly new; its woodwork still glistened, the copper ring on the high prow had not yet rusted. The oars looked strong and unsplintered. Shadbolt clambered in and sat on the middle plank. The boatman pointed to a small chest built into the stern.
‘As agreed I’ve put in a wineskin, some dried food and meat. Where are you going?’
Shadbolt just seized the oars.
‘Push me away!’ he said.
The boatman did so. Shadbolt felt the boat lurch but he was used to such craft. Anyone who had worked as a wherryman on the Thames would have no difficulty.
Shadbolt was glad to be on the river. The Ratoliers and their coven would surely be watching the road and, if they were demons, well, the waters of the Severn would keep him safe. He str
etched his feet, kicked the saddlebags a little bit further under the other seat and strained at the oars. The quayside faded. Now and again, when Shadbolt raised his head, he glimpsed pinpricks of light from the city. Once he was away, he’d turn the craft back into shore.
A short while later, he steered the boat towards a clump of willow trees, whose overhanging branches concealed the bank. Shadbolt smiled to himself; he’d rest here the night and, in the morning, continue his journey.
He was free of Gloucester. By this time tomorrow evening he would be well out of the reach of the terrors which hunted him. So engrossed was Shadbolt, so intent on reaching the willow-concealed river bank, he failed to see the pursuing barge slip through the evening mist towards him.
Chapter 10
‘Well, well, lad, how does it feel to come back from the dead?’
Simon painfully pushed himself up on the truckle bed and stared round the lime-washed chamber. The sergeant-at-arms slouched on a chest at the foot of the bed. The mayor sat on a stool opposite Simon, so close he could smell the wine fumes on his breath. The mayor had dropped his great cloak on the floor and was turning the beaver hat in his hands round and round. Sir Humphrey smoothed down his silvery hair, his blue, watery eyes intently studying Simon. He leaned over and touched the young carpenter’s neck.
‘You’ll enjoy a purple weal for a week then it’ll start fading.’
Simon grimaced at the shooting pains in his shoulders and neck. His head felt heavy, his legs weak.
‘Well?’ the sergeant-at-arms barked. ‘My lord mayor asked you a question!’
‘My lord mayor had me hanged!’ Simon replied.
‘Only pretence,’ the mayor scoffed. ‘You’ve been here days.’
Simon stared at the metal-studded door. He’d regained consciousness two days ago. The grey-garbed servants had refused to answer his questions. So had the physician, a whey-faced individual with bloodless lips and red-flecked eyes. He merely poked Simon, scrutinised his neck and asked if he could pass water and food. Simon had lost his temper and had told him to sniff the jakes pot beneath the bed. The physician had expressed himself satisfied and left. Simon had been able to get out of the bed. The door was locked, the windows firmly shuttered though he could hear the sound of carts, horses, people moving about.
‘Where am I?’ he asked.
The mayor turned to the table and poured two cups of wine and gave one to Simon.
‘You are in a house which belongs to the Guildhall. It’s sometimes used by the council to house visitors to our noble city. Now it’s empty, the physician, the servants and the hangmen are all in our pay.’
‘I’m not!’ Simon retorted.
‘I am sorry. But it was the only way. We made it as quick as possible and, as you surmised, your food and wine were drugged.’
‘The pain?’ Simon asked, beating his fists against the woollen cover. ‘Swinging in the air!’
‘It was necessary,’ the sergeant-at-arms barked. ‘And you made it necessary. Now, tell us everything you know about the Ratoliers.’
Simon sipped from the wine.
‘Everything,’ the mayor insisted. ‘We’ve learned a little but our chicken at the Silver Tabard has already flown.’ He pulled the stool closer. ‘We live in troubled times, Master Cotterill; the King’s a boy, the French are at sea, peasants grumble and the tax-collectors move like ants, eating up everything they can take. Now, I don’t really care if people go off into the Forest of Dean and dance naked around fires. And, to be perfectly truthful, I have very little sympathy with wenches who walk lonely country lanes and take help from strangers.’
‘It’s Shipler, isn’t it? It’s because an alderman has been hanged!’
‘You should have spiked those bodies!’ the sergeant-at-arms broke in. ‘You should have stayed and guarded them, then cut them down and spiked their hearts as you were ordered.’
‘And so I would have saved Alderman Shipler?’
‘Oh, there’s more than that.’ The mayor put his goblet down. ‘Do you remember Shadbolt? His corpse, water-sodden, gnawed by the fish, has been pulled from the Severn. Someone strangled him with a piece of rope.’
Simon sat up, his hands shaking. Poor Shadbolt, despite all his swagger, he must have lost his nerve.
‘Tell us everything you know,’ the mayor said. ‘And when we have finished we’ll tell you why we saved you.’
Simon began to talk. He told them about his early life, his joining the hangmen, the secret bargains they made with certain condemned felons. At this the mayor laughed sharply, shaking his head.
‘I have heard of such compacts,’ he said. ‘Master Shadbolt and his crew won’t be the first hangmen, and certainly won’t be the last, to decide who dies and who doesn’t. Indeed, there’s a recent royal proclamation, ordering all bodies to be left on the public gibbets for at least a day and a night before they are tarred and gibbeted.’
‘So, you knew already?’ Simon asked.
‘We began to suspect,’ the sergeant-at-arms broke in. ‘But continue.’
Simon described the hideous journey into the Forest of Dean, the sudden storm, their flight to the hunting lodge and Deershound’s death. He also described the advice given to him by Flyhead and his visit to the anchorite in the Abbey of St Peter.
‘Why don’t you ask Flyhead?’ he concluded. ‘Or Friar Martin?’
‘Ah, that’s the problem,’ the mayor replied. ‘You see, everyone’s gone to ground. Shadbolt and Merry Face are dead. We have found neither hide nor hair of Flyhead or Friar Martin.’
‘Tell me,’ Simon asked, ‘whose idea was it to take the Ratoliers out and hang them in the Forest of Dean?’
‘You were at the trial. Alderman Shipler . . .’
‘And Alderman Draycott,’ Simon finished.
‘Both are dead.’
Simon’s jaw fell. ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘Alderman Draycott and his only daughter Alice were found dead in their stable.’
Simon felt as if he was going to faint. He dropped the cup, the wine spilling over the coverlet. For some strange reason his legs began to twitch and jerk. His throat was dry. The mayor did not move but the sergeant-at-arms got up. He took a cloth from the lavarium and wiped the wine, picked up the cup and put it on the table. He gripped Simon’s hand and squeezed it.
‘So, it’s true,’ he said. ‘You were sweet on the girl?’
‘That’s why I came to Gloucester. The real reason,’ Simon stammered. ‘But when I got here, Alderman Draycott drove me from his house and Alice would have nothing to do with me!’ He gulped for air. ‘How did they die?’
‘As you know, Draycott was a bit of a miser. Once the day’s work was finished the servants and apprentices were put out to fend for themselves. Two retainers remained: an old man and woman who cooked and served at his table. Last night Alderman Draycott and Alice, as usual, supped late. The two old retainers left.
‘This morning Draycott’s chief apprentice knocked on the front door. He was surprised to see no light as the alderman always had an eye to profit and was up before dawn. There was no answer so the apprentice went down the alleyway which ran alongside the house: the postern door at the back was also locked and bolted. It seemed deserted, then he heard the horses whinnying in the stables.’
Simon nodded. Draycott had a chestnut mare, Alice a small grey palfrey.
‘He went inside, where the light was poor. The stable contained two boxes for the horses and, at the far end, some hay and fodder. Alice and her father were found hanging there. No other signs of violence. It was very strange . . .’
‘I inspected the bodies myself,’ the sergeant-at-arms interrupted. ‘Their arms and legs weren’t tied. There was no sign of a struggle, just those two corpses, swaying slightly on the end of a rope.’
Simon put his face in his hands.
‘I almost got the impression that they’d committed suicide; that they both walked through that stable, fastened the nooses t
o a beam, climbed the bales, put the nooses round their necks and stepped off.’
‘And the house?’
‘The postern door at the back was locked, as I say. I couldn’t find the key so I can’t say whether it was from the inside or outside. Some of my lads broke it down. Inside everything was clean and tidy with not a pot or cup out of place, everything washed and cleaned. I interrogated the old servants. They said they had served a meal and that Alderman Draycott always left the table for them to clear the following morning. Only this time he and Alice appeared to have cleared the table, washed the pots and plates, tidied the kitchen and scullery and put everything in place. They then left the house, locking the door behind them, and went into the stable to hang themselves.’
‘But you don’t believe that?’ Simon asked.
‘No, we don’t,’ the mayor agreed. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, Master Cotterill, but I do believe in demons. You are being honest with us so I’ll be honest with you. For some months I’ve had a suspicion of a satanic coven working in and around Gloucester. Most practitioners of the black arts are slightly crazed old ladies who believe they have powers. Really, all they have are their dreams. The Ratoliers are different: they are demons incarnate. We trapped them once, now we have to seize them again.’ He sighed. ‘We wondered if something might go wrong.’
‘I sent scurriers into the Forest of Dean.’ The sergeant-at-arms took up the story. ‘We learned about Deershound’s death. We visited the glade. We could see no sign of the corpses being destroyed while, of course, the inscription on their altar was left for all to see.’
‘When the scurriers returned we made careful investigation of our hangmen: Shadbolt, Merry Face and Flyhead. They should have been arrested but they’d disappeared off the face of the earth. Friar Martin is a priest and is probably hiding in his friary, so that left you, Master Cotterill.’
‘Why all this mummery?’
‘Ah!’ the mayor replied. ‘Everyone who attended the trial of the Ratoliers and was involved in their supposed death, appears to be marked down for destruction.’
A wild thought seized Simon. He’d been part of trickery to allow people who were hanged to walk away and now it seemed as if the game had turned nasty.
