by Paul Doherty
‘How do we know Shipler and Draycott really died?’ he asked. ‘The anchorite told me how it’s possible for these practitioners, either through potions or the power they have assumed, to appear as if their souls have left their bodies.’
The mayor laughed drily. ‘And the same thought has occurred to me, Master Cotterill. However, Shipler’s corpse was kept four days above ground before burial, and the same is true of the Draycotts.’
‘I would like to pay my respects to them.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort! Master Cotterill, you are supposed to be dead yourself. You asked the reason for all this trickery, so I’ll be blunt. We are going to change your name and your appearance. Your hair will be cropped and dyed black. You’ll be armed, provisioned and supplied with monies.’
‘For what?’ Simon asked in alarm.
‘Fifty pounds sterling,’ the mayor replied. ‘If you help the city council destroy this coven once and for all!’
‘How can I do that?’ Simon spluttered.
‘You have no choice.’ The sergeant-at-arms smiled but his eyes were glass-hard. ‘You either leave here, Master Cotterill, our living servant or as a corpse.’ He emphasised the points on his fingers. ‘Firstly, you know about the Ratoliers. Secondly, you know Flyhead and Friar Martin. Thirdly, despite all your bumbling, you, of all of them, seem to have acted with wit and some wisdom. You visited the anchorite. You learned some of the truth. You had yourself shriven and took the sacrament. Fourthly,’ his eyes softened, ‘we think you are honest. Do this for us and we promise, you’ll be allowed to leave Gloucester with honour, well stocked with monies to begin a life elsewhere, take a new name, a new post. Just do what we ask!’
‘Silver,’ the mayor insisted. ‘New clothing, arms and a free passage from the city. Until then you’ll live here.’
‘Where would I begin?’ Simon asked.
‘You found No Teeth once. Surely you can find him again?’
Simon contemplated the crucifix on the wall. He still felt weak, sore and shaken and now deeply sad at Alice’s death. He had tried to flee but failed. If he tried again he would probably be pursued, not only by the Ratoliers but by all the powers this redoubtable mayor and sergeant-at-arms could muster.
‘I agree.’ The words were out before he could stop them.
The mayor stretched out and clasped his hand.
‘I’m glad,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sorry for the pain you had to endure but there was no other way. You had to die, to work in secret.’ He let go of Simon’s hand. ‘I love this city. But evil’s swilling down its streets like some rotten rain, all the filthy muck spat up by hell. Now you’ll be on your own, though my sergeant-at-arms here will be in the background. If you are caught or discovered, you will have to flee and we’ll do what we can. One thing I want to impress upon you.’ The mayor’s eyes gleamed. ‘Forget the Ratoliers.’
‘What?’ Simon exclaimed. ‘Surely they are the leaders.’
‘I don’t think so. The Ratoliers are merely chaff in the wind. The same is true of the tavern keeper of the Silver Tabard and No Teeth. I want their leader.’
‘But the Ratoliers?’ Simon protested.
‘Forget them! They can’t change their appearance. They are not really of this city. Don’t worry about them. I’ll organise a sheriff posse and they can scour the Forest of Dean. The bitches will probably hide there in their filthy darkness and never come out. Unless we know exactly where they’re hiding, we’ll have to leave them.’ He shook his head. ‘No, Simon, what you must do, and God knows how you’ll do it, is trap their leader.’ He smiled. ‘And, if you can capture No Teeth and mine host at the Silver Tabard, then all to the good!’
Four days later Simon Cotterill was ready. Before he left the lonely house in a quiet street leading off the Guildhall, he studied his reflection in a piece of shining metal. He was surprised at the change in his appearance. His light-brown hair was now dyed black with pigments the sergeant-at-arms had bought from an apothecary. Yet it was the change to his face which shocked him the most. Whether because of his work as a hangman, the horrors he had witnessed in the Forest of Dean or the hideous agony he had suffered on the scaffold, his face was thinner, more drawn. Furrows had appeared around his mouth. His eyes were deep-set, his nose seemed sharper. Simon ruefully realised his youth was over. He was, in many ways, a forgotten man who really didn’t exist. No more worries about carpentry, about joists, joints and carvings or about money or prospects. He was truly alone.
He fingered the relic of St Dunstan the mayor had returned to him. He felt sorry for the Draycotts and he fully understood the mayor’s anger. The leader of the coven was probably cloaked in respectability; yet he pulled the strings and made others dance, dealing out death to those marked down for destruction.
Simon, before he left the room, placed his hand over the crucifix on the wall.
‘I swear by all the souls!’ he muttered. ‘And as far as my powers will allow, that justice will be done! For me, for Alice and for all those who have died!’
The former hangman, known as Flyhead, lifted the wicker basket of bones and left the reeking slaughter shed in the fleshers’ yard of the Shambles near Oxblood Lane. No one would have recognised him. He was no longer dressed in his quilted black leather jacket and his balding pate, so telling in his appearance, was now covered by the makeshift wig he had bought from a whore on the other side of Gloucester.
Flyhead stumbled across the blood-spattered cobbles and deposited the basket of bones along with the rest waiting to be collected by the grinders. He wiped the sweat from the back of his arm and scrutinised the darkening yard. Here, he felt safe.
He had not tried to flee and had kept well away from his usual haunts. He’d secured this job simply because he had been available. No one knew anything about his true name, his past or what he was hiding from. He glanced up at the sky. Soon winter would make itself truly felt. The bedraggled trees which stood round the slaughter yard had already been stripped of their leaves which, thick on the ground, gave the yard a bloody, matted look. A grisly place, the fleshers’ yard, with its stench, the gutted carcases of animals, yet a good place to hide. Flyhead would stay here until well after Yuletide and, when spring came, he’d dig up his money from where he had hidden it and flee like a deer.
At the other end of the fleshing shed a bell tolled, the sign that the day’s work was finished. Flyhead sighed. He’d collect his pennies, go to the alehouse with the rest and, while they chattered and traded in good-natured obscenities, he would search for eyes watching him.
So far, nothing had happened. He’d heard about Shadbolt’s death just after poor Cotterill was hanged on the very scaffold where he had worked. Flyhead breathed in. He felt truly sorry for Cotterill. He would have liked to go out to see the anchorite but that door was closed. He could not bear the reproachful gaze of Brother Edward, to listen to his advice about the Ratoliers being simply evil women who had cheated death.
Flyhead walked back into the empty fleshing shed and tossed the basket down with the rest. Indeed, if he was honest, that had been his saving. The others thought they were being confronted by ghouls and ghosts. They had panicked and fled and it was easy to kill a lonely man on some deserted trackway or a swollen, mist-shrouded river.
Flyhead took his cloak down from a peg and shuffled towards the overseer.
‘A good day’s work,’ the fellow remarked. He thrust two pennies into Flyhead’s outstretched hand. ‘And there’s another one.’
Flyhead didn’t even bother to look up but mumbled his thanks, put his cloak about him and left. He did the same every day, trying to avoid the gaze of others or being drawn into conversation. Outside he put the pennies into his purse and allowed himself a smile. He’d be all right. This would join the rest of his treasures, hidden under those ruins on the edge of Gloucester. A lonely, haunted place with crumbling walls. Some said it had been a royal palace. Others, more knowledgeable, said it had been built by the Roman
s.
Flyhead stepped into the lane. Come spring, he’d be across into Wales then take a boat to Ireland. He walked down the lonely, gloomy runnel. At the corner he abruptly stopped and looked back to ensure no one was following him.
‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ he muttered. Nevertheless, something dreadful had happened out in the Forest of Dean. Undoubtedly, the Ratoliers had been saved and now they, and other members of their coven, were wreaking vengeance.
Flyhead found the alehouse where the other slaughterers, butchers and fleshers gathered. A dingy, narrow place which stank of blood and guts, but it was safe. The light was poor and Flyhead, to keep his companions happy, would always share a jug of ale, mumble a reply to some question then sit and allow the ale to wash the dirt and grime from his mouth. He did the same as every other evening, hiding in a corner, pretending to listen to his loud-mouthed companions. Now and again he would glance quickly around or watch the door. As usual he drank two quarts and ate a beef stew pie. The food served here was always good, the meat tender and fresh. After all, hadn’t it been recently filched from the fleshing shops? The best meat in Gloucester, the ale-master taunted, and he didn’t have to pay a penny for it!
Flyhead made his excuses and left. He wandered along the runnels, thin as needles, and eventually arrived back at the dilapidated four-storied house on the corner of Cat’s Eye Lane. The door was open. Flyhead climbed the stairs. At last he reached the top and, crouching down in the poor light, checked the pieces of cloth and scraps of parchment he had placed just under the door when he had left that morning. Nothing was disturbed. He took the key out of his pouch and slipped it into the lock. The avaricious landlord had been most surprised when Flyhead had insisted on buying a new lock. He turned the key and walked into the darkness. As he lit a candle he knew he had made a mistake: he should have shut the door. At the sound of a click he turned slowly round. He could make out the outline of a figure standing in the doorway and, in the pool of light from the candle, caught the glint from the barb on the crossbow bolt.
‘How did you know?’ he gasped.
‘You told me yourself, Flyhead. Oh, by the way, that wig does nothing for your appearance.’
Flyhead felt his legs tremble.
‘It can’t be!’ he gasped. ‘Is that you, Simon? But you are dead, for the love of God! They hanged you!’
The man who walked into the room and held the crossbow sounded like Cotterill but Flyhead, narrowing his eyes, wondered if he was losing his wits. The face was familiar but it had lost its boyish, innocent look; now narrow and lean, the hair much darker, the eyes not so bright.
‘I didn’t hang, Flyhead.’ Simon kicked the door shut. He put the crossbow down and brought out a small wineskin from beneath his cloak. ‘Come on, man. You’ve got more than one candle. Don’t worry.’ Simon brought his hand down on the man’s shoulder. ‘I am as frightened as you, Flyhead. Now, if you light the other candles and bring me a couple of cups, I’ll explain what’s happened.’
Flyhead hastened to obey and they sat talking in that tawdry narrow chamber. The bells of the Abbey of St Peter were booming out for Compline by the time Simon had finished. Flyhead whistled under his breath.
‘And how did you know how to find me?’
‘You told me, one night when we were all deep in our cups, how as a lad you worked as a butcher’s apprentice.’
‘Ah, so I did.’
‘And perhaps you told No Teeth the same?’
Flyhead felt a shiver up his spine as if the window had been opened and a blast of icy air swept the room.
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded quickly.
‘I knew you hadn’t fled Gloucester. There are six fleshing yards, and I found you in the fourth. I kept well away. One night I stood outside the alehouse and last night I followed you here. Tonight I was waiting for you.’
‘You’ve changed, Simon. A few weeks ago you would have blundered in.’
‘I’ve had to change! What started out as merry japery, a subtle way to make ourselves rich, has turned like a dagger in our hands. You are a former priest, Flyhead, you know how these covens work.’
Simon refilled his cup.
‘All those who were involved in the trial of the Ratoliers must die! You, me, the mayor and the sergeant-at-arms, we are all marked down for destruction.’
Flyhead picked up a damp rag and wiped his face.
‘You are more cunning than the rest,’ Simon continued. ‘You think you can hide in Gloucester. For how long, Flyhead? A month, two months? If I can find you, so can they.’
‘What about Friar Martin?’
‘I haven’t visited him yet. He hides behind the skirts of Holy Mother Church. However, I talked to the doorkeeper at the Austin Friars. Friar Martin has turned over a new leaf. He is now custodian of the shrine of St Radegund in the friary church. He sits and listens to the confessions of the pilgrims. Who knows, perhaps he will be safe on consecrated ground? Anyway, he wasn’t really one of us. He didn’t actually participate in the hanging of the three witches.’ Simon chewed the corner of his lip. ‘I’ll visit him soon.’ He half smiled. ‘I’ll pretend to be a pilgrim.’
‘What do you propose?’ Flyhead asked. He slurped the cup of wine and cursed his own arrogance. He was surprised both at the change in Cotterill and that he himself had been discovered so easily.
‘I want the hunted to become the hunter,’ Simon replied. ‘But to do that I need your help.’
‘Never!’ Flyhead vowed.
Simon got to his feet. ‘I need you, Flyhead, to lure the bait. I am a dead man and, if you don’t help, you truly will be. They’ll find you, they’ll hunt you down, be it the feast of All Saints or Yuletide. One of these feasts will come and you’ll be gone. Yet, if we strike hard, there’ll be nothing to fear any more.’ He paused. ‘In the Hangman’s Rest,’ he continued, ‘you tried to save me: you gave me the relic, you sent me to the anchorite. You judged yourself as dead, and you know in your heart of hearts that hiding is no protection.’
Flyhead stared at his hands. He could still make out the marks from the fleshers’ yard. Once his hands were light and soft; they’d held the host and chalice and consecrated the body and blood of Christ. He felt a deep sadness for all he had lost. He glanced up.
‘You are right, Simon. Ever since I left my priesthood I have been hiding. So, what do you propose?’
Chapter 11
Flyhead lay on his bed and stared up into the darkness. A good ten days had passed since Simon’s visit, when Flyhead had agreed to join him. He had given up his job in the fleshers’ yard, burned the wig and, once again, been seen in the taverns around High Cross. At first he had been terrified, frightened that the Ratoliers might abruptly strike. Simon, now truly a man of the shadows, had reassured him.
‘Never be anywhere by yourself! Avoid the lonely trackway or the deserted alley. They’ll watch for that and choose their moment.’
Flyhead’s confidence had grown. The coven might be watching him but he was aware of Simon. Flyhead smiled. The young carpenter had surprised him, stronger, more resolute than he had thought. Flyhead never cared for anyone. Well, except for No Teeth’s saucy little wench. Flyhead felt his mouth water. She had been so sweet, so kind. He fingered the dagger which lay next to his leg. When the time came he’d also remember her!
The sounds of the night caught his attention: a cat screeching in the alleyway, a bird against the shuttered window. Flyhead recognised all the noises but then he heard it, a slight creak on the stairs outside. He would have liked to seek reassurance, take the tinder and light the candle but he rolled over, his back towards the door, his hand clutching the dagger. He wasn’t sure if he heard the door open with just a quick movement. His head was pulled up, the noose was round his neck before he could cry out. The knot tightened behind his ear. He struck out with the dagger at the figure behind him. A scream, foul breath in his face. The room was then bathed in light as Simon, who had remained concealed, as he had ev
ery night since they had met, pulled the coverlet away from the lantern he’d primed. Flyhead’s two assailants turned in surprise. They both wore vizards but he recognised the back of No Teeth’s head. The other attacker was moving, dagger out, towards Simon but a crossbow bolt, thick and squat, smacked full in his face, smashing bone and flesh. The man fell, kicking and screaming, clutching his face. Flyhead needed no encouragement. He knocked No Teeth aside, clambered across the floor and yanked the man’s head back.
‘Be at peace!’ Flyhead whispered and sliced his throat in one quick cut.
No Teeth took off his vizard. He stood trembling, his ugly face white and beseeching, hands extended. Flyhead pulled the noose from around his neck, threw it at him and lunged with his dagger. Despite No Teeth’s wailing, he would have struck immediately.
‘No!’ Simon shouted. ‘Flyhead, no! We need him alive!’
Flyhead stopped, dagger extended.
‘Go on!’ he hissed, glaring at No Teeth’s wizened face. ‘Be stupid enough, you bloody bastard! You whoreson murderer! Go on, draw your dagger!’
No Teeth fell to his knees, no longer the warlock or the secret assassin. He looked what he was, a pathetic, ageing man terrified out of his wits. Simon slipped another bolt into the arbalest. He moved cautiously, squatting down by the dead assailant, whose blood was now seeping out in great red pools from the wound in his neck. He tore the vizard away. The face beneath was unrecognisable, the crossbow quarrel loosed at such close range had pulped his face as it would a rotten apple. He searched the man’s corpse; the jerkin, leggings and shirt were of good quality but the purse was empty except for a few coins. Simon put these on the table.
‘That’s for the damage caused. Well, well, well!’ Simon struggled to control his breathing. ‘We meet again, Master No Teeth. You are a most fortunate man.’
The former executioner sat down on the bed. Simon noticed he was so frightened he had wet himself.
