by Paul Doherty
‘I didn’t want to come.’ No Teeth’s tongue kept flicking in and out. He forced a grin, baring red, chapped gums.
‘You’re a liar, No Teeth,’ Simon replied. ‘You are a liar, you are a warlock, you’re an assassin and you are a coward. Who’s your companion? Mine host from the Silver Tabard?’
‘Yes, yes,’ No Teeth gabbled. ‘It was his idea!’
Simon released the catch and the bolt sped, smashing into the plaster beside No Teeth. He became agitated and, grabbing a blanket, seized it, wringing it between his hands. If it hadn’t been for Flyhead he would have fallen to his knees, hands joined.
‘Let’s begin again,’ Simon said. ‘This time, the truth. You are a member of a coven?’
No Teeth nodded vigorously.
‘For how many years?’
‘Three.’
‘Why you?’ Flyhead asked. ‘Why would they choose a worthless knave, a caitiff who’s frightened of his own smell?’
‘Be . . . because I am a hangman,’ No Teeth stammered. ‘I was a hangman in Gloucester long before Shadbolt and the rest of you.’
‘Ah, of course you were,’ Flyhead interrupted. ‘But you always resented us, didn’t you?’
‘I should have been made chief hangman,’ No Teeth retorted petulantly. ‘I was Gloucester-born.’
‘Shut up!’ Simon slipped another bolt into the groove of the crossbow. ‘The Ratoliers didn’t choose you for your good looks, so why?’
‘I told you, I was a hangman.’
‘Of course!’ Flyhead exclaimed. He sat on the edge of the bed playing with the dagger in his hands. ‘Simon, witches and warlocks need the cadavers of hanged men.’ He jabbed No Teeth viciously with his elbow. ‘What is it, the hand of glory?’
‘What’s that?’ Simon asked.
‘They use it in their rites,’ Flyhead explained. ‘Take the hand of a hanged man; sever it at the wrist, make a candle fashioned out of the cadaver’s fat, light it, place it in the hand and, with the right imprecations, the demons come, or so they believe.’
‘And you did that?’ Simon asked.
No Teeth nodded.
‘Who asked you to?’
No Teeth looked at the corpse on the floor.
‘Oh, don’t bother about him.’ Simon smiled. ‘He’s dead as nails, no potions, no philtres will save him.’
‘He made the invitation,’ No Teeth explained. ‘He offered me gold and silver. I met him at the dead of night out in the Forest of Dean.’
‘The coven, how many are there?’ Simon asked. He winched back the cord of the arbalest. No Teeth began to shiver. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Simon reassured him. ‘My finger will only slip if you tell us a lie. How many were there?’
‘Six.’
‘The Ratoliers. You, your late good friend here and who was the sixth?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly!’ No Teeth held up his hands. ‘Let me explain. We would always meet in that glade, use the stone as an altar. We came as we were.’ His eyes fell away. ‘The sacrifice was always made; sometimes it was an animal. At other times beggars, chapmen, tinkers ambushed on the forest roads. Then, as time passed, further demands were made.’
‘You mean the young woman?’
No Teeth nodded.
‘And what powers?’ Flyhead asked curiously. ‘What did you get in return, apart from the joy of seeing someone die and revelling in your dark rites at the dead of night?’
‘I . . . I can’t say!’
Simon moved the arbalest.
‘You must understand,’ No Teeth gabbled on. ‘The coven is like a church, there’s a hierarchy.’
‘What powers?’ Simon insisted.
Flyhead brought up his dagger and pricked No Teeth under his fleshy chin. He muttered something.
‘What was that?’ Flyhead asked sharply.
‘Your heart’s desire. Whatever you wanted. Potions, philtres, gold and silver. And for me,’ he tried to grin, ‘the wench I desired.’
‘Do you truly believe that?’ Flyhead asked.
‘But it came true.’ No Teeth shook his head. ‘I had more silver and gold than I had ever dreamed of; the choice of the sweetest whores.’
‘And the Ratoliers?’ Simon asked.
‘Oh, they had strange powers. They claimed they could commune with the dark lords. They, too, enjoyed the good things of life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They never came into Gloucester. And in the Forest of Dean they were dismissed as hags, mad women. But, oh, Master Cotterill, you should have seen them when they went to Bristol! They had gold and silver. They changed their raiment. They went as grand ladies.’
‘Where do they live?’ Flyhead asked.
‘Deep in the Forest of Dean at Savernake rocks, where there’s a network of caves.’ He held his hand up as Simon looked threateningly at him. ‘You should go there, Master Cotterill. They are more comfortable there than in any manor house or mansion in Gloucester. They have soft hangings on the walls; goblets of silver and gold; featherdown beds and bolsters; coffers, chests and caskets full of precious cloths and jewellery. Send a courier to Bristol to the White Hart tavern. They will tell you about the three women, under different names, who every so often would sweep in like the greatest in the land and enjoy the sweetest things. Young men paid them court . . .’ His voice trailed off.
Simon stared in astonishment and lowered the crossbow. He found it hard to believe that the Ratoliers were no more than cruel outlaws who used their powers to satisfy the gods of their lusts.
‘But I hanged you.’ Flyhead nicked No Teeth’s thigh with his dagger. ‘I put the noose round your neck then I buried you. How did you escape that?’
‘The Ratoliers always said,’ No Teeth explained, ‘that because we worshipped the hanged ones, the old gods of the forest, we could always cheat death by hanging. Indeed, I’ve seen it done. During the rites, one of the Ratoliers would have a garrotte string pulled tight, during which she would offer a prayer to the dark lord and claim to see visions. When the string was released, she fell into a swoon as if dead.’
No Teeth crossed his arms, rubbing his shoulders as if frightened. He kept looking towards the door and window.
‘Are you worried?’ Flyhead taunted.
‘Yes, I am!’ No Teeth snapped. ‘Ratolier said the birds of the night could tell her what was happening.’
‘Fiddlesticks! We were talking about their rites?’
‘I asked them once how it was done. Sometimes the woman who had the rope round her neck lay in a swoon for a day as if she were dead. They told me that, before the cord was put round her neck, she took a potion, a mixture of herbs blessed and consecrated during their rites. It put her in a trance as if the soul had fled the body.’
‘And you believed them?’
‘Why shouldn’t I? The Ratolier woman, whoever it was, always revived. They said they were under the protection of the hanged ones and their leader, whom they called “the beloved”, “their father”, “their dominus”.’
‘Their leader?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes. And, Master Cotterill, I assure you, I don’t know who he is. Indeed, it could be man or woman. He always came to the glade by himself. Dressed in black from head to toe; a mask shaped in the form of an animal’s head covered his face. He spoke very little, just in a whisper. He would sit enthroned before their altar. The Ratoliers and I used to worship him before the rite was carried out then he’d go, as he arrived, like a wisp of mist.’
‘And you don’t know who it is?’
No Teeth shook his head. Simon caught Flyhead’s glance and nodded. The man yanked back No Teeth’s head and dug the dagger deep into the flesh under the chin. No Teeth screamed. Flyhead kept pressing until the blood began to drip. No Teeth stamped his feet, waving his hands, terrified that if he moved, if he tried to escape, Flyhead would drive the dagger in.
‘I tell the truth, Master Cotterill!’ he stammered. ‘I tell the truth! I tell the truth!’
No Teeth nodded.
‘The night I killed that man in the tavern,’ he said. ‘You know the rest. I was taken before the justices and condemned. I was put in the death cart. As I left the gaol, someone came forward with a goblet of wine. Despite her hood and cowl I could see it was Mother Ratolier.’
‘I remember that,’ Flyhead declared. ‘And I let you drink it. You said it would be the last you would ever taste.’
‘You were supposed to let me escape,’ No Teeth accused. ‘But when you put the noose around my neck, I realised there was no leather collar.’
‘And then what happened?’ Simon asked.
‘I remember this,’ Flyhead interrupted. ‘By the time you reached the foot of the ladder, you could hardly stand. Some of the bailiffs had to drag you up. You were almost in a swoon, it was that wine, it contained a potion, didn’t it?’
‘What happened?’ Simon insisted.
‘I remember nothing,’ No Teeth replied. ‘All I know is that when I regained consciousness, I had soil on my face and hands. I felt sick and weak. I was in an outhouse behind the Silver Tabard, Mother Ratolier was pouring something between my lips.’
‘Why did the Ratoliers save you?’ Simon asked. ‘How did they know Flyhead would truly hang you?’
‘It’s part of their rite. They were sworn to save me.’ He blinked. ‘I asked about Flyhead, old Ratolier just chuckled: “We all know about Flyhead!”’
‘And then?’
‘As you know, I lived with the Ratoliers out in the Forest of Dean. I thought that was the end of my time in Gloucester. Then one night the Ratoliers were taken.’
‘But not the leader or you?’ Simon asked.
‘I was going to join them. It was the dead of night but, as I approached the glade from a different direction, after I had been out to one of the alehouses, I saw the glow of torches in the trees. I suspected what was happening so I fled.’
‘How did the coven meet?’ Simon asked.
‘Look at those coins,’ No Teeth replied. ‘The ones you took from my companion’s purse. There’s a silver piece, different from the rest.’
Simon sifted among the coins. He picked up a small silver disc which he handed to Flyhead. He pulled across a candle and stared at the writing round the rim.
‘It’s Roman. It’s an imperial coin. It bears the head of Constantine.’
‘We each received one of those when the coven was to assemble. We usually met once a month: the same time, the same place. The night the Ratoliers were taken we should all have gathered there. We always gave the dominus the coin back.’
‘Who delivered them?’ Simon asked.
‘When I was a hangman in Gloucester I would just find it upon my table; the same for the landlord at the Silver Tabard. God knows who brought them.’
‘But that night the Ratoliers were taken?’ Simon insisted.
‘I don’t know, the dominus was not able to warn either myself or the Ratoliers. He later told us that he didn’t have the time.’
Simon looked at the floor. If that was the case, he thought, this dominus, this master of the coven, must live in Gloucester and be more than aware of what the forces of law and order were planning.
‘And when the Ratoliers were hanged?’ Flyhead asked.
‘We,’ No Teeth pointed at the dead man, ‘followed you into the forest. It was easy enough after you called at the Silver Tabard. We watched you in the clearing: we made those noises but the tavern master told me to wait till the storm came.’
‘Was that the work of demons?’
‘I don’t know, I was just told to wait.’
‘And the powders and potions,’ Simon asked. ‘Who gave them to the Ratoliers?’
‘They always carried them in small pouches, sewn in their dresses.’
Simon recalled the thick, dirty, dusty gowns of the witches; even if they were searched, such powders would have escaped detection.
‘Continue,’ he ordered.
‘When you left the clearing, I saw where you went. By the time I’d returned, the Ratoliers were already cut down. The nooses taken from their necks. Mine host was pouring liquid into their mouths. I couldn’t believe it. I thought all three must be dead, their faces were ghastly. They stirred and coughed, each of them retching, then the colour came back into their faces. Even before I left the clearing to hasten back to the hunting lodge, they were already well revived, full of curses and anger against you all.’
‘Who killed Deershound?’ Flyhead asked.
No Teeth pointed at the dead man. ‘The verderer came back into the clearing. They couldn’t take any risk that he might have seen something.’
‘But it’s more than that!’ Simon insisted. ‘Every one involved in their deaths must die?’
No Teeth blinked but nodded perceptibly.
‘What will happen to me?’ he wailed. ‘I’m telling you the truth. Surely I can be given another chance? Even a pardon! I’ll lead you to the Ratoliers’ caves.’
‘In heaven’s name, No Teeth, you’re an arrant coward.’ Flyhead punched him on the shoulder. ‘You’d sell your mother for a bowl of broth.’
‘Keep telling the truth,’ Simon advised him. ‘And, No Teeth, you might be given another chance at life.’
‘The coven met again,’ the rogue went on. ‘The dominus issued an order: we were to slay all those involved in the hanging of the Ratoliers.’
‘Why?’ Simon asked.
‘Revenge, punishment, to keep your mouth closed and because of the rite. The dominus said it had to be done. Deershound had already gone. We killed Merry Face out on the forest path. Shadbolt in his barge on the river; the poor bastard thought he could flee. We caught him napping on a bank under a willow tree. The Ratoliers also killed Shipler.’
‘And the Draycotts?’
No Teeth lifted his hands. ‘Master Simon, I know nothing of that.’
‘Who killed them?’ Simon persisted.
If Flyhead hadn’t stopped him, No Teeth would have slipped to his knees.
‘I swear, Master Simon, by all that’s holy . . . !’
‘Don’t blaspheme,’ Flyhead interrupted. ‘Just tell Master Cotterill the truth.’
‘I don’t know,’ No Teeth sobbed. ‘Believe me, I don’t know. I suspect the dominus did.’ He wrung his hands.
Simon watched those cunning, weak eyes. A dangerous man, he thought, who could wheedle, importune, beg and plea but, if he had the upper hand, he’d have as much compassion as a weasel closing in for the kill.
‘How many more people must die?’
No Teeth put his face in his hands and began to cry even more loudly.
‘Answer the question!’ Flyhead insisted.
No Teeth took his hands away. ‘All of you,’ he muttered. ‘The mayor, his sergeant-at-arms. Everyone who was in that chamber that night. Even the Dominicans, in time, will feel the wrath of our master.’
‘Aren’t you frightened, No Teeth? I mean, you are confessing all?’
‘Anything’s better than another hanging.’
‘So keep confessing,’ Flyhead taunted.
‘You were all marked down for death,’ No Teeth continued. ‘Each one of you. But the mayor and sergeant-at-arms are well protected. The dominus said they would have to wait.’ He pointed at Simon. ‘I saw you hanged.’
‘Do you know, No Teeth, there’ll be a joke soon, that the best place to be hanged is Gloucester. You always get a second chance!’
‘You were looking for me, weren’t you?’ Flyhead jibed.
No Teeth shrugged and licked his lips.
‘Can I have some wine?’
While Simon held the crossbow, Flyhead splashed some wine into a cup and brought it over. No Teeth drank greedily.
‘The Ratoliers wanted to kill you,’ he went on. ‘But the dominus was insistent. They were not to go into Gloucester. They caught Shadbolt on the river. The tavern master knew
how Shadbolt was going to leave.’
‘How’s that?’ Flyhead asked.
‘The poor bastard made no pretence, wandering around like a dog that’s lost its tail.’
‘But I was harder.’
Flyhead banged the knife on No Teeth’s bony knee.
‘We thought you’d disappeared,’ No Teeth winced. ‘But the dominus has the gates watched. I don’t know how.’
‘Are there other members of the coven?’ Simon asked.
No Teeth shook his head. ‘The Ratoliers know gipsies, the moon people, tinkers and chapmen who collect a lot of the news.’
‘Of course!’ Simon said. ‘No one was supposed to know that the Ratoliers had been condemned, let alone hanged.’
‘And Friar Martin?’ Flyhead asked.
‘Oh, the dominus is insistent that he dies. Twice he’s tried to break into the Austin Friars but cannot. Our fat brother is never alone. When he sits near the shrine of St Radegund, there are enough people milling about. The dominus has sworn a terrible oath that Friar Martin is to be left to him and him alone. He has a special hatred for the man.’
Simon studied No Teeth. On the one hand he accepted that their prisoner was telling the truth but, on the other, there was a shift to his eyes, too swift a patter to his talk. He was apparently terrified but had he told them the full truth?
‘Is there anything else, No Teeth?’
The prisoner shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’ Flyhead insisted. He jabbed the point of his knife into No Teeth’s fleshy neck.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ Flyhead asked.
No Teeth blinked quickly, mouth opening and shutting.
‘There’s one person you’ve forgotten,’ Flyhead whispered. ‘Little Lucia with her ripe, full breasts, firm buttocks and a waist you could span with one hand. Delightful in bed.’
No Teeth swallowed hard.
‘Are you sure there is nothing to tell us?’ Flyhead again asked.
‘You shouldn’t have taken her!’ No Teeth accused. ‘She was my wench. She swore oaths to me.’
‘Lucia would swear anything as long as the coins kept falling into her hands. Well, Master Cotterill, what shall we do with him?’