The Hangman's Hymn

by Paul Doherty

Simon ran a finger round his neck. ‘The rest have to be warned,’ he said. ‘Friar Martin in particular. Letters should be despatched to those Dominicans in London and the mayor should hear what No Teeth has told us.’

  ‘Oh Lord, no!’

  Simon pointed to some rope lying on top of a coffer.

  ‘Bind his hands, Flyhead. It’s late but, perhaps, we may find someone at the Guildhall.’

  Flyhead went to a coffer and brought out a white hanging mask. He dangled this before No Teeth’s face.

  ‘We don’t want anyone to see your pretty visage. Hooded and bound, that’s the way we’ll take you. Turn round!’

  No Teeth obeyed. As Simon rose and crossed to open the door, he heard a moan followed by a rasping gurgle. No Teeth was sitting on the edge of the bed staring in disbelief at the blood pouring from the terrible wound in his throat. His eyes rolled up and Flyhead pushed him, sending him sprawling on to the floor beside his companion.

  ‘For the love of God!’ Simon strode back.

  Flyhead stretched his dagger out. ‘That’s as far as you go, Simon.’

  He leaned down and rolled No Teeth’s corpse over. The blood was now saturating the shabby jerkin and shirt. He glanced up.

  ‘It’s the only way, Simon. No more powders or potions, no spells or tricks. There’s not a power on earth that can heal a slit throat.’

  ‘He might have told us more.’

  ‘I doubt it. I am not too sure whether he has told us the full truth. No Teeth wouldn’t know what a lie was even if it jumped up and bit him on the nose.’ Flyhead got to his feet and re-sheathed his dagger. ‘He came here to kill me, Simon. More importantly, he killed Lucia. I had a fondness for the girl.’

  He crouched down between the corpses and began to remove their boots and belts.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Simon. I’m going to strip these of every valuable then leave you on guard. I’m off to the fleshers’ yard. I know where I can get a small handcart and a barrel of oil and, before daybreak, we’ll burn these corpses like the offal they are! When we catch them, the Ratoliers will die the same way.’ He paused. ‘Go down and ensure the street’s safe.’

  Flyhead was already stripping the corpses, looking for anything valuable such as rings, or hidden money pouches. Simon went down the stairs then suddenly stopped. One thing was certain: No Teeth did not know the true identity of the dominus, the master of the coven. It was obvious that such a person lived in Gloucester but, for all he knew, it might be the mayor, or his sergeant-at-arms. He looked back up the stairs. Or even Flyhead himself?

  Chapter 12

  On the morning after No Teeth’s death, Simon and Flyhead slipped secretly into the Guildhall for a meeting with the mayor and sergeant-at-arms. The two officials listened carefully to all they said.

  ‘It saves us the trouble of hanging them,’ the sergeant-at-arms commented. ‘And the two corpses?’

  ‘Like their souls, black ash!’

  Four days later the mayor held secret meetings with the chief verderer and foresters about launching an attack on the caves at Savernake. No soldiers were to be used, only royal huntsmen who knew the paths, lanes and byways of the forests. They all agreed that the caves were almost inaccessible.

  ‘Very few go there,’ the chief verderer commented, his seamed, sunburned face looking even darker, more menacing in the dancing torchlight of the council chamber. He and his companions had come into Gloucester, being lodged at the corporation’s expense.

  ‘Why is that?’ Simon asked.

  The verderer shrugged. ‘There are many parts of this kingdom, young man, where very few people go. The area around these caves is one of them. The forest there is very ancient, the trees group together like a wall. It’s very difficult to hunt in and it has a bad reputation.’

  ‘So, how will you attack?’ the mayor demanded.

  ‘Couldn’t we wait for these three beauties to go on one of their trips to Bristol?’ Flyhead asked.

  ‘We might wait years,’ the mayor replied. ‘No, if it’s to be done, it’s to be done before winter really sets in. Let’s hope and pray the Ratoliers have not moved on.’

  Three days later Simon and Flyhead accompanied the verderers into the Forest of Dean. At different points and locations they collected more of the forest people, all those who lived and worked in that great, far-flung community: verderers, foresters, even men who toiled in the royal mines deep in the forests. They were promised a good bounty and a tenth of whatever they found. About the Ratoliers, however, the mayor had been most explicit.

  ‘No prisoners,’ he specified. ‘I don’t care how they die but the Ratoliers must be killed and their bodies burned immediately!’

  The verderers had no qualms about this. Flyhead later whispered that this was the way the foresters worked.

  ‘Outlaws are killed on sight. In the forest, Simon, no mercy is asked and none is given, as you will find out.’

  As when he had travelled to the Ratoliers’ hanging, Simon was struck by the vastness of the Forest of Dean, as if he had entered another country. Even he, who had been born in the Vale of Berkeley, had not realised how deep and dark this ancient place was. By the time they had mustered all their men, the chief verderer must have had about sixty to seventy under his command, a wild-looking gang. Some were dressed in brown leather but most of them in stained lincoln green, well armed with sword, mace, axe and club. Above all, they carried long bows and deerskin-covered quivers crammed with feathered shafts.

  They moved in single file, threading their way through the trees like ghosts. Occasionally they would find a clearing to pitch camp. No fires were lit. Simon and Flyhead were ordered to keep to the back, protected by two foresters, who made sure they didn’t get lost.

  ‘Wander away,’ the chief verderer warned them, ‘and God knows what will happen! People have entered here and never come out alive!’

  Only faint rays of weak sunlight pierced the green canopy. Simon felt as if he were in some cathedral which stretched on and on with only faint glimmers of light to show him the way. There were streams difficult to cross and, more dangerous, quagmires, marshes and slime-covered morasses ready to trap the unwary. Wild animals blundered across their path. The chief verderer explained how the boar still lived here as well as varieties of deer not seen elsewhere in the kingdom.

  Their scouts were two old men, grizzled and sunburned. Five days after they had left the main mustering point, these came back whispering their news: the caves of Savernake were ahead and they glimpsed wisps of smoke. Later that day they camped in a small glade.

  ‘How do the Ratoliers know of this place? How can they find their way out?’ Simon asked.

  The chief verderer pointed a thumb at one of the scouts.

  ‘Oh, there are easier paths but they are secret. If we had followed them, the Ratoliers would have known we were coming. It’s a bit like London,’ he continued. ‘I was there just before the old king died. I wondered how any man could find his way through that warren of alleyways yet I met those who could do so, blindfolded. The forest is no different.’ He laughed softly. ‘Or no less dangerous. You’d best sleep.’

  They shared out some of the dried meat and stale loaves of bread; a wineskin was passed round.

  ‘Eat, drink and sleep,’ the chief verderer whispered. ‘Tomorrow we climb.’

  Simon and Flyhead whispered about what might happen.

  ‘Are you glad you are here?’ Simon asked.

  ‘To be sure.’ Flyhead smiled back through the darknesss. ‘Master Cotterill, I have few things left in life and I would give everything I own to see the Ratoliers burn.’

  Simon was aroused when it was still dark, a cold, cloying mist creeping through the trees. Weapons were prepared, bows strung. Anything they didn’t need was left under a rear guard. They left the glade and abruptly the ground began to climb. Sometimes the tree line would break, so that for the first time for days, Simon glimpsed the sky and the rocky crags at the summit.
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  The sun began to rise, weak and faint, but Simon was soon coated in sweat. He found it difficult to control his breathing. Now and again a man cursed as he missed his footing or slipped. Closer and closer they drew to the top. At one point the chief verderer, imitating the call of a bird, ordered them to pause and rest. They did so for a short while and then continued to climb. Simon felt as if he were dreaming. Would anyone in Berkeley ever believe what had happened to him since he’d left the village? A pauper, a hangman, a condemned felon and now, at the beginning of this mist-cloaked day, a man intent on killing three evil warlocks?

  The climb became easier. Simon glimpsed the mouths of caves. He felt elated. Ratolier would be taken by surprise. Then came the chief verderer’s bird call, loud and clear. Simon froze and glanced up. He was sure others could hear the pounding of his heart. On the rock above them, gazing out over the forest as if she could sense the approaching danger, was Mother Ratolier, her grey hair streaming in the wind, her black dress flapping. She reminded Simon of some evil raven perched on a wall.

  ‘She knows!’ Flyhead whispered behind Simon. ‘The old bitch suspects they are in danger.’

  Mother Ratolier now had her hand cupping her eyes. She turned and said something. Her two daughters joined her at the mouth of the cave. All three clustered together. Simon felt his fingers ache as he hung on grimly to a piece of rock. He dared not let go. He was frightened that if he slipped, he would raise the alarm. He glanced quickly to his right and left. Others were the same, crouched flat against the rock face. There was little they could do. They must go on and reach level ground before they could draw weapons or the archers could bring their bows to good effect. Simon sniffed and caught cooking smells and something else, a fragrant perfume. He peered up. The Ratoliers were now standing in line, hands joined, all three staring down the rock face. Somewhere behind Simon, a verderer missed his footing or couldn’t keep still any longer. There was a slither of gravel, a crashing in the undergrowth.

  ‘They are coming!’ Mother Ratolier’s voice rang through the air.

  All three disappeared into the caves.

  ‘Now!’ the chief verderer screamed. ‘Before they can bring weapons to bear!’

  Simon gazed in horror up at the cave mouth. No soldier he, yet he was quick enough to realise the chief verderer’s warning. Spread out on the rocky escarpment, hidden by a few trees and bushes, they were all exposed and vulnerable. A few defenders, armed with bows and rocks, could hold the heights and wreak terrible damage.

  The whole party surged forward, slithering and cursing. Now and again someone missed their footing. There were shouts and cries. Everyone was eager to reach the level ground beneath the cave mouth where they could use their own weapons.

  Simon moved forward as quickly as he could. His knees and hands were cut and bleeding, his face scarred by the bushes and vegetation. His body was sweat-soaked, his weapons seemed to hang like weights around his waist. He then heard a whir followed by a scream. He glanced up. The Ratoliers had reappeared. All three carried crossbows, loosing their deadly quarrels. If Simon and his party stayed still they were targets. If they moved, they had to break cover. The Ratoliers commanded the approaches using their arbalests to good effect. Simon stared in horror as the verderer in front of him came slithering down, screaming and writhing at the crossbow bolt which had taken him in the neck. Simon tried to help but the man slithered by him, fighting against his pain, not caring what happened.

  ‘Climb on!’ the shout came. ‘Forget the wounded!’

  At last a bowman reached the rocky ground beneath the caves. Simon came up behind him. The bowman moved fast. They had appeared on the left flank of the Ratoliers and, before the witches knew what was happening, the man had loosed a shaft, sending it deep into the chest of one of the witches. The other two fled. The rest of the verderers now surged forward, swords drawn. They reached the level outcrop and fanned out towards the cave mouth. Simon was one of the first to step into the large, cavernous entrance. Pitch torches spluttered on the walls. He gazed in astonishment. It was like entering the solar or hallway of some wealthy merchant’s house. Hangings and tapestries on the walls; costly items of furniture, small coffers, chairs and benches. The hunting party, already sensing easy plunder, began to loot and pillage until the chief verderer imposed order with the flat of his sword.

  Flyhead and Simon, however, ran deeper into the cave where further signs of the Ratoliers’ ostentatious wealth were apparent. Off the main tunnel stood small chambers, all tastefully furnished. Simon realised how difficult their hunt would be along this honeycomb of passages and tunnels. Eventually he stopped, sitting down on a ledge, fighting to regain his breath. He loosened his jerkin, trying to seek some respite from the exhaustion and fear which had drained his strength in that terrifying climb. Flyhead was eager to go on.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ Simon snarled. ‘They could be in any of these passageways or tunnels! The first we’d know about it is a crossbow bolt or a dagger!’

  He glimpsed a jewelled goblet lying on the floor and stretched out to pick it up. That movement saved his life. A crossbow bolt smacked into the rock wall behind him. Simon, crouched on all fours, peered down the passageway. In the dim light of a smoking torch he saw a figure move. He edged his way along, Flyhead behind him. When the air grew cooler, Simon realised this must lead to another entrance. The wall, as it curved, afforded some protection against the crossbow bolts the shadowy figures loosed. Behind him he heard the chief verderer and his party, so he shouted a warning. Soon the entire hunting party crowded at the mouth of the tunnel. Simon narrowed his eyes. The figure kept moving out from behind a buttress of rock. He glimpsed the arbalest and drew back just before the bolt slapped into the rocky wall.

  ‘One of them is going to get away,’ Flyhead whispered.

  Simon peered out, ascertaining that it was the old Ratolier who was holding them back. She had proved to be a cunning adversary. None of the huntsmen dared move. One did and yelped in pain as a crossbow bolt took him in the fleshy part of his shoulder. His groans were greeted by a raucous scream of triumph. The verderer whispered to some of his bowmen to creep forward and they loosed arrows in reply. Eventually one of them caught the old Ratolier deep in the throat. She staggered towards them. Simon leapt to his feet and ran down the tunnel, ignoring the shouted warnings of the verderer. By the time he reached the old woman she had collapsed to the ground coughing and jerking, choking on her own blood, but her eyes gleamed defiance. She opened her mouth to speak, feebly beckoning Simon to draw closer. He did so. She moved but he caught her other hand and the sharp pointed stiletto it carried. He forced the hand round and, holding her malevolent gaze, drove it deep down into her chest. He gripped the handle as her body jerked beneath him. Only when she lay still did Simon let go, crouching back on his heels. He stared at that ghastly, evil face which had brought him so much terror, so much pain.

  Flyhead came up, kicking at the corpse, screaming curses. The chief verderer ordered more of his men down the tunnel to find the hidden entrance. Simon heard them go. He sat fascinated, staring at the corpse as if he couldn’t believe she was gone.

  ‘She’s dead.’ The verderer patted him on the shoulder.

  Two of the huntsmen came and lifted the corpse and carried it out to the mouth of the cave to lie by the other. The bodies were searched but nothing was found. Simon insisted that he examine them once again. Mother Ratolier looked more powerful, stronger than he thought; her daughter was attractive. Indeed, their shabby dress and dishevelled hair made a perfect disguise. It wouldn’t take much to transform either of these into comely women. All around him the huntsmen were helping themselves, plundering the caves, exclaiming in surprise at the treasures they found. Simon, however, waited for the others to return. Eventually they did, shaking their heads.

  ‘There’s another entrance,’ one of them said. ‘At the far end of the caves. It leads down to the forest.’ He shrugged. ‘We could search for a year
and a day and never find them.’

  ‘She might not survive long,’ the chief verderer declared. ‘She’ll know not to come back here. We’ll be visiting this spot quite frequently. She dare not go to Gloucester and, if I know my lord mayor, he’ll have writs issued to Bristol and Bath and the other towns.’

  ‘They’ve got to be burned,’ Simon said firmly, getting to his feet.

  The chief verderer agreed. A funeral pyre was hastily built, the corpses thrown on top, then covered in dry kindling. A pitch torch was brought from the cave and, within the hour, the flames were blazing up to the clear blue sky.

  ‘Burn now! Burn in hell!’ Simon whispered.

  Once he was certain the bodies had been consumed and he could no longer stand the foul smell, he joined the chief verderer in the cave. Two of the hunting party had been killed, three wounded. The corpses were taken down, the wounded tended to but, really, the huntsmen now saw themselves as victors after a battle and were intent on plunder. Simon was surprised by the amount of treasure that the Ratoliers had accumulated over the years as well as the number of potions and philtres, powders and dried herbs all neatly stacked on shelves in one of the small caverns. He had these broken and smashed; his real search was for any documents. Parchment coffers were found, leather bags, especially made to contain manuscripts, but these were empty. Any books, letters, household accounts, every scrap of document, seemed to have been removed.

  ‘I suppose this was done,’ Simon mused, ‘when the Ratoliers were first arrested. Someone came here and removed anything incriminating. I wonder who?’

  They did find items of black magic: figures of clay, inverted crosses, amulets and charms. One small cavern at the end had definitely been used as a chapel in which they venerated their demons. It was a dark, sombre place with a rocky ledge stained with blood, but everything else had been removed.

  ‘I think we arrived just in time.’ Flyhead grinned. ‘I think the Ratoliers were preparing to move.’ He patted his wallet full of coins he had seized. Other items were pushed down his jerkin and the leather bag he carried clinked and clattered as he walked. He held this up. ‘Reparation and compensation. The Ratoliers owe me something. It’s a pity we didn’t slay the other bitch!’