Believe or Die

by M. J. Harris

  “He wanted to lay with someone right enough. Anyone so I’m told! But it weren’t no whore. The likes of Annie’s girls held no interest for him!”

  Mead reined up abruptly.

  “Shalley? Tatchell wanted to ravish the boy?”

  “Tried more than once. The lad confided in me and I warned the bastard off. Shalley made me swear to secrecy and then Tatchell disappeared.”

  “Sodomy is a sin the Bible tells us. He would have been strung up if discovered. Is that why he fled I wonder?”

  “Maybes. But how can you fathom the reasoning of a madman Captain? I reckon there’s likely more of his ilk in this land than the Lord Protector and his cronies would care to admit. Maybe he had help to get spirited away.”

  “Such things are not to my taste, yet who am I to judge another man,” sighed Mead.

  “I’m a simple man Captain, I have to tread the path my conscience orders me to take and hope I’ve got it right.”

  “Oh I don’t think you a simple man Peter, you have wisdom, much knowledge, and you think a great deal.”

  “Think too much I reckon, makes my cursed head hurt so it does!”

  Mead rode on in silence trying to absorb Doggett’s information. So, Tatchell was a pederast, let that be taken for a fact. He was also clearly insane, that also was a demonstrable fact. Had he been behind Shalley’s death to ensure the boy’s silence? No. He had had ample opportunity before disappearing to do so yet he had not. Also, he was, according to all known information, busy killing other innocents elsewhere when the youngster went to meet his Maker. No, Shalley’s death was clearly a deed carried out by another, probably, nay, almost definitely unconnected with Tatchell. And yet? Coincidences bothered Mead. Confusing thoughts and notions bubbled around his mind, swirling and colliding as he tried to discern a plan, some design in the puzzling maze. One name kept percolating to the top of his thought process – Ketch. But just how did his former commander, reprehensible though he be, fit into the scheme of things? Perhaps Mead would gain this knowledge from the tongue of the madman they sought even now, just before Tatchell was allowed to die – very slowly. If the ‘Angel of Death’ did indeed exist, he would have to await Mead’s pleasure before taking Ephraim Tatchell.

  The next day saw them arrive at Bourton-on-the-Water, which was really two separate hamlets divided by a shallow river. It was a pretty place, its golden hued stonework glowing warmly in the sunlight. Yet over this idyllic setting hung a distinct feeling, a miasma, of fear, terror and death.

  “He’s here,” stated Mead.

  “Aye, reckon so,” agreed Doggett.

  “Scout it,” ordered Mead waving his men in differing arcs. An hour later they regrouped under the concealment of a stand of willows. Tatchell had been found. Without a word, weapons were drawn.

  So engrossed was the ‘preacher’ in his haranguing of the crowd before him that he did not immediately spot the new arrivals. His arms waved frantically, his long, unkempt hair flailed about him and spittle sprayed from his mouth like a rabid dog. The riders moved swiftly approaching from four directions. Tatchell had a dozen or so hired thugs, ‘Disciples’ he called them, who suddenly became aware of the newcomers. They immediately assessed the weaponry and demeanour and began losing the cudgels and blades they held. These strangers clearly knew their business and had a clear intent in mind. Tatchell slowly came out of his trance and glared about him trying to focus his bulging eyes. Time seemed to be passing at the pace of a snail. Separated from his ‘Disciples’ he frowned in puzzled incomprehension as the four women he had been about to hang were freed. He sputtered white froth as one of his henchmen was run through as he reached for a concealed pistol and another all but decapitated by a horseman’s hammer. Then he became aware that his hands were bound and there was a noose around his neck. His remaining disciples fled for their lives and the villagers were pushed away out of earshot by Poulton and Hitch. Mead pulled a barrel over and sat in front of the still uncomprehending Tatchell. Doggett carefully adjusted the noose.

  “You cannot kill me!” howled the preacher. “It is God’s work I do!”

  “No, it is evil that you do and it is time to put a stop to it,” sighed Mead.

  “I am the Angel of Death … ” roared Tatchell.

  “No. I think I now hold that title. Yet before you die, I want some answers to a question or two.”

  “You do not question the Lord’s servant. All must believe or die!”

  “Well Ephraim. Consider this. The answers given by this particular ‘servant’ will dictate the manner of his death.”

  “What mean you Sinner?”

  “Quick, or slow – very slow indeed.”

  “It matters not for I know that I will be reborn. Thus states the Good Book!”

  “Which also condemns sodomy does it not? Under pain of death I seem to recall.”

  “I have repented my sins and been forgiven!”

  “Have you indeed?” remarked Mead and he nodded at Doggett.

  Doggett heaved and Tatchell found himself on tiptoe gasping for air.

  “You recall young Shalley Ephraim?” continued Mead.

  “The pretty young boy?” croaked the preacher. “Aye, what of it damn your rotten soul to Hell!”

  “He was murdered on our way here. Did you have a hand in it?”

  “No I did not!” gasped Tatchell.

  Mead pondered the man’s crimsoning features for a moment or two.

  “I believe you. What then of our commander then Ephraim? What of Master Ketch? Why … ?”

  “Ketch!” snarled Tatchell. “You speak to me of Ketch?” Then he stopped in mid-flow and, despite the rope, smiled as if he had just deduced something. “Is it Ketch who sent you to kill me then Captain?” “Maybe” nodded Mead feeling that he was finally getting close to something.

  “Hah! Think you that I was the only man in God’s Army who had fallen from grace? Think you I was the only sinner?”

  But at that very moment, Tatchell slipped over some final mental abyss. He roared with almost demonic laughter emptying his bowels and bladder as he did so. There would be no more information now, but then neither was it really needed. Yet Mead had wanted more from Tatchell, much more. He wanted this madman to pay for Annie Trivett. But the lunatic was now beyond even being aware of the exquisite tortures Mead had been devising for him, he wouldn’t feel a thing. Doggett readjusted the knot and Mead joined him on the scaffold. Together they threw Tatchell off the platform and heard his neck snap cleanly; a very quick death. Not what Mead had planned and certainly not what the creature deserved. They left him hanging and walked away. Rejoining Poulton and Hitch, they were surprised to see a rather sad smile on the pair’s lips.

  “Well?” demanded Mead.

  “Well Sir. You see that bunch of houses over yonder? Well, that there is called Lower Slaughter so the locals tell us,” said Hitch.

  “And them ones over the other way, that’s called Upper Slaughter,” added Poulton.

  “Slaughter eh? Looks like the Almighty is jesting with us boys, for there is surely more to come!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “So Ketch wanted Tatchell dead to silence him?” frowned Poulton.

  “Not just Ketch I’m thinking, probably others as well. No doubt someone who now holds office in a Puritan government. No blemish of character, nor even the merest rumour of such could be permitted.”

  “Why couldn’t Ketch do the deed himself?” Hitch wanted to know.

  “Why have a dog and bark yourself?” shrugged Mead. “Anyway, by doing it this way, Ketch gets to tidy up all the lose ends.”

  “You mean us.”

  “We may have executed Ephraim, but Ketch can’t be sure how much we have learned of this sordid business. That will cause him to fret I’m thinking.”

  “So he needs must kill us as well?” spat Poulton.

  “I knew we were being followed!” glowered Hitch. “But wait, Shalley … ?”

  “Aye,
the lad must have stumbled into whoever Ketch sent after us. I’m of the opinion that these cutthroats were holding back until the job was done and was SEEN to have been done. Now with that accomplished, and us put under the ground, they’ll be away back to Ketch for their blood money.”

  “So will he then kill them as well?” said Doggett.

  “No need. They doubtless know only what they’ve been told and that won’t include Tatchell’s true colours. Most likely they will be mercenaries, hired swords, who have been told we are renegades and traitors. They may even be devout men under the belief that they do God’s work.”

  “Seems to me there be an awful lot of folks who think they be doing the Almighty’s work for him,” commented Doggett.

  “Aye, and now we all be marked men,” said Poulton.

  “We are marked only as far as Shalley’s killers and Ketch himself are concerned. Ketch dare not risk issuing warrants of arrest so we are not outlaws and he will want only the very barest number of people involved in hunting us down. The more involved, the greater the chance of a careless tongue.”

  “Are we to tidy up this affair on our own then?” asked Hitch hopefully.

  “Aye, and we make a start with those bastards who murdered the boy!” agreed Poulton.

  “That is the way I see the thing. But mind well, none must escape. I want them all and at least one needs to be alive long enough to talk to us. We need to know what arrangements have been made with Ketch.”

  “And then Captain?” demanded Doggett.

  “KETCH!”

  The leader of Ketch’s assassins, one Buckly by name, glared at the one-eyed scout before him.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. They are set for the night drinking in the ‘Old Dun Cow” near the ford. Horses unbridled and ale a-flowing, they’ll not be stirring afore morning. They left that mad preacher a-dangling where they hung him.”

  ‘What of the preacher’s bully boys?”

  “Scattered and fled as far as I can see. Nary a one to be seen.”

  “The villagers?”

  “Hiding behind locked doors and scared shitless.”

  The leader nodded and waved the scout away. Come tomorrow they would ambush the traitors and be done with their commission. He mentally reviewed his orders so meticulously dictated to him by Master Ketch. Five renegades, well, four now, in the pay of the cursed Royalists. Sent by agents of the late King’s son to silence a mad preacher who knew more than he should about Royalist sympathisers in the county. The leader had been puzzled by that. Surely the preacher should have been interrogated for that information? But no, Ketch had insisted that the renegades were to be allowed to kill the lunatic before any action be taken against them. Why? Because, Ketch had ranted in a fit of righteous old-testament anger, the preacher, in his madness, had committed acts of abomination unto the Lord and was now a warlock. The populace must be protected from both the Royalist hirelings and the disciples of Satan. Also, Ketch could then ensure that everyone knew that it was King’s men who went around killing preachers who, however much they may have fallen from grace, should be dealt with as the Law proscribed. It would be useful propaganda. None of this made much sense to the mercenary leader but he had no intention of falling foul of the religious fanatics who now ruled the Land. And of course, he and his men were being well paid to kill these Royalist lackeys. In addition, they would receive pardons for various crimes committed including rape, looting and murder. In short, there was no choice in the matter. He had eight men with him and foresaw no difficulties in carrying out his instructions.

  The ambush site was well chosen and the mercenaries were in position as dawn broke, a brace of pistols apiece and a good stiff ‘tuck’ to finish the job. The rebels were, in Buckly’s mind, already dead. An hour passed. Then another. Where were the scum? Buckly ventured a glance from behind his covering bushes. Nothing. Buckly cursed. If they didn’t appear soon he would have to go looking for them and that was not in the plan. Were they still drunk in the tavern? That could prove tricky. He didn’t want any witnesses. Across the sunken lane, he spotted four of his pistoleers peering out from behind the hedgerow. Angrily he waved them back and was about to settle himself in the greenery again when a movement, nay, almost a ripple of movements, fluttered amid the hedgerow followed instantly by a series of sharp bangs.

  “Grenadoes!” his brain advised him “Musket and pistol shots!” it added. Then Buckly’s world went dark.

  Seven assassins lay dead, piled in the ditch. Some bore wounds caused by the grenades, but most had been shot and run through. Others had made the acquaintance of Hitch’s hammer or Poulton’s axe. Buckly tried to focus. A kaleidoscope of lights orbited his brain and he vomited copiously. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, which was small wonder as it was now spread over the rest of his face. He spat launching a spray of blood, teeth and mucus.

  Vaguely he recalled the hidden stiletto in his boot-top, but he had no feeling in his feet or legs. Then he realised that the blurred figure perched on a tree stump before him was cleaning his nails with it. Buckly shifted his pain-racked limbs, or rather he tried to, but he was trussed up good and proper. His eyesight clearing a little, he glared around at his captors. One of them was going through his coat and saddlebags but then stopped and with a curse, pulled something from a pocket. The man showed it to his companions but Buckly couldn’t make out what the item was. The other men now turned cold, hard eyes on Buckly. One of them, a huge oaf of a creature, took a step forward but was halted by another, clearly the Captain of the band. This latter walked slowly over and squatted before Buckly.

  “I am going to ask you some questions. You are going to answer,” the man explained.

  Buckly sneered. Mead pulled out a knife then put his hand out to one side and received Poulton’s axe. Buckly’s arrogance wavered. Mead continued.

  “Every time you tell a lie, which is a sin and an affront to God, I am going to maim you a little. I will start with your toes, then your ears, then your fingers, then your balls, then your eyes,” he explained.

  With a terrified start, Buckly realised that his boots had already been removed in preparation.

  “Even if I tell you all I know, you will butcher me anyway!” he accused.

  “Oh sirrah, I will not kill you. On that you have my word. But answer me swiftly; my patience grows thin. Speak to me of a Master Ketch for I believe it is he who you serve is it not?”

  Buckly’s jaw dropped releasing more blood and dribble. Mead nodded to himself.

  “I thought so,” he said tiredly. “So then, tell me of your arrangements with him. Tell me just what exactly you and your now deceased comrades were to do. And tell me also how the play was to end, you having successfully murdered my companions and myself. Tell me true or suffer the consequences.”

  Buckly talked. Indeed, it was impossible to stop him talking. He revealed everything he knew in a verbal avalanche. Yet eventually all was said and he dissolved into a fit of self-pitying sobbing.

  Mead stood up, sheathed his knife and handed the axe back to Poulton. Buckly felt a momentary glimmer of hope. Then Mead’s snakelike eyes turned on him again and it was dispelled instantly.

  “Hitch,” said Mead quietly and the former corporal handed over a small, linen wrapped package. Buckly frowned at it then suddenly realised what it contained. Mead slowly unwrapped the item. Inside were two small twist-barrel pistols. Shalley’s pride and joy.

  “We had to kill him!” blurted Buckly. “He ran straight into us on the road!”

  “He were just a lad,” growled the big oaf.

  Buckly began shaking and wet his breeches.

  “Who did it?” asked Mead.

  “I don’t recall. It all happened so quick.”

  “No it didn’t. He was strangled. Strangled with a garrotte.”

  “Aye, a garrotte. A garrotte just like this ‘un,” snarled Poulton. “It were in his coat Captain and I’d say he’s no stranger in its use.”
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  “You said you wouldn’t kill me!” shrieked Buckly.

  “And I will not,” stated Mead. “Peter,” he said nodding at the big man.

  Doggett strode forward and put his huge hands around Buckly’s throat. He picked the squirming man up and stared into the assassin’s eyes as he slowly began squeezing.

  When it was done, Buckly joined his companions in the ditch. Horses were gathered up and loads redistributed. All was done in complete silence. Mead rubbed his eyes. He felt drained.

  “Well, now we know the way of it,” he sighed. “Let us put an end to this sorry business once and forever. Are we agreed on our course?”

  Hitch and Poulton nodded but Doggett looked at Mead with tearful eyes.

  “We need to pray Captain. Afore we go, we needs to pray. I need to pray!”

  “I believe you are right Peter. It seems a long time since our path seemed so clearly marked by the Lord, a very long time indeed.”

  The four removed their hats, sank to their knees and sought guidance from above. Mead felt a shiver run through him. Who or what might be listening to their prayers? Was the Lord God? Or was it another kind of deity altogether?

  Ketch was feeling smug. In an uncharacteristic example of benevolence he had merely dismissed his farm bailiff, Ralph Wingfield, from his presence with no punishment decided upon. Brackenbury Manor had changed hands without violence several times in the last twenty years or so, but the bailiff had always remained in situ.

  The main building of eight bedchambers, gatehouse, dovecote, brewery and stables, was fast becoming decrepit but its potential was abundantly clear to Ketch. Wingfield had had the effrontery to come to regard the place as pretty much his own domain, but his new master soon disabused him of such a notion. Now he was to reside, not even in the gatehouse, but in a tumbledown, damp ridden, wattle and daub cottage close by at Pynchester on the banks of the River Pinn. Also, his position, indeed his life’s employment as bailiff hung in the balance. Maybe Ketch would keep him on, his local knowledge being useful, maybe he would not. The estate itself was extensive and included numerous farms and smallholdings, notably Copthall, an apparently very productive piece of land. Beyond the estate’s boundaries, particularly across the River Pinn in the parish of Ruislip, there were a number of interesting possibilities for development. There was pasture and meadowland aplenty, good woods and a number of well-built houses. The same applied northwards to Harefield and westwards towards Uxbridge, but powerful men and influential families held sway in both areas and Ketch was not yet in a position to conspire either with or against them.