Paul Doherty - The Gallows Murders

I did so and the King poked his gloved fingers in and seized my tongue. He dragged it out and pulled me closer.

‘When a deer is brought down,' he hissed, 'it's the prince's privilege to cut the tongue. Remember that, Shallot.'

I did what I always do when the fat Beast threatened me. I farted, loud and clear, like a bell tolling across the square, a long, fruitful blast of protest. The huntsmen sniggered. Henry snapped his fingers. 'Bring out the dogs!'

Two verderers went behind the high palings and brought out two of the great beasts I had seen in the chapel the night before. I thought they might recognise me, so I forced a smile, but the evil-looking bastards just growled, their forelips coming back to display white, snarling teeth.

'Let me introduce Death and Pestilence,' Henry taunted. They are also figures in the Apocalypse, Master Shallot. They are German hunting dogs, the best in the field.' He crouched down and stroked both of them. 'Once they sniff you and have your scent, they'll pursue you to the rim of the world. When the hunt begins you will start running. You can run for your life and these dogs will pursue you! Climb a tree and they'll sit at the bottom! Take off those deer-skins and the’ll still follow the grease on your body. Jump into a river and try washing it off: impossible. By the time you do, they will have caught you and pulled you down!' ‘What chance do I have?'

'Very little,' the Beast replied. "But if you can come back here to this stable, dressed within those skins, you will win your life and a purse of gold.' The cruel bastard wagged a finger in front of my face. 'You are not to take those skins off nor seize a horse, nor attempt to ride in any cart.'

My heart sank. Of course, as the Great Beast had been talking, I had been pondering all the possibilities. The easiest would have been to lurk by some trackway and steal a mount. Henry's words dashed these hopes, as did his warning that I could not remove the skins. After all, it would have been pleasant to put them on some wandering friar and scuttle back to Windsor whilst some fat priest raced for his life. Instead I had to stand and shiver as the sun began to rise. Henry and his select band of courtiers, the usual gang of sycophants, saddled and horsed, drinking their cups of hot posset. They looked me up and down as if I was some prize buck or barnyard fox.

At last the bastards were ready. Two mounted huntsmen put a cloth sack over my head and, holding me between then, left the castle, skirted the small town and took me into a wide, sweeping meadow still wet with the morning dew. At the far end of this stood the edged of the great forest where Henry loved to hunt.

'Run for your life, Master Shallot.' One of the verderers pulled the sacking from my head and pointed towards it. The King has agreed to give you an hour's start. You'll hear the horn and the baying of the dogs.'

I looked at the man's companion: he was one of those evil, narrow-eyed caitiffs. I glanced up at the huntsman and saw kindness in the rugged, sunburnt face.

"What can I do?' I whispered. This is against the law and all usages.'.

The fellow shook his head. "You are not the first, nor will you be the last to take part in a death hunt.' "What can I do?' I begged.

The man leaned down from his saddle. This is the royal forest,' he whispered, 'only the King's law rules here. The last poor creature hanged himself. Whatever you do, don't let the hounds catch you. They'll tear you to pieces.' He squeezed my shoulder. 'Run!' he added. 'Run like the wind! Don't try and hide. Those hounds have your scent and they'll never forget!'

He turned his horse and, followed by his companion, galloped away. There was I, poor old Shallot, dressed in deer-skin, frightened as a fawn, trembling from head to foot. I stared up, the sky was a deep blue and the sun was beginning to strengthen. A beautiful summer's morning. I could hear the wood pigeons cooing and the chatter of grasshoppers. It was the sort of day you'd take a lovely lass out for a walk in the meadow, with a jug of white wine, two cups, and sit on the bank of some stream and tickle the lazy trout. But not for Shallot! Oh no, I was about to die! I did what I always do in such straitened circumstances. I collapsed to my knees and blubbered. I prayed earnestly to God's own mother, reminding her that, though I was a sinner, I was more sinned against than sinning. (Another phrase I have given to Will Shakespeare.)

And then I was off, running like a hare through the grass, aiming true as an arrow towards that dark fringe of trees. The wine fumes cleared from my brain and my sharp wits began to assert themselves. (Oh, just a minute, I can see my little clerk begin to snigger. There's nothing the little bumsqueak likes to hear about better than his old master having to run for his life. 111 just give the little mouse-dropping a rap across his knuckles with my cane. Good, that will teach him to respect his betters.)

I reached the trees, stopped, and looked along the trackway which snaked through the forest. I was tempted to plunge into the undergrowth, but that would have been foolish. The brambles and weeds would ensnare my ankles, lash my legs, impede my progress and the dogs would be on me. I ran on, cursing and muttering, deeper and deeper into the dark forest. I splashed across streams, through dark quiet glades, desperately seeking some place to hide, anything to escape the death which would soon be pursuing me. Yet this was a royal forest, Henry's hunting preserve: there would be no villages, no lonely farms, or occasional woodcutter's hovel, or charcoal-burner's hut. I was alone. On and on I ran, my heart beating fast, my legs beginning to grow weak. I reached one glade and was half-way across when the horseman emerged from the trees. I looked at him and fell to my knees. I thought I'd died and gone to Hell. The rider was dressed completely in black. His warhorse was of the same dark hue, eyeballs rolling, sharpened hooves scraping at the moss-covered ground. The rider was a vision from Hell. A black mask covered his face. On his head, the long horns of a great stag rose up on either side like branches curling towards the sky. 'Go no further!' he shouted.

1 didn't intend to,' I whimpered back, staring up at this macabre vision.

‘I am Herne the Hunter,' the figure went on, his voice low and hollow. What are you doing running in my forest?'

'I am going to bloody die!' I screamed back. That Great Beast of a King is hunting me!'

I measured the distance between him and myself. I fleetingly wondered if I could try and unhorse him: spectre or no spectre, that horse was real enough. I could be at the nearest port before Henry found out. The huntsman seemed to read my mind; a crossbow appeared beneath the cloak and an arrow whistled over my head. ‘No further!'

I sat back on my heels. ‘Help me!' I whimpered.

The rider threw a sack down on the ground and, turning his horse's head, galloped back along the forest track. I let him go then, half crying, half laughing, crawling towards the sack. I undid the cord. As I did so, something scratched my arm. I plunged my hand in and drew out a long bow, the wood of polished yew with a strong handgrip and a quiver carrying six goose-feathered arrows. I also drew out a mask and, fastened to the boiled leather on either side, antler horns. There was also some biscuits coated with sugar and a small flask of wine. Now you know old Shallot: never look a gift horse in the mouth! My prayers had been answered, even if my benefactor was Herne the Hunter.

For a while I just stared at what the sack contained. I then wolfed down the biscuits, emptied the wine flask and wondered what I should do. Help had arrived, but why like this? Why Herne the Hunter? I recalled the legends about this mythical figure, supposedly the ghost of a huntsman unjustly hanged from a great oak in Windsor Forest hundreds of years before. He was supposed to still haunt there, with demon hounds and devil riders.