The Vanishing Witch Read online

  Edith’s head snapped round. ‘But I thought you said you were checking the cargo, Robert.’

  Jan glanced sharply at his father. ‘He was, but I knew you’d want him home, so I said I’d finish.’

  He slid into the chair next to his mother, who patted his hand affectionately. ‘You’re a good son to your father, Jan.’

  ‘Yes, I rather think I am, aren’t I, Father?’ Jan said, staring pointedly at Robert.

  Robert avoided meeting his son’s questioning gaze and concentrated on the stew. He felt irritation mounting again. He had done nothing for which to reproach himself but he was annoyed to be caught out in a lie by Jan. The boy had always looked up to him, and he was proud of the way his son was shaping up to follow in his footsteps. Not that he would tell Jan so, for Robert did not believe in indulging his sons.

  ‘I trust the loads all tallied?’ he asked sternly.

  Jan hesitated.

  Robert lowered a sop of gravy-soaked bread that was halfway to his mouth. ‘Out with it, lad.’

  ‘One of the boatmen lost a bale overboard on the way back from Boston. He said he’d been rammed by another punt. It’s the third accident of this sort in as many weeks. But I got talking to a man in the inn last night. He’d just returned from Horncastle market. He swore he’d seen a bale of our cloth being hawked by one of the pedlars. The seal had been cut away, but he knew it for our shade of dye and reckoned it had never been near a drop of water.’

  Robert’s face turned puce. ‘One of our own boatmen stealing from us? What have you done about it?’

  Thomas looked equally furious. ‘Have you sent for the bailiff, Jan, had him arrested? I can assure you, Robert, if this is proved, he’ll be dangling by the neck from the castle walls after the next assizes.’

  Jan refilled his goblet and drained it before he seemed sufficiently braced to answer. ‘It’s not just one boatman. These accidents are happening to different men, different boats. We can’t arrest them all – we’d have no men left to work the river. Besides, proving that any of them stole the bales rather than lost them will not be easy.’ Seeing the fury building on Robert’s face, he added quickly, ‘I reckon someone’s behind it, paying them to do it. That’s the man we’ve got to find. But I will find him, Father, and when I do, I’ll hand him trussed and bound to Sheriff Thomas. That I swear.’

  Thomas nodded approvingly. ‘The lad’s right, Robert. They must be selling them on to someone, and once we have him in the castle dungeons, I’ll soon make him talk. Show him the gallows and he’ll be eager to turn king’s approver and name all those involved. We’ll winkle them out, Robert, don’t you fear. I’ll have my informers keep their ears flapping in the taverns and marketplaces. They’re bound to hear something sooner or later.’

  ‘It’s the talk of later that concerns me,’ Robert said. ‘I can’t afford to keep losing goods while your spies loll at alewives’ doors, drinking the city’s savings in the hope of hearing something. Between these thefts and the King’s taxes, money is running out of my coffers like sand through an hour-glass, and with the weavers in Flanders in rebellion, there is precious little going back in to refill them.’

  He slammed his goblet onto the table. ‘At least this evening has resolved one thing. The rents on my properties must be raised. And this time I’ll not let you talk me out of it, Jan. This is your future as well as mine and your mother’s. I’ll not stand by and see my family ruined.’

  ‘But I’ve told you before, Father, they’re struggling already. I inspect our tenants’ cottages each year and I can see things are getting worse for a good many of them.’

  ‘Since the boatmen who are stealing from me are my tenants, they may think themselves well served,’ Robert said. ‘Thieves deserve no less.’

  ‘But it won’t fill your coffers if they can’t pay,’ Jan protested. ‘You can’t get water from a river that’s run dry.’

  ‘They can pay. When they’re stealing the cargoes I’m giving them money to deliver, they’re earning twice over. You’re too easily gulled, lad – isn’t that right, Thomas? They know you’re coming and spirit half their stock and belongings away to make themselves seem poor, then fetch it back when you’ve gone. It’s a game they’ve been playing for years.’

  The same mulish expression darkened the faces of father and son. If only they were not so alike, they would lock horns less often. Robert would win, he always did, but Jan was right: it was the cottagers who would suffer.

  October

  If the October moon appears with the points of her crescent up, the month will be dry, if down, wet.

  Chapter 4

  A woman was carrying a little boy who was eating an apple. They met a neighbour on the road, who took a bite from the apple and returned it to the child. Until that hour, the boy had been strong and healthy. From that moment he began to waste away, and shortly after, he died.

  Greetwell

  Master Robert thinks he has troubles and so he has, for when you own much, you fear much too. And no man who’s spent a lifetime building his wealth fleece by fleece, bale by bale relishes the prospect of having it all snatched away before he can pass it to his sons. But such fears are not confined to the wealthy. The poor also dread losing what little they have and some have troubles enough to fill the nine lives of a cat, but without so much as a whisker of a cat’s good luck.

  Gunter was one such man, who scratched out a living in Lincoln, or rather in a piss-poor village nearby, known as Greetwell, though Gunter, who’d never known better, counted the place home.

  The sun hung low in the sky, as he hefted the heavy peats from his punt. He pushed them up onto the riverbank so that his daughter, Royse, and her brother, Hankin, could carry them to the lean-to shelter beside the cottage and stack them ready to burn through the long winter months. As usual, Royse was trying to outdo her brother, and they were piling them under the reed thatch with such haste that Gunter warned them to take more care. ‘Get a good steddle laid first, else the whole stack’ll tumble down.’

  But he might as well have been talking to the wind. Royse, just coming up to fourteen, was a headstrong, wiry little lass. The first signs of womanhood were pushing out the front of her kirtle, but she still behaved more like a boy than a woman, never walking when she could run, never sitting still if she could climb. Hankin, a good year or so younger, was already taller than his sister, shooting up like a sapling and just as skinny. Ever since he’d managed to pull himself to his little feet and toddle after her, he’d been determined to prove himself tougher than her, but she’d never made it easy for him.

  Gunter blew on his numbed hands to warm them. It was a raw day, the wind sharp and wet, the ground sodden after all the rain. He’d be glad when the frosts came. The damp ate deep into the bones. Great pools still covered the fields where the river had flooded. It had at last receded, but it would take longer to drain from the land. They’d waded through stinking river water inside the cottage for nigh on a week before it had gone, but they were used to that. It happened most years, and Gunter could read the river like the back of his hand. He knew when to shift kegs and barrels up to the hay loft, so little was lost.

  With the last of the peats safe on the bank, he hauled himself out of the punt and picked his way down the muddy track, eager for something warm to fill his belly.

  He was a short, stocky man, and the muscles of his arms and legs were thick and corded from years of punting. Despite the cold he wore only a sleeveless tunic of stained brown homespun, which reached to his thighs, and breeches so faded and grimy that it was hard to tell if they’d ever owned a colour.

  He walked with a strange gait, heaving his left leg out in an arc until he could place it flat directly beneath him. On the water, his element, he appeared no different from other men, but on land the stranger’s gaze was immediately drawn to his leg. He had tried many different shapes of wooden leg over the years, spending the long winter evenings whittling whenever he had a fresh idea and could find
a good piece of wood. But finally he had settled on this as being best for balancing on the punt as his body twisted, and for spreading his weight as he limped across the boggy ground around his home.

  His cottage huddled close to the riverbank on one of the few firm patches of ground between the river and the Edge, a ridge of cliff that ran behind the fields and marshlands. The main village of Greetwell sat high on the Edge, safe from floods and the midges that swarmed over the bogs and mires below in summer, but a boatman couldn’t live up there: he’d lose hours each day traipsing to and from his punt, precious hours when he should be earning. Besides, Gunter had lived by the river all his life and couldn’t sleep without the sound of water rushing through his dreams.

  He pressed down on the latch and pushed against the door, swollen and warped after the flood. The stench of damp and river mud rolled out. The bunches of dried herbs and onions hanging from the rafters rocked in the sudden draught as he stepped inside. He closed the door hastily behind him as a billow of smoke swirled up from the fire. The single-roomed cottage was a tight squeeze for five people, but Gunter had never known bigger. Two beds occupied the space against the walls on either side, with shelves above to store boxes and clay jars. The rest of the room was pretty much taken up with a table and stools, but they needed little else.

  Nonie glanced up briefly as her husband entered and straightway spooned pottage into a wooden bowl from the pot hanging over the fire. She didn’t need to be told that her husband was hungry. There were no cargoes to fetch on a Sunday, but that meant work of a different sort, fetching fuel for the winter and fodder for the two goats.

  In the fifteen years since they had hand-fasted, Gunter had never once returned home without feeling thankful to find Nonie there. As a child, he’d watched his mother stirring a pot over a fire, turning to smile at him, as Nonie did now. It had never occurred to him that his mother would not always be standing there when he returned from play. Even as the Great Pestilence swept through the land, he had not believed it could reach his cottage, until the day he had come home from gathering kindling to find his mother dead and his father dying. Ever since, it had been Gunter’s nightmare that one day he might return to find the fire cold and his family once again ripped from him.

  Gunter glanced down at the beaten-earth floor where four-year-old Col, his youngest child, was sitting. The tip of his pink tongue stuck out in concentration as he tried to knot pieces of old cord together.

  ‘What you up to, Bor?’

  When the boy didn’t answer, he looked at Nonie.

  She shook her head in exasperation. ‘He’s making himself a net, says he going fishing. This is your doing, it is, telling him what you used to catch as a lad. A fish with a gold piece in its belly, indeed.’

  Gunter chuckled, holding up his hands. ‘It’s true, I swear it. Didn’t you ever hear tell of St Egwin? He fettered his ankles with an iron chain, threw the key into the river, then walked all the way to Rome to see the pope. The pope ordered a fish for dinner and when he opened it, the key to the saint’s fetters was inside.’

  Nonie snorted. ‘Well, you’re no saint and neither is your son. I don’t want you encouraging him. If he slips and falls into the river he’ll be swept away, like those poor children who drowned.’ She crossed herself hastily to prevent some passing demon turning her words into a prophecy.

  Col glanced up anxiously at his father, but grinned when Gunter winked at him. They knew it was a mother’s job to cosset and fret over her sons, and a boy’s job to alarm his mother a dozen times a day.

  The door groaned again as Royse heaved it open, sending the smoke swirling around the small room. She was not alone. A woman followed her, slipping quickly inside with a fearful glance behind her. Alys was the wife of a rival boatman, Martin, who lived further along the river towards Lincoln. She was no older than Nonie – they’d been childhood friends – but she seemed ancient enough to be Nonie’s mother, a rag worn threadbare and grey. That afternoon she looked worse than usual: her cheek was black and her eye purple and swollen.

  Anger boiled in Gunter. Martin had hit her again, or that great lump of a son of hers, Simon, who used his fists on her just as his father did. Gunter knew that some men beat their wives, but the thought sickened him, especially when it was a great bull like Martin, against whom most men would have had a hard time defending themselves. Why would any man so ill-use his wife? Didn’t he realise how precious your family was, how easily it could be lost to you for ever?

  Nonie hastened forward and put her arms round her friend, drawing her to a stool close by the fire. She shot a glance at Gunter, warning him to say nothing. It would only shame Alys to speak of the bruises and, besides, what could anyone do about it? She was Martin’s wife. Over the years he’d crushed her till she was old long before her time and now he lusted after any younger woman. There was scarcely a girl along the river on whom he hadn’t tried to force himself, and his poor wife knew it.

  ‘Will you have a bite, Alys?’ Nonie asked, reaching for a wooden bowl.

  She shook her head. ‘Martin and the lad’ll be back soon, wanting their supper. They had some business . . .’ She faltered, darting a nervous glance at Gunter.

  Whatever business a river-man conducted on a Sunday was hardly likely to be lawful. It wasn’t the first time Gunter had had cause to wonder what Martin was involved in. Several cargoes recently had been delivered short. Accidents were blamed, which happened, of course, but of late there had seemed to be far more. Still, it was none of Gunter’s affair. He prided himself on delivering his cargoes safely. Surely the overseers would have the sense to stop hiring the careless men and employ those who could be relied upon to do a good job.

  Alys stared into the flames of the small fire, her brow furrowed with anxiety. It was plain she had come with something on her mind, but was finding it hard to confide. Nonie looked at Gunter and jerked her head towards the door. Alys had some woman’s problem she wanted to discuss and was embarrassed to mention in front of him. But Nonie had to repeat the gesture several times before her husband understood.

  ‘Goats want feeding,’ he said, making for the door.

  ‘Wait. There’s . . . summat I need to ask you,’ Alys said. ‘It’s my faayther.’

  ‘Is he sick?’ Nonie asked.

  Alys shrugged. ‘Ailing, but no worse than afore. But thing is, the steward says he still owes money for last quarter’s rent. He reckoned Faayther’s not been taking care of his cottage. Threatened to throw him out. Martin says I’m not to give the old man so much as a farthing. I’ve managed to scrape together a little here and there. I’ve sold a few bits, but they didn’t fetch much – I could only sell what Martin wouldn’t notice had gone missing. I’ve enough to pay the rent Faayther still owes for last quarter, but I can’t pay someone to repair the cottage, like the steward says we must. Roof’s in a bad state and some of the daub’s fallen away. You can see straight through the wall near the door. It’ll only get worse, come the frosts. Faayther can’t manage it himself any more. I don’t know what to do.’

  Tears slid down her cheeks, and she wept silently. Gunter guessed she had long since learned to cry without making a sound.

  The animosity between Alys’s husband and her father was legendary in Greetwell. No one could recall exactly how it had begun, but each passing year had seen more wood heaped on the fire of their enmity. It was unheard of in the village for infirm parents not to live with their children, if they were fortunate enough to have family: who could afford to pay the rent on a cottage for themselves and another for the old folk? But Martin swore he would see the miserable old bastard begging in the streets before he’d offer him so much as a mouldy crust. And Alys’s father told any who would listen he’d sooner drown himself in the Witham than set foot across Martin’s threshold. Poor Alys was trapped between them.

  The old man got by helping neighbours to move livestock, collecting kindling and scaring birds, jobs normally given to boys. In truth, what li
ttle food or few coins he received in exchange were given to him out of pity: he was so doddery that he was more of a hindrance than a help, but they knew he would not accept charity. When pride was the only thing a man had left, who would be so cruel as to take it from him?

  Nonie gave Alys a rag to wipe her tears. ‘Don’t you fret, Alys. Gunter’ll see to his cottage, won’t you?’ She glanced at her husband, but there was no question in her eyes. She knew he would.

  Alys stared down at Gunter’s wooden leg. He guessed what she was thinking: how would he clamber about on a roof?

  ‘I’m no thatcher, but I’ve patched this ’un up often enough. If the damage is not too bad, I reckon we can fix it. You should see Hankin on a ladder – like a squirrel up a tree, he is. I’d ten times sooner have that lad at my side than my leg grow back.’

  The boy grinned proudly up at his father.

  ‘But the reeds for the thatch, I’ve no money to pay for them.’

  ‘Aye, well, there’s others’ll pitch in,’ Nonie said. ‘I’ll talk to the neighbours. We’ll find a way.’

  Alys gave her a frail, anxious smile. ‘Martin’ll not be best pleased if he learns you’re helping Faayther.’

  Nonie put her hands on her hips. She was wearing the stubborn expression that her children and her husband knew meant she would brook no argument. ‘Martin,’ she said, ‘had better not raise an eyebrow, never mind his fist, or he’ll have me to reckon with.’

  Chapter 5

  If a witch tries to bewitch you, spit at her so that the spittle lands between her eyes. That will break the spell.

  Mistress Catlin

  The door banged in the wind as my son Edward lurched into the hall. He sank into a chair and slumped across the table, almost toppling the jug of small ale. I didn’t need to ask if he’d been drinking. His clothes were stained and dishevelled, his eyes bloodshot. Little Leonia, still finishing her breakfast, looked up at her brother with amusement, but lowered her gaze demurely when she saw me watching her.