He reached for my hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘I’d never blame a woman for the sins of her husband, or spread the story abroad. I know only too well the importance of a good name. That’s why I’ll be for ever in your debt that you didn’t let it be known I had persuaded you to such a risky investment. I would . . .’ He hesitated, flushing. ‘My dear, will you not trust me?’
Now that his curiosity was aroused I knew he would not let it go. A man likes to be trusted, becoming hurt and enraged if he is not. Was this the right moment to tell the story? I crossed to the table to pour wine for us both. When I handed him the goblet, his fingers closed around mine and it was several moments before he let me go.
‘We’ve talked for many hours about my business,’ Robert said. ‘You know more about me than even my own wife. But I know so little of your life before we met. I dare say that is my fault for I always talk too much in company. Edith often reproaches me for it. But I’ve thought of you a great deal these past few days, when I’ve been sitting with Edith, and I realised I know nothing of your life before you came here. How your husband died. I don’t even know his name. It seems to me, my dear, that you are keeping something from me, and it troubles me.’
I sank into the chair and, without looking at him, finally began to tell the dreadful truth I’d hidden for so long. A tale not even my children knew in its entirety.
‘My husband . . . was Warrick de Fenton. I was barely fifteen when we met. I’d accompanied my parents to the wedding of a neighbour’s daughter. I was in the bridal party, helping her to dress, then holding the candles as we led her to the church door to say her vows. Warrick was in the groom’s party. As you know, there is much teasing and horseplay between the bride’s attendants and the groom’s on the wedding day, with the groom’s men trying to steal the bride from the maids before she reaches the church. I was wearing a garland of flowers in my hair and it was knocked to the ground. Warrick saved it from being crushed, but demanded a kiss before he would return it. Naturally I refused, but such is the licence on such a day that in no time my friends and his had surrounded us, insisting I kiss him, so at last I gave in.
‘The feasting and dancing lasted several days, for the bride’s parents were wealthy landowners. Warrick and I had many opportunities to dance and walk together, and before the guests dispersed, he had persuaded his father to seek my parents’ permission for us to marry.
‘They were reluctant to grant it at first, for they knew little of his family, who lived many miles away, but I entreated them on my knees, for I was hopelessly in love with Warrick. He seemed to me then the most charming man who had ever walked the earth. He swore to my parents he would provide for me and do all in his power to make every hour of my life one of happiness and joy. At last, my parents gave their consent and the second wedding followed swiftly upon the first, far too swiftly as it transpired.
‘At first all was as he had promised. His father granted him one of his houses and he would inherit his father’s entire estate on his death. We were scarcely out of each other’s company, in those early days, but I began to notice a cruel side to his nature even then. He would mock and humiliate the servants to amuse his friends, and once he snatched a cat from a cottager’s child and drowned it in front of her. The cat had caused his horse to shy when it ran across his path to escape being mauled by his hounds. Warrick’s greatest passion was hunting. He was never happier than when he was in the saddle with a hawk on his arm and his dogs streaming out behind him.
‘I tried to ignore these flaws in his nature for I refused to see any wrong in the man I loved. I confess I was weak and naïve. I would have done anything to make Warrick love me as I loved him. My day was pure heaven if he smiled at me and hell if he did not.
‘All seemed well between us until my belly swelled with child. Then I became the object of his mockery. “My wife is a great sow,” he said, in front of the servants. “You should feed her swill with the other pigs. We should set her running and throw spears at her, see who can bring the hog down.” They laughed, fearing his anger would turn on them if they didn’t.
‘All the while I was carrying his son, Warrick wouldn’t touch me or have me in his bed because I disgusted him. He didn’t bother to disguise how often he went to the village and had his sport with the women there. I kept silent, praying and hoping that when the child was born all would be again as it had once been between us.
‘But it never was. I had been spoiled in his eyes, and though he came occasionally to my bed, when he could find no other woman to satisfy his lusts, his lovemaking was savage, as if he were punishing me. For all that he didn’t want me, he was insanely jealous when I showed affection to my son. He found any excuse to ridicule and hurt the boy.
‘In spite of his infrequent visits, I fell with child again. This time he accused me of being unfaithful, saying that the child could not be of his getting. I swear on Leonia’s life I’d never had an unfaithful thought, much less committed an unfaithful act, in all the years we were wed. And I feared for my unborn child, for by then I knew what he was capable of. But what could I do? Warrick was my husband and, as the priest reminded me, I had vowed before God to stay with him until death, no matter how ill he used me. My soul would be damned if I broke that vow.
‘But not all the women Warrick slept with did so willingly. He forced himself on many a helpless maid and there was one he raped who found herself carrying his child. Her mother brought her to the house demanding restitution, but as soon as Warrick saw her swollen belly he mocked and taunted her, as he had me. That very night the girl, humiliated beyond endurance, hanged herself in the forest.
‘But the girl’s mother was a witch. All the village knew it, but Warrick refused to believe in such things. The woman took her daughter’s body in her arms and swore by the spirits of her daughter and her unborn grandchild that she would hound Warrick to the very gates of Hell.
‘Word spread quickly, and many cautioned Warrick to find some means to appease the woman before she carried out her threat, but he laughed. “What can the miserable hag do to me?” he demanded.
‘It seemed he was proved right, and the woman was powerless to harm him, for he continued as he had before and suffered no ill-luck or sickness. Then on St Stephen’s Day he decided to take our guests hunting. He had his favourite mare saddled and away he rode, the hounds barking excitedly in the winter sunshine. I did not go with them for I was heavy with child and not far off my time.
‘The ground was frozen and every tree sparkling with frost. Some of the children ran behind the hounds to hunt the wren, as is the custom on that day. But Warrick led the chase with the men after bigger game. It seems they’d not been riding long, when the hounds put up a fine stag. It sped away, the hounds streaming after it and the men on horseback galloping behind them. They had thought to bring the beast down quickly, but it darted into the woods and the riders had to slow because of the low branches and the tangle of old undergrowth.
‘Not so Warrick. His blood was on fire from the chase and he led the way, spurring his horse and recklessly jumping it over fallen trees. Then, just as the stag, exhausted, turned to face the dogs, a great hare sprang out of a tangle of brambles and shot right across Warrick’s path. His horse reared and threw Warrick against a tree. His head hit the trunk and he crashed to the ground.
‘When the rest of the party caught up, they found him still alive but with a great wound in his skull where the stump of a branch had driven into it. With his dying breath, he pointed towards where the hare had run, begging his friends to track it down and throw it to the hounds to avenge him.
‘Some of the party went off at once with the hounds, in the direction he had pointed. The dogs quartered the ground and quickly picked up the scent. Baying, they ran after the hare and the men followed. But when they came to a clearing they were forced to stop. The hounds were milling around the glade in chaos, trying in vain to pick up the scent of the hare, but they seemed baffled and kept returni
ng to a tree stump on which a woman sat, panting, as if she had been running hard.
‘“Dead is he, Master Warrick?” she asked the men.
‘They gaped at her for the clearing was some distance from where the accident had taken place. But they told her he was.
‘“Then my daughter and grandchild are avenged,” she said, and walked through the huntsmen back towards the village.
‘I knew as soon as I saw them returning that something was amiss, for the party was silent, riding with their heads bowed, and a horse was dragging something behind it on two long poles, covered with Warrick’s cloak. I ran down to the courtyard. Before they could stop me, I uncovered the bundle and saw the bloodied face of my husband. The shock was so great that the labour pains came upon me at once. Before the midnight hour on the day her father had died, my sweet Leonia was born. Two spirits passing each other as they made their journeys. But I fear my husband’s journey was to Hell for that was where the witch had cursed him to and I know the devil will have claimed his own.’
As I finished my tale, I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. I felt a strong arm slip around my shoulders. Robert’s touch was hesitant at first, as if he were afraid I would rebuff him, but as I burrowed into his chest, he drew me tightly against him, pressing his face to the top of my head. At that moment, I knew that if Edith had ever possessed his heart I had taken it from her.
Chapter 13
A witch may calm a storm she has called up by saying, ‘I adjure you, Hailstorm and Winds, by the Five Wounds of Christ, by the three nails that pierced his hands and feet, and by the four Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, to dissolve into water and fall down.’
Lincoln
Gunter sat hunched in the corner of the Mermaid Inn. He was in no mood for company, and had no money to spend on ale or food. He’d only entered in the vain hope of catching a whiff of any work that might be going. Most of the men from the quayside drank in the Mermaid, leastways those that had money to spend. If they had money, they had work.
A widow ran the inn. She’d taken over after her husband had been killed trying to break up a fight among his customers. She couldn’t afford to be soft, not when she’d a tavern full of river-men and sailors. She’d not allow any man to drink unless he had the money to pay for it in his hand, but neither would she throw out a man who wasn’t drinking. She knew well what hard times were.
Gunter had spent the morning trailing from warehouse to warehouse, trying to find a load. In winter few ships put into the port of Boston and the cargoes that were sent downstream to the villages or monasteries had already been assigned to others. When he was a lad, before his parents had died of the Great Pestilence, cargoes were taken by punt up the Foss Dyke to Torksey and York. But that had become impassable long ago, even in winter, to all but tiny craft, and in summer the landowners, including the Bishop of Lincoln, who were supposed to keep it free of silt and weed, had allowed it to become so choked they had even taken to driving their cattle over it. Now all loads heading for York had to go by wagon.
Gunter couldn’t face returning home to Nonie just yet. She never uttered a word of reproach, but she searched his face as he came in, and when she saw from it that he’d nothing to give her, her gaze would dart towards the low door in the wall that led directly into the byre. He knew what she was thinking. As soon as the bailiff had left that night, she’d set her hands on her hips and told him she wouldn’t sell either of her precious goats.
‘Without the goats, come spring there’ll be no kids to take to market, no milk or cheese to fill the bairns’ bellies. “Sell your gown afore your beasts,” my mam always said. The goats stay!’
But Nonie’s spare gown wasn’t worth twopence, even if they could have found a buyer.
Gunter was aware of voices growing louder at the table in the centre of the inn. He took little notice. Men always became rowdy when ale was flowing. His ears fastened only on the words ‘poll tax’. They had been buzzing like trapped wasps in his head these last few weeks.
He glanced up, groaning as he recognised Martin and his oaf of a son, Simon, among the four men at the table. He’d never liked them and not just because of the way they treated poor Alys. He usually found himself in competition with Martin for cargoes, and of late Martin had always seemed to win. Gunter had his suspicions that Fulk, the overseer at the warehouse, was deliberately favouring Martin over the other river-men, though God alone knew why: every boatman on the river reckoned him lazy and careless. His son was a nasty piece of work too. Simple Simon, Hankin called him, but he was always careful to do it well out of earshot, for what the lad lacked in wits he made up for in brawn.
Gunter debated whether to slip out, but thought he’d draw less attention to himself if he remained quietly in the dark corner.
‘What’s the King going to spend it on? That’s what I want to know,’ a man demanded. ‘Fighting in France. Fighting the bloody Scots. It’ll not keep us safe. The French sail here any time they please, set fire to our towns, rape our women, then sail off again with our gold, without any of the King’s soldiers lifting a finger to stop them.’
‘The King’s nowt but a boy of thirteen, scarce out of clouts,’ another growled. ‘It’s his uncle, John of Gaunt. It’ll be him behind this, you mark my words. Owns half the country as it is, and he won’t rest until he’s got his hands on the rest. All of the gold he’s got, I reckon he could pay the tax for every Jack and Jill in the land, and he’d still not see the bottom of just one of his chests.’
‘Boats’ll be sailing on dry land before he’d part with a penny to help any man but himself,’ Martin said. ‘I reckon we’ve got to look closer to home if we want justice.’ He tapped the side of his crooked nose. ‘If the rich take it from us, then we take it back.’
The others grinned. ‘Seems fair to me,’ the first man said. ‘How—’
He broke off as the door of the inn opened and a fresh-faced young girl came in, balancing a tray of pastries on her head. She gazed around uncertainly, evidently searching for the woman who owned the tavern, then wove her way between the benches towards the back.
Martin winked at the man beside him. As the girl drew level with him, he reached out and grabbed her gown, tugging her towards him.
‘Here’s the trouble, see, lads. Her poor faayther is going to have to pay the King money for her. It doesn’t seem right, does it? Tell you what, lass, why don’t I pay for you instead? Reckon your faayther would thank me for that.’
Martin’s hand slid around her waist, while the other fumbled to drag up the hem of her skirts. The men around him grinned broadly.
‘Shall we go out back to that nice little hayloft and have a tumble? And if you’re a good girl, you can have my Simon here afterwards too. See he’s dribbling already and, believe me, it’s not for your pastries.’
The girl, who looked no older than Gunter’s own daughter, was close to tears and struggling to push Martin away with her free hand, while still trying to balance the tray of pastries and stop them crashing to the ground. But even a full-grown woman would have been unable to fight off a man the size and strength of Martin. She raised her head, pleading silently with the other customers to help, but they were studying their beakers of ale. No one wanted to take on Martin and his son.
If Gunter had stopped to think, he would have realised he was no match for four strapping men. But all he could see when he looked at the girl’s frightened face was his own little Royse. It took him three limping strides to get there, but he could move as fast as any man when his blood was up. He grabbed the back of Martin’s jerkin near the neck, pulling it tight against his throat, half throttling him. ‘Leave the lass alone!’
Coughing and choking, Martin tried to prise himself free. The girl collided with the bench behind her, spun round and barged to the back of the inn, but Gunter barely had time to register where she’d gone before Martin twisted sideways and slammed a great fist into his belly. He crashed to the floor, doubled up in pa
in and gasping for breath.
Martin was on his feet and had landed a vicious kick into Gunter’s thigh, and was drawing back his boot to strike again when a wolfhound bounded across the bench and leaped straight for him, snarling and baring its teeth. He stumbled backwards.
‘Down, Fury!’ a woman’s voice commanded.
The dog sank to his haunches, growling its resentment.
The innkeeper’s widow stood in the back doorway, grasping a stout, knobbly stave, tipped with a thick band of iron. Not a man in that inn moved a muscle.
‘You’ve a choice, Martin. Take your rabble and get out or I feed your miserable carcass to Fury here. Be warned, he’s not had his dinner. What’s it to be?’
A long string of drool fell from the hound’s mouth and he gave an excited bark.
Martin hesitated. Then, his face contorted with anger, he turned to go. Gunter, still too winded to rise, braced himself, expecting another kick as Martin passed – he would have got it, had Fury not moved between them, baring his teeth again at Martin.
Martin backed away, the others following.
He turned at the door. ‘This isn’t finished, Gunter. Not by a long way! You won’t always have a woman’s skirt to hide behind. You’ll be sorry you crossed me.’
February
If in February the midges dance on the dunghill, lock up your food in the chest.
Chapter 14
Whenever you eat an egg, you must be sure to crush the shell, or a witch can sail to sea in it and sing up a storm that will cause a ship to founder and all those aboard to drown. For the same reason, you must never utter the word ‘egg’ on board a ship.
The Vanishing Witch Page 10