The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  ‘Was, Gunter. We’ve had too many loads delivered recently that have been short. A great many mishaps there’ve been, or so you all claim. Bundles disappearing in the night while the boatman sleeps, barrels falling off into the river. Of course, it’s never his fault. It couldn’t possibly be due to the fact that he’s a thieving bastard. Anyhow, Master Robert’s had enough of it. He says it’s bad enough when trade is good, but when it’s as piss-poor as it is at present, he’ll not be robbed blind, so he’s given new orders. If a load doesn’t arrive on time or there’s so much as a sack of feathers missing, you don’t get paid at all.’

  ‘But you know me, Master Fulk,’ Gunter protested. ‘You know nothing’s ever gone missing from my loads.’

  Fulk shrugged. ‘Maybe so, but you can blame your brother boatmen not me. It’s them has queered it for everyone.’

  ‘Please, Master Fulk,’ Gunter begged. ‘Not half then, just enough to buy a bit to eat. If I’ve two days’ journey ahead of me I need food and ale for me and the lad afore we set off. And if we’ve then to come all the way back upriver again, that’s another two days’ journey afore we get paid.’

  ‘Should have brought meats with you or coins enough to buy some,’ Fulk said indifferently. ‘Do you want the work or not?’

  Dumbly, Gunter nodded. He’d no choice. Reluctantly, he clasped the hand that was extended to him to seal the bargain.

  ‘Right, I’ll get a couple of lads to start loading the boat.’ Fulk disappeared back into the warehouse.

  Gunter walked back towards the jetty. He was shocked and dismayed at the sudden change in terms, but at least he’d got a load. That was all that mattered, he told himself. They’d find something to eat. Maybe, even, it was better this way: he’d be taking every penny home at the end of the job. He was so preoccupied, he didn’t notice Martin until the man spoke.

  ‘You want to watch where you’re swinging that bow of yours, Gunter. If I hadn’t been keeping a close eye out, I’d have rammed you broadside and that old wreck of yours would have been lying at the bottom of the Braytheforde.’

  On any other day, Gunter would have come back at him hard, but he was too relieved to have found work to pick a quarrel. He clapped a friendly hand on Martin’s massive shoulder. ‘Come now, you were trying to beat us to that mooring even though we’d got into the harbour ahead of you. Fair game!’

  ‘Fair, is it?’ Martin said sourly, shaking off Gunter’s hand. He peered at Gunter suspiciously. ‘You look like a fox that’s made a kill. You got a cargo.’

  ‘That I have,’ Gunter said. ‘Need it badly too. Not had a load for days.’ He smiled, suddenly feeling generous even to a man like Martin. ‘Hope the day brings you good fortune too.’

  But Martin only scowled and spat into the water.

  Gunter walked back along the jetty to where Hankin was slumped, lost in thought. He prodded the boy with the toe of his shoe. ‘Stir yourself, lad, we’ve got a load all the way to Boston.’

  ‘Suppose Mam’ll be pleased about that,’ he said morosely. He suddenly brightened and scrambled up. ‘Will I buy some food to take? I saw a girl walk past with a tray of pies. Hot and fresh, they were, mutton, she said. I could catch her up.’

  Gunter glanced up from his son’s eager face in time to see Martin disappearing through the door of the warehouse. He murmured a prayer of thanks to the Holy Virgin that he had reached the surly overseer first.

  ‘Can I get us some pies, Faayther?’ His son was holding out his hand in expectation.

  ‘There’s to be no money paid to us till we return to Lincoln. You can have your pie then.’

  Hankin was as startled as he himself had been by the news. Gunter grasped him firmly by the shoulder. ‘No need to put on a face like a sour pickle. You want to be grateful we’ve got work. If we hadn’t, you certainly wouldn’t be eating pie.’

  ‘I’m not eating it now,’ the boy muttered. ‘Didn’t you ask him for the money? Why didn’t you tell him we need it today?’

  For the second time that day, Gunter felt like clouting his son, but he held his temper. ‘Is there any bread left?’

  ‘Only your slice,’ Hankin said sulkily. ‘That won’t keep us for four days.’

  ‘It won’t if you eat it, but if you save it for bait, we’ll feast like kings. We’ll set out a fishing line when we tie up for the night.’

  ‘If we trailed a net, we’d not need the bread for bait.’

  ‘It would slow us up. Never trail a net on a moving boat, unless you’re out at sea. If the net snags on a fallen branch or some such under the water it can jerk a man off the punt or even sink it. We’ll do fine with the line, lad, and we can always try our hand at netting a sleeping duck. We’ll not starve.’

  All the fowl and fish in the river belonged to those through whose lands the river flowed. But at night, well hidden from any cottage, it was a risk worth taking and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Gunter had taken it.

  He felt the jetty creak and looked up to see two of the paggers bent almost double, staggering down the wooden planks towards them with large bales on their backs supported by thick straps across the men’s foreheads. He tapped his son’s shoulder. ‘Quick, into the punt with you and be ready to help catch them as they lower them.’

  He scrambled into the punt after his son and they both looked up expectantly, waiting for the bales to be passed down to them. But, to their dismay, the men didn’t stop. Instead they lumbered past and on down the jetty.

  ‘Here, it’s this boat you’re meant to be loading,’ Gunter yelled, but the paggers didn’t pause or turn.

  They kept moving until they drew level with Martin’s boat and dropped the bales onto the jetty. Then they began to lower them to Martin’s son, Simon, who was standing in his father’s punt.

  ‘No!’ Gunter scrambled up the ladder onto the jetty. ‘You’ve got the wrong boat.’

  ‘They haven’t.’

  Gunter spun round. Martin was standing behind him, grinning, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. ‘Good long run too, all the way to Boston.’

  ‘But Fulk told me there was only one load going out today.’

  ‘And this is it.’ Martin’s grin broadened.

  Gunter gaped at him. ‘But he promised it to me. We shook on it.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘Changed his mind, then, didn’t he? With two real men in a sound punt, instead of a cripple and a brat in a leaking tub, he thought he’d a better chance of getting his load delivered safely and on time.’

  ‘How much did you bribe him?’ Gunter roared.

  ‘Fair game.’ Martin smirked.

  Gunter’s fists clenched, but the two paggers pushed between them on the narrow jetty, as they returned for another load. By the time they were past, Martin was already walking towards his boat.

  Gunter felt someone race past him, but before he had time to register that it was Hankin, the boy had reached Martin. He leaped onto the man’s back, pummelling him in a frenzy. ‘Thief! Cheat!’

  Martin staggered under the surprise and ferocity of the assault, and for a moment it looked as if both would fall into the Braytheforde. Gunter stumbled along the slippery boards as fast as he dared, but before he could reach Hankin and pull him off, Martin’s son had bounded onto the jetty. He seized Hankin by the waist, swung him up and hurled him as far as he could into the thick, green water. Hankin hit it with a slap and disappeared.

  Chapter 29

  The spirits of drowned men return to the shore and conjure lights to lure ships to their destruction on the rocks and drown their crew.

  Lincoln

  Gunter stared in horror at the water of the Braytheforde where wavelets were rapidly spreading outwards in circles from the spot where Hankin had vanished. He was dimly aware of Martin’s son bellowing with laughter and the cries of alarm from others who’d witnessed the boy’s body arc through the sky.

  Gunter dropped onto the boards of the jetty and wrenched off his wooden leg. Though he had warned h
is children many times never to jump into water when you couldn’t see what lay beneath, he grabbed the edge of the jetty, pushed himself off the side and rolled head first into the Braytheforde. The water rushed into his nose and ears and he struggled desperately to surface, thrusting up into the air and fighting for breath, but he couldn’t afford to give himself time to recover. He struck out for the place where he thought Hankin had sunk.

  But now that he was in the water, it was hard to work out which direction he should swim in, never mind how far. The wind and rising tide, though by no means strong, still produced waves that kept dashing into his face making him splutter. He arched upwards and gulped a lungful of air, preparing to dive down, but just in time he heard a voice shout, ‘No, to the left . . . the left.’

  Gunter turned and swam a few more strokes, then taking another deep breath, plunged down. With the muddy bottom stirred up by the quants and oars of the craft that constantly ploughed to and fro, not to mention the filth pouring in from the open sewers and ditches of the city, the water was as thick as pease pottage. In the faint green light filtering down from above he could see little, except dark indistinct shapes far below, which might have been anything from sunken boats to drowned pigs.

  His lungs bursting, he fought up to the surface again. To his relief he saw three small boats had cast off and had arranged themselves close to him to protect him. There was always the danger of a punt or craft ploughing straight into him as he came up for air. The men in the boats were using grappling irons and poles to fish for any trace of the boy.

  ‘Over there,’ one shouted, and pointed. ‘I’m sure he went down there.’

  Taking another great gulp of air, Gunter flipped over and dived again into the foul soup, his arms spread wide.

  Let me find him, Holy Virgin, don’t let him die. Show me where he is, I beg you.

  He kept searching beneath the water until he felt as if his head and chest would explode. He knew he must surface again or drown. But as he kicked desperately upwards, the back of his hand brushed against something soft and cold. With his last splinter of strength he made a grab for it and his hands closed around cloth. He yanked at it, and kicking frantically, he burst into the air, gasping and spluttering.

  As the roaring in his ears subsided, he could hear people yelling excitedly, ‘We got him! We’ve found him!’

  Just a yard or two away he saw the limp body of his son being hauled over the side into one of the little boats.

  ‘He’s—’ The man who had spoken broke off in a stunned silence.

  The boatmen were all staring at Gunter, horror on their faces.

  Panic-stricken, Gunter swam desperately towards the boat, but even as he did so he realised he was still dragging something behind him. He turned his head. There, floating just inches from his cheek, was a face, white and bloated, the eyes opaque and staring up at him, the mouth wide in a terrible grimace. On the forehead the skin was peeling away from four deep puncture wounds.

  With a cry of revulsion, Gunter snatched his hand from the corpse, but it didn’t sink. It floated a few feet away, staring upwards into the grey sky, its arms stretched as wide as the crucified Christ’s, rocking gently on the waves.

  Chapter 30

  Witches can be prevented from entering a house if pins or nails are pushed into door posts or the beams above a hearth, but beware: if these same pins or nails fall to the floor, the witch may use them to harm you.

  Lincoln

  Robert sat facing his younger son across a supper of fried young rabbits swimming in a rich wine sauce, their tender flesh liberally flavoured with cinnamon, ginger and honey. Platters of cold mutton and pigeon pie lay beside it on the long table. Beata was still cooking every meat dish she could devise, so thankful was she to be eating flesh again after the forty long days of Lenten fish.

  In many households, servants were forbidden to eat the costly spiced meat dishes they served to their masters at high table and were forced to feed any leftovers to the dogs or swine. But Edith had always permitted Beata, Tenney and even the stable-boy to eat whatever was left from Robert’s table, saying it was a wicked waste for servants to cook separate meals for themselves while perfectly good food was thrown away.

  Beata had never taken advantage of that by cooking great portions, not that Edith would ever have allowed her to do so, but since Easter Sunday, Robert had noticed the dishes she prepared were large enough to feed half of King Richard’s army, even when only he and Adam were dining, as if she had determined to spend every last penny of his money before the wedding.

  He was in two minds whether or not to task her with it but thought better of it. At least with Diot temporarily gone from her kitchen, she was speaking to him again and not clattering the pans quite so loudly, although he suspected that that happy state would last only until the wedding. He dreaded to imagine what would happen when Diot and she were permanently sharing a kitchen.

  He wondered if he should ask Catlin to dismiss her maid. He could insist upon it, but he found it hard to insist upon anything with Catlin. She would obey him, he was sure, that is, he hoped, but he certainly didn’t want to begin their married life by upsetting her. He couldn’t understand why either of his sons should have taken against such a gentle, selfless and loving woman.

  Father Remigius promised to pray to the Blessed Virgin for Robert and his elder son to be reconciled. But, from the expression on his face, Father Remigius lacked confidence that she would answer. Robert’s jaw clenched. If Jan believed his father would come to his lodgings and beg him to return to work, he was either as conceited as a peacock or a slug-brained fool. If the boy didn’t work, he needn’t expect to be paid. He’d soon learn that pride doesn’t fill an empty belly. When his money ran out, he’d come back fast enough.

  In the meantime, Fulk would keep things running smoothly at the warehouse. But there was still that business with the Florentines. There’d be a hearing when the courts sat at Whitsun. He’d heard Matthew Johan was counterclaiming against the seizure of his goods. Very likely both he and Jan would be called to testify and he was not looking forward to sitting in court with his son. Such matters could drag on for days, especially when wealthy men were involved. Still, by then he and Catlin would be safely married. Jan would have to accept it and be civil. If he wouldn’t, Robert thought grimly, he would have no hesitation in disinheriting him in favour of Adam.

  True, Adam had never taken the slightest interest in the business, unlike Jan at his age. Neither did his younger son possess the toughness essential for the bloody cut and thrust of the marketplace, but that had been Edith’s fault. She’d mollycoddled the boy and turned him against the trade. But he was determined that was going to change, and when Robert had made up his mind to something, he saw no reason to delay.

  ‘After school tomorrow, Adam, I want you to come straight to the warehouse. You’ve only a few weeks left with your books and then you’ll be starting in the business. Best to learn as much as you can about it before you start work in earnest.’

  Adam looked alarmed. ‘But Mother said I’d go to university.’

  ‘And what good would that do, boy? Study is for men who have to make their own way in the world and find a profession. You already have one. You’ll . . .’

  He was about to add that Adam would one day be master of everything Robert owned, but stopped himself. He wouldn’t make that promise yet. Jan had many failings, his quick temper being one of them, but he’d a good business head for all that. He’d be back . . . Holy and Blessed Virgin, let my son come back. Robert would barely admit it to himself, let alone others, but he sorely missed the lad, even their arguments and Jan’s cursed stubbornness.

  He realised that Adam was staring at him, gnawing his lip anxiously, exactly as Edith used to do. ‘You can find your way to the warehouse?’ Robert demanded gruffly.

  ‘Will Jan be there?’

  ‘Adam, I asked if you could find your way to the warehouse. Have the goodness to answer me.’


  Adam lowered his chin. ‘Yes, Father. I know the way.’

  He had the same irritating habit as his mother of looking up shyly from under his long lashes, instead of lifting his head and meeting people’s gaze straight on. When he had first married Edith, Robert had found the habit enchanting, but as she had matured it had become ridiculous. He banged the table. ‘Lift up your head and look at me properly, not like a simpering girl. If you look at the workmen and paggers like that, they’ll tar you and put a dress of feathers on you.’

  Seeing the terrified expression on the boy’s face, Robert tried to speak more gently. ‘You have to understand, boy, the men on the wharf are tough. They won’t show you respect because you’re my son, you’ll have to earn it. And in time you’ll have to protect your new sister. Ensure that no man offers her any offence. You can’t do that if you behave like a girl yourself.’

  ‘My sister?’ Adam said miserably. ‘So Leonia is going to be my sister, then?’

  ‘Your stepsister, but I expect you to treat her as a blood sister. And Mistress Catlin will be your new mother.’

  Adam traced aimless patterns in the thick red sauce on his pewter trencher.

  ‘She’s a good woman, you know that, don’t you, Adam? From a highly respectable family. Any man can see that in her bearing.’

  His son’s pale cheeks flushed a dull red and his gaze dropped to his hands, which were trembling. ‘Beata said . . .’

  ‘Beata said what?’ Robert said sharply.

  Adam glanced anxiously at the door. ‘That . . . she didn’t trust her.’

  ‘You know better than to listen to the opinions of servants. Beata is put out because Mistress Catlin is bringing Diot and she doesn’t like sharing the kitchen. Come here, boy.’

  Adam reluctantly slid out of his chair and edged round the table, holding himself stiffly as if he expected a beating. Robert put a hand on his shoulder and lifted his chin with the other so that Adam was forced to meet his gaze. ‘And what do you think of Mistress Catlin?’