The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  In the cathedral and all the churches of Lincoln the clergy pointed to the wall paintings of Christ as King surrounded by saints and angels and below them the souls of the righteous men who gazed up at them in adoration. They sternly reminded their congregations that the social order on earth, with its kings, archbishops and bishops at the head, was the earthly reflection, in every particular, of heaven above. To rebel against King and Parliament was to rebel against God Himself. Look at the wretched souls being tormented in Hell. That was what lay in store for those who sought to overturn the divine order on earth. Did they want to see blood run in the streets, their women raped, their children spitted on pikes?

  The townsfolk and choir boys who attended the daily services were so busy discussing the latest rumours with their neighbours that they heard only odd phrases from these sermons, and were left baffled as to whether the rapists and baby-slayers were the invading French, the damned Scots or the foolish Essex men. But since they all counted as foreigners, what else could you expect from them but savagery?

  If Robert had been in church that Tuesday morning in June listening to one of those sermons he might have been even more worried than he was, but instead he was packing, or Catlin was packing for him, anxious to set out as soon as he could. He wanted to reach his favourite inn before dark. He’d travelled to London often enough to know how long each stage would take, and if you left too late you might find yourself forced to spend the night in some wretched lodgings, where the pallets were crawling with lice, the wine bad and the food worse. Even if you could manage to snatch a wink of sleep between groaning with bellyache and your neighbours snoring, you’d have to do it with a knife in your hand for fear of being robbed of everything you had, including your clothes. The prospect of going to London was bad enough, without being dragged through every anteroom of Hell on the way.

  Leonia slid into Robert’s lap, slipping her arms about his neck. The barber had been summoned at dawn to cut his hair and shave him. He was glad of it as she pressed her tender cheek against his.

  ‘Why do you have to go away, Père?’

  He liked the name she’d chosen for him and the way she threw her arms around him in tender affection. It was new to him. Boys didn’t hug their fathers, or fathers their sons. Robert felt the sudden hollow ache of grief. For a moment he saw Jan running into the sun-lit hall, an excited little boy again. He longed to sweep him up and hug him tightly. Had he ever actually told Jan how much he meant to him? He couldn’t recall a single occasion on which he had. But he must have said it, surely. Besides, Jan had known without needing to be told, hadn’t he? He must have.

  Robert cleared his throat. ‘I’ve important business in London, child. The merchants have asked me to take a petition to the Savoy Palace for John of Gaunt. There’re not enough guards at the castle in Lincoln to defend the city if there should be an uprising here. We must have more and, as constable of the castle, it’s his duty to send his men to protect us.’

  ‘Uprising?’ Leonia frowned. ‘Why would—’

  Catlin descended the stairs and entered the hall, Tenney hard on her heels, two great packs slung across his shoulders. The smile on his wife’s face dissolved at the sight of Leonia sitting in her husband’s lap, snuggled into his neck.

  She strode across, grasped the girl’s arm and yanked her off. ‘Is that any way for a young lady to behave? You’re not an infant,’ she snapped, digging her long nails deep into Leonia’s tender skin.

  Robert winced for her, but not even a flicker of pain showed in Leonia’s face.

  ‘I was only telling Père how much I’m going to miss him,’ she said innocently. ‘I do wish he didn’t have to go.’

  Catlin released her grip on her daughter’s arm. ‘We all wish that, Leonia. But to be chosen to represent the city is a great honour and responsibility. The safety of all of us and Lincoln itself depends on him.’

  ‘Are we going to be attacked?’ Leonia asked. There was no fear, only curiosity, in her voice.

  Robert had no wish to alarm Leonia, but he’d never seen any reason to pretend to children that life was all honey and cream. ‘In the south, some villagers stirred up by a preacher called Ball have attacked the property of their masters and even monasteries.’

  ‘Why don’t they hang them?’ Leonia demanded.

  ‘They will, my dear, but the authorities were taken unawares and didn’t act quickly enough. If a house catches fire, and people straightway pull down the thatch with grappling hooks and stamp on the sparks firmly, then the flames have no chance to spread. If they don’t a whole town can be set ablaze. But the rebellion’ll not spread here. We’ll ensure there are well-armed men to arrest any rebels at the first whisper of trouble.’

  He was determined to sound assured, particularly in front of the servants, but he was far from convinced of what he’d said. If even half of what William de Ashen had reported to them was true, the merchants in Lincoln would be hard put to find enough armed men to defend their homes, never mind their shops and warehouses.

  ‘Let me ride with you, Master Robert,’ Tenney said. ‘If there’s folks roaming abroad, looking for trouble—’

  ‘And leave us unprotected?’ Catlin sounded as shocked as if he had suggested she dance naked in the streets. ‘When my husband was last away someone broke into our bedchamber, as you well know. Besides, Robert isn’t a lord or abbot. He’s in no danger in London.’

  In truth, Robert would have been glad of Tenney’s company. Rumours were buzzing around the town, like flies in the meat market. Every hour brought fresh alarms, and no one knew what was true. Suppose he encountered some of the rebels on the road. But he couldn’t very well leave the women undefended after all that had happened. He really shouldn’t be leaving them at all . . . ‘Your mistress needs you here,’ Robert reluctantly agreed.

  ‘But, Master Robert, it’s not safe you riding alone,’ Tenney said desperately. ‘Let me come along to watch your back and keep you company. You could easily get a couple of strapping lads from the warehouse to sleep here of a night and keep watch on the house.’

  Catlin’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you prided yourself on your skills as a manservant, Tenney. Are you admitting that any common labourer could do your job?’ She gave one of her brittle, tinkling laughs. ‘Why, Robert, I do believe Tenney is suggesting you could save yourself a fortune by dismissing him and employing a pagger to serve you at table instead.’

  Tenney flushed. ‘I only meant . . .’ He trailed into silence.

  Catlin gave a satisfied nod, as if she were a queen graciously pardoning her fool on condition he did not offend again. ‘With poor Beata gone for good, we certainly don’t want to lose you as well, do we, Leonia?’

  An identical smile crossed the faces of mother and daughter. Tenney’s skin crawled, as if a spider had run down his back. Staring miserably at the floor, he heaved the great saddle packs across his shoulders again and shuffled from the hall.

  Robert gazed after him in dismay. ‘Am I taking all that? I’ve no wish to be in London for more than a day or two, if I can help it. I must return as quickly as I can.’

  ‘If you’re to be received at the Savoy Palace, you must look as though you are a man of substance,’ Catlin said. ‘You can hardly turn up in clothes dusty from the road – and suppose you’re invited to dine, Robert? I’ve packed only what you need, I assure you.’ She bent over him, kissing him passionately on the mouth. A few weeks ago that would have excited him but, for some reason he couldn’t understand, today her touch stirred nothing in him. ‘I’m so proud of you, my dearest, for offering to represent the city. All Lincoln will be in your debt.’

  Not for the first time Robert wondered how he had come to be undertaking this journey. He and Catlin had been dining with Sheriff Thomas and several of his fellow merchants and their wives. Catlin had been seated next to Thomas, who couldn’t keep his eyes off her for, as ever, she was charming to all the men around her.

  The talk had been of the
rebellion and the plans to defend their own businesses, should it spread. John of Gaunt had left only a handful of troops at the castle, mostly untried boys or ageing men who could be spared only because they would be of little use in battle. Someone had proposed going to London to convince Gaunt’s steward he must reinforce the castle, but quite how Robert had been chosen for the expedition, he couldn’t for the life of him recall.

  Sheriff Thomas had been liberal with the wine during the meal, at the city’s expense, and after the food was cleared away Robert had enjoyed several goblets of hippocras. He dimly remembered Thomas thanking him, and Catlin smiling modestly as Thomas kissed her hand, holding it far longer than courtesy demanded. His fellow merchants, looking most relieved, had thumped him heartily on the back. He couldn’t remember offering to go, though he could hardly admit that to anyone.

  The door leading to the stableyard opened and Adam raced through it, stopping dead as he saw the gathering in the hall, which he had evidently expected to be empty at this time.

  ‘Adam? Why aren’t you at school?’ Robert asked sternly. ‘Are you playing truant?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘School’s closed. We’ve all been sent home till they can find another master to teach us. Master Warner . . . he’s got worse.’

  Adam glanced swiftly at Leonia, before dropping his gaze and staring at the legs of the table. Robert recognised fear in the boy’s face and rose swiftly from the chair, to grasp his son’s shoulders. ‘Worse, boy? What do you mean? Has Master Warner been stricken with a contagion?’ He looked at Catlin, his expression as anxious as his son’s. ‘If he’s been teaching the boys when he’s suffering from a fever . . .’

  Catlin came across, put an arm gently around Adam and led him a few paces away from his father. ‘Tell us, Adam, is Master Warner sick? Do you know what ails him?’

  Again the boy cast a frightened glance towards Leonia, but this time Catlin caught the look. She turned swiftly to her daughter. ‘Did you know the schoolmaster was ill? Why didn’t you tell us?’

  A tiny smile of triumph hovered around Leonia’s mouth, so fleeting that Robert thought he must have imagined it. ‘Adam said his teacher had pains in his back. He was limping, you said, didn’t you, Adam? Could hardly sit down, or stand up again. Couldn’t even raise his arms. But I’ll pray for him. We both will, won’t we, Adam?’

  Catlin stared long and hard at her daughter. But Robert smiled, much relieved.

  ‘Then it’s no contagion. I dare say he’s suffering from some inflammation of the spine. I had an uncle who was struck down with that after a fall. A paralysis crept over him, but though he couldn’t move his limbs, he was in agony for the rest of his days. I trust it will not be so for poor Master Warner.’

  Adam had turned very pale and was holding himself rigid, gazing wide-eyed at Leonia. Robert felt a surge of irritation. Why couldn’t his son be more like the girl who was looking up at him with such an adoring smile? ‘Well, Adam. As long as the school’s closed, I expect you to work all day in the warehouse with Fulk. I don’t want you idling your time away.’

  ‘But Fulk is . . .’ Adam hesitated, staring wretchedly down at the floor. ‘What I mean is . . . when are we going to get a new steward, Father? The men say we need one and . . . I think so too.’

  ‘You think we need a new steward?’ Robert shouted. ‘Who are you to decide such matters? You wish to replace your brother, just like that. Did you care nothing for him? I am still grieving for my son and you dare to talk to me of stewards!’

  ‘Hush, Robert,’ Catlin said. ‘The boy’s only repeating what the men are saying. No one can ever replace Jan as your son, but you need a man to lift some of the burden from your shoulders or you’ll wear yourself out.’ She sidled over to him again, running her soft fingers down his cheek. ‘I was hoping that, once the nonsense in the south is brought under control, I would see more of you at home. Remember how things used to be, our pleasant evenings . . .’

  Robert flushed, darting an anxious glance at Adam, but the boy was staring like a mooncalf at Leonia and didn’t appear to have heard.

  ‘I’ll consider the matter when I return.’ He had no intention of doing any such thing, but he knew the easiest way to stop women nagging was to pretend to think about it.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Père.’

  Robert smiled fondly at his stepdaughter, his irritation dissolving at the sight of her pretty smile. ‘And what shall Père bring back from London for you, my dear?’

  ‘Only yourself, safe and well.’ She lifted her face to be kissed.

  Robert chuckled. ‘You, child, are the sweetest little angel on earth.’

  He was still smiling to himself as he strode across the hall towards the stableyard, entirely oblivious of the steel-cold glitter in his wife’s eyes.

  Chapter 42

  The monk, Gregory the Great, tells how a nun, in her greed, ate a lettuce without first making the sign of the cross to protect herself against the evil spirits that hide between its leaves, and so she became possessed by a demon.

  Greetwell

  Have you noticed how often the living claim an evil spirit made them do it? A demon possessed them, the devil tricked them. As if demons didn’t have something far more important to do than make a child smash an old woman’s pots or force a man to fornicate against his will. If I were a demon, I’d think myself ill-used to be sent on such a piddling assignment when I could have been stirring up wars or tormenting popes.

  But, then again, the actions of the most insignificant men or women can be as a single raindrop that rolls a pebble that dislodges a clod that tumbles a rock and, before you know it, the whole mountainside has crashed down, sweeping palaces and pigsties, princes and paupers into the sea. So maybe there are demons at work, even in the smallest mischief.

  The punt glided towards Gunter’s cottage in the late-evening sunshine. Hankin shaded his eyes, peering towards the clearing in the willow scrub. ‘Why’s Mam doing that now?’

  Gunter was wondering the same thing. Nonie was kneeling at the washtub scrubbing some linen. Little Col was pulling on her arm, sobbing, his face scarlet and stained with tears, as if he’d been crying, uncomforted, for a long time.

  There was nothing unusual in seeing Nonie wash clothes. She’d always prided herself on keeping the cottage as clean and neat as any woman could. But it was evening. Nonie never washed clothes in the evening. They wouldn’t dry before dark and she wouldn’t leave them out overnight with the risk of them being stolen or mauled by an animal. At this hour she was usually to be found inside the cottage, stirring the cooking pot or trimming the candle in the lantern, ready to set it outside to guide her husband home.

  Unease gripped Gunter. He edged the punt into the gap in the bank and hastily tied off the prow rope. Hankin had already leaped ashore and was glancing anxiously at the cottage as he fumbled with the stern rope. Gunter could see he was about to race off. He pulled him back.

  ‘I’ll see to your mam. You make the punt fast and cover it.’

  Gunter limped towards the cottage and swept the bawling Col into his arms. The little boy clasped his hands around his father’s neck and pressed his tear-smeared face into Gunter’s shoulder. Nonie’s face was dripping with sweat and flushed with exertion. She was breathing in shallow, rasping gasps.

  ‘Nonie,’ Gunter said. ‘Nonie, are you sick?’

  But she didn’t rest or even look up. She just kept rubbing the clothes in the tub, rocking backwards and forwards on her knees, as if Gunter was no more solid than the wind at her back.

  ‘Nonie? What is it? What’s amiss?’ Then a sudden fear gripped him. ‘Has something happened to Royse? Where is she?’

  He looked at his little son in his arms. The child’s sobs had given way to hiccups.

  ‘Col, where’s Royse? Where’s your sister?’

  The boy pointed towards the open door of the cottage.

  Hankin came running up and Gunter thrust the child at him. ‘Stay here and take care
of your brother.’

  His heart thudding, Gunter lumbered towards the door and froze on the threshold. For a moment, he thought he must have stumbled into the wrong cottage. The table and stools that normally sat in the centre of the tiny room were gone. The shelves where Nonie kept an assortment of wooden trenchers, beakers, jars and boxes were bare too. All that remained were the straw pallets and blankets on the two plank beds that ran along each side of the room, with a single cooking pot.

  Royse sat on the floor with her back to the rough wall, staring blankly ahead. She gave no sign that she was aware her father had come in.

  ‘God’s bones, what’s happened here?’

  She didn’t move or look at him.

  He bent down and grabbed her shoulder. ‘Answer me, lass. Who did this?’

  Royse scrambled to her feet, tears glinting in her eyes. ‘I did it! It’s all my fault. That’s what Mam thinks, and Hankin and you. The goats are gone, Mam’s goats. You should have let them talk to me. You shouldn’t have sent me away. You all blame me!’

  Gunter put out a hand to try to calm her. ‘Royse? What—’

  But she pushed him away and darted outside. Gunter blundered after her, but she was racing along the riverbank as if she was trying to outrun her own shadow.

  Gunter caught Nonie by the arms, forcing her to stop washing, and dragged her to her feet. ‘Did someone attack the cottage? Have we been robbed? What’s happened?’ He shook her. ‘Nonie, for God’s sake, tell me!’

  She pulled stiffly out of his grasp and gazed across in the direction of Lincoln, its sumptuous cathedral and castle towering high above them on the hill. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was as flat as the fens.

  ‘King’s men came for the poll money we owed. Said people in Essex had refused to pay so they’d been told to collect ours before we had a chance to do the same. King needs the money, they said.’