The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  Gunter had been lucky at first. A river-man who knew the boy had spotted him and had remembered in which direction he was heading. Carters had given Gunter lifts in exchange for him helping to load or unload their wagons. But between rides, he was forced to walk and, with his wooden leg, he couldn’t match the lad’s pace. Having to stop and ask in the villages if anyone remembered seeing the boy had slowed him still further.

  Then he’d heard rumours that the rebels were marching on London. He could see for himself they were true for the villages were empty of men and of the fitter women too. Anyone who was able to walk, he was told, was on their way to see the King.

  Gunter was as certain as any father could be of where his son was bound. What lad wouldn’t have wanted to join that army? So he’d walked through the night, snatching an hour or two of sleep whenever he could stumble no further, then forcing himself awake to carry on.

  He’d finally reached the gates of London early that morning. They lay open, unguarded. The stench of burning hung like a conqueror’s flag over the city, while red kites and ravens shambled through the streets, picking over its bones.

  All day he’d wandered through its alleyways, passing the smoking ruins of great buildings, peering in through the splintered doors of houses and smashed shutters of shops, stumbling over piles of broken furniture, pots, books and ledgers thrown into the streets. He’d only ever seen such devastation once before and that was when the Witham had flooded, bringing the Great Drowning to Lincoln.

  Gunter had set off with no plan other than to find his son. It wasn’t the first time that the lad had wandered off. He’d often gone missing at the Lincoln fair or in the streets of Boston, but sooner or later Gunter had always spotted him, even in a dense crowd. Several times that morning Gunter had hurried after what looked like a familiar head in the distance only to find that the boy did not in the least resemble his son. He’d begun to fear that he couldn’t remember what his son looked like, or even how tall he was. As he stared at the vast river and the hordes swarming around it, he realised, with a chill, that a boy in this great city might simply vanish for ever, never to be found.

  In desperation he barred the way of a woman hurrying towards him, dragging a little girl by the hand. ‘Have you seen my son?’

  She pulled the child to her, covering the girl’s head with her arms.

  ‘For King Richard! King – King Richard and the True Commons!’ the woman gabbled.

  Gunter was shocked by the fear in her face. He reached out a hand, meaning to calm her, but she backed away, dragging the child with her.

  Both Gunter and the woman glanced round as they heard a great roar.

  ‘Away with all learning! King Richard! King Richard!’

  A great stream of men and women was marching towards them, heading in the direction of the bridge. They were filthy, their faces blackened with soot, their clothes and hands smeared with grime and dried blood. But from the way they swaggered and pranced, Gunter knew it was not their own.

  The woman with the little girl stared upwards and moaned in despair. Gunter, following her gaze, saw what the marchers were carrying high on the pikes above their heads. Nine severed heads had been impaled on spikes, the eyes fixed wide open in a look of agony and horror. The splintered white bones of their necks poked out from the gore and drops of scarlet blood sprayed the heads of those below.

  The people who had been jeering at the fleeing boats rushed up towards the procession, blocking their way. The man leading it threw up a hand, calling a halt.

  ‘We bring the heads of the traitors to stand on the southern gate of the bridge where all traitors go.’

  Two of the men who carried the pikes turned them so that the heads faced each other. The neck of one was so mangled it looked as if it had taken half a dozen blows with a blunt axe to sever it from the body. It had an archbishop’s mitre secured to the top of the skull with a long iron nail.

  The pike-bearers jiggled the heads up and down and spoke in high-pitched voices, making it appear that the two heads were talking to each other, like puppets at a fair.

  ‘Hales, my faithful treasurer, what think you of this poll tax?’ the head with the mitre appeared to say.

  ‘It’s a very fair tax indeed, Archbishop Sudbury,’ the other replied. ‘Let the poor pay to keep the rich. What could be fairer than that?’

  The pike-bearer who carried the head of the Archbishop of Canterbury spun it around so that drops of blood from the neck fell on the crowd, like holy water sprinkled with hyssop. ‘Bless you, bless you, my children.’

  ‘Are we to lie together, Hales?’ the archbishop’s head asked.

  ‘Don’t we always, Sudbury?’

  The voice of the pike-bearer shrieked in imitation of an outraged maiden. ‘I will not lie with a man who has not kissed me first.’

  The crowd howled with laughter as the open mouths of the two heads were pushed together. Finally, the procession moved off again towards the bridge, with the gleeful crowd bringing up the rear.

  Gunter felt so sick he would have vomited but his stomach was empty.

  The woman, still clutching the little girl, stared after them. A single spot of blood glistened like a ruby in the child’s hair.

  ‘If God can’t protect the archbishop,’ she murmured, ‘then what’s the use of prayers, or lighting candles? What’s the use of any of it? If the whole world is mad, why should I stay sane?’

  Chapter 49

  Newgate is haunted by a black dog, which rears up as tall as a man. Snakes writhe from its head, and its body is open, exposing its beating heart.

  London

  ‘If you’ll take my advice, Robert, you’ll return home to Lincoln today. At least get on the road out of London before dark. Wait! Secure that chest properly before you put the next one on. If it shifts it’ll bring the whole lot off the wagon.’

  The merchant left Robert’s side and hurried across his courtyard to where two manservants were loading his valuables onto a long wagon. Robert trailed after him.

  ‘But I must get word to John of Gaunt. If the rebellion should spread to Lincoln there aren’t enough of his men to defend his castle, never mind protect the city.’

  The merchant worked his way round the wagon, testing straps and pulling at knots, ignoring the mutinous glares of his servants, who had just fastened them.

  ‘Your faith in Gaunt is touching, Robert. But with the Savoy burned to the ground and Scotland threatening to attack, he won’t send so much as a one-legged man to defend Lincoln. He’s got far more to lose at his other properties round England.’

  ‘But what if they should break into Lincoln Castle and seize the weapons stored there, never mind let loose the thieves and murderers as they did at the Fleet prison?’

  The merchant glared at him impatiently. ‘All the more reason for you to get back to Lincoln and employ what men you can find to defend your own property. If you’re looking for help from the King, forget it. Half of his advisers have been butchered and if the mob get their hands on Gaunt, his head will decorate London Bridge with the rest.’

  Robert found himself pushed unceremoniously aside by a stout maidservant, waddling beneath the weight of a travelling chest, which she pushed into the back of a smaller cart.

  ‘Mistress’ll be ready to leave within the hour,’ she said gruffly, and disappeared back into the house.

  Robert knew he was delaying them. Every minute counted. Who knew where the rabble would turn their attention next? He’d been grateful when a fellow merchant had offered his hospitality, though Robert knew he was thinking that an extra man could help defend the house if the rebels should attack. So far they had been left in peace. But having destroyed the houses and offices of lawyers, their clerks, the bishops and any nobility they could find, the rebels were fast running out of targets. A neighbour had come to warn them only that morning that a band of men and women had demanded money not to set fire to his house.

  Robert was as frightened as the ot
her merchant, but Catlin’s words pounded in his head. She had told Leonia that the safety of the family, indeed the whole of Lincoln, depended on him. He couldn’t return and say he’d made no attempt to summon help. No one who hadn’t witnessed the destruction would believe the half of what he had seen. They wouldn’t begin to understand the chaos here, and if he told them of the death of such powerful men at the hands of the blood-crazed mob, it would only increase their fear for their own city.

  The merchant laid a hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘Robert, I wish you’d reconsider. Come with us, just till we’re clear of the city, then you can ride north.’

  ‘Not till I’ve sent a message to Gaunt. I swore on my honour I’d do so.’

  The merchant sighed, wiping his sweating brow on the back of his sleeve.

  ‘There’s a Flemish merchant by the name of Jacob der Weyden who lives close by the church of St Martin Vintry, the place we passed through on the way to the wine wharf last time you came to London. John of Gaunt sold this Fleming and some of his countrymen papers of exemption so they could trade without having to pay export duty.’

  He held up his hands in sympathy at the outrage on Robert’s face. ‘I know! I know! And you wonder why they burned Gaunt’s palace down. I tell you, it won’t be Tyler and the Kentish men that Gaunt will need to fear if he ever shows his face here again. If the English merchants of London ever get their hands on him, they’ll tie him to a spit and roast him alive, like the hog he is. But the point is, the Flemish merchants and Gaunt feed off one another. If anyone can get word to Gaunt and bend his sight towards Lincoln, they can. Mind you, those swine won’t do any man a favour unless he can pay for it.’

  ‘I will pay whatever they demand.’ Robert patted his chest where he’d strapped the silver ingots under his clothes.

  The merchant nodded grimly, then plucked at Robert’s robe. ‘And for goodness’ sake, man, see if you can’t find something plainer to wear if you’re going to wander the streets. You stand out like a peacock among sparrows. What possessed you to pack your most sumptuous clothes to wear at a time like this?’

  Robert grimaced. ‘My new wife . . .’

  The merchant rolled his eyes sympathetically. ‘Wives! They’ll be the death of us.’

  The two men embraced as they said goodbye, each wishing the other the protection of the Holy Virgin and all the saints. The merchant promised to take Robert’s horse and pack with him and leave them at an inn beyond the city gate, to be waiting for him when he left London. It was safer to walk the streets than ride: any man who looked wealthy enough to be mounted on a fine mare like Robert’s might easily find himself a target.

  Robert grasped the hilt of his sword tightly beneath his half-cloak. His friend was right, his clothes were too fine, but they were the plainest Catlin had packed. He took a deep breath and ventured out into the street beyond the courtyard. He was used to striding the streets of his own city boldly, meeting the eye of everyone he passed and nodding at those of rank, but for the first time in his life he felt like someone with no more standing than a villein. Men and women were roaming the streets, like marauding tribes of hunters, clutching cudgels, bows, even old swords. He watched them seize men, hurling them up against the walls of the houses and demanding they should join the rebels. He found himself scuttling between piles of half-burned debris, diving down alleys and keeping his eyes lowered so as not to attract the attention of anyone by meeting their gaze.

  Dazed women crouched in the open doors of their burned-out houses. Dogs growled, defending shops that lay empty, their counters smashed. He felt himself walking through something sticky and saw he was stepping through pools of drying blood.

  It took him a while to reach the Vintry: he had tried to avoid the main streets where most of the gangs prowled. Behind the warehouses on the wine wharf, keep the bridge on your left, his friend had told him. Robert vaguely remembered the wine wharf: he’d been there a couple of times before, but couldn’t see any landmarks he recognised and was beginning to fear he had blundered into entirely the wrong part of the city.

  Then, as he emerged from between two buildings, he saw St Martin’s Church. The white marble pillars and pavement glittered in the afternoon sun. There was no mistaking the opulent houses that surrounded it. They brazenly proclaimed the wealth of their foreign owners in the gold gilding on the plaster carvings over the doors.

  The houses in that area had been built years ago by the wine merchants who traded from the wine wharf, as the six-pointed stars set over the windows proclaimed, for that was their emblem. Now they were occupied by the Flemish cloth merchants. Robert knew that behind the tightly fastened shutters hung the finest and costliest glass windows in England, imported all the way from France.

  He was about to step out of the alleyway when he heard a roar as if a great wave was rolling towards him. Sick with fear, he glanced in the direction of the sound. A huge crowd was swarming up the street. Those on the edge of the human tide paused to hurl stones and any other missiles they could find at the houses as they passed, but most could not have stopped had they wanted to, for fear of being trampled by those pressing from behind.

  Robert flattened himself into a doorway, afraid to move in case they saw him. He prayed they would charge past him. But as they reached the church, they split into two groups, running round each side to surround it. They tore up stones and cobbles, hurling them at the windows and the stout doors. Robert cringed as he heard glass smashing and shrieks from inside. The mob was pounding on the doors with swords and axes. The thick wood splintered, but still it held.

  Then, from the back of the crowd, six men staggered up, carrying between them a great tar-covered beam, which they had evidently taken from one of the wharfs. The crowd parted as they positioned themselves in front of the door and ran at it with the beam. The doors buckled inwards a little under the blow, but they did not yield. Other willing hands squeezed themselves between those already holding the beam to lend their strength. They retreated, then ran again at the doors. It took three or four attempts before, with a great splintering crash, they burst open. The men wielding the battering ram were almost trampled underfoot as the crowd surged in.

  Screams and shouts came from inside and the rebels re-emerged, dragging the Flemish merchants out by their hair or heels. Those rebels still outside pounced on the prisoners and hauled them away from the church, holding them with their arms pinioned. Other Flemish men were herded out behind them, swords and spears pressing into their backs.

  Three of the rebels rolled the battering ram into the centre of the crowd, yelling at them to stand back and clear a space around it. One of the Flemish merchants was selected, seemingly at random, pulled forward and thrown face down onto the ground.

  A man grabbed his hair, dragging his head over the beam, so that his neck rested on the wood. Then another stepped forward with an axe. Screams of fear rose from the huddled merchants as they realised what was about to happen. The man on the ground began pleading and kicking, trying desperately to escape. Two laughing women flopped down on his thrashing legs to hold him still.

  Robert turned his face away, but that did not prevent him hearing the piercing shrieks as the axe sliced into the man’s neck. It took another blow to silence him, two more until, with a crunch of bone, the head was severed. Robert glanced back to see it being brandished aloft, blood pouring from the neck, the crowd cheering their approval.

  As if the sight of the head was the signal, the rebels holding the terrified Flemish merchants began dragging them forward and forcing them to their knees. Some were thrown over the wooden beam, others simply had their heads hacked from their shoulders where they knelt, with swords, axes or knives.

  Those who tried to fight or run were stabbed or hamstrung, until they fell to the ground, unable to defend themselves. Their heads were sawn off without resistance. None of the rebels was a trained executioner. Those who died or were at least rendered insensible by the first blow were the fortunate ones.
How many bodies were tossed onto the pile? How many heads were kicked around that crowd – twenty, thirty? Robert lost count. Splashes of blood ran down the white marble columns of the church and spread around the feet of the crowd, a pool of ever-widening scarlet that seemed to seep into every corner of that street.

  In the meantime, others were breaking down the doors of the nearest houses, dragging out boys scarcely older than Adam and men so old they couldn’t walk without a stick. All were hauled into the space in front of the church. They shrieked in fear as they saw the pile of headless corpses.

  ‘Not Flemish,’ one old man wailed. ‘Not Flemish. Servant, servant!’

  ‘Say bread and cheese,’ his captors demanded.

  The old man stared at them bewildered.

  ‘Say it, say bread and cheese,’ they insisted, yanking his beard.

  ‘B-brote und—’

  The rabble laughed, and forced him to his knees.

  Then a cry of crazed delight rang out as a huge blond man dressed in a long damask robe was dragged up the street towards the church.

  ‘It’s him. It’s the merchant Richard Lyons! They’ve got the bastard!’

  Robert stared in horror. He knew him only by sight, but he was one of the richest merchants in London. He’d once been a favourite at Court. Surely they wouldn’t dare to harm him. But they did. Richard was a burly man and fought his captors hard, but there is only so long that an unarmed man may hold out against so many. When he finally fell to his knees in the lake of blood, his fine damask robe was already slashed in half a dozen places. Men jostled for the privilege of delivering the coup de grâce, as huntsmen vied for the honour of bringing down the stag.

  Robert didn’t wait to see the rusty axe blade fall; he turned and staggered back up the alley, trying desperately to fight down the nausea that was threatening to choke him. He stumbled on, scarcely knowing where he was going except that he had to go north, away from the river, north to a gate, any gate. He was vaguely aware that he must be in the cordwainers’ district. He gazed around, trying to get his bearings. North . . . north . . . It had to be that way. If he could reach the wall he could follow it round.