The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  ‘There’s another one,’ a woman shrieked. ‘I seen him! He came from the Vintry.’

  Dazed, Robert turned his head. An old woman, her skirts soaked with crimson, was leaping up and down in a strange jig, waving and gesturing. He blinked at her and turned to hurry on. Then he felt himself grabbed from behind.

  ‘That’s him. Saw him there myself. He’s another of those Flemings, trying to escape the justice of the True Commons he is.’

  They spun him round and Robert found himself surrounded by half a dozen men and women, all armed. His hand reached for his sword hilt, but he’d seldom in his life ever had cause to draw a weapon in defence and the movement was clumsy. His arms were pinned behind his back before he had touched the hilt.

  ‘Shall we take him back to Vintry?’

  ‘Take him to Cheapside. They’ve a block set up there.’

  ‘Wait!’ Robert protested. ‘I swear I am no Flemish merchant.’

  Filthy blood-stained hands stroked the fur trim on his tunic. ‘Ah, another servant, is it?’ a man said, grinning. ‘Don’t know many servants who dress in fur, do you, Peter?’

  ‘’Gainst the law for a servant to wear fur. Their masters wouldn’t want them dressing like them, would they?’

  ‘I am a merchant. I don’t deny it,’ Robert said desperately. ‘But I’m English just like you . . . from Lincoln, in the north. I swear to you by the Blessed Virgin. I hate the foreign merchants as much as you do.’

  ‘That’s so, is it? What were you doing with them in the Vintry? Some deal was it, to put good honest Englishmen out of work?’

  Robert tried to think of an explanation. Telling them he was trying to send word to John of Gaunt would see him run through on the spot.

  ‘I was lost. I don’t know this city.’ Even to Robert that sounded feeble.

  The man gave a mocking bow. ‘Lost, is it, Master? Well, there’s a shame. Let’s show this fine gentleman the way, shall we? All the way to the block.’

  Hands clutched at Robert, pushing him forward. He fought them with every inch of his strength, knowing he was fighting for his life. He managed to wrest one arm free and used it to smash back hard against one of those standing behind him. Robert cried out as something struck him savagely across his back and felled him to the ground. White flashes of light burst in his eyeballs and he fought back the pain. A boot thudded into his ribs.

  ‘Cut his head off here. Not worth the effort to carry him to Cheapside. We could have half a dozen or more of the bastards’ heads off in the time it’ll take to drag him there.’

  Terror and pride made Robert struggle to rise in spite of the throbbing pain in his back. He was not going to make it easy for them. He was not going to lie with his face in the mud while they hacked at his neck.

  But feet pressed him down again. Someone grabbed his hair, stretching his neck.

  ‘I’m Robert – Robert of Bassingham from Lincoln. I’ve done no . . .’

  He felt the whistle of a blade above his head, and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest.

  ‘Stop! Stop! I know this man. He’s English.’

  The hand pulling his hair relaxed a little.

  ‘So he says. But he’s still in league with the foreign merchants. He was seen in the Flemish quarter.’

  ‘His eldest son was murdered by the Florentine merchants in Lincoln for speaking out against them. If he was in the Flemish quarter it was to kill foreigners, not trade with them.’

  There was a moment’s pause, then a gale of laughter. The feet pinning Robert down released him. He was bruised and gasping for breath, and it took several attempts for the rebels to haul him to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him. He wiped the mud from his face and closed his eyes, swaying, as the ground tipped under him.

  ‘You’re sure you recognise this man?’

  ‘Known him since I were a bairn.’

  The voice was vaguely familiar, but Robert couldn’t name its owner. His eyes were watering from the grit. He blinked several times and tried to focus. The blurred face he saw he seemed to know, but he couldn’t grasp why.

  Hands were brushing him down and patting him on the back. ‘Be off with you. Go that way, if you don’t want to run into more trouble. Go west to Ludgate. Wouldn’t do to be seen in Cheapside with that costly tunic.’

  ‘And if anyone challenges you, say, “With King Richard and the True Commons”. Then they’ll let you pass.’

  The rebels hurried off in the opposite direction. Robert staggered to a wall and leaned against it, no longer sure his legs would hold him up. He had a throbbing pain in his back and his ribs hurt like the devil each time he tried to suck in a breath, but the pain was almost a blessing. At least it meant he was alive. God’s blood, if that man hadn’t come along and spoken up for him . . . He shivered. He raised his head, searching for his rescuer, but the street was deserted.

  Chapter 50

  As a heretic was lifted onto the pile of wood on which she was to be burned, she blew in the face of the executioner and said, ‘Here is payment for your work.’ A hot wind passed over him. His face swelled and sores broke out upon his hands. The heretic was burned to ashes, but within days leprosy had infested the body of her executioner and he was dead.

  London

  Gunter sat with his head in his hands staring out over the vast river. It was drawing towards evening. The heat still hung heavy in the narrow streets, but at least over the Thames a breeze had sprung up, blowing the pall of smoke and the stench of blood back into the city, as if proclaiming the river wanted no part of it.

  For two days, Gunter had hunted through every street and alley he could find, but he knew that even as he searched one street, his son could easily be walking away from him down another and he’d never know it. He’d been mad even to imagine he had a hope of finding one boy among so many.

  What if his son was dead? He saw again Master Robert pinned down in the street, the rusty blade raised high above his head. The shock of hearing him shout the familiar name had made Gunter act without thinking. But he’d seen other men, just like Robert, pleading for their lives and he had done nothing, said nothing. He’d been too afraid that the mob would turn on him. Suppose men had walked past Hankin when the crowd had him pinned to the ground, and suppose they, like him, had been too afraid to save the boy.

  He shook himself impatiently. He didn’t even know for certain Hankin was here. The boy might never have come to London with the rebels. Maybe he’d turned for home somewhere along the road and was back safe in the cottage in Greetwell. Perhaps Hankin had never had any intention of joining the rebellion. He might have run away from home to seek his fortune at sea. He’d always been fascinated by the huge ships that docked at Boston.

  And all the time Gunter was in London, Nonie, Royse and little Col were at home, unprotected, with him not earning a single penny to feed them. He had to return to Greetwell. He could do nothing more here.

  As Gunter scrambled to his feet, he slowly became aware that the streets had grown eerily silent. They’d been filled with shouts and screams, the splintering of furniture, smashing glass and crashing masonry. But now the loudest noise was the screeching of gulls overhead. A sense of foreboding made his blood turn cold. He hurried along the bank.

  A beggar on crutches limped towards him. Something bulged under his ragged tunic. He stopped as soon as he caught sight of Gunter, bending over to try to disguise what he was carrying.

  ‘With whom holds you?’ he whined. ‘With King Richard and the True Commons,’ he answered himself, before Gunter had a chance to say a word.

  Gunter continued walking towards him.

  ‘With King Richard and the True Commons,’ the beggar repeated, as if it was a charm to ward off evil. He cringed away, fearing attack.

  Gunter held up his hands to show he carried no weapons. ‘Where is everyone? What’s happening, do you know?’

  The man cocked his head on one side and peered suspiciously at him, as if the question was a test
to which no one had told him the answer.

  Gunter tried again. ‘Have the rebels gone?’

  ‘Gone. Gone to Smithfield.’ The beggar jerked his head to the north. ‘Gone to meet the King. He’s going to give them everything they want. Going to make Wat Tyler chancellor of England, so they say, and give him a great palace. Going to make John Ball archbishop of all England, they say that ’n’ all. But if you was to ask me . . .’ he gave a leery wink ‘. . . I’d say it’s a trick to get them out of the city. You’d not catch me going there. King said he’d meet them last time, but he didn’t even land. It’s a trap, that’s what it is, and they’re the little mice all scurrying into it.’ The beggar chuckled, and was still laughing as he limped away.

  Gunter hesitated, trying to think. If all of the rebels had gone to this field then if Hankin was with them that was where he’d go too. Were the rebels really being led into an ambush? He had to find his son and get him out before it was too late. Yet if Hankin was not even in London, he himself would be walking into that trap. But he couldn’t abandon his son, not if there was any chance of finding him, any chance at all.

  The beggar had pointed directly away from the river. The field must lie in that direction, though he hadn’t said how far. Gunter gazed around. His path along the bank was blocked by the rubble of a great building, from which smoke still trickled in several places. One of the walls, which had evidently stood on the water’s edge, had fallen into the river, and the roof had tumbled inwards, bringing down several storeys on top of one another.

  Gunter clambered up on a heap of fallen masonry, which seemed to be the remains of a tower, hoping that if he got high enough he might glimpse the field the beggar had talked about. But he could see only buildings, some still standing, some in ruins or burned out. In front of the mound of rubble on which he stood there was what must once have been a garden, though now it was filled with all manner of rubbish. Beyond that a gate lay open to the street on the other side. If he cut through the garden to that gate, it would be far quicker than trying to find a way round.

  He scrambled, slipping and sliding, over the fallen masonry. Here and there wisps of smoke rose from fires still burning deep below. Some stones still glittered with fragments of gold leaf or scarlet paint. Caught between them were pieces of cloth, bits of wood, a glimmer of silver. It was like a river in flood, where you saw things bobbing in the water that vanished before you had time to recognise them, except that this water had been turned to stone. It took him some time to cross the petrified river. He was afraid to move too quickly in case the stones shifted and snapped his wooden leg, or broke his good one.

  Eventually he clambered down the other side and began to pick his way through the ravaged garden. Several pigs had found their way in and were rootling through the dirt, and a dog was cocking his leg against a great heap of charred barrels and smashed chairs.

  A movement near the high wall caught his attention. A woman was crouching, helping a man to drink from a beaker. The man caught sight of Gunter and must have said something to the woman for she turned and called to him. ‘Have you bread? For pity’s sake! Can you spare anything?’

  Gunter hesitated. He had a little cheese in his scrip. It was all he had left, and even that he’d been driven to snatch from a looted shop. He wanted to keep it, for God alone knew when he’d next find something to eat, but guilt pricked him. The cheese was stolen. He had no right to it. He limped towards her, trying not to trip over the smashed furniture and broken pots. As he came closer, he saw that half a dozen people were lying in the shelter of the wall, bloodied and mangled. He couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead. He lowered his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see any more corpses. He pulled the cheese from his bag and handed it to the woman.

  ‘Bless you, Master, bless you.’

  ‘Is he your kin?’

  She nodded. ‘I can’t move him and I’ll not leave him.’

  ‘The rebels hurt him?’

  She snorted. ‘He was with the rebels, doing his duty, tearing down this cursed palace. But some cod-wit threw kegs on the fire. Thought they were full of silver but they weren’t. Full of gunpowder. Brought half the building down on their heads. My man, he was near the blaze and a piece of metal shot out of the fire and went straight through his thigh. Did for these others too. Can’t do nothing for ’em, save give ’em water. No bugger’ll help me.’

  She savagely dashed away the tears that had sprung into her bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Mind you, I reckon it’s worse for them.’ She pointed to the ruins. ‘There’s men trapped somewhere under that lot. I can hear ’em yelling sometimes. I tried to get some men in the street to help them, but they were too drunk to listen.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose they could have done much anyway. It’d take an army to dig them out from under that.’

  ‘The rebels have all gone to Smithfield,’ Gunter said. ‘I’m bound there myself. I’ll send men back to help. They’ll want to rescue their own.’

  The woman gave him a scathing look. ‘No bugger’ll help,’ she repeated.

  Gunter was walking away when he heard the cry. The voice was so cracked and broken that only he could have recognised it.

  ‘Faayther! Faayther . . .’

  He whipped round. At the far end of the line of bodies, a little figure was struggling desperately to lift his head.

  Chapter 51

  To make a girl dance naked you must write on virgin parchment the name ‘Fruitimiere’ with the blood of a bat. Cut the parchment on an altar stone over which mass has been said, then place it under a doorstep over which the girl will pass. When she steps over it she will be forced to come to you, strip naked and dance without ceasing, even to her death, unless you remove the parchment.

  Mistress Catlin

  Ever since I’d started climbing the steep hill to the top of the city I’d had an uneasy feeling someone was following me. But dozens of men, women and children were travelling the same route as I was, goodwives, beggars, pedlars and goose-girls from the city all mingling with the steady stream of pilgrims who were plodding up to visit the shrines in the cathedral. Why should I imagine any were interested in me? I drew to the side, glancing behind me several times, but I could see no one I recognised.

  When I reached the top of the hill, I turned away from the cathedral and went through the castle gate, across its bustling green and towards the far gate that led out of the city to the west. It was late in the afternoon and few traders came in to Lincoln by that route – most made their way into the city via the north or south gates – but I couldn’t help glancing behind me once more.

  The watchmen barely looked up as I passed, too engrossed in a game of dice and too hot or lazy to stir themselves. I hastened through the small copse on the other side of the road towards the high meadow. The ground was baked hard, showing brown between the short, wiry strands of grass, like the pate of balding man.

  Across the far side of the meadow, a small grove of elms surrounded a spring that bubbled out from between the rocks forming a small pool, before it trickled away into a stony brook and vanished into the earth. A fairy spring, some called it, while others knew it as St Margaret’s well. When the trees were no bigger than saplings someone must have placed iron horseshoes around them and now, centuries later, they had grown through and around them so that horseshoes stuck out from the trunks like tiny steps.

  On Midsummer’s Day, girls came here at dawn to discover whom they would marry. Others bathed here when they were with child, or carried flasks of the water back to the homes of women giving birth so that they might be safely delivered of their infants, for the water was said to be holy. Mostly the place was deserted: there was no shortage of wells and springs within the city walls from which goodwives could draw water closer to their homes.

  At first I thought the grove was empty and felt the hollow ache of disappointment. But as I drew closer, I smiled. He was waiting for me, lying stretched out on the ground, dozing in the sun. He’d set
a flagon of wine to cool in the trickling water. I stood and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest with the same shiver of delight I’d felt the first time I had laid eyes on him.

  We had abandoned the tower in the lower part of the city for our trysts. The stench of Butwerk middens and the festering river mud below was enough to quell even my desire. This spot was far sweeter, but it was too exposed and I feared someone might stumble upon us.

  My beloved’s eyes were still closed beneath the dappled gold and apple-green light, but he whisked his elegant hand across his face, driving a gnat from his cheek. I pulled off my shoes and hose, luxuriating in the feel of sun-warmed earth beneath my feet. The grass by the stream grew cool and soft. I tiptoed through it and, taking care that my shadow didn’t fall upon him, I knelt behind him and pressed my mouth to his, feeling at once the hungry grasping of his lips. But still he didn’t open his eyes.

  Without warning, his hands shot up to my shoulders and he jerked me forward so sharply that I rolled over on top of him. Fiercely kissing my face, he pulled down the front of my gown so that he could nuzzle my breasts. I resisted, pulling away from him.

  ‘Who were you dreaming of?’ I demanded. ‘Who did you think was kissing you?’

  ‘A pretty little milkmaid. Jealous?’ He laughed, as I punched his shoulder.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ I told him.

  Turning away from me, he lifted the flagon of wine from the pool and poured it into the two goblets he drew from his leather scrip. He dipped twin red cherries into the wine and touched them to my lips. I licked the drops from them and pulled them into my mouth, gnawing the sweet, juicy flesh.