Martin’s expression suddenly changed. ‘You said it was a woman, one of your tenants. It was that stupid mare Nonie, wasn’t it? She’s always hated me, and her Gunter’s had it in for me ever since my lad here threw his boy into the Braytheforde for attacking me without cause. His boy’s got a vicious temper, just like his faayther. If it hadn’t been for my lad, Gunter’s brat would have knocked me off the jetty and I’d have cracked m’ head open on the punt. Gunter, and that woman of his, would accuse me of anything to get back at us. He’s always been jealous of me and my lad ’cause we get more work than him. But I could tell you something about him, something that’s far more valuable than a few bales o’ wool.’
‘What is it you have to say?’ Robert demanded.
Martin glanced below at the bailiff’s men who were sprawled on bales and kegs, swigging from their leather beakers and laughing at some tale of the watchman’s.
‘What I have to tell, I could get a deal of money for. There’s men going round the inns offering a month’s wages and more for the kind of information I have.’
‘Have you got the effrontery to ask me for money when you stand accused of theft?’ Robert thundered. ‘I’ve a good mind to have you thrown into the castle prison this very hour.’
The men below stared up at the sound of the raised voice and one sprang to his feet in readiness.
Martin glanced nervously down at them. He held up his hands as if he was appalled by the very idea of being paid. ‘Master Robert, I was only saying just so you’d know what I’d got to tell you is important. Word is that you’re a commissioner for the King and it’s my duty to tell you what I know.’
In spite of the heat of the day, the sweat on Robert’s body turned to ice. How the devil had he found that out? If a common boatman knew, the word must have spread all over the city. But the swearing-in had been carried out in secret and Thomas had assured him that he alone kept the list of names in his records to which no one, but his own clerk, had access. Whoever had spread his name abroad might as well have painted a cross on his back. Was that a smile he glimpsed on Edward’s lips?
‘Master Robert?’
He turned irritably. Martin was waiting for a response. ‘Out with it, man. What is this important information?’
‘I’d tell you in an instant, Master Robert, if I wasn’t afeared to speak. If word got back to him that it were me told you, it doesn’t bear thinking what he might do . . .’ Martin stared pointedly at the bailiff’s men waiting below.
Robert sighed. He’d half a mind to have the man arrested at once, but he turned and shouted down, ‘You can go. We won’t be needing you any more today. Thank you for your pains. Has my steward paid you?’
They nodded.
‘Then leave us. You too, watchman. Take your ale outside and guard the door. I’ll tell you when we’re done here.’
They waited in silence as the watchman opened the door and the men trailed out, though not before refilling their leather beakers from the cask of ale.
Robert mopped his dripping face. The heat was more intense up here in the eaves of the warehouse than it was on the ground. A couple of flies buzzing round their heads alighted on the beads of sweat that ran down Martin’s naked chest.
‘I had some cider sent down from the house, Father,’ Edward said. ‘Will you take some?’
He lifted a dripping flagon from a large clay jar full of water where it had been left to keep cool. Two beakers stood ready on a nearby shelf and he poured some into each, taking a mouthful from one and handing the other to Robert, who gulped it gratefully.
Martin and his son licked their dried lips, watching them with covetous eyes.
‘Speak,’ Robert said, setting the beaker down, ‘and I warn you, this information of yours had better be good. I can always send the watchman to fetch the bailiff’s men again.’
Martin dragged his gaze from the beaker of cider Edward was still grasping. ‘When the riots was on in London, the boatman, Gunter, wasn’t in Lincoln, nor that brat of his. No one saw them on the wharf or along the river.’
Robert felt as if a door had been flung open in his head. Gunter! Yes! He was the man who’d spoken up for him on the London street. He’d tried so hard to block out the events of that terrible day that, until this moment, his mind had refused to put a name to the face he saw nightly in his dreams.
He understood where this was leading and was desperate not to hear it, but he knew he must. If it came out later that a king’s commissioner had refused to listen to information about the rebels, his reputation would be in ruins or, worse, he might be accused of colluding with them.
He took another swig of cider to give himself time to think. ‘This Gunter and his son were probably working further down the river or among the ships at Boston.’
‘That’s the thing, though,’ Martin said, with a sly grin. ‘They weren’t working at all ’cause their punt was moored up next to the house. They keep it covered at night, same as the rest of us, but in daylight you can see there’s a boat under the reed mats. And they weren’t sick neither, ’cause one of the neighbours called in on that wife of his a couple of times and she says there weren’t no sign of Gunter or his son in the cottage. Nigh on three weeks they were gone. That family hasn’t got a pot to piss in. They can’t afford to spend their days like lords, idling away their time.’
Robert winced, gripped by a sudden cramp in the belly. He grasped the edge of the table and lowered himself to a stool. He knew better than to gulp cold cider when he was as hot as this. Wasn’t he always telling that stable-boy not to let the horses drink cold water when they were in a sweat for fear of the colic? He should have heeded his own advice.
He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain. ‘They might have found work elsewhere . . . pagging . . . work on a farm . . . if they couldn’t get cargoes. That doesn’t prove—’
‘But I know something that does,’ Edward interrupted. ‘When we went to call on the tenants, Gunter’s son was sick in bed. His mother said he’d been hurt when a box or some such fell on him, but Catlin insisted on looking at the wound. The boy’s back was burned, and not the kind of burn you’d get from falling into a hearth fire. It looked as if something had been fired into it, like a burning arrow only wider, bigger. It was plain his mother was lying about how he’d been injured. It can’t be a coincidence that Gunter and his son were missing at the very time of the rebellion, and for them to turn up with one wounded as if he’d been in a battle. I’m certain . . .’ He trailed off and stared at Robert. ‘What is it? Are you sick, Father?’
Robert doubled up in agony. He fell from the stool onto his knees, moaning and clutching his belly as violent pains tore through it. He clutched weakly at his gown, trying to pull it away from his chest so that he could breathe. His heart was thumping in his chest so hard that he was certain it would explode.
He clutched at Edward’s leg. ‘Bayus . . . fetch Hugo Bayus. Hurry!’
Chapter 64
The dust in a house must be swept inwards before it is collected and taken out, for if a woman should sweep the dust outwards through the door, she will sweep away all the wealth and good fortune of the family.
Greetwell
Gunter looked down at the sleeping figure of his son. He lay on his side, his face turned towards him, sweat glistening on his flushed cheeks. Robert’s wife had sent no ointment from the apothecary, not that Gunter had expected her to, though Nonie stubbornly refused to believe she would not keep her promise. Gunter knew his suspicions had been right. Mistress Catlin had only come to discover if Hankin had been part of the rebellion.
The boy’s dark lashes fluttered against his cheek. Lashes, as Nonie often said, that would be the envy of any lass, but were wasted on a lad. Beneath the closed lids the boy’s eyes rolled restlessly. Giles, Giles! . . . Pies . . . I didn’t . . . Please no . . .
If you died, did your nightmares stop, or did they go on for ever with no hope of you waking from them? They would for G
unter. If he killed himself, he knew there could never be any end to his torment. There was no forgiveness for self-murder. How could there be? You could not confess it.
But for the boy, if he were to die in innocence, if he had confessed his sins, his nightmare would be over. But Gunter dared not take the boy to a priest. In Norfolk, they said, Bishop Despenser was hearing confessions, then sending men straight to the gallows for what they confessed. No priest could be trusted now. Too many abbeys and churches had been attacked. They would show no mercy to the rebels, respect no secrets. He couldn’t let the boy be taken alive. He couldn’t watch his child’s face and limbs be mutilated, see his terror, listen to his screams. He had to do it, do it now before it was too late.
He went to the window and glanced out. The light glinting off the river was blinding in the afternoon sun. Nonie was outside tending their little patch of vegetables and Col was firing his sling at any bird foolish enough to perch in the nearby trees, though he hit none. Royse was in the byre. He might not find another chance to be alone with the lad and they could come for him at any hour.
Gunter knelt by his son’s bed. Taking the boy’s hot little hand in his, he whispered, ‘Hankin, you must listen to me.’
The boy grunted and his eyes fluttered open, then closed again.
Gunter squeezed his hand. ‘You must confess, Bor. You must tell all that you’ve done wrong, just like you do to the priest. I’ll not be angry and I swear I’ll tell no one, but we can’t go to the church. You’re too sick. So you must confess to me . . . in case . . .’
Without opening his eyes the boy murmured, ‘Am I dying? I don’t . . . want to die.’
‘No, son, but we never know when death may strike. We must always be ready.’
‘Don’t . . . let me die, Faayther.’
A hard lump rose in Gunter’s chest. ‘Try to think, Hankin.’
The boy muttered something, but Gunter could make little sense of it. He’d no idea if he was confessing or simply crying out in his dreams.
He knelt by Hankin’s bed. ‘Blessed Virgin, take him straight to Heaven. He’s innocent. He’s not a bad bone in his body. Whatever he’s done, I’ll pay the price for it. Whatever he was forced to do, it was my fault. I should have protected him. I should have protected them all. Blessed Mary, don’t hold it against the boy, punish me for his sins. I’ll take them, take them all on me. He’s only a bairn.’
The boy’s breathing had fallen into the shallow but steady rhythm of sleep. His lips parted as he sucked in the stifling air.
Sweat ran down Gunter’s face. He slid the sheepskin from the bottom of the bed and paused, looking down at the smooth red cheek. Then, as gently as he could, with trembling hands, he pressed the fleece over the boy’s face.
Gunter had thought his breathing would quietly stop. But at once Hankin tried to push the skin away, thrashing his arms and legs. He was as weak as a nestling, but still he fought desperately for his life. Gunter felt Hankin’s hands grasping at his own arms, trying to push him away. Tears streamed down his face as he pressed harder, willing the boy to surrender and die.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.’
Nonie, crouching down, tugged at the bindweed that had wrapped itself around her beans. It grew so much faster than any crop, snaking out in the night to choke the plants. Why did weeds grow so vigorously and food so slowly when the same rain and sun touched them both? She rocked back on her heels, wiping her hand across her dripping forehead. As she raised her head, she caught sight of someone standing on the riverbank in front of the cottage, but against the sun’s glare, and the dancing glints from the river, she couldn’t make out who it was.
Grasping her weeding stick, she struggled to her feet, wiping her grimy hand on her sacking apron. She shielded her eyes. Two children stood hand in hand close to the water’s edge, a girl and a boy. They were looking at the little cottage.
Nonie was still unable to see them clearly because of the glare. She guessed the children had been sent with a message. Maybe someone needed goods transporting or wanted to be taken downriver. She hoped so: they needed every penny Gunter could earn. She took a step forward.
‘Your faayther wanting to hire the boat, is it?’
The children didn’t turn their heads, or make any sign that they’d heard her.
‘Come here,’ Nonie called, a little irritated now.
Hankin! Hankin, come and play. The words were so faint, so high-pitched they might have been the breeze in the tree-tops or the piping of a lark, except there was no breeze, no lark.
‘What do you . . .’
The words turned to stone in Nonie’s mouth, for she suddenly knew why the sun was shimmering so brightly around them. Water was streaming from their clothes and hair, as if they had just risen from a lake, or a river – water that did not stop flowing. Nonie’s head slowly followed the direction of the children’s gaze. She stared at the closed door of the cottage. Then, with a single shriek, she flung down her stick and ran.
The door opened behind Gunter. Nonie flew across the room, clawing at him, with all the fury of a she-wolf. ‘Holy Virgin, what are you doing to the bairn? Get away, get away from him!’
Shoving Gunter violently aside, she grabbed Hankin, tore the sheepskin from his face and hauled him into her arms. She rocked back and forth, as the boy clung to her sobbing and gasping for breath.
Gunter reached out a hand to soothe the lad, but Nonie slapped it away. ‘Don’t touch him! Don’t you dare touch him!’
‘I had to, Nonie. If they arrest him . . . I couldn’t let them take him alive.’
‘Why should anyone arrest my son?’ Nonie clutched Hankin to her. ‘They should arrest you, that’s what they should do. Trying to smother your own bairn. You’ve run mad. You want locking up, you do.’
‘But, Nonie, you don’t understand the danger.’
‘What danger? The only danger he’s in is from his mad father, that’s what. Get out! Get out!’ she screamed.
Gunter, his eyes blinded by tears, stumbled to the door and out into the blazing sunshine. He sank against the wall, shaking violently, his chest heaving as he sobbed. He was so distraught he didn’t even notice the men dismounting from the horses at the side of the cottage. Only when they were almost upon him did he realise he was not alone.
‘Gunter of Greetwell. I am here on the orders of the King’s Commissioners to arrest you and your son for high treason.’
Chapter 65
Witches can turn themselves into foxes. The hunt will often see them run into a cave or cottage and think they have trapped them, only to find nothing inside except an old woman.
Lincoln
Hugo Bayus descended the stairs slowly, muttering to himself. Adam stood by the casement of the hall below, staring out into the street. He didn’t turn, not even when the physician ruffled his hair.
‘No need for you to mope around indoors, young man. Your father is recovering well. He’ll soon be up and about again.’
‘I said as much to you this morning, didn’t I, Mistress Catlin?’ Diot said triumphantly. ‘I said he was on the mend.’
‘That is good news, isn’t it, Adam?’ Catlin said. ‘We were all so worried.’
Adam wasn’t. He’d felt not the slightest concern when they’d brought his father home on a cart two days ago, groaning in pain and raving like one of the mad beggars who accosted people on their way to and from the cathedral. Edward and the carter had hauled him up the stairs and the physician had hurried round soon after. The pains had lasted for two days and nights, but today he lay still and quiet. Adam was disappointed. He’d hoped the sickness would last longer, much longer.
‘Will he make a full recovery?’ Catlin asked.
‘He’s weak, of course. He should rest in bed for several days more, but knowing your husband, Mistress Catlin, I doubt he will. But he should have only a beef bonet for the next two days, nothing richer than that. See that the beef is well ground and seethe it in a goo
d measure of blood and water. Beata will know. She’s skilled at preparing such dishes.’
Adam turned to stare pointedly at his stepmother. She was seated at the table next to Edward, in front of a stack of parchments and ledgers. Mother and son exchanged glances before Catlin spoke.
‘I’m afraid Beata no longer works here.’
The physician’s bald pate gleamed in the sunlight from the casement. ‘A pity, but I’m sure you will manage.’
‘Course, we will.’ Diot bridled. ‘I’m twice the cook that mad trollop ever was, and you don’t have to fear waking up with your throat slit when I’m in charge of the kitchen.’
‘Will the sickness recur, Master Bayus?’ Catlin asked.
‘I am not certain it was a sickness,’ the physician said cautiously.
Diot glanced swiftly at Catlin, alarm and fear on her plump face, but Catlin’s expression didn’t change.
‘Course the master was sick,’ Diot said hastily, her face flushing so red, she herself might have had a fever. ‘Half the city’s been taken bad. Stench from the ditches, that’s what caused the sickness and no mistake.’ She plucked agitatedly at her skirts, her eyes repeatedly darting towards Catlin.
‘Certainly in this infernal heat many in the city have fallen ill with the summer flux,’ the physician said, ‘but Master Robert had none of the usual symptoms. His only complaint was the severe pains and the madness . . . that is to say, the delirium that often accompanies fever of the brain, yet he appears to have no fever. I’ve enquired of the other physicians of my acquaintance and none of them has had a patient with such an illness. It seems to me, Mistress Catlin . . .’
He hesitated and looked at Adam. ‘Why don’t you run outside and play, young man? I’m sure you must be itching to be out on such a day. I’m not so old that I don’t remember such things from my own boyhood.’ The old man gave the chuckle of one who fondly recalls a childhood that only ever existed in their dreams.
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