The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  He giggled. ‘It’ll come as no surprise to Robert either. He’s convinced every man in England is out to assassinate him. But who’s actually going to . . .’ His expression suddenly turned serious. ‘Not you, surely.’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘The whole point is to induce someone else to do it, someone who’s certain to be caught and hanged for it. That way no possible suspicion can fall on me. And as a poor woman tragically widowed after only a few months of blissful wedlock, I can beg the King for a sizeable purse, maybe even lands, in recompense, since my husband was cruelly murdered by one of the King’s enemies while doing his duty for the Crown.’

  He flicked his finger across my lips. ‘Your powers of persuasion, my angel, are matchless, but even you will have a hard time inducing a man to stab Robert if he’s certain to be executed for it. Anyone murdering a king’s commissioner will be tried as a traitor, and his death’ll be drawn out and agonising as a warning to the rabble. No, my sweet, you go to any of the taverns down by the wharf and you’ll find a dozen men in each who wouldn’t hesitate to cut the throat of a holy abbess for a fat purse, but even they wouldn’t be stupid enough to do it unless they could make good their escape afterwards. And, besides, assassins for hire have a dangerous habit of returning later and asking for more money not to turn king’s approver and spill all to the justices in exchange for a pardon. We’d never be free of them.’

  ‘Ah, but if a man doesn’t know he’s to be the assassin . . .’ I said, sliding my hand up the inside of his thigh and feeling him squirm. ‘The only place Robert feels safe is in his own hall. That is where he lets down his guard. He always was a creature of habit but now he clings to it, like a babe to the breast. Every day when he returns home, he pours himself a goblet of spiced hippocras and flops into his chair near the tapestry to gulp it. It will be simplicity itself to drug the wine.’

  ‘Poison? Again?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re losing your touch, my angel. If it happened in Robert’s own hall, even Hugo Bayus would suspect someone in the household. And you wouldn’t be able to shift the blame to Tenney or Beata, unless you were thinking of letting Diot burn for it.’

  ‘A tempting thought,’ I said, ‘save that the old hag would blurt out all she knows long before the flames reached her. But you should listen to me more carefully. I made no mention of poison. Drugged, I said. What I shall put in his wine will only befuddle him, dull his senses, make him slow to react. It’ll seem to him nothing more than the effects of drunkenness. It won’t kill him. You will.’

  ‘Me!’ He drew back, eyes wide in alarm, holding up his hands, as if he were pushing away the very idea.

  ‘Yes, you, my beloved. You will hide behind the tapestry, and when you see he can no longer defend himself, you’ll slip out and stab him. If he’s still alive when the knife goes in, his blood will pour out naturally and no one will think to look any further into the cause of his death than the blood-stained dagger they’ll find dropped in the corner of the room.’

  ‘You’re right, because they’ll be too busy looking for the man who plunged the dagger into him – me!’

  ‘Not if you use this.’ I held out a knife.

  It was a vicious blade set in a plain mutton-bone handle, but its owner had cut his own mark on the handle to distinguish it from the hundreds of other almost identical boatmen’s knives.

  My lover stared blankly at the knife. Much as I adored him, at times even I had to admit his wits were not the sharpest.

  I patiently explained: ‘When Robert was brought home ill from the warehouse, this was stuck in his belt. I removed it as I undressed him. I checked the mark on the handle against the marks in the payment ledgers. This is Martin’s sign, as the justices will clearly see when the two are compared. It’ll be all the proof they need of his guilt, for everyone knows he had motive enough to kill Robert.’

  ‘But all Martin has to do is to show he was elsewhere at the time of the murder and, knife or not, he’ll be proved innocent.’

  ‘But he will not be elsewhere,’ I assured him. ‘Martin will receive a message that he is to be rewarded with a fat purse for having identified Gunter and his son as rebels. The message will ask him to come to the house to collect his payment in the early evening, soon after Robert returns home. The boatman will think there is nothing odd in that. After all, Robert would hardly want to be seen handing over money in so public a place as the warehouse. Neither would Martin wish to be identified as an informer. It would make perfect sense to him that it should take place privately in Robert’s hall. And Martin is greedy. He won’t hesitate to come.

  ‘When he arrives, he’ll find the courtyard empty and the door to the house open. He’ll walk into the hall and discover the body. I’ll come in behind him and, in horror, beg him to check if my dear husband still lives. Then, when he has blood on his hands, I’ll rush out into the street and scream for help. He’ll be trapped inside the house. Even if he runs for it, he’s bound to be seen by someone at that time of day, and I will swear on every shrine and relic in Lincoln Cathedral that I came in and saw Martin plunge the knife into my husband, who was threatening to have him arrested for theft. The men-at-arms who brought Martin and his son to the warehouse will testify that he had already been seized once. No one will doubt his guilt.’

  I stepped closer, and ran my hand over my lover’s groin, feeling his prick swelling under my touch. ‘And then, then my dearest Edward, no more towers or fields for us. You will be unwrapping me in the comfort of Robert’s own bed.’

  He bent down and kissed my mouth passionately. ‘And that is why I adore you, little Maman.’

  September 1381

  If dry be the buck’s thorn on Holyrood morn, ’tis worth a kist of gold.

  But if wet it be seen ere Holyrood e’en, bad harvest is foretold.

  Chapter 70

  If a storm is raging, it may be stilled if a woman strips herself naked and presents her body to the storm. For this reason figureheads of bare-breasted women are often set on the prow of a ship to still the waves and abate the tempest.

  Lincoln Castle

  Keys jangled outside the heavy wooden door as the gaoler sorted through the bunch dangling from the massive ring to find the right one. The men heaved themselves into a sitting position, placing their hands on their bent knees, their heads bowed.

  Gunter touched his son’s shoulder. ‘Wake up, Bor.’

  The lad stirred sleepily, then realised who had woken him and flinched away, dragging himself upright. Every time he did it, Gunter felt another piece of his heart die inside him. He’d never thought to see a child of his draw away from him in fear or hatred, and he knew from the expression in Hankin’s eyes that the boy felt both whenever he looked at his father.

  The men eyed each other anxiously as the door opened. Was this it? Was this where the trial would begin and their lives end?

  ‘Maybe my feckless wife has finally stirred her arse to bake me a pie,’ Mack said hopefully. ‘About bloody time.’

  Gunter felt sorry for him. After the first day, no one had brought food for him. He suspected Mack’s wife had sent food, but it probably went straight into the belly of Hob, one of the soldiers on duty at the castle for, according to the guards, his daughter was always hanging round the gates waiting for him. The other men shared a little of what their families sent in, and occasionally the gaoler would take pity and bring him a crust from a burned loaf, or a bone with a shred or two of ham still clinging to it. But it must be hard to think your family didn’t care if you starved.

  At least Nonie, however much she despised her husband, still faithfully sent food for him and Hankin, making the exhausting walk into Lincoln and up to the castle each day. But he couldn’t imagine how much longer she could afford to feed them, as well as Col and Royse, when there was no money coming in.

  Had she sold the punt? It would be better than waiting for the King’s men to take it from her as soon as sentence was passed, for money could be more easily hidden. I
f she took Royse and Col and left Greetwell before the trial, the money from the punt would be enough to keep the three of them fed and warmed through the coming winter, with a chance to start again somewhere new. He wished he could tell her to do just that. He should have warned her of what was going to happen, told her what she must do. Yet again, he had failed them.

  The door groaned open. Mack’s face fell as he saw there was nothing in the gaoler’s hands except his ring of keys and Gunter’s wooden leg thrust under his arm. A second guard stepped into the room, menacingly thumping a stout stick against his palm to make plain what would happen to any prisoner who caused trouble.

  The gaoler pushed himself between Gunter and Hankin. He dropped the leg into Gunter’s lap. ‘It’s your lucky day, Bor. You’re going for a little stroll.’

  A look of alarm flashed across all the prisoners’ faces. Much as every man prayed to be delivered from that place, the fear of being taken to a worse fate was writ clear in all their eyes.

  Mack leaned forward. ‘Where are you taking him? The justices – have they come?’

  ‘One of the commissioners wants to question him,’ the gaoler said indifferently. ‘I dare say there are more charges to be added to his list of crimes.’

  As Gunter wrestled his stump into the wooden peg, he felt the man fumbling at the lock that fastened the iron on his good leg to the pillar. He pulled the fetter from Gunter’s cut and bruised ankle. Blood began to flow painfully back into his numb foot. Gunter leaned forward to massage it, but the gaoler hauled him to his feet. ‘Hurry, Bor. You don’t want to put the old bastard in an even worse humour by keeping him waiting.’

  Gunter hobbled towards the door. His ankle kept buckling beneath him and the gaoler was forced to support him to keep him upright. Gunter twisted round, staring at Hankin’s back.

  ‘What about my son? Is he not wanted too?’

  ‘Nothing was said about the lad. My orders are to fetch you, that’s all.’

  Gunter wanted desperately to say something to the boy. Suppose they didn’t bring him back here. Suppose this was the last time he ever saw him. ‘Hankin? Hankin, forgive me, son, for everything.’

  But the boy didn’t turn his head or show by the smallest sign that he’d heard.

  Gunter’s shoulders sank, and he allowed himself to be dragged out of the cell into the narrow passage beyond. There they paused, while the guard locked the door behind them. Just as it closed, Gunter heard a faint cry: ‘Don’t hurt my faayther. Please don’t hurt him!’

  With one guard leading and the other shoving him from behind, Gunter was hurried along the passage and up a narrow spiral staircase. He was so unsteady that several times he slipped, banging his good knee hard against the stone steps above. His weakness unnerved and angered him. Ever since he was a lad he’d had to fend for himself, and his strength was something he’d prided himself on. He’d always been able to depend on his own body, but he felt the shadow of old age creeping up on him. Soon would come a time when he wouldn’t be able to walk for miles, or move a laden punt or even defend himself. Then a worse thought crossed his mind. Suppose he never reached old age. What if his life was to end today?

  They entered a large rectangular hall and from there he was herded up another staircase. From the slit windows he glimpsed snatches of colour from the streets beyond the walls, like the stray notes of a song, familiar yet not named. But he was not allowed to linger.

  Finally the gaoler knocked on a heavy wooden door and, hearing some faint reply from within, pushed Gunter into a long room. At the far end was a dais, on which stood a table and high-backed chair, while in front of it were ranged many seats, from highly carved and ornate chairs to crudely cobbled benches. The crest of King Richard and that of his uncle, John of Gaunt, Constable of Lincoln Castle, hung as twins above the dais, as if to show the two were equals, but beyond that there was little decoration in the room. Gaunt had not lavished any of his huge fortune on Lincoln.

  A man stood with his back to them, peering out of one of the slits, a man of some wealth, judging by his long gown and turbaned hood. The belt around his hips was wide, and fashioned from the finest red leather studded with silver stars. He turned at the sound of the door opening. Gunter blinked. It was hard to reconcile the gravitas of the man with the last time he had seen him, lying in filth, his face splattered with blood and dirt, an expression of abject terror in his eyes.

  For a long time the two men stared at one another, then Robert tore away his gaze and addressed the guards.‘Leave us. Wait at the bottom of the stairs. I’ll call for you when I’ve done.’

  The two guards exchanged uneasy glances.

  ‘Master Robert, we can’t leave you alone with – with a rebel. Suppose he should escape.’

  ‘If you wait at the bottom of the stairs, as I instructed, you will be able to ensure he doesn’t,’ Robert said curtly. ‘Can you see another way out of this chamber? A cat would be hard put to squeeze through the window and even then he’d have to sprout wings on the other side.’

  ‘But suppose he attacks you. They’ve murdered—’

  ‘I assume you searched him before you locked him up, unless you’re in the habit of allowing your prisoners to run around armed. Well? Then go!’

  Robert waited by the window until he heard the clatter of the men’s footsteps retreating down the stairs, then took a few paces towards Gunter, turned one of the chairs to face the prisoner and sat down. He was breathing hard and looked pale, sick even.

  ‘You saved my life in London.’ He spoke softly, in contrast to the way he’d addressed the guards.

  Gunter said nothing, afraid that any admission would only incriminate him.

  ‘You’re one of my tenants. You’ve carried cargoes for me.’

  He paused, but Gunter didn’t reply. He knew a question was coming, one he still did not know how to answer.

  ‘Why did you defend me? If you’d said nothing, they’d have carried out their execution and there would have been no witness to testify that you had taken part in the rebellion. Did that not occur to you?’

  Gunter stared down at his grimy hands. ‘I was shocked to see you there, Master Robert, and . . . what they were going to do . . . They said you were one of the Flemish merchants. I had to put them right. You didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘Neither did the Flemish merchants,’ Robert said sharply.

  ‘I know nowt about that.’

  ‘Meaning you didn’t attack them or you don’t know if they deserved to be butchered?’

  Gunter was again silent. He couldn’t tell what was going on in the man’s head. Why was he questioning him? What was he trying to find out? Was he going to trick him into betraying Hankin?

  Robert rose from the chair and began to pace up and down in front of the dais. ‘Why did you join the rebels in the first place, Gunter? That’s what I can’t understand. Why would a man like you, with a wife and children, risk everything? You’re freeborn, not a villein. Did you think to become rich, was that it? To steal gold or to overthrow the nobility and live like a lord of the manor? Was that what they promised you? What did you think you could change? There will always be men who rule others, and those who do, whoever they are, will always be wealthy because of it. Would you have us ungoverned, every man taking what he wanted, the strong stealing from the weak and our shores left unprotected, so that any foreign king who looks on this island with greedy eyes may simply walk in and conquer us?’

  Robert stopped pacing and turned to face Gunter. ‘And your son. From what I recall he’s about the same age as my own, just a boy. Why drag him into this madness? Did you have no care that at best he might be killed and at worst mutilated and hanged?’

  ‘My son wasn’t there,’ Gunter said fiercely. ‘Only I went. Let him go and I’ll confess to anything you put to me.’

  Robert sank down weakly into the chair. ‘You’re a fool! Your son is the certain proof you were both there. That’s what they will say in court, even if I don’t
testify. Neither of you was seen in Lincoln for the best part of three weeks, and when you returned you brought back the boy injured. Any man who was there knows about the fires and explosions. Any half-competent physician or even a humble soldier can recognise the marks of burning gunpowder when they see them. They’ll examine him, Gunter, and his wounds will seal the guilt of both of you, not merely as ones who marched to London, but as ones who fought and destroyed it. That is high treason and it merits the worst of deaths.’

  Gunter felt all hope draining out of him. He had nothing left to lose. He took a pace forward, though his good leg could barely hold him upright. ‘My lad never . . . He marched to London, it’s true. He ran away from home after we’d quarrelled, meaning to join the rebels. But you said it yourself, he’s just a boy, too young to understand what he was doing. It was all an adventure to him . . . But when he saw what happened, he was sick to his stomach. He took no part in it, I swear. Someone threw some gunpowder onto a fire afore the killings even started. He was wounded. He could do nowt save crawl into the shelter of a wall.

  ‘I went to London to search for him. When I found him, he was in that much pain, he couldn’t stand. I’d to carry him home. He didn’t harm anyone, I swear on his mam’s life. Don’t let them hang him. I spoke out for you that day, Master Robert. You speak out for him – a life for a life. You can do what you want to me. I’ll say I’m guilty to whatever charges you bring against me. But let him go home to his mam, his sister and little brother. They need him. Without a man to work for them, they’ll starve. Whatever trouble the boy’s in, I’m to blame, for I’m his faayther. I should have kept him from it. I deserve to hang for that, but not Hankin, not my son.’

  For a long time Robert stared at him. Gunter’s leg almost buckled beneath him and it was all he could do to keep himself from sinking to the floor. But he would not give in to it. He would not have any man think he was grovelling to him, begging like a coward.