Witchborn

by Nicholas Bowling

  Alyce looked around the bridge, confused, as though expecting someone else to give her more precise directions. Nobody did, so she poked her head in between the two towering residences and, sure enough, found herself looking over the sheer drop at the edge of the bridge. There was, however, a ladder that led down to the river, clinging to the side of one of the bridge’s great stone bastions.

  She grasped the highest rung, which rattled dangerously, and leant out over the abyss. Far beneath her, the violent currents of the Thames were rushing either side of a wooden pontoon that was built around the base of the arch. Every arch had one, she saw, accumulating silt and debris and turning the already swift streams of the river into narrow, raging torrents as they passed under the bridge.

  With nowhere else to go, Alyce slung her basket over one shoulder and began clambering down the ladder to the pier below. Once she was no longer sheltered by the overhanging buildings, gusts of wind tugged at the folds of her dress and threatened to snatch her bonnet from her head. Halfway down, the square of cloth that covered the basket’s contents blew away and danced upstream on the breeze.

  When she eventually reached the bottom, the pontoon itself was no more secure than the ladder. It creaked and rattled in the current, and felt like it might be swept completely clear of the bridge at any moment. She felt horribly exposed too, like everyone along both riverbanks was watching her. She hugged the base of one of the arches, and edged carefully around to the other side.

  And there it was. Under the bridge, huddled like some vagrant escaping from the weather, was a tiny set of lodgings. They were constructed on top of the pontoon, and although the building itself looked sturdy enough, the timbers beneath it were black and slimy and seemed ready to dissolve into the relentless currents. The swells of the river ensured that both the pontoon and the lodgings were never totally still.

  Alyce edged unsteadily to a little wooden door at the front of the house. In her haste to escape from the cold and the damp and the roaring threat of the river coursing either side of her, she didn’t think to knock, and pushed straight in. It was at that point that somebody opened the door from the other side, and Alyce fell in a dishevelled heap on the floor.

  The bolt of the door clunked behind her, and the room filled with bright laughter. Alyce sat up, rubbing her elbow, and was struck by a heavy wave of perfume that smelt like roses on the verge of rotting. She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I thank God you are not Mrs Thomson. If she falls down . . . I fear she will never rise again!’ Another peal of laughter. The voice was high for a man, and honey-sweet, with an Italian accent much thicker than the glassmaker she had met on the bridge.

  Alyce pulled back the bonnet that had fallen over her eyes. The vision before her did not seem entirely real.

  Signor Vitali was not handsome. He was perfect. And not in a pleasing way. He was an apparition so beautifully composed it was quite unsettling. Whereas most foreign merchants looked swarthy and weather-beaten, his skin was an unblemished white, and his beard and moustache were so precisely trimmed they looked like they’d been drawn on with a pencil. His jet-black hair fell in ringlets around his ears and glistened – along with the rest of him – as though he had bathed himself in oil or perfume.

  ‘Lorenzo Vitali.’ He bowed low and kissed Alyce’s hand. ‘I hope you had little trouble finding my lodgings.’ His smile revealed two rows of perfectly straight, glittering white teeth.

  ‘You are a very beautiful child,’ Vitali continued, gently clasping her chin in his fingers to assess her. Alyce frowned. Was this the way all Italians spoke to girls? ‘Very beautiful. And strong. This is good. Good for you, not for me. You will never need my potions, with such natural beauty!’

  Alyce could not find the words. The man was ridiculous. She would have laughed out loud along with him, but the feeling of his gloved fingers on her skin was just unpleasant enough to stop her finding the whole situation funny.

  ‘Do you speak?’ He gave another chuckle. ‘You will need to speak, if we are to be friends! I like to speak, maybe Mrs Thomson told you this.’

  He pronounced ‘Thomson’ with two great booming syllables, and this time Alyce wasn’t able to restrain herself from sniggering.

  ‘Ah! You laugh! This is a good start. I like to laugh too.’ He gestured to a pair of stools. ‘Please, sit. You are Alyce, yes?’ Again, his accent dragged out the vowels and put too much stress on the second half of her name.

  ‘That’s right, sir. I mean, signor. I have the ingredients you asked for from Mrs Thomson.’ She went to pick up the basket that had skidded across the floor when she had fallen through the front door.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, grasping her wrist and leading her like a calf back to her seat. She shivered a little. ‘We do not do business now. Now, we talk. There is no business without amicizia. We must get to know each other. Wait.’

  Vitali turned with a flourish of his embroidered cloak and wandered into the back room. While he was clinking around, Alyce went over to his workbench and inspected the pots and bottles and phials of strangely coloured substances.

  She was sniffing the contents of a pestle and mortar when Vitali returned with a flask of wine and two expensive-looking goblets.

  ‘Careful, child!’ he said, setting them down on his workbench. ‘These are dangerous things. Only a physician of great skill can use them safely. Come, we drink.’

  ‘Is this barberry?’ She gestured to the mortar.

  Vitali stopped, and smiled. ‘Indeed, it is. You are a clever girl, as well as beautiful!’

  ‘You need to remove the seeds.’

  His smile faltered a little. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. If you crush the seeds along with the flesh, it causes problems with digestion.’

  ‘Ah, you know a little of herbalism,’ said Vitali, looking a little impatient now. ‘Very good.’

  ‘What do you use it for?’ she asked.

  ‘This I use to make a salve for the head. It makes your hair grow and shine like the sun!’ He spread his arms dramatically.

  Alyce frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘A very complex, very delicate process. You would not understand, I think.’

  ‘I might.’

  Vitali let out a short sigh. ‘First we boil the berry in a solution with horsetail—’

  ‘You can’t boil horsetail! It makes it useless! And besides, you’re meant to eat barberry. Horsetail is used on the skin, isn’t it? Why put them together?’

  The mountebank forced out an unamused laugh and clapped his hands. ‘Please, Alyce, I thought we were not speaking of business? Drink with me.’

  She returned to the stool, unsatisfied. Vitali followed, settled himself down opposite her and handed her a goblet of wine. She took a gulp.

  ‘So. Alyce. Tell me about yourself. Who are you?’

  Alyce laughed to herself. That question again. I am Alyce Greenliefe, she shouted inside her head, and I am a witch.

  With the wine flowing through her veins, though, the lies came easily. In fact, she found the whole thing quite entertaining. Her father had been a soldier (she couldn’t remember where he fought), her mother was disgraced for a liaison with another man while her husband was at war (she couldn’t remember his name), Alyce had been forced to come to London after the family had been made destitute (she couldn’t remember when) and had ended up working for Mrs Thomson to make ends meet.

  At the end of her tale, feeling thoroughly pleased with herself, she turned the question on Vitali.

  ‘What about you, signor?’ she asked. She had drained her cup to the dregs, and her cheeks were flushed. ‘What is your story?’

  ‘Mine is not as interesting as yours,’ he said, his eyes glinting. He waved his hand dismissively, wafting more sickly perfume in Alyce’s direction. ‘It is of no importance.’

  ‘Why did you come to London?’

  ‘Why, to sell my elixirs! The best in the world! Wherever there is sickness, Doctor Vitali will bring his c
ures and his salves. And London –’ he shook his head, a comically pained expression on his face – ‘is a very sick city.’

  ‘But why did you leave Milan, I mean?’

  Again, Vitali’s mask began to slip a little. ‘Many reasons, you—’

  ‘Wouldn’t understand?’ Alyce finished for him, the wine loosening her tongue more than she had expected.

  Vitali took a deep breath, and then leant in until his face was inches from Alyce’s. ‘Sometimes, child, it is unwise, and unfair, to judge a man by his past. Or to judge a girl by hers, for that matter.’

  Alyce flinched.

  ‘You don’t ask me about how I came to be here, and I won’t ask you how you could possibly know so much about barberry, and horsetail, and all the rest.’ He grinned, wider than ever now. ‘Mrs Thomson speaks freely with me, Alyce. We are very close. But there is one thing we have always disagreed upon. She does not think that women and girls like you really exist. But I know.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I know what you are, strega.’

  Alyce looked at her feet, her head swimming. She was drunk, and confused, and a little angry, but with whom she could not say.

  ‘Do not worry yourself!’ said Vitali, sitting back and laughing just as easily as he had done when she first came through the door. ‘I do not think ill of your kind. This is not a reason why we cannot work together. It will make you even more useful to me, I think.’ He put a hand on her shoulder, and she smiled weakly.

  ‘Now we know,’ he continued, setting his empty goblet on the table, ‘that we are both as sinister as each other. Yes? Yes. We shall work very well together.’

  Alyce scrunched her eyes to try and clear her head. ‘What kind of work do you have planned for me?’

  ‘Many things,’ said Vitali gleefully. ‘In time, perhaps you can help me prepare my elixirs. But most of all I need you for my spettacolo!’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My show. My spectacle.’ He took his time over the word. ‘Some of your countrymen, they do not know what is good for them, and they need to see something wondrous, something miraculous, before they will think to buy my wares.’

  ‘I don’t see how I could persuade anyone to do business with you—’

  ‘Lorenzo Vitali does not persuade,’ he said, wagging his finger. ‘He amazes. He enchants. I think you could help me in this, no? Maybe you could be a part of my little show?’

  Alyce shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ She was prepared to agree to anything if it meant she could escape his lodgings and get to Bankside.

  ‘Enough of this for now. Let us see if you have succeeded in your first task. What has dear Mrs Thomson sent me today?’

  She picked the basket up from the floor and handed it to Vitali, who took it over to his workbench. One by one he opened up the pouches and poked around inside, humming with satisfaction. When he came to the last bag, the one that Mrs Thomson had not labelled, he let out a long ‘Ah’, and immediately locked it in a small wooden strongbox.

  ‘Very good!’ he said, turning round to Alyce again. ‘Please give Mrs Thomson my thanks.’

  ‘I think she would prefer coin . . .’

  ‘I think so too,’ said Vitali, laughing. ‘How much does she want from my coffers this time?’

  ‘I have the prices here,’ she said, reaching into the front pocket of her dress and retrieving the folded parchment. ‘I hope they are what you were expecting.’

  The mountebank took the crumpled document in between his thumb and forefinger and spread it out flat on the table. From the look on his face, Alyce knew immediately that something was wrong.

  ‘Is it not correct?’ she asked, getting up from the stool.

  Vitali turned very slowly, eyes still scanning the words he held in front of him. His brow was more expressive than she had seen in the whole time she had been there.

  ‘What is this?’

  The letter. She’d given him the letter from her mother. They must have got mixed up in her pocket, and somewhere between The Swan and here the seal that Solomon had reattached had fallen off. Her sweating fingers fumbled in the front of her dress again, and pulled out a second piece of parchment. Sure enough, it was covered in numbers scrawled by Mrs Thomson.

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not for you . . . This is the . . . Can I please have that . . .?’

  Alyce swallowed her heart back down to where it should have been. Vitali clapped in triumph.

  ‘I knew it! I said it, did I not? Strega!’ Alyce could only guess what that word meant, but she had a fairly good idea. ‘But if I were you, I would keep something like this to myself, yes?’

  ‘Yes I know. I didn’t mean to give it to you—’

  ‘You must be careful. Some people see this, they are not as kind as Vitali.’

  ‘Can you . . . read it? Do you know what it says?’

  Vitali shook his head. ‘No. But I know the language of sorcery when I see it. The question is: which sorcerer do you give this to, hmmm?’

  Alyce stared into his womanly, long-lashed eyes, and knew that the wine was making her far more trusting than she should have been, but decided to tell him anyway. He might even be able to help her.

  ‘It’s for John Dee. He’s not a sorcerer. He’s an executioner.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An executioner. A hangman.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vitali. ‘I see.’ And then he began to roar with laughter so violently she thought he would bring all of London Bridge crumbling down on top of them.

  ‘What?’ Her skin prickled – she knew when she was being mocked. Still he rocked with glee. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said when he’d finally caught his breath. ‘Only . . . To imagine . . . John Dee, a hangman! I think he really would hang you if he heard you say these things!’ He dabbed at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief.

  ‘Well? Who is he?’

  ‘You mean Doctor John Dee. The great Doctor John Dee – magician, astrologer, philosopher, alchemist, mathematician, and whatever else.’ He rolled his eyes in feigned boredom. ‘He is an advisor to Queen Elizabeth herself, and will tell you this whenever he has the chance. Hummm. Yes.

  Vitali and John Dee are not the greatest of friends.’

  The certainty with which the mountebank was speaking made Alyce feel hopeful, in a way that she hadn’t for a very long time. Advisor to the Queen . . . So Solomon and Mrs Thomson had been right all along.

  ‘Then . . . What’s this hangman business?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Vitali, obviously enjoying his new omniscience. ‘The hangman is not a person, Alyce. The Hangman is a tavern. On Bankside. Although, it is not like most taverns. Its patrons are . . . well, people like you and me, Alyce. And Doctor Dee. Strange people. Different people.’ He laughed once more. ‘You plan to go there today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘No. I forbid it. Too dangerous.’

  ‘You aren’t my father, signor,’ she said hotly, ‘so I don’t think you can forbid me anything.’

  ‘Do you even know where to look for it?’

  ‘You said. Bankside.’

  ‘Ha! Then I wish you good luck. The Hangman, the Black Tavern which has remained hidden from the Church, from the state, from kings and queens for two hundred years; you, young Alyce, will find it like that, yes?’ He snapped his fingers.

  She thought for a moment. It was true, she had been rather optimistic – make that foolish – about finding her way there without any help.

  ‘Then come with me,’ she said eventually. ‘If you won’t let me go alone. I’ll make you a deal. If you take me to The Hangman, I’ll help you however I can with your spectacle. And I’ll tell you everything I know about these herbs you are mixing.’

  ‘Perhaps the first thing, yes.’ Vitali’s eyes narrowed. ‘And if I don’t take you?’

  She shrugged. ‘If you don’t, you will have to find yourself another witch to be your appre
ntice.’ Her face and chest warmed as the last words left her lips, and it wasn’t because of the wine this time.

  The mountebank regarded her carefully, and then held out his hand with a smile.

  ‘Alyce,’ he said, ‘it would be my pleasure.’

  HOPKINS

  ‘Harper? Young lad?’

  Hopkins nodded. The actor’s voice had boomed when he was performing, but the audience had long since wandered away and now he was quiet and tense. He continued packing up the troupe’s costumes in an attempt to avoid eye contact.

  ‘He’s with Sussex’s Men. We don’t have anything to do with them. We just do the inn yards.’ He gestured around the muck-strewn square. ‘They’re performing at Court, for Queen Elizabeth herself. Got themselves a proper patron.’

  ‘At Court?’ said Hopkins.

  ‘Whitehall Palace. Good luck getting in there.’

  The Doctor could probably get him access to the palace, thought Hopkins, but it would be an unnecessary complication.

  ‘What else do you know about him? Where does he live? Where does he go? Taverns? Brothels?’

  The player straightened up, and was still no higher than Hopkins’ chin. ‘Master Blount!’ he called. ‘You played with Sussex’s Men once upon a time. Gentleman here looking for the Harper boy.’

  Another man left the wagon he was loading and approached warily. ‘Ay, I was with Sussex’s Men till that Adams knave threw me out. Solomon Harper joined a few weeks before I left. You’ll have a job speaking to him now, they’re—’

  ‘At Whitehall, I know. Where else might we cross paths?’

  The man gulped, and Hopkins knew he was looking at Caxton properly for the first time. ‘He – he was always more of an errand boy back then. They’d send him to the market, send him to tailors and cobblers for the costumes.’

  ‘You’ll need to be more specific than that.’

  ‘There was . . . there was an inn he used to visit a lot. Off Little East Cheap. It was a filthy place, but he knew the innkeeper. The Swan, it’s called. When he wasn’t with the company, he was there with her. Like his mother, she was.’