The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  I tried to think, but to conjure his image was like plaiting a rope of smoke. ‘It was more as if I saw their shadow, not the man.’

  Yet even as I said it, I knew that that shadow had exuded a malevolence that was more tangible than the man himself.

  Edward snatched up the stave that stood always by the street door and went out to the courtyard. I crouched beside the fire to make the signs that would keep us safe for the night. And tonight that seemed suddenly more important than ever. Of all the work in a house that might be entrusted to a servant, this was the one task the mistress of the house must always perform herself. I wouldn’t let Diot do it, though she knew it better than I, as well she might, given what her mother had taught her.

  I used the fire irons to rake the glowing embers into a round disc, like the sun. I divided the circle into three equal parts and laid a dried peat in the centre of each segment before covering it with powdery grey ash, banking it down to seal in the heat. Finally I traced a circle in the ash and drew a cross through it so that the arms projected to north, south, east and west.

  I rose and crossed to the five-flamed oil lamp. Standing beneath it, I unclasped the silver necklace set with the polished green stones, flecked with madder and cold as a toad to the touch. I ran my fingers around the setting of one stone until I found the little groove and pushed on it with my thumbnail. A shallow oval tray slid out from beneath it. A lock of hair lay inside, tied with thread. I looked at it for a long time in the flickering lights. I stroked it softly with my finger. It was as baby-fine and silky as the day I had placed it there. My first. It’s always special, isn’t it? You can’t help feeling a bond of affection with the first, can you? It brings a delight that none who come after may ever quite match.

  I pressed the strand of hair to my lips, holding it there for a while before replacing it in the little tray and sliding it back into position beneath the bloodstone. Then, one by one, I extinguished the flames in the little lamp, until only the red veins of fire beneath the ash in the hearth pulsed in the darkness.

  December

  If it freeze on St Thomas’s Day, the price of corn will fall. If it be mild the price will rise.

  Chapter 9

  On St Thomas’s Day, the witches gather at the church in Dorrington, Lincolnshire, to gossip, sing and amuse themselves. If the moon is shining brightly, and you look through the keyhole, you will see Satan himself playing marbles.

  Greetwell

  Royse pushed her head round the door. ‘Mam, bailiff’s here. Just seen him walking up the track.’

  Nonie and Gunter exchanged anxious glances. If the village bailiff paid a visit it always meant trouble somewhere, a killing or a robbery. Gunter sighed. They’d be rounding the men up to make a search for the felon – just when he was about to tuck into his supper too.

  ‘Fetch him in, lass . . . quickly,’ Nonie said, wiping her hands on a sacking apron.

  She pulled out a stool, gesturing towards it as a large man filled the doorway. He ducked in, nodding solemnly to Nonie and Gunter, then heaved his great hams onto the too-narrow seat.

  With another worried glance at Gunter, Nonie poured their visitor some small ale, and set it on the table in front of him. The bailiff took a swig from the beaker and wiped the beads of liquid clinging to his beard.

  ‘Has the hue and cry been raised?’ Nonie demanded, too anxious to wait for the man to come to the point in his own time.

  The bailiff shook his head. ‘It’s news from the King as brings me here.’

  Nonie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Have the French invaded?’

  The bailiff shook his head impatiently. ‘Hold hard, will you? You women are all alike, never let a man get his words out afore you’re asking questions.’

  ‘Yes, let the man speak,’ Gunter said, knowing quite well he’d never have got away with saying that to Nonie if they were alone.

  She glowered at him.

  The bailiff took a second gulp of ale. ‘There’s to be another poll tax. I’ve to record all the families and register them that has to pay in every cottage.’

  Gunter groaned. ‘How much this time?’

  ‘Twelve pennies. We’ve to pay eight by January and the rest by June.’

  ‘But last time it was only four pennies all told,’ Nonie said indignantly. ‘And it was hard enough scraping that together.’

  ‘You can’t have heard right,’ Gunter said. ‘It’ll take weeks to earn enough, that’s if I can get the cargoes, and there’ll not be many of those afore the new shearing in spring.’ He looked round the small cottage despairingly. ‘And if I pay it all over to the King, where am I to find food to put in the pot or money for rent? Rushes and candles too. The King expects us to sit in the dark, does he?’

  The bailiff grunted. ‘King doesn’t give a pig’s fart where you sit, so long as you pay up. And it’s more than the twelve pennies you’ll have to be finding. I’ve orders to register every soul in the house over fifteen years.’

  ‘The lass isn’t fifteen yet,’ Nonie said hastily. ‘So that only leaves me and Gunter to divide the tax between us same as last time.’ She gave her husband a frightened smile. ‘At least you’ll not have to raise more for Royse.’

  The bailiff lifted the beaker and drained it. ‘It’s not like last time. It was only one sum between husband and wife then. This time it’s twelve pennies for each and every man and woman that draws breath, no exceptions.’

  Nonie gaped at him, as if she couldn’t make sense of what he was saying.

  Gunter smashed his fist on the table. ‘They can’t expect us to pay that. It’s chicken scraps for the likes of Master Robert, with his great warehouse and all his properties, but my Nonie earns nothing save for what food she grows for the pot, and that’s not enough to feed us, never mind have any spare to sell. And what about the likes of Alys’s faayther? Is he to pay ’n’ all? He can’t even find his rent and Martin won’t pay for him. You’ve got to tell them – tell them none of us can pay.’

  The bailiff clambered to his feet. ‘It’s no good you ranting at me. If you’ve a complaint about the poll tax take it up with the Parliament and the King. I’ve to pay for my wife and she earns nothing either. I’ve two girls and the wife’s mother living with us as well. I’ll have to find the tax for all them, if they get recorded. I’m sorely tempted to take the old woman out one dark night and dump her in a bog pool. At least that way I’d not have to pay for her or put up with her mithering night and day. Your wife’s right. You’ll not be as hard hit as some. Be thankful for that much.’

  He paused with his hand on the latch. ‘If I were you, Gunter, I’d take one of your goats to the beast market in Lincoln. It’s a waste feeding two over winter anyway, when they’re not in milk. But you’ll have to find the tax somehow, or they’ll come and take the worth of it from the cottage. And trust me, Gunter, it’s better to pay up, even if you have to sell your bairns to do it, than have them smashing your home.’

  Chapter 10

  If a maid desires to see the man she shall marry, let her go at midnight to the graveyard and throw hemp seed over her left shoulder and recite, ‘Hemp seed I sow. Hemp seed I grow. He that is to marry me, come after me and mow.’ If a man appears behind with a scythe, it is him she shall wed. If no man appear, she shall remain a maid, and if a coffin lies behind her, she shall die before her wedding day.

  Lincoln

  The problem with life is that you can never tell where those insignificant decisions are going to lead, not while you’re alive, that is. Once you’re dead, you can see the living setting off blithely down a path that will take them straight into the jaws of a wolf. There are ghosts who try to warn the living, but the living pay no heed, so why try? If you ask me, my darlings, the dead should sit back and enjoy the entertainment the living provide for them, especially when they’re cheering for the wolves.

  Robert hurried towards his warehouse through the stream of paggers staggering under the weight of kegs, bales and baskets
as they hefted them to and from the waterfront. Horses and oxen stood between the shafts of wagons and carts, flicking their ears and waiting patiently for cargoes to be loaded or unloaded. Merchants and tally clerks bustled between them, each believing himself a person of importance to whom others should give way. But men are as stubborn as bulls in refusing to step aside and collisions were so frequent it was a wonder the Braytheforde wasn’t bobbing with bodies.

  To a visitor, the city’s frenetic activity along the waterside would have given the impression that trade was flourishing, but it was not. Ever since Lincoln had lost its wool staple to its rival Boston two decades before, the city had been in decline. Wool, the very cornerstone of England, was no longer compelled to pass through Lincoln, and as the foreign merchants had moved on, so had Lincoln’s prosperity. There were, Master Robert reflected bitterly, only half the boats in the Braytheforde today that there had been when he had started in the business.

  His mood was not lightened when he climbed the stairs outside his warehouse and entered the tally room, an open loft suspended high above the ground, from which those who did not have to sweat for their supper could look down on those who laboured for them.

  Jan was already seated at the small table, moving jetons around on the counting board, as he checked the sums against a sheaf of parchments. He glanced up, cursing as the gust of freezing wind from the open door threatened to sweep everything from the table. He made a grab for the slips, shoving them under weights and measuring sticks to secure them, before turning his attention back to his father.

  ‘What brings you here? It’s not Mother, is it? Has she got worse?’

  Robert picked up one stack of parchments and flicked through them, oblivious of his son’s furious glare. ‘Your mother’s no worse, but she’s no better either. I’ve sent for the physician. No doubt he’ll charge a barrel of gold for telling her to keep abed and drink a posset to soothe her, but Beata kept pressing me to fetch him. Seems to think Edith should have recovered before now.’

  Edith had fallen ill four days ago. Robert was sure it was nothing more serious than bad gripes of the belly, caused by something she had eaten. True, none of the rest of the household had become sick, but a fragment of spoiled meat had been known to affect one person while others were left untouched, and gentlewomen were known to be more delicate of stomach than menfolk or servants.

  Jan wrenched the parchments, now in the wrong order, out of Robert’s hand. ‘You didn’t have to come today, Father. You could have stayed with Mother. I told you I could manage.’

  Robert grunted. ‘She sent me. She said I disturbed her, pacing about. Besides, I want a word with Tom. He must make plain to the cottagers that the rents will be rising next quarter, no exceptions.’

  ‘I’ve told him that already,’ Jan snapped. ‘You want me to be firmer with the men, but how can you expect them to take any notice of me, if you keep—’ He broke off as they heard two pairs of feet ascending the stairs outside.

  There was a timid knock at the door, and Robert, assuming it was one of the men, strode over and wrenched it open, prepared to bark at whoever was standing there. But, to his delight, he saw Catlin and behind her the diminutive figure of Leonia. Beaming, he stepped aside, ushering them in. Leonia went to the edge of the platform to peer down into the warehouse with undisguised fascination at finding herself so high up.

  ‘Do take care, my dear. It’s a long way down,’ Robert warned.

  She smiled up at him and obediently stepped back. ‘Is this all yours, Master Robert?’

  He nodded, gratified to see the awe and delight in her eyes. ‘All mine, and one day, it will all be Jan’s, won’t it, my boy? Mistress Catlin, I believe you know my eldest son, Jan?’

  She bestowed one of her enchanting smiles on the lad, and Robert saw a red flush creep across Jan’s face.

  ‘Mistress Catlin’s late husband was a member of the Guild.’

  Robert didn’t know what had possessed him to say that, except that it seemed to justify his continuing acquaintance with her. Not that he should need to explain his actions to his son, or anyone for that matter, he told himself. But guilt always makes a man feel he has to say more than is wise.

  Catlin smiled. ‘Your father is such a shrewd businessman, Jan. I don’t know what I would have done without his guidance.’

  ‘Is that so, Widow Catlin?’ Jan said, darting a sharp look at Robert. ‘But if you will excuse us, we have work to do. My mother’s sick. My father’s anxious to return home to her as soon as he can.’

  Catlin nodded earnestly. ‘Of course. I won’t detain you either, Master Jan. I understand how busy you must be. Your father has told me how hard you work and how much he relies on you. But it was because I heard your poor mother is sick that I came. A neighbour of your wife’s cousin mentioned it and I thought perhaps a jar of sweet oil might comfort her. It will help her sleep if she rubs a little on her temples. I always find it soothes me to have such oils to perfume my chamber.’

  She bent and pulled something from her basket. It was a small clay jar, sealed with wax. Even though the seal had not been broken, a heavy fragrance hung about it of lavender and other herbs that, though vaguely familiar to Robert, he had never troubled to identify. She set the jar on the table.

  Jan muttered something that might have been his thanks, while Robert beamed at her. It would never have occurred to either of them to buy such a thing for Edith. Only a woman would think of it. Robert decided it might be prudent not to tell Edith who had sent her the gift. Better to pretend he had bought it himself.

  ‘And how is that little dog of yours, Leonia? I trust he is behaving himself.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s rather naughty,’ Catlin said, with a tiny laugh. ‘He seized Leonia’s favourite gown when it was drying and tore it, then nipped her when she tried to stop him. But as I told her, he’s only a puppy and will learn.’

  Robert was about to say that he’d buy the child a new gown but, catching sight of his son’s face, he thought better of it. He’d have one made up and sent to her. There was no reason for Jan to know.

  Leonia was once more edging close to the edge of the platform and Robert could see that she was fascinated by the hooks and pulleys, as the men swung them to lift great barrels and bales onto the stacks below.

  ‘My dear, do be careful!’ he warned again. ‘Jan, why don’t you take the child and show her the warehouse before she tumbles into it?’

  ‘Father, I have these bills of sale to check. Besides, a warehouse is no place for a little girl – she may easily be crushed.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to go with her. After Mistress Catlin has come all this way to bring a gift for your mother, the least you can do is show her a little courtesy.’

  ‘Please will you take me?’ Leonia beamed eagerly up at Jan. ‘I’m sure you know everything about how it works and I’ve never been inside a warehouse before.’

  Jan, it appeared, could no more resist her large brown eyes than his father could, and his expression softened as he held out his hand to her. ‘I can spare only a few minutes.’

  Robert waited until he heard their footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs outside, then positioned himself on the stool behind the table close to Catlin. They were seated right at the back of the loft, where he knew they couldn’t be seen from the floor of the warehouse.

  ‘You’re tired, Robert,’ Catlin said. ‘You’ve been exhausting yourself worrying about poor Edith and the business. You must rest else you’ll fall sick too.’

  Beata, Edith or even his physician might have said exactly the same thing to him for there was nothing intimate about the words. But a look of wondrous tenderness shone in her eyes as she said it, as if she were deeply concerned for him.

  He caught again the sweet, heady perfume from the jar of oil, as she leaned closer and whispered, ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, Robert.’

  He edged his hand towards hers beneath the table, reaching out u
ntil he touched her delicate little fingers. For the first time since he had known her, she did not pull away. He felt her thumb stroking the back of his hand, like the caress of a feather. Neither spoke. They had no need for words as they gazed entranced at one another. It was as if they were fifteen again and this was their first and only love.

  Chapter 11

  If a person is possessed of the evil eye against their will and does not wish to do harm, let their first glance in the morning, which is always the most deadly, fall upon some tree or bush. In this way the tree will wither and die instead of a man or beast.

  Greetwell

  Snow was whirling in the darkness as Jan stepped out of the last cottage in Greetwell. After the warm, smoky fug of the tiny room, the biting wind seemed unnaturally cruel. He shivered, drawing the long point of his hood across his mouth and nose. The snow was not falling in soft flakes, but as frozen powder that stung the skin and eyes, like blown sand.

  He cursed himself for having left it so late to start for home. It was still early evening, but he’d forgotten how quickly a winter’s night closed in on the bleak marshes where no burning torches lit the streets or warm candlelight spilled from the houses. He was relieved, though, to have finished the unpleasant task. He’d dreaded telling the tenants their rents were going to rise, but it had had to be done.

  Tom was his father’s rent-collector, but Jan could hardly send the man to deliver such unwelcome news. Such tidings must come from Master Robert’s steward, the sooner the better to give the cottagers a chance to earn the extra coins. The news had not been welcomed, of course, and Jan had been obliged to listen to the shouts and wails, the pleas and arguments in every cottage he visited.