The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  Edward, still reeling, gaped at her. ‘What? . . . And just how am I to do that? I told you, the thieves never came back that night. I have no idea who they are.’

  ‘No, but the boatmen do or, at least, they have their suspicions. Diot heard something interesting yesterday when she went to Butwerk, concerning a certain boatman and his son. She told me she’d learned it in the marketplace, of course. One of these days I’ll make her regret trying to deceive me, but I let her think her secret is safe for now. The snippets she brings me are useful.’

  Catlin pointed with her riding whip. ‘I believe the cottage we seek lies just round that bend.’

  ‘The thief lives there?’ Edward’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  ‘Not there, but in that cottage we’ll learn what we need to know.’ She glanced up at the sun. ‘The menfolk will not be returning home for some hours yet.’ She flicked her whip lightly across Edward’s hand. ‘Let me lead the conversation when we’re in there. If you go in threatening in your usual fashion, we’ll learn nothing. It takes sweet honey to draw out a splinter, not a knife.’

  Catlin squeezed her palfrey’s flanks. Her skirts brushed Edward’s leg as she trotted past, leading the way down the track. The sweat was crawling down his face. His shirt was sticking unpleasantly to his back. He was overdressed for the heat. The high collar of his cotehardie chafed unpleasantly against his chin, and he was sure he was getting the first itchings of a heat-rash.

  He watched Catlin’s trim figure swaying gracefully in front of him, as her palfrey trotted along the path ahead. She looked as cool as if she had just emerged from the river, clad in a dark moss-green gown with a russet surcoat over it. Her long dark hair nestled on the back of her neck, caught up in the gold net caul beneath a round hat embroidered with unicorns. It was said that unicorns would lay their heads in a virgin’s lap. Catlin was certainly no virgin, but she could persuade any man she pleased to lay his head in her lap. The thought of that lard-lump, Robert, doing so made him want to kill them both.

  Catlin treated him as a child and expected him meekly to take whatever humiliations Robert handed out, as if he were a servant. Be patient. Be quiet. Well, his patience was fast running out. If she didn’t act soon, he would act for her, and Robert would be lying in that graveyard alongside his wife and both his idiot sons before the month was out. It was high time, thought Edward, that he showed Catlin he could be just as ruthless as she was. Perhaps that would make her treat him with respect.

  Edward brought down his whip sharply on his horse’s flank. She leaped forward, but almost at once slowed to a leisurely amble. Edward cursed. It seemed to him the nag was walking even more slowly than usual to prove that she had no intention of behaving as frivolously as the young palfrey in front. He kicked her viciously, but only succeeded in making her skip sideways, coming perilously close to plunging them both into the river. He daren’t risk the whip again and was forced to let her walk at her own pace, which did nothing to improve his mood.

  When he finally caught up with Catlin, she was sitting astride her mount in the shade a little way from a cottage on the riverbank. As soon as he approached, she swung her leg gracefully over its back and dismounted. She handed him her reins and walked down the track towards the cottage. Edward was left to tether both horses in the cool of the trees, then hasten after her.

  The cottage door was shut, an unusual sight at most times, but especially so in this heat. A small boy was squatting in front of it, firing stones from a sling at some invisible target in the reeds. As soon as he caught sight of them, the child scrambled up and fled. Catlin rapped on the door and stood back. A woman opened it a crack, peering out. Her face was flushed and her lank hair was escaping in greasy strands from beneath a linen cap.

  ‘A fine day to you, goodwife. I’m Mistress Catlin, wife to Robert of Bassingham who owns this cottage. Your husband is Master Gunter, is he not? And you must be his wife, Nonie?’

  The woman gave a clumsy bob behind the door. Her expression was one of undisguised fear. ‘My man isn’t here. He’s out on the punt . . . won’t be back for hours yet.’

  ‘No matter. It’s the cottage we’ve come to see. This is my son and Master Robert’s new steward, Master Edward. He must make an inspection of the cottage.’

  ‘Are we to be evicted?’ Nonie’s fear had evidently turned to sheer panic. ‘Please, I’ve bairns to take care of! We’ve paid the rent. I know it was late. Gunter couldn’t find the work and what with the poll tax . . . but next time, I swear—’

  ‘Calm yourself, Goodwife Nonie.’ Catlin smiled reassuringly. ‘There’s been no talk of eviction. But Master Edward must ensure that you’re keeping the cottage in good order as you are required to and not letting it fall into disrepair.’

  Nonie appeared far from reassured. ‘But Master Jan inspected it only a few months ago.’

  ‘Master Jan is dead and the new steward must see it for himself. Otherwise how will he know if its condition has got worse next year?’

  ‘My bairn’s sick,’ Nonie said desperately. ‘A fever . . . a contagion . . . you might catch it.’

  ‘I heard talk in the marketplace of an accident that had befallen your boy,’ Catlin said. ‘That cannot be catching, surely.’

  With obvious reluctance, Nonie opened the door, stepping aside to let Edward and Catlin enter. She made to close it again, but the heat and stench of the room were suffocating and Edward shot out his hand to stop her. ‘Leave it open,’ he said, flinging it wide. ‘I need the light to make my inspection.’

  In truth, there was so little to inspect in the cottage that a single glance might have been considered over-diligent. The furnishings consisted of nothing more than two narrow beds crammed against either wall and a rickety table newly cobbled together from assorted pieces of old wood fished from the river. Besides the woman, the only other occupants of the cottage were a thin, pale girl in the corner, about Leonia’s age. At the sight of them she shrank onto her haunches on the beaten-earth floor, wrapping her arms tightly about herself and buried her face in her knees.

  A second child, a boy, lay on his stomach on one of the beds. His face was scarlet from the heat and beaded with sweat. A cloth covered his back, through which a greenish-brown stain oozed. Much of the foul stench in the room seemed to be coming from him. Nonie’s eyes darted frantically from one to the other of her children, as if she did not know which to protect.

  This is a complete waste of time, Edward thought irritably. It was as plain as a priest’s tonsure that this woman’s husband wasn’t receiving a share of any stolen cargoes. By the look of it, he was not even being paid a few coins to turn his face to the wall. But Catlin didn’t seem in the least discouraged.

  ‘How did your son come to be hurt?’ she asked, in a tone of seeming genuine concern.

  ‘Boat . . . cargo when he was loading,’ Nonie said, without looking at her. ‘Fell . . . caught his back.’

  ‘Poor mite.’ Catlin’s brow furrowed in motherly sympathy. ‘I hear there’ve been a number of accidents with cargoes. Many lost overboard or damaged.’

  ‘My Gunter never loses any cargoes,’ Nonie said indignantly, ‘and he’s never damaged one, not in the whole time he’s been punting, ever since he was a lad.’

  ‘Except the one that hit your son,’ Catlin said.

  Nonie looked flustered. ‘Cargo wasn’t damaged . . . just my Hankin.’

  ‘Then he was a brave lad to try to save the cargo,’ Catlin said. ‘Master Robert will be most impressed to hear that. But I hear other boatmen are not so careful, are they? I expect Gunter has a few things to say about them.’

  Nonie bit her lip. ‘He doesn’t like carelessness, but he wouldn’t speak ill of any, Gunter wouldn’t.’

  ‘A good, honest man, I’m sure.’

  Hankin moaned as he shifted his leg, trying to get more comfortable.

  ‘His wound looks bad,’ Catlin said. ‘Let me look. If I tell my apothecary what the wound needs, I can have
him prepare something to help.’

  She took a pace to the bed, but Nonie sprang between them. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, mistress. It’s no sight for a gentlewoman. There’s a woman lives in Butwerk is good with herbs. Everyone in these parts goes to her. She’s giving him what he needs.’

  ‘I insist. The boy’s in pain and the apothecary will have physic far more powerful than any cunning woman can brew from a few leaves. My husband would never forgive me if he learned I had left one of his tenants to suffer, especially one who risked his life to save his cargo.’

  Thrusting Nonie firmly aside, Catlin peeled the cloth from the boy’s skin. A deep gash ran across the small of his back, the wound gaping wide as a mouth. Its blackened lips had not been pulled together with stitches to help it heal and she could at once see why. The raw flesh inside was charred and all around the wound were a hundred tiny burns.

  Hankin cried out in pain as the wound was exposed to the air. Catlin quickly laid the ointment-soaked cloth back in place.

  ‘The cargo seems to have been remarkably hot,’ she said quietly. ‘Was it burning when it fell?’

  Nonie cast a look of despair at her daughter, but the child did not look up. ‘Gunter burned the wound . . . with a hot knife . . . so it wouldn’t fester.’

  ‘Then I must certainly get the boy something that will soothe the pain of it and help it heal. We’ll soon have him back on his feet. I imagine your husband will be glad of that. He must find it harder than ever to find work without the boy to help, and with rent being due soon . . .’

  Tears sprang into Nonie’s eyes and she began to sob. Catlin caught her arm and gently guided her to the other bed, sitting down next to her.

  ‘While Master Edward inspects the roof and the outside of the cottage, why don’t we have a little talk, woman to woman? So much easier when there are no men around, with all their high-minded principles. They haven’t the least idea what it takes to keep children clothed and fed, do they? My poor husband died the very hour my little daughter was born and I was left to raise her . . .’

  Edward took the hint and walked out into the hot sunshine. Behind him he could still hear Catlin talking gently. ‘. . . honest men like Gunter, while other boatmen cheat him by bribing and stealing, getting work that should be putting food in your own children’s bellies . . .’

  For the first time that afternoon, he found himself grinning. So that was what Catlin was up to. She was good, he had to admit. His mother could have coaxed the devil himself into giving her the keys of Hell and he would never realise that he’d been played.

  Chapter 58

  Faggots of wood brought for the fire must contain at least thirteen sticks or more to burn Judas, else good fortune will leave the house with the smoke and bad luck will enter through the door with the wood.

  Greetwell

  ‘Why did you let that woman near him?’

  Gunter tossed his mutton-bone spoon back into the pottage. He’d barely swallowed more than two mouthfuls. He’d come home ravenous, but his appetite had soured as soon as Col had blurted out the news that a lady and a man on horses had come to the cottage. Nonie hadn’t mentioned the visit, which in itself both alarmed and angered him. She’d always shared every scrap of news with him when he returned each evening, usually before he’d a chance to get through the door.

  Nonie snatched the abandoned bowl from his hand, tipping the pottage back into the pot. ‘If you’re not hungry . . .’

  ‘Why did you even let them in? I told you to keep the door closed. I warned you not to let people come prying.’

  Nonie glowered at him. ‘I’d no choice. The new steward said he had to inspect the cottage, and as soon as they came in Mistress Catlin saw Hankin was in pain. She was kind. Said she’d send us some physic to heal him quicker, so he could go back to work. We have to let her try, else it could be months before he’s right, if he ever is.’

  ‘Women like her don’t do things to be kind,’ Gunter said. ‘She must have wanted something. What did you tell her? What did she ask you?’

  ‘How he got hurt, that’s what. And I said what you told me to say, except she’s not stupid, Gunter, no more am I. It’s as plain as a hen’s egg that boy wasn’t hit by a cargo. His back is burned, even I can see that, and so could she.’

  Gunter felt what little pottage he had eaten turn into a hard lump in his craw. ‘Did she say as much?’

  Nonie shrugged. ‘Asked if the cargo was on fire. I said you’d seared the wound with a hot knife to stop it turning bad.’

  ‘And she believed that?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘I think she did, which is more than I do,’ Nonie snapped. She glanced at Hankin, who was sleeping, with little Col curled up like a dog at his feet. ‘He says things when the fever takes him, wild things about a man screaming. Keeps begging me to make him stop. Then he says they’ll burn him for the pies. I can’t make head nor tail of it, Gunter. What happened? Why won’t you tell me?’

  Gunter shook his head wearily, massaging his aching stump. ‘Just nightmares is all. Everyone gets them when they’re sick, you know that. When you were taken with milk fever after our Royse was born, you thought the house was sailing off down the river and you were drowning. Remember?’

  ‘Aye,’ Nonie said darkly. ‘But I wasn’t soaked in river water. That lad’s raving about burning and he’s the burns to go with it.’

  She rose and pulled the pot from the fire, wiping the sweat from her face. It was as hot as a baker’s oven inside the cottage. She dipped a cloth in a pail of water, and as gently as she could, so as not to wake him, she laid the cool cloth across the back of Hankin’s neck.

  ‘I’ve heard him talking to the two drowned bairns today, Gunter. Said they were calling to him from the river to come and play with them. I had to hold him down to stop him trying to crawl out to them.’ Nonie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘This fever’s taking hold and the dead know it.’ She glanced fearfully at the closed door. ‘They’re out there, waiting for him. I tell you this, Gunter, I don’t care what you say, I’ll talk to a hundred Mistress Catlins if one of them can heal my son. I’ll not stand idly by and let the river ghosts take him.’

  Gunter rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Every muscle in his body was screaming with tiredness. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. Three men had been seized at Boston. A neighbour had denounced them, said they’d helped the Norfolk rebels. Their families swore it was not so, but all it had taken was one word from a man who bore a grudge. Old scores were being settled up and down the land. The King’s men were sidling up to people on the quiet, offering money to any who’d give them a name in secret. They said they wouldn’t even have to come to the trial. Their neighbours would never know who’d whispered the poison.

  The old woman in Butwerk, who’d been making ointment for Hankin, she’d surely not make the connection herself, but what if she mentioned the burns to one of her other customers, someone who realised he and Hankin had been missing from the wharf when the riots were at their height? But the justices would need no informers if Master Robert had recognised him that day in London. Was that why he’d sent his wife and steward? To discover if Hankin was also involved?

  Should he take Hankin and go before it was too late? He could lay him in the boat and be far downstream long before dawn. And what then? Where could he go with the boy in that state? They couldn’t live on the river, not without being seen, and he knew from the struggle he’d had to bring the lad home that he couldn’t tramp the countryside with Hankin in his arms, looking for somewhere to hide. A few nights out in the open without proper food or physic would surely kill the boy. But what was he supposed to do? Sit here and wait for the soldiers to come and drag them at the horse’s tail to the castle? After that, the execution: being hacked to pieces, or the slow strangulation of the rope, if they were lucky?

  For the thousandth time, he cursed his own stupidity in speaking out. He should have let Robert di
e. If it had been the other way round, the merchant wouldn’t have lifted a finger to save him. Robert would see Gunter hanged as a rebel. For what other cause would a lowly boatman have to be in London?

  Gunter struck his forehead with his fists. Why was he such a fool? If he’d bribed Fulk, if he’d stolen like Martin. What did a few thefts matter to a man like Robert? He was so wealthy he’d never even notice a few bales and barrels going missing. He deserved to lose them, raising the rents when he knew men were struggling to feed their families. If Gunter had only done as the other men had and taken enough to pay the tax, Hankin would never have run off. He’d brought his whole family to ruin for the sake of his pointless honesty. It was men who robbed and lied, bribed and cheated who were rewarded, not the honest men, the stupid, gullible fools like him.

  He’d watch his son hang beside him. His wife and children would be forced into a life of beggary, for as an executed felon all he possessed would be forfeit to the Crown, even the boat. For the first time in his life, Gunter understood why men threw themselves into the river. Maybe that was the only way to help his family. Kill Hankin, then himself. His wife would at least be able to sell the punt. And Hankin would be spared the misery of prison, then the pain and terror of a public execution. No father could watch his son suffer that.

  Gunter wandered out of the cottage, staring up at the vast arch of stars, stretching from the tiny lights in the cottages high above him on the Edge to the dark fenlands, and beneath them the glint of the twisting river, gurgling in the darkness.

  Ever since he was a boy, the river and the stars had been the only constants in his life. When the world had fallen into chaos and the Great Pestilence had swept away everything he knew and all those he loved, the river and the stars had remained. He stared down at the black ribbon of water. He shuddered as he remembered Jan’s corpse in his hands. Could he do it? Would he have the strength to kill himself when the time came? He didn’t know. The only thing he was sure of was that he must protect his son.