The Vanishing Witch

by Karen Maitland

  I stroked his hair until I felt him relax beneath my fingers. Then I slapped his face so hard that he fell back against the pillow with a cry. ‘You think to threaten me? Don’t make me choose, Edward. You might not like my choice.’ Shaking with anger, I turned and climbed the stairs back up to the bedchamber and my sleeping husband.

  It seemed I was losing control of both Edward and Leonia and I couldn’t afford to do that. They thought they could challenge me and I wouldn’t tolerate it. Leonia would not try anything more with my husband, not after last time, I was sure of that. Perhaps Edward, too, needed shearing, just to remind him of whom he was dealing with.

  He was right about one thing, though. Time was running out for both Edward and Leonia. Robert was no closer to regarding Edward as a future heir. In fact, the more time they spent in each other’s company, the greater became their mutual loathing. My sweet boy did not have the disposition for crude commerce, for which I was eternally grateful, but Robert was continually measuring him against that bumpkin Jan and finding him lacking. It was only a matter of time before Robert’s shredded nerves snapped and he had Edward thrown out of Lincoln, or worse.

  I pulled my wrap closer, feeling the soft fur caress my bare buttocks and thighs, like my lover’s fingers. A shiver of pleasure tingled down my spine. Why wait any longer? The sooner Robert was dead, the sooner my lover would be lying in that bed. We wouldn’t need to hide in some filthy tower or the corner of a field. We could be in each other’s arms, day and night, whenever we chose.

  The great mound of flesh gave another whistling gasp and the bed groaned in protest as he turned over to resume his relentless snoring. My fingers itched to press a pillow over his face and hold it down until I had smothered the very breath from his sweaty carcass. But I restrained myself. Believe me, it’s not as easy to kill a man in that way as one might imagine, however satisfying.

  Besides, the most delicious idea had just occurred to me, one that would throw no suspicion on me at all. In fact, if I played the grieving widow well enough, the King himself might press a handsome settlement upon me for the sake of his loyal, but tragically deceased servant.

  I looked down at the dark hump beneath the covers. Before the next full moon that body would be stretched out cold on the table below in the great hall, like a slab of the roast beef to which he was so partial. And I would indeed be mistress of all.

  Chapter 67

  Night after night, a man was tormented by human voices chattering beneath his window and saw several cats, mice and toads gathered there. Thinking them to be witches’ familiars, one night he attacked them with an axe. The next day three old women in the village were found dead from axe wounds.

  Lincoln Castle

  A shaft of grey light drifted sluggishly through the tiny grille in the door. Gunter woke and, for a few precious moments, thought he was at home in his own cottage, until, with a rush, all his senses kicked in at once – the prickling of straw on his skin, the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, the groans and snores, the stench of sweat, piss and shit of men. He leaned forward, trying to ease the cramp in his leg, weighed down by the heavy iron fetter around his ankle. When they’d dragged him into the cell, they’d taken his wooden leg from him, claiming he might use it as a weapon. Besides, they chuckled, he wasn’t likely to need it where he was going. The loss had made him feel more vulnerable and helpless than the fetter around his good leg.

  There were six men in the tiny cell in the castle. It was where Gaunt’s men-at-arms were usually held if they had offended their superiors. Each man was attached by chains from his legs to a central pillar. More chains hung from the walls behind them, so that, if necessary, prisoners could be stretched backwards, over sharp pieces of wood, their wrists fastened to the wall behind, unable to move at all. Gunter prayed this torture would not be used on them. Hankin would be in agony.

  Hankin! A sudden panic drenched him and he tried to wriggle closer to the boy. He was lying on his side, his face turned away from his father, and in the dim light, Gunter couldn’t see if he was breathing. He reached out and touched him. Hankin jerked backwards, startled out of sleep.

  Gunter patted his shoulder. ‘Easy, Bor. How’re you faring?’

  With a groan, Hankin shuffled as far away from his father’s hand as the chains on his leg would permit. Gunter felt a stab of pain. His own son was frightened of him, more frightened even than of the men-at-arms who had come for them. He didn’t blame him. How could he explain that he’d only wanted to spare him the horrors that lay ahead of them? How could you tell your own son you’d knelt at his bedside and prayed for him to die?

  At least from the brief touch Gunter knew his fever had not returned. The men-at-arms had been merciful to the lad. Seeing that he could not walk, one rider had carried the boy in front of him, slung face down over the horse. The jolting and bumping must have been painful, but at least he had not been made to walk as Gunter had.

  Gunter’s wrists had been bound to a long rope and he had been forced to limp all the way to the city, then up the steep hill to the castle. The deep lacerations and bruises to his wrists and the grazes to his leg and arms bore witness to the two occasions he had slipped and fallen from sheer exhaustion, but the rider had paused long enough to allow him to pull himself to his feet again. He knew many would not have done that.

  They heard a jangling of keys and the heavy door creaked open.

  ‘Keep your heads down and put your hands on your knees, where I can see them,’ the soldier called. ‘One wrong move from any of you and I’ll have you all in full chains.’

  Hankin struggled to sit, groaning as he did so. Gunter glanced at him, but the boy wouldn’t look at him. The soldier dropped bread and pieces of salt pork into the lap of one of the men, shaking his head at the man sitting next to him. ‘You’ll be going hungry again, Mack. Your daughter’s not brought anything today. Maybe she’ll bring you some supper, if she thinks on it. Mind you, from what I seen of her and young Hob at back of castle last night, I reckon she’s got other things on her mind. You want me to remind her, if she comes to help him polish his pike tonight?’

  Mack snarled a mouthful of threats, but the soldier only grinned. ‘Watch what you say, ’less you want your back stretching.’

  The soldier walked round to stand behind Hankin. ‘Your mam sent this for you and your father.’

  He dropped a package wrapped in sacking into the boy’s lap. Bread, a piece of dried eel and two onions rolled out.

  ‘She’s here? Can I . . . see her?’ Hankin asked.

  The soldier laughed. ‘You’ll see her – at the gallows. The justices’ll make sure she has a place right at the front so she can watch you dancing on the rope. Wouldn’t want to miss that performance, she wouldn’t. We always make sure we keep the best spot for the wives and mothers. Only fair.’

  One of the other prisoners looked up. His face was swollen down one side and his eye blackened and closed. ‘He’s not been tried yet. None of us have. They have to give us a trial. It’s the law.’

  ‘Don’t you fret, you’ll get your trial. Tried and executed within the hour, that’s the way of it. What I mean is, they’ll start the execution as soon as sentence is passed and you’ve been shrived, but I can’t promise how quickly you’ll die. Depends on how they do it.’ The soldier grinned.

  Gunter glanced at his son, but Hankin was staring straight ahead at the pillar, his jaw clenched as if he was trying hard not to cry. Gunter could see he was terrified.

  ‘But I’ve done nothing,’ the man protested. ‘I swear by all the saints. I was helping my brother. He lives up Grimsby way. Send word to him. He’ll tell you. A dozen honest men saw me there and they’ll swear to it.’

  The soldier shrugged. ‘Nowt to do with me. There’s a list. If your name’s been put on the list, that’s it. Commissioners send names to London. Then, when there’s a judge free, he’ll come here and try you, ’less they send you to London. You’ll have to argue your case then. Now it�
�s my job to keep you locked up safe here, till they decide what’s to be done with you.’

  Gunter raised his head, taking care to keep his hands on his knees. He didn’t want to give the soldier any cause to make conditions worse. ‘Robert of Bassingham. Was he the one who named me?’

  The soldier kicked him lightly, but without malice. ‘You know you can’t be asking me that. They don’t want your families taking revenge on those who inform. Mind you, I reckon they already have. They say someone tried to poison Master Robert. Wasn’t you, was it? There again, doesn’t much matter if it was. Can’t execute a man twice over, can they?’

  Chapter 68

  You may protect a cow or a child from the evil eye, if you hang a wreath of rowan about their neck and recite, ‘From witches and wizards and long-tailed buzzards, and creeping things that run in hedge-bottoms, Good Lord, deliver us.’

  Lincoln

  The sun was sinking, ripening to blood-red in the sky. It had rained earlier, a sudden deluge that had turned the dust and dried dung on the paths instantly to cloying mud, as slippery as slush. Godwin had taken shelter outside the city walls at the top of the hill. The rain had stopped as quickly as it had begun, and as the earth began to steam, he picked his way down towards the gate that led into the lower city, following the line of the high cliff edge and trying not to slip on the steep slope.

  He was so intent on watching where he placed his sandals that he barely noticed the two small figures climbing up the track towards him. When he heard a voice that sounded familiar, he glanced up and, recognising the pair, swiftly pressed himself behind the angle of the city wall.

  The boy he’d come to know as Adam was climbing the steep track towards him, in the company of the witch’s spawn, Leonia. Her close-cropped hair shone like polished ebony in the sunset. The boy smiled at her, trotting alongside, as trusting as a puppy, and Godwin was seized with the desire to run and snatch him away from her, but he forced himself to remain hidden. Just before they reached the place where he was concealed, Leonia squeezed between two trees and disappeared. Adam followed. Cautiously, Godwin crossed the track and peered over the edge, just in time to see Adam vanish into the bushes on a wide ledge below.

  He knew even before he approached the edge that Leonia was leading Adam into a snare. One from which he would never emerge alive. She would use him, as her mother had used all the men she had entrapped, then taken a cruel delight in watching them die. Godwin was sure that the power to make men suffer, the power to kill, meant more to Pavia than even the money she bled from them and that the same venom coursed through her daughter’s veins, exciting her, making her stronger with every conquest she devoured.

  As quietly as he could, Godwin clambered awkwardly over the edge of the cliff, grasping the wiry bushes and tree roots to stop himself falling. His foot dislodged a small shower of stones. He froze, looking down, but the children did not appear. He breathed again and eased himself onwards, until his foot touched the ledge. He crouched on the wet grass, but could see no sign of them. Had they climbed further down? He was about to creep to the edge of the ledge when he heard low voices coming from behind him. He crawled towards the cliff face. The voices were coming from behind a bush, but sounded strangely muffled.

  ‘I don’t want him to touch you again.’ The boy was speaking.

  ‘As soon as you bring Catlin in he’ll stop. Besides, after that he won’t be able to do anything. They’ll both be punished. They must be.’

  ‘But I can’t . . .’

  ‘You can. I know it. I showed you this place because I trust you, Adam. We take care of each other, remember. See? I’ve made a cord for you to hang a bear’s claw round your neck. That will make you stronger than any of them. Hold out your hand.’

  Adam gave a little gasp of pain.

  ‘Squeeze three drops of your blood into the water.’

  Godwin shuffled closer, peering through the bushes, and only then did he see the slit in the rock. It was dark inside the little cave, but a narrow shaft of light fell on Leonia’s hands. She and the boy were sitting cross-legged, facing each other. Leonia was holding a curved piece of bone that looked like a fragment of a skull. She was using it to scoop cloudy grey water from a big clay pot, drizzling it onto Adam’s bare head, once, twice, three times. A mixture of water and wet ash slid down his forehead, in blasphemy of baptism.

  Each time Godwin saw Adam, he saw himself staring out of the boy’s eyes. He’d been much the same age when Pavia had come into his life and not a day had passed since he had returned from France, a broken travesty of a man, that he’d not cursed himself as a fool for the easy trust he’d put in that witch. She’d taken everything from him, his father, his sisters, his home, his inheritance, his name, and had left him to suffer and die at the hands of the French. The cruellest betrayal of all was that she had first made a little boy love her as his mother. He would not allow her daughter to destroy another innocent boy, the boy he’d once been.

  It was all he could do to stop himself shouting a warning to Adam, but he knew it would be useless. Even if he could make the boy tarry long enough to listen to his tale, Adam would not believe him. Would he have believed it himself at his age? Adam was in thrall to the girl, bewitched by her. He’d defend her, fight for her to his own death, if she told him to.

  Godwin cautiously backed away and retreated up the cliff, waiting impatiently in the shadow of the wall until the children emerged over the edge and sauntered back down the path that circled the city wall. When they reached the corner, Leonia stopped and turned her head, looking back up the path to where Godwin was hiding, a triumphant expression on her face. For a moment, Godwin felt a throb of fear, as if she was warning him she’d known all along he was there. But then he realised she was not looking at him. Her gaze was fastened on something further up the track behind him. Drawing tighter into the shelter beneath the stone wall, he turned to see what she was watching but the path was empty, save for something black and furry that shot across into the bushes. She must have been watching a cat. When he peered out again, the children were gone.

  As swiftly as he could, Godwin climbed back over the cliff edge and this time he crawled right inside the cave. He supposed it must be a burial chamber of some ancient tribe, long gone from the earth. The clay urns were decorated with all manner of strange beasts – boars, bears, snakes and wolves. Many had been smashed, spilling ash and fragments of bone over the floor.

  Godwin, crawling on all fours, searched carefully. His chest grew tight as he struggled to breathe in the dust and ash. The great rock above him seemed to be slowly sinking towards him, trapping him, crushing him, as if he was once more back in the dark hole of that French oubliette. His arms were trembling and sweat ran down his face, but he forced himself to remain inside. He needed something the girl would recognise that would bring her back here alone. But it was hard to make out any object in the dim light. What would she understand as a message? A fragment of pot? No, that wasn’t enough.

  His foot slipped in the dirt and he heard a grating sound as his sandal knocked against something behind him. Turning awkwardly he saw that he had dislodged a small slab of stone and beneath it, in the twilight, he caught a glint. He crawled towards the little hollow. There, lying in a nest of ash, encircled by amber beads and bears’ claws, was an amulet in the form of a golden boar’s head studded with garnets. Godwin’s mouth was as dry as the charred bones around him, but his parched lips cracked into a smile as he snatched up the golden boar, kissing his fist in triumph. You shall not suffer a witch to live!

  Chapter 69

  If a man who has been baptised touches a witch with a branch of rowan, the devil will carry her off when he next comes seeking a victim.

  Mistress Catlin

  I waited for him in the tower. I swore I wouldn’t go back to that filthy place, but trying to slip out of the city at night without the watchmen asking questions had become impossible since the uprising.

  Behind me in the city,
the blazing torches set pools of orange and mustard light flickering down the darkened streets. In front of the tower, the dark red fires of Butwerk glowed, illuminating nothing save the distorted shadows of creatures that slid between them, like monstrous bats. Raucous laughter, yells and occasionally a scream of pain rose up with the stinking smoke of the fires, but who laughed and who cried out in darkness, only the inhabitants of that desolation knew.

  Now that the sun had gone down, a chill wind from the river whined through the window. I shivered. We would not be naked tonight, but soon, soon we would be together in Robert’s own bed, if all went to plan.

  I heard his footsteps on the wooden stairs and hastened to the trapdoor, holding out a hand to help him as he climbed through it. He kissed me briefly, then drew away, staring at the filthy bare boards, his face wrinkled in disgust.

  ‘At least you might have had Diot bring the sheepskins. I’ve made love to you in some piss-poor places, but I draw the line at hard boards.’

  ‘You’d prefer my husband’s bed.’

  ‘You know I would.’

  ‘Then, in a few days, you shall have it.’ I reached up and stroked his face. ‘Haven’t I always given you what you wanted?’

  Laughing, he caught me round the waist and, lifting me, whirled me round, like an excited child. ‘You’ve thought of a way?’ He set me down, and held me by the shoulders. ‘Tell me how you’ll do it.’

  ‘How we will do it,’ I corrected him. ‘Thanks to my diligently spreading the word, every man in Lincoln knows he’s a king’s commissioner, so it will come as no surprise to anyone if he is found with a dagger in his chest.’