The Vanishing Witch

  Jan had made straight for the tavern as soon as he’d left the churchyard. After the row at the graveside between his father and Maud, he was not in the mood for the polite chatter of the guests as they offered their meaningless twitter of condolence. No one would mention Maud’s accusations at the funeral feast, of course, but they’d be itching to pick over every detail with friends and neighbours the moment they had staggered home. Jan had stayed in the tavern until the yawning innkeeper had shoved the girl and him out of the door, and it was doubtful he’d have left then, had not the girl offered to see him safe to his lodgings.

  They tottered precariously down the steep stairs. The flickering light from the torches made the descent even more perilous for the edges of the uneven steps kept melting away into shadow. Jan leaned heavily on the girl, who struggled to balance him. It occurred to him that he couldn’t remember her name. Had she told him? No matter. She was pretty and willing and didn’t ask questions. That was all he wanted tonight, enough wine to blunt his misery and a warm body to snuggle up against, so that he was not alone. He could not be alone tonight.

  ‘It’s the English thief!’ The voice rang out mockingly from below.

  The girl jerked back so quickly that Jan almost slipped off the step. Two men were standing on the steps below him. He couldn’t distinguish their faces, but he caught the accent and guessed them to be Johan’s men. Jan, swaying, blinked down at them. He batted at the air wildly with his arm, as if he was shooing pigeons. ‘Out my way . . . If Johan wants his goods, ask the thieving bastards who stole ours.’

  One of the two took a step forward, as if he intended to rush up the stairs, but his companion held him back.

  ‘Why do you not come down here and say that, Fog-head? Maybe you are afraid to fight. You, girl, you come with us. We will show you what a real man is. This boy has to get the bailiff to fight his battles.’

  Jan gave a roar and stumbled forward, but the girl held him back.

  The man laughed. ‘No? Then we come to you.’

  Jan caught the flash of daggers, as the men reached beneath their half-cloaks. His reactions were slow, made clumsier by the girl hanging on his arm. He shoved her towards the wall, meaning only to push her out of the way of the blades and free himself to fight, but the push was more violent than he intended and she crashed into the stones, tumbling down several steps as the men rushed towards Jan. One stumbled over her, falling on top of her. The other only just managed to stop himself tripping over them. He paused just long enough to see his friend get to his feet, then bounded up towards Jan.

  Jan had been too appalled by what he’d done to the girl to do more than gape, but now, even through the wine fumes fuddling his brain, he saw that the two men were dangerously close. He struggled to find the hilt of his sword and draw it, but one of his adversaries lifted his dagger as if he intended to hurl it straight at Jan’s eye. Jan threw himself sideways against the wall, staggered and fell heavily onto the step below, but at once realised he’d been tricked. The man had not thrown the blade and Jan, sprawled on the step, now had no chance of drawing his sword from the scabbard.

  Johan’s men were almost upon him, their daggers raised, ready to plunge into his chest. He tried to twist away, but the daggers were advancing on either side of him.

  A black shadow slithered over his prone body and there was a low, menacing growl that sounded as if it came from the throat of a huge dog. Startled, all three men glanced up the steps above them. Something was flying down towards them, howling as it ran.

  ‘The monk! The dead monk!’ one man yelled. Grabbing each other, they slipped and slid back down the steps, vanishing into the darkness below.

  Jan got to his feet, finally managing to wrench his sword from the scabbard. Below him, the girl was struggling upright, pointing and shrieking at the figure hurtling towards them. Somewhere a shutter was thrown open and a woman bellowed from an upper casement. A baby started to scream, which seemed to set all the dogs within the city walls howling.

  There was the sound of running feet and two watchmen burst out of the alley and pounded down the steps, their pikes clattering as they ran. They reached the robed stranger first, but ran past him, one making for Jan, the other leaping down to the shrieking girl.

  The watchman jabbed his pike at Jan’s stomach. ‘Drop the sword. Drop it, I say!’

  Jan let it slip from his fingers and fall with a clatter onto the stones. He raised both hands to show he was unarmed.

  The second watchman hauled the girl to her feet and, with his free arm about her waist, dragged her back up the steps to where Jan stood, his back pressed against the wall’s sharp stones.

  The watchman with the pike was a spindly youth, his eyes covered with a long fringe of greasy hair, which he jerked his head to toss aside. The man who held the girl was bald, with a neck as thick as his head.

  The bald one glanced up at the open casement. ‘Leave off screeching,’ he shouted at the woman, who was still leaning out, complaining about the noise. ‘We’ve got them. Get back to bed.’

  She closed the shutters with a furious bang, setting the baby off again.

  The bald one turned his attention to Jan. ‘Was she trying to rob you?’

  ‘I never!’ the girl squawked indignantly. ‘Two men tried to attack him. He . . . They knocked me down the steps.’

  It wasn’t exactly true, but Jan wasn’t going to argue. He embarked on a long, tortuous explanation about the Florentines, Johan, the missing goods and the warehouse, several times forgetting what he was saying and trying to start again. The watchmen were clearly bemused.

  Exasperated, the bald man brushed away the garbled tale with a sweep of his hand. ‘Just give us the names of the men who attacked you.’

  ‘Told you already . . . Johan’s men,’ Jan said irritably. ‘Don’t know which.’

  The bald man pulled a face at his companion. ‘We won’t get a description out of him. He’s sow-drunk. Wouldn’t know his own mother.’

  ‘Don’t talk about my mother,’ Jan burst out. ‘She’s dead.’

  The men ignored him and the bald man glanced up the steps. ‘You there, friar. You saw the attack? You’d recognise the men?’

  Jan stared up. A man in tattered robes was crouching by the wall, his hood drawn low over his face. He rose to his feet. ‘I saw no one,’ he growled.

  ‘That’s a barefaced lie,’ the girl said indignantly. ‘He did see them. It was him that drove them off. I reckon they thought he was a ghost.’

  The friar seemed vaguely familiar, but Jan’s head was pounding. He couldn’t even try to think where he’d seen the man before, though he was certain he had.

  The watchman sighed. ‘Amazing how half the populace of Lincoln become blind and deaf if they think they’ll be called to give evidence. We could take him in, make him talk, but I suppose since there’s been no harm done—’

  ‘No harm?’ the girl protested. ‘I’m black and blue all over, and my gown’s torn. It’s new this is.’

  ‘New to you, maybe, not to the scarecrow who had it afore you,’ the bald watchman said. ‘If you got any sense you’ll take yourself home afore you find yourself arrested for whoring. Off with you!’

  He pushed her up the steps with a hearty slap on her backside. The younger watchman sniggered.

  She turned and glared at the lad. ‘I’ll not forget this. It’s the last time you get your bell tolled for nothing.’

  ‘I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .’ the youth stammered, but his companion wasn’t listening.

  ‘As for you, young master, I’d find yourself a linkman to see you safe home, afore you end up running into more trouble or breaking a leg falling into a gutter.’

  The two watchmen plodded back up the steps. Jan bent down to retrieve his sword and, pressing his hand to the wall to steady himself, began to edge his way down. Pity about the girl, pretty little thing and good company, but probably as well she’d gone. His head was throbbing now and all he wanted to do was
lie down and close his eyes to stop the ground heaving.

  ‘Wait!’ A hand grabbed his shoulder.

  He whipped round, clutching his head as the walls seemed to spin. As he tried to focus, he found himself staring into the face of the friar. Half was in shadow, but he glimpsed sallow skin pulled tight over bones and thin lips barely covering broken teeth. The flames of the torch above glittered deep within the eyes.

  ‘We must speak.’ The voice was harsh and deep. ‘It concerns your father. Things you should know.’

  A tiny spark of recognition blazed somewhere in the back of Jan’s fogged mind. ‘You . . . you were the man who followed me at Greetwell . . . on the riverbank. My horse went lame.’

  ‘A nail, that’s all. I had to make you dismount. I hoped I could speak to you before it was too late. But the children . . . those children . . .’ He shuddered.

  Even in his stupor, fury boiled in Jan. ‘You deliberately lamed my horse? What were you doing? Trying to make me break my neck or be thrown into the river and drowned?’

  ‘I swear—’

  But Jan had already come close to being murdered once that night. This time he was on his guard. He shoved the friar as hard as he could. The man fell heavily against the stones, with a cry. Jan did not look back as he staggered as fast as he could down the steps.

  ‘Listen to me, you fool . . . your mother’s death. It . . .’

  But Jan had gone.

  Chapter 21

  Pebbles or stones with holes through them should be hung near the doors of house and byre to protect the entrances from witches and demons. Keys should be attached to pebbles with holes through them to guard locks against robbers trying to open them and to prevent evil spirits entering through the keyhole.

  Greetwell

  It was already dark when Gunter and his son Hankin heaved themselves out of the punt and onto the bank. Still holding the prow rope, Gunter rubbed his aching stump to ease it, but he couldn’t afford to indulge the pain for long. The punt was being dragged back by the current, which threatened to tear the rope from his hand. He could see his son struggling to hold fast to the stern rope as he tied it off on the stout post that Gunter had long ago hammered into the bank. After all the rain, the Witham was swollen and running fast. Taking the cargo downstream had been easy, but they’d had to fight the surge every inch of the way back.

  Gunter strained on the rope, pulling it deep into the cut he had dug out of the riverbank. It was a snug fit, and ensured the boat was moored out of the flow. All kinds of things came floating down the river – timber from the boatyards, fallen branches, lost barrels, drowned sheep, boats that had broken their moorings. A current as strong as this would smash them against any moored craft hard enough to hole it.

  The wind cut sharply across the water, rustling last year’s dried reeds and sedges. Gunter stiffened as the boom of a bittern throbbed through the darkness. He’d always loathed that bird. He’d heard its melancholy call the night he’d returned home to find his mother dead and his father dying. The villagers who lived on the high cliff said an owl or raven warned of death, but the marsh-men had their own messengers.

  It had taken his father two days to die. No one would come to help them and little Gunter alone had tried desperately to save him. On those nights when his father had lain writhing and moaning, the bittern had mocked the boy’s childish, futile efforts. You fool! You fool, it cried, and later, You failed, you failed, as he tried to scrape out two shallow graves, tears and icy rain streaming down his dirty face. Inch by painful inch he’d had to drag the bodies of his parents into the pits. He’d piled the sodden earth over bloated bellies and cold grimacing faces, hideous distortions of those who had once smiled at him. It takes a long time to cover a corpse. The boy had tried hard to think of a single word of the prayers he knew must be said if his parents were not to be dragged down to Hell. But he knew not a word of Latin, and God did not understand any other tongue.

  He’d lain shivering and wet in the icy cottage, waiting for the fever to come and devour him, waiting to feel the agony his father had endured, waiting to die alone and terrified in the darkness, with only the bittern’s laughter ringing through that lonely night. But the fever did not take him. Come morning he was still alive. Stiff with cold, he staggered outside to find water to ease his throat, which had shrivelled from crying, and saw that the rain had washed clean the faces of his parents, who were staring up at him out of their shallow graves. For a wonderful moment, he’d thought they were rising from the dead and coming back to him. But the bittern knew the dead do not live again.

  Gunter had always driven the birds off after that, destroying their nests among the reeds wherever he found them, as if they were to blame. He hadn’t heard a bittern call near his cottage for years. A cold fear gripped him and he stared along the bank. In the darkness he could just make out a tiny yellow light. His wife always set a lantern outside the door to guide her husband home. It had come to be a sign between them that all was well. His fear eased a little.

  ‘Get you inside, Bor,’ he said to Hankin. ‘Tell your mam I’m coming.’

  Hankin didn’t wait to be told twice. He was starving as usual and ran towards the cottage, as if he’d just had a good night’s sleep instead of a hard day’s work. Gunter smiled after him. Where did the young get their energy?

  Gunter dragged mats of woven reeds over the top of his craft to disguise it from anyone on the river. They would not protect it from those who knew it was there, but if any of the thieving river-rats came this way on the lookout for anything to steal, they would hopefully pass by and take another boat instead. After the murder of Tom, the rent-collector, everyone had done all they could to protect their few belongings, though Gunter suspected the murderers were to be found rather closer to home. Not that he would have said as much to anyone, even if he’d witnessed the killing with his own eyes. River-men did not betray their own people, not even when they were as foul as Martin and his son.

  Satisfied that he had done all he could to protect his livelihood, Gunter dragged his aching limbs along the rough path to the cottage. Pausing to remove the lantern, he pushed open the door. Royse and Hankin were sitting on stools, shovelling bean pottage into their mouths with mutton-bone spoons. Little Col was curled up in the corner of a narrow bed built into the side of the single-roomed cottage, the edge of a woollen blanket pressed tightly against his nose. He was already sleeping soundly, his empty bowl lying beside him.

  Nonie, a cloth wrapped around her hand, swivelled the long metal bar from which an iron cooking pot swung, pulling it away from the fire. She straightened as Gunter entered. ‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘Supper’s as dry as sheep droppings. I suppose you’ve been carousing with that alewife again.’

  ‘A dozen of them. Couldn’t fight them off.’

  They smiled at each other, knowing it would never be true.

  ‘River’s running fast tonight. We had to bring her all the way from Tattershall.’ Gunter set the lantern on the table and opened one of the horn panels. The candle had burned low. He licked his thumb and forefinger and extinguished the flame. His fingers were so calloused from punting that he wouldn’t have felt the heat if they hadn’t been wetted, but it was a habit learned from boyhood and not easily broken. ‘You don’t need to hang this out. I’ve told you a thousand times, Nonie, I could find my way home if I’d been blinded. We don’t have candles to waste on lighting the river for the ducks.’

  His wife pressed her lips together and pushed the pot back over the small fire, stirring it vigorously before ladling the thick, greenish-brown mess into a bowl.

  ‘Mam thinks if she doesn’t set it out something bad’ll happen to you and you’ll never come home.’ Royse set her spoon down with a grin.

  ‘And what if I do?’ Nonie said defensively. ‘That river’s a widow-maker. There’s many a woman said goodbye to her husband at dawn and by evening he’s brought home a corpse or a helpless cripple.’ She glanced at Gunter’s woo
den leg, as if that was all the proof she needed of the river’s malice. Gunter knew Nonie hadn’t intended the word ‘cripple’ for him. There were boatmen who’d lost both arms, or broken their backs and couldn’t move from their own beds. Nonie always protested fiercely that her husband was twice as fit as men half his age with all their limbs. But the name stung, for others had spat it at him over the years and meant it.

  Nonie set the bowl on the table with a savage thump. ‘I’ve been putting that lantern out since the night I first came to your bed and I’ll not stop till they carry me out in a winding sheet.’

  Gunter caught her round the waist, pulled her into a hug and kissed her. She pushed him off, pretending to be annoyed, but he could tell she was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Stop that. You’ll wake the bairn.’ She glanced over at her little son in the bed, but Col could sleep through a thunderstorm.

  Gunter settled himself to eat. His wife handed him a chunk of coarse bread. What little wheat was in it had been mixed with dried beans and ground bulrush roots. It fell apart as soon as he bit into it and he dumped the rest in the bowl, mixing it with the pottage to soften it. He stopped chewing suddenly and pulled a little fishbone from his mouth.

  ‘A perch,’ Nonie said. ‘Col caught it. Badgered me ’til I put it in the pot for you.’

  ‘Only a tiddler,’ Royse said.

  ‘Early for them to be rising. Rain must be flushing them out. Col did well to catch it.’

  ‘Don’t encourage him,’ Nonie snapped. ‘I don’t like him going near the river when it’s up. If he falls in, like that little mite and his sister did a year back . . . I’ll never forget the look on their poor mam’s face. Half out of her mind, she was. I still see her sometimes searching along the riverbank for their bodies. There’s no one can convince her they’ll never be found now.’