The Vanishing Witch (6 page)

Col glanced up
anxiously at his father, but grinned when Gunter winked at him. They knew it was a mother’s job to cosset and fret over her sons, and a boy’s job to alarm his mother a dozen times a day.

The door groaned again as Royse heaved it open, sending the smoke swirling around the small room. She was not alone. A woman followed her, slipping quickly inside with a fearful glance behind her. Alys was the
wife of a rival boatman, Martin, who lived further along the river towards Lincoln. She was no older than Nonie – they’d been childhood friends – but she seemed ancient enough to be Nonie’s mother, a rag worn threadbare and grey. That afternoon she looked worse than usual: her cheek was black and her eye purple and swollen.

Anger boiled in Gunter. Martin had hit her again, or that great lump
of a son of hers, Simon, who used his fists on her just as his father did. Gunter knew that some men beat their wives, but the thought sickened him, especially when it was a great bull like Martin, against whom most men would have had a hard time defending themselves. Why would any man so ill-use his wife? Didn’t he realise how precious your family was, how easily it could be lost to you for ever?

Nonie hastened forward and put her arms round her friend, drawing her to a stool close by the fire. She shot a glance at Gunter, warning him to say nothing. It would only shame Alys to speak of the bruises and, besides, what could anyone do about it? She was Martin’s wife. Over the years he’d crushed her till she was old long before her time and now he lusted after any younger woman. There was
scarcely a girl along the river on whom he hadn’t tried to force himself, and his poor wife knew it.

‘Will you have a bite, Alys?’ Nonie asked, reaching for a wooden bowl.

She shook her head. ‘Martin and the lad’ll be back soon, wanting their supper. They had some business . . .’ She faltered, darting a nervous glance at Gunter.

Whatever business a river-man conducted on a Sunday was hardly
likely to be lawful. It wasn’t the first time Gunter had had cause to wonder what Martin was involved in. Several cargoes recently had been delivered short. Accidents were blamed, which happened, of course, but of late there had seemed to be far more. Still, it was none of Gunter’s affair. He prided himself on delivering his cargoes safely. Surely the overseers would have the sense to stop hiring
the careless men and employ those who could be relied upon to do a good job.

Alys stared into the flames of the small fire, her brow furrowed with anxiety. It was plain she had come with something on her mind, but was finding it hard to confide. Nonie looked at Gunter and jerked her head towards the door. Alys had some woman’s problem she wanted to discuss and was embarrassed to mention in front
of him. But Nonie had to repeat the gesture several times before her husband understood.

‘Goats want feeding,’ he said, making for the door.

‘Wait. There’s . . . summat I need to ask you,’ Alys said. ‘It’s my faayther.’

‘Is he sick?’ Nonie asked.

Alys shrugged. ‘Ailing, but no worse than afore. But thing is, the steward says he still owes money for last quarter’s rent. He reckoned Faayther’s
not been taking care of his cottage. Threatened to throw him out. Martin says I’m not to give the old man so much as a farthing. I’ve managed to scrape together a little here and there. I’ve sold a few bits, but they didn’t fetch much – I could only sell what Martin wouldn’t notice had gone missing. I’ve enough to pay the rent Faayther still owes for last quarter, but I can’t pay someone to repair
the cottage, like the steward says we must. Roof’s in a bad state and some of the daub’s fallen away. You can see straight through the wall near the door. It’ll only get worse, come the frosts. Faayther can’t manage it himself any more. I don’t know what to do.’

Tears slid down her cheeks, and she wept silently. Gunter guessed she had long since learned to cry without making a sound.

The animosity
between Alys’s husband and her father was legendary in Greetwell. No one could recall exactly how it had begun, but each passing year had seen more wood heaped on the fire of their enmity. It was unheard of in the village for infirm parents not to live with their children, if they were fortunate enough to have family: who could afford to pay the rent on a cottage for themselves and another
for the old folk? But Martin swore he would see the miserable old bastard begging in the streets before he’d offer him so much as a mouldy crust. And Alys’s father told any who would listen he’d sooner drown himself in the Witham than set foot across Martin’s threshold. Poor Alys was trapped between them.

The old man got by helping neighbours to move livestock, collecting kindling and scaring
birds, jobs normally given to boys. In truth, what little food or few coins he received in exchange were given to him out of pity: he was so doddery that he was more of a hindrance than a help, but they knew he would not accept charity. When pride was the only thing a man had left, who would be so cruel as to take it from him?

Nonie gave Alys a rag to wipe her tears. ‘Don’t you fret, Alys. Gunter’ll
see to his cottage, won’t you?’ She glanced at her husband, but there was no question in her eyes. She knew he would.

Alys stared down at Gunter’s wooden leg. He guessed what she was thinking: how would he clamber about on a roof?

‘I’m no thatcher, but I’ve patched this ’un up often enough. If the damage is not too bad, I reckon we can fix it. You should see Hankin on a ladder – like a squirrel
up a tree, he is. I’d ten times sooner have that lad at my side than my leg grow back.’

The boy grinned proudly up at his father.

‘But the reeds for the thatch, I’ve no money to pay for them.’

‘Aye, well, there’s others’ll pitch in,’ Nonie said. ‘I’ll talk to the neighbours. We’ll find a way.’

Alys gave her a frail, anxious smile. ‘Martin’ll not be best pleased if he learns you’re helping
Faayther.’

Nonie put her hands on her hips. She was wearing the stubborn expression that her children and her husband knew meant she would brook no argument. ‘Martin,’ she said, ‘had better not raise an eyebrow, never mind his fist, or he’ll have me to reckon with.’

If a witch tries to bewitch you, spit at her so that the spittle lands between her eyes. That will break the spell.

The door banged in the wind as my son Edward lurched into the hall. He sank into a chair and slumped across the table, almost toppling the jug of small ale. I didn’t need to ask if he’d been drinking. His clothes were stained and dishevelled, his eyes bloodshot.
Little Leonia, still finishing her breakfast, looked up at her brother with amusement, but lowered her gaze demurely when she saw me watching her.

‘Where did you spend the night?’ I asked, trying to keep the anger from my voice. ‘I was concerned for you. We all were.’

‘Cockpit . . . tavern . . . Lots of taverns, as I recall.’

‘I suppose that means you lost heavily.’

He raised his head, licking
his lips with a white-furred tongue. ‘As a matter of fact, sweet Maman, I won . . . then lost . . . at dice.’ He giggled, then winced, clutching his head. He pulled himself upright, came round the table and kissed me. His breath stank.

‘At least you know I wasn’t with a woman. You’re the only woman in my life, little Maman.’

I pushed him upright as old Diot waddled in, a platter of fat bacon
clutched against her great belly. ‘Thought I heard you come in, Master Edward.’ She laid the platter on the table, and pushed a greasy lock of grey hair back under her cap. She folded her arms firmly across her massive breasts in the way she always did when she was vexed. ‘Mistress was right upset when you didn’t come back last night. Leaving two helpless women alone all night – anything could happen.
Any man could’ve climbed in that casement and had his wicked way with us.’

‘Or you’d lean out of the casement and drag him in, kicking and screaming, you naughty old woman. Don’t think I haven’t seen you making cow eyes at the butcher.’

Edward lumbered over, caught Diot round her bulging waist, kissed her plump cheek and spun her round, while she roared with laughter. Edward could always charm
his way round anyone, as I knew too well.

Flushed and still smiling, Diot pushed Edward into the chair and dragged the bacon in front of him. ‘You get that down you, Master Edward. It’ll sop up all that wine. When I worked at the inn I always used to serve that to my customers, come morning, after they’d had a hard night drinking. Plate of that inside them and they could ride all day.’

Edward,
looking decidedly queasy, stared at the glistening white fat and tried to push the platter away. But Diot pushed it back.

‘I think you might regard that as penance, Edward,’ I said.

He glowered at me, but dutifully picked up a small piece and manfully chewed it. Diot waited until she was satisfied he was eating, then waddled back out of the hall towards her kitchen.

Even though his face was
puffy from lack of sleep, Edward was still a handsome man, with eyes the colour of blue gentians, framed by long, thick lashes, and a streak of pure white in his dark hair – it looked as if he had thrust a jaunty feather into it. Women of all ages turned their heads to look at him whenever we went out together, giggling like tavern maids when he bestowed a smile on them. It made me uneasy. He could
so easily fall prey to the wrong woman.

He took a swig of small ale, gagging as he tried to wash down the mouthful of fat.

‘Did you have any visitors last night?’ he asked, as if the answer was a matter of indifference to him. But I knew it was not.

‘Master Robert came, didn’t he, Mother?’ Leonia’s large brown eyes were wide and guileless. ‘He stayed for ages.’

‘We had much business to discuss,’
I said.

‘Of course you did,’ Edward said, with a smirk. ‘How is that business going? I trust the investment is paying off because I’m growing tired of living here. It’s too small and cramped.’ He waved the point of his knife about the narrow hall. ‘And you know how easily I get bored, little Maman.’

I glanced at Leonia who was watching us intently. Sometimes my daughter unnerved me, always watching,
always listening, her expression revealing nothing of her thoughts. Like Edward, she could charm the fish from the sea when she chose. I thought of her as a child, but she was already twelve and I wondered how much she really understood.

‘Investments of this particular nature take time to mature, as you well know, Edward. I cannot—’

I broke off as a shriek echoed through the house. Edward leaped
to his feet and bounded to the door. He only just avoided colliding with Diot as she came hurrying the other way, panting and sweating.

I held her arm to steady her – the old woman looked as if she was about to collapse. I dragged a stool close to her and steadied her as she sank onto it, fanning herself with her sacking apron.

‘Whatever’s happened, Diot?’

She was still too breathless to speak,
but grunted, gesturing wildly out through the door. ‘Horrible . . . Who would do such a thing?’

Edward disappeared outside, and Leonia darted after him.

‘Stay here, Leonia!’ I shouted. But she ignored me.

Moments later Edward reappeared, looking as if he was about to vomit and firmly gripping Leonia’s arm.

‘Sack left hanging on the kitchen door,’ Edward said grimly. ‘Neighbour’s brats playing
a trick, I should think.’

‘Thought it was the meat from the butcher,’ Diot wailed. ‘He sometimes sends a tasty portion, if . . . I opened it and nearly climbed out of my own skin.’

‘What was in the sack?’ I asked.

‘A fox,’ Leonia said matter-of-factly. ‘It was a fox with his head cut off.’

‘Disgusting little monster wanted to take it out and look at it,’ Edward said.

‘It was interesting!’
Leonia protested.

‘It was crawling with maggots,’ Edward retorted, giving her arm a savage pinch.

She flinched, but did not cry out or draw away. She grew more like me every day. We had both learned never to let others see they have wounded you, or they will know your weakness and attack even more ruthlessly.

‘That wasn’t all,’ Diot said, shivering. ‘There was a knot of periwinkle tied about
the beast’s muzzle. It’s what felons wear when they’re dragged off to be hanged. Marks ’em for death. Evil, that’s what it is. The fox is the devil’s sign.’

‘Guilty conscience, you old witch?’ Edward said. He bent low to murmur into her ear. ‘The devil always comes for his own and you sold your soul long ago. I reckon it won’t be long before he comes to carry you off on his black horse.’

Diot
squealed in fear and pushed him away. ‘I never kissed the devil’s arse, not once—’ She broke off, clapping her hands to her mouth, her frightened gaze darting to me, as I glared her into silence. With another terrified glance in my direction, she heaved herself up, tottering from the room. She knew the rule. Her past was not to be spoken of, not even between ourselves. Diot knew what the consequences
would be if she broke it, and it amused Edward to try to trick the old woman into saying something she shouldn’t.

‘Stop tormenting her, Edward.’ I took his arm and drew him across to the small window. ‘I told you Robert was being followed. The dead fox is a warning to me to stay away from him. I know it.’

Edward shook his head, wincing: the movement was still too painful. ‘Why would anyone want
to frighten you off? It’s just a typical boy’s trick. A gang of them probably came across a dead fox when they were out roaming the countryside and thought they’d put it to good use to annoy someone.’

‘But I saw someone on the day I met Robert, hanging round the warehouse. He and his son saw the man too and Robert was unnerved, I could tell.’

‘So he has enemies,’ Edward said. ‘What man in his
position doesn’t? I should think half the cut-purses in the city follow him daily, waiting their chance. If I was a thief he’d be the first man I’d mark. He doesn’t disguise his wealth. You can’t wonder at the man being nervous at having his head staved in every time he sets foot outdoors. But thieves don’t waste their time with rotting carcasses, and if someone is threatening Robert, why leave
it on our doorstep, not his? Don’t start jumping at shadows, little Maman. You need all your wits about you now.’