The Vanishing Witch (23 page)

He held up both hands. ‘There’s no cause for you to speak to Royse. Record her, if you must. I’ll
pay the tax for her.’

The commissioner gestured to the sergeant-at-arms, who reluctantly lowered the blade. ‘Come, man, you’ve admitted you can’t even pay the sum you owe for you and your wife. Where are you going to find another twelve pennies by April?’

‘I’ll find it somehow,’ Gunter said fiercely. ‘But however we do, it’s no business of yours so long as Parliament and the King gets their
money. Now take your dogs and get out of my cottage. You got what you came for.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ The commissioner scooped up the roll of parchment and stowed it carefully in his scrip. ‘I prefer to question the girls personally. It makes for a far more entertaining evening.’

He crossed to the door and flung it open, letting in a blast of damp, cold air that set the smoke from the
fire swirling round the room. ‘By April, remember, boatman. And I strongly advise you to pay in full and on time or the dogs they’ll send next time will not be half as tame as my faithful hounds.’

The man holding Nonie bent towards her and barked in her face, laughing as she flinched away from him.

The other soldier backed to the door, sweeping the dagger from side to side as if he feared Gunter
would charge at him. And he was wise to do so, for blind rage would have given Gunter the strength to rip his head from his shoulders.

As soon as she was freed, Nonie ran to the two boys, gathering them tightly to her. Gunter crossed to the door and saw one of the men snatch up the flaming torch he’d set in the soft earth. The three riders mounted and turned their horses towards Lincoln.

Gunter
watched the guttering flame of the torch with its pendant of smoke moving away in the darkness. But even after the light was hidden from view by the tangle of willow and birch scrub, he continued to stand there, listening intently in the darkness to the sound of horseshoes striking the stones on the track. He wanted to make quite sure they did not double back.

He made no attempt to call to Royse.
Better she should remain where she was a while longer until he was satisfied it was safe. The commissioner said someone had reported that he had a daughter and that she was fifteen. If that was true, only one man held such a grudge that he would send the King’s men to a neighbour’s door. Martin was behind this.

Gunter turned back into the room. Nonie was sitting on the bed, rocking Col in her
arms and crooning over him as if he were still a nursling. Hankin was hunched on the opposite bed.

As soon as his father had closed the door, he leaped to his feet. ‘Why did you tell them you’d pay the tax for Royse? Why didn’t you just let her talk to them and tell him she’s not fifteen? They’d only have to look at her to see she’s not married. Nobody’d ever want to marry a mangy cat like her.
Why should I have to work even harder to pay the tax for her when we don’t have to?’

Gunter sank wearily onto a stool and rested his forehead in his hands. Nonie was staring at him and he knew the same question was in her mind. He shifted his weight. His stump ached and throbbed inside the wooden hollow. He longed to unstrap the wooden peg and ease it, but he couldn’t until he’d fetched Royse.
If he took it off he’d not get it back on tonight.

Nonie and Hankin were still watching him, waiting for him to speak. He’d have to tell them. He moistened his lips. ‘They wouldn’t just have questioned Royse.’

‘So,’ Hankin said, ‘they could have talked to anyone along the river. Everyone’d say the same. She’s not fifteen and she’s not married, so why did you tell them you’d pay?’

Gunter didn’t
want to explain: Hankin was just a boy – but he would have to work three times as hard to raise the money so he had a right to know why his father was forcing him to it.

‘I hear gossip, stories that would set your teeth on edge. If you believed the half of it, you’d think the poll-tax men are worse than the French soldiers who roast human babes for their supper. I don’t pay heed to most of it.
Besides, I was sure the King’s men wouldn’t be allowed to . . . I thought it was just talk.’

‘Wouldn’t be allowed to do what? Tell us!’ Nonie sounded as angry as her son and with good cause. The shock of having armed men barge into her cottage and threaten her children would make most women cry, but Nonie was not given to tears.

Gunter studied his grimy hands. ‘They said . . . some of the commissioners
were taking girls whose parents claimed were not yet fifteen and examining them to see if they were virgins.’

‘Asking the girls, you mean?’ Nonie said, as if she couldn’t believe he had meant anything else.

‘No!’ Gunter shouted, slamming his fist on the table. ‘Not
asking
them,
examining
them. They stripped them naked in front of the soldiers and their own parents and forced their fingers inside
them to see if they’re still . . . untouched. Some were only eleven or twelve years old.’

Nonie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘They wouldn’t!’

Gunter’s tone was quiet and dead. ‘I said as much myself. But when I heard it was the King’s men at the door, I suddenly thought, What if it’s true? What if they’ve come for our Royse? And when I saw the leer on that bastard’s face tonight, I knew there was
no doubt what he’d come for.’ He closed his eyes, massaging the top of his aching leg. ‘They said in the tavern that fathers and brothers were simply paying up rather than put their daughters and sisters through that.’

‘But that’s what they want,’ Hankin burst out. ‘Frightening people into paying when they don’t have to. We should stand up to them!’

‘How?’ Gunter said. ‘They were armed with
swords. Trained soldiers. You think they’d have run away if you’d slung a stone at them? If I hadn’t agreed to pay, they would’ve come back and kept coming back until they caught your sister.’ His eyes blazed as fiercely as his son’s. ‘I tell you this, Bor. I’d harness myself to a cart and pull it like a beast. I’d sacrifice my other leg and crawl on my hands, sooner than have a man like that lay
his filthy hands on my daughter or on any of my family. If I have to pay this tax ten times over to protect her, then I swear on the Holy Virgin, I will find a way to do it.’

March borrow’d of April three days and they were ill.

At dawn on Easter Sunday, you must ‘wade the sun’. Draw a pail of water and stand it beneath the skies. If the reflection of the sun in it be clear and steady, it will be a fine season and good harvest, but if the reflection be pale and trembles, then the season will be wet and cold and the crops shall fail.

I watch that ghost, Eadhild, crawling up the Greesen stairs behind
the unsuspecting pilgrim. The pilgrim sees nothing, of course, gazing up at the cathedral, eagerly anticipating the spectacle of the Easter mass and the excitement of the thronging crowd. Until, that is, he feels a cold hand seize his ankle, bringing him crashing onto the stone. The hand drags him back down the steps, while he, terrified, tries in vain to cling to them. But even when he fearfully
turns his head, he cannot see the phantasm that has seized him, or the rotting hand that holds him.

A ghost myself, I can, of course, see the wretched wraith and, more’s the pity, she can see me. Eadhild is a spiteful old hag, but she seems to have taken a liking to me. She has started sidling up to me whenever Mavet and I pass that way, nuzzling up against me and trying to twine herself about
me. Believe me, there is nothing more repellent than a long-dead crone who coyly flirts like a lively tavern wench. But even Eadhild’s mouldering hand was warmer than Beata’s mood on that particular Easter Sunday.

Beata’s lips were pressed together as tightly as a sprung trap. She banged the steaming civet of hare on the table in front of Widow Catlin. The rich blood and pig’s liver gravy slopped
onto the white cloth, but she didn’t apologise to her master or even look abashed. Diot, bustling in with a chicken crowned with eggs, wore a grin that showed she was winning the battle for control in Master Robert’s kitchen.

Robert silently thanked Heaven for Catlin’s sweet temper. Her serene smile didn’t flicker even with Beata clattering and thumping around her. She merely gave a pleasant
nod to both women. Catlin’s adorable Leonia was regarding the comings and goings of the two servants with evident interest, almost, you might have said, like a gambler weighing up the merits of two cocks in the pit. Master Edward seemed as entertained as his young sister. Father Remigius, seated beside Robert, was blissfully oblivious to the tension.

Robert sighed. Beata had been as distant and
moody as young Adam these past weeks. Adam was still grieving for his mother, but Robert couldn’t think what ailed the serving-maid. He’d believed she would be glad of another pair of hands to help prepare the Easter feast. She was always complaining that she was worn to the bone on feast days, with only Tenney to help her and him being as much use as a husband in a birthing bed when it came to
cooking. Robert, poor fool, had fondly imagined that Beata would greet the news of Diot’s arrival with grateful pleasure, but she’d declared she wouldn’t have the old hag within a mile of her kitchen, and railed on until Robert had been forced to remind her it was
his
kitchen, as was all else in
his
house. Since then she had gone about her duties in tight-lipped silence, banging and clattering
so unnecessarily that several times he’d been forced to retreat to Catlin’s home for an evening’s peace.

Father Remigius beamed at the spread laid before him. The quantities of mutton and pork dishes, already ranged among savoury puddings and pastries, were enough to feed an entire monastery. He rubbed his old hands together appreciatively. ‘What a feast indeed! You have certainly honoured Our
Lord’s rising with all your work this day, my daughters.’

Beata glowered at him, but Diot simpered as she attempted an ungainly curtsy.

‘And not a fish in sight,’ Jan said, cutting himself several thick slices of mutton. ‘After forty days of fish, I’m so hungry for the taste of meat I could devour a whole bull, if Beata could fit it on a spit.’

Father Remigius smiled sympathetically. ‘I have
to confess to being a little relieved myself when the Lenten fast is over, but we should spare a thought for the poor monks. They must fast from dawn till dusk in Lent, then partake only of a frugal meal. At least, that is the rule, though it is observed in few monasteries these days.’

‘Then you may count on it that I’ll not be taking Holy Orders, however bad business gets. It would be just my
luck to end up in one of those monasteries that do keep the fast,’ Jan said.

‘I hope you’d never consider such a thing,’ Catlin said. ‘Women would be throwing themselves into the Witham in their scores if they thought that such a handsome man as you had renounced their company.’ She laid her hand on Jan’s arm, patting it gently.

It was no more than any woman might do when teasing a friend. All
the same, Robert found he did not like it. He caught sight of Edward staring at his mother’s hand and Robert saw a spasm of hostility flick across his face as if he, too, were annoyed by the intimate gesture.

Jan withdrew his arm and turned to his young brother. ‘You haven’t touched a bite yet, Adam. Here, try this suckling pig. It’s so tender you don’t even have to chew it.’

He sliced off a
couple of pieces with his own knife and tossed them onto Adam’s pewter trencher, adding a good wedge of crackling, stained a rich golden-red by the honey and spices it had been basted with. The boy, his face white and drawn, stared at it as if his brother had put a dead mouse before him.

‘Did you not hear the compliment Mistress Catlin paid you, Jan?’ Robert said. ‘At least have the good manners
to acknowledge it.’

Catlin turned her gentle smile on him, while under the table she reached for Robert’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t scold him, Robert. He’s tending Adam as a loving brother should. He’s right. We should give all our attention to the exquisite dishes Beata has prepared.’

Father Remigius was doing just that, but he paused between mouthfuls and glanced down the table at Jan.
‘Father Peter tells me there was trouble at the Good Friday service at St Mary Crackpole between the Florentines and some of your men, Jan.’

Robert glanced sharply at his son. ‘I knew nothing of this. What trouble?’

Jan shrugged impatiently. ‘Matthew Johan’s tribe are still smarting over the goods the mayor confiscated to pay for what his fellow countrymen stole. Some of his men claim their
boats were rammed and damaged by ours, and that we’ve tried to block their moorings near their warehouse. But if anyone’s causing trouble on the waterfront it’s them. If they carry on this grudge, I’ll see to it that more of their goods are seized.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Robert demanded.

‘It was just a few punches. No one drew weapons.’

‘I should hope not indeed, not in a church and on
such a holy day.’ Father Remigius briefly closed his eyes and crossed himself.

‘They started it!’ Jan said irritably. ‘You’ve only got to look at a Florentine and he thinks himself insulted.’

‘Their blood runs too hot,’ Edward said, ripping a chicken leg from the carcass. ‘They should be bled more often.’

‘But not by my son!’ Robert snapped.

There was a languidness in Edward’s manner that,
from their first meeting, had set Robert’s teeth on edge, a dumb insolence in every gesture and expression. Even the white streak in Edward’s hair irritated him. White hair should make a man look old, but somehow it only drew attention to Edward’s youthful, well-sculpted face. Robert had instantly concluded that he thought he could get by in life through good looks and charm. Master Edward certainly
had come to the wrong house if he thought such troubadour’s tricks would work on a hard-headed merchant.

Father Remigius held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry I raised the matter. I had no wish to spoil such a joyous occasion. It’s just that Father Peter asked me to suggest – only
suggest
– that your men attend another church until this matter is settled. St Mary’s Crackpole is not their usual place
of worship, is it? And while, of course, it was Johan’s men who provoked the incident, I am sure none of us would want to see it end in bloodshed.’