The Vanishing Witch (36 page)

Course, I know children’ll hunt out any old piece of rubbish to turn into a toy – a fragment of glass becomes a princess’s jewel and a bit
of stick a knight’s sword – but, still, the sight of that spider crawling across my old comb made me shudder as if it were in my own hair. I found myself tearing my linen cap from my head as I hurried from the hall and scrubbing at my hair, for my scalp was itching as if a nest of spiders had hatched out in it and were running all over me.

It was a good half-hour before I could stop scratching
long enough to rinse the pewter. I carried it back to the great hall ready to set the table. I opened the door a crack and peered at the casement seat at the far end of the hall but it was empty. I thought the hall was, too, until a movement caught my eye as I pushed the door wider and stepped in.

Catlin and Edward were standing in the corner behind the door. Catlin was pushing the stopper into
the flask of hippocras, the spiced wine that was always kept on the oak chest especially for Master Robert. He often had a measure after his dinner, for he said it settled his stomach – at least, that was his excuse. It was expensive even by Master Robert’s standards. Surely Catlin wasn’t serving it to that good-for-nothing son of hers. The master wouldn’t take kindly to that. But then I saw that
neither Catlin nor Edward had goblets in their hands.

I grinned to myself, making a huge bustle of laying the table. At least I’d prevented Widow Catlin pouring any wine for that wastrel. Not even she’d have the gall to do it in front of me and I’d make quite sure I never gave her the chance. I was determined to keep my promise to poor Mistress Edith that I’d watch over Master Robert and her
sons. I’d not been able to protect Jan, but I’d make certain that scheming harlot didn’t hurt Master Robert and Adam, not while I still had breath in my body.

Monkshood and dwale belong to Hecate, the moon goddess of the witches, and by their use are witches able to fly.

The night air was as hot and thick as pottage. The midges and biting gnats swarmed over the stinking ditches and sewers. Women and many men wafted bunches of mint to keep them at bay, or pinned sprigs of lavender, rue and fleabane to their clothes till they resembled
walking bushes. But the hardy paggers and boatmen merely slapped their itching arms and faces and hurried towards any of the inns that were close enough to the Braytheforde to catch the night breeze.

After the long trudge up Steep Hill, grime and sweat were running down Tenney’s face – he looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of slops over him. He was sorely tempted to go back to Braytheforde
and join the paggers in the Mermaid, but he forced himself to keep climbing. He’d not been able to stop thinking about that wool-walker.

He’d said nothing to Master Robert about the fuller’s warning. What would have been the point? Given the rage he’d fallen into when Jan had tried to warn him against Catlin, Tenney knew his employer was not going to toil up here and seek out some stranger to
listen to tales against his wife. And there was always a chance the man was working for the Florentines, as Master Robert feared. After what had happened to Jan, Tenney certainly wasn’t going to risk helping them to spring a trap to catch Robert. If there was danger to be faced, better he walk into it than his master. Besides, Tenney reckoned he could put up a better fight than Master Robert any
day. He touched the hilt of the freshly sharpened knife in his belt and took a firmer grip on the stout wooden staff.

Tenney searched the faces of the half-dozen or so beggars lying listlessly beneath the alms window outside the church of St John the Poor. A couple lifted their heads and held out their bandaged hands, but it was a half-hearted gesture. Any seasoned beggar could tell by the way
Tenney studied them that it was not charity that had brought him here. He was looking for someone. They’d seen that intense expression before on men’s faces and turned away. They weren’t about to rat on their own, unless he offered a good purse, which Tenney certainly didn’t look as if he could afford.

Tenney prodded the nearest beggar’s foot with his boot. ‘I’m looking for a man who says he’s
a wool-walker. I reckon he’s lost his right hand.’

‘Found it for him, have you?’ The beggar sniggered. He held up the stumps of his own two arms. ‘Find mine ’n’all, can you?’

The others laughed. Dozens of men in Lincoln were missing one hand or both, some lost in battle or in accidents at work. Others had had them amputated to save their lives when a cut had turned foul. Possessing only a single
hand was hardly enough to identify a man and, in truth, Tenney didn’t know for certain that the fuller’s hand was missing. It was only when he tried to recall what the man looked like that he realised he could remember little about him, except the manner in which the sleeve of the shirt hung down at the end as if there was nothing beneath it.

Tenney was turning away, when a bundle of cloth lying
in the far corner of the churchyard uncurled into a man who struggled to his feet. The movement caught Tenney’s attention. The wool-walker immediately recognised him, even if Tenney could not have picked him out of a crowd. The man made his way towards him over the twisted bodies of the beggars.

‘Where’s your master?’ the wool-walker demanded, as soon as he drew close.

‘Let’s hear what you’ve
got to say first. See if it’s worth troubling Master Robert with it.’

Seeing the scowl on the man’s face, Tenney added, ‘If you were hoping to tap him for a heavy purse, you’re a fool. He’d not pay for information at any time, but especially not against her. You’d be more likely to find yourself whipped out of town at a cart’s tail. So be grateful it’s me you’re speaking to, not him. I’ll share
a flagon with you, but that’s all the payment you’re getting.’

‘I don’t want his money or yours,’ the fuller growled. ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to save your master’s life, you numbskull?’

Tenney shrugged and gestured towards an inn, whose door lay open, spilling a pool of candlelight and chatter into the darkening street. They walked to it in silence, which neither attempted to break until they
were sitting in one of the far corners with a large flagon of ale between them on the table. Both men drank deeply, but Tenney set down his leather beaker first.

‘When you came to the house you were blethering about the master’s new wife putting him in a grave. I reckon she’s set to break his heart, but can’t see her sticking a knife in it.’

‘If you thought she was no threat, you wouldn’t have
come.’ The man’s voice was unnaturally low and grated, like a stone coffin lid being dragged into place. ‘You know what she is,’ he added.

‘I know nowt,’ Tenney said. ‘And I warn you, if this is just a trick to get near my master and do him harm, I’ll not be throwing you out this time, I’ll be throwing you in – into the Braytheforde with your back snapped in a dozen places.’ He clenched his great
hand into a fist on the table just in case the stranger should be in any doubt. But the man didn’t flinch. ‘You got a name?’ Tenney demanded.

‘Godwin, though there isn’t a soul in the world who calls me that now. When you no longer own a name, that’s when you know even the devil has turned his back on you.’

Tenney could hear him wheezing and began to worry that he might have a fever. He leaned
away from him. ‘Out with it, then,’ he said. ‘What is it you’ve to tell me?’

Godwin drained the last dregs from his beaker and waited for Tenney to refill it.

‘To look at me now you’d never think it but I was once as wealthy as your master, at least, my father was, and as his eldest son, I would have been in time. My father owned a manor in the north not far from the port of Whitby. Every day
as a child I’d ride to the top of the cliffs, and while my horse grazed, I’d spend hours lying on my belly on the grass, gazing down on the sailing ships carrying cargoes of spices and wines into port, and the warships, crammed with men, sailing out to glorious deeds of battle. Never did I imagine, during those long summers, that I’d end my days in rags, begging for coins from strangers who don’t
deign to look at me as they drop them in the dirt.’

‘Aye, ’tis as well we don’t know what lies ahead of us else half the world would cut their own throats while they were still in clouts,’ Tenney said, not unsympathetically, for what man didn’t fear ending his days begging for alms?

Godwin continued, ‘My father, a man called Fycher, traded in spices and frankincense, which he sold to churches
and monasteries. He even supplied the table and chapels of the Archbishop of York. My mother, Clare, was much younger than him and was little more than a child herself when she was brought to bed with me. Two more children followed, both girls, but as she carried the last in her belly she became sick. Her legs were so swollen that she could barely walk and she died within hours of my youngest sister’s
birth. My mother was a beautiful woman, Master Tenney. My father used to say she was too gentle and good for this world. He was heartbroken, but as the years passed her memory wore smooth, like a well-loved bench, and no longer pricked us as it once had. And that was when the witch struck, though we had no way of knowing what she was then.

‘Pavia was a young woman, not much older than my mother
had been when first she and my father met and in many ways much like her to look at. Perhaps that’s what attracted my father to her. She’d come to stay with us as the companion of an elderly cousin of my father’s, and when the old woman took a nap, which she did often, Pavia would persuade my father to walk with her along the cliffs or take her riding. I confess, I was as enchanted by her as my
father, for she cosseted me and my two little sisters and gave us the mother’s love we craved, having been deprived of it for so long.

‘In due course, my father proposed marriage. It was rumoured Pavia had no money of her own, that even her clothes had been bought for her by my father’s cousin. But my father was wealthy enough in his own right and in taking a second wife had no need to marry
for land or money. It was a match made in Heaven, he said. But if he had known what was about to befall him, he would have thought it a match forged by the devil himself.

‘Pavia was always slipping out to take a basket of meats to some ailing crone in the village or physic for a woman who had the fever, often going out in the middle of the night, if word came she was needed. My father said she
was a saint, exhausting herself with charity, for he saw only Clare’s reflection in her.

‘There was much trouble in the village at that time. Bonfires were seen burning on the cliff tops at the time of the old pagan festivals. A child’s corpse went missing from its newly dug grave. Bunches of Hecate’s herbs were found tied to the body of a fox floating in the sea. The parish priest was angry
and blamed the disturbances on a woman who’d not long arrived in the district and was living alone on the seashore. He said she was leading the village women back into the elder faith, and instructed the men to keep their wives home at night. But the men were growing afraid of their wives. They refused to sit at home keeping watch over them and enduring their cold fury when they could be spending
their evenings in the welcoming taverns. So, the bonfires continued.

‘In the meantime I was growing into a young man and still watching those ships sailing away to distant and exotic lands, where the spices grew and the frankincense trees blossomed. Pavia often invited a guest to dinner, a man called Peter de Ponte, an envoy who travelled between England and countries across the world delivering
documents, treaties and valuables for any man wealthy or powerful enough to need his services. My father didn’t much like or trust the man. I think he was a little jealous of the attention Pavia paid to him, but Pavia would encourage de Ponte to tell me tales of the sea, and I would sit for hours enthralled. He made life at sea seem the most exciting adventure that the world could offer.

‘Naturally,
I begged my father to let me go to sea, but he refused. I was his heir. He wanted me to stay at home to learn the business. But what lad wants to be sitting in a shop in the same town for the rest of his life, counting coins and pounding cinnamon, like a goodwife, when he could be out there among the mermaids and sea-serpents, discovering cities built of solid gold and whirlpools that can
swallow a mountain, men with the heads of dogs and women with faces in the middle of their chests? You see, I’d devoured all of de Ponte’s tales.

‘I went to Pavia and begged her to plead my case with my father. At first, she appeared as reluctant as he was to let me go, saying she had come to love me as if I was her own son and would worry so about me if I was away at sea, but eventually I persuaded
her and she worked her charm on my father. Peter de Ponte found a captain willing to take me on and, barely a month later, I found myself standing upon a rolling deck, watching the cliffs of my home recede and listening to the gulls scream warnings against our departure.

‘The night before I sailed, Pavia threw a great banquet for me, with a roasted boar’s head in pride of place upon the table
and wine flowing like the tide to toast my safe return. As a parting gift my father presented me with a gold ring in the form of an ouroboros, a snake devouring its own tail, in which a serpent’s tongue was embedded to protect me from poison. But to my consternation, when I awoke with a throbbing head the next morning, I discovered that the ring had slipped from my finger and was lost before I’d
even left the shore. I begged my gentle stepmother to look for it, for I was afraid to upset my father. She assured me she would search for it and quietly return it to me as soon as I came home, without my father ever discovering its loss.

‘I quickly learned that life at sea is not nearly as adventurous as the sea-wolves would have you believe. Mostly it’s wretched, back-breaking work, with foul
food, worse weather and nothing to see, except the hazy line of some far-distant shore. Though there were compensations to be had in the ports.’

Godwin gazed into space, his eyes soft and his mouth curving into the semblance of a smile. Tenney guessed he was picturing some enchanting girl long abandoned on a foreign shore. Every man had his dreams and regrets, but Tenney hadn’t come here to listen
to Godwin’s life story and he couldn’t begin to see what any of this had to do with Catlin. He nudged Godwin irritably with his foot. ‘If you’ve something to say about my master’s wife, spit it out, man. Tales of the sea are a penny a dozen down by the waterside and all of them far more exciting than yours.’