The Vanishing Witch (40 page)

He still could not believe that the man they’d dragged from the Braytheforde was Master
Robert’s son. It seemed inconceivable that the peeling lump of white flesh had once been the vigorous young man he’d seen only days before striding from the warehouse. They’d arrested some of the Florentines for murder, including Matthew Johan, but they’d had to let them go. There was no proof, except that Matthew had had a grudge against Jan, but not even the sheriff of Lincoln could detain a man
for holding a grudge.

Gunter wondered if they shouldn’t be looking closer to Master Robert’s own warehouse for Jan’s killer. If Jan had discovered that Fulk was taking bribes from Martin, and challenged either of them at the warehouse, he’d have been highly likely to take a dip in the Braytheforde, just as Hankin had done.

Witnesses said they’d heard Jan shouting and crashing about in his own
chamber, and others swore they’d seen him striding round the Braytheforde in such a temper that he’d knocked an old goodwife into a wall and cracked her head open, then cursed her roundly for getting in his way. The coroner and the twelve jury men who had examined the body could make little of what they saw. There were no marks on the body, save the four puncture wounds on the face.

Jan wouldn’t
have been the first man to drink too much and trip over a mooring rope in the dark, or slip on some fish guts and pitch into the water. The marks, so the coroner directed the jury, were doubtless made by the iron shoe at the end of a punter’s quant when the body was trapped under water, by an oar or an anchor, even.

Later, several of the jurors, after they’d supped a mug or two of ale bought
for them by curious friends, said that if the coroner had learned anything about boats, which he plainly hadn’t, he’d have known there wasn’t a quant or anchor on the river that would make wounds like that. But since they’d had no better explanation to offer they’d gone along with what he’d said, not least because every hour they went on debating the matter was an hour they weren’t out earning a living.
It was agreed by all that if you were forced to serve as a juryman it was best to accept any verdict the coroner suggested, no matter how addle-pated you thought him, just to get the whole business over as quickly as possible. So, an accident it had been.

But within hours the rumours began to spread. Friends recalled Jan telling anyone who’d listen that his mother had been poisoned by the harlot
his father was to marry. But, at the time, not even his friends had thought it more than the ravings of a grief-stricken son. After all, every son regards any other woman his father takes up with as a scheming bitch. But Master Robert had wed so indecently soon after his poor wife and son had gone to their graves, which made you wonder, didn’t it?

‘Wait, hold hard there!’

Gunter looked up in
surprise as a man came hurrying towards the mooring. He was scarlet in the face and dripping with sweat, as if he had been basted over a spit. He doubled up, panting, flapping his hand at Gunter to indicate he would speak when he’d found enough breath to do so.

Gunter pulled a leather bottle of small ale from under the cross-plank where he’d placed it out of the sun and handed it up to the man.
He took a long, thirsty gulp before returning it, his face screwed up in distaste. ‘Going sour, but my thanks. Anything’s welcome on a day like this, so long as it’s wet. Which way are you bound?’

Gunter jerked his head. ‘Back up stream as far as Greetwell.’

The stranger looked blank.

‘On the way to the city of Lincoln.’

‘Lincoln?’ The man beamed at him. ‘That’s where I’m to go. I’ll give
you twopence to carry me.’

‘Fourpence, if you want to go all the way into Lincoln. It’s well beyond Greetwell.’

It wasn’t, but clearly the stranger didn’t know that. Besides, Gunter reckoned the man could afford it. Though he was travel-stained and covered with dust, his clothes were of good quality. This was no cottager bound for market.

‘Threepence.’ The stranger held out a hand and they
shook. ‘William de Ashen . . . from Essex,’ he added, seeing the name meant nothing to Gunter.

Gunter spread a couple of sacks on the wooden cross-seat and steadied the stranger as he stepped down into the punt. He wobbled dangerously, like a cow on ice.

‘Essex? You’re a long way from home. You planning to walk all the way to Lincoln, were you?’

‘I was beginning to fear I might have to,’ William
said, looking at little less alarmed now that he was seated. ‘My horse collapsed under me, poor beast. I’d ridden her hard and should have changed mounts miles back, but I couldn’t find an inn.’

‘Precious few of those hereabouts.’

William nodded ruefully, as if he could testify to that.

‘Some lay brothers passed me with a wagonload of timber. I asked them for a lift, but they were only bound
for their abbey. I thought of going there to ask for a horse, but they said a boat was just leaving, and if I hurried I might catch you.’

Gunter motioned to Hankin to cast off the mooring ropes, and braced the punt with his quant, keeping it tight to the bank, so that the lad didn’t have to leap a gap to get on board. Hankin was nervous about doing that now, though he’d always jumped with reckless
bravado before the ducking.

‘I doubt the abbey would have sold you a horse. They were badly hit by the last murrain. Lost a good many beasts and men too.’

‘I could have commandeered one.’ William patted his leather scrip.

Hankin looked up sharply from the stern. Gunter knew what he was thinking. If William de Ashen had the authority to commandeer a horse, he could seize a punt too. He was lucky
the man had agreed to pay anything.

‘I travel on the King’s business,’ William said proudly. ‘I’ve never been sent on such a journey before, but men are being dispatched with urgent news to all the towns the length and breadth of England. There weren’t enough of the regular messengers to go, at least not from Essex.’

‘Have the French invaded?’ Hankin said eagerly. ‘Are we to defend the towns?’

William swivelled round, smiling indulgently. ‘Raring to fight, are you, son? I don’t blame you. I was the same at your age. But if there’s fighting to be done it’ll not be the French you’ll be up against, but Englishmen.’

Hankin drew himself up indignantly. ‘I’d not fight my own countrymen. No man would.’

William grunted. ‘That’s the tidings I bring for your city fathers. Essex is on the march.
Essex men are raising a rebellion against Parliament. They’re pouring out of the villages all over the county and whipping up more support in every town and hamlet they pass through . . . Aah! Steady on!’

William made a grab for the side as the punt gave a violent lurch. The corner of the bow collided with the bank, and both Gunter and his son teetered perilously before righting themselves. Gunter
fought to regain his stroke and push them back into midstream.

‘Won’t happen again, Master William,’ Gunter said gruffly, furious with himself and grateful no other boatmen were passing to witness his clumsiness. ‘It was what you said . . . I never thought to hear . . .’

‘I don’t wonder it put you off your stroke,’ William said. ‘I never thought to see such a thing either. I was there when it
all started at Brentwood, though I never dreamed it would come to that. Sir John de Bampton and Sir John de Gildesburgh were there to preside over the Whitsun Assizes. I wasn’t in the court myself, but from what I hear there was a man called up from one of the villages, Baker his name was. Bampton said he’d not declared all the people in his household eligible to pay the poll tax and that he must
pay what he owed there and then.’

His gaze fixed on the river, Gunter’s jaw clenched. He was reliving the night he’d been accused of the same thing. He dared not turn, but he guessed Hankin was remembering it too. William carried on blithely with his account, apparently failing to notice the effect his words were having on Gunter and his son.

‘Baker said he’d already paid what the taxmen had
asked of him and they’d accepted it. He wasn’t going to pay any more. You can imagine how the King’s commissioner reacted to that. They don’t take kindly to being told no by a commoner. So he ordered the sergeants-at-arms to arrest him. There were near a hundred men or so at that court, not just from Brentwood but all the villagers around who’d been summonsed. When the sergeants-at-arms went for
Baker, they just pushed between him and the sergeants, to shield him. They wouldn’t let them take Baker, and the more Bampton threatened, the more belligerent they got. In the end the whole lot of them declared they’d not pay a single penny they owed in poll tax and they’d not recognise his authority either.

‘So Bampton ordered his sergeants to arrest the ringleaders. Have you ever heard anything
so cod-witted? It might have worked if he’d had a whole troop of men with him, but he had only two sergeants. Even a drummer boy could have told him they were no match for a hundred riled men.

‘The crowd attacked them, drove Bampton, Gildesburgh and their two sergeants out of the town. I saw that part with my own eyes, the royal commissioners galloping away as if the hounds of hell were at their
heels, a great mob of men and women brandishing staves and firing arrows at them. It’s a wonder none of the townsfolk was hit, the way those arrows were falling. Their blood was running so hot that if they’d caught up with the commissioners they’d have beaten them to death.’

‘Have the villagers been arrested?’ Gunter asked. He shuddered to think what punishment would be meted out to the men and
their families who’d turned on a royal commissioner.

William shook his head. ‘They spent the night hiding in the woods. I suppose they thought armed soldiers would come looking for them, but none did, and after word spread, other villagers declared they’d pay no poll tax either, but that’s the least of their demands now.’

‘Is no one stopping them?’ Hankin asked, from the stern.

‘Parliament’ll
send men soon, lad. They must. The men-at-arms in the places the rebels are marching through take one look at them and flee. The mobs are just too large for a handful of men to deal with. I even heard that some of the men-at-arms are deserting their posts and joining the rioters. Anyone who tries to stand against the rebels gets their workshops and houses smashed up. They’re even attacking abbeys,
forcing them to pay a fine to be left in peace. Parliament will have to do something, but I don’t know what. They say half the fighting men are occupied with the French and the rest are with John of Gaunt up north, trying to parley with the Scots. If Gaunt was here, he’d soon have every rebel dangling from the gallows, but I doubt word’s even reached him yet.’

‘Is Lincoln to raise men against
them? Will we be sent to fight the Essex men?’ Hankin asked.

William craned around again. ‘I know nothing of that, boy. I’m sent to bring news of the rebellion to Lincoln. Warn the city fathers and royal commissioners in these parts that they’ve to make ready in case the same thing happens here. They’ve to put the guards on alert and organise the good citizens to defend their streets and property,
’cause if this takes hold the whole country’ll go up in flames.’

Let any who have been cursed with the falling sickness mix grated bone from a human skull with their food or else drink from the skull of a suicide, and they shall be cured.

They say that a naughty imp once flew into Lincoln Cathedral to make mischief. When he refused to leave he was turned to stone and forced to listen to every dreary sermon preached in that great edifice
until its walls come tumbling down. And that must be counted as the harshest of penances even by the sternest judge. But if the wicked imp was listening on that particular day in June, he would, for once, have heard gossip to gladden his little black heart for there was only one topic on everyone’s lips that day – the great Essex rebellion.

In the cathedral and all the churches of Lincoln the
clergy pointed to the wall paintings of Christ as King surrounded by saints and angels and below them the souls of the righteous men who gazed up at them in adoration. They sternly reminded their congregations that the social order on earth, with its kings, archbishops and bishops at the head, was the earthly reflection, in every particular, of heaven above. To rebel against King and Parliament was
to rebel against God Himself. Look at the wretched souls being tormented in Hell. That was what lay in store for those who sought to overturn the divine order on earth. Did they want to see blood run in the streets, their women raped, their children spitted on pikes?

The townsfolk and choir boys who attended the daily services were so busy discussing the latest rumours with their neighbours that
they heard only odd phrases from these sermons, and were left baffled as to whether the rapists and baby-slayers were the invading French, the damned Scots or the foolish Essex men. But since they all counted as foreigners, what else could you expect from them but savagery?

If Robert had been in church that Tuesday morning in June listening to one of those sermons he might have been even more
worried than he was, but instead he was packing, or Catlin was packing for him, anxious to set out as soon as he could. He wanted to reach his favourite inn before dark. He’d travelled to London often enough to know how long each stage would take, and if you left too late you might find yourself forced to spend the night in some wretched lodgings, where the pallets were crawling with lice, the wine
bad and the food worse. Even if you could manage to snatch a wink of sleep between groaning with bellyache and your neighbours snoring, you’d have to do it with a knife in your hand for fear of being robbed of everything you had, including your clothes. The prospect of going to London was bad enough, without being dragged through every anteroom of Hell on the way.

Leonia slid into Robert’s lap,
slipping her arms about his neck. The barber had been summoned at dawn to cut his hair and shave him. He was glad of it as she pressed her tender cheek against his.

‘Why do you have to go away, Père?’