The Vanishing Witch (49 page)

‘I saw no splendours in London,’ Robert said dully. ‘Only ashes.’

His gaze wandered back to the young man, who had not even had the courtesy to rise from the chair in which he was lounging. ‘Master Edward – still here? I’d thought you would be out searching
for employment. You must be sorely in need of some means of supporting yourself, though perhaps you have already found work. You’ve bought some fine new clothes, I see.’

‘I’ve indeed been fortunate enough to secure a position,’ Edward said, with a grin. ‘My mother has engaged me as your new steward.’

Robert’s face flushed with anger and he rounded on Catlin. ‘Since when does a wife engage a
steward for her husband’s business? When I’m ready to replace my son I’ll find my own steward. I told you I would not employ Edward. He knows nothing of the business.’

‘But you did not find a steward, did you, Robert?’ Catlin said tartly. ‘And while you were away being entertained in London, there was an accident at the warehouse. Your overseer, Fulk, a lifting hook hit him in the face. By some
miracle he lives, but his jaw and nose were smashed. The bone-setter and physician have done what they can, but he cannot speak, and even if he mends, they say the blow to the head has driven his wits from him. Who knows if they will return?’

‘Fulk? God’s blood!’ Robert lowered himself stiffly into a chair. ‘Was it the Florentines who did this?’

Adam’s gaze flicked to Leonia, but her expression
gave nothing away.

‘It was an accident, wasn’t it, Adam?’ Catlin said. ‘Your son saw it happen.’

Adam felt his face grow hot as his father turned to him.

‘Carelessness by one of the men?’

Adam’s eyes darted back to Leonia. She held his gaze steadily, giving just the tiniest nod.

Adam lifted his head. ‘The rope hadn’t been tied off properly. The knot must have worked loose and it swung down
and hit him. No one can remember who tied it.’

‘But
you
should have checked it. You must always check up on the men! Haven’t I told you that a hundred times?’

‘But, Père, Fulk was the overseer,’ Leonia said, her eyes brimming with innocence. ‘Shouldn’t he have checked?’

Robert’s tired eyes softened. ‘Yes, my dear. I suppose the man has only himself to blame, when all is said and done.’

‘So
you see, Robert,’ Catlin said, ‘with the men so careless even when they are closely supervised, I was in despair, fearing for what might happen to your business with no one to direct them. I had to engage someone until you returned, and who better than my own son? At least we know we can trust him. I don’t have your experience in employing men, Robert. I daren’t risk hiring a stranger for fear he
might turn out to be a thief or a rogue.’

‘My poor mother couldn’t possibly be expected to run the business with neither steward nor overseer to guide her and to direct the men. I felt compelled to offer my services, at least until you returned.’

Catlin gazed earnestly at Robert, her expression now as soft and gentle as her daughter’s. ‘Please tell me I have done right, my sweeting. I couldn’t
bear it if you were angry with me.’

Robert still looked far from happy, but he said grudgingly, ‘I suppose I could hardly expect a woman . . . But now that I’ve returned I will take control.’

‘But you still need a steward,’ Catlin reminded him. ‘And since Edward has so gallantly stepped in to help me, it would be ungrateful and churlish to dispense with his services. Besides, what would be the
point? You’d only have to put yourself to the great trouble of finding another.’

Adam had never seen his father so exhausted. There was a bruise on his cheek, and the way he kept his arm wrapped about his ribcage made him wonder if he’d been thrown from the horse.

Diot waddled in with a jug of wine, which she set before Robert. ‘’Tis a mercy you returned home safe, Master Robert. Mistress has
been fretting something fierce for you, pining away she has. She’s such a faithful, tender heart, just like her poor mother.’

She darted a sly grin at Catlin, whose eyes flashed menace. Diot’s grin instantly fell from her face and she busied herself pouring a goblet of wine for Robert.

‘Pining’
was not the word Robert would have used to describe his wife’s demeanour when he’d entered the hall,
but he was too sore and weary to pursue the thought. He took several deep gulps from the goblet Diot handed to him.

‘Apart from the accident at the warehouse, has all been peaceful here? Tenney came armed to the gate. Has someone tried to break into the house again?’

Diot and Catlin both started to speak at once, but Catlin silenced Diot with a look.

‘We received word that rebels from London
are marching up to York, and they plan to come through Lincoln. I ordered Tenney to make the house as safe as he could and—’

‘They say Norwich’s been sacked,’ Diot interrupted. ‘Houses burned, and the justice of the peace dragged from his own bed, set in the pillory and beheaded there, like a common felon. That can’t be true, can it, Master Robert? What’ll we do if they come here?’

Robert closed
his eyes, pressing his hand across his mouth, trying to stop himself vomiting. His fingers were trembling. He took a deep breath. ‘Lincoln’s safe for now. The rebels were turned back at Huntingdon yesterday. The townspeople came out and barred the bridge, so they couldn’t cross the Ouse. It’s a bridge that’s easily defended and the only crossing place for miles.’

‘But what of your mission, Robert?’
Catlin asked. ‘Shall John of Gaunt send men to defend us?’

Robert heaved himself to his feet, with a grunt of pain. ‘Gaunt’s still in Scotland, but the rebellion’s crushed in London. Wat Tyler, one of their leaders, was killed when he went to make his demands of the King, who led the rebels into a trap. He accounted himself well, I’m told.’

‘Then it’s over,’ Catlin said. ‘Thanks be to the Blessed
Virgin, we’re safe.’

‘How can it be over,’ Diot whined, ‘if they burned down Norwich and Ipswich, and Cambridge too, so they say? We’ll be butchered in our beds, I know it.’

‘Stop screeching, you old baggage,’ Edward said, rising from his chair. ‘You’re worse than the market alewives.
Saints preserve us, the sky’s falling in!
’ he wailed, hunching his back and pressing his face into Diot’s, waggling
his finger in a cruel imitation.

She jerked away. ‘One of these days, Master Edward . . .’ she spat. ‘I’ll not be mocked. You’ll be—’

‘Edward’s only teasing, Diot,’ Catlin said soothingly. ‘You know how fond he is of you. You’re as dear to us as if you were our own family. And we will take care of you. You don’t need to fear the rebels, Diot, not
them
.’

The old woman frowned, gnawing her lip.
Edward, grinning maliciously, snatched up a goblet and thrust it towards her, waiting for her to fill it with wine. Diot pushed past him and waddled towards the kitchen, muttering that she didn’t care what anyone said, she’d be sleeping with a knife in her hand from now on.

Edward poured wine into his goblet. ‘Little Maman’s right. None of us needs worry about a few ragged labourers armed with
pitchforks. Robert’s only a merchant, not a justice of the peace. What reason would they have to kill him or us?’

‘They don’t need a reason,’ Robert said, staring at the wooden table.

He was silent for a few moments. Then, with a great effort, he seemed to pull himself out of his reverie. ‘If you’re acting as my steward, Edward, we’d best go to the warehouse and you can show me what precautions
you’ve taken.’

Edward waved a hand dismissively. ‘You don’t need to trouble yourself with that today. Such a journey at your age . . .’ He faltered under Robert’s furious glare. ‘Besides, there’s little to see at the warehouse. I’ve set men to keep watch, and I’ve moved some of the more valuable goods into the castle, in case they should set fires at the quay.’

‘What?’ Robert cried, and clutched
at his ribs. ‘You’ve put them in the one place the rebels are bound to attack!’

‘Several merchants have done the same,’ Catlin said. ‘They won’t storm the castle. They wouldn’t dare attack Gaunt’s property.’

But Robert was already halfway out of the door, yelling at Edward to follow. Edward’s eyes flashed wide at Catlin in silent appeal for her to intervene, but she merely shrugged indifferently
and he had no choice but to follow Robert.

As soon as the two men had left the hall, Leonia looked up at Catlin, with disarming innocence. ‘You didn’t think Père was coming back, did you, Mother? You thought he was going to die in London.’

Adam stared at Leonia, but she merely continued to gaze, wide-eyed, at her mother.

‘Naturally, I was terrified your stepfather might come to harm. I prayed
daily for his safe return.’

‘Is that where you go every afternoon? Do you go to
pray
, Mother?’

A family will only prosper if an animal be buried alive in the walls or floors of the house, so that its spirit will lend the house strength and it will not fall or burn.

‘Set us down here,’ Gunter told the carter.

The man reined in the horse and swivelled round. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to take you to the Gilbertine priory? It’s only a little further and I hear they’ve
a good infirmary.’

‘His mam’ll tend him. He’ll mend.’

Gunter slipped an arm under his son and tried to lift him, but the boy yelped.

‘Let me help you.’ The carter slid down from his perch and came round to the back of the cart. He helped Gunter pull the boy forward so that Gunter could sling his son over his shoulder.

‘He doesn’t look too good,’ the carter said doubtfully.

Hankin’s face was
pale and beaded with sweat. His eyes were screwed up against the pain. The back of his tunic was shredded to ribbons, and pale, watery blood was once again seeping through the bandages beneath.

‘He’ll be better when he’s in his bed,’ Gunter said firmly.

‘You’re not planning to carry him home?’

‘It’s not far by the track.’

The carter shrugged and climbed up to the seat, slapping the reins on
the back of the horse. Gunter shouted his thanks and the man lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but did not turn again.

Gunter waited until the cart had disappeared round the bend, then made for the river. It was difficult to scramble down the steep bank with the boy across his shoulder. Several times he slipped and Hankin cried out as the movement jerked him but Gunter reached the bottom safely
and laid him gently on the grass next to the water. He hunkered down beside his son to wait, massaging his aching stump. The end was rubbed raw and bleeding inside the wooden leg, but he daren’t take it off to examine the wound, fearing that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to cram it back into the hollow. Time enough to see to it when he’d got the boy safely home.

He prayed that one of the boatmen
he knew would come along soon, and would agree to take them to Greetwell. Boats passed, but he didn’t know the men aboard. He let them go. He’d no money to pay a stranger.

He’d not dared to let the carter know he was a boatman or allow him to carry them to the cottage, though it would have spared both himself and Hankin more pain. They were hunting the rebels down right across the country. Henry
Despenser, the Bishop of Norwich, was leading a company of men-at-arms through the fenlands, trying and hanging rebels on the spot wherever he found them. It would take only a casual remark from the carter that he had given a lift to a wounded boy to bring soldiers thundering to their door. Safer if the man didn’t know where Gunter lived or his occupation. That way they couldn’t be traced.

Gunter
had watched the men returning from Smithfield. A long, shabby procession, wearily dragging their feet, flanked by the King’s men on horseback escorting them over the ruins of London Bridge and out of the city. People said one of the rebel leaders, a man called Tyler, had been stabbed as he presented his demands to the young King. Richard had assumed command, urging the rebels to follow him away
from the town to Clerkenwell fields, but once there they’d found themselves surrounded. When they saw Tyler’s head on a pike, they’d surrendered and the King had allowed most of them to return in peace to their homes, but not for long. Now he was seeking vengeance. Gunter looked at his son. He was only a few months younger than King Richard. His youth would not protect him.

Gunter had carried
Hankin out of the city on his back, but had straightway taken a different track from the Essex men. He’d guessed what was coming. He’d begged lifts on carts, wagons and boats, and one old woman had taken pity on him and let the boy ride on her donkey. An accident, Gunter had told them all. The horse pulling their cart had been startled and bolted. The boy had fallen under the wheel. The cart and
horse were lost.

The carters had nodded sympathetically. ‘It happens. Why, there was this one time when . . .’

Everyone had a story of tragedy or near disaster to tell. That was life. Misfortune always struck when you least expected it.

Hankin moaned. The sun beat down on him. Gunter went to the river, wetted the edge of his tunic, came back and dabbed his son’s sweating face with it, squeezing
a few filthy drops between the boy’s cracked lips.

He rose and shielded his eyes with his hand, scanning the river for any face he knew. He’d have to invent a new story for the boatmen. They’d know he’d never owned a cart. He only hoped he could make the boy understand. His wits were wandering in his fever. If he should let slip the wrong word, they might both hang or worse.

There was something
else, something he’d tried hard to push beneath the surface of his mind, but it kept floating back. Had Master Robert recognised him on that London street? The man had seemed so dazed and terrified it was hard to tell if he’d even seen him. But suppose Robert had remembered. Suppose he came looking for Gunter. How would he explain what he was doing in London?

Gunter cursed himself. He’d been
a fool to interfere. Why hadn’t he let the man die? What had Master Robert ever done for him? If only he had turned the other way, or passed along that street just a few moments later, it would all have been over. Yet he knew that if it happened again, he would try to save him. It would have been different if Robert had been a stranger, but a man can’t just stand by and watch someone they know be
slaughtered, can he?