The Vanishing Witch (8 page)

‘Wait, Beata.’ Robert gulped half of the wine in his goblet without drawing breath, then held it out for her to refill. ‘It wasn’t your fault that Edith didn’t eat. She can be . . .’

There was no need to supply the word. Beata, of all people, knew how stubborn and difficult her mistress
could be.

Edith was no longer the shy, pretty creature Robert’s parents had presented to him as his bride. Back then she’d habitually kept her head lowered, glancing up, when she was addressed, from under her pale lashes, which he’d found both charming and disarming. Now the gesture only accentuated her sagging skin.

Her mother had schooled her in a few meaningless pleasantries, which had had
the effect of turning Robert into a tongue-tied ploughboy, though he’d had no trouble in exchanging banter and a good deal more with the fishmonger’s daughter. He’d wondered how on earth they would pass the time together when they were alone. But his father had taken him aside before the wedding, telling him sternly that his first duty was to sire sons, and once they were safely begotten, Robert
might amuse himself as he pleased. With a lap full of babies to occupy her, Edith, like most women, would be glad to have her husband out of the house. As long as she was kept content with trinkets and new dresses, a sweet, biddable girl like her would hardly raise any objections. But Edith had not proved as biddable as his father had imagined.

Those first few years after Jan was born had been
a time of growing affection between them. Edith had been eager to please him, asking his advice and opinion on everything from clothes to friends. Although her attention would wander if he spoke of business or politics, that was only to be expected in a woman. Robert had taken immense pleasure in seeing her delight at the gifts he’d brought her and found himself eagerly anticipating her smile when
he came home. If he’d considered the matter at all, Robert would have declared that Edith loved him, and would even have admitted that he was fond of her, not that he ever told her as much.

But as the years passed, Edith’s grief at losing her children had encased her, like a rough, painful callous growing over a sore. She began to push him away from her body and out of her head, blaming him for
the babies that had fled this life. Love, if such had ever existed between them, had slowly rusted into familiarity, custom, routine. Sometimes he thought he saw contempt in her hard eyes.

But they were resigned to their lot, surrendering the hope that there could ever be anything more between them, save the kind of affection you might feel for a house you had always lived in. After all, it had
been a marriage of convenience, and convenience was still being served, as it was for countless other couples, who rubbed along with each other day after day, as they shuffled inexorably towards their twin graves.

Robert was suddenly aware that Beata was still hovering awkwardly by the door.

‘I did try to get the mistress to eat,’ she said. ‘And I’ve left some cold pigeon pie in the ambry in
the solar in case she should change her mind.’

‘Then stay. Drink with me.’ Robert waved his hand at the other goblets on the table.

Beata glanced anxiously at the door. ‘Mistress Edith will be wanting me to help her undress.’

‘She’ll still be fussing with the boy. Sit for a while.’

Beata poured herself a small amount of wine and resumed the seat she had occupied earlier in the evening. She
didn’t much care for wine, but she understood it was Robert’s way of apologising.

Robert settled himself in a chair drawn up beside the hearth and gulped another mouthful from his goblet. He stared glumly into the crackling flames. ‘Why must she be so unreasonable?’

‘She worries, Master Robert. There’s been so many attacked and robbed lately. Why, the fishmonger was telling me only yesterday
that a man was seized just paces from his own house. They near broke his skull, they did, and took three silver ingots he had hidden under his shirt. I reckon they must have known he was carrying them . . .’ Beata trailed off, realising that her master wasn’t listening.

‘Edith’s always suspicious and entirely without cause. I’ve been as faithful as any man in my position could reasonably be expected
to be.’

Beata sipped her wine and said nothing. It was strange how ‘faithful’ had one meaning for men and another for women. She remembered the quarrels between her master and mistress over a young serving wench in one of the quayside taverns. Then there had been the cook in his own household, though Robert hadn’t had time to taste any of her wares before Edith’s cousin Maud had come sniffing
around and persuaded Edith to dismiss her. But those petty dalliances were as nothing compared to what most men got up to.

If Robert had ever suspected his wife of taking a lover his fury would have been a hundred times greater than hers, as is always the way with men. Not that Edith had ever given her husband a moment’s cause to doubt her. Beata sighed. Men demanded all women be virgins and
used them as whores.

Robert scowled into the fire. ‘I don’t want to lie to Edith, but she forces me to, then blames me for deceiving her.’

Beata threw him a shrewd glance. ‘So you did dine with Widow Catlin this evening.’

‘Yes . . . yes,’ Robert said. ‘But I’ve done nothing that even the Bishop of Lincoln would need to confess. Mistress Catlin is the most chaste and virtuous of women. But she
is the most enchanting company and her young daughter, Leonia, is as delightful as her mother. I would have stayed longer, but Mistress Catlin herself urged me to return home. She knew that Edith would be anxious. She’s a saint – always putting another woman’s concerns above her own.’ He grunted. ‘I was in such a good humour when I left her, but now even this wine tastes sour.’

He drained his
goblet and lumbered across to the table to refill it. ‘If Edith could only meet Mistress Catlin . . .’ A thought struck him and he brightened. ‘I could ask her to invite her and her daughter to dine here one evening. Leonia is just thirteen and already a young lady. It would do young Adam good to spend some time in her company. Might make the boy let go of his mother’s skirts for once and start behaving
like a man.’

Beata snorted with laughter. ‘I reckon Widow Catlin wouldn’t be best pleased to have any young lad acting like a
man
around her thirteen-year-old daughter.’

Robert still wasn’t listening. He slumped into his chair. ‘I’m sure if Edith came to know Catlin, they’d become great friends. They’ve so much in common. They’re both mothers, after all.’

Beata shook her head in disbelief at
the sheer stupidity of men, and husbands in particular. ‘A falcon and a partridge both have chicks, but that doesn’t make them friends.’

But Robert was not to be dissuaded. ‘Why don’t you speak to her, Beata? Edith would take the suggestion more easily from—’

He was interrupted by a hammering at the door. Both leaped up, staring at each other. It was not the hour for neighbours to come calling.
Robert strode across the hall and snatched up the staff that stood near the door. ‘Quickly, woman, fetch Tenney.’

But before Beata could find the manservant, the knocking came again and this time a voice called, ‘Tenney? Beata? For pity’s sake, let me in. I’m drowning.’

Beata grinned. ‘That’s Jan.’

‘What the devil is he doing here so late?’

Robert felt a surge of apprehension. Jan called at
the house most days, but never so late. He had scarcely unlocked the door when his son barged through and stood dripping on the stone flags. He pulled off his cloak and threw it over the table. The short skirts of his vivid scarlet and yellow doublet were clinging to his sodden green hose. Beneath his cap his close-cropped red-gold hair was plastered to his head. Shivering he hurried to the great
fire and crouched to warm himself.

Beata scurried to fetch him wine, which he acknowledged with a curt nod. Beata was used to that. The bull and bull-calf soon learn to bellow alike, as she often said to Tenney.

Robert couldn’t contain his impatience. ‘Is there trouble at the warehouse – a fire?’

Jan threw the contents of the goblet down his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand,
his fair cheeks already flushing in the heat of the room.

‘The ship,
St Jude
, has been taken. French pirates.’

‘God’s teeth! I thought the King’s fleet was to stop this. All that money they raised in taxes last year and we might as well have thrown it into the sea for all the good it’s done. Do you realise what we’ve lost?’

‘Not nearly as much as Hugh de Garwell and some of the others. A score
of bales, but it might have been worse.’

‘Might it indeed?’ Robert snarled. ‘Perhaps you’ll take the losses more seriously when it’s your money the pirates have stolen.’ Another thought struck him and set him pacing in agitation up and down the hall. ‘Mistress Catlin had money invested in cargoes aboard that ship! How am I going to tell her?’

Jan, who was warming his hands at the fire, whipped
round. ‘That widow? What cod-wit persuaded her it was a safe investment? I know as merchants we have little choice – how else are we to bring goods in? – but it’s always a risk, even without the pirates. If the ship founders or . . .’ He stopped, catching sight of his father’s face. ‘Please tell me you didn’t, Father. What on earth possessed you?’

Now that Jan had asked the question, Robert found
he couldn’t remember. He’d certainly talked to Mistress Catlin about the ship and her cargoes at their first meeting, but they had spoken of many things. She’d been so fascinated by his business, asking such intelligent questions, which no woman had ever done before. Had he suggested investing in
St Jude
? He’d have told any man in Lincoln that it was utterly irresponsible to persuade a widow to
put money into a venture so uncertain. And he couldn’t think what on earth had made him do it. Now her money was gone. The woman had come to him because she trusted him and he had betrayed that trust, like some petty swindler. If she told others – and why wouldn’t she? – his reputation would be in tatters. How was he ever going to face her?

Angrily, Jan snatched up his sodden cloak. ‘You’re making
a fool of yourself with this woman, Father. Mother says you’ve been seen going to her house after dark on several occasions and staying there for hours. You know how gossip spreads in the city. I won’t stand by and see my mother hurt.’ He strode across the room, and turned with his hand on the latch. ‘At least there’s one good thing that’s come from
St Jude
being captured. Widow Catlin has lost
her money and I’m glad of that, for at least now she’ll want nothing more to do with the man who was stupid enough to tell her to invest in it!’

If a woman does not desire you, and you would arouse her and make her lust after you, take the genitals of a wolf with the hair on its cheeks and eyebrows and burn them together. Give the ashes to the woman to drink in such a manner that she does not suspect. Then she will desire you and no other man.

Mavet, my ferret, gives an irritated squeak and scratches behind his ear,
then nibbles the fur on his paw, peering at me reproachfully. I tell him often there is nothing I can do to rid him of his fleas. Since he is dead, of course, he could roll in a swarm of living fleas with impunity. But, alas, the fleas that perished so suddenly with him when he was killed are ghosts themselves now and will continue to irritate him in death as they did in life for as long as we two
remain trapped on this earth. Pay heed, my darlings, and always take the greatest care over the company you keep in life: if death strikes without warning, you may be stuck with them till the moon turns to blood and wouldn’t that be a torment? But, as I remind Mavet, look on the bright side: though the fleas cannot be killed a second time, at least they cannot multiply.

Unlike Mavet, I am enjoying
myself and no more so than when I enter at will the house of one of the most charming women in Lincoln. I certainly couldn’t do so when I was alive, unlike Master Robert. But then, as you will have begun to realise, in spite of his recent losses, Master Robert was still more fortunate than many men in that fair city.

It had been grey and gloomy all day and twilight had flowed early into the alleys.
With the coming of night, a bitter wind had sprung up from the river, rattling the shutters along the narrow street. Robert pulled his heavy woollen cloak tighter about him, glancing up the street to the house where Edith’s cousin lived. No doubt the witch Maud had her eye to the crack in the casement, but surely not even she could recognise him in darkness.

Robert rapped on the door and waited.
His supper, though it had been nothing more than a bite or two of rabbit in sharp sauce, now lay as heavy in his stomach as a slab of whale meat. He was dreading breaking the news to Mistress Catlin. But he had always prided himself on owning up to his mistakes, and better he told her than she hear it gossiped in the marketplace. News had not yet spread abroad, but it was only a matter of time.
He’d spent most of the day consulting with the other merchants, but the ship and her cargo were lost. There was nothing more he could do but confess as much to poor Catlin.

The door opened and a stout old woman, without her front teeth, stood framed in the lamplight from the chamber behind. She beamed at him. ‘Master Robert. Calling again so soon?’ She chuckled, and her bloated belly jiggled,
as if she had a live squirrel concealed beneath her stained gown.

Robert brushed past her, catching the smell of cooking fat and stale urine that followed Diot everywhere she went.

The house he had entered was nowhere near as fine as his own. There was no oak-panelled wainscoting in the small chamber that served as the hall. Instead the walls were limewashed and the room simply furnished with
a long table, chairs and two brass-banded chests. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, but the light came from an oil lamp in the form of a star suspended from the ceiling on a long chain. Five small flames burned at the tips of the star’s five arms.