The Vanishing Witch (57 page)

‘What’s this about?’ he demanded impatiently.

‘Don’t ask me,’ the older man said.
‘We were just mooring up, same as usual, to wet our whistles in the inn, when
he
comes up and wants to know if I’m Martin of Washingborough. I says I am, and the next thing I know, we’re being dragged along here.’

‘And I haven’t had my dinner,’ the lad complained. ‘M’ stomach’s falling out of my arse and my throat’s that dry I could light a fire with it.’

‘Not dry enough that you can’t talk,’
Robert said, reminded of just how thirsty he was. ‘Well, Master Edward, I assume you must have some reason for dragging these men from their labours.’

‘Indeed I have, Father.’ Edward pressed his fingers together and rested his elbows on the table. ‘As you know, a good number of accidents have befallen our cargoes over the last months – bales falling off boats or being snatched, barrels being
breached, not to mention a wagon being robbed on the road to York. I don’t take kindly to having my own kin cheated. I’d already guessed your overseer Fulk was behind it. He had to be in collusion with some of the boatmen. He was probably arranging for the cargoes to be transported elsewhere and sold on. He would’ve had contacts through his work here. But he’s hardly in a position to give us names
now. So I’ve been making a few enquiries of my own among your tenants, Father, and found a woman who was only too willing to give us the name of one of the boatmen who was cheating us.’

Martin and his son had been listening without any reaction. Then it seemed to dawn on Martin what he was accused of. ‘I hope you’re not meaning me!’

‘Of course I mean you,’ Edward said. ‘Why else would I have
had you brought here?’

Martin’s hand darted to the knife in his belt, but Edward had seen the movement, seized one of the measuring rods on the table and brought it down so hard across Martin’s wrist that the wooden rod snapped in two. Martin gave a yelp as the knife fell from his hand, spinning across the floor and coming to rest against Robert’s feet. Robert crouched and picked it up, wincing
at the pain in his back, as he did so. He rammed the knife into his own belt.

‘If you’re going to question a man, at least have the sense to see he’s disarmed first, you imbecile,’ Robert snarled. ‘Get the boy’s knife too.’

Rubbing his bruised wrist, Martin glared balefully at Edward. ‘Whoever gave you my name was trying to cover their own tracks. I’ve lost a few cargoes, I grant you, but I
can’t help it if those Florentines deliberately ram my punt and grab a bale. It’s them that’s the thieves. Master Jan, he was a proper steward, he was. He knew it was down to the Florentines. That’s why they pitched him into the Braytheforde, ’cause they knew he was going to lay charges.’

Robert grunted. ‘The quarrel my son had with the Florentines concerned the theft of a large sum of money
and the confiscation of goods from their warehouse. I hardly think those men would bother with the price of a few barrels and bales when they’ve stolen thousands.’

‘Men’ll stoop to anything when they’ve a grudge just to annoy the other bastard. My neighbour, he let the pigs into our vegetable patch ’cause he swore I’d taken his hammer. And another time he—’

‘But as I understand it,’ Edward interrupted,
‘the thefts started long before Jan had any quarrel with the Florentines. Isn’t that right, Father?’

Robert, though still irked, was forced to agree.

‘So that brings us back to the deal you made with Fulk,’ Edward said triumphantly. ‘Was it you who stove his head in? Falling out among thieves, was it? Did he not give you your share of the plunder?’

Martin’s son, it seemed, had only just caught
up with the conversation. He took a step forward, raising his fists. ‘Who are you calling a thief? My faayther’s no river-rat. Like he told you, bales just got filched, that’s all.’

Despite the meaty fist waving dangerously close to his face, Edward didn’t flinch. ‘Do you expect us to believe that a lad of your size, not to mention your father’s, simply stood by and let thieves lift the cargoes
from your punt without putting up a fight?’

The lad opened his mouth, but his father seized his shoulder and hauled him back. ‘Way they work is, they ram your punt, push you into another boat. Then, when everyone’s distracted, arguing and trying to push away from each other, they swipe what they can while your back’s turned. If they’re on the outside of the tangle, they can get clean away, while
you’re still trying to find a gap wide enough to push your quant into the water. They even work two boats sometimes, one to jam you in while the boat with the thieved goods on it gets far downriver.’

‘And I suppose this is all the work of the wicked Florentines, is it?’ Edward asked, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

‘Them and others,’ Martin said sullenly.

‘What others?’

‘How should I know? I
don’t go drinking with river-rats.’ He shot a furious warning glance at his son, who seemed on the verge of jumping in again. ‘Anyhow, who gave you my name?’

‘That’s not your concern,’ Edward said.

‘I’ve a right to know. Law says if there’s witnesses testifying against you, you’ve a right to know who they are.’

‘Only if they bear witness in a trial,’ Edward said.

Robert’s eyes narrowed in
suspicion. He was certain that Martin and his son wouldn’t hesitate to steal the bark from a dog when its back was turned. But believing and proving were two different things and he wasn’t about to have these men arrested on the say-so of Edward and be made to look a fool when the charges were dismissed.

Martin’s expression suddenly changed. ‘You said it was a woman, one of your tenants. It was
that stupid mare Nonie, wasn’t it? She’s always hated me, and her Gunter’s had it in for me ever since my lad here threw his boy into the Braytheforde for attacking me without cause. His boy’s got a vicious temper, just like his faayther. If it hadn’t been for my lad, Gunter’s brat would have knocked me off the jetty and I’d have cracked m’ head open on the punt. Gunter, and that woman of his,
would accuse me of anything to get back at us. He’s always been jealous of me and my lad ’cause we get more work than him. But I could tell you something about him, something that’s far more valuable than a few bales o’ wool.’

‘What is it you have to say?’ Robert demanded.

Martin glanced below at the bailiff’s men who were sprawled on bales and kegs, swigging from their leather beakers and laughing
at some tale of the watchman’s.

‘What I have to tell, I could get a deal of money for. There’s men going round the inns offering a month’s wages and more for the kind of information I have.’

‘Have you got the effrontery to ask me for money when you stand accused of theft?’ Robert thundered. ‘I’ve a good mind to have you thrown into the castle prison this very hour.’

The men below stared up
at the sound of the raised voice and one sprang to his feet in readiness.

Martin glanced nervously down at them. He held up his hands as if he was appalled by the very idea of being paid. ‘Master Robert, I was only saying just so you’d know what I’d got to tell you is important. Word is that you’re a commissioner for the King and it’s my duty to tell you what I know.’

In spite of the heat of
the day, the sweat on Robert’s body turned to ice. How the devil had he found that out? If a common boatman knew, the word must have spread all over the city. But the swearing-in had been carried out in secret and Thomas had assured him that he alone kept the list of names in his records to which no one, but his own clerk, had access. Whoever had spread his name abroad might as well have painted
a cross on his back. Was that a smile he glimpsed on Edward’s lips?

‘Master Robert?’

He turned irritably. Martin was waiting for a response. ‘Out with it, man. What is this
important
information?’

‘I’d tell you in an instant, Master Robert, if I wasn’t afeared to speak. If word got back to him that it were me told you, it doesn’t bear thinking what he might do . . .’ Martin stared pointedly
at the bailiff’s men waiting below.

Robert sighed. He’d half a mind to have the man arrested at once, but he turned and shouted down, ‘You can go. We won’t be needing you any more today. Thank you for your pains. Has my steward paid you?’

They nodded.

‘Then leave us. You too, watchman. Take your ale outside and guard the door. I’ll tell you when we’re done here.’

They waited in silence as
the watchman opened the door and the men trailed out, though not before refilling their leather beakers from the cask of ale.

Robert mopped his dripping face. The heat was more intense up here in the eaves of the warehouse than it was on the ground. A couple of flies buzzing round their heads alighted on the beads of sweat that ran down Martin’s naked chest.

‘I had some cider sent down from
the house, Father,’ Edward said. ‘Will you take some?’

He lifted a dripping flagon from a large clay jar full of water where it had been left to keep cool. Two beakers stood ready on a nearby shelf and he poured some into each, taking a mouthful from one and handing the other to Robert, who gulped it gratefully.

Martin and his son licked their dried lips, watching them with covetous eyes.

‘Speak,’ Robert said, setting the beaker down, ‘and I warn you, this information of yours had better be good. I can always send the watchman to fetch the bailiff’s men again.’

Martin dragged his gaze from the beaker of cider Edward was still grasping. ‘When the riots was on in London, the boatman, Gunter, wasn’t in Lincoln, nor that brat of his. No one saw them on the wharf or along the river.’

Robert felt as if a door had been flung open in his head. Gunter! Yes! He was the man who’d spoken up for him on the London street. He’d tried so hard to block out the events of that terrible day that, until this moment, his mind had refused to put a name to the face he saw nightly in his dreams.

He understood where this was leading and was desperate not to hear it, but he knew he must. If it
came out later that a king’s commissioner had refused to listen to information about the rebels, his reputation would be in ruins or, worse, he might be accused of colluding with them.

He took another swig of cider to give himself time to think. ‘This Gunter and his son were probably working further down the river or among the ships at Boston.’

‘That’s the thing, though,’ Martin said, with a
sly grin. ‘They weren’t working at all ’cause their punt was moored up next to the house. They keep it covered at night, same as the rest of us, but in daylight you can see there’s a boat under the reed mats. And they weren’t sick neither, ’cause one of the neighbours called in on that wife of his a couple of times and she says there weren’t no sign of Gunter or his son in the cottage. Nigh on three
weeks they were gone. That family hasn’t got a pot to piss in. They can’t afford to spend their days like lords, idling away their time.’

Robert winced, gripped by a sudden cramp in the belly. He grasped the edge of the table and lowered himself to a stool. He knew better than to gulp cold cider when he was as hot as this. Wasn’t he always telling that stable-boy not to let the horses drink cold
water when they were in a sweat for fear of the colic? He should have heeded his own advice.

He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain. ‘They might have found work elsewhere . . . pagging . . . work on a farm . . . if they couldn’t get cargoes. That doesn’t prove—’

‘But I know something that does,’ Edward interrupted. ‘When we went to call on the tenants, Gunter’s son was sick in bed.
His mother said he’d been hurt when a box or some such fell on him, but Catlin insisted on looking at the wound. The boy’s back was burned, and not the kind of burn you’d get from falling into a hearth fire. It looked as if something had been fired into it, like a burning arrow only wider, bigger. It was plain his mother was lying about how he’d been injured. It can’t be a coincidence that Gunter
and his son were missing at the very time of the rebellion, and for them to turn up with one wounded as if he’d been in a battle. I’m certain . . .’ He trailed off and stared at Robert. ‘What is it? Are you sick, Father?’

Robert doubled up in agony. He fell from the stool onto his knees, moaning and clutching his belly as violent pains tore through it. He clutched weakly at his gown, trying to
pull it away from his chest so that he could breathe. His heart was thumping in his chest so hard that he was certain it would explode.

He clutched at Edward’s leg. ‘Bayus . . . fetch Hugo Bayus. Hurry!’

The dust in a house must be swept inwards before it is collected and taken out, for if a woman should sweep the dust outwards through the door, she will sweep away all the wealth and good fortune of the family.

Gunter looked down at the sleeping figure of his son. He lay on his side, his face turned towards him, sweat glistening on his flushed cheeks. Robert’s wife had sent
no ointment from the apothecary, not that Gunter had expected her to, though Nonie stubbornly refused to believe she would not keep her promise. Gunter knew his suspicions had been right. Mistress Catlin had only come to discover if Hankin had been part of the rebellion.

The boy’s dark lashes fluttered against his cheek. Lashes, as Nonie often said, that would be the envy of any lass, but were
wasted on a lad. Beneath the closed lids the boy’s eyes rolled restlessly.
Giles, Giles!
. . .
Pies . . . I didn’t . . . Please no . . .

If you died, did your nightmares stop, or did they go on for ever with no hope of you waking from them? They would for Gunter. If he killed himself, he knew there could never be any end to his torment. There was no forgiveness for self-murder. How could there
be? You could not confess it.

But for the boy, if he were to die in innocence, if he had confessed his sins, his nightmare would be over. But Gunter dared not take the boy to a priest. In Norfolk, they said, Bishop Despenser was hearing confessions, then sending men straight to the gallows for what they confessed. No priest could be trusted now. Too many abbeys and churches had been attacked.
They would show no mercy to the rebels, respect no secrets. He couldn’t let the boy be taken alive. He couldn’t watch his child’s face and limbs be mutilated, see his terror, listen to his screams. He had to do it, do it now before it was too late.