The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  ‘What brings you here, John? I trust my sister is well?’

  ‘Matilda is in robust health and is looking forward to a good funeral this afternoon,’ answered John, anticipating with relish the moment when he would tell Richard of the outlaw’s escape.

  ‘Ah yes, poor de Pridias, I heard of his demise. Some form of stroke, I was told.’

  ‘Something of that nature,’ agreed John. ‘But another life has been saved today in compensation.’

  Richard frowned at his brother-in-law. He knew his warped sense of humour from many previous experiences. ‘Whose life?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘The fellow you sentenced to death yesterday – the outlaw Aethelard,’ John said casually. ‘He escaped to sanctuary and I’ve sent him off to France, though I doubt he’ll get as far as Topsham.’

  De Revelle’s foxy face reddened with anger and he launched into a tirade of recrimination, against the prison guards, his soldiery and, obliquely, the connivance of the coroner. ‘He was an outlaw, he couldn’t claim sanctuary! What were you thinking of, damn it?’

  Although privately John felt this might be true, he was not going to admit it.

  ‘Show me the law that says he couldn’t, Richard. Did you want me to keep him for a few months until the royal judges next arrive? The priest of St Olave’s was on the verge of apoplexy at having him in his church for just one night.’

  De Revelle fumed on for a while until there was nothing left to say and, his satisfaction achieved, John turned to leave.

  ‘Will you be at the cathedral later today?’ he asked at the door.

  The sheriff nodded irritably. ‘Yes, the man was one of our guildmasters, I must show my respects. Though God knows when I’ll get the time, with all this to attend to.’ He waved a hand at the scatter of parchments across his table and the clerk hovering in the background with more documents.

  Glad for once that he was unable to read and therefore free from such labours, John went back to the gatehouse and joined the waiting Gwyn and Thomas for the walk to Magdalen Street, to see five miscreants shuffle off their mortality and to confiscate any property they might own.

  The sight of a row of felons kicking at the air in their death-throes did nothing to spoil John’s appetite for his noon-time dinner and he and Matilda did full justice to Mary’s boiled fowl with leeks and turnips. Afterwards, imported dried apricots were washed down with wine from the Loire and, once again, John blessed his partnership with Hugh de Relaga, whereby they shipped wool and cloth abroad and brought such luxury goods on the return trips from both France and Flanders. The ship they most frequently chartered belonged to Thorgils of Dawlish, the elderly husband of the delectable Hilda. He thought wryly that the fruit might taste less sweet in Matilda’s mouth if she knew that it was from a box that Hilda had given him on his last clandestine visit to Dawlish, when Thorgils had been away on the high seas.

  ‘Mind that you wear your best tunic this afternoon,’ snapped his wife, eyeing his crumpled grey outfit with distaste. ‘Though why you must always insist on such drab blacks and greys, I cannot understand! Other men let themselves be noticed in bright colours.’

  John sighed as he recalled her brother’s gaudy outfit. Matilda never failed to berate him for his reluctance to push himself forward in the county hierarchy. ‘Black is surely the most suitable for a funeral,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not wearing black today. I have a fine new blue kirtle. It’s a shame the weather is so hot, or I could show off my new mantle as well.’

  An hour later, as one of the large bells tolled monotonously overhead, John escorted his wife the short distance to the cathedral, his tall, black figure stalking slowly alongside her, head thrust forward like that of some huge bird. They joined a small procession of other mourners as they reached the door in the West Front, mostly burgesses and guildmasters all in their best clothes, some as gaudy as peacocks. The beggars and cripples in the Close stared curiously at them and a few urchins and louts made cat-calls, until one of the proctor’s servants chased them away with his staff. Requiem Masses were usually held in the mornings, but the prominence of Robert de Pridias among the commercial community of Exeter – and the fact that his wife’s cousin was one of their canons – had ensured that enough of the cathedral clergy would turn out after their dinner to see the burgess safely into heaven.

  His body was already lying in the building, having been brought on a cart from St Olave’s some hours ago. The coffin lay in the side chapel of St Mary in the base of the south tower, the lid nailed down securely, given the hot weather and the couple of days which had elapsed since his death. The service was to be held there, as the choir and high altar were used only for sanctifying the departure of barons and churchmen.

  About fifty people stood in the high, square chamber, and John recognised both the city’s portreeves, one of whom was his partner Hugh de Relaga. Virtually all the guildmasters and guild officials were there together with many of the more senior tradesmen of Exeter. He saw several apothecaries, including Richard Lustcote and Walter Winstone, but one person who was conspicuous by his absence was the rival fuller and weaver, Henry de Hocforde.

  Several of the cathedral canons were present, including the archdeacon, John of Alençon and the precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, although this pair took no part in the celebration of the Mass. This was said by another canon, William de Tawton, assisted by his vicar and secondaries and the chanted responses were provided by some of the choirboys, who had been paid a penny each by the widow to forgo their afternoon games to attend.

  The coroner stood glumly at the back, in spite of Matilda’s efforts to prod him to a more prominent position near the front of the congregation, where Richard de Revelle was making sure that he was seen by everyone, especially the rich and influential. John saw Canon Gilbert de Bosco at the side of the altar, in his cassock, surplice and maniple. He had expected the widow’s cousin to have conducted the Mass in person, but it transpired that Gilbert was saving himself for later.

  The ritual droned on for half an hour and eventually, the congregation partook of the Host before the office ended. Then they stood aside to allow four vergers to carry the bier out past the end of the choir into the empty, echoing nave. Towards the south corner, a deep hole had been dug and a new six-foot slab of stone lay to one side, ready to place on top of the grave. No doubt Cecilia would have Robert’s name chiselled on it in the near future.

  For the moment, the dead man had a short respite before being consigned for eternity to his subterranean claustrophobia, as the coffin was left on the edge of the pit while Canon Gilbert delivered his homily. He advanced to the opposite side of the grave, flanked by his vicar and secondary. The large man looked very imposing in his ecclesiastical robes as he glared around to still the murmurs and whispers before he began to speak. The first five minutes of his obituary were a conventional tribute to Robert’s honesty, charity and industry. He was a devout and caring husband and father, boomed the canon, as he delivered the usual platitudes in his fine, deep voice. Then abruptly, his tone changed and he began to harangue the audience with missionary zeal.

  ‘Fine man that he was, Robert de Pridias met his untimely end in a way which should shock true Christians into action! Though our law officers have seen fit to ignore what stares them in the face, I tell you that our brother Robert lies here dead today from the evil deeds of the Devil’s disciples!’

  He threw out his arm and pointed a quivering finger at the coffin. A stir of anxious surprise rippled through his audience and John’s brow furrowed as the import of Gilbert’s words began to sink in.

  ‘We should be ashamed to admit it, especially the priests amongst us, but witchcraft is alive and well amongst us today! Cunning women, crafty menfolk, evil-doers using the power of Satan to pervert our lives! All this and more, is under our noses and we do nothing about it!’

  He glared around his audience, everyone now hanging on his words, as this was a sermon u
nlike any of the dry, dreary homilies that they were used to receiving from the bored clergy of their parish churches. And Gilbert de Bosco had by no means finished with them.

  ‘Our king has not long returned from the Crusades and half Christendom marches across the known world to fight the Mohammedans. This is right and proper, commissioned by our Holy Father in Rome. But we need our own crusade much nearer home! A crusade against the pagan superstition and black magic that exists all around us. We call ourselves Christians, yet we use these purveyors of the black arts ourselves without a thought!’

  He changed from the ‘we’ to a more accusative style as he continued to glare around the assembled faces. De Wolfe caught John de Alençon’s eye and saw the expression of concern on the archdeacon’s face as he listened to the fiery diatribe from his brother canon.

  ‘When you want a wart removed from your eye, you visit some old crone who mumbles spells over it and rubs it with toad slime. When you wish for a boy-child, you seek out a cunning woman and give her silver to spin some evil ritual over your belly! Those of you who have land outside the city pay for a potion to cure the barrenness of your best cow!’

  The big, beefy priest swung his head from side to side like a bull confronting baiting dogs, as he fixed his audience with an accusing grimace.

  ‘Yes, most of you pray to God to help you – then next morning go off to find some witch to perform pagan rituals that Our Lord died to abolish from the earth. You are betraying your faith when you sink to dealing with these evil crones!’

  There was a shuffling of feet and twitching of shoulders among his listeners, as some felt shame, others embarrassment, especially those who in the last few days had sought out the help of the very agents he was now castigating,

  ‘I call upon you, you who are leaders in this community and thus persons of influence – seek out these disciples of Beelzebub, the servants of the arch-fiend! Root them out, condemn them and return to the paths of righteousness!’

  Before he finished, he once more glared around the throng as he delivered his clarion-call in the new crusade.

  ‘I am myself found guilty for waiting so long before attacking this evil – but now I will petition the bishop and his senior brethren to declare war on these who mock our faith with their magic. And I also call on the law officers to cast off their apathy and hunt down these creatures of the night and bring down the full penalty of the law upon them!’

  He drew himself up to his considerable height for the finale.

  ‘For keep in your minds what the Book of Exodus commands us – “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”!’

  There was a stunned silence, as this was not what the comfortable burgesses and their wives had expected at a burial service. Then Gilbert de Bosco seemed to deflate as, dropping his eyes, he began muttering the rituals of committal as he motioned to the verger to lower the coffin by its ropes into the grave. The widow seemed unmoved by the final exit of her husband, as her face was upraised to her cousin, bearing an almost triumphant expression. She hurried around the pit to him and grasped his arm, followed more slowly by a rather abashed daughter and son-in-law.

  ‘Gilbert, bless you! That was magnificent. I could not have hoped that you would take on this cause so readily and energetically!’

  As she gabbled her thanks, another figure sidled up behind her and when he could get a word in, added his support to the proposed crusade against the cunning women. It was Walter Winstone, still smarting at the way he had been bypassed by Henry de Hocforde and full of malice for the folk healers who were depriving him of some of his trade.

  ‘Reverend sir, you have said at last what has long been needed to be shouted abroad!’ he whined. ‘I am an apothecary and I know the damage these evil folk can do, pretending to offer cures and usually making matters far worse.’

  Cecilia turned to him quickly, gratified to find such a ready recruit so soon. The three of them began gabbling together, virtually ignoring the thumping of earth behind them, as the vergers shovelled soil back into the grave-pit. Others gravitated towards the trio, some impelled by the herd instinct, feeling that any new cause with influential members was worth latching on to. Matilda was one, though her friendship and support for her friend Cecilia were added incentives. But one other quick-witted person rapidly weighed up the political and personal advantages of a new campaign and with only momentary hesitation, stepped across to insinuate himself into the group around the burly priest.

  ‘I can assure you, Canon de Bosco, that as far as it is in my power as the chief law officer in this county, you will find the forces of law and order entirely on your side,’ brayed Richard de Revelle.

  Gilbert’s mention of Henry Marshal had tipped the balance for de Revelle, as, like the bishop himself, the sheriff was a covert supporter of Prince John in his aspirations to displace Richard Coeur de Lion from the throne. When Richard had recently been incarcerated in Germany for eighteen months, open rebellion had ensued – until March the year before last, when Richard returned and quashed the revolt. Foolishly, he was far too lenient with his brother, so that John was still at liberty to continue his plotting.

  Now the sheriff saw another chance to consolidate his position with the bishop, who was also the younger brother of William, Marshal of England. If the King fell, as he was daily likely to do in his incessant battles against Philip of France – or if another more successful revolt took place – then de Revelle, who had long-standing political ambitions, wanted to be on the winning side.

  John de Wolfe watched this development with a sense of foreboding. Anything that brought a crusading priest into an alliance with his brother-in-law was a matter of concern, as the coroner knew the sheriff of old and was sure that he would manipulate any issue to his greatest advantage. As the crowd began to disperse, muttering and whispering among themselves, he caught the eye of his archdeacon friend. Leaving Matilda in the cluster of people around the de Bosco, he moved across to John de Alençon. ‘And what did you make of that?’ he asked sombrely.

  The ascetic priest shook his head sadly. ‘I know Gilbert only too well. He either does nothing at all – or he goes off on a rampage, if the issue takes his fancy.’

  ‘So now he has appointed himself witch-hunter to the county of Devon, by the looks of it.’

  The archdeacon nodded, his thin face looking more worried than ever. They began walking behind the throng towards the door and the daylight beyond.

  ‘What view will the bishop have of this affair?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘I doubt he has ever considered the matter before, but I am sure that he will not be against it. Strictly speaking, he has no direct authority over the canons of the cathedral, as his remit is the diocese – though few members of the ecclesiastical community would ever care to challenge him.’ He stood aside for de Wolfe to pass through the door on to the steps of the West Front. ‘Yet the Church in the West of England has been in the doldrums lately, and Henry Marshal may see this as an opportunity to stir up some episcopal activity to impress Canterbury and remind them that the See of Devon and Cornwall is still alive and well.’

  The two friends walked on in silence for a few yards.

  ‘What of Richard de Revelle’s sudden enthusiasm for seeking out cunning women?’ asked de Alençon, although he knew the answer well enough.

  ‘As usual, he wishes to keep in with those in the cathedral who lean towards John, Count of Mortain,’ said John bitterly. ‘We both know whom they might be – and the bishop himself is Richard’s main target, you may be sure.’

  In the cathedral, the precentor, the canon responsible for the organisation of services, was Thomas de Boterellis, another supporter of the Prince. Several other canons also favoured the younger royal brother and only John de Alençon and the treasurer, John of Exeter, were declared royalists like the coroner himself.

  They caught up with the knot of people at a junction of the paths across the Close, just as Gilbert de Bosco took himself off towards his h
ouse in Canons’ Row and the rest dispersed in various directions. The archdeacon excused himself hurriedly as he saw Matilda making for him, but de Wolfe had to stand his ground as his wife beckoned him vigorously towards her. She was standing with her brother, the widow Cecilia and her family close beside them.

  ‘John, I hope you took to heart what the good canon had to say just now!’ she snapped, fixing him with her cold eyes. He knew that however he replied it would be twisted against him, so he merely nodded and kept his mouth shut.

  ‘I’d like to talk this over with you, John,’ brayed the sheriff, still resplendent in his red tunic with the silver trimmings. ‘Come to my chamber in the morning and we’ll work out a plan of campaign against this creeping evil. You’ll need to hold that inquest now, as you should have done in the first place.’

  De Wolfe glared at his brother-in-law. ‘What plan of campaign? I’m a coroner, not a persecutor of old wives! And since when does a priest order an inquest in his sermons? I take my orders from the King’s Council and the Chief Justiciar, not cathedral canons!’

  Incensed beyond measure, he grabbed Matilda’s arm and almost dragged her towards Martin’s Lane. He was well aware that he would pay for his flash of temper very soon, when she gave him a tongue-lashing, but for the moment, anger made him foolhardy. He would regret it later.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In which a canon speaks to the chapter

  In the Bush that evening, John de Wolfe related that day’s events to Nesta as they sat together at his table by the empty hearth. Although the ashes were cold, the room was stifling, as the threatening storm had not yet broken and the whole city was perspiring in sullen stillness.

  ‘So your dearly beloved wife gave you a hard time?’ said the Welsh woman. Although she tried hard to hide her jealousy of John’s spouse, sometimes she could not resist some mild sarcasm.