The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  ‘She played merry hell with me,’ he answered feelingly. ‘Both for dragging her off from her friends so abruptly – and for turning down the sheriff’s demand for an inquest.’

  ‘But Matilda is surely under no delusions about her brother these days,’ objected Nesta. ‘You’ve told me that his endless misbehaviour has embittered her against him.’

  De Wolfe ran a finger around the inside of his neck-band, easing it away from the sweaty skin.

  ‘True, his repeated transgressions, especially his near-treachery, have destroyed the rosy picture she once had of him,’ he answered. ‘But it was my refusal to go along with these fanciful suspicions of the widow that really caused Matilda to shout and snarl at me.’

  Feeling the heat as well, Nesta pulled off her trailing head-rail and shook out a cascade of shining auburn hair. The tavern was fairly quiet this evening, the sultry weather too enervating to bring many people out of their dwellings. Refilling his ale mug from a large jug on the table, she picked her words carefully, knowing his short temper.

  ‘D’you think it might be politic to make a few more enquiries into his death?’ she asked gently. ‘After all, there was that doll with a spike stuck through it. Someone meant him ill will, even if it didn’t cause his death.’

  De Wolfe took a long draught of her best ale before replying. ‘It’s true that that thing showed that some person must have wished some evil to come to de Pridias,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘But I don’t know of any law that forbids placing a straw dolly in a man’s saddlebag! What am I supposed to do about it?’

  She sensed that his resolve was weakening a little. As long as John de Wolfe was not challenged head-on, she could sometimes win him around by persuading him that the suggestion came from himself.

  ‘Someone must have been stalking him, to obtain a bit of his hair and a shred of his clothing. Is that sort of behaviour something the law condones?’ she asked with false innocence.

  For once, he saw through her stratagems and grinned lopsidedly as he nipped her smooth thigh under the table. ‘You’re a cunning woman yourself, Nesta of Gwent!’ he murmured in the Welsh they always used together. ‘I think you must have put a spell on me, to be able to twist me around your fingers, as you do.’

  Her heart-shaped, open face smiled back at him with undisguised affection. ‘I’ll be putting another spell on you very soon, cariad, one that will make you go with me up that ladder in the corner.’

  She raised her fine eyebrows and inclined her head towards the wide steps at the back of the taproom which led up to her little room. His fingers were encouraged to explore a little farther under the table, as they sat close together on the bench.

  ‘Maybe it’s just that bit too hot tonight, Nesta,’ he teased. ‘I’m already in a sweat, just sitting quietly here.’

  She pretended to pout and pulled away from him. ‘Then sit and drink your ale, old man, if you’re that feeble!’

  ‘I’ll just finish this quart and then see if I can manage to climb those rungs. Meanwhile, tell me something of these cunning women, if you’re really a witch yourself.’

  ‘Oh, John! You know as well as I do that everywhere there are old wives – and younger ones – who carry out a bit of homespun magic. And there are men too, the women don’t have a monopoly of the art.’

  ‘Do you know any of these people yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Most of them keep it within the family, like grandmothers who boil a few herbs and mutter a few spells when the babe has the croup or the house cow goes dry.’

  ‘But some go much farther than treating the family. There are those who make a living from their art, surely?’

  Nesta took a sip from his mug and shook her head. ‘Very few make a profession of it. Those who try to help outside their family usually keep it to their friends and others in the village.’

  ‘What about the towns? We must have them here in Exeter as well? This must surely be where the corn-dolly came from, as de Pridias was a city man.’

  She looked up at him looming over her, his black hair curling around his neck. Fierce though he usually looked, she loved this big stern man with an intensity that was as strong as it was hopeless. He was a Norman knight, a respected Crusader and a senior law officer of the King. And what was she but a lowly ale-wife and a foreigner from Wales into the bargain? What could life hold for her, other than frustration and disappointment for as far ahead as she could imagine? With a sigh, she forced herself to pay attention to what he was asking.

  ‘In the towns? Well, there are cunning women here as in every other borough and city. You know that for yourself, you called on Bearded Lucy at one time, remember?’

  John certainly did recall the poverty-stricken old woman who lived in squalor in a tumble-down shack on the marshes of Exe Island – and Nesta had plenty of cause to remember her, too.

  ‘But there must be many more in Exeter, a great city with over four thousand souls,’ he objected. ‘Are they more likely to ply this as a trade than the ones out in the countryside?’

  The red-headed landlady prodded him with her elbow. ‘Why look on me as an authority, Sir Crowner?’ she snapped, using the parody of his title to poke fun at him. ‘I’m not the warden of the Guild of Witches, you know! You’ll be getting me into trouble if this pompous canon launches a campaign against cunning women.’

  Perhaps Nesta did possess a sixth sense, for her careless remark was to be proved all too prophetic.

  The chapter house was an old wooden building, planted against the foot of the southernmost of the two great towers of the cathedral. Exeter was a secular establishment, like eight of the other nineteen English cathedrals, the rest being monastic institutions. It was run by the ‘chapter’, comprising the twenty-four canons who ran every aspect of cathedral business.

  The lower floor of the chapter house was used for their daily meeting, the upstairs housing the library and scriptorium, as well as accommodating the clerks who toiled over the treasury and accounts. The building was becoming too small and inconvenient, and negotiations were slowly going ahead for the acquisition of part of the garden of the bishop’s palace, further along the south side of the church, where a new stone building would be erected. Although officially the palace was Henry Marshal’s main residence, he was more often absent than present. The bishop had many manors of his own where he preferred to stay – and was frequently in London, Winchester or Canterbury, leaving his diocese in the care of his archdeacons.

  At about the eighth hour on the morning after the remarkable funeral service, the canons and clergy assembled as usual after prime at the chapter house. Sitting in their black-and-white vestments on benches around three sides of the bare room, they listened as a chorister stood at a lectern and read out the daily calendar – including the date as given by the Roman calendar, the age of the moon in the month and the saints to be commemorated that day.

  A secondary, a young priest in training, next announced the rota of duties for the following day, then another read a chapter of the Rule of St Chrodegang, the strict code of behaviour adopted by Leofric, the last Saxon bishop, who founded the cathedral. Then, after prayers for the King, the relatives of the clergy and the dead, the lower orders and choristers departed to celebrate their capitular Mass, leaving the canons to deal with their official business. Jordan de Brent was this week’s convenor of the chapter, as it would be another quarter of a century before Exeter appointed a dean to officiate. He rose to introduce a few financial matters, then a rather bitter discussion took place between the precentor and succentor about the choral arrangements for the feast of Epiphany. A short disciplinary hearing followed, when a downcast secondary was brought in by a proctor and sentenced to a month of almost continuous duties for being found incapably drunk in the Close. Jordan de Brent then asked whether there were any further matters for discussion and immediately Gilbert de Bosco lumbered to his feet. John de Alençon, sitting on the right hand of the convenor, groaned inwardly, as he guessed wh
at was to come.

  ‘Brothers in Christ, I rise to put before you an issue which should long ago have exercised our hearts and minds,’ he began in his powerful voice. ‘In all humility, I am as guilty as any of us, as I had never considered the matter seriously until it was forcibly brought to my attention this very week.’

  Chapter was not always very attentive to the usually dull business before them and canons often whispered together or even dozed as the discussion droned on. But today every ear was cocked towards the speaker. Almost all had already heard of the outspoken obituary speech the day before, the grapevine being even more active in the incestuous community of the Close than in the city generally, where it was certainly highly efficient.

  ‘In this diocese, in this county, in this very city, we have a legion of evil-doers who practise their black arts under our noses – and we hardly notice them, let alone do anything to stamp them underfoot!’

  Gilbert slowly swung his big head around to encompass the three sides of the chapter house with his glaring eyes and his powerful presence. Although the archdeacon disliked the launching of a pogrom against harmless folk, he had to admit that Gilbert de Bosco was a highly effective orator, able to seize and hold the attention of his audience.

  ‘Only yesterday, we laid to rest under the stones of our beloved church, the body of a man done to death by satanic means. Though the custodians of the King’s peace – or at least some of them – stubbornly refused to take action, I have no doubt that he was deliberately killed, the black arts being used to effect his death.’

  Once more he stopped for effect, his eyes seeking out every third or fourth face in the congregation and drilling into their eyes with his almost hypnotic stare.

  ‘Brothers, we have a community riddled with practitioners of sorcery, who blatantly ignore, despise and revile the teachings of God’s word. Cunning women, witches, wizards – call them what you will – they are perverting the fabric of our Christian way of life. Now that the scales of ignorance have been cast from my eyes, I am appalled to realise that for centuries we have done nothing about this heresy. The time has come to rise up and enforce the might of the Holy Church against them. They must not prevail or their increase will lead us to the apocalypse, the coming of the Anti-christ!’

  His voice gradually rose to a booming crescendo and de Alençon saw that a number of his fellow-prebendaries were nodding enthusiastically and a few were making the sign of the Cross as if in harmony with his exhortations.

  Gilbert carried on his diatribe for a some time, now becoming more specific about the transgressions of the servants of Satan. He listed some of their evil deeds, their placing of curses on men and beasts, their tampering with the love lives of honest folk, their perversion of the healing arts – and their procuring of miscarriages, all against the will of God and the tenets of the scriptures, the Holy Father and his Church. John de Alençon, who had been present himself when the canon had made his now notorious requiem sermon, realised that overnight de Bosco must have done some very quick research into the alleged activities of cunning women. He thought that probably the widow Cecilia and the disaffected apothecary must have fed him much of the material, but whatever the source he had certainly got an excellent grasp of the issue in a very short time.

  Gilbert came to the end of his harangue with a final flourish, a clarion call for immediate action. ‘I have already spoken to our Lord Bishop, who thankfully was in residence last evening. He thoroughly supports my desire for action against these disciples of Beelzebub and intends to spread the message to his fellow-bishops and indeed, to Canterbury, to make this an all-England crusade! And I have the full support of Sir Richard de Revelle, who agrees that when these evil people break the King’s peace, then the might of the law must fall upon them.’

  He raised his brawny arms, the folds of his black cassock falling like the wings of some great bat.

  ‘Every one of you, my brother canons, must preach against this evil – and those who employ vicars in your livings, you must instruct them to constantly deliver the same message to their flocks. I would implore the archdeacons to do the same in respect of all the parish priests in the whole diocese of Devon and Cornwall.’

  His stentorian voice reached a new peak as he raised his right hand and made the sign of the Cross in the air.

  ‘In the name of God, we must root out this hidden evil, once and for all. Remember what the scriptures exhort us – thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’

  He sat down heavily on to his bench, to the accompaniment of much foot-tapping and murmurs of approbation.

  The convenor, who was the oldest canon as well as the archivist and librarian, stood up and held his hands out for silence. De Alençon could see by the expression on the old man’s face that he had the same uneasy reservations about Gilbert’s ranting as the archdeacon himself.

  ‘Is there any discussion of this matter?’ asked Jordan, in a tone that suggested he hoped the issue was closed. The hope was short lived, as a dozen canons scrambled to their feet to speak. Although a few urged caution about upsetting what was mostly harmless folk tradition, most endorsed Gilbert’s crusade and related stories of their own about the wicked activities of sooth-sayers and sorcerers. Cynically, the archdeacon felt that most of their tales were second or third hand, rather than from personal experience. Listening to them, he rapidly came to the conclusion that the chapter was equally divided, as far as supporters and doubters were concerned. Generally, the younger canons were keen to follow de Bosco, while the older and wiser men knew enough about life, especially in the countryside, to doubt the wisdom of this proposed campaign.

  He felt obliged to rise himself to try to dampen down what was in danger of becoming a hysterical response to Gilbert’s powerful oratory.

  ‘Brothers, we must not be hasty in this matter,’ he said above the continued murmur of voices. ‘Of course, I can but agree that where any person transgresses the law, be it secular or religious, then the appropriate censure must be applied.’

  His frail figure, topped by the wiry grey hair that fringed his shaven tonsure, seemed insignificant compared to de Bosco’s bulk, but his voice was clear and penetrating.

  ‘But let us be clear about what is at issue! Does our brother Gilbert wish us to hound the old woman who gives her neighbour a potion to soothe her quinsy? And are we to pursue the goodwife who murmurs some words over her brother’s cow to ensure it gives birth to a she-calf? Or the yeoman who chants an old rhyme and scatters some sycamore ash to increase the yield of his oat field? We must keep a sense of proportion about this. The traditions of the countryside are rooted in antiquity and most do no harm and often some good.’

  There was some muted foot-tapping and muttering of agreement from a section of the chapter, but others frowned at John for pouring the cold water of reason on this latest diversion.

  Gilbert de Bosco scowled at the archdeacon. ‘Anything not done in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost is either sterile or frankly blasphemous,’ he snapped. ‘I am surprised at your lack of support, Brother John. I am reminded of the text, “He who is not with me, is against me”!’

  And with that almost threatening parting shot, he stalked out of the chapter house.

  The split in the attitude of the canons soon overflowed into the general population, as the Friday meeting of chapter was soon followed by Sunday sermons at churches all over Exeter and the rest of the county. John de Alençon, who was responsible for the priests in the city, tried to play down the issue and conveniently omitted to instruct the incumbents of Exeter’s twenty-seven churches to preach on the evils of witchcraft and folk magic. However, as with every other facet of life in the city, news travelled as fast as if it too, was imbued with magic and quite a number of the parish priests seized upon the intriguing topic for the subject of their sermons. Their congregations also found it a welcome change from the usual dull exhortations droned from the chancel steps. The novel proposition to hound down cunn
ing men and women led to many discussions and even heated arguments outside church doors after the services were over. The issue was seized upon with almost hysterical fervour and within a few days the city was divided into two camps – those who wished to let the spell-binders and sooth-sayers well alone and those who wished to hang them all or cast them into the Exe, bound hand and foot.

  Not all the vehemence was spontaneous, however, as it was helped along by some underhand scheming by the apothecary, Walter Winstone. Incensed by the way that he had been humiliated by Henry de Hocforde, he plotted over the weekend both to get even with the merchant and to strike a blow against the magicians who were undercutting his trade. Walter hired a sly rogue from one of the quay-side alehouses, a fellow he knew from some previous dubious tasks he had carried out for the apothecary. The man was Adam Cuffe, a slaughterer from the Shambles at the top end of Southgate Street. He was sent by Winstone on Sunday afternoon to a woman in Rock Lane, which ran up from the new Watergate pierced through the southern corner of the city walls. She was known to offer cures for various ailments for a few pence. Adam pretended that he had ringing in the ears, dizziness and a splitting headache and staggered about the woman’s small cottage to add substance to his story. The goodwife was Alice Ailward, a benevolent widow of fifty-eight who treated people more from a genuine desire to help, than for the trivial payment. She listened to Adam’s fabricated symptoms, looked in his mouth and eyes and poked in his ears with a piece of stick. Then she went to her table in the corner of the single room that was her home and pounded some dried seeds in a mortar, adding a sprinkling of herbs. Folding the powder into a scrap of cloth, she gave it to the impostor in return for a penny, instructing him to take a large pinch four times a days, washed down with ale. There were no spells or incantations involved and by next morning Alice had almost forgotten the incident.

  She was truly astounded, as well as terrified, when at about the ninth hour on Monday morning she heard a fusillade of knocks on her front door and a chorus of angry shouts in the narrow street outside. The knocks were from stones thrown at the house and, as she opened the door, another rock crashed through the flimsy shutter covering her single window. Outside were a score of people, all shouting and making threatening gestures. Alice knew none of them, as they were not from Rock Lane and she was petrified with fear to find a mob inexplicably clustered in front of her house.