The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  ‘This must be lodged in my chamber, where I can keep an eye on it!’

  ‘Don’t get any hopeful notions about it, Richard,’ warned de Wolfe. ‘That box and all its contents will have to be accounted for to the King or one of his ministers.’

  ‘This was found on my land! The fact that I temporarily sub-let to someone else makes no difference. I am the owner of that ground, held in fee simple.’

  De Wolfe shrugged. ‘Makes no odds who owns the land. Even if you can maintain your claim against Robert Hereward, you are still a tenant-in-chief of the King. It’s by that right that all treasure trove belongs to the crown.’

  ‘It’s mine, I tell you!’ howled the sheriff, clasping the box to his chest as if it were his first-born child. ‘It must have been lost on my property, it’s not treasure trove, damn you!’

  He scuttled out of the room and hurried back to his own chamber, slamming the door behind him. The three military men looked at each other and sighed.

  Although Sergeant Gabriel was not of their rank, he was an old and trusted servant. Their common bond of loyalty to the Lionheart and their mutual distrust of the sheriff gave him a privileged status in private. ‘I see trouble ahead over this, Crowner,’ he grunted.

  Ralph Morin dropped on to a bench and pulled at his beard. ‘I trust you’ve got a detailed list of what’s in that bloody box? Just in case some of it takes a walk before it gets to Winchester.’

  De Wolfe nodded. ‘I’ve got a written list, with witnesses. If any goes missing, we’ll know who to blame.’

  Again that was something he later wished he had never said.

  On that Tuesday morning, a woman walked out of the lanes behind St Mary Arches church into Fore Street and stopped while a large two-wheeled cart pulled by a pair of patient oxen lumbered past her. She was painfully thin and had a severe wry neck, her chin being pulled down and across almost to her opposite collar-bone. To look straight ahead, the poor soul had to swivel her eyes right up, giving her an expression of permanent questioning. Crossing the main thoroughfare, she made her way down through the lower town until she reached Idle Lane. With a couple of hours to go before noon, the Bush was quiet and Nesta was supervising her potman and maids as they changed the rushes on the floor. The Welsh woman prided herself on running the cleanest inn in Exeter, as well as the one with the best ale and food and insisted on changing the floor coverings every couple of weeks. The visitor stood at the door and watched as one of the maids dragged the old rushes into a pile, using a hay-rake made of wooden pegs fixed into a long cross-piece at the end of a handle. Old Edwin was using a pitchfork to load it on to a barrow, which was tipped on to the midden on the waste ground at the side of the tavern.

  The woman, who looked about thirty, tapped on the panels of the open door and twisted her head to look across at the landlady. Nesta had seen her about the streets, but did not know her name. Coming across the taproom, she asked what she wanted, sympathy in her voice as she acknowledged the good-wife’s disability. Accustomed to using her deformity to the best advantage, the caller rolled her eyeballs even farther than necessary and managed to look piteously at the tavern-keeper.

  ‘My name is Heloise, wife of Will Giffard, a porter. I have several grave problems, good lady,’ she croaked. ‘But could we talk about them privately?’

  Nesta already had a good idea what one of these problems might be and, having had the same dire trouble recently, was even more sympathetic than usual. ‘You’d better come up to the loft, away from these ruffians!’ Edwin and the maids had started an acrimonious shouting-match over who should push the barrow out to the midden and Nesta beckoned to the woman to follow her up the broad ladder to the upper floor. Here she led the way to a corner partitioned off from the rest of the spacious attic, where a dozen straw pallets were scattered around to accommodate lodgers.

  Opening the door of the small room, she waved Heloise to a stool, while she sat on the edge of a wide bed. This was raised on legs, a rarity in Devon, where most folk slept on a pallet on the floor. The porter’s wife introduced herself in a sad and downcast manner, wringing the loose end of her shabby belt between her thin fingers.

  ‘I have heard that you have the gift of healing, mistress. I have three problems which ail me,’ she began, rolling her eyes upwards and sideways to keep Nesta in view. ‘Firstly, I have had this affliction of my neck since I was a child. Is there anything you can do to help me?’

  Nesta smiled wanly at the woman, but shook her head sadly. ‘Much as my heart aches for you, Heloise, that is beyond me – and, I suspect, beyond even the most skilled physicians in the land. I have no special powers, you know – only what my mother and her sisters passed on to me when I was younger. They were just wise women in our village in Wales, we made no pretence at having anything more than a knowledge of common cures, passed down through the generations.’

  The other woman tried to nod, though she could manage little more than a slight bobbing of her deflected head. ‘Then maybe you can do something about these?’

  She held out her hands, palms down, and Nesta saw that on the backs of her fingers and knuckles were a dozen small but unsightly warts.

  The Welsh woman smiled. This was one of the most frequent requests and there were literally dozens of recipes for curing warts, ranging from the mundane to the bizarre. She got up from her bed and reached up to a shelf on the wall, where a dozen small pots were arranged.

  ‘Take this, there’s enough left in the bottom. I must make some more, as warts seem rife in Exeter this year.’ She handed a pot to the bemused Heloise, who asked how to use it. ‘Rub some on the warts morning and night. It’s only willow bark pounded in vinegar, but it will rid you of those lumps in a fortnight. Better than some cures, like rubbing them with the blood of a beheaded eel, then burying the head in the churchyard!’

  Nesta suspected that the first two requests were really excuses leading up to the real reason for her visit, although at the time she was unaware of the true nature of this deception. ‘And your third problem? Is it what I suspect?’

  Her sister’s promise of a reward had improved Heloise’s acting ability. She dropped her twisted gaze in a parody of chagrin. ‘Yes, mistress, I am with child again. My poor body will not stand yet another carrying. It will kill me this time, as it almost did last year.’

  This was a bare-faced lie, as she was totally barren, in spite of her husband’s incessant attempts to father a child on her. Nesta, mindful of her own very recent crisis, was full of sympathy, but this was one thing that she would never contemplate.

  ‘I cannot help you there either, good woman,’ she said softly. ‘I can help with warts and fevers and croup, but I have neither the skill nor the courage to rid you of that burden.’

  Heloise offered no argument, but stood up and fingered the small purse that dangled by its draw-string from her belt. ‘What do I owe you for the ointment?’ she asked woodenly.

  Nesta shook her head. ‘Nothing at all, I can make plenty more. Use it and rid your fingers of those abominations. I am only sorry I cannot do more for you on those other serious matters.’

  Moments later, the porter’s wife had gone and Nesta went back to haranguing her servants, forgetting the woman’s visit almost immediately. But Heloise smirked as she threw away the pot of ointment as soon as she was around the corner of Idle Lane – the silver pennies she would get from her sister for acting out this charade could buy better medicine than willow in vinegar, even after she had bought her new shawl.

  That evening, Matilda was in a neutral mood during supper, seeming to have exhausted her grumbling about his failure to further investigate the death of Robert de Pridias. However, she had heard about the unusual arrest of Alice Ailward by the cathedral proctors and scathingly remarked that it was good to hear that someone in the city was taking the menace of witchcraft seriously. Her husband rode out her criticism in silence, and when Mary had cleared away the debris of the meal, which tonight had been a rather toug
h boiled fowl, he announced that he was going down to visit the archdeacon.

  As it was the truth – although he intended going on to the Bush afterwards – she could hardly complain about his attending upon such a senior man of God and as soon as she had lumbered up to her solar and the attentions of Lucille, he called Brutus and walked the few yards down Canons’ Row to the house of John de Alençon.

  Leaving the dog to lie in the evening sun outside the door, he went inside to share a flask of wine with his friend. In the archdeacon’s spartan room they sat for a while, savouring the latest product of the Loire valley. This evening the coroner seemed to sense a certain excitement in his friend, as if he had good news which he was keeping in check. When he asked de Alençon whether he had something new to tell him, the canon’s lean face broke into a smile, but he tapped the side of his nose and told John to divulge his own business first.

  ‘Nothing pleasant, I’m afraid. I want to pick your ecclesiastical brain about this poor woman who was captured by your proctors.’

  The archdeacon’s smile faded. ‘Ah, Gilbert de Bosco! I knew that man would cause more trouble.’

  ‘Does he have the right and the authority to arrest a woman and cast her into a cell?’

  The priest sipped his wine and replaced the pewter cup carefully on the table between them. ‘You should really ask, who is there to stop him? It seems your brother-in-law didn’t object. I presume the bishop could intervene, but he also seems happy to sit on the same wagon which is rolling on this matter.’

  ‘Can you do nothing about it yourself?’

  De Alençon shook his head slowly. ‘Gilbert de Bosco is a canon of this cathedral, just like myself. My post as Archdeacon of Exeter involves administering the priests of the churches in this part of the diocese – it gives me no authority over my fellow-canons.’

  ‘What about the authority of the chapter?’

  ‘It’s none of their business, as it does not concern the running of the cathedral. Gilbert de Bosco has done this in his own capacity as a priest, not as a canon. Chapter has no say in diocesan affairs, they are solely the prerogative of the bishop.’

  There was a silence as each man pondered over his wine.

  ‘So what is the attitude of the Church to allegations of witchcraft?’ asked John, still worrying at the problem.

  The other John shrugged his narrow shoulders within his cassock. ‘Until now, I was not aware it had one! Though it condemns heresy and generally frowns upon anything which is ungodly, the question of witchcraft has never formally arisen here, until this interfering Gilbert made it an issue.’

  ‘What will happen to this unfortunate woman, now that de Bosco has her in his clutches?’

  ‘I presume he will cause her to be brought before the consistory court, as I fail to see what other measures can be taken.’

  He refilled his friend’s cup and then his own.

  ‘Tell me about this court of yours – how does it operate?’ asked de Wolfe.

  ‘The Holy Church is jealous of its independence from earthly princes and misses no chance to assert that autonomy,’ began the archdeacon, making his guest wonder whether he was to launch into a sermon.

  ‘Thomas Becket went too far down that road!’ grunted de Wolfe.

  ‘Yes, and remember how Rome made old King Henry pay for that! In fact, he had to reconfirm the right of the Church to keep all its clerics from the secular courts and try them itself in the consistory courts. William the Bastard himself established those with a charter at the time of the Conquest.’

  ‘Your lot keep these bishop’s courts very close to your chest! We laymen never get to know what goes on in them,’ complained the coroner.

  ‘There’s no secret about them, John. We just don’t like washing our dirty linen too publicly. They are convened as required in every diocese on the order of its bishop.’

  ‘Does he adjudicate in them himself?’

  The priest gave a wry smile. ‘Good heavens, no! A bishop is too high and mighty to concern himself with such matters, which often involve dull charters or drunken and licentious clerks. He appoints a chancellor to run the proceedings, aided by the proctors and some senior priests.’

  ‘So could Henry Marshal appoint Gilbert de Bosco as chancellor?’

  De Alençon nodded. ‘There is no reason why not – and if I read the politics of the situation right, it seems a distinct possibility.’

  The coroner grimaced, though not because of the wine he had just sipped. ‘Very convenient for them! And does this bishop’s court have jurisdiction over all matters, even this ridiculous accusation against this Alice Ailward?’

  ‘It would be a strange remit for a consistory court, which normally deals with disciplinary matters concerning the clergy, as well as a host of legal affairs to do with Church property, charters, contracts and anything touching upon the internal administration of the diocese.’

  John de Wolfe continued to worry away at the issue like a dog with a bone, sensing that the bishop, sheriff and some of the canons were manipulating this situation for their own devious ends. ‘If it is so dedicated to Church affairs, how then can it be used against the common people?’

  De Alençon once more topped up their cups before replying. ‘We live in a Christian state, John, where all our activities are, at least in theory, governed by the tenets of the Church. Even kings and emperors wield their power at the behest of Rome, much as they kick against the pricks at every opportunity.’

  De Wolfe felt another sermon approaching, but his friend came rapidly to the point.

  ‘The King’s peace and the secular courts govern most of the lives of people not in holy orders, but the canon law which rules we clerics reaches out over everyone when it comes to matters of faith. I have seen the ecclesiastical courts deal with offences such as blasphemy committed by the lay public and have heard of trials for heresy elsewhere, though admittedly they are uncommon.’

  De Wolfe digested this before asking his last question. ‘So are you saying that the only charge that could be brought against an alleged witch is one of heresy?’

  The archdeacon rubbed the curly grey hair that rimmed his tonsure as if goading his brain into action. ‘No, for the consistory court to find guilt they must be convinced that some form of criminal damage has been caused, even if it’s only the death of a pig or the failure of a cow to give milk. But no doubt idolatry, apostasy, sacrilege, blasphemy, disobedience to the true God and following other gods – in this case the Devil – could be squeezed into the arraignment, if the evidence warranted it.’

  ‘Evidence!’ snorted de Wolfe. ‘From what I’ve heard, it is a pack of scandalous lies, deliberately whipped up for some underhand reason.’

  ‘We can only wait on events, John. Let us tackle each problem as it arises – though I fear that this case will not be the last.’

  As if to turn the tenor of the conversation in another direction, the canon poured them both more wine and settled back in his hard chair with a smile. ‘After all that gloomy talk, John, I have something more pleasant to tell you. It concerns your clerk, my nephew Thomas de Peyne.’

  John’s black eyebrows rose. For months he had been trying to find some way of restoring Thomas to better spirits, as the little clerk had sunk to such depths of despondency that he had even tried to kill himself by jumping from the roof of the cathedral nave. His hopes of re-entering holy orders after his unfrocking two years earlier, had been repeatedly blocked by senior priests, mainly as a gesture against his master’s steadfast adherence to King Richard and his dogged opposition to the cause of Prince John.

  ‘You have news that he might be received back into his beloved Church?’

  De Alençon raised a hand to cool his friend’s eagerness. ‘We are not there yet, John, but I have had encouraging words from Winchester. In fact I heard some weeks ago that there were certain enquiries going on there, but I held my tongue until I had further details, not wanting to raise false hopes in Thomas’s breast
.’

  ‘So what have you heard?’ demanded John impatiently. He found the archdeacon almost as slow in imparting information as the infuriating Gwyn.

  ‘We all know that Thomas was accused by a girl being taught her letters by him, in the school attached to the cathedral there. She claimed that he made indecent advances to her, and as she had influential parents in the city, the whole thing was blown up into insinuations of attempted rape.’

  ‘Bloody nonsense. That feeble little fellow hasn’t got it in him,’ growled the coroner. ‘It was her word against his!’

  ‘Be that as it may, she’s done it again,’ said the archdeacon. ‘She recently entered a priory there as a novice and last month accused one of the lay brothers of interfering with her. But this time, unknown to her, there were two witnesses who swear that no such thing occurred. When challenged by the prioress, she broke down and confessed that she was lying.’

  De Wolfe thumped the table with his fist, making the wine cups rattle. ‘Ha! So now you think Thomas’s disgrace might also be challenged?’

  John de Alençon smiled his sweet smile. ‘Matters have already gone farther than that. Thankfully, someone there remembered the allegations against him and told the prioress. She taxed this girl with it and in her shame and remorse she also recanted her accusations against my sad little nephew.’