The Witch Hunter (12 page)

‘As soon as you can find him a length of hessian and two sticks for him to make his robe and his cross. I’ll leave that to you, as you’re so keen to see the back of him.’

‘And who is going to give him his passage money to Cherbourg or St Malo?’ huffed the priest, suspicious that the burden might fall on him.

John winked, keeping a straight face. ‘I should forget about that. I’ll wager that Topsham will not see hide nor hair of him. But once he’s out of the city, our duty is done.’

John de Wolfe managed to avoid a return visit to St Olave’s the next morning, although his wife pestered him to accompany her to the private obsequies over the body of Robert de Pridias. He claimed that his official presence at the Thursday hangings was inescapable, which was almost true – but he had to compromise by agreeing to attend the funeral service at the cathedral later that day.

He had risen at his usual early hour and made his way to his chamber high in the castle gatehouse. Here Gwyn assured him that Stephen Aethelard had been seen off from the church in his sackcloth at dawn, leaving on the road to Topsham as soon as the city gates were open. The fact that the abjurer had not even asked for his passage money confirmed John’s suspicions that the man would melt into the woods before he had gone a mile from the city, but that was of no concern to him. He had not yet told the sheriff of Stephen’s escape, keeping that until after his second breakfast, looking forward to it as a comforting item with which to irritate his brother-in-law.

It was the custom of the coroner’s team to gather each morning in their barren room, to arrange the day’s work and to have a little sustenance, especially as Gwyn seemed unable to survive for more than a few hours without refuelling his large body with food and drink. The usual fare was a fresh loaf of coarse rye bread and a hard chunk of cheese bought from a stall at the bottom of Castle Lane, washed down with either ale or rough cider from a gallon jar that the Cornishman kept in the office. Thomas usually nibbled at the food, but avoided the drink. In better days he had been used to wine, but now, in his near-destitution, he reluctantly had to make do with ale at his lodging in the Close, but baulked at the cruder liquid that Gwyn purchased from a nearby tavern, which to him was a cross between vitriol and horse piss, with shreds of what looked like rotted sea-weed swirling at the bottom.

‘Is that widow still pestering you to hold an inquest?’ asked Gwyn, between mouthfuls of bread.

‘No doubt she will this afternoon, unless I can keep clear of her,’ replied the coroner glumly. ‘Though I doubt I’ll manage that, with Matilda hovering over me, anxious to aid and abet her.’

Thomas’s beady eyes settled on his master’s face. ‘I have seen some strange things over the years, Crowner. I’d not dismiss witchcraft too readily,’ he said uneasily.

‘That goes for me, too,’ boomed Gwyn. ‘In Cornwall, there are many fey women – and some men, too! I could tell you stories that would make your hair stand on end.’

The coroner glared sourly at his acolytes. ‘What are you two trying to do – scare me into taking this death under my wing? We’ve all seen strange things, but I’m damned if I’m going to turn up at the next Eyre and present the King’s justices with a death by magic! I’d be the laughing-stock of the county.’

Gwyn wiped ale from his luxuriant moustache, then shook his head. ‘Most folk would agree with you, if you did. Especially when they heard of that stabbed straw figure.’

De Wolfe bristled. The more he was pushed, the more he dug in his heels. ‘Damned nonsense! I’m surprised at you, Thomas – a man of the cloth like you. Doesn’t your Church condemn all this pagan belief as heresy?’

They argued back and forth for a while, until all the bread and cheese had gone, but the coroner was adamant about keeping de Pridias’s death at arm’s length. When the good-natured bickering faded, John announced that he was going over to the keep, to goad the sheriff about the loss of his felon, before the trio went out of the city to attend the executions.

As John crossed the inner bailey, he saw that the weather was threatening rain again, but although there had been more thunder, the black clouds were still holding back the inevitable deluge. The air was still and sultry and people seemed enervated as the cloying atmosphere stuck their clothes to their perspiring skin. In the crowded main hall of the keep it was even more of an effort to breathe and John was glad to escape though the small door into de Revelle’s quarters, away from the stench of sweltering humanity.

In the outer chamber, where the sheriff conducted his official business, he found the dapper man checking piles of money that his chief clerk had set out on a side table. As John barged in unannounced, Richard whirled round, his hand going to his dagger, as if he was afraid that some robber was about to steal all the taxes of Devonshire. ‘Oh, it’s only you!’ he snapped ungraciously, turning back to his counting. The clerk, an old grey-haired man in lesser religious orders, had set out orderly rows of silver pennies in piles of twelve, arranged in islands of twenty, so that the sheriff could count them as pounds, an accounting device that, like marks, had no actual coin. Alongside the table was a massive oaken chest, bound with bands of black iron. At the moment it was open and empty, but when the money had been replaced, it would be sealed with a pair of locks, to which only de Revelle had keys.

De Wolfe watched as his brother-in-law continued to count, using one forefinger to tap the piles of coins, while in the other hand he held a sheet of parchment, covered in columns of figures provided by the clerk. De Revelle was quite literate, having been educated when young at Wells Cathedral – a fact that he never failed to rub John’s face in, the coroner never having had any learning other than the hard school of battle.

‘Have you come into a fortune, Richard – or have you taken to highway robbery?’ asked de Wolfe sarcastically.

The sheriff held up a hand for silence until he got to the last row of coins, his lips moving silently as he counted. Then he motioned to the clerk to start replacing the money in the treasury and turned to his sister’s husband.

‘It’s part of the county farm, John. I have to keep a strict check on it.’ His voice conveyed the importance of his office and the depth of his responsibility, although John suspected that his auditing enthusiasm was mainly driven by a desire to see how much he could siphon off into his own purse.

‘I thought that your next submission was not due until Michaelmas?’ commented the coroner. Twice a year, on alternate Quarter Days, every sheriff had personally to deliver the ‘farm’, the taxes squeezed from each county, to the King’s treasury, which was an even larger box kept at Winchester. Originally, payment was made on to a chequered cloth derived from the chessboard, to help the poorly numerate officials make an accurate count, hence the name ‘exchequer’.

Richard ignored John’s question and stalked back to his chair behind the main table which he used as his desk. Today he was attired in a long tunic of dark red silk, with a large silver buckle on his leather belt and a chain of heavy silver links around his neck. His mid-brown hair had been freshly cut into a new style, a thick pad on top surmounting an almost shaven neck and sides. John thought his head looked a little like a mushroom, but he kept his opinion to himself.

‘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.