The Witch Hunter (13 page)

‘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 unlike 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 house 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.

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.

‘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.’