The Witch Hunter (35 page)

‘Is he still alive?’ wheezed John.

‘Yes, he’s poorly, but I think he’ll do,’ said the smith, feeling the heartbeat of the old man.

‘Did you see any sign of Bearded Lucy in there?’ persisted Gwyn, who was rapidly getting his breathing back to normal. ‘I’ll swear I saw her by the ladder to the loft.’

‘She’s supposed to be in here, dammit!’ grunted John, his own heart thumping like a war-drum. He slapped a hand against the brewing-shed, which was supporting him.

Gwyn hauled himself off the wall and stumbled to the door of the hut, opened it and looked in. ‘She’s not here – but I need a drink to wash the ash from my throat.’

He stuck his head into the nearest open tub and drank the half-brewed liquid like a horse at a trough. Seeing an empty jug near by, he dipped it in and came out to give it to de Wolfe. The coroner took a deep draught, then spat it out on the ground. ‘God, that’s horrible! Now I’m going to see Nesta.’ He stumbled across to the kitchen-hut and, wiping his running eyes, leaned against the door-post to look in at Nesta, who was sitting on a stool, crying. Her two maids hovered behind her solicitously, trying to comfort her.

‘All that work, John, in vain! My Meredydd’s efforts at first, then all your help, going up in smoke!’

‘We will see it built again, Nesta!’ he assured her, using the Welsh tongue that they habitually spoke. ‘The stone walls will stand, we can have a new floor and roof on them within weeks.’

He looked over his shoulder and saw that there were still people milling about outside the yard gate. ‘Where the devil is Ralph Morin and his men-at-arms! That crowd is still there and that bloody priest! Keep yourself quiet in here, don’t show yourself at all.’

He pulled the door shut and moved towards the back of the inn, but now black smoke was belching out of the rear door and there was no chance of getting inside to look for Bearded Lucy. Gwyn had rapidly recovered and, grabbing his arm, de Wolfe hustled him towards the side gate. ‘I don’t trust this damned mob, especially if that bastard canon is still among them.’ Drawing his sword again, he first checked that Odin was safe and was relieved to see that the horse had wandered across the waste ground and was unconcernedly cropping at some rank grass and weeds, well away from the crowd around the alehouse.

‘Let’s get around to the front again,’ he commanded, and stalked around the side of the building, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. The original few dozen agitators were now well outnumbered by more reasonable citizens, but there was still a lot of shouting and abuse with scattered scuffles going on. As the coroner and his officer forced their way towards the front door, there was a ragged cheer, mixed with cat-calls, as the crowd saw a posse of soldiers come trotting around the corner from Smythen Street. Led by Ralph Morin on foot, also waving a large broad-sword, there were a dozen soldiers with pikes and staffs, Sergeant Gabriel bringing up the rear, brandishing a fearsome ball-mace.

They dived into the mob, roughly pushing them aside, and soon split them up into smaller groups, men-at-arms separating each faction. The castle constable thrust his great bulk through them to stand alongside de Wolfe. He stared in astonishment at the stricken tavern. ‘There’s no saving this now, John,’ he rumbled in his deep voice. ‘Has everyone got out? Where’s Nesta?’

‘All are safe, thank God. But that old woman Lucy has vanished, we don’t know if she’s still in there.’

Morin looked around at the crowd, who were now reduced to a muttering, growling rabble. ‘Who did this? Do you want them arrested?’

‘That swine of a canon, Gilbert de Bosco! He’s over there, still trying to egg them on. A few louts had torches, but I doubt we’ll find them now – apart from one whose head I hammered.’

There was the sounds of hoofs from the direction of Priest Street and, turning, they saw a horseman clattering towards them.

‘It’s the sheriff. What the hell does he want here?’ marvelled Morin. It was indeed Richard de Revelle, in his dandified green tunic, sitting on a smart dappled palfrey.

Any further speculation was abruptly halted by a loud crash behind them. They turned back to look at the inn, where a large segment of the roof had fallen in amid a huge gush of sparks and flame. The smoke was now ascending in a great plume, almost straight up because of the lack of any breeze on that sultry day. All faces were turned up to watch, a morbid fascination with fire gripping most of the bystanders.

The quarter of the roof that had fallen was mostly in flames, but the collapse had also torn down an intact section that had been resting on the side gable. In this fire-free area against the wall, a frightening figure now appeared. Bearded Lucy staggered to the edge of the loft floor, which was burning behind her, and looked down on the crowd, who were struck dumb by the apparition. The hair on her head and face was singed, with smouldering straw entwined in it, and the hem of her flowing garment was on fire.

Swaying on the very edge of the boards, she held up her arms like some Old Testament prophet and then swung them slowly around, her forefingers outstretched, to encompass the crowd, who were transfixed with emotions varying from terror to hatred.

‘Jump, Lucy! Quickly, we’ll catch you!’ yelled one more kindly voice. She shook her head slowly, her fingers clawing at the air as the flames licked closer.

‘Burn, then, as you deserve, you bloody old sorcerer!’ screamed another.

A deeper voice boomed out, from the throat of Canon Gilbert. ‘The Lord said thou shalt not suffer a witch to live – so die, woman, and may God have mercy on your soul!’

The red-rimmed eyes of the hag up on the doomed building swivelled to rest on the priest. Her pointing finger followed, then that on the other hand tracked across to transfix the sheriff on his horse. ‘I curse all who have brought this about! I curse those who have persecuted my sisters! And I especially curse you two evil men, who have cast out all compassion from your hearts to make way for ambition!’

There was a creaking noise from behind her head and another section of roof fell in a cascade of sparks and smoke.

‘I curse you, I curse you, I curse you thrice!’ screamed Bearded Lucy, the skirt of her filthy gown now being licked by flames. ‘May the evil that you most fear, befall you before the next full moon!’

Then, with a massive crash, almost the entire rear half of the roof fell downward and forward as the heavy ridge timber burnt through.

A mass of flaming hazel withes and the burning thatch that it had supported fell on top of Lucy. There was a heart-rending scream, then silence.

A huge mushroom of black smoke, almost like a thundercloud, puffed up as the roof hit the remnants of the loft floor and from more than a hundred throats an awe-struck gasp went up with it. John, by no means an imaginative man, later swore that for a fraction of a second he saw the swirling cloud form the image of a young woman’s face, comely and free from hair – but unmistakably that of Lucy of Exe Island.

The collapse of the roof and the horrible death of the old woman ended the last vestiges of the riot. The crowd became subdued, both those who had first gathered to revile and threaten, as well as those who came to watch. They soon began to drift away, urged on by Gabriel and his troops, who ungently shoved and prodded any stragglers until Idle Lane was almost empty. One who was not ushered away was Gilbert de Bosco, who in spite of the awful drama at the end, had regained his bluster and arrogance.

Ralph Morin and John de Wolfe closed in on him in a threatening manner and the coroner laid a hand on his arm, which the priest angrily shook off.

‘When – or if – we recover any of the remains of that poor woman, I will hold an inquest, and you will be a witness!’ grated the coroner.

‘You have no power over me, I am a cleric and a member of the cathedral chapter, as you well know.’

The sheriff, who had dismounted and come across to the group, brayed his agreement. ‘Leave well alone, John, you have no jurisdiction over this good man.’

‘And you have no jurisdiction at all – or soon will have none!’ retorted John. ‘He is not in the Close now, he is in the city and at the very least was a witness to one death and a number of injuries, for several fellows have received burns. The pot man is alive, I hope, but only just!’

‘You are thrashing at the wind, John,’ snapped de Revelle. ‘Why waste your time? The bishop will soon intervene in this.’

‘I care nothing for the bishop, except to censure him for allowing this man to cause so much trouble. My task is to record everything for the King’s justices and see that they are made aware of all that has gone on in Exeter this past week or two.’

De Revelle, who had regained his colour after blanching at the old crone’s curse, paled again at John’s pointed allusion to informing London of his own misdeeds.

Ralph Morin caught the change and mischievously turned the screw. ‘How long to the next full moon, John, d’you happen to know?’

The canon affected contempt, but his face had a film of sweat. ‘Pah, what damned nonsense! This is the very thing that we must stamp out in this county, this ungodly superstition.’

‘Stamp it out by hanging or burning every poor wife who sells a charm for a ha’penny?’ snarled de Wolfe, sick to his stomach with this contemptible, unrepentant bigot.

‘Yes, if necessary! God’s work is the reason for the Church’s existence, and those who let it go by default are unworthy to wear the cloth.’

This man is impossible, thought John, grinding his teeth in frustration. He knew that the sheriff was right, in that nothing could be done to Gilbert, who could always shelter behind the impassive face of the Church and its bishop. But Hubert Walter, who was Archbishop of Canterbury and thus Primate of England, as well as being the Chief Justiciar, would get some straight talking from de Wolfe, as soon as he could get to see him.

‘What brought you down here, Sheriff?’ asked Morin. He had to be circumspect with de Revelle, as long as he was still nominally sheriff, as although Ralph was the King’s nominee, the sheriff was his master when it came to everyday matters.

‘What brought me down? God’s garters, those men of yours made enough noise to be heard in France when they left Rougemont. I came to see what had happened, in case it was an invasion!’

John knew he was lying, as he never turned out for any other emergencies, but he could not guess at the reason.

‘I’m going back to the Close now,’ announced the canon, in a voice that suggested that he would make trouble for anyone who tried to detain him. ‘I’ve seen that at least one of the Devil’s disciples has suffered her just deserts.’

With that cryptic remark, he walked away with Richard de Revelle, a soldier following with the sheriff’s horse. The last John saw of them was as they turned the corner into Smythen Street, still deep in conversation.

‘Those two had been plotting something – neither of them was here by chance,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s obvious that the bloody priest deliberately organised this riot. But how did he know Bearded Lucy was hidden here?’

‘He has spies all over the city,’ said John. ‘But I wonder if my dear wife said anything to him when she went to him last night? Anyway, the damage is done now. Somehow, I feel that old Lucy was glad to be finished with life, but perhaps not in that dreadful fashion.’

Gwyn had been listening in the background and now his smutted red face was crinkled in thought. ‘What did that whoreson priest mean when he said that “at least one has suffered her just deserts”? Who was the other one, then?’

Ralph and John stared at each other for a moment. ‘The man’s right, what did he mean?’ asked the constable.

John rubbed his cheeks, the soot on top of the stubble giving added weight to his nickname of ‘Black John’. ‘Lucy warned me several times, in her odd fashion, that Nesta was at risk, as she dabbles a little in herbs and remedies.’

The fleeting memory of the woman with the wry neck came back to him and he slammed a fist into his palm. ‘That damned woman, what was her name, Heloise! Last week, she came to see Nesta on some pretext or other. I saw her again here, among the mob in the lane!’

‘What about her?’ asked Morin, mystified.

‘She was sister to a doxy of the sheriff,’ explained Gwyn.

‘I’ll swear he arranged that, just to get false testimony against her, the same as happened with Jolenta of Ide and Alice Ailward,’ fumed John. ‘If it’s true, then breaking the bastard will not only be a duty, but a great pleasure!’

Gwyn was still worried. ‘If it is true, then Nesta is still in danger. That bloody canon could still get the woman to come forward and denounce Nesta, the same as with the others.’

Morin nodded his big head. ‘If I were you, John, I’d get her away from here for a time, until things settle down. With the Bush burned to the ground, there’s nowhere for her to stay, nor anything for her to do in Exeter.’

With a new worry to burden him, de Wolfe paced up and down for a moment, until he came to a decision. ‘You’re right, the risk is too great, until I’ve had a chance to deal with those swine. I’ll take her to my mother in Stoke-in-Teignhead. She’ll be safe there and well looked after.’

Morin agreed, but added a caution. ‘Try to keep it secret, John, in case those persistent devils try to find her. I’m sure you and Gwyn can find a way.’

The coroner resumed his pacing, deep in thought. Then he came back and gave Gwyn a broad smile. ‘I have a feeling that this afternoon, we will be called out down Sidmouth way to see a dead body. Make sure that Thomas turns out with that mangy pony and that ridiculous side-saddle, fit only for women!’

It would take more than a day for the ruins of the tavern to cool sufficiently for a search to be made for any remnants of Lucy’s poor body and there was nothing to be done about the place until then. Later that morning, de Wolfe and Nesta stood at the door of the kitchen, which thankfully, like the other outbuildings, was undamaged. They sadly surveyed the wreckage, which had stopped flaming and was now a sullen, smoking heap of charred wood and thatch. He thought of the comfortable French bed that he had bought for his mistress and vowed to get another as soon as the place was rebuilt. John solemnly promised Nesta that he would personally pay for the rebuilding out of his considerable profits from the wool-exporting business that he shared with his friend Hugh de Relaga. She agreed, on condition that it was to be a loan, repaid out of the future profits of the inn. This had happened once before, when she was left almost destitute on the death of her husband. The tavern had done so well under her enthusiastic management, with her excellent cooking and superb brewing skills, that she had given him back his money within a year.