The Witch Hunter Page 17

  The coroner smacked his hands together in delight. ‘This calls for another cup of your excellent Poitou red, John! What happens next?’

  ‘I have already sent a message to the proctors in Winchester and to several of the canons whom I know, as well as to the chancellor of the court which found him guilty. I will be going there myself in a few weeks, and will pursue the matter vigorously.’

  ‘Have you given the good news to Thomas yet?’

  ‘No, I thought I would leave that to you, as he seems so devoted to his master. When you agreed to my suggestion that you take him on as your clerk, you earned his lifelong gratitude, John.’

  ‘Well, the poor fellow was destitute and nearly starving. What else could I do?’ grunted the coroner.

  ‘You are too modest, my friend. Under that craggy shell you call a body, there is a compassionate heart. But when you tell my nephew of this, impress on him that there is still some way to go before he can expect to hear anything of being received back into the religious fold. Though Winchester might be amenable, nothing has changed here in Exeter, where you have stubborn adversaries, John.’

  De Wolfe finished his wine and stood up to leave. ‘I’ll be circumspect in what I tell him – but the poor fellow needs to have some hope in his life, so I’ll give him the news in the morning. Meanwhile, keep an eye on this mad canon and let me know if he gets up to any further mischief!’

  As John had expected, the next morning Thomas went into ecstasies of delight when his master gave him a cautious account of the archdeacon’s news. The bluff Gwyn, whose teasing of the little clerk was a cloak for his affection and concern, was equally rapturous. He seized Thomas by the waist and held him squealing over his head in their chamber in the castle gatehouse.

  Back on the floor, Thomas alternated between laughing, crying and crossing himself. ‘My constant prayers have been answered, Crowner! Truth will out in the end. May God forgive that girl for the torment she has caused me!’

  As Gwyn dived for his cider jar and mugs to celebrate, de Wolfe wagged a finger at his clerk in mock admonishment. ‘As your uncle told you at the time, God also sent you a message when you tried to end your own life! See now how you were saved for better things.’

  John had no real conviction regarding the power of prayer – his religious beliefs were born of childhood conditioning and adult conventions – but knowing of Thomas’s strong faith, he pandered to the spirit of the moment. He was referring to the failure of Thomas’s attempt to kill himself when his forty-foot fall had been broken by his gown being snagged on a projection halfway down. The archdeacon had prudently impressed on his nephew that this was a heavenly sign that he was meant to survive and not try felo de se again.

  In spite of his dislike of cider, the joy of the moment caused Thomas to join the others in a celebratory drink and over the rim of the grubby pot he looked with dog-like affection at these two large, gruff men who had saved his life in more ways than one.

  ‘Even when I am reordained, Crowner, I shall continue to serve you. I owe you everything and I can only try to repay you by giving you what little help my poor brain and my pen can offer!’

  De Wolfe gave one of his throat rumbles to cover what came too close to a display of emotion to suit him. He scowled and gave his clerk a ferocious glare from under his heavy brows.

  ‘We’ll see about that, Thomas, when the time comes. This will not be a hasty business, but when you are restored to your true status, we will discuss it again, together with your uncle.’

  He tossed down the rest of his drink in a gesture of finality, while a grinning Gwyn gleefully regarded his little friend’s suppressed delight. ‘I’ll be the first to come and take confession with you, Thomas – to tell you what a feeble little turd I think you are, who can’t even get your leg across a horse, let alone a woman!’ His tone removed any offence from the teasing words and, to confirm his affection, he gave the clerk a slap on the back that almost knocked the former priest off his stool.

  De Wolfe glowered at them. ‘That’s enough, you pair of fools. Let’s get back to work.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which Crowner John rides off with a lady

  Like Alphington, the village of Ide was within sight of Exeter, across the river to the west. Belonging to a manor owned by the bishop, it was a rather obscure hamlet with no claims to any fame, other than having a cunning woman with a wide reputation for her healing powers. Her name was Jolenta and she was no old crone, but a handsome woman of about thirty years. Her mother and her grandmother had both the same name and a similar reputation for their gifts, being consulted not only by supplicants from neighbouring villages, but even from the city itself.

  Jolenta was unmarried, an unusual state for a good-looking woman, preferring to keep house for her father, who was the village cobbler and harness-maker. Her mother had died five years earlier and she was content to live quietly, adding the few pennies she made from her potions and liniments to the wage her father earned from his leather-work.

  On the morning that Thomas de Peyne was rejoicing about the news from Winchester, a cart drawn by two sturdy oxen rumbled slowly into the village and followed the only street until it reached a small wooden bridge over a stream. Here, where the road bent to the left, it stopped outside the only alehouse to let off a man and a woman who had hitched a ride on the back. The cart was empty, having returned from taking a load of vegetables into Exeter at dawn, for sale in the markets. Having thanked the driver, the man vanished into the tavern, leaving his wife standing uncertainly at the edge of the dusty road. A moment later, he reappeared, having received directions, and, grabbing her arm, he pointed to a shack almost opposite, which had head-collars and girths for oxen hanging alongside the door.

  ‘Now do exactly what I told you!’ hissed Edward Bigge into her ear and, with a quick push to set her on her way, he vanished back into the doorway to fortify himself with ale.

  Reluctantly, Emelota Bigge crossed the road and rapped on the panels of the open door. A strong smell of tanned leather wafted out at her as the tapping of a hammer ceased and a man came from the depths of the workshop. He was in late middle age and had a lined face surmounted by an almost bald head. Rubbing his calloused hands on the long leather apron that was hung around his neck, he asked what she wanted.

  ‘I was told that a wise woman called Jolenta lived here,’ she said, with partly feigned trepidation. The older man stared at her, taking in her worn kirtle of faded brown wool and the Saxon-style head-rail of frayed white linen that came down low on her forehead. Sometimes, rich women came here from the city, but he calculated that this one would be good for only a couple of pennies. He jerked a thumb along the front of the whitewashed building. ‘There’s a door on the other end. She’s in there cooking my dinner.’

  He turned back to his hammering and Emelota walked past the blank face of the cottage to the end. Her husband had promised her five pence for a new dress if she did what she was told, as the apothecary had told him that for the fee he had paid for Edward to implicate Theophania Lawrence, he also expected the participation of Edward’s wife. Around the corner, she found a garden with a goat and a milk cow tethered and some rows of vegetables growing in the croft behind. It was something of a luxury for a dwelling to have two doors, but she reasoned that Jolenta wanted to keep her sorcerer’s business separate from her father’s cobbling.

  This time her knocking on the door was answered by a good-looking dark woman about her own age, with her hair hanging in two braids down the yellow kirtle that accentuated her full bosom and narrow waist. Jolenta looked almost too well groomed for an obscure village like Ide, and Emelota guessed that she must have a healthy trade in customers for her magical talents. Following the story with which Edward had primed her, his wife explained that she was from Exeter and that she had heard that Jolenta was expert in retrieving missing valuables.

  ‘What is it you have lost?’ Jolenta asked, inviting Emelota into the relative gloom of
the cottage. It seemed clean and tidy, although barely furnished with a couple of stools, a bench and a table, at which Jolenta had been preparing some food.

  ‘I fear it has been stolen by one of my neighbours – but I need to know which one, so that my husband can confront him with the theft.’

  Jolenta took in the shabby clothes of her visitor and wondered what she could have possessed of any value. ‘So what is it that has vanished?’

  ‘A silver belt buckle that was left me by my mother, God rest her soul,’ said Emelota piously, although in fact her mother was hale and hearty and lived next door to her. ‘My father was a miner on the moor and over the years collected enough silver from among the lead to fashion a good heavy buckle. It is the only thing of value I possess and must be worth several shillings, but it disappeared last week from the place in my dwelling where I hide it. Only a few neighbours knew anything of it.’

  Jolenta nodded her understanding, as this was a common enough request, the finding of missing objects or even persons. She went to a shelf above the table and took down a ragged book, the parchment pages fraying at the edges between the battered leather covers. She could not read it, but that was no bar to its usefulness. Coming over to the woman who stood alongside the dead fire-pit in the middle of the room, she opened the book, revealing a rusty key in the middle.

  ‘Take this psalter, shut your eyes and place the key between any of the pages, then close the covers.’

  Emelota did as she was told and waited for the next instructions.

  ‘Now we will pray together to St James and St Jerome that they will help us reveal the truth.’

  With her eyes still closed, Emelota repeated some doggerel chanted in a mechanical voice by Jolenta, calling on a variety of holy persons to assist them in their quest.

  ‘Now, hold the holy book at arm’s length and say out loud the names of those neighbours who you think may be guilty of this theft.’

  Emelota mumbled at random the names of half a dozen of her neighbours in Exeter, careless of what result there might be. Nothing happened and Jolenta commanded her to hold the psalter higher, level with her forehead, which made her grip upon it less secure. Halfway through the second recitation of the names, there was a dull clink as the heavy iron key fell to the hard-packed earth of the floor.

  ‘There, that fell as you said the name of William Hog. He is the one who stole your buckle.’

  Her voice was so definite and matter-of-fact that the impostor almost believed her, until she reminded herself that the theft of the buckle – and even its very existence – was completely fictitious.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Jolenta, as she retrieved the key and put the book back on the shelf. Like Nesta, she was well aware that clients often used one request as an excuse for introducing something more personal, once they had got themselves inside.

  ‘I suffer from heavy courses each month,’ murmured Emelota. ‘It weakens me and they are getting worse as time goes by.’

  For the first time she was telling the truth and this was an opportunistic addition that her husband had not schooled her to use. If she was to pay this woman a couple of pence, she might as well get Edward’s money’s worth – or rather, the apothecary’s money’s worth.

  Jolenta nodded, as this was yet another common complaint. She went to a box on the floor and lifted the lid to reveal a number of bags and pouches of various sizes. Taking one, she opened the draw-strings at its neck and took out a few pieces of dried stick, each a few inches long.

  ‘These are blackthorn. Scrape off the outer bark with a knife and discard it. It is the white pith of the under-bark you need. Pound it in the milk of a one-coloured cow and drink some every morning. When it’s gone, you can easily find more blackthorn in the hedges. In a month or two, you will be relieved of your problem.’

  Emelota placed the twigs in the purse dangling from her girdle and offered some pennies from the same pouch. Jolenta took two.

  ‘That’s for the theft of your buckle. The blackthorn and my advice are free.’

  Feeling somewhat guilty, Edward Bigge’s wife left the cottage and walked back to the alehouse to join her husband.

  Several days passed in relative peace, with little to disturb the normal rhythm of life in the city, although the undercurrent of dispute concerning cunning women continued unabated in the taverns, the workshops and in the gossip along the streets. On Sunday, more of the parish priests preached sermons condemning all forms of heresy, apostasy and sacrilege, as Canon Gilbert had been around as many as he could to remind them forcibly of the bishop’s concern on the matter.

  Most of this passed over John de Wolfe’s head, as he had a number of deaths to deal with, one drowning in a mill-race taking him away for the night, as he had to ride to a village near Totnes. As usual, this earned him more scowls and sarcasm at home, Matilda insinuating that it was an excuse for him to spend the night whoring and drinking. He would not have minded so much if it had been true, but in fact he and Gwyn had spent an uncomfortable night huddled in their riding cloaks in a barn, as there was no inn in the village.

  The other days were taken up with an alleged rape in Clyst St Mary, another village to the east of Exeter, and a near-fatal assault in the Saracen alehouse in the city. This tavern, run by Willem the Fleming, was the most notorious inn in Exeter, being a rendezvous for thieves and harlots, providing a regular supply of knifings and head injuries for the attention of the city constables and coroner.

  To assuage Matilda’s bad mood, that Sunday John allowed her to drag him to Mass at St Olave’s. He succumbed to this about once a month, although he flatly refused to attend confession, especially as Julian Fulk, the fat, oily priest of St Olave’s, had been one of his murder suspects not long before. De Wolfe found it bad enough having to endure Fulk’s sermon, full of exaggerations about witches and wizards and their supposed communion with the Devil as they went about their business of eating infants and flying through the air. Although John disliked the priest, he knew he was a well-read, intelligent man, unlike many of his colleagues, so he failed to see how he could have been persuaded to peddle such fanciful nonsense, unless it was to curry favour with his ecclesiastical superiors.

  However, Matilda seemed impressed by his diatribe, as she had always favoured Julian Fulk with her admiration, rating him a potential archbishop, if not a pope. On the short walk back to their house in Martin’s Lane, she ranted on about the iniquities of the cunning women in their community, putting herself firmly in the camp of Canon Gilbert, Cecilia de Pridias and all the witch-hunters of the city. Her husband wisely kept his mouth firmly closed, letting the tirade flow over him, as any contradiction of her bigoted views would serve only to start them up afresh, at an even higher level of vituperation.

  That evening, he escaped to the Bush and spent a pleasant and passionate few hours with Nesta. As they lay in bed in the languid glow that followed their lovemaking, she idly mentioned that she had used the room to counsel the strange woman Heloise, who had such a peculiar affliction of her neck. Although her account of the meeting seemed innocuous, something about the incident started a little niggle of anxiety within de Wolfe’s mind.

  ‘Nesta, my love, with all this present unrest about sorcerers and folk healers, it would be best if you kept well away from such matters for the time being,’ he advised sternly. ‘This business with Alice Ailward shows that this crazy man de Bosco is quite willing to use false testimony to trap unwary women.’

  Nesta, always an independent spirit, argued against him for a while, but his obvious sincerity and concern for her eventually caused her to promise to avoid employing her gifts again, until the present hysteria had died down.

  The matter worried away at him during the night and, the next morning, at their habitual second breakfast in his chamber, the coroner mentioned Nesta’s client to Gwyn and Thomas.

  ‘I’ve seen that woman with the twisted neck about the town,’ rumbled his officer. ‘She’s from some hovel
in Bretayne. I know nothing of her, except that her sister is a whore who works out of the Saracen.’

  Although this did nothing to lessen John’s unease, the fact that the woman was a relative of a harlot seemed to have no real relevance to his concerns until he noticed Thomas looking rather uneasily at him.

  ‘Do you know anything of this woman?’ he barked.

  The clerk shifted uncomfortably on his stool. ‘I’m sure it’s of no importance, but I have seen that woman with the wry neck walking in the town with a painted strumpet, who Gwyn says is her sister. It’s just that I remember our friend Sergeant Gabriel pointing her out to me in the castle bailey one day, saying that she was one of the sheriff’s whores.’

  It was no particular secret that Richard de Revelle was fond of low company in his bed, as his glacial wife Eleanor almost never came to Rougemont, preferring to live at their manor near Tiverton. In fact, the coroner had once caught his brother-in-law in bed with a harlot and on another occasion, had rescued him from a burning brothel.

  ‘Can’t see the connection,’ growled Gwyn. He was aware that something was bothering his master and tried to put his mind at ease.

  De Wolfe chewed the matter over in his mind for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I expect you’re right. I’m getting unreasonably anxious with all this nonsense about witches in the air.’

  ‘I hear that the consistory court sits tomorrow on this poor woman Alice Ailward,’ said Thomas, who knew everything that went on within the confines of the cathedral Close. As well as eavesdropping on the gossip of the canons’ servants in the house where he lodged, he knew most of the vicars and secondaries, many of them accepting him as if he were still in holy orders himself.

  ‘Are you sure that this bishop’s court has the power to try such women?’ demanded de Wolfe, mindful of his discussion with the archdeacon.