The Witch Hunter Read online

  Eventually he was rewarded, at the same time as his hound was rewarded by the coveted knuckle-bone being thrown down into the rushes by the grinning pair on the next table. The back door of the inn opened and Nesta entered from the yard, where the cook-shed, the brew-house, the pigsty and the privy were situated. She shouted a last command over her shoulder at one of the maids, then scanned the room eagerly with her hazel eyes. When they lighted on John, her heart-shaped face lit up with delight and she hurried across to him, though not failing to give a smile and a touch on the shoulder to her favourite patrons as she went. De Wolfe’s heart warmed as he watched her coming, yet part of his mind stood aloof and cynically asked why a middle-aged old soldier was acting like a callow lovesick youth, for at forty he was twelve years older than the ale-wife. Nesta came up to the table, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and slid on to the bench alongside him.

  ‘And how is Sir Coroner this evening?’ she asked softly, with her usual bantering affection.

  ‘All the better for seeing you, cariad! And even better after a few mouthfuls of this good ale – you’ve excelled yourself with this last brew.’

  They spoke in Welsh, her native language and one that John had learned at his own mother’s knee. Even Gwyn spoke it with them, as his own Cornish tongue was very similar – to the eternal annoyance of Thomas de Peyne, who came from Hampshire.

  Nesta took a drink from John’s pot and nodded her approval of her own handiwork, then they went on to speak lightly about the day’s events and the increasing trade at the inn. Because of his financial stake in the Bush – though he took no profits from it – he was always interested in its fortunes. Lately it had been sharing in the increasing prosperity of the city, which because of the wool trade and the tin exports was going from strength to strength.

  As she talked, he looked down at her, this petite woman coming only to his shoulder. Her light gown of pale yellow linen was tightly girdled at her waist, which emphasised her shapely breasts. A felt helmet, laced under the chin, failed to hide all the deep auburn curls that peeped out across her high forehead. Her large hazel eyes were set wide above a snub nose and when her slightly pouting lips parted, they revealed an almost perfect set of white teeth, unusual in a woman of twenty-eight.

  John was totally entranced by her and, in spite of the vicissitudes that they had suffered in past months, he felt closer to her than ever before. They continued to talk for a few minutes, Brutus even forsaking his new bone to lay his slobbering mouth on the hessian apron that she wore over her kirtle. Like Gwyn, she was fond of all animals and they responded in kind. Every few minutes, however, some minor crisis in the inn caused her jump up and go off to harangue either one of her serving maids or a customer who had become obstreperous. Even then her decisive voice and pithy commands avoided giving deep offence – John saw again how well she was suited to handling what could become a fraught or even violent situation.

  He managed to decline her offer of another meal, having not long risen from his own supper table. As he drank a few more jugs of the weak liquor, John followed his usual practice of keeping her up to date with his cases, as not only was he flattered by her genuine interest, but sometimes both her common sense and her fund of local knowledge were helpful to him. The Bush, being the most popular inn in Exeter, accommodated a steady stream of travellers seeking a pallet in the loft and more than once, the gossip Nesta picked up from these, as well as from her regular customers, had been of considerable value in his investigations. He related the story of that day’s excursion to Alphington and the death of Robert de Pridias.

  ‘Did you know him at all, dear lady?’ he asked.

  Nesta shook her head. ‘I think he frequented the New Inn, it was nearer his dwelling. But of course I know of him. He was a fuller and weaver, master of his guild.’ She paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I heard something else, too. Wasn’t there bad blood between him and another fuller? I remember some of the weavers who come in here talking about it several weeks ago.’

  ‘Henry de Hocforde, that would be. The widow is accusing him of murdering her husband by witchcraft!’ John related the full story, ending by mockingly describing the pierced corn-dolly. He had expected Nesta to be amused, but she looked strangely serious.

  ‘Don’t dismiss it too easily, John. There are many things that defy explanation.’

  ‘You sound like Matilda!’ he said in a surprised tone. ‘And even my friend the archdeacon declined to pour scorn on the possibility. Do you believe that these cunning folk have the power of life and death?’

  ‘We are Celts, John, you and I. At least, your mother had a Welsh father and a Cornish mother. The tradition of spells and charms is strong amongst us, but even the pure English have plenty of faith in occult matters.’

  He looked down at her curiously. This was the first time he had ever heard her speak of such things.

  ‘This is what John of Alençon said, in different words. I had thought as a churchman he would have condemned all such beliefs out of hand, but he was remarkably tolerant of them. He said that the mass of our peasantry had little else to aid them when they were in trouble.’

  Nesta pulled off her hot and restricting coif and shook out her luxuriant red hair, which fell to her shoulders.

  ‘Where else can they turn, with little money and no apothecaries? The parish priests are often of little help. They are either drunks or corrupt or just plain ignorant.’

  She glared at him almost defiantly, challenging him to contradict her.

  ‘I seem to have touched a raw spot in you over this issue,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Maybe because I have a little talent in that direction myself,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Not so much these days in the city, but when I was at home in Gwent, I did what I could to help those who needed it.’

  De Wolfe was intrigued – this was something she had never mentioned before. ‘You mean that you had some gift yourself?’

  ‘It was nothing important, but my own mother had taught me a little about herbs and various means of treating small illnesses and other problems. She said that her mother and grandmother were quite notable healers in their day, so maybe it runs in families.’

  ‘What kind of miracles did you perform?’ he asked, half seriously.

  Nesta pinched his arm, quite painfully. ‘Don’t mock me, Sir Crowner! Our little village had the same troubles as everywhere else. Sickness, palsies, fits and seizures … though probably there were more problems among the animals and crops. Pigs without litters, fields with strips where the oats always failed.’

  She hesitated, her eyes seeing a scene a hundred miles and five years away. ‘Then sometimes, a wife would want a man-child, or any child at all to please her husband – while another poor weak woman could not face being with child yet again. Those of us who had the gift tried to help. The village was like a big family, everyone did what they could.’

  John nodded, although he could not fully appreciate what she was saying. Though he had been born and brought up in the Devon village of Stoke-in-Teignhead, he had been comfortably raised in the manor house that owned the village and most of the villagers, so his empathy with the lower reaches of the feudal system was limited.

  ‘Do you still practise the black arts?’ he said, trying to lighten the mood a little. Nesta gave him a ferocious scowl, which was not entirely feigned.

  ‘There is black magic as well, John – be assured of that! But what village folk attempt to do against cruel nature is far from that. I have tried to help a few people here, yes. My maid’s mother had a tumour on her neck two months ago, which I tried to assuage with poultices, a potion and a few charms.’

  ‘Was it successful?’ he asked, soberly now.

  Nesta shook her head sadly ‘She died three weeks past. There are many things that only God can deal with. Even an expensive apothecary or the monks at St John’s could not have done anything for her.’

  John had a niggling query, but it was a sensitive
issue.

  ‘Nesta, dear, when you were with child yourself not long ago, I know that you wished to be rid of it, mainly for my sake. Yet you went elsewhere for the purpose.’

  She sighed and her eyes became moist. He kicked himself for his insensitivity in bringing it up, but Nesta seemed willing to explain.

  ‘You cannot treat yourself, John. Much of the power is in the mind, not the herbs. You have to convince the other person that what needs to happen, will happen. You cannot do that to yourself. That is why I went to Bearded Lucy – not that she was successful.’

  The woman that Nesta mentioned was an old crone who lived in a hovel on Exe Island and who had a wide reputation as a cunning woman.

  De Wolfe felt that this conversation was taking a morbid turn and steered it away to other topics. He was helped by a sudden commotion at the back of the room, where stools were being thrown over and a fist fight had erupted between a pair of tinners who had drunk too much. Nesta streaked away to deal with it and with the help of Edwin and a couple of dependable customers, the most aggressive miscreant was manhandled out into the lane, Nesta’s strident voice following him with pithy advice not to return until he was sober.

  John grinned to himself, not intervening as experience had told him that his mistress was more than capable of dealing with such episodes.

  The dusk was now well advanced and after one more jug of ale, he kissed the landlady goodnight and with a last regretful look at the ladder to his French bed, called to Brutus and made his way home.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which a new widow visits an old canon

  Early the next morning, which was a Wednesday, Cecilia de Pridias forsook her usual church in Fore Street and walked to the cathedral. She went just before the eighth hour to attend prime, the third service of the episcopal day which began with Matins just after midnight. The new widow was swathed in a black mantle, secured at the shoulder with a circular silver brooch, the hood pulled up over the white cover-chief and wimple that enveloped her head. In spite of her sombre attire, her face bore a flinty expression that suggested determination rather than mourning.

  Her daughter Avise and podgy son-in-law Roger trailed behind her as she climbed the steps of the West Front and entered the small entrance set in the massive doors, which were opened only on ceremonial occasions.

  Inside, the huge nave was almost empty, the only sound apart from their feet on the flagstones being the chirruping of birds as they flew in and out of the unglazed windows high on the walls. Ahead in the distance was the pulpitum, the carved wooden choir-screen that seperated the priests from the common folk. It crossed the nave just before the two side chapels in the bases of the great square towers that formed the arms of the crucifix-shaped building.

  Cecilia marched down the centre of the echoing nave, to where a dozen people, mostly women, stood a respectful distance in front of the ornate screen, between the two small altars of St Mary and St John the Baptist. The service was just starting, as with no clock nearer than Germany, everyone’s time-keeping was approximate and the chanterel bell had started ringing before the de Pridias family had turned into Martin’s Lane.

  Beyond the screen, the prayers and chanting seemed remote to the small congregation, the clergy and their acolytes being seen and heard indistinctly through the intricate woodwork. This was a choral service, not a Mass and the priests were indifferent to the small audience outside. In the cathedral, the numerous daily offices were not primarily for the benefit of the public, but were held as perpetual acts of worship to God, offered by the complex hierarchy of canons, vicars and secondaries. The lay population was served by more than two dozen churches scattered around the city and it was a matter of indifference to the chapter of the cathedral whether anyone turned up to listen in the nave, other than on special days, when pomp and ceremony required an audience.

  Prime droned on for about forty minutes, with psalms, chanting, prayers and responses being orchestrated beyond the choir-screen by the precentor and his assistant, the succentor. Some of the other people dropped to their knees on the cold stones at appropriate moments in the service, but devout as Cecilia was, she had no intention of prostrating herself on the grubby slabs in her best cloak. At St Olave’s, she always took her own padded kneeler, but here she contented herself with a bowed head at the more solemn moments.

  The formalities ended with a blessing given in high-pitched Latin by one of the archdeacons, after which the choristers, secondaries and priests processed out of their stalls and dispersed, most to get some refreshment before terce, the next service held at around the ninth hour. This was what Cecilia had been waiting for, and with Avise and Roger trailing behind, she went to the north side, where a passage went through to the crossing of the cathedral, at the base of one of the towers. A stream of boys and young men hurried past in their black cassocks, followed at a more sedate rate by their seniors, most draped in their cloaks as the heat of the day had not yet arrived. The lady stood respectfully with her head downcast, but her sharp eyes were scanning each figure as they emerged from the gloom behind the end of the screen. After a few moments, she saw the person for whom she had been lying in wait and moved forward towards him.

  Canon Gilbert de Bosco was her cousin, though a dozen years older than her forty-five summers. He had Cecilia’s forceful manner which bordered on arrogance, probably inherited from their mutual grandfather, who had been a knight in the service of the first King Henry, before becoming embroiled in the civil war between Stephen and Matilda.

  Gilbert was a large man and could have been a soldier like his ancestor, rather than a priest, as he was powerful and muscular, though good living was making him run to fat. A thick neck and a red face were topped by bristly hair of a sandy colour with still no grey to be seen. His fair colouring had made him prey to the recent scorching sun and his bald tonsure glowed like a brazier.

  He was stalking along oblivious to his surroundings, his mind on a leisurely breakfast, as his vicar was standing in for him at all the later offices until the evening compline. The sudden touch on his arm jerked him into awareness and a scowl was hastily converted to a sympathetic smile when he saw it was his cousin Cecilia. Although they were by no means close, he had approved of his cousin marrying into money and kept on good terms with her and her husband, in case one day some useful legacy might come his way. He had heard of her husband’s death only that morning and hastened to express his sympathy, clasping her hand and managing to look mournful.

  ‘I was going to seek you out later today, dear cousin, to offer my deepest sympathy and to pray together for the repose of poor Robert’s soul.’

  His deep, booming voice managed to sound totally sincere, as if his mind had been filled with sorrow, rather than the anticipation of breakfast.

  The widow brusquely acknowledged his concern, then cut straight to the point. ‘There are matters concerning his death which I must urgently discuss with you, Gilbert.’

  His big face bent towards her and his rather watery blue eyes sought hers to exude commiserations. ‘Of course, Cecilia, the funeral arrangements. Be assured that I will see to it that a requiem Mass will be conducted with all due dignity …’

  She cut him off with an impatient shake of her head. ‘I thank you, Gilbert, but my parish priest at St Olave’s is seeing to that aspect. I need to talk to you of the manner of his death. Is there somewhere more fitting that we can go?’

  Mystified and somewhat reluctant to get involved in something which might divert him from more lucrative pursuits, the benign smile on the priest’s ruddy face faded somewhat.

  ‘Manner of his death? What help could I possibly give you there?’ he rumbled, lowering his voice as some of his colleagues were passing. They were looking curiously at the sight of their fellow canon with his head together with that of a well-dressed woman.

  ‘I cannot speak of it in public, Gilbert,’ said his cousin sharply.

  He looked around the wide, cold nave and sighed. H
e had no wish to take her to his comfortable house in the Close, as it might interfere with his breakfast. In any event, women, apart from the odd washerwoman or skivvy, were banned from priests’ lodgings – though this was a rule that was regularly ignored by some of his fellows.

  ‘Very well, cousin, let us go back into the robing room. It will be empty now.’

  For the first time, he seemed to become aware of the daughter and her husband, who stood indecisively behind Cecilia. With a grunted acknowledgement, he turned and led them back past the end of the choir-screen, where the last columns of the nave gave way to the massive buttress of the north tower. The high, square chamber at its base had a small altar at one side, dedicated to St Radegund, a sixth-century queen of the Franks, but opposite was a curtained-off area used by the clergy and their acolytes for changing vestments. Canon de Bosco stuck his head through a gap in the drapery to confirm that everyone had departed, then held it aside for the other three to enter. They stood in the centre and with the two younger persons hovering awkwardly behind her, Cecilia de Pridias fixed her cousin with a gimlet eye.

  ‘My husband was done to death, Gilbert! I know how and I know by whom, but that stubborn coroner will not take me seriously.’

  Initially reluctant to get involved, the canon’s well-developed sense of self-advancement stirred within his brain. Although in late middle age, he was still ambitious and so far had climbed from being a lowly parish priest near Tavistock to attaining a coveted prebend near Crediton and thus becoming a canon of the cathedral. He still wanted to go farther and though he was realistic enough to know that a bishop’s crozier was forever beyond his reach, he had his eye on one of the more senior posts in the chapter, preferably that of an archdeacon or treasurer, when one should fall vacant. His ears had pricked up at the mention of the coroner, as de Wolfe was well known as a zealous supporter of the King, whereas the bishop was well disposed towards Prince John. In fact, Henry Marshal, though brother to William, the Marshal of England, was well known to have been actively sympathetic to John’s abortive rebellion when Richard Coeur-de-Lion was imprisoned in Germany. Gilbert de Bosco had no political leanings either way, but being associated with anything that confounded or discredited the coroner might improve his own standing with the bishop, which could do his hopes of advancement no harm at all. All this passed rapidly through the mind of the devious priest as he waited for his cousin to enlarge on de Wolfe’s failings.