The Witch Hunter Page 8

  The meaning was clear, but Gertrude shook her head, two spots of colour appearing on her pale face. ‘It is quite the opposite, good dame.’

  When her eyes grew more accustomed to the dimness after the bright summer sun outside, she saw that there was just one room beneath the thatched roof. A wicker screen partitioned off one end, where straw mattresses lay on the floor. The other part was occupied by a circular fire-pit in the centre, ringed with stones embedded in dried clay. Beyond this was a wide wooden tray on legs, filled with milk which was settling so that the cream could be skimmed off.

  ‘Sit down there, girl, you look fragile. Your blood is obviously thin.’

  Avelina pointed to a low bench near the fire-pit and when Gertrude was seated, she squatted on her haunches opposite. ‘So you don’t need to bring on your monthly courses?’ she said bluntly.

  The younger woman, who looked about twenty years old, shrugged. ‘Yes, I do – but not because I’m with child.’

  Avelina frowned as she scratched at her left armpit, where a flea was biting her. ‘You wish to have a child, is that it?’

  Gertrude hesitantly explained her problem. ‘I have three children already – and have lost two more by miscarriage. But all of them were girls – and my husband is becoming impatient for a son to carry on his business, as he is a master carpenter. He has a workshop near St Nicholas’ Priory.’

  Avelina began to understand. ‘You wish to conceive a boy? Well, maybe the next one will be.’

  Gertrude shook her head. ‘I was married at fourteen and have been pregnant every year until last year. Now I have seen no monthly flow since last Advent, yet I am not with child. My courses have dried up and I cannot conceive.’

  ‘Do you wish to become gravid again?’ asked Mistress Sprot, almost aggressively. These poor girls were like her cows outside, never free from either pregnancy or lactation.

  ‘Only if it would be a male child,’ Gertrude said softly. ‘Else my husband would be very angry. And he is a big, strong man.’

  The older woman took her meaning and looked covertly at Gertrude’s face for signs of bruising.

  ‘I was told that you were a wise woman, expert in these matters, so I have come to you. I have very little money, but can give you what I have.’

  Avelina shrugged as if to dismiss the idea of a fee, then leaned forward and, with a dirty finger, pulled down one of Gertrude’s lower eyelids. ‘You are as pale as death, girl!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you eat well – or give it all to your big husband?’

  ‘We have three hungry girls as well and this year has been a very bad one, for carpenters as well as those who live off the land.’

  The cunning woman wagged a finger at Gertrude. ‘Tell your man that if he wants a son, he must stop eating all the meat himself. You need blood to start your courses, you have drained yourself with five pregnancies.’

  ‘I need a son, not just another child,’ countered the woman, with a trace of desperation in her voice.

  Avelina hauled herself to her feet and went over to a wall, where several crude shelves were fixed above a table that carried a pestle and mortar, together with a couple of pewter dishes. Now that her eyes could see better, Gertrude noticed that many bunches of dried vegetation hung from the roof beams and that the shelves were filled with pots and packets of all shapes and sizes.

  ‘Take one of these every morning with a mug of small ale,’ Avelina commanded, offering a small packet wrapped in a scrap of parchment, tied with twine.

  ‘Will they induce a boy-child?

  ‘Not at all, but they may persuade your courses to return, without which you’ll not give birth to as much as a mouse, let alone a boy-child. They are for thickening the blood.’

  Gertrude’s face fell. ‘Is there nothing else you can do for me?’ she asked plaintively.

  Avelina clucked her tongue. ‘Patience, girl, patience! Listen while I tell you what to do.’

  Ten minutes later, Gertrude came out of the cottage with a smile on her face, one hand clutching the cloth purse which hung from her girdle, making sure that the collection of herbs and oddments it contained were safe. The three pence that she had saved from her housekeeping were now in a stone jar on Avelina’s shelf, but the young woman considered that it had been money well spent.

  Up at the top end of the city, the county court was in session within the walls of Rougemont Castle. Often known as either the Shire Court or the Sheriff’s Court, it was held once a fortnight and usually lasted at least a whole day. However, this August session was quieter than usual, which John de Wolfe attributed to the previous weeks of bad weather, which had slowed down most outside activities and reduced the number of people travelling, giving less opportunity for robberies and assaults.

  He sat in his usual place on the low dais at the end of the bare hall, which lay inside the inner ward of the castle. The coroner was obliged to attend every session, to record any matters which had a bearing on cases that might go to the royal courts – and to present various matters to the sheriff, who now sat in the only decent chair in the middle of the platform. To either side were a few benches and stools, on which sat a representative of the Church and one of the more prominent burgesses of the city. A couple of trestle tables gave writing space for the clerks and, at one of these, Thomas de Peyne was perched. His parchments were spread out before him and his quill waggled furiously as he inscribed them with his impeccable Latin. Farther back, Gwyn of Polruan stood gossiping in a low voice with his friend Gabriel, the sergeant of the garrison’s soldiers.

  Today’s token priest was Brother Rufus, the portly monk who was the castle’s chaplain, who now seemed be dozing on his stool in the heat of late morning. On the other side of the sheriff from the coroner was Ralph Morin, the Viking-like constable of Rougemont – another friend of de Wolfe and a covert antagonist of Sheriff Richard de Revelle.

  The latter was posturing in his chair, showing off his latest costume, which he had bought on his last visit to Winchester. The dapper guardian of Devonshire wore a long tunic of bright green linen, with gold embroidery around the neck and hem, which was slit back and front for riding a horse. A loose surcoat of fawn silk was kept open to display his splendid new tunic and a wide leather belt, secured by a large burnished buckle. His feet were encased in soft calf-length boots with ridiculously long, curled toes, padded inside with teased wool – and at the other end of his slim body, a pointed beard had been freshly trimmed and perfumed. Above it, his narrow, foxy face sneered out at the world, especially despising the accused and supplicant folk that were paraded in front of the judgement seat.

  ‘How many more this morning?’ he snapped in an aside to his senior clerk, who hovered just behind him.

  ‘Just a few, sire. We should finish by dinner-time today, no more this afternoon.’

  Richard sighed with relief. It was hot and he was looking forward to a jug of Anjou wine and the dishes of grilled fish and cold pork that awaited him in his chambers in the keep. He dragged his attention back to the next case, as two men-at-arms thrust forward a sullen youth to stand before him on the beaten earth below the dais. He was dressed in filthy rags and had blue and yellow bruises all down one side of his face, a legacy of two weeks in the burgesses’ prison in one of the towers of the South Gate. Of those confined there awaiting trial or execution, a sizeable proportion died of disease or from assault by other prisoners – though quite a few managed to bribe the warders and escape.

  The chief clerk stepped forward with the ends of a parchment roll grasped in each hand. He read out the details of the youth’s case, as a shifting audience of a score of citizens and peasants listened from where they stood at the back of the barren chamber.

  ‘This is Stephen Aethelard, an outlaw. He was recognised as such in the vill of Dunstone, and captured by the men of that place.’

  The man glowered up at the sheriff, who turned languidly to his brother-in-law.

  ‘John, have you details of the exigent?’

&nb
sp; The coroner stood, unwinding his tall body from his stool and reaching back to take a roll from Thomas, who had it ready to hand to him. He opened it, but did not look at it, as he was unable to read more than a few simple words, laboriously learned from his tutor in the cathedral. However, Thomas had primed him beforehand about the essential facts.

  ‘This man lived in the said Dunstone and was appealed by John de Witefeld for breaking into his house, stealing fifteen shillings and assaulting his daughter Edith on the eve of the Feast of St Michael and All Angels last September. Attached by two sureties to attend this court, he made himself scarce and did not answer. His name was called at the four subsequent sittings of this court, but he still did not answer and was declared exigent on the fifth day of November last.’

  He sat down and handed the roll back to Thomas. The sheriff sighed to express his boredom and looked down at the bedraggled figure below him. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself, fellow?’

  The bruised face rose briefly. ‘Whatever I say will be of no account. But I did not harm that girl.’

  ‘Did you steal that money?’ asked John, more out of curiosity than for anything relevant.

  ‘That’s never been proved,’ said Aethelard sullenly.

  ‘Because you never showed up in court to plead your innocence,’ observed the coroner.

  ‘Stop wasting my time!’ cut in the sheriff irritably. ‘It’s of no interest to me whether you were guilty or not. You were legally declared outlaw and now you have been recaptured. The only penalty for that is death! It would have saved the time of the court – and my patience – if someone had seen fit to cut off your head at the roadside!’ His stomach rumbled to remind him of dinner-time. ‘Take him away and hang him tomorrow. Bring in the next case.’

  Half an hour later, John de Wolfe sat down at his own table, having forgotten all about Stephen Aethelard, although he would see him again briefly the next day, when he was pushed off a ladder at the gallows, with a rope around his neck – one of six hangings scheduled for the Thursday executions. Even then, the outlaw would be of little concern to the coroner, as he had no land nor chattels for him to confiscate for the royal treasury, which was the main purpose of the coroner’s attendance at the gallows-beam on Magdalen Street, out of the city towards Heavitree.

  De Wolfe had dismissed the youth from his mind and was concentrating on the mutton stew that Mary had set before them. It was too liquid to be served on trenchers of bread, so they had wooden bowls and horn spoons, with small loaves alongside. A large jug of ale stood between John and his wife, who sat at either end of the oaken table and Mary bustled in frequently to ladle more stew into their bowls and to refill their pottery mugs from the jug. As usual, the meal was a silent occasion, apart from the slurping of the stew, especially from Matilda’s end, as she was a voracious eater. When they had eaten their fill, Mary appeared with a slab of hard yellow cheese to accompany the remainder of the bread. John hacked some slices off with his dagger and Mary carried the platter up to her mistress. When she left, de Wolfe tried to start up some conversation to break the strained silence.

  ‘I hear that the funeral Mass of Robert de Pridias will take place tomorrow afternoon.’ He chose something to do with the Church to catch her attention.

  Her face lifted towards him and he waited until her jaws had finished champing the hard bread. Though she still had most of her front teeth, albeit yellowed, most of her molars had either crumbled or had been wrenched out by the itinerant tooth-puller.

  ‘I know that. I shall be there to support poor Cecilia. But we also have a private memorial service in St Olave’s beforehand – the widow was a faithful attender there, though like you, Robert himself came but seldom.’

  She managed to squeeze a reprimand even out of a stranger’s death, thought John sourly. He waited for the expected complaint about his failure to hold an inquest and was not disappointed.

  ‘My poor friend tells me that you were less than helpful yesterday, when she called you, John.’ Her eyes were like gimlets and her lips like a rat-trap, he thought, as she glowered at him down the length of the table.

  ‘There was no call to do otherwise! The man was seen to clutch his chest and fall dead across his horse.’

  ‘You know of the feud between de Hocforde and Robert. Could you not take it more seriously?’

  ‘I didn’t know then. But it would have made no difference, the law is not for giving credence to old wives’ tales.’

  As the words left his lips, he knew he had said the wrong thing.

  ‘Old wives, are we? I’m glad I know what you think of me. No wonder you go chasing young whores, Welsh or otherwise.’

  Her chair grated on the flagstones as she stood up. With a glare that should have turned him to a pillar of salt, she swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  The old hound, lying near the empty hearth, showed the whites of his eyes as he looked mournfully up at his master. John got up and took his mug of ale to his favourite seat alongside the fireplace, bending to fondle the dog’s soft ears. ‘She’ll be in a foul mood until tomorrow, Brutus. But a good requiem Mass will cheer her up again, never fear.’

  The coroner dozed for an hour, seduced by the oppressive heat and humidity that penetrated even the dank hall of his gloomy house. Although the sun still beat down from a pale blue sky, a bank of cloud was building up on the western horizon and a distant rumble of thunder threatened the return of the rain that had plagued the country all summer. Mary let him sleep as she quietly removed the debris of the meal, but by the middle of the afternoon he roused himself and stretched his arms above his head, feeling his undershirt sticking to his back with sweat. Although all he wore over it was his usual drab grey tunic with no surcoat, it was still uncomfortably hot. He had even forsaken his long hose in favour of knee-length stockings and, like everyone else, wore no undergarments on the lower part of his body, yet still felt as uncomfortable as he had been in the heat of Palestine.

  He walked around to the back yard and relieved himself against the fence, as in this hot weather the privy stank so much that even his insensitive nose baulked at going inside.

  ‘When is the night-soil man due to shovel this place out?’ he called across to Mary, who was washing a pan in a bucket of murky water hauled from the well in the middle of the yard.

  ‘He’s two days late – everyone is having their privies and middens cleared more often in this heat.’ She tipped the dirty water on to the ground and dropped the leather bucket back down the well. ‘We need some rain again soon to bring the water level up, there’s little better than mud in it now.’

  They stood together to look down the narrow shaft and John, after a quick look up at the stairs to Matilda’s solar, slid an arm around the maid’s waist. They had had many a tumble in the past, but the handsome woman, a by-blow of an unknown Norman soldier and her Saxon mother, had recently refused him, being wary of Matilda’s suspicions, strengthened since the nosy body-maid Lucille had arrived to spy on them.

  Now Mary smiled and twisted away from him. ‘What would your mistress Nesta do, sir, if she saw you? To say nothing of your wife – and the pretty woman from Dawlish?’

  The mention of John’s other paramour down at the coast was enough to make him grin sheepishly. His childhood sweetheart Hilda was now married, but that had not stopped them from an occasional bout of passion when it could be managed. As Mary went back to her kitchen-shed, where she not only cooked, but slept on a pallet in the corner, John was aware of a distant crash as his front door slammed shut. Heavy footsteps followed and Gwyn hurried out of the narrow passage at the side of the house. His dishevelled ginger hair was wilder than usual and the armpits of his short worsted tunic were dark with sweat, as he had been trotting across the city in the sultry heat.

  ‘Crowner, d’you recall that outlaw in the court this morning – the one the sheriff sent to be hanged?’

  John stared at his perspiring officer – it was unlike the norm
ally imperturbable Gwyn to exert himself, unless there was a fight on offer.

  ‘What about him? Has he cut his own throat to cheat the gallows?’

  ‘No, he’s done better than that. He’s escaped from the South Gate and he’s gained sanctuary. He’s calling for the coroner to take his confession so that he can abjure the realm.’

  De Wolfe’s hawkish face creased in doubt. ‘I’m not sure an outlaw can do that,’ he growled.

  ‘Don’t see why not. Convicted felons can seek sanctuary,’ objected the Cornishman.

  John rubbed his black stubble, a mannerism he had as an aid to thought, just as Gwyn scratched his crotch and Thomas made the sign of the Cross. ‘True. I know nothing against it, though I’ve never heard of it being done before.’

  ‘The sheriff will be against it, so soon after sentencing the fellow to death!’ observed Gwyn, craftily.

  His master took the bait immediately. ‘Then that’s a good reason for me to grant it! Where has he taken refuge?’

  Gwyn grinned impishly. ‘You’ll like this, Crowner. He ran straight to St Olave’s!’

  John burst out laughing, a rare phenomenon for the dour knight. ‘God’s guts, man, my wife will have a fit!’ Then he quickly sobered up, giving another anxious glance up the steep stairs to Matilda’s solar, as a new thought occurred to him. ‘There’s to be a special service there tomorrow, for Robert de Pridias. My wife will be in a frenzy if she finds some ruffian clinging on to the altar cloth – or if we have to lay siege to the building to keep him inside. And it’ll be all my fault, no doubt!’

  ‘If we hurry, maybe we can get rid of him before then,’ suggested the ever-practical Gwyn. It was a faint hope, considering all the legalistic ritual that went with abjuration of the realm, but the sooner they started, the better.

  The pair hurried out into Martin’s Lane and down the high street towards the tiny church dedicated to St Olave, the first Christian king of Norway, where Gwyn said that he had told their clerk Thomas to meet them. De Wolfe had recently had some acrimonious dealings with its priest, Julian Fulk, which had not endeared him to his wife, who revered the man only slightly less than the Pope or Bishop Henry Marshal.