The Witch Hunter

PROLOGUE

August 1195

The old woman sat on the cold stones of the ledge that ran around the walls of the little church, waiting her turn to take the sacrament. The rest of the congregation stood on the earthen floor of the bare nave, which was barely twenty paces long and half that wide. They were few in number, as the priest of St Martin’s was not popular and there were another twenty-six churches within the walls of Exeter to compete with his ministrations.

Theophania Lawrence could sit down because of her age and presumed infirmity, though in fact she was quite spry for her sixty-six years. As in many other matters, she was crafty and full of guile and ‘going to the wall’ in church was a convenience, rather than a necessity. She sat and watched the dozen communicants shuffle towards the chancel, which was little more than a raised platform. It carried a simple altar, a table covered with a white cloth, on which was a cross of Dartmoor tin and two pewter candlesticks. Theophania was in no hurry and she let the last few townsfolk get near the priest before hoisting herself up and walking with an exaggerated hobble to stand at the end of the queue. Her face was round and smooth, with a pair of mischievous little eyes which stared out below the headband of a frayed linen cover-chief that enveloped her head and hung down the back of her much-darned brown kirtle.

As she stood behind the tall back of a pious cloth merchant from Southgate Street, she could hear the priest muttering the unintelligible Latin as he doled out the wafers and wine. Thin and fair haired, Edwin of Frome was unique in Exeter, as he was the only Saxon priest in a solidly Norman enclave. His sermons were laced with half-concealed diatribes against the invaders, though they had been here for well over a century and none of his parishioners was now likely to rise up in rebellion.

As the three people at the chancel step rose and returned to the nave, Theophania followed the pair in front. With a grunt, she lowered herself to kneel on the edge of the wooden dais. Her eyes darted around and settled with satisfaction on Father Edwin as he took a couple of steps towards the altar to replenish his paten. He refilled the shallow metal dish for holding the wafers from a new supply kept in the pyx. This was a carved wooden box, in which he stored the small pieces of pastry he bought at a cook-stall in High Street. He held the paten up to the cross and mumbled some more Latin to bless them. The old woman glowed internally, as freshly sanctified, they were all the more powerful.

The priest came back to the step and bent over her, mouthing more phrases as he placed a wafer in her supplicant palm. Edwin scowled at her suspiciously, knowing her of old. He waited until she had lifted the scrap to her mouth and made swallowing gestures, before moving on to the clothier. Theophania waited patiently until the priest came around again to offer a sip of cheap wine from the chalice, which she pretended to take. Then she stood up, crossed herself and unobtrusively walked out of the church without waiting for the completion of the Mass.

St Martin’s was at the corner of the cathedral Close and she looked around in the early morning air to make sure that no one was watching her, before putting a hand to her mouth. Spitting out the consecrated Host, which she had kept stored inside her cheek, she carefully wrapped it in a scrap of cloth taken from a small pouch on her girdle, before replacing it and stepping out quite briskly up Martin’s Lane, past the coroner’s house. It was the first step towards an appointment with a noose that would be thrown about her wrinkled neck.