The Witch Hunter

CHAPTER TEN

In the late August dusk, an elderly woman picked her way slowly through a maze of muddy paths on Exe Island, outside the western walls of the city. The river flowed swiftly a few yards further on, its water swollen by the rains on Exmoor, though it had not yet flooded over the wide marshy area above the uncompleted bridge. Avelina Sprot, the dairy wife from Milk Street, lifted the hem of her brown woollen kirtle to keep it out of the mire, though her wooden clogs were caked in the tenacious clay that lay between the patches of coarse grass that dotted the flats. Muttering under her breath at the foul place that she needed to visit, she threaded through the reens and leats of the marsh, aiming for a rickety hut that stood on its own, out near the main river bank. Although there were many other shanties and shacks dotted across the island, housing the poorer labourers and wool porters that served the mills further upstream, the one she was seeking was even more ramshackle.

When she eventually slithered up to it, she saw that the occupant needed all the magic she could muster to prevent the hut from falling into the river, as it leaned at a precarious angle, its rotting boards and mouldering thatch needing but a good push to tip it over.

The householder was obviously at home, as smoke was filtering from under the eaves, as well as from many holes in the walls, and the battered hurdle that served as a door was lying on the littered ground outside. She called out to attract attention.

‘Lucy! Are you there, Lucy?’

For a few moments there was no response, then an apparition shuffled to the doorway and peered out, the eyes blinking behind inflamed lids as she strained to see who was calling her.

‘It’s Avelina, Lucy. Avelina Sprot. I must talk to you.’

Even though she had known Lucy for years, the visitor had not seen her for some months and was sad to see how she had deteriorated lately. Lucy was of indeterminate age, but looked at least a hundred, thought Avelina. Her thin grey hair was matted and filthy and her back was so bent that she had to stretch her neck up to look ahead. But her most remarkable feature was the growth of long grey hair over most of her face and neck, leaving only the skin around her eyes and forehead visible. She wore a grubby and shapeless black garment which hung from her gaunt frame like a curtain, and she shuffled along with the aid of a knobbly stick. Her eyes were filmed with cataracts and she had to come close to peer at her visitor to make sure of her identity.

‘Avelina Sprot! What brings you here, sister?’ Compared with the rest of her decrepit appearance, her voice was unexpectedly strong. She was not claiming her as a sibling, but part of the loose sisterhood of cunning women.

‘Have you not heard of what is happening in the city and around it?’ asked Avelina. ‘We are being persecuted, with one already dead and two more condemned.’

Bearded Lucy, by virtue of both her age and reputation, was considered by those who possessed the gift as being their unofficial leader, much as the apothecaries looked to Richard Lustcote as their figurehead.

Lucy beckoned for Avelina to come inside, but the visitor shook her head. She had seen Lucy’s dwelling once before and was in no hurry to repeat the experience. ‘I’ve no time, I must get back for the skimming. But I wanted to warn you and to ask if there is anything that can be done to stop this madness. Half the city is out for our blood, even though in a month’s time they will regret it.’

Bearded Lucy sank slowly on to an empty box that lay among the debris outside her hut and leaned forward, clasping her gnarled hands on her stick. ‘I have heard some of this, but I get out very little now. Kind folk bring me something to eat now and then. I hope to die soon,’ she added simply.

‘Nonsense, you can’t die yet, we have too much need of you,’ snapped Avelina. She proceeded to tell Lucy all that had been happening in the last week or so and the old woman listened in silence.

‘You say that the witch-hunter is this priest, this canon?’

‘Yes, Gilbert de Bosco. But he was put up to it by the widow of this merchant and an apothecary, Walter Winstone, who was jealous of our healing skills.’

Lucy screwed up her red-rimmed eyes and sat in silence for a moment.

‘We’ll have no more trouble from him, he has just died,’ she said in a matter-of-fact way.

The other woman stared at her with some unease, as the old hag had not set foot off the marsh that day, so how could she know? She herself had only heard of Walter’s murder half an hour ago, from the gossip on the streets as she was on her way here. But she returned to the big problem.

‘Be careful for yourself, Lucy. There have been efforts to deal with you before this, as you well know. We are all at risk until this danger passes, as pass it must.’

The crone opened her eyes and nodded. ‘I care little for myself, it is the fate of the younger women that distresses me. Poor Jolenta of Ide, she was the most promising of those with the gift. And she is young and comely, yet you say they are going to hang her, along with Alice?’

‘Yes — and the mob strung Theophania from a sconce on the Snail Tower today. False witness was given against them all, but we do not know where it came from. The sheriff and the bishop are against us too, so they say.’

‘Have we no just men who will speak up for us?’

‘I hear that the coroner, Sir John de Wolfe, is an even-handed man. He has a reputation for being stern but honest, which is more than can be said for most of them.’

Lucy nodded. ‘I have had dealings before with the crowner and his leman. Maybe I will go to see him tomorrow.’

They talked a little longer, until the approach of dusk made Avelina concerned that she would be unable to navigate the treacherous paths across the marsh. She left in the twilight, leaving the bearded old woman still sitting with her chin on her hands, staring at the ground as if she could see visions in the mud.

With the sheriff away, as well as Gwyn and Thomas being absent, John had a difficult few days ahead, though thankfully there were no sudden deaths, rapes, fires or catches of royal fish for the rest of the week. Even Matilda could find no excuse to nag him about being absent for most of the time and their routine settled into a dull round of silent mealtimes and even more silent bedtimes. Each evening he made his usual excuse of taking Brutus for a long walk through the city, which both of them had tacitly come to accept as a euphemism for visiting Nesta at the Bush. However, there was no chance of his snatching a night with the buxom Welsh woman, which he could sometimes manage when he had been travelling outside the city.

He was uneasy about a number of matters, though the heat seemed to have gone out of the witch-hunting, at least until the sheriff came back to hold the court that would send them to the gallows. But he was concerned about the treasure trove, as Richard de Revelle’s sudden departure with the box of gold and silver was very suspicious. This was one thing he was not going to let his brother-in-law get away with this time. On several previous occasions, Matilda’s intercession on behalf of her brother had persuaded John to save him from disgrace and perhaps even execution, but enough was enough. If anything was missing from the chest when it arrived at Winchester, then he knew who to blame.

On Wednesday, the day after the killings of the apothecary and the wise man of Fore Street, he held inquests on the bodies. He could not rely on Brother Rufus to act as his clerk this time, though no doubt the big monk would have been happy to do so if his other duties allowed. Instead, de Wolfe recruited Elphin, a reliable clerk from the castle, one of the literate men in lower clerical orders who kept the records in the county court. With Ralph Morin’s consent, he also appropriated Sergeant Gabriel and one of his men-at-arms. They began at the ninth hour at Rougemont, where one of the cart-sheds against the wall of the inner ward was acting as a temporary mortuary. Here the corpses of Walter Winstone and Elias Trempole were lying side by side under a canvas sheet alongside the massive solid wheel of an ox-cart. Earlier that morning, Gabriel and his man had rounded up a number of men and boys from Fore Street and Waterbeer Street to act as juries, in the hope that some of them might have information about the killings.

The coroner took over the empty shire courthouse for the proceedings, the few people present rattling around in the bare building. On the raised dais, John sat in the sheriff’s chair and Elphin, an intense young man with a bad hare-lip, spread his parchment and inks on a trestle behind him.

Without Gwyn to act as coroner’s officer, John dispensed with the formalities, such as the opening declaration and the presentment of Englishry. Although neither of the deceased was Saxon, he had no village to lay the murdrum fine upon, so again he preferred to ignore the matter. The first inquest was on Elias Trempole, and Gabriel sent the soldier to bring the corpse from the cart-shed, so that the jury could view it. It arrived lying stiffly on a plank laid across a large wheelbarrow, with the canvas thrown over it during its short journey. The dead man’s brother and his weeping widow both confirmed the identity of Elias, then John stood at the edge of the platform and directed the dozen men and lads to file past it and look at the large wound in the head.

‘Does anyone here recognise what weapon might have caused that?’ he demanded. Twenty years’ experience in bloody campaigns in Ireland, France and the Holy Land had made him an expert in fatal injuries, but though he suspected what had caused these deep punctures, it was not a military weapon and he wanted confirmation from the locals.

A tall man wearing a long leather apron spotted with bloodstains spoke up. ‘I know what did it, Crowner — and I know who did it!’ he said laconically.

There was a buzz of agreement amongst some of the jurymen picked for both cases and another older man spoke up from the back. ‘No doubt who did this one, Sir John — the same fellow that slew the apothecary with the same implement.’

De Wolfe looked around the group of men in some astonishment, then gave one of his rare grins. ‘Looks as if these will be the shortest inquests I’ve ever held — and the most helpful!’ He motioned to the man in the stained apron. ‘Come on, then, tell us all about it.’

The tall fellow pointed a finger at the crater in Elias’s almost bald head. It formed a narrow cone, going deeply into the skull, with fragments of bone crushed around the edges.

‘Could only be a pole-axe, sir. I know because I use one every day.’

John nodded, as he had come to the same conclusion, unless there was some unusual foreign foot-soldier’s pike loose in Exeter. ‘Agreed, you can tell that from the wound. But how do you tell who did it, from looking at the wound?’

The butcher rubbed his long nose before replying. ‘I can’t tell from the wound, Crowner. But I know it was Hugh Furrel that did it, for I saw him in Fore Street that night — and now he’s disappeared, along with one of the pole-axes from our killing shed.’

There was a murmur of agreement from the other jurymen and again someone else spoke up. ‘And I saw him on the corner of Waterbeer Street and Goldsmith’s Lane that night, carrying a hessian bag that had something damned heavy in it, for it banged against my leg as we passed.’

De Wolfe rubbed his black stubble with his fingers as he considered this. ‘We all walk the streets of the city, as we live here,’ he objected. ‘Doesn’t make us all killers, though I admit it seems he was in the right places at the right times. But you say he’s vanished?’

The slaughterman nodded. ‘He lived down in Rack Lane with a doxy, but he’s run off. His woman came to the sheds today to ask after him. She said he came back home last night drunk, bragging about how much money he’d made. No one has seen him since, except the porter on the South Gate, who said he went out of the city as soon as it opened at dawn today.’

The next inquest, on Walter Winstone, lasted but a few moments, as the evidence was the same. There were no relatives to identify him, but Richard Lustcote, the nominal master of the city apothecaries, was present to confirm his name and agree that the cost of burial would be borne by their guild. There was no alternative but to order the jury to agree to a verdict of murder by persons unknown, even though it seemed evident that Hugh Furrel was the perpetrator of both crimes.

Amid much muttering at the unsatisfactory outcome, the court was dissolved and the jurors and the few spectators drifted away. The coroner shared in the general discontent, as it was frustrating that a double murder had occurred and that the culprit was generally known but beyond retribution. However, his main concern was the motivation for the murders, which had occurred so close in time and by the same hand. There must be some common thread linking them, especially as it seemed that robbery was not the reason. As he sat alone in his chamber afterwards, missing the company of Thomas and Gwyn, he pondered the fact that it was unusual for someone like an apothecary to be slain. Most murders occurred during drunken brawls or in robberies with violence, when they were not domestic disputes within families. But for a professional man to be murdered in his own premises, with nothing stolen from his treasure chest, was a very peculiar situation.

Drumming his fingers irritably on the trestle table, John turned the matter over in his mind for a while, then got up and went out into the city in search of some explanation. He knew that the few apothecaries in Exeter looked to Richard Lustcote as their father figure. He was a man he had met several times at guild banquets and festivals, as well as when he attended Winstone’s inquest. Making his way to Lustcote’s shop in Northgate Street, he found the man upstairs, grinding some special salve for the wife of one of the burgesses, who suffered from weeping ulceration of her lower legs.

Lustcote greeted him civilly and put away his pestle and mortar to pour them both a cup of wine, while he listened to the coroner’s questions.

‘As both were slain by the same hand, the very same day, I find it hard to find a link between a lowly labourer who dabbles in charms and a respectable apothecary, a trained and educated man,’ John explained.

The chubby pill-purveyor nodded sagely, glad to be of help to the law officer. ‘There is a connection, Crowner. Now that poor Walter is dead, I feel I have no reason not to divulge some of his confidences. He came to me recently, complaining bitterly about the cunning men and women in and around the city, who he felt were taking some of his trade away.’ Lustcote sipped his wine before continuing. ‘Truth to tell, Walter Winstone was very keen on his money. If it were not speaking too much ill of the dead, I might say that he was a mean man, obsessed with squeezing every last ha’penny from life, even though he lived like a destitute monk.’

De Wolfe’s black brows came together in puzzlement. ‘But why should that lead to his death? If he was so much against witches and wizards, he would be more likely to do them violence, rather than the other way round.’

Richard shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘There you have me, Sir John. Again, though I should not say this, though I am no priest in the confessional, but Winstone’s reputation as an apothecary was not unblemished. He came here under rather dubious circumstances and the whisper is that he was suspected of some unprofessional practices in his former town of Southampton. Nothing was proved and I declined to pursue the matter when he came to Exeter, but it is possible that he made some enemies here — though how on earth that could tie in with the death of a cunning man, I have no idea.’

John grunted into his cup. ‘Unprofessional practices, you say? Can I take that to mean ridding unfortunate women of the unwanted burden of their husband’s lust?’

‘That at least — and possibly relieving unwanted persons of their lives!’

‘You are being very frank with me, Richard,’ said John, in some surprise.

‘Only because Walter Winstone is now beyond the retribution of us all, except Almighty God. We can do him no harm now and he has no family upon whom any stigma might fall.’

The coroner fell silent for a moment as he sipped the excellent wine, but his mind was working methodically. ‘Tell me, what methods might an unscrupulous apothecary employ to secretly get rid of such an unwanted person?’

‘There are many poisons which could be incorporated into pills, draughts and potions. Some are from certain herbs and plants, others are mineral in origin. Why do you ask?’

‘To be successful in a slow, secret poisoning, the victim would have to be a patient of that apothecary?’

Lustcote nodded. ‘It would be very difficult to administer the poison otherwise. Most have a hellish taste and so could not be added to food or drink by the one who commissioned the deed. But as medicines are supposed to function better the nastier they are, then almost any foul-tasting substance can be given under the guise of a medicament.’

The germ of an idea began forming in de Wolfe’s mind. ‘Tell me, are there any particular signs that would suggest that someone was slowly being poisoned?’

The master apothecary sighed. ‘You ask a question with a very long answer, Crowner. All kinds of symptoms may appear, but none are very specific. Wasting, belly-cramps, purging, vomiting, the yellow jaundice, bleeding spots in the skin and eyes — the list is long, but so many mimic natural disease.’

‘Would fouling and darkening of the gums with loose teeth suggest anything?’

‘So many people have terrible mouths and most lose their teeth eventually. It could be scurvy in those who are starved — but you say darkening as well?’

‘Yes, virtually black, an inky line along the roots of the teeth.’

Richard rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘That could be plumbism, of course. The administration of sugar of lead — Plumbum acetas — over a period can do that. It’s an effective poison which has no obnoxious taste and can fatally weaken the heart and brain if allowed to build up in the body.’

John elaborated no more on the matter to the apothecary, but he now fitted some more facts into place: Winstone was de Pridias’s physician, the man had blackened gums after death, and his widow Cecilia vehemently claimed that he had been done to death by the intervention of a cunning man or woman. He had no means of proving it, but as he walked back to Martin’s Lane the coroner wondered whether Henry de Hocforde also fitted into the pattern he was constructing in his mind.

Late in the afternoon of the following Monday, a small cavalcade clattered across the drawbridge at Rougemont and passed under the arch of the gatehouse. The sleepy sentry snapped to attention and saluted with his pikestaff, for the first rider was Sir Richard de Revelle, the county sheriff and nominally his lord and master. He was followed by a couple of his clerks, his steward and four men-at-arms who had escorted him on his journey to Winchester. The guard noticed that the sheriff’s thin face, never much disposed towards amiability, was darkened by a scowl as he trotted his horse into the inner ward and made for the keep on the other side. A trumpet-blast from one of the soldiers caused a flurry of activity around the wooden stairs that led to the entrance on the upper floor. A pair of ostlers scurried out from the undercroft below and several servants burst out of the main door to stand waiting on the platform at the top of the steps. As an ostler grabbed his stallion’s head, Richard slid from the saddle and stalked without a word to the keep. Ignoring the greetings of his servants, he stamped up the stairs and marched into the hall, pulling off his riding gloves and slapping them irritably against his thigh. Inside, he turned left around the screens to go towards his chambers, but then stopped dead as he saw who was sitting at a nearby table, drinking ale with the castle constable.

‘De Wolfe, damn you! I want to talk to you — now!’

His high-pitched voice was vibrant with anger as he glared across at the coroner, who stared back with infuriating calmness. ‘And a very good day to you, brother-in-law!’ he replied sarcastically, not moving from his bench.

De Revelle wheeled around and strode to his quarters, slamming the door behind him in the face of his apprehensive clerks, who had followed him into the hall.

John rose languidly from the table, picking up his ale-pot and leisurely finishing the contents. ‘I’d better see what the bloody man wants,’ he muttered to his friend, the fork-bearded Ralph Morin, who had watched the little scene with interest.

‘Is it what you think might have happened, John?’

The coroner tugged his sword-belt to a more comfortable position. ‘It may be — but almost everything upsets that man these days! I’ve been waiting for him to come back, as I’ve a few matters to tax him with myself.’

He loped across the rush-covered flagstones, aware of a sudden hush as a score of curious faces watched him, wondering what had put the sheriff into such a foul temper. Walking in past an anxious-looking guard posted outside, he was met with a further furious command. ‘Shut that damned door behind you! I don’t want every nosy swine in the castle listening to what I’ve got to say to you!’

De Wolfe kicked the door back with his heel so that it slammed into its frame. ‘You seem out of sorts today, brother-in-law,’ he said mildly. ‘Is your arse sore with all that riding?’

‘Never mind my arse! What do you mean by trying to have me humiliated before the exchequer in Winchester?’

John stared at the sheriff as the realisation that what he suspected may have happened had actually come to pass. It had been a possibility all along and de Wolfe was now thankful that he had taken precautions against it. He let his breath out slowly as he tried to anticipate where this revelation might lead. ‘So, Richard, I was right in sending my officer and clerk to follow you to Winchester!’

‘Officer and clerk? Whoreson liars and troublemakers, more like! But now you actually confess your involvement in this scandal?’ Standing behind his table, his foxy face pale with rage, the sheriff flung his gloves down and shook his fist at his wife’s husband. ‘That great Cornish oaf of yours and that disgusting weasel of a disgraced priest had the temerity to go squealing to the chief clerk of the treasury with some bloody list of what should have been in that treasure box. And then the clerk complained that it didn’t tally with the contents of the chest — virtually accusing me of stealing it!’

‘So did you steal it, Richard?’ asked John stonily.

The pallor of the sheriff’s face suddenly flushed to an alarming shade of red. ‘Damn you, John! I’ll not be spoken to like that! The list was patently false, a tissue of lies! You’ve done this to trap me — you’ve been plotting my downfall for months. But this time, you’ve gone too far. I’ll have you thrown out of office for this — or worse!’

De Wolfe advanced to the table and stooped to lean his fists on the edge, bending forward to come face to face with the now-incandescent sheriff, who stood a head shorter than the coroner. ‘Be careful what you say about being thrown out of office, Richard. You may have sailed too close to the wind once too often this time.’

Revelle beat his fists on the boards in a raging temper tinged with fear. ‘Thanks to those God-accursed servants of yours, the chief clerk to the treasury came and alleged that there was a difference between the coinage in the box and what was alleged to be on that damned parchment that your mealy-mouth clerk brought with him. Asked me for an explanation, blast him! A mere scribbler, questioning the integrity of the sheriff of one of the biggest counties in England!’ He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth before continuing to rant at his brother-in-law. ‘And anyway, the bloody treasure is mine by rights, being found on my land. Only your spiteful interference deprived me of it!’

John straightened up and sighed. ‘We’ve been through all this before — the inquest rightly decided that treasure trove belongs to the King. So taking any part of it is not only theft, but treason!’ He paused and then asked, ‘How much of it did the clerk say was missing?’

The sheriff’s features were by now dangerously purple. ‘Nothing was missing, damn you! Your so-called inventory was obviously deliberately falsified by you, to discredit me!’

It was de Wolfe’s turn to become annoyed at this blatant insult. He reached across the table and grabbed Richard by the neck of his embroidered tunic. ‘I falsified nothing! It was specifically to stop you embezzling any of this gold and silver that I had the contents of the chest carefully checked.’ He let go of the tunic and pushed the sheriff away contemptuously. ‘Every coin in that box was carefully counted and the witnesses included the priest at Cadbury, my clerk, the reeve and even the manor-lord, who was able to sign his own name on that list. Do you really think that all those would conspire to perjure themselves, just to discomfort you?’

Richard jerked his garments straight again after being manhandled. ‘Then the treasure could only have been pilfered between Cadbury and Exeter,’ he brayed triumphantly. ‘And the only man who had care of it during the journey was that shambling giant of yours, that Cornishman Gwyn!’

‘Are you now trying to shift the blame by accusing my officer?’ roared John, flaring into anger again at this slur against his oldest friend.

Now that the idea had taken root in his mind, de Revelle nurtured it enthusiastically. ‘Of course I am! The bastard obviously couldn’t resist dipping his hand into the box as soon as he was out of sight of Cadbury.’

‘Nonsense, you’re just trying to cover up your own dishonesty!’ raged the coroner, now furious at himself for failing to foresee this loophole that his crafty brother-in-law had seized upon. He should have had the treasure recounted when it arrived at Rougemont to save Gwyn from this now all-too-obvious accusation.

Richard sensed John’s unease and immediately capitalised upon it. ‘Yes, by Christ’s knuckles, that’s the only explanation!’ he exulted, seeing a chance to turn the tables on what could have been a disastrous situation. ‘And I’ll have that whoreson thief as soon as he returns from his disgraceful escapade in Winchester. He’ll be arrested the moment he sets foot in the city — and I’ll see that he’s hanged for it!’

De Wolfe slammed the table-top with his fist. ‘Don’t be so damned foolish, Richard, you’ve not a scrap of proof that he stole anything!’

The pointed beard of the sheriff jutted defiantly out at the coroner. ‘You produced the proof yourself with the claim that the inventory was correct. If the contents were so grandly certified in Cadbury and some was missing by the time it reached Winchester, then only that bloody officer of ours had the opportunity to pilfer it, as the rest of the time it was in my care!’

‘Exactly — and it was in your care a great deal longer!’ retorted John, bitterly.

The sheriff, now feeling quite on top of the situation, sneered back at him. ‘Either you withdraw your claim that the list was accurate, or I’ll have that officer of yours, John. With a body as heavy as his, his neck will stretch delightfully on the gallows!’

De Wolfe knew that the vindictive sheriff would be as good as his word when it came to taking his revenge on Gwyn and cursed himself again for not being more careful. What had been an impending disaster for de Revelle a few moments ago was rapidly turning into a triumph for the devious sheriff.

‘I’ll see you in hell first!’ retorted the coroner, but his tone betrayed his lack of conviction. The word of a servant would be of little avail against that of a knight and county sheriff. Either John had to withdraw his accusation that there had been a shortfall in the amount of treasure or risk Gwyn’s neck. Although Richard might be in real jeopardy if the theft was eventually brought home to him, the delay in toppling him would be of little use if the sheriff’s county court declared Gwyn a felon the following week. But John’s iron sense of justice was totally against this scheming villain getting away with it yet again.

‘Five pairs of eyes counted that money, damn you!’ he shouted across the table. ‘They couldn’t all be blind — and I’ve no doubt that what’s missing is not ten paces from where we stand!’

Richard de Revelle glared back at him. ‘Then if you persist in this insulting accusation, John, that red-haired villain will be arrested the moment he shows his face in Exeter. In fact, I’ll give strict orders to the constable and the guards to throw him into Stigand’s tender care as soon as he appears!’ He sat down and leered up at his brother-in-law. ‘So make up your mind, John. Is it to be me — or him?’

The guard at the top of the drawbridge at Rougemont rarely had occasion to defend the castle against intruders. Apart from a few urchins and pedlars who now and then tried to get in, the last time the drawbridge had been raised and the portcullis lowered for defence had been over fifty years ago during the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda. This morning, the day after the sheriff returned from Winchester, was no exception and the only event to keep the man-at-arms awake after the previous heavy night’s drinking was the appearance of a walking scarecrow on the ramp that crossed the wide ditch of dirty water that was the moat. She was halfway up, stumbling slowly as she hoisted herself painfully along with the aid of a stick, when the sentry yelled at her to clear off.

Although his voice was not too unkind, she stopped and scowled at him. If he had been nearer, he may have been discomfited by the angry glint in her eyes and flinched under her oddly penetrating gaze. ‘I must speak to the crowner, boy!’ she called, in a voice that was unexpectedly deep and strong, coming from such a decrepit frame.

‘He’s not here, mother — and even if he was, I couldn’t let you in.’

There was no real reason why he should keep her out, as the inner ward contained St Mary’s chapel, the courthouse and a number of lean-to dwellings built against the curtain walls for a few military families, though most lived in the larger outer bailey. However, he had standing orders to keep out vagrants, vagabonds, pedlars and beggars. The old woman’s ragged clothing and frightening facial hair seemed to put her in one of those categories and he advanced to the centre of the archway to emphasise the prohibition.

Bearded Lucy stared at him for a moment, as if contemplating putting a curse on him, but as the soldier seemed emphatic that the coroner was not there, she shrugged her rounded shoulders and stumped slowly back down towards Castle Hill, her stick tapping on the hard ground. The guard watched her go, uneasy at that final look she had given him — if he had been Thomas de Peyne, he would have crossed himself.

The old woman knew that Sir John lived in Martin’s Lane and slowly made her way there through the crowded high street, indifferent to the rude comments and occasional jeers of passers-by, especially those who came too close downwind of her unwashed body and filthy clothing. Even in a community where bathing was an eccentric perversion, the odours that came from old Lucy were unusual in their intensity.

At the corner of the narrow lane which led through to the cathedral Close, she hesitated, uncertain of what to do next. She was well aware that she would be unwelcome in any decent dwelling, but she had an overriding need to speak to Sir John. In her previous dealings with the coroner, she had found him to be a dour and rather forbidding man, but one who was unusually honest and compassionate, a rare quality in the Norman aristocracy, who were more likely to use their whip on her than a civil tongue. Peering down the alley, she saw the three tall, narrow houses on the right, the furthest one being that of the coroner. It was opposite the entrance to a livery stable that lay behind the Golden Hind tavern, which fronted on to the high street.

She began shuffling down the lane, still uncertain as to how she could get to speak to him, when her problem was unexpectedly solved by the appearance of two men from the stables. One wore the leather apron of a farrier, scarred with scorch marks from fitting hot shoes, but the other was John de Wolfe himself. She hobbled forward and accosted him as deferentially as her stubborn nature would allow.

‘Sir John, please! Can you spare an old woman a moment?’

The farrier gave her a contemptuous look and vanished back into his stable yard, leaving de Wolfe to deal with this untidy apparition.

‘Do you remember me, Crowner?’ she asked. ‘I have had dealings in the past with the landlady of the Bush.’

John knew very well who she was and nodded gravely. ‘You are the lady from Exe Island, I believe.’

It was a very long time since anyone had called her ‘lady’ and her faith in this man was strengthened further. She moved closer and was gratified to see that he did not flinch. ‘Can I speak frankly to you, sir? There is no one else in this city that I would trust.’

In spite of himself, John gave a furtive glance at the front of his house, to make sure that Matilda was not standing on the doorstep. The only window-opening was shuttered and anyway, at this time of day, his wife was still probably dozing up in her solar.

‘What is it, Lucy? Are you in trouble of some sort?’ He had a suspicion of the nature of her problem, but waited to hear it from her own mouth, which twisted wryly at his question.

‘Trouble? We are all in trouble, we cunning women. We are being persecuted and it will surprise me if I live to see the end of this month, along with some of my sisters.’

He listened gravely while she made an impassioned condemnation of the wave of hatred that was sweeping the city against her kind — and the injustice of the hysterical mob violence that had been drummed up by Gilbert de Bosco and those whom he had influenced.

‘Poor Theophania Lawrence has already paid the price, along with Elias Trempole — and Alice Ailward and Jolenta of Ide will undoubtedly soon be hanged. I fear for more of us poor souls, though I care little for myself. But I would warn you, Crowner, someone very close to you may also be at risk.’

His scalp prickled at the slow but deliberate way in which the deep voice rolled out these portents of doom, especially when her last words could refer to no one else but Nesta.

‘What have you heard, Lucy?’ he snapped urgently. ‘Is there a threat to my woman in the Bush?’

Her heavy lids lifted as she looked up at him, her sharp eyes intense within their reddened rims. ‘It is more what I feel in my old bones, sir, than what I have heard. We sisters often hear each other in our heads, without the need to shout. I knew what had happened at the very second Theophania died — and I know that the Welsh woman may also be betrayed.’

De Wolfe chewed at his lip, intensely worried by her words. He felt the conviction of her belief, though he usually had little time for sooth-saying and fortune-telling.

‘Did you seek me out to tell me this?’

The old woman shrugged. ‘In part, Crowner, for you have both been tolerant of me. But also, I beseech you to do what you can to stop this oppression. You are a just man and a powerful law officer. Surely there is something you can do to cool this madness?’

John looked at the bizarre face, and saw a strength of character that fleetingly, was almost regal as the old woman stared at him in hope. He only wished there was something he could say which could assuage her fears. ‘I have been greatly concerned myself at this misplaced crusade,’ he growled. ‘But you must understand that, regrettably, there is very little I can do. The mob responsible for Theophania’s killing melted away before they could be caught — and catching them would not bring her back now.’

He gripped her arm, not shying away from the feel of a skeletal limb beneath the grimy cloth. ‘As to the others, I cannot yet fathom why Elias was murdered. And the other two women were brought before the bishop’s court, over which I have not the slightest influence — in fact, the very opposite, as many in the cathedral have little love for me.’

Lucy nodded sadly, but persisted. ‘I believe you, sir. But those two women cannot be hanged by the Church. I hear they will be sent to the Shire Court for sentencing, so have you no power to see them shown some mercy there?’

Again, de Wolfe had to shake his head. ‘I fear that the sheriff is strongly on the side of the crusaders in this matter, for his own personal reasons. He also detests me, and if I tried to intervene it would merely harden his attitude towards them, just to spite me.’ He rumbled in his throat, a sign of his emotions. ‘I have every sympathy with your feelings, lady — but would advise you to keep yourself well out of the public eye at the present time, as there are many who would gleefully see you sucked into this tragic situation. Your reputation as a cunning woman marks you out too well for attention and I am surprised that you have not been accosted already!’

The hairy face stared at the ground as she leaned forward on her stick. ‘As I have said, I fear nothing for myself, but wish to do all I can to save those of my kind who will surely perish if this madness goes on. Is there nothing you can do, Crowner?’

There was a grating sound behind him and, turning guiltily, he saw that his front door had opened. Thankfully, it was only Mary, who stood there, frowning at the pair in the lane.

‘I will do what little I can, Lucy,’ he said. ‘I have already spoken to the archdeacon, who is wholly against this campaign of his fellow-canon. But others there support it, along with the sheriff and some of the merchants. It was the death of one of the guildmasters which started all this, as his widow stirred up the trouble in the first place.’

He moved away from the old woman and she bowed her head to him. ‘Thank you for listening, Crowner. It now seems that I will have to do what I can myself, though God knows it will be little enough.’

De Wolfe stared at her in alarm. ‘You be careful, now. I have told you to keep well out of sight until this blows over. Thank you for your warning concerning my friend at the Bush — but it is yourself who is in most danger at the moment!’

He nodded his head at her brusquely and loped away to his front step, where Mary was still standing with a disapproving look on her face.

As the heavy oak door closed with a squeal from its leather hinges, Lucy stood for a moment staring at it. ‘Now I know what I must do,’ she muttered to herself. ‘And may God protect me — or at least receive me into his arms!’

Later that morning, Lucy stumbled wearily up Fore Street, her arthritic joints protesting at the slope as she laboriously hauled herself along with the aid of her stick, which was almost as gnarled as herself. She had no need to jostle through the folk on the road or those who loitered around the shopfronts or the stalls. They stood aside and gave her forbidding appearance a wide berth, her lank grey locks falling in a tangle over the shoulders of her dirty cape and the red-rimmed eyes peering from the weird face with its profusion of coarse hair. She wore no cover-chief or head-rail, but a rag was tied around her forehead like a grubby coronet. Mothers pulled their children close to their skirts as she passed, especially as her mouth was set in a ferocious scowl.

Lucy was in crusading mood, angry and mortified at the persecution of the other cunning women who were being set upon just because they had the gift of healing and sooth-saying — a gift that had been tacitly accepted and welcomed by the poorer people since time out of mind. She felt compelled to do what she could for them, whatever the cost to herself — though she was largely uncaring as to her own fate, often feeling that the sooner her own miserable existence was ended the better. She was old — she could not remember how old. She was poor to the point of destitution and lived in utter squalor, often hungry and usually in pain. Even her own few herbs and potions could no longer keep at bay the ache in her hips and knees and the torment from her bowed back-bone.

Lucy had had a family once — even a husband half a lifetime ago, until he had been killed in the quarry where he toiled. That was before the hair had started to grow on her face, as her skin thickened and her eyes weeped. Almost destitute, she had eked out an existence — one could hardly call it a living — by selling her gifts of healing and the herbs she collected for half-pence. She squatted in the ramshackle hut on Exe Island, built from scraps with her own hands. Now she was tired and ready to go to God, in whom she believed fervently, in spite of her familiarity with the ancient wisdom. That was why it was so unfair, so evil that the other cunning women were being persecuted on the grounds that they were sacrilegious unbelievers and heretics, denying God, Christ and the Holy Spirit. In fact, they were all white witches, and blasphemous thoughts never crossed their minds.

Lucy rolled all these matters around inside her head as she stumped up the last stretch of Fore Street and reached the central crossing of Carfoix, where High Street continued straight ahead and North and Southgate Streets dipped away down on either side. It had been a busy junction for most of the last thousand years and today was still as active, with ox-carts, horsemen, porters, pack-men and barrow-men all jostling with pedestrians and the flocks of sheep and goats being herded by farmers and slaughtermen to the nearby killing grounds of the Shambles.

The old woman stopped near the corner to get her breath back, standing in front of a booth selling meat pasties, the other shoppers diverging around her like a mill-stream flowing around a post. The stall-holder stood frowning under his striped awning, waiting for the disreputable old hag to move away and stop scaring off his customers. When she failed to move on, he shouted rudely at her, but fell silent when she turned and fixed him with a stare from her inflamed eyes.

A few yards away, right on the corner of the crossing, a small empty cart stood idle, the shafts for the ox propped up while the carter took the beast away to water it. Lucy trudged across and with some difficulty, sat on the tailboard and with much grunting and panting, hoisted her legs up. Then she clawed her way to a standing position by grasping the side rails and moved to the front, where she found herself a couple of feet above the people thronging the junction of the roads. A few heads turned at this curious sight, but far more paid attention when the apparition began shouting in a voice than was surprisingly strong, coming from such a decrepit body.

‘Listen to me, people of Exeter! Listen to Lucy, who has helped many of you who were in trouble over the years … if you have any gratitude at all, listen to me now!’

A score of people stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at this old hag, bellowing from the back of a cart. Customers at the booths stopped feeling in their purses and even the stall-holders stood gaping at this weird old woman. Most of them knew who she was, even though in recent years she had rarely left her muddy island.

‘What the hell is Lucy ranting about?’ called a pie-man to the fish-seller in the next booth.

‘God knows, the old witch is off her head,’ he replied sourly. ‘She should be locked up, along with those other two down in the cathedral.’

The whiskered face under the ragged headband slowly scanned the upturned faces below her. ‘Shame on those who persecute those who cannot help themselves!’ she bellowed. ‘Why are so many of you turning against those whose only aim is to cure your ills, to solve your problems and to give you that help which you have sought from us for generations?’

It was quickly apparent that the division of opinion in the city was equally present in the crowd around the crossing at Carfoix. Some looked sheepish, others sympathetic at her words, remembering how cunning women had helped them find lost possessions, bring back errant husbands and given succour to their infants with loose bowels or a croupy cough. But a sizeable number, especially those who had been harangued by their parish priests the previous Sunday, glared angrily across Carfoix, and a few shouted at her and shook their fists.

Heated disputes began, both between the moderates and the sympathisers, but also among the more hawkish faction, who started to call for action against the hag.

‘Get down, you evil old woman!’ yelled a meat porter. ‘Clear off or you’ll go the same way as Theophania Lawrence!’

Lucy ignored them all and continued to shout her defiance and pleas for understanding. ‘Why are you suddenly against us, when we have done nothing to harm you? We respect the Church and are good Christians, which is more than can be said for some of you intolerant murderers!’ She gripped the rough wood of the cart’s head-rail and shook herself against it in a paroxysm of emotion. ‘Do not persecute us so unjustly — we are the same people that you have lived alongside all your lives. Unscrupulous people are using you as a tool for their own purposes and you let yourself be led by the nose like sheep to the knife!’

This really annoyed the more bellicose of her antagonists in the street. ‘You cheeky old bastard, keep a civil tongue in your head or we’ll cut it out for you!’ yelled a red-faced shopkeeper, who was a verger in St Pancras’s Church.

Someone threw a rotten cabbage that he picked up from behind a booth. It missed Lucy but disintegrated against the side of the cart. As if this were a signal, the verbal battles between citizens flared into brawling and several men began slugging it out with others over their differing opinions on cunning women. Old ladies began screaming and young mothers hastily gathered their children to their skirts and tried to get out of the way of the scuffles that were breaking out across the street. From their lair behind the Guildhall just up the street, the two constables heard the uproar and hurried down to Carfoix, but two men armed with staves were ineffectual against the spreading mêlée that confronted them.

The anti-witch faction were in the majority and more ambled out of the nearby alehouse, attracted by the noise, adding their drunken prejudices to the disputes that were raging. Osric, the lanky constable, rapidly summed up the situation and again wisely decided not to try to quell the developing riot, but to try to remove the cause.

‘Let’s get the old woman out of here, before they hang her too!’ he hissed to Theobald, who was more slow-witted than the Saxon.

Together, they edged their way around the shouting, brawling throng to reach the ox-cart, where Lucy was still waving her arms and declaiming the innocence of her sisters and herself, though no one could now hear her above the tumult in the street. Osric reached the back of the cart without many in the crowd taking any notice of him and he rapped on the floorboards with his staff to get her attention. She turned at the noise, without breaking off her repetitive speech, but when she saw who it was she turned her back on him again.

‘Come on, woman!’ he called urgently. ‘Get yourself away from here or they’ll string you up, just as they did Theophania.’

He reached out with his staff and ungallantly poked her in the back with its end. She turned again, looking uncertainly at him this time. ‘I have business to attend to, man. I care nothing for this rabble.’

‘You’ll do little business dangling at the end of a rope, so come on, damn you!’ he said desperately, as he saw some of the truculent crowd staring at them, some even breaking off their wrestling and shoving to see what was going on at the cart. Theobald had seen it too and he clambered up on to the wagon and grabbed the bearded hag by the arm. ‘Lucy, they’ll kill you if you stay here. Come away now, for pity’s sake!’

The little tableau on the back of the dray and the sudden cessation of her strident voice began to attract attention and more faces were being turned towards them. ‘There’s the root of the trouble!’ yelled a florid-faced pie-man from Butcher Row, shaking his fist at Lucy.

Others took up the cry and part of the crowd began moving towards the wagon, abandoning most of their scuffles with the other faction.

‘Pull the old fool off, Theobald!’ hissed Osric, fearful of a repetition of the awful event down in Bretayne. The other constable grabbed Lucy’s other arm and with some ripping of the rotten fabric of her cape pulled her protesting to the tailboard. Another missile, this time a small turnip, caught her on the side of the head and this decided Lucy that it was best to run and fight another day, if she could. She half fell from the cart, being caught by Osric, and with the two constables dragging her, she hobbled across to the mouth of High Street. Her two protectors shouldered their way through a gathering crowd whose hostility was increasing, and hands stretched out to try to grab her, as insults and curses were thrown at the old crone. One wild-eyed young woman, who seemed already to be in some sort of hysterical frenzy, screamed abuse at her and grabbed a handful of her hair, until Theobald roughly pushed her away.

Barging their way forward, the constables forced a way through the main ring of protesters and hurried as best they could up the street, pulling the old woman by brute force, as her legs would not support her at that speed, especially as she had lost her stick.

‘This is the wrong way to get me home to Exe Island,’ she gasped. ‘Where are you taking me? To gaol?’

Theobald shot a sideways glance at Osric. ‘Just where the hell are we going, anyway?’

The other man had not really thought about it; all he had wanted to do was to get her off the cart and away from the angry crowd, who were now trailing after them, resentful at having their prey snatched away from them so abruptly.

‘What about our shack? Can we put her in there until we get help from the castle?’ suggested Theobald.

‘This mob would kick it to pieces in minutes, the mood they’re in now,’ grunted Osric, panting with the effort of half carrying the smelly old woman.

‘The crowner!’ she said suddenly. ‘Take me to the crowner’s house. He promised to help me.’

Theobald began to protest at this liberty, but Osric, mindful of the angry mob almost on their heels, was in no mood to argue, especially as Martin’s Lane was now only a few yards away. As a few more old cabbages, turnips and a stone or two were hurled at their backs, together with a rising clamour of indignant abuse, he stumbled along with the other pair, pushing aside more curious onlookers in the main street, who were not yet aware of the cause of the disturbance.

When they came to the narrow entrance to the lane, he dragged Lucy around to the right and dived down the alley towards the second tall, narrow house. As they reached the blackened oak door, the horde of witch-haters appeared in the throat of Martin’s Lane, but slowed down as they saw that the constables were beating on the door of Sir John de Wolfe. Most of the citizens of Exeter were somewhat in awe of the coroner, not only out of respect for his office and his reputation as a soldier, but because he was also a tall, grim authoritarian, who did not suffer foolish or impudent behaviour gladly and was likely to respond with a heavy cuff from his large fist.

As they hesitated, the door was opened by Mary and before she could open her mouth Osric had bundled Lucy across the threshold into the vestibule. ‘Call the crowner. This old woman is in danger from that rabble!’ he snapped, then pulled the door shut and stood outside it alongside Theobald, their staves at the ready to defend the house.

The crowd advanced cautiously, the red-faced verger and the pie-man in front, the rest pressing behind, uttering threats and recriminations against the evil women who, with the aid of Satan, rode broomsticks and roasted babies.

‘Get away from here, you’ll not repeat what happened at the Snail Tower,’ yelled Osric.

‘That was none of our doing, though it was well intentioned,’ retorted the pie-man, brandishing a large knife. There was no way of telling whether he had been with the lynch-mob down in Bretayne or whether this was a spontaneous demonstration, fanned into activity by the parish priests and possibly other agents of the witch-hunting canon.

‘Get her out of there, we want to teach her a lesson or two about curses and spells, the evil old hag!’ bellowed a massive black-bearded fellow, who worked in the tannery and smelt far worse than Lucy.

Others took up the cry, some of the worst insults and foulest language coming from women, both young and old, who formed a rearguard to the men in the front.

As the clamour increased, the door was suddenly thrown open again and the forbidding figure of the coroner stood in the opening. He wore his long grey tunic and a ferocious scowl on his lean face, framed by the jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders. Hanging from a wide belt, supported by a baldric strap over his right shoulder, was a lethal-looking sword that had seen action across half the known world. With a hand on its hilt, he glared around the crowd clustered around his door.

‘Get away from here, all of you — or I’ll attach you all for riot and conspiracy to murder!’ There was a growl of angry protest and he slid his blade a few inches out its scabbard, as the two constables waved their staves and used them to prod the nearest malefactors in the chest. ‘Come to your senses, for God’s sake!’ he roared. ‘There’ll be no repetition of the lawlessness down in Bretayne the other day! I know many of you, so be warned.’ His long head swung from side to side as he scanned the crowd and called out names of those he recognised. ‘Arthur of Lyme, is it? And you, Rupert Blacklock from Butchers’ Row — and you, James the miller! I know you all, and I’ll see you suffer if you persist in this madness. Who’s behind it, I want to know?’

His gaze darted around the mob, looking for any agitators, but there was no sign of Cecilia de Pridias or any of her family. He did not expect to see Gilbert de Bosco, but thought that perhaps he had sent some proctor’s servants or a servile priest to egg on the protesters.

‘We have the right to punish evil witches, Crowner!’ called the verger, bolder than the others.

‘You have no such right at all, damn you!’ bellowed de Wolfe. ‘The only right to punish is vested in the courts of this land, all of which ultimately answer to King Richard. Now clear off, all of you. Osric, get yourself up to Rougemont and call on the castle constable to send down a posse of men-at-arms with whips and staves to clear this rabble from my doorstep!’

With that, he stepped back inside and slammed the door.