The Witch Hunter

CHAPTER TWELVE

De Wolfe walked back to Martin’s Lane with mixed emotions churning in his head. He was a straightforward type of person, not overly blessed with imagination and certainly lacking the devious, crafty mind of his corrupt brother-in-law. He derived no joy from what looked like the final downfall of Richard de Revelle, but his somewhat blinkered loyalty to his office and his king made it inevitable that he go through with it. He knew that Matilda would be devastated and, strained as their relationship was, he had no desire to cause her any more grief than was necessary. She had looked up to her brother for most of her life until recently, with the hero-worship of a sibling five years older, one who had climbed to the elevated heights of county sheriff, rich from his marriage to the daughter of a wealthy Somerset baron. Matilda had closed her eyes to his misdeeds for several years, but since her husband had become coroner, his exposure of de Revelle’s repeated skirmishes with treason and his dishonesty had gradually caused the scales to fall from her eyes. Ironically, it was she who had persuaded John to accept the coronership, as she wanted to use his position in the governing hierarchy to elevate her position in the social scale, little knowing that his uncompromising honesty would be her brother’s undoing.

Now, as he loped along towards their house, John knew that this would be the final straw that would shatter what little remained of her faith in Richard. He was sorry for her, but it would be kinder if she heard it from him rather than through the snide gossip of her friends at St Olave’s.

His readiness for such compassion almost evaporated as soon as he put a foot through the door of his hall, as she immediately put her head around the wing of her hearth-side chair and attacked him. ‘So, I hear you took that dirty old crone down to the Bush. Now there are two evil witches in that den of sin!’

John clamped his lips shut to keep in an angry reply and went to a side table, where he poured himself some wine from the jug that Mary had placed there for them. He filled another pewter cup and held it out towards his wife. When she rudely shook her head, he nevertheless advanced on her with the wine. ‘You’d better take it, Matilda,’ he said gravely. ‘I have to tell you something that may distress you.’

‘There’s little that can distress me further,’ she snapped sarcastically. ‘You’ve already done everything imaginable to hurt me.’

He lowered himself into the seat opposite and took a long sip of his wine. ‘This is not about me, wife. Once again, it’s about your brother.’

The mention of her former paragon of Norman manhood brought her up short and she dropped her usual carping manner and stared at John uneasily. ‘What about my brother?’

He returned her gaze steadily, nerving himself to drive home the dagger. ‘In the past, usually at your pleading, I have turned a blind eye to Richard’s failings — even when my loyalty and duty should have prevented me. But this time the matter is out of my hands, as even the King’s exchequer is aware of it.’

Her hand fluttered to her throat, to lie on the silken wimple that enveloped her face. She knew from the gravity of his tone that this was no ploy in the eternal battle of words between them — this was reality. ‘Tell me what has happened, John,’ she said in a low voice, a tear already appearing in anticipation in the corner of each eye.

He explained calmly and with no elaboration, how the sheriff had filched part of the Cadbury treasure, unaware that a detailed inventory of it had already been made — and when challenged, had tried to lay the blame on Gwyn, putting him in danger of a death sentence.

Even at this eleventh hour, Matilda fought for her brother’s reputation. ‘But Cadbury is part of his estate — the treasure should be his!’

John sighed and patiently explained once again that all England belonged to the Crown and that tenants, be they barons or bishops, had no claim to abandoned gold or silver left in the soil.

‘Then these lists must be in error!’ she cried wildly.

He shook his head. ‘They were checked by no less than six people, four of them literate. I myself was present at Cadbury, and though I may not be able to read and write, I can count coins put in piles of ten.’

Matilda was silent, her face drawn and ashen. ‘What will happen to him?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘That’s up to the chief ministers — Hubert Walter, the treasurer and the chancellor, though undoubtedly the King himself will be informed about such a serious matter involving one of his sheriffs.’

‘And the penalty?’ she whispered

John shrugged, not out of indifference, but because he genuinely did not know. With Richard’s ability to squeeze out of tight corners, given the powerful friends he had in Prince John and some of the bishops, he might get off more lightly than he deserved. ‘There is no way in which he can continue as sheriff,’ he said slowly. ‘It depends on what the Curia Regis think of the matter when they consider it — and what the Lionheart wishes. Strictly speaking, Richard has committed treason, by stealing from the King. Added to the seditious leanings he has displayed in the past, his political career is finished — at least under the present monarch.’

Matilda sat silently, a tear now coursing down each side of her nose.

‘I gain no pleasure from this, lady,’ John said suddenly. ‘I wish I could spare you the sorrow that it must bring. But the matter is not in my hands, the exchequer clerks must deal with it now. However, I am duty bound, as the next most senior law officer in Devon, to deliver the attested list of the treasure to Winchester, otherwise your brother’s false claim that it was stolen could lead to innocent men being blamed.’

Matilda made no reply, but a moment later rose from her chair and made her way towards the door. ‘I must go to Richard and talk to him. I need to hear from his own mouth that what you have told me is the truth.’

He followed her to the screens that sheltered the door. ‘You have not yet eaten, Matilda. Wait until after supper and I shall escort you.’

She shook her head, not looking at him. ‘I am not hungry. I will call Lucille and she can walk with me up to the castle. It will not be dusk for some time yet.’

She left, and he sat down in the gloomy hall to finish his wine and wait for Mary to bring supper. Tonight even the prospect of going down to the Bush seemed less inviting than usual, though he must go to make sure that Bearded Lucy was still hidden safely away in the brewing-shed.

His old dog sensed that something was amiss and came to rest his drooling mouth on John’s knee. ‘It’s a strange world, Brutus,’ said his master with a sigh, as he stroked his head. ‘Why does everything always have to be so bloody complicated?’

When de Wolfe returned later that night, just as the last traces of daylight were fading in the western sky, Mary told him that his wife had sent Lucille home with a message that she would be staying the night with her cousin, a widow who had a small house in the town. There was nothing unusual in this, but John suspected that she wanted to avoid him for the time being. Whether this was to hide her despair about her brother or because she suspected him of plotting the sheriff’s downfall, he could not decide. In any event, he found his way to their lonely bed in the solar and fell into a troubled sleep, partly because of concern about Nesta and the veiled warnings that Lucy had offered about his mistress’s safety. All had been quiet at the Bush that evening and the old crone seemed content to hide away behind a row of ale casks, comfortable enough on a straw mattress, with ample food coming from the cook-house a few yards away. In fact, she was much better housed and fed than she had been in her miserable shack down on the marshes at Exe Island.

There was no sign of the mob that had chased Lucy earlier in the day, and John hoped that some of the novelty of witch-baiting was wearing off as time went on. What they were going to do with the old woman in the long term was something else that worried him, and he wondered whether the nuns at Polsloe Priory, a couple of miles outside the city, might be able to give her refuge, if she was cleaned up a little.

Eventually he fell asleep and woke as usual some time after dawn to the novel luxury of being alone on the big feather-stuffed mattress on the floor of the solar. As there was nothing that morning which demanded his early attention, he lay indolently under the single summer blanket until he heard the cathedral bells ring for prime, soon after the seventh hour. He dressed in his linen undershirt and pulled on a pair of breeches instead of his usual hose, as he thought he might take Odin for a canter around Bull Mead, the tournament ground outside the city walls. He searched in his oak chest, which was the repository for his few clothes and took out a clean black tunic, a plain garment that reached from his shoulders to just below his knees. Buckling on the wide belt that carried his dagger and purse-like scrip, he slipped his feet into house shoes and went down the outside stairs to Mary’s kitchen-hut, where she lived with Brutus for company.

A handsome woman in her late twenties, she was not married, a fact that John often thought strange, but he was thankful that she remained as the mainstay of their household, as Matilda was indifferent to any form of domesticity, being concerned only with her social life, her devotions at St Olave’s and an occasional bout of needlework.

Being alone, John ate his breakfast in Mary’s kitchen, squatting on a milking-stool before the small table where she prepared the food. She had been out early to the stalls and had brought back several fine sea-fish, caught during the night from boats that worked the estuary between Topsham and Exmouth. Grilled and laid on a thick slab of buttered bread, they were delicious, especially when followed by a couple of new apples and a quart of best ale.

The dark-haired maid stood over John and watched him eat with the satisfaction of a woman that knew she could please a man not only in bed, but also at the board. However, it had been a long time since they had lain together — and since Nesta had monopolised his affections, she was content to keep him at arm’s length, even though now and then he caught her in a quiet corner and gave her a good kissing.

This morning they talked of recent happenings and John, who trusted her discretion, told her about the scandal that was soon to break over the sheriff. Mary had known that something was in the wind when Matilda, with a face like stone, had hurried away to the castle late the previous evening and had not returned.

‘The mistress will take this very hard, after the previous troubles with her brother,’ she observed. ‘She has been loyal to him against the odds for so long, but this will finish it, I fear.’

De Wolfe nodded and wiped the last of the grease from his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. ‘I feel very sad for her, poor woman, even though she makes my life a misery. I would not wish this disillusionment upon her, but the bloody man had gone too far this time — it’s out of my hands now.’

When he had finished, he went to the vestibule and pulled on a pair of riding boots and attached his spurs. Crossing the lane, he went into the stables and chatted to Andrew the farrier while one of the grooms saddled up Odin, his massive destrier. Although he had no wars to fight now, John was used to the feel of a broad warhorse beneath him, and since the tragic death of Bran, his previous stallion, he had developed a similar admiration and affection for this twelve-year-old grey, who had been pensioned off from the French campaigns.

When the ostler led him from his stall, John hoisted himself up into Odin’s high saddle and turned his head to the lane, but just as he was moving off, there was a deep bellow from outside and Gwyn came panting in, his face almost as red as his hair from the exertion. ‘Crowner, for Christ’s sake, come quickly! There’s a mob at the Bush, intent on serious mischief!’ For once the Cornishman had abandoned his usual long-windedness, the urgency raw in his voice. ‘There’s about fifty of them, some with burning brands — and that bastard canon is among them, egging them on!’

De Wolfe felt his heart thump with anxiety. ‘Did you see Nesta there?’

‘No, I was just on my way there for a bite of food, but the sight of that rabble clustered around the front and back sent me haring up here. There was nothing I could do on my own.’

John’s warrior nature quickly took control and he snapped out orders. ‘Andrew, take a horse and fly up to Rougemont and get the constable and Gabriel down to Idle Lane with some men. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death!’ He looked down at Gwyn. ‘Run over to the house and get my sword, I’ve only got a dagger with me.’

It was quicker to send him than to dismount and get back up again and, within a minute, his officer was back with John’s broad-sword hanging from its baldric, which he kept hanging in the vestibule.

As he threw the strap over his shoulder, he motioned for Gwyn to get up behind him on Odin. With no stirrup to help him, the ostler bent double for Gwyn to put a foot on his back and with a heave, he was up behind his master, just as the desperately impatient John touched Odin with his spurs. Though the stallion was built for brute power, rather than speed, they were soon cantering through the Close, the great beast not seeming to notice the substantial extra weight on his back.

The coroner yelled hoarsely at anyone who seemed likely to get run down in the narrow lanes that led to Southgate Street, but the thunder of the destrier’s hoofs was enough to scatter any bemused loiterers in their path.

‘Were they after Lucy, d’you think?’ he howled over his shoulder, as they hammered downhill towards the tavern.

‘Couldn’t tell, they were shouting for the witch!’ bellowed Gwyn. ‘I didn’t wait to find out more, I needed to get you down there!’

As they entered Priest Street, the slope became steeper and John slowed Odin to prevent him slipping, but also because increasing numbers of people were hurrying down to where Idle Lane turned off to the right.

They were attracted not only by the hubbub of shouting and yelling, but also by an ominous plume of black smoke that was rising into the still morning air. Any fire in a city was a danger to all its inhabitants, especially when the majority of buildings were still built of wood and many of the roofs were of thatch or wooden shingles.

‘Holy Mary, the place is afire!’ yelled Gwyn in his ear as they turned the corner. Before them the Bush sat isolated on its patch of waste ground, but clustered around the front and up the side to the back yard was a mass of people, being added to as a flood of sightseers and fire-fighters streamed towards it from both Priest Street and Smythen Street on the other side.

Now able only to go at a trot through the press of people, Odin barged his way towards the tavern, his nostrils flaring and his ears going back at the unwelcome smell of smoke. There were dull red flames licking up at several points around the edges of the lofty thatched roof and smoke was billowing out in ever-increasing volume from under the eaves and filtering through several places on the thatch itself.

Yelling at the top of his voice in a mixture of anger and anxiety, John forced the stallion through almost to the front door, where the mob appeared to be most excited and aggressive, shouting and screaming abuse and shaking their fists. They were being forced back from the front wall, which carried the door and two unglazed windows, as strands and clumps of burning straw were beginning to drop down from the edge of the thatch above. The eaves were almost low enough to be touched by a man standing on tiptoe, the large space in the loft being made by the steep pitch of the roof.

Just over the doorway, from which smoke was billowing, was the inn sign, a large dried bush hanging from an iron bracket sticking out of the wall. Someone had already thrown a rope over it with an ominous noose on one end, although the act was futile, as the bush had just caught fire and the rope was already smouldering. Still, the memory of Theophania Lawrence hanging from the bracket on the Snail Tower was still fresh in John’s memory and his rage increased when he thought of Nesta and Lucy still inside the building.

With a roar, he turned Odin to face the rabble, keeping his rump well clear of the falling hot debris. With an almost maniacal flourish, he drew his sword, the three feet of steel making a chilling scraping sound as it came out of the scabbard. As he held it aloft, he felt Gwyn sliding off the horse, a long club in one hand and his dagger in the other.

Afterwards, he could not recollect what he was shouting at the mob, but with the flat of his sword he lay about those within reach, as Gwyn beat a path through them and vanished around the side of the inn.

Odin was in his element, for he had been trained for close combat and neighed and tossed his head and kicked out with his great feet, with devastating effect on those who were unwise enough not to scatter out of his way. De Wolfe made for a man who still held a burning brand in his hand and felled him with a sideswipe of the sword against his head. The torch fell against two others, who screamed as their flesh began to burn, and set up a ripple effect that caused the mob to move outwards in a panic-stricken circle, like a stone thrown into a pond.

Several men made half-hearted attempts to strike John or pull him from the horse, but they were rewarded either with a ringing blow from the flat of his sword or a thwack from the saddle-stick that he carried in his other hand, having hooked the reins around the pommel, as Odin needed no guiding in a situation like this. Thankfully, almost none of the crowd was armed with anything more than their usual dagger, as they had turned out to burn and hang an old woman, not to fight. Most of them made no attempt to oppose the coroner, who was an almost demoniacal figure himself, clad all in black, bellowing in fury and laying about him with a great sword from the back of a monstrous horse.

The crowd broke up as they scattered from his path and suddenly he found himself looking down at the cassock-clad figure of a priest. Gilbert de Bosco glared back at him, yelling something that in the clamour and crackle of flames John did not understand — not that his powers of comprehension were working well, such was his anger.

‘Damn you, you malicious meddler!’ he yelled. ‘Is this how you serve God, by persecuting defenceless women, you evil coward!’ He raised his sword high and only an ingrained respect for the priesthood stopped him from slicing off the canon’s head.

Gilbert stared up in momentary terror, but when he saw that John was instinctively unable to strike a member of the cloth he instantly regained his arrogance and pomposity. ‘Threaten a member of the cathedral chapter, would you!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll be brought to account for that, Crowner!’

For answer, the enraged coroner grabbed Odin’s reins and hoisted the beast back to rear up so that his great fore-feet lashed the air momentarily in front of de Bosco’s face. With a scream of fear, the priest stumbled backwards to escape the menacing hoofs and crashed against a man behind, falling heavily backwards to the ground.

De Wolfe brought the stallion back to earth and glared down at the priest as he lay ignominiously in the dirt. ‘If anyone dies or is badly injured in this tumult that you have provoked, my inquest will indict you. Your claim to benefit of clergy may save your neck, but I will personally plead with Archbishop Walter for you to receive the harshest punishment known to the Church!’

Pulling Odin around, he turned to far more urgent matters, the burning of his beloved Bush and the safety of those inside it. Sick with concern for Nesta, he urged the horse along to the corner of the tavern and scattered the now sullen crowd so that he could reach the gate in the fence that led to the yard. The original rioters had now been diluted with ordinary citizens who were both agog with excitement and concerned with controlling the fire. Most were men, but there were a few women of all ages and, although it hardly registered, given the turmoil in his mind, he saw that one of them was the thin woman with the wry neck that Gwyn had said was sister to a harlot.

Thankfully, as the inn was on a wide patch of waste land, created by previous fires some years ago, there was less risk of the conflagration spreading, though sparks and burning straw borne on the wind could still travel many yards and set other roofs on fire. Some men were running with leather and wooden buckets, water slopping from their sides, but it was a futile gesture given the height and size of the roof.

Sheathing his sword, de Wolfe slid from the saddle and in a lather of anxiety rushed through the gate into the back garden of the Bush. The rear part of the roof was not yet on fire, as the arsonists had thrown their torches up from the lane in front, but smoke was starting to wreathe up from under the eaves. There were a dozen men in the yard, several struggling with buckets from the well and he saw the two serving maids standing outside the kitchen-shed, sobbing and wringing their hands.

‘Where’s your mistress?’ he roared, shoving aside anyone who got in his way as he made his way to the back door.

‘Gone inside, she went after the old woman!’ screeched Adele, pointing at the door. ‘And Edwin is in there, too.’

John ran to the doorway, from the upper part of which black smoke was now staring to waft lazily upwards. Keeping his head low, he dashed inside, wondering where in hell Gwyn had got to and now desperately worried about his mistress’s safety. Mercifully, the first thing he saw through his stinging eyes was the large figure of Gwyn, shepherding out Nesta, both of them covered in smuts and coughing like a pair of sick horses. Grasping her by her other arm, he steered her to the back door and fresh air. The two serving maids ran forward and helped to carry her off to the security of the kitchen-shed, which certainly, until the back of the inn caught fire, was beyond immediate danger.

‘I’m well enough, John,’ Nesta gasped between coughs. ‘But where is Edwin? Please find him!’

Gwyn had slumped to sit on the ground, coughing violently and gasping. He had black smudges on his face and bits of straw, some still smouldering, stuck in his dishevelled hair. ‘Give me a moment, Crowner, to get my breath back — then I’ll be with you!’ he wheezed.

‘You stay there until you’ve recovered!’ commanded John. ‘But have you seen the old potman?’

‘He’s still in there somewhere,’ croaked his officer. ‘And that mad old woman.’

De Wolfe crouched low and dived below the coils of smoke now billowing from the back door. Almost on all fours, he scuttled into the large taproom that occupied the entire ground floor. Tables and stools had been overturned when the patrons had jostled their way out at the first shouts of ‘Fire’. Although at ground level the air was relatively clear, he heard a crackling noise and saw that the tinder-dry planks of the ceiling that formed the floor of the loft were burning in the centre, where a patch of flaming thatch had fallen as the roof began to give way. As he desperately looked around for any sign of the one-eyed potman, part of the ceiling fell in a shower of sparks and stirred up the smoke so that great wreaths eddied down to the ground. He knew he could not survive in that and tried to hold his breath. At that very moment, he saw a leg sticking out from under a fallen table and, tugging at the foot, slid the owner from under it. Almost on his bottom, he scurried backwards, hoisting the leg, his eyes running and aching and his lungs almost bursting. Just as he thought he would either faint or have to let go, he felt the weight lighten as someone crawled in beside him and grab the other leg. Not until they reached the patch of daylight that was the back door could John’s bleary eyes see that, of course, it was the faithful Gwyn, still coughing and snorting like a grampus. At the door, other hands helped them out and a moment later, they staggered up to lean against the wall of the brew-shed as two other men and a woman tended to Edwin. He lay on his back having his face wiped clean of thick soot with water from one of the fire-buckets by an iron-smith, who was one of the regulars at the Bush.

‘Is he still alive?’ wheezed John.

‘Yes, he’s poorly, but I think he’ll do,’ said the smith, feeling the heartbeat of the old man.

‘Did you see any sign of Bearded Lucy in there?’ persisted Gwyn, who was rapidly getting his breathing back to normal. ‘I’ll swear I saw her by the ladder to the loft.’

‘She’s supposed to be in here, dammit!’ grunted John, his own heart thumping like a war-drum. He slapped a hand against the brewing-shed, which was supporting him.

Gwyn hauled himself off the wall and stumbled to the door of the hut, opened it and looked in. ‘She’s not here — but I need a drink to wash the ash from my throat.’

He stuck his head into the nearest open tub and drank the half-brewed liquid like a horse at a trough. Seeing an empty jug near by, he dipped it in and came out to give it to de Wolfe. The coroner took a deep draught, then spat it out on the ground. ‘God, that’s horrible! Now I’m going to see Nesta.’ He stumbled across to the kitchen-hut and, wiping his running eyes, leaned against the door-post to look in at Nesta, who was sitting on a stool, crying. Her two maids hovered behind her solicitously, trying to comfort her.

‘All that work, John, in vain! My Meredydd’s efforts at first, then all your help, going up in smoke!’

‘We will see it built again, Nesta!’ he assured her, using the Welsh tongue that they habitually spoke. ‘The stone walls will stand, we can have a new floor and roof on them within weeks.’

He looked over his shoulder and saw that there were still people milling about outside the yard gate. ‘Where the devil is Ralph Morin and his men-at-arms! That crowd is still there and that bloody priest! Keep yourself quiet in here, don’t show yourself at all.’

He pulled the door shut and moved towards the back of the inn, but now black smoke was belching out of the rear door and there was no chance of getting inside to look for Bearded Lucy. Gwyn had rapidly recovered and, grabbing his arm, de Wolfe hustled him towards the side gate. ‘I don’t trust this damned mob, especially if that bastard canon is still among them.’ Drawing his sword again, he first checked that Odin was safe and was relieved to see that the horse had wandered across the waste ground and was unconcernedly cropping at some rank grass and weeds, well away from the crowd around the alehouse.

‘Let’s get around to the front again,’ he commanded, and stalked around the side of the building, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. The original few dozen agitators were now well outnumbered by more reasonable citizens, but there was still a lot of shouting and abuse with scattered scuffles going on. As the coroner and his officer forced their way towards the front door, there was a ragged cheer, mixed with cat-calls, as the crowd saw a posse of soldiers come trotting around the corner from Smythen Street. Led by Ralph Morin on foot, also waving a large broad-sword, there were a dozen soldiers with pikes and staffs, Sergeant Gabriel bringing up the rear, brandishing a fearsome ball-mace.

They dived into the mob, roughly pushing them aside, and soon split them up into smaller groups, men-at-arms separating each faction. The castle constable thrust his great bulk through them to stand alongside de Wolfe. He stared in astonishment at the stricken tavern. ‘There’s no saving this now, John,’ he rumbled in his deep voice. ‘Has everyone got out? Where’s Nesta?’

‘All are safe, thank God. But that old woman Lucy has vanished, we don’t know if she’s still in there.’

Morin looked around at the crowd, who were now reduced to a muttering, growling rabble. ‘Who did this? Do you want them arrested?’

‘That swine of a canon, Gilbert de Bosco! He’s over there, still trying to egg them on. A few louts had torches, but I doubt we’ll find them now — apart from one whose head I hammered.’

There was the sounds of hoofs from the direction of Priest Street and, turning, they saw a horseman clattering towards them.

‘It’s the sheriff. What the hell does he want here?’ marvelled Morin. It was indeed Richard de Revelle, in his dandified green tunic, sitting on a smart dappled palfrey.

Any further speculation was abruptly halted by a loud crash behind them. They turned back to look at the inn, where a large segment of the roof had fallen in amid a huge gush of sparks and flame. The smoke was now ascending in a great plume, almost straight up because of the lack of any breeze on that sultry day. All faces were turned up to watch, a morbid fascination with fire gripping most of the bystanders.

The quarter of the roof that had fallen was mostly in flames, but the collapse had also torn down an intact section that had been resting on the side gable. In this fire-free area against the wall, a frightening figure now appeared. Bearded Lucy staggered to the edge of the loft floor, which was burning behind her, and looked down on the crowd, who were struck dumb by the apparition. The hair on her head and face was singed, with smouldering straw entwined in it, and the hem of her flowing garment was on fire.

Swaying on the very edge of the boards, she held up her arms like some Old Testament prophet and then swung them slowly around, her forefingers outstretched, to encompass the crowd, who were transfixed with emotions varying from terror to hatred.

‘Jump, Lucy! Quickly, we’ll catch you!’ yelled one more kindly voice. She shook her head slowly, her fingers clawing at the air as the flames licked closer.

‘Burn, then, as you deserve, you bloody old sorcerer!’ screamed another.

A deeper voice boomed out, from the throat of Canon Gilbert. ‘The Lord said thou shalt not suffer a witch to live — so die, woman, and may God have mercy on your soul!’

The red-rimmed eyes of the hag up on the doomed building swivelled to rest on the priest. Her pointing finger followed, then that on the other hand tracked across to transfix the sheriff on his horse. ‘I curse all who have brought this about! I curse those who have persecuted my sisters! And I especially curse you two evil men, who have cast out all compassion from your hearts to make way for ambition!’

There was a creaking noise from behind her head and another section of roof fell in a cascade of sparks and smoke.

‘I curse you, I curse you, I curse you thrice!’ screamed Bearded Lucy, the skirt of her filthy gown now being licked by flames. ‘May the evil that you most fear, befall you before the next full moon!’

Then, with a massive crash, almost the entire rear half of the roof fell downward and forward as the heavy ridge timber burnt through.

A mass of flaming hazel withes and the burning thatch that it had supported fell on top of Lucy. There was a heart-rending scream, then silence.

A huge mushroom of black smoke, almost like a thundercloud, puffed up as the roof hit the remnants of the loft floor and from more than a hundred throats an awe-struck gasp went up with it. John, by no means an imaginative man, later swore that for a fraction of a second he saw the swirling cloud form the image of a young woman’s face, comely and free from hair — but unmistakably that of Lucy of Exe Island.

The collapse of the roof and the horrible death of the old woman ended the last vestiges of the riot. The crowd became subdued, both those who had first gathered to revile and threaten, as well as those who came to watch. They soon began to drift away, urged on by Gabriel and his troops, who ungently shoved and prodded any stragglers until Idle Lane was almost empty. One who was not ushered away was Gilbert de Bosco, who in spite of the awful drama at the end, had regained his bluster and arrogance.

Ralph Morin and John de Wolfe closed in on him in a threatening manner and the coroner laid a hand on his arm, which the priest angrily shook off.

‘When — or if — we recover any of the remains of that poor woman, I will hold an inquest, and you will be a witness!’ grated the coroner.

‘You have no power over me, I am a cleric and a member of the cathedral chapter, as you well know.’

The sheriff, who had dismounted and come across to the group, brayed his agreement. ‘Leave well alone, John, you have no jurisdiction over this good man.’

‘And you have no jurisdiction at all — or soon will have none!’ retorted John. ‘He is not in the Close now, he is in the city and at the very least was a witness to one death and a number of injuries, for several fellows have received burns. The pot man is alive, I hope, but only just!’

‘You are thrashing at the wind, John,’ snapped de Revelle. ‘Why waste your time? The bishop will soon intervene in this.’

‘I care nothing for the bishop, except to censure him for allowing this man to cause so much trouble. My task is to record everything for the King’s justices and see that they are made aware of all that has gone on in Exeter this past week or two.’

De Revelle, who had regained his colour after blanching at the old crone’s curse, paled again at John’s pointed allusion to informing London of his own misdeeds.

Ralph Morin caught the change and mischievously turned the screw. ‘How long to the next full moon, John, d’you happen to know?’

The canon affected contempt, but his face had a film of sweat. ‘Pah, what damned nonsense! This is the very thing that we must stamp out in this county, this ungodly superstition.’

‘Stamp it out by hanging or burning every poor wife who sells a charm for a ha’penny?’ snarled de Wolfe, sick to his stomach with this contemptible, unrepentant bigot.

‘Yes, if necessary! God’s work is the reason for the Church’s existence, and those who let it go by default are unworthy to wear the cloth.’

This man is impossible, thought John, grinding his teeth in frustration. He knew that the sheriff was right, in that nothing could be done to Gilbert, who could always shelter behind the impassive face of the Church and its bishop. But Hubert Walter, who was Archbishop of Canterbury and thus Primate of England, as well as being the Chief Justiciar, would get some straight talking from de Wolfe, as soon as he could get to see him.

‘What brought you down here, Sheriff?’ asked Morin. He had to be circumspect with de Revelle, as long as he was still nominally sheriff, as although Ralph was the King’s nominee, the sheriff was his master when it came to everyday matters.

‘What brought me down? God’s garters, those men of yours made enough noise to be heard in France when they left Rougemont. I came to see what had happened, in case it was an invasion!’

John knew he was lying, as he never turned out for any other emergencies, but he could not guess at the reason.

‘I’m going back to the Close now,’ announced the canon, in a voice that suggested that he would make trouble for anyone who tried to detain him. ‘I’ve seen that at least one of the Devil’s disciples has suffered her just deserts.’

With that cryptic remark, he walked away with Richard de Revelle, a soldier following with the sheriff’s horse. The last John saw of them was as they turned the corner into Smythen Street, still deep in conversation.

‘Those two had been plotting something — neither of them was here by chance,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s obvious that the bloody priest deliberately organised this riot. But how did he know Bearded Lucy was hidden here?’

‘He has spies all over the city,’ said John. ‘But I wonder if my dear wife said anything to him when she went to him last night? Anyway, the damage is done now. Somehow, I feel that old Lucy was glad to be finished with life, but perhaps not in that dreadful fashion.’

Gwyn had been listening in the background and now his smutted red face was crinkled in thought. ‘What did that whoreson priest mean when he said that “at least one has suffered her just deserts”? Who was the other one, then?’

Ralph and John stared at each other for a moment. ‘The man’s right, what did he mean?’ asked the constable.

John rubbed his cheeks, the soot on top of the stubble giving added weight to his nickname of ‘Black John’. ‘Lucy warned me several times, in her odd fashion, that Nesta was at risk, as she dabbles a little in herbs and remedies.’

The fleeting memory of the woman with the wry neck came back to him and he slammed a fist into his palm. ‘That damned woman, what was her name, Heloise! Last week, she came to see Nesta on some pretext or other. I saw her again here, among the mob in the lane!’

‘What about her?’ asked Morin, mystified.

‘She was sister to a doxy of the sheriff,’ explained Gwyn.

‘I’ll swear he arranged that, just to get false testimony against her, the same as happened with Jolenta of Ide and Alice Ailward,’ fumed John. ‘If it’s true, then breaking the bastard will not only be a duty, but a great pleasure!’

Gwyn was still worried. ‘If it is true, then Nesta is still in danger. That bloody canon could still get the woman to come forward and denounce Nesta, the same as with the others.’

Morin nodded his big head. ‘If I were you, John, I’d get her away from here for a time, until things settle down. With the Bush burned to the ground, there’s nowhere for her to stay, nor anything for her to do in Exeter.’

With a new worry to burden him, de Wolfe paced up and down for a moment, until he came to a decision. ‘You’re right, the risk is too great, until I’ve had a chance to deal with those swine. I’ll take her to my mother in Stoke-in-Teignhead. She’ll be safe there and well looked after.’

Morin agreed, but added a caution. ‘Try to keep it secret, John, in case those persistent devils try to find her. I’m sure you and Gwyn can find a way.’

The coroner resumed his pacing, deep in thought. Then he came back and gave Gwyn a broad smile. ‘I have a feeling that this afternoon, we will be called out down Sidmouth way to see a dead body. Make sure that Thomas turns out with that mangy pony and that ridiculous side-saddle, fit only for women!’

It would take more than a day for the ruins of the tavern to cool sufficiently for a search to be made for any remnants of Lucy’s poor body and there was nothing to be done about the place until then. Later that morning, de Wolfe and Nesta stood at the door of the kitchen, which thankfully, like the other outbuildings, was undamaged. They sadly surveyed the wreckage, which had stopped flaming and was now a sullen, smoking heap of charred wood and thatch. He thought of the comfortable French bed that he had bought for his mistress and vowed to get another as soon as the place was rebuilt. John solemnly promised Nesta that he would personally pay for the rebuilding out of his considerable profits from the wool-exporting business that he shared with his friend Hugh de Relaga. She agreed, on condition that it was to be a loan, repaid out of the future profits of the inn. This had happened once before, when she was left almost destitute on the death of her husband. The tavern had done so well under her enthusiastic management, with her excellent cooking and superb brewing skills, that she had given him back his money within a year.

With Gwyn’s help, he arranged the covert escape of Nesta from the city and went home briefly to see whether Matilda had come back from her cousin’s house. There was no sign of her, and John confided in Mary the details of the plan, telling her to let it be known when the mistress returned home that he had been called to a suspicious death near Sidmouth. This was in the opposite direction from Stoke-in-Teignhead, though he doubted that Matilda would be fooled for long by his subterfuge.

About noon, Nesta set off with one of her serving maids, allegedly going to stay with the girl’s cousin in the village of Wonford, just south of the city. She dressed in dull, inconspicuous clothes borrowed from her other maid, who lived in Rack Lane, and carefully hid her red hair under a cover-chief. They mingled with a group of pilgrims as they went out through the South Gate and walked a couple of miles down the Topsham road into open country. Here, they met up with the three members of the coroner’s team, waiting with their horses in the shelter of a wood at the side of the road. Thomas de Peyne was almost in tears of relief as he greeted Nesta, safe and sound. He had a dog-like devotion for the Welsh woman, who was always kind and concerned for the poor waif’s well-being. He gladly handed over his side-saddled pony to her and brushed off her apologies for making him walk back to Exeter. He would willingly have crawled back on his hands and knees, if it would help her in any way. Nesta hoisted herself into the saddle and with John and his officer flanking her on either side, set off for Topsham, another couple of miles away, while Thomas and the maid began trudging back to the city.

At the little port of Topsham, where the Exe widened out into its estuary, they crossed the river on the ferry and made for the line of low hills that ran down to the sea at Dawlish. Here Nesta grinned secretly to herself, in spite of her sadness, as she saw de Wolfe, with exaggerated nonchalance, look neither right nor left as they passed through the seaside village. She was well aware that Thorgils’ wife, the delectable blonde Hilda, was an old flame and still an occasional lover of his, but she was now confident enough of his true affection to realise that Hilda was no threat to her.

By early evening they had forded the Teign near where it flowed into the sea, having to wait an hour for the tide to drop sufficiently. Less than another hour later they were in the small village of Stoke-in-Teignhead, where John had been born. It was in a small valley, neat strip fields and some common pasture sweeping up to the trees that surrounded it on all sides. Nesta had been here once before and again received a warm welcome at the small manor house at the far end of the village. John’s widowed mother, Enyd de Wolfe, was a small, sprightly woman with red hair only slightly sprinkled with grey. Her mother had been Cornish and her father was from Gwent, the same Welsh princedom as Nesta herself, so they had much in common, as well as a common language. John’s sister Evelyn was also happy to see Nesta, who was only a few years younger than herself. She was a plump, homely lady and, like her mother, preferred John’s mistress to his wife, who had always treated them with a supercilious disdain, thinking them country yokels and Celtic barbarians. Although Matilda had been born in Devon and and had spent only a month of her life with distant relatives in Normandy, she always considered herself one of that superior race of conquerors.

John’s elder brother William, who ran the two manors to John’s financial benefit, was as usual out supervising the business of the estate, this time at Holcombe, their other manor north of the Teign. Gwyn was hustled off to the kitchens, where eager serving maids made his life complete by plying him with food and drink until he was fit to burst, while the women took John and Nesta into their comfortable hall and sat them down with refreshments, to hear all their news of the big city. They listened with fascinated horror to the tale of woe that their visitors related, especially the burning of the Bush tavern.

‘But it will be rebuilt — and very soon!’ vowed John. ‘The stone shell is still sound and all the outbuildings are intact, so all it needs is a new floor and a roof.’

Nesta looked at him with a mixture of affection and doubt. ‘That will cost a great deal of money, John. And how am I to live until then?’

Evelyn laid a hand across hers. ‘You’ll stay here until it’s done, my dear. You don’t eat much, that I know — and if you want to earn your keep, John says you brew the best ale in Devon, so you can give us all a treat!’

John smiled for the first time in days. He almost wished that he could be like his brother and settle for the quiet life in the countryside. Although William looked almost identical to John, they were not twins and had totally different natures, his elder brother being a quiet, gentle fellow who loved farming and hunting, unlike the restless warrior John.

‘As for the rebuilding, we can get timbers hauled up from our woods at Holcombe, as well as straw for the thatch. There are carpenters and thatchers amongst the patrons of the Bush who will be happy to lend a hand, especially if it means getting their favourite tavern back into action, so they can drink Nesta’s famous ale again.’

The evening sped by and though John had intended to travel back to Exeter the next day, he succumbed to his family’s entreaties and left it until Friday before he and Gwyn saddled up and trotted back up the valley, with Thomas’s pony on a head-rope behind them.

‘She’s in safe hands there, Crowner!’ said his officer reassuringly. ‘Even if those bastards in Exeter discover where she is, I doubt they’ll do anything about it, with your family and the whole village around her.’

John prayed that he was right, but he had misgivings about what was likely to happen in the city over the next week or two, given the turmoil that awaited them there.