The Witch Hunter

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The rest of the week following his inquests seemed interminable to John de Wolfe. The weather remained hot and sultry and on Wednesday there was a brief thunderstorm, with torrential rain for an hour, then the heatwave returned. He had a few new cases, including a man who was caught in the cogs of a watermill when he was oiling them. The mill-master fled and sought sanctuary, because he thought he would be held responsible for the death. He later abjured the realm, but when the case came much later to the justices, they absolved him and the King’s pardon had to be sought to allow him to return home from Scotland.

Apart from this the week was quiet and every morning John looked anxiously for any signs of a messenger from Winchester. Even though Hugh de Relaga had claimed that his courier was faster than any other, it was well over a hundred miles to the city, which shared capital status with London. Even an almost immediate turn-round there — an impossibility, as John was well aware of the bureaucracy that reigned in such places — would still require a full week for the return journey.

By Thursday his patience was wearing thin, especially as Richard de Revelle had not shown up at Rougemont. He half hoped that news would come from Revelstoke that the sheriff had taken the honourable way out and fallen upon his own sword to escape the shame of being disgraced and dishonoured. This had happened two years earlier, when Henry de la Pomeroy, Lord of Berry Pomeroy near Totnes, had fled from Richard the Lionheart’s retribution for supporting Prince John. He had gone to St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall on hearing that the King had been released from captivity in Germany. The constable of the Mount had dropped dead of a heart attack on hearing the famous message ‘Beware, the Devil is loose!’ and de la Pomeroy had made his surgeon open the veins in his wrists so that he bled to death.

But de Wolfe knew that his brother-in-law would never take that way out — he must be waiting for some news or other, possibly for messages to go to the Prince or others among his supporters, to gather ammunition to fight back against any censure from the royal council.

Unable to sit idle any longer, after dinner John left the morose Matilda and walked through the clammy afternoon heat to Hugh de Relaga’s house in High Street. He found him in a purple silk robe, sitting in a chair in his solar, cooling himself with an oriental fan made of woven palm fronds.

‘No news from Winchester, I suppose?’ John asked. ‘When do you expect this Mercury-heeled messenger back?’

The rotund burgess wiped the perspiration from his face with a linen kerchief. ‘Expect him back? Not for another week, John. He’s riding to Rye and Dover after Southampton, with letters to other ship-masters.’

Crestfallen, the coroner explained that he had hoped for some response very soon and thought that Hugh’s courier might have brought back at least some indication of whether the justiciar intended acting on the urgent information.

‘Be patient, John,’ advised the placid portreeve. ‘Maybe the first you hear will be Richard Coeur de Lion’s hoofbeats coming up the street!’

De Wolfe went home and continued to be fretful about the complete lack of any activity in this tense situation. His brother-in-law, the sheriff, was on the verge of disgrace and possibly a charge of treachery which would carry the death penalty — but he had vanished.

Canon Gilbert was lying low, refusing to see anyone, according to the archdeacon, on the grounds that he was ill. John de Alençon said that the infirmarian confirmed that his carbuncle was in a horrid state of weeping purulence, but that his minor stroke seemed to have resolved itself almost completely.

De Wolfe was also anxious about Nesta, though he knew that she was safer with his family than anywhere else. However, he missed her, not only for the adventures in the now incinerated French bed, but for her pleasant, loving company, not to mention her cooking and superb ale. He also missed the Bush, which had become more than a second home to him. There was nowhere quite the same when he wanted an excuse to take the dog for a run or to have a quiet quart of ale or cider. He took to going to the Golden Hind or the New Inn in the high street, but he felt a stranger there — and the ale was far inferior. However, he went out each evening, mainly as a respite from the silent, withdrawn Matilda, who spent most of her time either in her solar or in church.

Gwyn and Thomas felt the tension in their master and did their best to humour him, with little success. As the coroner’s work had declined that week, Thomas suggested that he might help de Wolfe with his reading lessons, which had recently fallen by the wayside.

John had no great appetite for this, but as he did not want to snub his little clerk, he made a few half-hearted efforts to master some of the work that the vicar in the cathedral had been trying to din into his head for the past few months.

Thomas had his own preoccupations, too, though he was wise and considerate enough not to burden his master at the present fraught time. He was still yearning for news of any restoration of his ordination, following the revelations at Winchester. It would be too much to hope for that the response from that city to the coroner’s urgent message might also contain some reference to Thomas’s reinstatement, but nevertheless he could but hope.

The weather continued to suit their tense mood, as every day was hot and still, without a breath of wind. The sky was a glassy blue, although on the far horizon, when seen from high up in the gatehouse tower, a line of piled-up dark clouds gathered towards evening and during the clammy nights the growl of thunder could be heard far away.

It was late afternoon on Friday before the impasse was broken. John was at his table with Thomas at his shoulder, laboriously writing his name repeatedly on a scrap piece of parchment. He had managed it six times, one after the other, his tongue outside his lips, moving in time with the scratchy pen, as the clerk twittered encouraging noises.

The peace was broken by the familiar clump of boots on the stairs and the hessian curtain was jerked aside by Gabriel’s head, flushed with heat, exertion and suppressed excitement.

‘He’s back, Crowner. Just ridden in with some fellow who looks like a minor lord from somewhere. Not from these parts, talks like he might have come from Gloucester or the Marches.’

John threw down his quill and jumped to his feet. ‘Is he in his chamber?’

‘Yes, Sir John. By the state of his horse, he’s ridden up from Revelstoke without drawing breath. Poor beast is near dropping in this heat.’

Gabriel caught Gwyn’s eye, as the redhead sat on his window ledge, whittling a stick with his dagger. The eyes swivelled to the cider jar in the corner, but de Wolfe was already starting down the stairs.

At the keep, he thrust open the sheriff’s door and barged in to confront his brother-in-law. Still dusty from his journey, Richard was pouring wine into one of a pair of pewter goblets. The other cup was not in expectation of John’s visit, but for a man who lounged in a leather-backed folding chair placed in front of the desk. De Wolfe had never seen him before, but he was about thirty, of slim build and elegant in his dress. Black haired and clean shaven, he had a sallow, almost Spanish complexion, his face long and smooth with high cheekbones. Although he was not wearing clerical dress, he had a small gold cross on a chain around his neck.

De Revelle’s head jerked up at the sudden intrusion and he scowled at John, although the look was mixed with wary apprehension. ‘Do you never knock at a door, Crowner?’ he snapped.

‘I probably will when the next occupant is here. It seems likely to be Henry de Furnellis once again.’ Courtesy inhibited John from starting his tirade against the sheriff in the presence of a guest, so he began cautiously. ‘I hear you have ridden hard from Revelstoke today.’

The stranger picked up his goblet and languidly intervened. ‘We have ridden from Glastonbury — we left Gloucester yesterday.’

Richard scowled, having been caught out in a lie before he had even opened his mouth. He had been nowhere near his manor in the west, but had ridden north a week ago. John immediately realised what was going on, for Gloucester was now Prince John’s principal house in England. He had been given no less than six counties, including Gloucestershire and the county of Mortain in Normandy, by his recklessly generous brother at the time of Richard’s accession in 1189. They were taken from him after the abortive rebellion, but recently Gloucester and Mortain had been restored to him. It was obvious that de Revelle had hurried to the Prince’s nearest domain to rustle up support in this latest crisis, and his next words confirmed it.

‘This is Roscelin de Sucote, who, though in holy orders, is also a lawyer and an aide to the Count of Mortain. He has come to give me some advice and bring support from his lord.’

The man nodded at John condescendingly, but made no effort to rise to his feet. ‘Prince John is at present at his court in Normandy, but I can speak for him on virtually every issue,’ he said smoothly.

De Wolfe grunted back at him and decided that he had no need to offer this rebel lawyer anything more than basic civility. He turned to his brother-in-law. ‘I wanted you at an inquest this week, Richard. If you feel you can vanish from the county, after giving a false account of your movements, and ignore your responsibilities for a week, then it seems an added reason for it being high time for you to relinquish the shrievalty.’

‘You have no authority to even suggest that Sir Richard should give up his office,’ cut in de Sucote. ‘And it is both ill mannered and possibly treasonable for you to speak to the King’s representative in that way!’

John rounded on the man, his long face dark with annoyance. ‘When I want your opinion, clerk, I’ll ask for it — though bulls are more likely to give milk before that happens. And if we’re talking of manners, it would do you well to stand when you speak and address the King’s coroner as “sir”!’

The lawyer’s sallow face flushed, but he made no effort to rise. John swung back to the sheriff, who stood behind his table, looking nervously defiant. ‘Come, John, there’s no call to be offensive to a guest. I’m sure these recent difficulties can be dealt with in a civilised way.’

‘Bollocks, you devious, lying bastard! And if you take offence at my words, I’m more than happy to meet with you with horse, shield and lance down on Bull Mead.’

He was on safe ground here, as the last thing Richard de Revelle would accept would be a challenge from the battle-hardened coroner. John plunged on, ignoring the look of outrage on the face of the Prince’s emissary. ‘You have even more to answer for now than before you slunk away to your rebel friends. I know now that you paid your whore’s sister to falsely denounce the landlady of the Bush. That led to a death and a major fire in the city, both of which you will be called to account over, when I can finally drag you to an inquest!’

De Revelle made loud protestations at this and the lawyer-clerk finally jumped to his feet to add his outraged denials. John shouted them down at the top of his voice, to the delight of a cluster of people outside the ill-fitting door. ‘So add manslaughter and conspiracy to arson to your existing crimes of stealing the King’s money, Sheriff!’ he yelled. ‘You’re still on probation for treason, aiding and abetting the King’s enemies. Explain all that to the royal justices when they get here! You’ll need more than a Gloucester lawyer to wriggle out of that!’

Not trusting himself to avoid physically assaulting his brother-in-law, de Wolfe stalked to the door, went out and slammed it behind him with a force fit to knock it off its hinges. Scattering the eavesdroppers outside, he marched out of the hall, his temper subsiding sufficiently to hope to God that someone in Winchester had taken notice of his urgent message.

By Sunday morning de Wolfe’s patience was in shreds and he even considered sending Gwyn riding out on the high road to the east to see whether there was any sign of emissaries from Winchester. He soon realised that this was a futile gesture and turned his attention instead to Nesta, wondering if he should ride to Stoke-in-Teignhead to see if all was well there. This idea in turn was rejected, in case someone from the capital should arrive in his absence. Instead, he restlessly alternated between his chamber in Rougemont and the taproom in the Golden Hind, where he drank more ale than his bladder could cope with.

At noon, he had another silent meal with Matilda, his efforts at conversation being largely unsuccessful. He had told her about her brother’s return on Friday and the fact that he had been in Gloucester, not with his own wife at Revelstoke. He also described the lawyer-priest that Richard had brought back with him, but she seemed uninterested. John had expected her to go up to visit Richard again, but she seemed indifferent to the man who had been for so long her paragon of success and virtue. After the meal, she took herself off to the solar and, feeling that he had done all he could for her in this time of her despair, he whistled for Brutus and went down to Idle Lane to inspect the work that he was paying for. During the past week, Adam had organised more men and now the site was virtually clear of debris. Edwin, the potman, had recovered from his ordeal and, though he was coughing like an old horse, he was comfortably housed in the brew-shed, acting as watchman over the building works. The two serving maids had gone home to stay with their families in nearby streets, with the promise that they would be re-employed as soon as the inn was back in business.

John walked around the remains of the tavern and saw that the masonry of the front and back walls and the high gables on either side was now intact. Where stones had been pulled down by the fall of the rafters and roof beams, Adam had employed masons to mortar new blocks into place. The stumps of the logs that had held up the floor of the loft had been removed and the holes cleaned out, ready to receive new timbers. John was eager to see these first beams brought up by teams of oxen from Holcombe, as they would surely bring news of Nesta, probably in a note penned by his literate sister Evelyn, which Thomas could translate for him.

On the way back, he called in at Canons’ Row to see John de Alençon, mainly to ask him whether he knew anything about this Roscelin de Sucote, the priest that Richard had brought from Gloucester.

‘I have heard of him by name, no more,’ replied the archdeacon. ‘He is part of Prince John’s entourage and spends more time in Mortain than England. He is an ordained priest, but seems to play no part in religious affairs. He is an aspiring politician and presumably is looking ahead to high office under John, when, God forbid, he takes over the throne from his brother.’

‘In that, he has much in common with de Revelle,’ said de Wolfe, cynically. ‘But what’s he doing here? Can he really get Richard off the hook, merely because he is a creature of the Prince?’

De Alençon shrugged over the wine that he had as usual produced for them both. ‘A desperate situation calls for desperate remedies, I suppose! I know that this Roscelin went with the sheriff for an audience with the bishop yesterday. No one knows what was said there, but I get the impression that Henry Marshal is not too keen to openly associate himself with potential rebels these days — just as he has distanced himself from the witch-hunting campaign.’

‘Our bishop was never one to be seen backing the losing side,’ observed John, sarcastically. ‘What’s happened to that bloody fellow-canon of yours, Gilbert de Bosco?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Lying low, as far as we can tell. It seems that he has been afflicted by all manner of ailments, which most folk — including himself — put down to the witch’s curse!’

‘What’s wrong with him now? I heard he had some sort of seizure.’

‘That seems to have righted itself almost completely, so my steward tells me, as Gilbert refuses any visitors. But he still has a stinking mass of corruption on his neck — and now he has a red rash over all his chest and belly, which the infirmarian tells me is probably some sympathetic reaction to the purulence of his carbuncle.’

De Wolfe could not restrain a lopsided grin, even though his Christian duty was to feel sorry for the canon’s afflictions. The man had obstinately encouraged a period of hysterical madness in the city, which had led to a number of deaths, and John found it hard to forgive him.

‘So Bearded Lucy did have some powerful magic, after all! She was not a woman to be crossed — alive or dead!’

This earned him a disapproving look from his old friend, whose Christian concepts of the after-life did not include dispensing seizures and carbuncles. ‘I despair of you, John,’ he said with mock severity. ‘You are still a heathen at heart!’

With another grin, de Wolfe sank the last of his wine and left for the castle. Here he found his two servants in their usual postures, Thomas scribing at the table and Gwyn perched in the window embrasure, staring idly down into the outer ward.

Silence reigned for a time, as the coroner tried to concentrate on a piece of parchment that Thomas slid in front of him, a revision of some simple Latin sentences. His heart was not in it, however, and he kept churning over the various problems he had, especially the failure of anyone to show up in answer to his message.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his inattentive eye, he saw Gwyn stiffen and lean forward as if to get a better view from his window-slit. ‘Who the hell’s this?’ growled the Cornishman. ‘I know that fellow, I’m sure I do! And the other one, of course!’

John rose but, before he could get to the other window, Gwyn gave a shout. ‘By Christ, it’s the Marshal himself! Riding alongside Walter de Ralegh.’

With an excited Thomas trying to peep under his arm, the coroner’s officer kept up a running commentary on the men now riding slowly up Castle Hill to the drawbridge below. ‘William, the Marshal of England, by damn! I thought these days he was always with the King in France.’

By this time De Wolfe was also looking down and could confirm Gwyn’s words. Two tall erect men, with light surcoats over their tunics, rode finely caparisoned horses up the slope, followed by a pair of esquires and six mounted soldiers. The latter wore round iron helmets, but none of the party wore mailed hauberks or aventails, which would have been intolerable in this hot weather. The surcoats of the men in front bore armorial devices, which were repeated on pennants attached to the lances carried by the two leading men-at-arms.

De Wolfe almost leapt to the doorway and clattered down the steps at a speed that risked his neck on the steep, twisting stairway.

At the bottom, he was just in time to meet the riders as they came under the gatehouse arch, where Sergeant Gabriel, almost speechless at this sudden visitation, was sending his guards to fetch ostlers and take a message to summon Ralph Morin.

John saluted the two men, both of whom he knew well. They hauled themselves wearily from their horses and greeted him with a grasp of the forearm.

‘I’d kill for a jug of ale, John,’ were the first words of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Striguil and the most powerful soldier in England and Normandy. The other man was Sir Walter de Ralegh, a Devon man who was now one of the King’s judges and who had led the last Eyre of Assize in Exeter only a couple of months previously.

‘Come across to the hall, you can take your ease there,’ said John, still reeling from the seniority of the men who had come in response to his plea.

‘Is that bloody man de Revelle there?’ barked de Ralegh, an elderly man whose face seemed carved from granite.

Before he could answer, pounding feet brought the castle constable across the bailey. Ralph Morin was as dumbfounded as John by the exalted visitors who had just arrived. He also knew both men, as in the past they had all served in the same campaigns.

Ralph had heard the last remark and, after a hasty greeting, waved them towards the keep. ‘The sheriff went to Tiverton yesterday, he dare not neglect Lady Eleanor any longer. He said he would be back in the morning.’

With the two squires in tow and the men-at-arms taken off to barracks to eat and drink, the party made their way to the keep, through a ragged line of soldiers and their families, who came out to doff their caps, touch their foreheads and even give an odd cheer, as William Marshal had long been a popular figure in the land, especially among the military. Now in his late forties, he had already served two kings well — and if the future could have been foreseen, was to serve another two, as well as becoming Regent of England. He had a long face, like his younger brother, Bishop Henry Marshal, who owed his ecclesiastical promotion to royal gratitude for his sibling’s ability.

They went into Morin’s chamber at the other end of the hall and sat down, servants crowding in after them with wine, ale and food. There were too few seats for everyone and the squires, silent young men with blond hair, went back out into the hall to take their refreshments.

‘I’ll arrange for your accommodation, though this bloody place is so small,’ apologised Morin. ‘You can have my quarters, Lord William, and I’ll find somewhere for you, Sir Walter.’

The Devon-bred baron held up a hand. ‘No, we’ll not stay here. I’ve been to Exeter often enough as a commissioner or a justice to know that the New Inn is the best place, not this miserable stone box. It might have been good enough for William the Bastard years ago, but times have moved on!’

William Marshal agreed, after sinking at least a pint of ale in one long swallow. ‘In any case, I don’t feel it politic to share our lodgings with the man we’ve come to investigate.’

As the ale and wine flowed and the plates of meat pastries and chicken legs emptied, John learned how these two senior men had come to travel to Exeter at his behest.

‘Your letter arrived and thankfully Hubert Walter was still in Winchester. He thinks well of you, John, and knew that you were not one to cry “wolf” where there was no real need.’

Walter de Ralegh, another tall man with iron-grey hair, took up the tale. ‘The justiciar called me to him and told me to get down here to see what was going on, as I am familiar with the area and certainly have my own knowledge of de Revelle from some of his past escapades. Hubert said he would have come himself, but he was committed to going to Northampton and then on to London and Canterbury this week.’

The Marshal’s cool grey eyes fixed on the coroner. ‘You are well known for your faithful service to King Richard, de Wolfe. You proved this in Palestine and when you did your best for him in Vienna. Not many men would have got the Chief Justiciar to consider coming at your call.’

John warmed at the words, but they prompted a question. ‘Thank you, but how did you become involved in this?’

William gave a wry smile. ‘By being in the right place at the wrong time, I suppose! I am with the King in France for most of the year, but try to get back to Chepstow now and then to see my wife Isobel and attend to my lands in Wales. I was just returning to Normandy, having to go to Winchester on the way — and walked into this problem of yours. Hubert suggested that I take the sea route from here or Plymouth, instead of Portsmouth, so that I could accompany Walter here on his mission.’

‘And maybe call upon your brother at the same time,’ added de Ralegh, rather mischievously.

William grunted. ‘I’ll call upon him, surely. But in the course of duty, rather than fraternal affection. Henry and I do not often see eye to eye.’ He belched after his hasty consumption of rich food and ale. ‘In fact, I will call upon him this evening, to see what the fellow has been up to this time, before we begin our deliberations tomorrow.’

For the next hour, de Wolfe recounted all that had been happening in Exeter over the previous few weeks, repeating and expanding upon the facts that he had given in his letter to the justiciar. The two barons listened gravely and had a number of penetrating questions for John, which showed that they were well aware of the seriousness of the situation. At the end, when they were ready to go down to their lodgings in Exeter’s largest inn in the high street, William Marshal leaned forward and tapped de Wolfe on the knee. ‘Crowner, I think you should get this knight, Henry de Furnellis, along in the morning. It looks to me as if by tomorrow Devon might be needing a replacement for its sheriff!’

The proceedings on that fateful Monday were fragmentary, as the varying issues needed different people at different venues.

They began in the morning with William Marshal and Walter de Ralegh going to see the bishop. This was a private meeting at the bishop’s palace behind the cathedral and although John de Alençon and several other canons, including the precentor, succentor and treasurer, were called in later, the coroner could only guess at what transpired. Even his good friend the archdeacon was placed under a constraint of confidentiality, so that he could not divulge anything to de Wolfe. One result of the meeting was that Gilbert de Bosco was forced to appear at the coroner’s inquests later in the day.

Richard de Revelle rode in during the morning and though de Wolfe deliberately kept well clear of him until the formal proceedings began, he learned later from Ralph Morin that the sheriff was shocked to learn that no less a notability than the Marshal of England had arrived to enquire into his misdeeds, together with a senior royal justice.

De Revelle attempted to speak privately with them, but like the coroner, they declined to compromise themselves with him until the matters were dealt with officially. Richard then shut himself in his office with Roscelin de Sucote and refused to see anyone.

At breakfast, John told his wife about the arrival of the men from Winchester, but the news seemed to send her deeper into her apathetic gloom. Normally, the arrival in the city of a baron as famous as William the Marshal, especially as he was brother to the Lord Bishop, would have made her demand of him every detail of his dress, his appearance, his entourage and any other titbit of gossip, so enamoured was she of the Norman aristocracy. But now it was as if she realised the enormity of her brother’s problems, that such exalted figures should be sent to investigate him.

William Marshal and de Ralegh came back to the New Inn around the tenth hour, having completed their business at the cathedral. They sent a message for de Wolfe to meet them there and within minutes he had made the short walk down the hill to their lodgings. In a room set aside by the innkeeper, they sat with some wine and told John that the inquest into the fire at the Bush and the death of Lucy could go ahead, as Canon Gilbert would now appear before them. As members of the Royal Council and as King’s judges, both were also de facto coroners, but they directed him to preside over the proceedings.

‘Once that’s complete, then we will be in a better position to decide how we view the behaviour of both this damned priest and your dear brother-in-law,’ explained Walter.

John had already primed Gwyn to get everything ready for an inquest in the Shire Hall immediately after the midday meal and when he returned to his chamber he sent his officer with messages to the sheriff’s steward and down to Canons’ Row to demand the attendance of both, on pain of the King’s displeasure. The archdeacon had already called on Gilbert to deliver the bishop’s orders and though the canon still pleaded sickness, de Alençon made it crystal clear that this was a command that could not be disobeyed, even if they had to carry him to the court on a hurdle.

As always in Exeter, news travelled not just fast but almost instantaneously and a large crowd had converged on Rougemont by the time the inquest began. The sergeant-at-arms called out all his men to keep order and a line of soldiers pressed back the onlookers inside the court, so that a large enough space was left in front of the platform for jurors and witnesses. Another row of helmeted men blocked the arched entrance to keep out those who clustered around to listen from outside.

For a jury, Gwyn had collected almost thirty men, as although the minimum was accepted as a dozen there was no maximum. In fact, the law stated that in the countryside, every man — which meant all over twelve years of age — from the four nearest villages should be empanelled. This was physically impractical, and in towns and cities impossible. The men Gwyn had rounded up were from among those who had been at the Bush when it was besieged and burnt. Some were mere spectators, others helpful fire-fighters, but some of the instigators and rioters were also reluctantly present. One of them was the man with the torch whom John had felled with the flat of his sword, who appeared with a grubby bandage still around his head.

One of the last to arrive was Gilbert de Bosco, on his own two feet, rather than a hurdle. He looked awful with a red, swollen face, dotted pustules around his jaw and a wide bandage swathed around his neck. His stroke seemed to have subsided, although there was a slight droop to one side of his lower lip. He was helped into court by his vicar and steward, who found a stool for him at one side of the hall below the dais.

On this low platform were already assembled a few chairs, some benches and stools, with a trestle table where Thomas de Peyne was already settled with his writing materials. The ubiquitous Brother Rufus was lurking at the back along with a few clerks from the castle and the cathedral, none having any business there apart from their own curiosity.

Then the official party arrived, the men-at-arms thrusting the crowd back with their staves, to leave a path for the coroner, who led the King’s Marshal and Walter de Ralegh to their chairs. Behind them came Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford, the city’s two portreeves and in the rear the tall figure of Ralph Morin, guardian of Rougemont.

As agreed, de Wolfe took the central chair, flanked by the two visitors from Winchester, the others finding stools and benches on either side.

‘Where’s Richard de Revelle?’ demanded Walter de Ralegh, glaring around the spartan hall. As if his words had conjured him up, the sheriff appeared at the door, dressed in his finest outfit of green linen, gold embroidery at the neck, hem and wrists, with a blue silken cloak draped over his shoulders, secured across the breast with a gold chain. At his heels was Roscelin de Sucote, wearing a plain but elegant black tunic with a gold cross on his breast.

De Revelle stalked in and, without looking to right or left, made to step up on to the dais, until a barked command from William Marshal stopped him in his tracks. ‘You are a witness in this matter, sir. Your place is down there!’ William pointed to the double line of jurors and witnesses who stood shuffling between the line of soldiers and the front of the platform.

Richard coloured instantly and protested. ‘I am the sheriff of this county, sir! This is my court and indeed that is my chair you are occupying!’

William Marshal was not one to be contradicted. ‘A court is not a building, it is a legal device which is constituted according to its function. Today, you are in the same position as any other of the King’s subjects.’ He relented a little, for the sake of Norman solidarity. ‘However, you may have a stool to take your ease, if you so wish.’

De Revelle’s fury increased and he turned to glare at Roscelin, who stepped forward towards the platform. ‘I must protest, sir! Sir Richard is the King’s representative in this county and it is intolerable that he should be treated in such a way.’

‘The King’s representative, as you put it, appears to have been embroiled in instigating a riot that ended in arson and a death. So be quiet, or I will have you put out!’

So much for being asked to conduct the proceedings, thought de Wolfe wryly — so far he had not had a chance to say a word.

Now the slighted lawyer was as angry as the man he was there to protect. ‘You cannot speak to me like that! I am Roscelin de Sucote, a priest and an advocate, chamberlain to Prince John, Count of Mortain and the King’s brother!’ he shouted.

‘And I am William, the King’s Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Striguil. Now be quiet, d’you hear?’

It was not strictly accurate for him to call himself Earl of Pembroke, but no one was likely to object. It was true that the King had given him the hand of Isabel de Clare, daughter of ‘Strongbow’, Earl of Pembroke, but as the lands were to be kept in royal hands for another ten years, William was not yet entitled to the earldom. Still, everyone knew him by this name and a Devon inquest was not the place to dispute it.

Glowering, the two men subsided and stood trying to strike a defiant pose while Gwyn yelled out his opening lines.

John rose to his feet and declared that he was enquiring into the death by fire of one Lucy, a dweller on Exe Island. ‘And as coroners are obliged also to enquire into fires in a town or city, whether or not there is a death, that is also an issue,’ he added. Glaring around the packed court, he carried on in his deep, uncompromising voice. ‘As to a First Finder, it cannot apply to the fire itself, as this conflagration began before the eyes of half a hundred people. As to the death, then I call Adam Kempe, a carpenter of St Catherine’s Gate.’

The craftsman came to the front of the court, as the coroner’s officer humped the sack of bones to dump on the earth at his feet. Then Gwyn rooted inside the bag and pulled out the scorched skull and a couple of bones, which he held out to Adam. The man studied them and nodded. ‘Yes, Crowner, these were the remains which I recovered from the ashes of the Bush.’

As Gwyn paraded along the row of jurymen, displaying the grisly relics almost as if he were offering them for sale, de Wolfe continued. ‘It is well known, and witnessed by a hundred pairs of eyes, including my own, that the woman known as Bearded Lucy was in the tavern during the fire. No one else is missing and therefore I am satisfied that these remains belong to her.’

Once again he ignored the issue of Englishry and proceeded to the cause of the fire. ‘The conflagration was started deliberately and maliciously by rioters in the streets, some of whom flagrantly carried burning torches. I personally felled one of those miscreants!’ He scanned the hall with piercing eyes and then jabbed a finger at someone trying to look inconspicuous as he edged towards the entrance archway. ‘Hold that man!’ he bellowed, and Gabriel and two soldiers forced their way towards him and dragged him before the coroner. ‘You were that man, damn you!’ he shouted at the fellow, whose dirty bandage wrapped around his head was now like a badge of shame. ‘You were not the only evil-doer that day, but you will do! I commit you in custody to the next session of Gaol Delivery. Sergeant, get this wretch to the cells, my clerk can record his details later.’

As the man was dragged away, hollering with fright, as he would surely be hanged in due course, de Wolfe called for his next witness. ‘Where is Heloise, wife of Will Giffard?’

There was a scuffle towards the back of the hall and several people prodded the skinny woman with the wry neck, who at first refused to move, until another man-at-arms went and pulled her by the wrists to the front. She stood shivering before the coroner, her eyes swivelled up to regard him fearfully. Her husband, a burly man with a pugnacious expression, pushed through the crowd to stand behind her.

John glowered down at her, aware that this was the creature who had tried to add Nesta to the list of women who went to the gallows. ‘Heloise Giffard, did you visit Nesta the landlady of the Bush Inn several weeks ago, on the pretext of seeking a cure for the affliction of your neck?’

‘It was not a pretext, sir. I wanted a cure. And I had warts on my hands.’

‘Did she offer a cure? And I want the truth, woman, not a litany of lies about devils and goblins, or it will be even worse for you!’

The twisted wife peered furtively to left and right, but whoever she was seeking had made themselves scarce. ‘She said she could do nothing about my neck, sir. But she gave me a salve for my skin.’

‘Did she demand money from you for this simple service?’ snapped John. Heloise hesitated, then shook her head, a strange movement given the angle of her neck. ‘No, sir!’ she whispered.

‘And did anything untoward happen when that good lady did her best to help you, without so much as a ha’penny fee?’

Again the woman wagged her head. ‘No, Crowner, nothing.’

De Wolfe’s voice rose into a roar. ‘Then how was it you told Canon Gilbert that when you visited the tavern, that the woman conjured up black mist out of which came a hellish devil with fire coming from its mouth — and that she and this apparition performed lewd and obscene acts upon you? Answer me, you wretch!’

Heloise fell to her knees, her hands clenched before her in supplication. ‘It was my sister, Esther, sir,’ she wailed. ‘She persuaded me and gave me good silver coin to do what I did. It was her fault, sir, not mine. I only did what I was bid — and I am a poor woman, deformed in body.’

‘This sister of yours, Esther. Is she in this court today?’ John thundered.

‘No sir, she left the city last week, in fear of what might become of her after what happened. I don’t know where she is. I think she may have gone to Plymouth to follow the sailors.’

‘Your sister is a whore, is she not?’

Heloise seemed to shrink, like a hedgehog when threatened. ‘She is, sir, God forgive her.’

‘I doubt that, woman — and he will have to stretch his compassion to forgive you, too. Tell me, this harlot sister of yours, did she have regular clients in this city?’

Again, Heloise’s eyes squinted furtively along the front rows of the hall. ‘I don’t know that, Crowner. I tried to keep clear of her immoral business.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Do you see anyone in this court who you know visited her often — or who she visited for carnal knowledge?’

Here Roscelin de Sucote made his first mistake. He stepped forward a pace from the sheriff’s side to address the three men seated in the centre of the dais. ‘As a lawyer, I must object! The woman has said she doesn’t know, so why badger her further? It is not relevant.’

William Marshal leaned forward in his chair. ‘If it’s not relevant, why did you intervene, eh? What possible interest can you have in who might be the customer of a whore?’

The Gloucester cleric flushed and stepped back, getting a venomous look from the sheriff, whose troubles were only just beginning. The coroner dismissed Heloise after attaching her in the sum of four marks to attend the next visitation of the royal justices, then he called Richard de Revelle.

Again de Sucote intervened, to protest that a sheriff could not be forced to testify in a lower court in his own county, as he himself was the principal law officer. This time, Walter de Ralegh cut him down to size. ‘You talk arrant nonsense, young man! This is the coroner’s court, an office set up only last year by the King, to conduct the King’s business. Have you taken no notice of his title, eh? Custos placitorum corona, “keeper of the pleas of the crown”!’

On the other side of the upstaged coroner, the Marshal of England spoke again. ‘Your interference is doing more harm than good, sir! I would advise you to keep your mouth shut, before you do more damage.’

The said mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish, but Roscelin obviously thought better of antagonising two members of the Curia Regis any further, and stepped back.

‘De Revelle, come before us!’ grated the Earl Marshal, crooking his finger.

With reluctance showing in every slow footstep, the sheriff moved to stand below his brother-in-law. Although he stood in a deliberately nonchalant pose, throwing his gaudy cloak back over one shoulder, his small eyes looked up at John with pure poison oozing from them.

De Wolfe was deliberately correct and polite, doing his best to suppress his own contempt and loathing for the man in the cause of even-handed justice. ‘Sir Richard, were you acquainted with Esther, the sister of Heloise Giffard?’

‘Of course not, I’ve never heard of her!’ said the sheriff contemptuously. ‘Why I should know the name of an alehouse strumpet?’

There were a few cackles of laughter from the back of the court, as de Revelle’s partiality for whores was well known in the city. He turned round furiously, but the culprits had ducked down out of sight.

‘I fear we shall hear soon that your memory is failing you, if you continue to claim that she was unknown to you. I suggest that you paid this woman to get her unfortunate sister, who arouses sympathy because of her affliction, to visit the Bush inn under a pretext.’

‘Absolute nonsense — or rather, malicious lies!’ snarled de Revelle. ‘I suggest you produce this woman to speak for herself, before you make such unfounded accusations.’

John sighed. ‘I wish we could, but she has vanished — most conveniently, it seems. Now, Sir Richard, you were at the scene of the fire in Idle Lane, why was that? It’s not your habit to attend criminal events.’

‘I was riding in the city and heard the commotion and naturally went to investigate,’ he said loftily.

‘It would be the first time you’ve ever investigated anything,’ observed John, cynically. ‘Where were you riding that you could hear what was going on in Idle Lane? It’s not a part of the city that a busy sheriff normally frequents.’

‘Were you expecting something to happen there?’ cut in de Ralegh.

‘Of course not — I tell you, I was riding down the high street and heard this rumpus.’

‘He must have had bloody good hearing!’ muttered Gwyn to Gabriel, at the side of the platform.

The sheriff stonewalled all further questions with flat denials and, however unconvincing he sounded, there was nothing further to be obtained from him. When the coroner curtly dismissed him, Richard stared haughtily at the three men above him. ‘If you have no further need of my help, I will return to my chamber and get on with the more pressing business of administering this county!’ He turned and, head held high, strode towards the doorway.

‘Don’t go too far, Sheriff,’ called William Marshal after him. ‘We have much more to say to you later.’

Ignoring this, de Revelle stalked out, Roscelin de Sucote falling in behind him as the men-at-arms cleared a path for them through the gawping crowd.

The last witness was Gilbert de Bosco, now a different man to the arrogant, blustering fellow of a couple of weeks earlier. He looked ill, he was hunched and his face had an unhealthy fullness about it that was worsened by the rash around his jaws and the bulky dressing around his neck.

De Wolfe motioned to his vicar and steward to help him from his stool and settle him back upon it below the centre of the dais. Having salved his conscience by deferring to a sick man, he then treated him as any other witness. ‘Canon, did you instigate, foment or encourage the attack upon the Bush inn by that mob?’

De Bosco raised his head slowly and painfully to the coroner. ‘I did my duty as a Christian and a priest, in that I sought out necromancy, witchcraft and those consorting with the Devil.’

‘That’s not an answer to the question the coroner put to you,’ snapped Walter de Ralegh. ‘Did you stir up a riotous assembly?’

‘I received information that two daughters of Satan were hiding in that den of iniquity and acted accordingly.’

‘What d’you mean “hiding”?’ barked William Marshal. ‘One of them was the landlady, she owned the bloody place!’

‘And from where did you receive this information, as you put it?’ asked the coroner.

The priest looked uneasily across the front of the hall. Seemingly reassured by the absence of Richard de Revelle, he replied. ‘I had a message from the sheriff, through one of his clerks, that the old witch from the mud flats beyond the West Gate was being sheltered there. It became well known that she was a disciple of the ungodly, probably their leader in these parts.’

‘And what of the other, the ale-wife known as Nesta?’ interjected the marshal.

‘Sir Richard had already directed a woman to me. The one with the deformed neck, who had been a victim of that tavern-keeper. She told me of the hellish practices that she suffered when she visited her for some simple remedy.’

‘And you believed her?’ snapped de Ralegh, incredulously.

‘Today, she admitted that everything was a tissue of lies, you gullible fool,’ shouted William.

John, again excluded for the moment, steered the questions back on to the original path. ‘So how was it that a rabble appeared in Idle Lane, with you virtually at their head, some carrying flaming torches?’

Some of the old defiance flowed back into Gilbert de Bosco. With an effort, he stumbled to his feet and his head rose, despite the pain in his inflamed neck. ‘Yes, I walked the streets that day and preached a crusade against them, calling on good men to help cleanse the stables of God. I sent two proctors’ men to proclaim that witches lurked in the lower town and when enough good folk had assembled we marched there, intending to seize and arrest them and put that house of shame to the torch. It was not intended that anyone should be burned alive.’

‘No, you wished to save them for your own court, so that you could hand them on to your fellow-conspirator, the sheriff and have them hanged. Dead either way, the fire or the rope!’ boomed de Ralegh, his face as hard as a Dartmoor rock.

The canon remained silent, but his face bore a sullen defiance, almost a martyred resignation that these heathen would never understand his dedication to the protection of the Holy Church.

De Wolfe waved him away in disgust and his helpers led him away to the side again, while the coroner addressed the jury. ‘You have heard the evidence and indeed a confession from this priest. There is no doubt that both on the matter of arson and of the death of Lucy of Exe Island, the cause was a riotous assembly, whipped up by Gilbert de Bosco in an insane, misplaced campaign of hate against harmless women who use their gifts in traditional practices.’ He glared along the line of jurors. ‘The verdict you must return is clear — malicious fire-setting and manslaughter, for we must accept that the immediate object was not to cause death by burning.’

He paused and looked sideways at the two justices. ‘As to who is responsible, I am in a difficult position at an inquest, which is not a trial. One of the obvious culprits is a priest, over whom I have no jurisdiction when it comes to attachment on a criminal charge — that is a matter for the bishop. Similarly, it is unique for another suspect — for he declined to admit any guilt — to be the county sheriff. I therefore defer any action on him to my seniors present here today. I have attached the woman Heloise Giffard to the next visit of the royal justices and if her sister ever shows her face, she will go the same way.’

After this long speech, he directed the jury to return the verdicts he had set out, giving them a ferocious glare that defied them to contest or even question his decision. They all hurriedly assented and the Shire Hall broke out into a hubbub of excited gossip, as the men on the platform filed out and went to the castle keep for well-deserved refreshment in the sultry heat.

The next act in that day’s drama was held not in the public eye, like the inquest, but in the privacy of the sheriff’s chamber. This time, Gabriel and two soldiers guarded the door and others formed a line some yards away, to keep those using the hall well out of eavesdropping range. Inside the large room that was the sheriff’s office were assembled those who were to decide his future. The Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Striguil, sat behind de Revelle’s table with Sir Walter de Ralegh. At one end was one of the clerks who had come with the Marshal, ready with his pen, ink and parchments to record the deliberations.

An empty chair stood on the other side of the trestle, facing the august pair. At the back of the room, against the shuttered window-slits, sat Constable Morin, John de Wolfe and a large, elderly, florid man with a flowing white moustache. This was Henry de Furnellis, who had occupied this room as sheriff for a short time two years earlier. He had bristly white hair and bags under his pale eyes big enough to accommodate hen’s eggs.

‘Get him in here,’ ordered William Marshal and the constable went to an inner door that led to the sheriff’s private quarters, a pair of rooms behind his office. He knocked, went in and returned with Richard de Revelle, followed by Roscelin de Sucote. They were dressed as they had been in the Shire Hall, but de Revelle’s colour was different, in that he had rosy patches on his narrow cheeks and he seemed slightly unsteady on his feet, evidence of the brandy-wine that he had been drinking in the back room. He dropped heavily into the chair set for him, with his acolyte near by.

‘Get on with this charade, then!’ he said thickly. ‘I still deny the right you have to invade my privacy and subject me to this discourtesy. Prince John will hear of this, as soon as a messenger can reach Normandy.’

William Marshal regarded him coldly. ‘If the Count of Mortain objects, he can petition the King about it. But as long as the Lionheart is in France, the administration of England is in the hands of the Chief Justiciar, the Chancellor and the Royal Council.’

Walter de Ralegh glared at the smooth-faced lawyer standing stiffly behind the sheriff’s chair. ‘Why does this fellow have to be here? This is a confidential matter.’

‘Sir Richard has requested that I advise him as to his legal rights and to report what transpires to Prince John, the future King.’

De Ralegh recognised the veiled threat in Roscelin’s words and responded harshly. ‘The sheriff is an officer of the present King, not a future king, though even that is not a foregone conclusion! With God’s grace, Richard will be on the throne for very many years to come.’

William Marshal flapped his hand at the cleric from Gloucester. ‘Oh, let him stay. Though it does go to confirm with whom the true sympathies of de Revelle lie.’

He shuffled some parchments before him, though this was mere habit, as, in spite of being one of the most powerful men in the Plantagenet domains, he had never learnt to read either French or Latin.

‘We will keep this short and to the point. Your fidelity and allegiance to the king have long been suspect. The Chief Justiciar himself, when he visited this city some months ago, was apprised of various matters which gave him great concern and which have been discussed in the Curia since then. Only the reluctance of your brother-in-law to press the matter left you in a state of probation, rather than suspension — possibly by the neck!’

De Revelle opened his mouth to deny this, then found he had nothing useful to say, so shut it again.

‘This time, you have been caught out once more in shameful activities. You recently brought treasure trove to the exchequer and claimed it was as intact as when discovered, yet it has been proven that you removed a substantial portion for your own purposes.’

He pushed some documents across to Walter, who could read, although he had already been through these inventories of the cache found at Cadbury.

‘Those documents were falsified. It was part of de Wolfe’s scheming to bring about my ruin!’ cried the sheriff.

‘We challenge the authenticity of those lists and the trustworthiness of those who wrote them,’ brayed de Sucote.

William slapped the table with a large hand. ‘Be silent! We have made all necessary enquiries to show that they are genuine and were made in good faith. We interrogated not only the treasury clerks in Winchester, but stopped at Cadbury on the journey here to confirm with the manor-lord and his priest the amount of coin originally found. Here we have checked with the constable’s steward that he accurately confirmed the contents of that chest, before you made off with it, in defiance of the coroner’s legitimate ruling that the decision upon its disposal be left to the next Eyre of Assize.’ De Ralegh jabbed a forefinger at the discomfited Richard. ‘And not only did you pilfer the hoard, but you attempted to put the blame on an honest coroner’s officer and even had him arrested on a felonious charge, to cover up your own crime!’

De Revelle began muttering some feeble excuse about a terrible error, but the Marshal overrode his words. ‘Not content with that, you attempted to silence the coroner’s promise to expose you by veiled threats to cause harm to a woman, who, not to put too fine a point on it, was his favoured mistress.’

‘Sir Richard strongly denies that!’ broke in de Sucote.

‘Let him speak for himself, his mouth has been active enough in other directions!’ rasped Sir Walter. ‘He may deny it all he wants, but what we heard in the court today convinces me that he set a trap for Sir John de Wolfe, paying his whore to get her sister to falsify evidence of witchcraft to that gullible canon.’

As the catalogue of de Revelle’s misdeeds was expanded, the sheriff seemed to sag in his chair, convinced now that all was lost and that he would end on the gallows, perhaps after being mutilated and disembowelled for the greater crime of treason. Walter de Ralegh’s finger went down a list on a parchment roll, stabbing a series of items that recorded actual and suspected misdemeanours on the part of Richard, the most serious being his involvement some months earlier in an abortive rebellion on behalf of Prince John, in which the de la Pomeroy family were once again embroiled. When his finger reached the bottom, Walter threw the list aside with a flourish and leaned forward threateningly towards de Revelle.

‘Do you call that honourable behaviour for a Norman knight, and a servant of your king, to whom you swore an oath of allegiance when you were elected sheriff, eh?’ He leaned back and looked across at the Marshal, as if handing over the baton to him.

William shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot tell what is to become of you, de Revelle. We know you claim to have influential friends, some right here in Exeter and perhaps some in Mortain. But I can assure you that you have none in Winchester or London.’

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, his long face grave as he stared at the stricken Richard, much as a ferret immobilises a rabbit before pouncing.

‘We have discussed this matter with others in the council and have their full authority, especially that of Hubert Walter, to act as we see fit when we have heard all the evidence here in Exeter.’ He paused and looked at de Ralegh, who gravely nodded his assent. ‘What happens to you eventually will depend on further deliberations between the members of the Curia and ultimately what the King wishes to be done. In that, I have no doubt that your own sponsors, if they do not cast you aside, might have some say. That is none of our concern today, whether you ultimately live or die!’ His voice hardened even more. ‘But what is crystal clear and as certain as night follows day is that you are no longer fit to be sheriff of the county of Devon.’

He rose to his feet, a tall, spare man, with an aura of authority about him that had fortified him in the special role he had played in the history of England.

‘Richard de Revelle, from this moment forth you are no longer the King’s representative in this county. Henceforth, you will have no more authority or privileges than any other man in the city streets. The justiciar has given me the power to appoint Sir Henry de Furnellis as sheriff, until such time as the will of the King and his council is known as to a permanent successor.’

He sat down heavily, leaving a paralysed de Revelle sunk on his chair.

‘This is not the end of the matter, sirs,’ brayed Roscelin. ‘The Prince will soon hear of this.’

William Marshal flung an arm towards the inner door. ‘Just get out of here — and take him with you!’ His eyes dropped to meet those of the deposed sheriff. ‘And if you take my advice, you will collect your chattels from here and quickly get yourself to one of your manors and lay as low as you can, for as long as you can! Maybe then they’ll forget to hang you!’

As the room cleared in an atmosphere of suppressed embarrassment and excitement, John de Wolfe felt one major emotion — not elation at the final defeat of his long-term adversary, but anxiety about how he was going to report this to Matilda in a way that would cause her the least anguish.

John was not present at the last chapter of that Monday’s climactic story, but had to rely on his friend the archdeacon for an account of what went on in the bishop’s parlour at the palace. In the evening, when the oppressive heat seemed even more cloying than before, the three archdeacons who happened to be in the city, plus the more senior members of the cathedral chapter, were called to the palace to witness their prelate deliberate on the behaviour of their fellow-canon, Gilbert de Bosco.

The sun had set when the coroner called upon John de Alençon at his dwelling in the Close. The approaching dusk was made more gloomy by black clouds that had rolled in from the Channel and, as on many of the previous days, a grumble of thunder rolled in the distance every few minutes.

This evening they sat in the small garden behind the house. Although the usual outhouses and privy were farther down, de Alençon had had a small area fenced off with woven hurdles, where sparse grass grew and a couple of benches flanked a small table. It was an unusual elaboration for a yard, which was usually just a functional addition to a house, frequented only by servants, but the archdeacon had once lived in a priory where gardening was considered a virtue and solitude a blessing.

They sat at the table to drink wine and talk, giving the occasional glance up at the heavens to gauge whether they needed to run from a sudden thunder-shower.

‘This has been an eventful day, John,’ observed the priest. ‘We have lost one sheriff and gained another. You have cleared up several slayings in the city — and we now have another vacancy for a canon in the chapter.’

De Wolfe rubbed his stubble wearily. It had certainly been a stressful day. He had just left Matilda, who took the news of her brother’s disgrace stoically at first, then retired to her solar, where through the slit that joined it to the hall, he heard her sobbing as if her heart would break. She had slipped the bolt on the door, so he was unable to go in to try to comfort her in his stiff, awkward way and he decided it would be best to leave her alone, until she was ready to face the world again. He knew that her loss of prestige among her many friends, now that she was no longer the sister of the sheriff, would hurt her cruelly, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

‘So what happened to the witch-hunter?’ he asked de Alençon.

The archdeacon turned his wine cup delicately with his long fingers, as he recalled the scene in the palace an hour or two earlier. Henry Marshal had entered his parlour, the large room where he held all his audiences, in a black cassock with a large silver cross on his breast and a round cap on his head. Gloved and beringed, he sat on an ornate chair placed on a dais at the end of the room. His chaplain, a young priest destined for rapid advancement in the Church owing to his high family connections, stood behind him ready to attend to his every wish.

Facing them in the room on hard benches were Thomas de Boterellis, the precentor, John FitzJohn, Archdeacon of Totnes, Anselm Crassus, Archdeacon of Barnstaple, John of Exeter, the cathedral treasurer, and archivist Jordan de Brent, as well as several of the older canons, including Roger de Limesi and William de Tawton. Two of the proctors and their servants stood at the back of the room, having already led in Gilbert de Bosco, who sat in the centre of the front row of benches.

‘He looked dreadfully ill, but his spirit was as stubborn as ever,’ said de Alençon to his friend. ‘I don’t know if as a true Christian I should believe or reject these notions of the supernatural, but I suspect that there are few in Exeter who believe that his recent afflictions were not the work of Lucy’s curse!’

De Wolfe agreed that in court that day the canon had looked in bad shape. ‘His stroke seems to have healed, but his affliction of boils seems worse. What was the outcome?’

‘Like your account of the sheriff’s dismissal, John, it was short, though by no means sweet. The bishop allowed him to remain seated owing to his parlous state of health, but that was the only concession he made. He roundly condemned him for excessive zeal, which he said was grossly misplaced.’

The coroner drank and set down his cup. ‘Yet at the start the bishop seemed Gilbert’s staunch ally in his crusade against these cunning women. How could he turn around so completely?’

‘I’m sure his brother gave him a good talking-to, when he visited. Though to the people at the cathedral the bishop is only one step down from God Almighty, to William the Marshal he is just a younger brother!’ The priest wiped the sweat from his brow, the atmosphere seeming to press in on them, before continuing. ‘Though no one knows what was said between them in private, I suspect that William offered very robust opinions on Henry’s covert support for Prince John, as well as about his aligning himself with crooked sheriffs and dangerously obsessive canons!’

A large drop of water plopped on to the table between them, followed by another. Looking up, John saw that the roiling clouds were moving across the darkening sky, the large moon appearing in the gaps and then disappearing again.

‘Best go inside, John, the heavens may empty on us in a moment.’

They moved indoors, and sat in the archdeacon’s study, a three-branched candlestick on the table between them.

‘So what happened to Gilbert?’ persisted the coroner.

‘Henry Marshal upbraided him for being too gullible in accepting the unproven accusations of those who denounced the various women. He blamed him for persuading the parish priests to give inflammatory sermons, encouraging unruly mobs and inciting riots which ended in the deaths of two citizens.’

‘What did de Bosco say to this?’

‘He fought back valiantly, but the bishop hardly let him speak. At one point I feared he might call the proctor’s men over to shut him up! Endless denials, rambling excuses and an attempt to justify his great crusade seemed to be his object, but his speech was not that clear and, as I say, the bishop rode roughshod over him.’

There was a long rumble of thunder outside and they could hear the patter of rain beginning to fall outside the window.

‘You had better stay here a while, John — in this, you’ll be soaked just crossing the Close,’ said de Alençon, kindly.

‘If you’ve more of this particular wine, I’ll gladly stay all night,’ replied the coroner with a grin, the first he’d managed that day. As his cup was refilled from a jug, he continued his quest for news. ‘So what was the outcome? He deserves to be hanged, but that never happens to those of your cloth!’

‘No, we don’t go that far, thank God. At the end of it, Henry Marshal delivered a homily for our benefit, as well as for Gilbert, on the perils of taking anything to extremes. He paid lip-service to Gilbert’s good intentions in safeguarding the Holy Church, but condemned him for not seeking support and advice from wiser and cooler-headed counsellors.’

‘That’s bloody hypocrisy, considering that he strongly encouraged the man at the start,’ growled de Wolfe.

‘That’s as maybe, but the upshot of it was that he deprived him of his several prebends, so he has no living to support him or his vicar, and he is therefore no longer a canon of Exeter Cathedral, which means that he will lose his lodging in the Close. He applied no other penalty or stricture, but said that he would send Gilbert as priest to some remote parish in the diocese, where he would have time and space to reflect on his misplaced zeal and to pray for forgiveness for the damage he has caused.’

The coroner grunted in disgust. ‘So he gets away with having caused at least four deaths and goes off to sit in the sun in the countryside for a few years! As I said, he should have been hanged, like the poor women he betrayed!’

‘That would never happen, given benefit of clergy. And don’t think de Bosco saw it as an easy forfeit, John. When the bishop announced his decision, he howled like a dog and began raving about injustice. But Henry just motioned to the proctors and left the room. Gilbert was hustled away by them, still ranting at his unfair treatment and accusing everyone of conspiring against him.’

There was a flash which lit up the bars of the shutters on the window and, a short moment later, a loud clap of thunder.

‘At least this will cool the air — though the farmers and peasants will not welcome yet more rain on the harvest,’ observed the archdeacon.

‘So where is de Bosco now? It’s too much to hope that they locked him up until he’s banished to a mean chapel on Bodmin Moor or somewhere equally dismal.’

John de Alençon shook his head, the pink skin of his sunburned tonsure glistening in the candlelight.

‘They took him home and called the infirmarian to attend to his carbuncle and to cool his mania with a sedating draught. We look after our own, John, even if they have fallen by the wayside.’

As another peal of thunder shook the house, the archdeacon’s steward tapped on the door and put his head around it. ‘Pardon, sirs, but there’s someone who wishes to speak urgently with you. It’s Peter de Bologne, the vicar to Canon de Bosco.’

He stood aside and the young priest who had appeared at the inquest hurried in, rain dripping from his dark hair and shoulders. ‘Archdeacon, please, can you come? My master is behaving in a most strange manner. I fear for his safety.’

The two Johns rose and went to the door, which opened on to Canons’ Row. The huge towers of the cathedral rose in front of them, the dark bulk of the building black against the last of the western twilight. It was sheeting with rain, which fell almost vertically, with little wind to deviate it.

‘This way, he’s at the end of the Close. He’ll catch his death in this, given his state of health.’

The vicar hurried anxiously away, looking back to see whether they followed. The archdeacon looked at the coroner and shrugged. ‘Not much choice, have we?’

His steward tried to offer him a cloak, but he waved it away. ‘Better that only my cassock is soaked, rather than that as well. Come on, John.’

They both set off in the gloom, trotting through the downpour after the younger cleric. A hundred paces away, they passed de Bosco’s house, but the vicar kept going until he reached the foot of the city wall at the end of the Close. The fortification, which stretched all around Exeter, was about twenty feet high here, with a walkway along the top, reached by stairs built into the masonry at intervals.

At the foot of the nearest, the vicar stopped and pointed upward. ‘He went up there — I fear he must be confused in his mind, with the fever from the infection in those awful boils.’

The rain eased a little; it had seemed impossible that it could continue with such intensity for long. De Wolfe shook the water from his beetling eyebrows and began to climb the slippery steps. At the top, he looked right and left, then gazed down, to where the two priests were following him.

‘To the right, Crowner,’ called the vicar. ‘I saw him go towards the South Gate’

The wall here was a long uninterrupted stretch that overlooked Southernhay, the gardens and fields immediately outside the city on that side. It ended against the large bulk of one of the towers of the South Gate, which housed the burgesses’s gaol.

It was now virtually dark, thanks to the massive clouds that had rolled in from the sea, but occasional breaks fleetingly allowed moonlight to strike through. During one of these John saw a figure, almost invisible in black, standing still about two hundred paces away.

Then the light vanished, but a second later a flash of lightning lit up the whole scene and confirmed that it was Gilbert de Bosco, his arms upraised to the heavens.

‘It’s not safe,’ wailed the vicar, who now also stood on the wall, with de Alençon behind him on the top of the stairway. ‘He could fall, especially in his condition!’

‘Maybe that’s what he intends!’ said the archdeacon, gravely.

Suddenly, the clouds parted again and full moonlight fell on them. They saw that Gilbert had his face upturned, as well as his arms. He reminded de Wolfe of a church wall painting he had once seen, of some Old Testament prophet communing with God on a mountain in Sinai.

‘We must get to him before he falls or jumps!’ he snapped, starting to step along the walkway, which had low castellations on the outer side. It was narrow, dark and wet, so he moved carefully. The light brightened slightly as a wisp of cloud moved away, and he looked up. The orb above was an almost perfect circle — it was the night of the full moon.

‘De Bosco, keep still, man. I’m coming to get you,’ he yelled. Behind him, the archdeacon called out that he was following and John turned momentarily towards him. That probably saved his life and certainly his eyesight, as an explosion like the end of the world erupted near by, with a flash that would have seared his eyeballs if he had been looking ahead. A blast of air hurled him to the stones and only a crenellation on the outer side of the wall stopped him from being pitched over into Southernhay.

There was a sulphurous smell as the rain miraculously stopped and an eerie silence enveloped them.

‘Oh, good Christ, he’s gone,’ cried the vicar tremulously, pointing along the wall, where now nothing could be seen except a wreath of smoke ascending from a patch of fused sandstone where de Bosco had been standing.

John, shaken but unharmed, ran along the wall and looked down. There was nothing on the outer side but on a patch of waste ground at the foot of the wall on the city side, he saw an inert body.

They ran back to the steps, hammered down it and then along to where the canon lay. The coroner pushed the others aside and looked at Gilbert. His clothing had been rent into strip-like rags, singed and smoking and there was a fern-like pattern of pink lines across the skin of his exposed chest and belly, typical of other lightning strikes he had seen abroad.

The man’s mouth and eyes were wide open, as if he were staring and shrieking at the full moon above. John looked up at the wall from which he had been thrown and saw smoke still wisping up from the stones. Maybe it was the shock of almost being struck himself, but just as he had imagined when the roof of the Bush fell in he thought that, just for a split second, the smoke formed itself in the moonlight into an image of a bearded face.