The Witch Hunter

CHAPTER SEVEN

Although Walter Winstone lived a frugal existence in the dismal room above his shop, he was a moderately rich man, mainly because he added considerably to his legitimate business as an apothecary by his more dubious activities in procuring miscarriages and the occasional killing. The last was usually of animals, when some disgruntled person wished to get even with an enemy by poisoning his horse, cow or pigs — but sometimes, as with the attempt on Henry de Pridias, he undertook the occasional murder. As he begrudged every penny he was forced to spend, his wealth had steadily accumulated and his locked chest upstairs now contained quite a few pounds, quite apart from the box buried in his backyard, which held another large hoard of silver pennies. Thus, although he was the meanest man in Devon, he felt able to cast a little bread upon the waters by bribing agents to discredit his rivals, the cunning women whom he obsessively blamed for undercutting his business.

So far he had scored a spectacular success with Alice Ailward, the widow of Rock Lane, who was now securely locked up in the proctors’ cells near the cathedral. This emboldened him to repeat the escapade, after doing some intelligence work to discover the names of a few more alleged witches in the city.

On the evening of the day when John de Wolfe rode out to Cadbury to inspect treasure trove, a porter called at the cottage of Theophania Lawrence, in one of the mean lanes of Bretayne. This was the south-western corner of the city, called after the remnants of the original Britons of the Dumnonia tribe, who gave their name to Devon. These Celtic people were pushed into this ghetto when the Saxons arrived hundreds of years earlier to settle within the old Roman walls. It remained Exeter’s poorest area, a warren of narrow lanes, shacks and hovels, populated by the lowest class of manual workers.

Theophania’s hut was marginally better than those of her neighbours, but was still a dismal one-room dwelling, with wattle and daub walls and a tattered roof of straw thatch. Her visitor aimed a kick at a large rat that was nibbling at some offal in the gutter that oozed past the rickety door and shouted her name through the cracks in the warped boards. He was Edward Bigge, from St Sidwells, the village where Gwyn of Polruan lived, just outside the East Gate. A wide, squat man of thirty, he had cropped ginger hair and a square, pugnacious face that was deeply pitted by old acne scars. He had almost no neck and his arms seemed too long for his short body, but he was immensely strong, almost muscle-bound, from his occupation of carrying goods on and off the ships at the quay-side.

He shouted again and was answered by a yell from inside to wait a moment, as the woman of the house was occupied. Theophania was dealing with another client, a sailor who was about to take ship to Flanders, carrying tin and silver bound from Dartmoor to Cologne. Such cargoes were often preyed upon by pirates, who came from as far afield as the Barbary Coast or even Turkey, and he wanted a charm to keep him safe. Such requests for protection on journeys were common and the old woman had a ready supply of amulets in her cupboard on the wall.

‘Take this and hang it around your neck — then we will say a prayer together to St Christopher,’ she croaked, handing him a crude agnus dei.

This was a small roundel of wax with a cross crudely stamped into one side and a leather lace attached to go over his head. The wax had come from stumps of altar candle that she had scavenged from the waste middens outside various Exeter churches, which she melted down and moulded to make her talismans.

‘This has holy powers, man,’ she assured him. ‘It has a fragment of the consecrated Host within it!’ A tiny scrap of the communion wafer that she had smuggled out of St Martin’s made the amulet all the more powerful. She looped the thong over his neck and muttered some confused words of prayer to various saints, including Christopher, James and Peter, adding Mary, Mother of God for good measure.

She forced her client to repeat them and as he was mumbling a final ‘Amen’ she held out her hand for her three pence fee.

‘Now get you gone in safety!’ she declared, opening the door and letting the sailor push past Edward Bigge, who was waiting on the step.

‘What can I do for you, fellow?’ she demanded brusquely. Her services were in constant demand and she could afford to dispense with courtesy and amiability.

‘I have this pain in my belly and burning when I piss, mother,’ Edward complained, sticking to the story that the apothecary had given him.

‘How long have you suffered?’

‘About four days now. I also feel feverish and sick to my stomach.’

Theophania took his roughened hands and studied the palms, then poked a finger at his face and pulled down his lower lids to look at the whites of his eyes. ‘Your member stings when you pass water, eh? Have you been with dirty whores this past few weeks?’

He denied it vigorously, but the old wife sniffed her disbelief as she went to a shelf and took down a small earthenware cup. ‘Here, piss into this, while I cut a lock of your hair.’

This was not what Edward was expecting, but he fumbled under his short tunic to loosen the strings of his leggings. Turning his back to her, he held the cup to his loins, while the uncaring crone took a small knife and, with some difficulty, hacked off a small bunch of his cropped hair. He turned round and handed her the filled cup, some embarrassment showing even on the hard face of this rough workman. As he struggled to put his clothing back in place, she opened the door and carelessly threw most of the urine out into the lane, keeping back only an inch in the bottom of the cup. As he watched, she dropped the sample of hair into it, then went to a table in the corner where a candle was burning. She held the cup over it for a few moments until it boiled, the stench in the room becoming even more pungent. Looking into the cup, she muttered something to herself, then set it on the table while she rummaged among pots on the shelf above. Selecting one, she tipped a small quantity of brown powder from it into the cup.

‘What’s that, mother?’ the customer grunted suspiciously, afraid that she was going to ask him to drink the mixture.

‘Soil from a fresh grave, man. It has certain powers that we need.’ With a piece of holly stick, she stirred the concoction, mumbling to herself. Then she advanced on him, holding the cup and stick. Edward recoiled, but she reached out and grabbed his tunic. ‘Lift this up out of the way, if you want to be cured!’ she snapped.

Apprehensively, he hoisted his garment to expose his grubby belly, but was relieved to discover that all Theophania did was to dip the stick in the fluid and make a wide cross on his stomach with the odorous liquid. She repeated this three times, muttering incomprehensible rhymes under her breath. Then she repeated the process on his forehead, before pressing the warm cup into his hand.

‘Go to the cathedral and tip some drops at the north, south, east and west of the Close, saying the paternoster each time. Understand?’

He nodded, uncaring of what she told him, as his mission was nothing to do with his imaginary symptoms.

She reached for another jar on her shelf and tipped some dried flakes of crushed leaves into a scrap of cloth, which she folded and pressed into his hand. ‘Mix a pinch of these in a cup of ale each morning for five days. Say prayers to five saints each day — and keep away from unclean harlots!’ Holding out her hand for two pence, she opened the door and sent him out into the street.

The next morning, Matilda was still sulking with her husband, refusing to speak to him at the early morning meal. He had thought about taking Nesta’s oblique advice and assuaging his wife’s displeasure by at least going through the motions of holding an inquest on the death of Robert de Pridias, but his stubborn faith in the legal processes that existed in the name of his king, prevented him from carrying this through. He decided that he preferred to suffer the familiar scowls and snubs at home, rather than twist the law to his own personal advantage.

When he went up to Rougemont after breakfast, he heard from the constable, his friend Ralph Morin, that Gilbert de Bosco had visited the sheriff to demand that secular charges be brought against Alice Ailward. Although Richard de Revelle had perhaps unwisely promised his support for Gilbert’s crusade, he was unable to find any specific grounds on which to arraign the woman before either the Shire Court or the royal justices, but promised the canon that he would take legal advice when he went to Winchester the following week.

Ralph Morin said that de Bosco went away in a huff, promising to bring Alice before an ecclesiastical court without delay and, if possible, hand her over to the secular authorities for sentencing. ‘The bloody man sees advancement for himself in all this,’ growled the constable, over a mug of ale in the hall of the castle keep. ‘I hear that he has the bishop on his side, but maybe you know more about what goes on down in that nest of vipers around the cathedral.’

John promised to find out what he could from the archdeacon, as this issue was rapidly dividing opinion and heating tempers throughout the city. Although the subject of witchcraft had previously been ignored, since the canon had interfered, it was now as if a wasps’ nest had been poked with a stick. Conflicting opinions were being voiced all over the city and it was the main topic of gossip in both the alehouses and the churches.

Meanwhile, another matter claimed the coroner’s attention, one which potentially held more satisfaction for him. This was the arrival of the treasure chest from Cadbury, which Gwyn had escorted back to Exeter the previous evening and which now rested in the constable’s chamber, at the opposite end of the hall from the sheriff’s quarters.

‘Does he know about it yet?’ asked de Wolfe.

The big warrior grinned over his forked beard. ‘I’ve left that pleasure to you, John! I thought you would enjoy seeing his face when you tell him.’

‘Did you look inside the box?’

Ralph held up his hands in mock horror. ‘No damned fear! I’m keeping well out of this one, knowing de Revelle’s love affair with money. I left the chest exactly as your man brought it, tied up with cords and locked in a box. And I kept a man on the door all night, just to safeguard myself.’

De Wolfe finished his ale and with a grim smile of anticipation, loped to the door of the sheriff’s chamber, at the end of the hall nearest the entrance. As usual, he marched in without ceremony and planted himself in front of Richard’s table, hands on hips. For once, de Revelle was alone, without the clerks that normally buzzed around him like flies, waving their parchments for his attention.

The sheriff, who was signing warrants for this week’s hangings, looked up and sighed when he saw his brother-in-law. ‘Do you still stubbornly refuse to enquire into the death of Robert de Pridias, John? I suspect that this sorcerer woman that is being held by the proctors may be the one that did the deed.’

John smiled his lopsided smile. ‘Yet I hear that you decline to arraign her, Richard! Very sensible, I think — you would have some difficulty in devising criminal charges in the absence of any evidence. Try that on the royal judges and they’ll lock you up!’

De Revelle’s narrow face flushed with annoyance. ‘We’ll see what the consistory court thinks of the matter first. Was there something you wanted?’

His tone was deliberately offensive, as if his visitor were some minor clerk, rather than the next most senior law officer in the county.

John ignored this, savouring the moment he had been anticipating. ‘I was in Cadbury yesterday, Richard. I believe that you have leased that manor to Robert Hereward of Somerset.’

The sheriff nodded absently, still signing his documents.

‘A pity you didn’t keep it, for at least twenty pounds’ worth of gold and silver was dug up there a few days ago!’

The quill went down on the table with a smack as Richard’s head jerked up. He stared incredulously at his wife’s husband. ‘Treasure? Twenty pounds? On my land?’

‘It’s not your land, Richard. You leased it for five years to Robert Hereward. In any case, the value goes to the King. I held an inquest yesterday and declared it treasure trove, though possibly the Chief Justiciar may award some part of it to Hereward.’

De Revelle jumped up from his chair, every nerve in his body vibrating at the thought of so much money. ‘Nonsense, all that should be mine. You idiot, what right had you to declare it treasure trove? It must have been carelessly lost on my estate and must all be mine, by right of tenure.’

His previously flushed face was now pale with fear at the likelihood of losing such riches and he came from behind his table to pace agitatedly across the chamber. ‘Where is this find now? I must see it and claim it before any is stolen!’

John hovered over him as he came close, a head taller and as dark and sombre as the peacock-attired sheriff was gaudy. ‘It’s quite safe, Ralph has it locked away. But the money — and a big gold brooch — is not yours, Richard, so calm yourself! It was not lost, it is ancient metal, all being of Saxon origin. It was obviously hidden at the time of our conquest.’

Although not a vindictive man, John savoured another opportunity to crow over his brother-in-law, who had so often cheated and embezzled the people of Devon, apart from his devious plotting against his own sovereign. But de Revelle was so obsessed by the thought of such a large hoard of gold and silver being found on what he considered to be his own land that nothing would divert him from seeing it. He hurried to the door and flung it open. ‘You say it is with the constable? Is it safe? I must see it!’

With John ambling behind him, trying to suppress his glee, the sheriff stalked into the hall, pushing aside the clerks, men-at-arms and merchants who were in his way as he made straight for the constable’s door. Morin’s chamber was more an armoury than an office, as unlike the sheriff, he was as illiterate as the coroner. When the door crashed open, he looked up from his conversation with Sergeant Gabriel to see de Revelle, resplendent in a bright green tunic, searching the room with his eyes.

‘Where is it? Is it in that chest?’ De Revelle focused on a large battered trunk under the window slit, made of oaken boards and secured with a massive padlock. It was twice the size of the aumbry in Cadbury church and was used by Ralph for keeping the pay for the men-at-arms. Exeter had always been a royal castle, not the fief of a baron, which was why it was administered by a constable appointed directly by the King’s Council, who sent the coin for the soldiers’ wages down from Winchester. But the sheriff, often jealous of Morin’s relative autonomy, was not interested today in politics, but in beautiful, shiny money.

‘Open it up, it must be given into my safe-keeping!’ he barked.

The constable threw a questioning glance at de Wolfe, who shrugged and then nodded. Ralph had no reason to refuse, though knowing de Revelle only too well he felt a certain reluctance to let him get his hands on anything valuable. Grudgingly, he took a small key from the scrip on his belt and handed it to the grizzled sergeant, who went to a locked cupboard on the wall and took out a much larger key, with which he opened the padlock. Thrusting Gabriel aside almost before he had lifted the heavy lid, the sheriff peered inside, then hauled out the old box by the cords that bound it and dropped it on the floor. Watched silently by the others, his fingers scrabbled at the knots and he pulled off the remains of the lid with shaking hands. The sight of a mass of glinting silver and gold seemed to hypnotise de Revelle and he let coins slide through his fingers as he dipped into the treasure. As he held up the golden brooch, John heard his breath whistling out in a hiss of admiration. Then abruptly, he slapped the top back on the box and hoisted it up into his arms, uncaring of the considerable weight.

‘This must be lodged in my chamber, where I can keep an eye on it!’

‘Don’t get any hopeful notions about it, Richard,’ warned de Wolfe. ‘That box and all its contents will have to be accounted for to the King or one of his ministers.’

‘This was found on my land! The fact that I temporarily sub-let to someone else makes no difference. I am the owner of that ground, held in fee simple.’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘Makes no odds who owns the land. Even if you can maintain your claim against Robert Hereward, you are still a tenant-in-chief of the King. It’s by that right that all treasure trove belongs to the crown.’

‘It’s mine, I tell you!’ howled the sheriff, clasping the box to his chest as if it were his first-born child. ‘It must have been lost on my property, it’s not treasure trove, damn you!’

He scuttled out of the room and hurried back to his own chamber, slamming the door behind him. The three military men looked at each other and sighed.

Although Sergeant Gabriel was not of their rank, he was an old and trusted servant. Their common bond of loyalty to the Lionheart and their mutual distrust of the sheriff gave him a privileged status in private. ‘I see trouble ahead over this, Crowner,’ he grunted.

Ralph Morin dropped on to a bench and pulled at his beard. ‘I trust you’ve got a detailed list of what’s in that bloody box? Just in case some of it takes a walk before it gets to Winchester.’

De Wolfe nodded. ‘I’ve got a written list, with witnesses. If any goes missing, we’ll know who to blame.’

Again that was something he later wished he had never said.

On that Tuesday morning, a woman walked out of the lanes behind St Mary Arches church into Fore Street and stopped while a large two-wheeled cart pulled by a pair of patient oxen lumbered past her. She was painfully thin and had a severe wry neck, her chin being pulled down and across almost to her opposite collar-bone. To look straight ahead, the poor soul had to swivel her eyes right up, giving her an expression of permanent questioning. Crossing the main thoroughfare, she made her way down through the lower town until she reached Idle Lane. With a couple of hours to go before noon, the Bush was quiet and Nesta was supervising her potman and maids as they changed the rushes on the floor. The Welsh woman prided herself on running the cleanest inn in Exeter, as well as the one with the best ale and food and insisted on changing the floor coverings every couple of weeks. The visitor stood at the door and watched as one of the maids dragged the old rushes into a pile, using a hay-rake made of wooden pegs fixed into a long cross-piece at the end of a handle. Old Edwin was using a pitchfork to load it on to a barrow, which was tipped on to the midden on the waste ground at the side of the tavern.

The woman, who looked about thirty, tapped on the panels of the open door and twisted her head to look across at the landlady. Nesta had seen her about the streets, but did not know her name. Coming across the taproom, she asked what she wanted, sympathy in her voice as she acknowledged the good-wife’s disability. Accustomed to using her deformity to the best advantage, the caller rolled her eyeballs even farther than necessary and managed to look piteously at the tavern-keeper.

‘My name is Heloise, wife of Will Giffard, a porter. I have several grave problems, good lady,’ she croaked. ‘But could we talk about them privately?’

Nesta already had a good idea what one of these problems might be and, having had the same dire trouble recently, was even more sympathetic than usual. ‘You’d better come up to the loft, away from these ruffians!’ Edwin and the maids had started an acrimonious shouting-match over who should push the barrow out to the midden and Nesta beckoned to the woman to follow her up the broad ladder to the upper floor. Here she led the way to a corner partitioned off from the rest of the spacious attic, where a dozen straw pallets were scattered around to accommodate lodgers.

Opening the door of the small room, she waved Heloise to a stool, while she sat on the edge of a wide bed. This was raised on legs, a rarity in Devon, where most folk slept on a pallet on the floor. The porter’s wife introduced herself in a sad and downcast manner, wringing the loose end of her shabby belt between her thin fingers.

‘I have heard that you have the gift of healing, mistress. I have three problems which ail me,’ she began, rolling her eyes upwards and sideways to keep Nesta in view. ‘Firstly, I have had this affliction of my neck since I was a child. Is there anything you can do to help me?’

Nesta smiled wanly at the woman, but shook her head sadly. ‘Much as my heart aches for you, Heloise, that is beyond me — and, I suspect, beyond even the most skilled physicians in the land. I have no special powers, you know — only what my mother and her sisters passed on to me when I was younger. They were just wise women in our village in Wales, we made no pretence at having anything more than a knowledge of common cures, passed down through the generations.’

The other woman tried to nod, though she could manage little more than a slight bobbing of her deflected head. ‘Then maybe you can do something about these?’

She held out her hands, palms down, and Nesta saw that on the backs of her fingers and knuckles were a dozen small but unsightly warts.

The Welsh woman smiled. This was one of the most frequent requests and there were literally dozens of recipes for curing warts, ranging from the mundane to the bizarre. She got up from her bed and reached up to a shelf on the wall, where a dozen small pots were arranged.

‘Take this, there’s enough left in the bottom. I must make some more, as warts seem rife in Exeter this year.’ She handed a pot to the bemused Heloise, who asked how to use it. ‘Rub some on the warts morning and night. It’s only willow bark pounded in vinegar, but it will rid you of those lumps in a fortnight. Better than some cures, like rubbing them with the blood of a beheaded eel, then burying the head in the churchyard!’

Nesta suspected that the first two requests were really excuses leading up to the real reason for her visit, although at the time she was unaware of the true nature of this deception. ‘And your third problem? Is it what I suspect?’

Her sister’s promise of a reward had improved Heloise’s acting ability. She dropped her twisted gaze in a parody of chagrin. ‘Yes, mistress, I am with child again. My poor body will not stand yet another carrying. It will kill me this time, as it almost did last year.’

This was a bare-faced lie, as she was totally barren, in spite of her husband’s incessant attempts to father a child on her. Nesta, mindful of her own very recent crisis, was full of sympathy, but this was one thing that she would never contemplate.

‘I cannot help you there either, good woman,’ she said softly. ‘I can help with warts and fevers and croup, but I have neither the skill nor the courage to rid you of that burden.’

Heloise offered no argument, but stood up and fingered the small purse that dangled by its draw-string from her belt. ‘What do I owe you for the ointment?’ she asked woodenly.

Nesta shook her head. ‘Nothing at all, I can make plenty more. Use it and rid your fingers of those abominations. I am only sorry I cannot do more for you on those other serious matters.’

Moments later, the porter’s wife had gone and Nesta went back to haranguing her servants, forgetting the woman’s visit almost immediately. But Heloise smirked as she threw away the pot of ointment as soon as she was around the corner of Idle Lane — the silver pennies she would get from her sister for acting out this charade could buy better medicine than willow in vinegar, even after she had bought her new shawl.

That evening, Matilda was in a neutral mood during supper, seeming to have exhausted her grumbling about his failure to further investigate the death of Robert de Pridias. However, she had heard about the unusual arrest of Alice Ailward by the cathedral proctors and scathingly remarked that it was good to hear that someone in the city was taking the menace of witchcraft seriously. Her husband rode out her criticism in silence, and when Mary had cleared away the debris of the meal, which tonight had been a rather tough boiled fowl, he announced that he was going down to visit the archdeacon.

As it was the truth — although he intended going on to the Bush afterwards — she could hardly complain about his attending upon such a senior man of God and as soon as she had lumbered up to her solar and the attentions of Lucille, he called Brutus and walked the few yards down Canons’ Row to the house of John de Alençon.

Leaving the dog to lie in the evening sun outside the door, he went inside to share a flask of wine with his friend. In the archdeacon’s spartan room they sat for a while, savouring the latest product of the Loire valley. This evening the coroner seemed to sense a certain excitement in his friend, as if he had good news which he was keeping in check. When he asked de Alençon whether he had something new to tell him, the canon’s lean face broke into a smile, but he tapped the side of his nose and told John to divulge his own business first.

‘Nothing pleasant, I’m afraid. I want to pick your ecclesiastical brain about this poor woman who was captured by your proctors.’

The archdeacon’s smile faded. ‘Ah, Gilbert de Bosco! I knew that man would cause more trouble.’

‘Does he have the right and the authority to arrest a woman and cast her into a cell?’

The priest sipped his wine and replaced the pewter cup carefully on the table between them. ‘You should really ask, who is there to stop him? It seems your brother-in-law didn’t object. I presume the bishop could intervene, but he also seems happy to sit on the same wagon which is rolling on this matter.’

‘Can you do nothing about it yourself?’

De Alençon shook his head slowly. ‘Gilbert de Bosco is a canon of this cathedral, just like myself. My post as Archdeacon of Exeter involves administering the priests of the churches in this part of the diocese — it gives me no authority over my fellow-canons.’

‘What about the authority of the chapter?’

‘It’s none of their business, as it does not concern the running of the cathedral. Gilbert de Bosco has done this in his own capacity as a priest, not as a canon. Chapter has no say in diocesan affairs, they are solely the prerogative of the bishop.’

There was a silence as each man pondered over his wine.

‘So what is the attitude of the Church to allegations of witchcraft?’ asked John, still worrying at the problem.

The other John shrugged his narrow shoulders within his cassock. ‘Until now, I was not aware it had one! Though it condemns heresy and generally frowns upon anything which is ungodly, the question of witchcraft has never formally arisen here, until this interfering Gilbert made it an issue.’

‘What will happen to this unfortunate woman, now that de Bosco has her in his clutches?’

‘I presume he will cause her to be brought before the consistory court, as I fail to see what other measures can be taken.’

He refilled his friend’s cup and then his own.

‘Tell me about this court of yours — how does it operate?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘The Holy Church is jealous of its independence from earthly princes and misses no chance to assert that autonomy,’ began the archdeacon, making his guest wonder whether he was to launch into a sermon.

‘Thomas Becket went too far down that road!’ grunted de Wolfe.

‘Yes, and remember how Rome made old King Henry pay for that! In fact, he had to reconfirm the right of the Church to keep all its clerics from the secular courts and try them itself in the consistory courts. William the Bastard himself established those with a charter at the time of the Conquest.’

‘Your lot keep these bishop’s courts very close to your chest! We laymen never get to know what goes on in them,’ complained the coroner.

‘There’s no secret about them, John. We just don’t like washing our dirty linen too publicly. They are convened as required in every diocese on the order of its bishop.’

‘Does he adjudicate in them himself?’

The priest gave a wry smile. ‘Good heavens, no! A bishop is too high and mighty to concern himself with such matters, which often involve dull charters or drunken and licentious clerks. He appoints a chancellor to run the proceedings, aided by the proctors and some senior priests.’

‘So could Henry Marshal appoint Gilbert de Bosco as chancellor?’

De Alençon nodded. ‘There is no reason why not — and if I read the politics of the situation right, it seems a distinct possibility.’

The coroner grimaced, though not because of the wine he had just sipped. ‘Very convenient for them! And does this bishop’s court have jurisdiction over all matters, even this ridiculous accusation against this Alice Ailward?’

‘It would be a strange remit for a consistory court, which normally deals with disciplinary matters concerning the clergy, as well as a host of legal affairs to do with Church property, charters, contracts and anything touching upon the internal administration of the diocese.’

John de Wolfe continued to worry away at the issue like a dog with a bone, sensing that the bishop, sheriff and some of the canons were manipulating this situation for their own devious ends. ‘If it is so dedicated to Church affairs, how then can it be used against the common people?’

De Alençon once more topped up their cups before replying. ‘We live in a Christian state, John, where all our activities are, at least in theory, governed by the tenets of the Church. Even kings and emperors wield their power at the behest of Rome, much as they kick against the pricks at every opportunity.’

De Wolfe felt another sermon approaching, but his friend came rapidly to the point.

‘The King’s peace and the secular courts govern most of the lives of people not in holy orders, but the canon law which rules we clerics reaches out over everyone when it comes to matters of faith. I have seen the ecclesiastical courts deal with offences such as blasphemy committed by the lay public and have heard of trials for heresy elsewhere, though admittedly they are uncommon.’

De Wolfe digested this before asking his last question. ‘So are you saying that the only charge that could be brought against an alleged witch is one of heresy?’

The archdeacon rubbed the curly grey hair that rimmed his tonsure as if goading his brain into action. ‘No, for the consistory court to find guilt they must be convinced that some form of criminal damage has been caused, even if it’s only the death of a pig or the failure of a cow to give milk. But no doubt idolatry, apostasy, sacrilege, blasphemy, disobedience to the true God and following other gods — in this case the Devil — could be squeezed into the arraignment, if the evidence warranted it.’

‘Evidence!’ snorted de Wolfe. ‘From what I’ve heard, it is a pack of scandalous lies, deliberately whipped up for some underhand reason.’

‘We can only wait on events, John. Let us tackle each problem as it arises — though I fear that this case will not be the last.’

As if to turn the tenor of the conversation in another direction, the canon poured them both more wine and settled back in his hard chair with a smile. ‘After all that gloomy talk, John, I have something more pleasant to tell you. It concerns your clerk, my nephew Thomas de Peyne.’

John’s black eyebrows rose. For months he had been trying to find some way of restoring Thomas to better spirits, as the little clerk had sunk to such depths of despondency that he had even tried to kill himself by jumping from the roof of the cathedral nave. His hopes of re-entering holy orders after his unfrocking two years earlier, had been repeatedly blocked by senior priests, mainly as a gesture against his master’s steadfast adherence to King Richard and his dogged opposition to the cause of Prince John.

‘You have news that he might be received back into his beloved Church?’

De Alençon raised a hand to cool his friend’s eagerness. ‘We are not there yet, John, but I have had encouraging words from Winchester. In fact I heard some weeks ago that there were certain enquiries going on there, but I held my tongue until I had further details, not wanting to raise false hopes in Thomas’s breast.’

‘So what have you heard?’ demanded John impatiently. He found the archdeacon almost as slow in imparting information as the infuriating Gwyn.

‘We all know that Thomas was accused by a girl being taught her letters by him, in the school attached to the cathedral there. She claimed that he made indecent advances to her, and as she had influential parents in the city, the whole thing was blown up into insinuations of attempted rape.’

‘Bloody nonsense. That feeble little fellow hasn’t got it in him,’ growled the coroner. ‘It was her word against his!’

‘Be that as it may, she’s done it again,’ said the archdeacon. ‘She recently entered a priory there as a novice and last month accused one of the lay brothers of interfering with her. But this time, unknown to her, there were two witnesses who swear that no such thing occurred. When challenged by the prioress, she broke down and confessed that she was lying.’

De Wolfe thumped the table with his fist, making the wine cups rattle. ‘Ha! So now you think Thomas’s disgrace might also be challenged?’

John de Alençon smiled his sweet smile. ‘Matters have already gone farther than that. Thankfully, someone there remembered the allegations against him and told the prioress. She taxed this girl with it and in her shame and remorse she also recanted her accusations against my sad little nephew.’

The coroner smacked his hands together in delight. ‘This calls for another cup of your excellent Poitou red, John! What happens next?’

‘I have already sent a message to the proctors in Winchester and to several of the canons whom I know, as well as to the chancellor of the court which found him guilty. I will be going there myself in a few weeks, and will pursue the matter vigorously.’

‘Have you given the good news to Thomas yet?’

‘No, I thought I would leave that to you, as he seems so devoted to his master. When you agreed to my suggestion that you take him on as your clerk, you earned his lifelong gratitude, John.’

‘Well, the poor fellow was destitute and nearly starving. What else could I do?’ grunted the coroner.

‘You are too modest, my friend. Under that craggy shell you call a body, there is a compassionate heart. But when you tell my nephew of this, impress on him that there is still some way to go before he can expect to hear anything of being received back into the religious fold. Though Winchester might be amenable, nothing has changed here in Exeter, where you have stubborn adversaries, John.’

De Wolfe finished his wine and stood up to leave. ‘I’ll be circumspect in what I tell him — but the poor fellow needs to have some hope in his life, so I’ll give him the news in the morning. Meanwhile, keep an eye on this mad canon and let me know if he gets up to any further mischief!’

As John had expected, the next morning Thomas went into ecstasies of delight when his master gave him a cautious account of the archdeacon’s news. The bluff Gwyn, whose teasing of the little clerk was a cloak for his affection and concern, was equally rapturous. He seized Thomas by the waist and held him squealing over his head in their chamber in the castle gatehouse.

Back on the floor, Thomas alternated between laughing, crying and crossing himself. ‘My constant prayers have been answered, Crowner! Truth will out in the end. May God forgive that girl for the torment she has caused me!’

As Gwyn dived for his cider jar and mugs to celebrate, de Wolfe wagged a finger at his clerk in mock admonishment. ‘As your uncle told you at the time, God also sent you a message when you tried to end your own life! See now how you were saved for better things.’

John had no real conviction regarding the power of prayer — his religious beliefs were born of childhood conditioning and adult conventions — but knowing of Thomas’s strong faith, he pandered to the spirit of the moment. He was referring to the failure of Thomas’s attempt to kill himself when his forty-foot fall had been broken by his gown being snagged on a projection halfway down. The archdeacon had prudently impressed on his nephew that this was a heavenly sign that he was meant to survive and not try felo de se again.

In spite of his dislike of cider, the joy of the moment caused Thomas to join the others in a celebratory drink and over the rim of the grubby pot he looked with dog-like affection at these two large, gruff men who had saved his life in more ways than one.

‘Even when I am reordained, Crowner, I shall continue to serve you. I owe you everything and I can only try to repay you by giving you what little help my poor brain and my pen can offer!’

De Wolfe gave one of his throat rumbles to cover what came too close to a display of emotion to suit him. He scowled and gave his clerk a ferocious glare from under his heavy brows.

‘We’ll see about that, Thomas, when the time comes. This will not be a hasty business, but when you are restored to your true status, we will discuss it again, together with your uncle.’

He tossed down the rest of his drink in a gesture of finality, while a grinning Gwyn gleefully regarded his little friend’s suppressed delight. ‘I’ll be the first to come and take confession with you, Thomas — to tell you what a feeble little turd I think you are, who can’t even get your leg across a horse, let alone a woman!’ His tone removed any offence from the teasing words and, to confirm his affection, he gave the clerk a slap on the back that almost knocked the former priest off his stool.

De Wolfe glowered at them. ‘That’s enough, you pair of fools. Let’s get back to work.’