The Witch Hunter (21 page)

‘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.’

Like Alphington, the village of Ide was within sight of Exeter, across the river to the west. Belonging to a manor owned by the bishop, it was a rather obscure hamlet with no claims to any fame, other than having a cunning woman with a wide reputation for her healing powers. Her name was Jolenta and she was no old crone, but a handsome woman of about thirty years. Her mother and her grandmother had both the same name and a similar reputation for their gifts, being consulted not only by supplicants from neighbouring villages, but even from the city itself.

Jolenta was unmarried, an unusual state for a good-looking woman, preferring to keep house for her father, who was the village cobbler and harness-maker. Her mother had died five years earlier and she was content to live quietly, adding the few pennies she made from her potions and liniments to the wage her father earned from his leather-work.

On the morning that Thomas de Peyne was rejoicing about the news from Winchester, a cart drawn by two sturdy oxen rumbled slowly into the village and followed the only street until it reached a small wooden bridge over a stream. Here, where the road bent to the left, it stopped outside the only alehouse to let off a man and a woman who had hitched a ride on the back. The cart was empty, having returned from taking a load of vegetables into Exeter at dawn, for sale in the markets. Having thanked the driver, the man vanished into the tavern, leaving his wife standing uncertainly at the edge of the dusty road. A moment later, he reappeared, having received directions, and, grabbing her arm, he pointed to a shack almost opposite, which had head-collars and girths for oxen hanging alongside the door.

‘Now do exactly what I told you!’ hissed Edward Bigge into her ear and, with a quick push to set her on her way, he vanished back into the doorway to fortify himself with ale.

Reluctantly, Emelota Bigge crossed the road and rapped on the panels of the open door. A strong smell of tanned leather wafted out at her as the tapping of a hammer ceased and a man came from the depths of the workshop. He was in late middle age and had a lined face surmounted by an almost bald head. Rubbing his calloused hands on the long leather apron that was hung around his neck, he asked what she wanted.

‘I was told that a wise woman called Jolenta lived here,’ she said, with partly feigned trepidation. The older man stared at her, taking in her worn kirtle of faded brown wool and the Saxon-style head-rail of frayed white linen that came down low on her forehead. Sometimes, rich women came here from the city, but he calculated that this one would be good for only a couple of pennies. He jerked a thumb along the front of the whitewashed building. ‘There’s a door on the other end. She’s in there cooking my dinner.’

He turned back to his hammering and Emelota walked past the blank face of the cottage to the end. Her husband had promised her five pence for a new dress if she did what she was told, as the apothecary had told him that for the fee he had paid for Edward to implicate Theophania Lawrence, he also expected the participation of Edward’s wife. Around the corner, she found a garden with a goat and a milk cow tethered and some rows of vegetables growing in the croft behind. It was something of a luxury for a dwelling to have two doors, but she reasoned that Jolenta wanted to keep her sorcerer’s business separate from her father’s cobbling.

This time her knocking on the door was answered by a good-looking dark woman about her own age, with her hair hanging in two braids down the yellow kirtle that accentuated her full bosom and narrow waist. Jolenta looked almost too well groomed for an obscure village like Ide, and Emelota guessed that she must have a healthy trade in customers for her magical talents. Following the story with which Edward had primed her, his wife explained that she was from Exeter and that she had heard that Jolenta was expert in retrieving missing valuables.

‘What is it you have lost?’ Jolenta asked, inviting Emelota into the relative gloom of the cottage. It seemed clean and tidy, although barely furnished with a couple of stools, a bench and a table, at which Jolenta had been preparing some food.

‘I fear it has been stolen by one of my neighbours – but I need to know which one, so that my husband can confront him with the theft.’

Jolenta took in the shabby clothes of her visitor and wondered what she could have possessed of any value. ‘So what is it that has vanished?’

‘A silver belt buckle that was left me by my mother, God rest her soul,’ said Emelota piously, although in fact her mother was hale and hearty and lived next door to her. ‘My father was a miner on the moor and over the years collected enough silver from among the lead to fashion a good heavy buckle. It is the only thing of value I possess and must be worth several shillings, but it disappeared last week from the place in my dwelling where I hide it. Only a few neighbours knew anything of it.’