The Witch Hunter (24 page)

The words were music to Gilbert’s ears and he had a momentary vision of himself with mitre and crozier if this campaign went as planned.

‘In what way were you wronged?’

Emelota launched into the story that Walter Winstone had concocted. She told how she had visited Jolenta of Ide in order to get help in ridding herself of the barrenness that had afflicted her womb these past three years, as her husband was becoming impatient at the lack of further sons. The bizarre imagination of the apothecary led her to describe how Jolenta had caused the room to be plunged into darkness, with rolls of thunder and flickering red lights, accompanied by a smell of burning sulphur. Then wicked imps appeared, climbing up her legs and tearing at her clothing, as the witch screamed invocations to Satan and all the fallen angels. Then, after Jolenta had demanded payment of five pence, she promised Emelota that she would be with child within two months. Since then, she had been visited several times at midnight by a horned incubus, who had ravished her during her sleep – and now she was afraid that if she did fall pregnant, the child would be the by-blow of the Devil.

Incredible as this story was, the eager canon welcomed it gladly, uncaring of whether it was true or not, as long as it gave him further ammunition for his chosen crusade. It seemed that his campaign to stir up the population was bearing fruit, especially his exhortations to the parish priests to whip up animosity through their sermons.

‘Can you take me to this evil woman?’ he demanded, thrusting his big, florid face towards the obsequious complainant.

‘Indeed I can, sir. The village is but a mile or two beyond the West Gate.’

Even the prospect of a new denunciation of a sorcerer was insufficient to keep Gilbert from his dinner, as the prospect of salmon poached in butter and boiled bacon with new beans easily overcame his crusading enthusiasm.

‘We will go there in two hours, good-wife. Be back here then and when we return from Ide I will exorcise these unclean spirits from your poor abused body.’

As he sat down to his meal, he sent servants to fetch two of the proctor’s men and a brace of horses, so that when they set out for Ide, Emelota was perched side-saddle upon a pony led on a halter by one of the other riders.

After splashing through the ford over the Exe and making a short ride through country lanes, they reached the hamlet of Ide. De Bosco recalled with satisfaction that it belonged to Bishop Henry Marshal, which made things much easier for him, not having to deal with some possibly obstinate manor-lord. His first action when he reined up in the small village was to send for the reeve, who quickly arrived in company with the bailiff, who was doing his rounds of the manor that day.

Gilbert quickly established his authority over the men. ‘I am Canon Gilbert de Bosco, here on behalf of the Lord Bishop, who has appointed me chancellor of his consistory court.’

The two men were unsure as to what all this meant, but they were not prepared to challenge anything the canon might say, if he was the spokesman for their lord, who had the power of life and death over them.

‘I am here to deal with a sorcerer in your midst, a woman called Jolenta,’ bellowed de Bosco, sliding from his horse.

The jaws of the bailiff and reeve sagged in dismay and several villagers who had drifted in to eavesdrop on the group began muttering among themselves.

‘Jolenta, Your Reverence? But she is a good woman, one of the most useful in the manor,’ protested the bailiff.

‘That’s no concern of yours, fellow. Just tell me where she lives.’

His tone reminded the local officials again that they had no power to obstruct this emissary of their lord and master and, reluctantly, the reeve pointed to a cottage just along the tiny street.

‘That’s the one, sir,’ called Emelota, climbing down from her unaccustomed perch on her steed, an experience with which she would be able to regale her envious neighbours when she got home. With the locals looking anxiously on, the two proctor’s men and a pair of Gilbert’s own servants marched ahead of him towards the dwelling, with Emelota trailing along behind. They were followed by a sullen and apprehensive score of villagers, who had been attracted by the unusual activity in the sleepy hamlet.

The pattern of the assault on Theophania’s house was followed again, as the proctors rudely pushed open the front door and thrust themselves inside. As Gilbert followed, they found Jolenta at a table, pounding herbs in a mortar, a small cauldron of scented water bubbling on a trivet over the fire-pit beside her. She swung round, her handsome face indignant at this rude intrusion. As she protested, the canon swung his saddle-crop along a shelf of pots, bringing them crashing to the floor. ‘Miserable witch, your den is full of the signs of corruption!’ he bellowed. ‘We know of the pacts you make with the spirits of evil. You should be ashamed of your denunciation of the true God!’

Jolenta’s face paled, but her spirit remained strong as she loudly denied his charges and challenged the priest to prove anything against her.

‘Here’s proof, you miserable hag!’ he yelled, spittle appearing at the corners of his mouth as he gestured at Emelota. ‘I doubt you recall this woman, amongst all the poor souls you have defiled – she is but one of those whose mind and body you have fouled with your evil spirits. She will testify as to your pacts with Satan and all your other evil works!’

He pushed his informant forward and shook her by the shoulder. ‘Is this the witch you told me of, eh?’

Emelota avoided the eyes of the other woman, but nodded her head.

Jolenta looked at her treacherous client and sighed resignedly. ‘You too, poor woman? Now I know how Jesus Christ felt when he met Judas Iscariot.’

The canon was ablaze with wrath. ‘How do your dare utter the name of the Blessed Christ with those same fornicating lips that called up Beelzebub from the Pit?’

He motioned to the proctor’s thugs with his crop. They moved forward, seized Jolenta’s arms and hustled her to the door, where her cobbler father had joined the reeve, bailiff and a crowd of neighbours in growling at these intruders from the city.

Confident in his righteous indignation, Canon Gilbert thrust past the crowd, his bulk and clerical robe dissuading anyone from resisting him. But there were guarded snarls and murmurings of discontent as the woman was hauled out into the road to where the horses were being held by another of the canon’s servants.

‘What’s happening, sir?’ asked the bailiff, the one whose relative seniority gave him the nerve to question the priest. ‘Our Jolenta is a good woman, we need her in the village.’

Gilbert, even redder in the face than usual with all the excitement, put a large foot in a stirrup and swung himself up on to his mare. ‘If she is innocent, then the law will find her so.’

‘But she should be brought before the manor court here, sir, not dragged away like this,’ objected the bailiff mulishly.

In his anger, Gilbert almost swung his crop against the man’s face, but managed to restrain himself. ‘You forget this is the bishop’s manor – and you are his servant. I am taking her to another of his courts in the cathedral, so mind your own business or there will be ill times for you!’

With this manipulation of the law, and with silent thanks that Jolenta had not been in another vill with an independent lord, the canon pulled his horse’s head around and set off down the track. Slowly, the cavalcade moved off behind him, with Emelota once more perched sideways on her palfrey and poor Jolenta walking behind one of the proctor’s horses, her wrists tied and roped to its saddle.

The news of the lynching spread around the city like fire on a parched moorland and by mid-afternoon, very few in Exeter were unaware of the events at the Snail Tower. As before, the citizens were divided into two camps, those who thought it was a scandalous crime and those who felt that justice was being done in the most effective manner.

In the last group was, of course, the apothecary Walter Winstone. He was surprised by the turn of events, as his intention had been to repeat the subterfuge he had used with Alice Ailward and Jolenta of Ide, by denouncing Theophania to Canon Gilbert. He had been unaware that Edward Bigge’s drinking had led to her premature dispatch, but his delight was none the less intense. Now three of these pestilent people had been crushed, and after the rest of his plans had come to fruition, there would be a powerful message sent to others to keep their noses out of his business.

Meanwhile, he had another scheme that he wished to launch, one born out of revenge and vindictiveness, as well as monetary gain. Within hours of hearing of Theophania’s death and Jolenta’s arrest, he set about putting his blackmailing plan into operation. Leaving his runny-nosed apprentice to mind the shop, with threats of dire consequences if the lad failed in any way, Walter limped along the high street in the direction of the East Gate, near which Henry de Hocforde had his grand house. As he pushed through the throng in the narrow streets, where most of the folk were gossiping and arguing about the dramatic affair down in Bretayne, he reviewed his plan of action.

To someone so devoted to wealth as Walter, the arrogance of de Hocforde in demanding the return of his money after claiming that the apothecary had failed to kill Robert de Pridias was anathema itself. Since being forced to hand back the mass of silver pennies, he had racked his devious mind for a way to get his own back – literally – and he finally came up with what he considered to be a fool-proof scheme. His first action had been to bribe de Hocforde’s butler into disclosing which cunning person had been employed to put a curse on de Pridias and to make the straw effigy that had been found by the coroner’s officer. Although the man was reluctant at first, Walter was desperate enough to increase his bribe until the butler gave way, after reassurances that the apothecary merely wished to employ the services of such a successful witch.

As the servant palmed two shillings’ worth of pennies under the table in the New Inn, where they met for their intrigue, he finally disclosed the name. ‘It was Elias Trempole, who lives at the top of Fore Street.’

‘A man, not a cunning woman?’ said Walter in some surprise, as he usually associated witches with the female gender.

‘No, he’s a wizard, though some still call him a witch. He works as a tally-clerk in my master’s fulling mill. His sorcery is but a profitable sideline, it seems.’

As the apothecary walked purposefully towards de Hocforde’s house in Raden Lane, the most affluent part of Exeter, he rehearsed again in his mind how he was going to use this knowledge. Unless the mill-owner returned his fee, he would denounce Elias Trempole to the witch-hunting canon, on the grounds that he had been employed by Henry de Hocforde to bring about the death of de Pridias. Walter calculated that Henry would reckon that the threat of being involved in a conspiracy to murder was not worth a pouch of silver coins, which he could easily afford. And so it transpired, for at the short interview at the door of Henry’s house, the owner listened calmly to the apothecary’s demand.

‘You will have heard that a witch was hanged by the outraged citizens, barely a few hours ago,’ blustered Walter. ‘There are high feelings running against such evil people – and also against those who employ them!’ he added, as a final thrust.

The tall, imposing figure standing at the door of his mansion nodded gravely. ‘Very well, perhaps I was somewhat harsh with you previously – after all, the fellow is dead, whoever brought it about. Be at your shop this evening and I’ll send a servant around with the money.’

With that he closed the door in Walter’s face, but the apothecary was too pleased with his success to be concerned at the other man’s rudeness and limped away, savouring the thought of the imminent replenishment of his money chest.

As had happened a number of times before, a storeroom at St Nicholas’ Priory was commandeered as a mortuary, especially as the monastic establishment was not far from the tragic scene, being at the upper edge of Bretayne. The priory was small, with a prior and eight monks living in a cramped building, which belonged to Battle Abbey in Sussex, founded by the first King William on the very site of his conquest of Harold and his Saxons.

But there were no thoughts of such history as the corpse of Theophania Lawrence was brought in and laid to rest on trestles in the small room that had hastily been cleared of garden tools and old furniture. Several of the local inhabitants, including a few close neighbours of the old woman, had carried her up from the town wall on a door removed from a nearby house, escorted by the coroner and his group. It was Gwyn who had gently taken down the pathetic body from the sconce, untying the rope that had been thrown over it and lashed to the ring-handle of the door of the Snail Tower. Both he and the coroner had urgently looked for any signs of life, having had experience of some remarkable recoveries in their violent careers. But this time there was no doubt that the old woman was dead, even though she was still quite warm and her limbs supple, the shameful deed having been perpetrated only a few minutes before they arrived.

A middle-aged widow, a neighbour of the dead woman, chaperoned them as the body was laid out on the boards of the trestles. Tears trickled down her rosy cheeks as she arranged Theophania’s hands over her chest in an attitude of prayer.

‘It’s a scandal, she was a good enough woman. She would do her best to heal any ills that people brought to her – and often took not a ha’penny in return.’ She sniffed back her tears. ‘Maybe now and then she might help some poor girl who was in the family way – and she was not above a spell to curdle someone’s milk if they had fallen foul of her. But she never deserved this, poor soul! This is murder, so what are you going to do about it, Crowner?’

A good question, de Wolfe thought. He would have to hold an inquest, but every member of the lynch-mob had run away as he arrived at the scene. It was true that some of the neighbours could identify a few faces in the crowd, but no one knew – or would say – who the ringleaders were and who had actually hauled her up by the neck over the torch bracket. Edward Bigge was clearly named as denouncing Theophania, but that was not proof that he had been involved in her execution. John also knew that the folk in Bretyane were no lovers of the law officers and would suffer torture before they would disclose anything – apart from the fact that any informer would be at great risk of retribution from the other rioters.