The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Anyone could have stolen the cloth or even just torn a piece from it,’ volunteered Roger, anxious to back up his mother-in-law’s case.

  ‘What about the hair?’ objected Gwyn.

  ‘My husband was very particular about his appearance,’ snapped the widow. ‘Every few weeks, he used to attend the barber who keeps a stool outside St Petroc’s Church. Any evil person could lie in wait and then pick up some trimmings from the ground as they pass.’

  This woman has an answer for everything, thought John peevishly, but he admitted that he could not fault her explanations.

  ‘And who do you think was responsible for this flummery?’ he demanded, still obstinately opposed to giving any credence to Cecilia’s convictions.

  ‘You’re the law officer, it’s your job to discover that!’ she retorted. ‘But whoever did the actual deed was but an agent of the true culprit, that devil Henry de Hocforde.’

  They argued the issue back and forth, the mother and daughter becoming more and more shrill and vituperative as the coroner dug in his heels more deeply and refused to hold an inquest.

  ‘How can I assemble a score of men here as a jury to examine a corpse without so much as a pinprick upon him and ask them to decide if he was murdered?’

  ‘Most sensible men believe in the powers of cunning women,’ railed Cecilia. ‘They see it often enough in spells for good weather, for fertile cattle, foretelling fortunes, banishing the murrain in their livestock and the like! So why are you so set against what is common knowledge to most people?’

  The reeve was nodding his agreement and John could sense that even Gwyn, who came from the fairy-ridden land of Cornwall, was disinclined to dismiss the widow’s claims. However, de Wolfe remained adamant, as he could not square this situation with the letter of the law, which he had sworn to uphold on behalf of his hero, King Richard the Lionheart. He held up his hand to try to stem the torrent of indignation that was still pouring from the lady’s lips.

  ‘That’s my last word, madam. Bring me some concrete proof that your husband was done to death and I’ll surely listen. But until then, I suggest you try to come to terms with your grief and set your unfortunate husband to rest in the cathedral Close as soon as can be arranged, given this hot weather.’

  With this practical advice, he beckoned to Gwyn and made for the door and his horse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In which Crowner John meets the archdeacon

  When John de Wolfe went home to his wife that evening, he decided that attack was the best form of defence against what he could foresee would be a burning issue when Cecilia de Pridias next met Matilda at church. He would get his story in first and hope to moderate the inevitable tongue-lashing that would come in the next day or two.

  He rode past the new Guildhall in the high street and turned right into Martin’s Lane, a narrow alley that was one of the entrances to the cathedral Close, the episcopal enclave around the great cathedral of St Peter and St Mary. Halfway down the short lane he slid from his stallion and led Odin into the farrier’s yard on the left, where the beast was stabled. Directly across the way were three almost identical houses, the one on the left being his own. It was a tall, narrow building of weathered timber, with a peaked slate roof. A heavy oak door and a shuttered window were the only breaks in its blank face.

  With a muted sigh, he lifted the iron latch and stepped into the vestibule, a small room with a row of hooks for cloaks and belts hanging on the back wall. He slumped on to a bench, its only furniture, and pulled off his riding boots, groping under the seat for a pair of leather house-shoes.

  As he pulled them on, there was the padding of paws from a passageway to his left, which led around the side of the house to the back yard and a large brown hound appeared. Brutus was as pleased as ever to see him and licked his hand as his great brush of a tail wagged slowly back and forth.

  ‘Got to face the dear woman now,’ he whispered to the old dog, as he stood up and went to the door of the hall, at the opposite end of the vestibule from the passage entrance. Brutus watched him, then decided that he preferred the back yard and vanished as de Wolfe pushed open the inner door and stepped into the main room of the dwelling.

  Inside was a wooden screen to stop some of the draughts that in windy weather moaned around the sombre hall, which rose right up to the bare roof beams high above. The dark timber was partly covered by faded tapestries, except on the inner wall, which was of new stone. This was where he had had a large fireplace built with a conical chimney tapering up to roof level, a device he had seen in Brittany. Before this innovation, the smoke from a central fire-pit used to cause an eye-watering fog to fill the hall, as it sought to escape by seeping out under the eaves.

  On this hot summer evening there was no fire, as their maid Mary did all the cooking in a hut in the yard. But as he trudged past the long oaken table with its stools and benches, he saw that one of the cowled chairs facing the empty fireplace was occupied. His wife was staring at the cold stacked logs as if they were crackling cheerfully on a cold winter’s night.

  ‘You’re late, Mary has been waiting to bring the supper in,’ she grated, without any word of greeting. John was so used to this that he took no notice and went to a side table to pour some red wine from a pitcher into a pewter cup. He saw that Matilda already had one in her hand.

  ‘I had to ride out to Alphington to see a corpse,’ he said with studied indifference. He brought his drink to the hearth and sat in the chair opposite his wife. Looking at her, he remembered that she had been almost comely when they married, some sixteen years earlier. Now her stocky frame had filled out and her square face had thickened, with loose skin under her eyes and throat. She was forty-four, his senior by four years, but looked a decade older. Her thin-lipped mouth was turned down at the corners in permanent disgruntlement. He admitted that his own behaviour had done nothing to make her nature more amiable, but neither of them had wanted to marry in the first place, having being pushed into it by their ambitious parents. His father, Simon de Wolfe, was a modest landowner with two manors at the coast and saw marriage into the much richer de Revelle family as a way of advancement for his second son. Matilda’s parents had hoped that a dashing young knight who was carving out a name for himself in the Irish and French wars, was a good way of getting their youngest and least attractive daughter off their hands, so the bride and groom had little say in the matter and had regretted it ever since. They had never had children, which was hardly surprising, as John had made every effort to stay away from home for most of their married life. Only in the last two years, since he had returned from Palestine and had run out of wars to fight, had they lived together for more than a few months – and although they now slept together, sleep was the operative word, for neither felt the slightest inclination to indulge in marital congress.

  ‘So what was this body that kept you from your supper?’

  Her voice jerked him out of his reverie and he remembered his plan to forestall Cecilia de Pridias’s inevitable complaints about him.

  ‘Someone you knew, I’m afraid. It was Robert de Pridias, the fulling and weaving merchant. I think you know his wife quite well.’

  Matilda sat up abruptly in her chair, her small eyes alert at the news.

  ‘Robert dead? Poor Cecilia, I saw her only yesterday at St Olave’s. How did he die? Why were you called? Was it some accident – or worse?’

  ‘He died of a seizure, on the back of his horse. A natural death, but sudden. It seems he had pains in his chest for some time and was under the care of an apothecary.’ He deliberately emphasised the natural aspect, to defuse the coming criticisms.

  ‘So why were you called?’ she snapped. Whatever her faults, no one could ever accuse the sharp-witted Matilda of any lack of perception.

  John sipped his wine as he thought about the safest answer.

  ‘His wife – now his widow – has some strange idea that he was done to death through being cursed. Extraordinary idea, I had
considerable difficulty in trying to convince her otherwise.’

  ‘Henry de Hocforde!’ she exclaimed, much to her husband’s astonishment.

  ‘What about him?’ he said feebly.

  ‘She has spoken to me in confidence about the trouble between the two fullers. I have the ear of many influential folk in this city, John.’

  Matilda’s two weaknesses – apart from food and drink, which accounted for her heavy appearance – were fine clothes and social snobbery. As sister to the King’s sheriff and wife to the King’s coroner, she considered herself amongst the elite of the county hierarchy. It galled her to find that John had not the slightest interest in social advancement and she had to prod him mercilessly to take part in prestigious events in the city. The de Pridias family were rich merchants, Robert having been master of his guild, so his wife had been someone worth cultivating.

  ‘Cecilia told me that de Hocforde had been putting pressure on her husband to sell his mill. It seems that the affair was becoming quite oppressive and that Robert’s health was suffering from it.’

  This was quite different to the widow’s claim that he was ‘hale and hearty’, thought John. Aloud he said, ‘But that’s a long way from murder by witchcraft, which she accused de Hocforde of perpetrating!’

  He meant this to sound jocular, but Matilda’s granite face showed no amusement. ‘Never mock what you do not understand!’ she snapped sententiously.

  This surprised him, as Matilda was pathologically religious, spending half her waking hours at either the nearby cathedral or in St Olave’s Church in Fore Street. Indeed, very recently, after he had offended her even more than usual, she had taken herself to Polsloe Priory, intending to take the veil – until she found that the poor food and dowdy raiment was not to her liking. For her now not to dismiss outright any un-Christian practices like witchcraft, seemed at variance with her faith – though on reflection he decided that after many centuries of acceptance, magic was so deeply ingrained in most people’s minds that a veneer of religious belief was not sufficient to extinguish it.

  Matilda demanded more details and he described the finding of the effigy under the dead man’s saddle. ‘Cecilia de Pridias was very loath to accept that his death was from some stroke seizing his heart, even though he had had these chest pains and had been attended by Walter Winstone for some time,’ he concluded, determined to get his version of events firmly in place.

  His wife glowered at him and sniffed her disdain. However, for once her scorn was not directed at John, but at the mention of the apothecary.

  ‘A scoundrel, that man Winstone! I advised Cecilia to seek a better dispenser, such as Richard Lustcote. Winstone’s reputation is dubious in the extreme. If he was supposed to be treating Robert, he made little success of it, if the poor man fell dead from his horse!’

  John noted that Matilda’s mental gymnastics had now allowed her to leave witchcraft in favour of the apothecary’s medical negligence.

  ‘So what will happen now?’ she demanded, as Mary came in to start setting out their supper.

  ‘Nothing, as far as I am concerned,’ grunted John, fetching the wine jug to take to the table. ‘A witnessed death from natural causes is no concern of a coroner, much as his widow might demand it.’

  ‘I trust that you were considerate and civil to the poor woman, John,’ grated Matilda, as she heaved herself from her chair.

  ‘I was diplomacy itself, wife,’ he replied coldly. ‘Though no doubt she will voice her complaints to you in due course.’

  The man and wife sat at opposite ends of the long table, perhaps symbolic of the emotional distance that separated them in life. Mary, their handsome cook and maid-of-all-work, brought in wooden platters of cold meats, which included the remains of the dinner-time goose and some slices of boiled ham. A few hard-boiled eggs and a dish of onions fried in butter completed the meal, apart from a dessert of fresh red plums. They ate their main meal at noon, but Matilda’s robust appetite had expanded their supper repast beyond what most people ate in the evening. There was silence for a while as she got down to the serious business of eating and as soon as she had finished she left the table, muttering that she was retiring to the solar. This was the only other room in the house, built on to the upper part of the hall at the back, reached by outside stairs from the yard. As she lumbered into the vestibule, heading for the passageway, she started screeching for Lucille, her personal maid.

  Sighing with relief, de Wolfe refilled his wine cup and went to sit by the hearth to fondle the ears of Brutus, who had slunk in when the mistress had left the hall. He listened to the familiar sounds that came faintly through a slit in the wall high up on one side of the chimney, where the solar communicated with the hall. His wife was chiding Lucille, a snivelling French girl from the Vexin, north of Rouen. The evening ritual of getting prepared for bed was being played out, with Matilda snapping at the maid for brushing her hair too roughly or being too clumsy in undressing her. The coroner knew that all this would eventually subside, when his spouse would say her lengthy prayers before getting into bed. As soon as he decided that she was asleep, he would take Brutus for a walk – and it might just so happen that their feet might take them in the direction of the Bush tavern in Idle Lane.

  The sun was setting as Henry de Hocforde strode along the upper part of High Street, away from his fine house in Raden Lane, near the East Gate. The rays reddened the buildings on each side as he walked almost directly towards the fiery orb, now low in the western sky. There were still many folk ambling along, gazing at the few stalls that remained open this late – and more than one drunk rolled out of an alehouse door into his path. But no one hesitated to get out of the way of this tall man as he stalked along with a face like thunder. Well dressed and with an arrogant swing to his shoulders, he was not a person to obstruct, especially as the ivory-headed staff that he carried looked as if it was more for use than ornament. As he reached the Guildhall, one of the city’s finest buildings which had been rebuilt in stone not many years before, he turned right, then left again into Waterbeer Street, which ran behind the high street. It was an unsavoury lane, several low drinking dens and brothels doing nothing for its reputation. However, there were a few respectable houses and shops there as well and it was for one of these that he was aiming. Halfway down on the right was an old timber building, squeezed in between two newer dwellings in stone. It was narrow and roofed with wooden shingles, some of which were missing, thanks to a storm a month earlier. At street level, there was a door alongside a wide window, the shutter of which was hinged down at right angles to form a display counter for the apothecary’s stock-in-trade. It carried a meagre array of pots and jars, the tops covered in parchment tied down with cord. In addition, there were a few crude glass vials of coloured liquid and some small bundles of dried herbs. Inside the window, the apothecary’s apprentice, a runny-nosed lad of about twelve, sat rolling pills on a grooved board, keeping one eye on the counter to see that no light-fingered passer-by lifted any of the unimpressive items. De Hocforde marched through the door, dipping his head to avoid the low lintel. He glared at the boy and demanded to know where his master was.

  ‘Out in the yard, sir. Hanging bunches of rosemary out to dry.’

  Hocforde didn’t care if Walter Winstone was hanging up his dirty hose to dry and rapped on the apprentice’s pill-board with the head of his staff.

  ‘Go and get him, boy. Quickly!’

  The lad looked up at the imperious visitor and saw a stern face below dark hair shaven close around the sides and back, leaving a thick cap on top, in the style beloved of many aristocratic Normans. His dark red tunic was plain, but reeked of quality, as did the intricate silver buckle on a wide belt that carried a handsomely tooled leather pouch and an ornate dagger. He had seen him in the shop before, but did not know his name, as his master always took this customer upstairs for private consultation. The apprentice dropped his board and scurried away through a door at the back of the shop, lea
ving Henry to scowl at the musty shelves filled with earthenware pots of all sizes, many with crude Latin or alchemaic lettering painted on them. One wall was lined with ranks of small wooden drawers, again labelled with incomprehensible symbols. Hanging from the ceiling, from nails driven into the roof beams, were faded bunches of dried vegetation and some dusty, leathery objects that seemed to be desiccated lizards or snakes. A moment later, the boy hurried back and slipped hastily on to his stool to continue rolling his grimy pills.

  ‘The master will be with you now, sir,’ he piped, keeping his eyes down to appear industrious when Walter came in. The apothecary appeared in the dooway and bowed his head obsequiously to his visitor. He was a small man, with a marked limp in his left leg due to a childhood illness. A sallow face with projecting yellow teeth gave him the look of a large coney, an appearance that was strengthened by his large stuck-out ears. A frizz of short sandy hair was matched by a narrow beard that rimmed the edges of his face. He wore a nondescript tan tunic over cross-gartered leggings, a long leather apron hanging from his neck. Walter opened his mouth to greet his esteemed customer, but Henry de Hocforde cut him short.

  ‘Upstairs – now!’ he snapped, crossing to the inner door and almost shoving the apothecary back through it. In the storeroom behind, there was a wide wooden ladder going up to the next floor and Winstone clambered up ahead of his visitor, apprehensive at his obvious ill temper.

  At the top was a work-room, with benches where ointments and potions were made, and behind it were the apothecary’s living quarters, a dismal room with a straw mattress on the floor in one corner and a table, stool and cooking utensils along the far wall. An unglazed window, its shutter half open, looked out on to a yard where more herbs were drying on lines stretched between poles.

  Walter Winstone nervously indicated the stool, but de Hocforde ignored him and perched on the edge of a table, where he was still taller than the other man.