The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  De Wolfe nodded and wiped the last of the grease from his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. ‘I feel very sad for her, poor woman, even though she makes my life a misery. I would not wish this disillusionment upon her, but the bloody man had gone too far this time – it’s out of my hands now.’

  When he had finished, he went to the vestibule and pulled on a pair of riding boots and attached his spurs. Crossing the lane, he went into the stables and chatted to Andrew the farrier while one of the grooms saddled up Odin, his massive destrier. Although he had no wars to fight now, John was used to the feel of a broad warhorse beneath him, and since the tragic death of Bran, his previous stallion, he had developed a similar admiration and affection for this twelve-year-old grey, who had been pensioned off from the French campaigns.

  When the ostler led him from his stall, John hoisted himself up into Odin’s high saddle and turned his head to the lane, but just as he was moving off, there was a deep bellow from outside and Gwyn came panting in, his face almost as red as his hair from the exertion. ‘Crowner, for Christ’s sake, come quickly! There’s a mob at the Bush, intent on serious mischief!’ For once the Cornishman had abandoned his usual long-windedness, the urgency raw in his voice. ‘There’s about fifty of them, some with burning brands – and that bastard canon is among them, egging them on!’

  De Wolfe felt his heart thump with anxiety. ‘Did you see Nesta there?’

  ‘No, I was just on my way there for a bite of food, but the sight of that rabble clustered around the front and back sent me haring up here. There was nothing I could do on my own.’

  John’s warrior nature quickly took control and he snapped out orders. ‘Andrew, take a horse and fly up to Rougemont and get the constable and Gabriel down to Idle Lane with some men. Tell them it’s a matter of life and death!’ He looked down at Gwyn. ‘Run over to the house and get my sword, I’ve only got a dagger with me.’

  It was quicker to send him than to dismount and get back up again and, within a minute, his officer was back with John’s broad-sword hanging from its baldric, which he kept hanging in the vestibule.

  As he threw the strap over his shoulder, he motioned for Gwyn to get up behind him on Odin. With no stirrup to help him, the ostler bent double for Gwyn to put a foot on his back and with a heave, he was up behind his master, just as the desperately impatient John touched Odin with his spurs. Though the stallion was built for brute power, rather than speed, they were soon cantering through the Close, the great beast not seeming to notice the substantial extra weight on his back.

  The coroner yelled hoarsely at anyone who seemed likely to get run down in the narrow lanes that led to Southgate Street, but the thunder of the destrier’s hoofs was enough to scatter any bemused loiterers in their path.

  ‘Were they after Lucy, d’you think?’ he howled over his shoulder, as they hammered downhill towards the tavern.

  ‘Couldn’t tell, they were shouting for the witch!’ bellowed Gwyn. ‘I didn’t wait to find out more, I needed to get you down there!’

  As they entered Priest Street, the slope became steeper and John slowed Odin to prevent him slipping, but also because increasing numbers of people were hurrying down to where Idle Lane turned off to the right.

  They were attracted not only by the hubbub of shouting and yelling, but also by an ominous plume of black smoke that was rising into the still morning air. Any fire in a city was a danger to all its inhabitants, especially when the majority of buildings were still built of wood and many of the roofs were of thatch or wooden shingles.

  ‘Holy Mary, the place is afire!’ yelled Gwyn in his ear as they turned the corner. Before them the Bush sat isolated on its patch of waste ground, but clustered around the front and up the side to the back yard was a mass of people, being added to as a flood of sightseers and fire-fighters streamed towards it from both Priest Street and Smythen Street on the other side.

  Now able only to go at a trot through the press of people, Odin barged his way towards the tavern, his nostrils flaring and his ears going back at the unwelcome smell of smoke. There were dull red flames licking up at several points around the edges of the lofty thatched roof and smoke was billowing out in ever-increasing volume from under the eaves and filtering through several places on the thatch itself.

  Yelling at the top of his voice in a mixture of anger and anxiety, John forced the stallion through almost to the front door, where the mob appeared to be most excited and aggressive, shouting and screaming abuse and shaking their fists. They were being forced back from the front wall, which carried the door and two unglazed windows, as strands and clumps of burning straw were beginning to drop down from the edge of the thatch above. The eaves were almost low enough to be touched by a man standing on tiptoe, the large space in the loft being made by the steep pitch of the roof.

  Just over the doorway, from which smoke was billowing, was the inn sign, a large dried bush hanging from an iron bracket sticking out of the wall. Someone had already thrown a rope over it with an ominous noose on one end, although the act was futile, as the bush had just caught fire and the rope was already smouldering. Still, the memory of Theophania Lawrence hanging from the bracket on the Snail Tower was still fresh in John’s memory and his rage increased when he thought of Nesta and Lucy still inside the building.

  With a roar, he turned Odin to face the rabble, keeping his rump well clear of the falling hot debris. With an almost maniacal flourish, he drew his sword, the three feet of steel making a chilling scraping sound as it came out of the scabbard. As he held it aloft, he felt Gwyn sliding off the horse, a long club in one hand and his dagger in the other.

  Afterwards, he could not recollect what he was shouting at the mob, but with the flat of his sword he lay about those within reach, as Gwyn beat a path through them and vanished around the side of the inn.

  Odin was in his element, for he had been trained for close combat and neighed and tossed his head and kicked out with his great feet, with devastating effect on those who were unwise enough not to scatter out of his way. De Wolfe made for a man who still held a burning brand in his hand and felled him with a sideswipe of the sword against his head. The torch fell against two others, who screamed as their flesh began to burn, and set up a ripple effect that caused the mob to move outwards in a panic-stricken circle, like a stone thrown into a pond.

  Several men made half-hearted attempts to strike John or pull him from the horse, but they were rewarded either with a ringing blow from the flat of his sword or a thwack from the saddle-stick that he carried in his other hand, having hooked the reins around the pommel, as Odin needed no guiding in a situation like this. Thankfully, almost none of the crowd was armed with anything more than their usual dagger, as they had turned out to burn and hang an old woman, not to fight. Most of them made no attempt to oppose the coroner, who was an almost demoniacal figure himself, clad all in black, bellowing in fury and laying about him with a great sword from the back of a monstrous horse.

  The crowd broke up as they scattered from his path and suddenly he found himself looking down at the cassock-clad figure of a priest. Gilbert de Bosco glared back at him, yelling something that in the clamour and crackle of flames John did not understand – not that his powers of comprehension were working well, such was his anger.

  ‘Damn you, you malicious meddler!’ he yelled. ‘Is this how you serve God, by persecuting defenceless women, you evil coward!’ He raised his sword high and only an ingrained respect for the priesthood stopped him from slicing off the canon’s head.

  Gilbert stared up in momentary terror, but when he saw that John was instinctively unable to strike a member of the cloth he instantly regained his arrogance and pomposity. ‘Threaten a member of the cathedral chapter, would you!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll be brought to account for that, Crowner!’

  For answer, the enraged coroner grabbed Odin’s reins and hoisted the beast back to rear up so that his great fore-feet lashed the air momentarily in front of de Bosco
’s face. With a scream of fear, the priest stumbled backwards to escape the menacing hoofs and crashed against a man behind, falling heavily backwards to the ground.

  De Wolfe brought the stallion back to earth and glared down at the priest as he lay ignominiously in the dirt. ‘If anyone dies or is badly injured in this tumult that you have provoked, my inquest will indict you. Your claim to benefit of clergy may save your neck, but I will personally plead with Archbishop Walter for you to receive the harshest punishment known to the Church!’

  Pulling Odin around, he turned to far more urgent matters, the burning of his beloved Bush and the safety of those inside it. Sick with concern for Nesta, he urged the horse along to the corner of the tavern and scattered the now sullen crowd so that he could reach the gate in the fence that led to the yard. The original rioters had now been diluted with ordinary citizens who were both agog with excitement and concerned with controlling the fire. Most were men, but there were a few women of all ages and, although it hardly registered, given the turmoil in his mind, he saw that one of them was the thin woman with the wry neck that Gwyn had said was sister to a harlot.

  Thankfully, as the inn was on a wide patch of waste land, created by previous fires some years ago, there was less risk of the conflagration spreading, though sparks and burning straw borne on the wind could still travel many yards and set other roofs on fire. Some men were running with leather and wooden buckets, water slopping from their sides, but it was a futile gesture given the height and size of the roof.

  Sheathing his sword, de Wolfe slid from the saddle and in a lather of anxiety rushed through the gate into the back garden of the Bush. The rear part of the roof was not yet on fire, as the arsonists had thrown their torches up from the lane in front, but smoke was starting to wreathe up from under the eaves. There were a dozen men in the yard, several struggling with buckets from the well and he saw the two serving maids standing outside the kitchen-shed, sobbing and wringing their hands.

  ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he roared, shoving aside anyone who got in his way as he made his way to the back door.

  ‘Gone inside, she went after the old woman!’ screeched Adele, pointing at the door. ‘And Edwin is in there, too.’

  John ran to the doorway, from the upper part of which black smoke was now staring to waft lazily upwards. Keeping his head low, he dashed inside, wondering where in hell Gwyn had got to and now desperately worried about his mistress’s safety. Mercifully, the first thing he saw through his stinging eyes was the large figure of Gwyn, shepherding out Nesta, both of them covered in smuts and coughing like a pair of sick horses. Grasping her by her other arm, he steered her to the back door and fresh air. The two serving maids ran forward and helped to carry her off to the security of the kitchen-shed, which certainly, until the back of the inn caught fire, was beyond immediate danger.

  ‘I’m well enough, John,’ Nesta gasped between coughs. ‘But where is Edwin? Please find him!’

  Gwyn had slumped to sit on the ground, coughing violently and gasping. He had black smudges on his face and bits of straw, some still smouldering, stuck in his dishevelled hair. ‘Give me a moment, Crowner, to get my breath back – then I’ll be with you!’ he wheezed.

  ‘You stay there until you’ve recovered!’ commanded John. ‘But have you seen the old potman?’

  ‘He’s still in there somewhere,’ croaked his officer. ‘And that mad old woman.’

  De Wolfe crouched low and dived below the coils of smoke now billowing from the back door. Almost on all fours, he scuttled into the large taproom that occupied the entire ground floor. Tables and stools had been overturned when the patrons had jostled their way out at the first shouts of ‘Fire’. Although at ground level the air was relatively clear, he heard a crackling noise and saw that the tinder-dry planks of the ceiling that formed the floor of the loft were burning in the centre, where a patch of flaming thatch had fallen as the roof began to give way. As he desperately looked around for any sign of the one-eyed potman, part of the ceiling fell in a shower of sparks and stirred up the smoke so that great wreaths eddied down to the ground. He knew he could not survive in that and tried to hold his breath. At that very moment, he saw a leg sticking out from under a fallen table and, tugging at the foot, slid the owner from under it. Almost on his bottom, he scurried backwards, hoisting the leg, his eyes running and aching and his lungs almost bursting. Just as he thought he would either faint or have to let go, he felt the weight lighten as someone crawled in beside him and grab the other leg. Not until they reached the patch of daylight that was the back door could John’s bleary eyes see that, of course, it was the faithful Gwyn, still coughing and snorting like a grampus. At the door, other hands helped them out and a moment later, they staggered up to lean against the wall of the brew-shed as two other men and a woman tended to Edwin. He lay on his back having his face wiped clean of thick soot with water from one of the fire-buckets by an iron-smith, who was one of the regulars at the Bush.

  ‘Is he still alive?’ wheezed John.

  ‘Yes, he’s poorly, but I think he’ll do,’ said the smith, feeling the heartbeat of the old man.

  ‘Did you see any sign of Bearded Lucy in there?’ persisted Gwyn, who was rapidly getting his breathing back to normal. ‘I’ll swear I saw her by the ladder to the loft.’

  ‘She’s supposed to be in here, dammit!’ grunted John, his own heart thumping like a war-drum. He slapped a hand against the brewing-shed, which was supporting him.

  Gwyn hauled himself off the wall and stumbled to the door of the hut, opened it and looked in. ‘She’s not here – but I need a drink to wash the ash from my throat.’

  He stuck his head into the nearest open tub and drank the half-brewed liquid like a horse at a trough. Seeing an empty jug near by, he dipped it in and came out to give it to de Wolfe. The coroner took a deep draught, then spat it out on the ground. ‘God, that’s horrible! Now I’m going to see Nesta.’ He stumbled across to the kitchen-hut and, wiping his running eyes, leaned against the door-post to look in at Nesta, who was sitting on a stool, crying. Her two maids hovered behind her solicitously, trying to comfort her.

  ‘All that work, John, in vain! My Meredydd’s efforts at first, then all your help, going up in smoke!’

  ‘We will see it built again, Nesta!’ he assured her, using the Welsh tongue that they habitually spoke. ‘The stone walls will stand, we can have a new floor and roof on them within weeks.’

  He looked over his shoulder and saw that there were still people milling about outside the yard gate. ‘Where the devil is Ralph Morin and his men-at-arms! That crowd is still there and that bloody priest! Keep yourself quiet in here, don’t show yourself at all.’

  He pulled the door shut and moved towards the back of the inn, but now black smoke was belching out of the rear door and there was no chance of getting inside to look for Bearded Lucy. Gwyn had rapidly recovered and, grabbing his arm, de Wolfe hustled him towards the side gate. ‘I don’t trust this damned mob, especially if that bastard canon is still among them.’ Drawing his sword again, he first checked that Odin was safe and was relieved to see that the horse had wandered across the waste ground and was unconcernedly cropping at some rank grass and weeds, well away from the crowd around the alehouse.

  ‘Let’s get around to the front again,’ he commanded, and stalked around the side of the building, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. The original few dozen agitators were now well outnumbered by more reasonable citizens, but there was still a lot of shouting and abuse with scattered scuffles going on. As the coroner and his officer forced their way towards the front door, there was a ragged cheer, mixed with cat-calls, as the crowd saw a posse of soldiers come trotting around the corner from Smythen Street. Led by Ralph Morin on foot, also waving a large broad-sword, there were a dozen soldiers with pikes and staffs, Sergeant Gabriel bringing up the rear, brandishing a fearsome ball-mace.

  They dived into the mob, roughly pushing them aside, and soon spl
it them up into smaller groups, men-at-arms separating each faction. The castle constable thrust his great bulk through them to stand alongside de Wolfe. He stared in astonishment at the stricken tavern. ‘There’s no saving this now, John,’ he rumbled in his deep voice. ‘Has everyone got out? Where’s Nesta?’

  ‘All are safe, thank God. But that old woman Lucy has vanished, we don’t know if she’s still in there.’

  Morin looked around at the crowd, who were now reduced to a muttering, growling rabble. ‘Who did this? Do you want them arrested?’

  ‘That swine of a canon, Gilbert de Bosco! He’s over there, still trying to egg them on. A few louts had torches, but I doubt we’ll find them now – apart from one whose head I hammered.’

  There was the sounds of hoofs from the direction of Priest Street and, turning, they saw a horseman clattering towards them.

  ‘It’s the sheriff. What the hell does he want here?’ marvelled Morin. It was indeed Richard de Revelle, in his dandified green tunic, sitting on a smart dappled palfrey.

  Any further speculation was abruptly halted by a loud crash behind them. They turned back to look at the inn, where a large segment of the roof had fallen in amid a huge gush of sparks and flame. The smoke was now ascending in a great plume, almost straight up because of the lack of any breeze on that sultry day. All faces were turned up to watch, a morbid fascination with fire gripping most of the bystanders.

  The quarter of the roof that had fallen was mostly in flames, but the collapse had also torn down an intact section that had been resting on the side gable. In this fire-free area against the wall, a frightening figure now appeared. Bearded Lucy staggered to the edge of the loft floor, which was burning behind her, and looked down on the crowd, who were struck dumb by the apparition. The hair on her head and face was singed, with smouldering straw entwined in it, and the hem of her flowing garment was on fire.

  Swaying on the very edge of the boards, she held up her arms like some Old Testament prophet and then swung them slowly around, her forefingers outstretched, to encompass the crowd, who were transfixed with emotions varying from terror to hatred.