‘Jump, Lucy! Quickly, we’ll catch you!’ yelled one more kindly voice. She shook her head slowly, her fingers clawing at the air as the flames licked closer.
‘Burn, then, as you deserve, you bloody old sorcerer!’ screamed another.
A deeper voice boomed out, from the throat of Canon Gilbert. ‘The Lord said thou shalt not suffer a witch to live – so die, woman, and may God have mercy on your soul!’
The red-rimmed eyes of the hag up on the doomed building swivelled to rest on the priest. Her pointing finger followed, then that on the other hand tracked across to transfix the sheriff on his horse. ‘I curse all who have brought this about! I curse those who have persecuted my sisters! And I especially curse you two evil men, who have cast out all compassion from your hearts to make way for ambition!’
There was a creaking noise from behind her head and another section of roof fell in a cascade of sparks and smoke.
‘I curse you, I curse you, I curse you thrice!’ screamed Bearded Lucy, the skirt of her filthy gown now being licked by flames. ‘May the evil that you most fear, befall you before the next full moon!’
Then, with a massive crash, almost the entire rear half of the roof fell downward and forward as the heavy ridge timber burnt through.
A mass of flaming hazel withes and the burning thatch that it had supported fell on top of Lucy. There was a heart-rending scream, then silence.
A huge mushroom of black smoke, almost like a thundercloud, puffed up as the roof hit the remnants of the loft floor and from more than a hundred throats an awe-struck gasp went up with it. John, by no means an imaginative man, later swore that for a fraction of a second he saw the swirling cloud form the image of a young woman’s face, comely and free from hair – but unmistakably that of Lucy of Exe Island.
The collapse of the roof and the horrible death of the old woman ended the last vestiges of the riot. The crowd became subdued, both those who had first gathered to revile and threaten, as well as those who came to watch. They soon began to drift away, urged on by Gabriel and his troops, who ungently shoved and prodded any stragglers until Idle Lane was almost empty. One who was not ushered away was Gilbert de Bosco, who in spite of the awful drama at the end, had regained his bluster and arrogance.
Ralph Morin and John de Wolfe closed in on him in a threatening manner and the coroner laid a hand on his arm, which the priest angrily shook off.
‘When – or if – we recover any of the remains of that poor woman, I will hold an inquest, and you will be a witness!’ grated the coroner.
‘You have no power over me, I am a cleric and a member of the cathedral chapter, as you well know.’
The sheriff, who had dismounted and come across to the group, brayed his agreement. ‘Leave well alone, John, you have no jurisdiction over this good man.’
‘And you have no jurisdiction at all – or soon will have none!’ retorted John. ‘He is not in the Close now, he is in the city and at the very least was a witness to one death and a number of injuries, for several fellows have received burns. The pot man is alive, I hope, but only just!’
‘You are thrashing at the wind, John,’ snapped de Revelle. ‘Why waste your time? The bishop will soon intervene in this.’
‘I care nothing for the bishop, except to censure him for allowing this man to cause so much trouble. My task is to record everything for the King’s justices and see that they are made aware of all that has gone on in Exeter this past week or two.’
De Revelle, who had regained his colour after blanching at the old crone’s curse, paled again at John’s pointed allusion to informing London of his own misdeeds.
Ralph Morin caught the change and mischievously turned the screw. ‘How long to the next full moon, John, d’you happen to know?’
The canon affected contempt, but his face had a film of sweat. ‘Pah, what damned nonsense! This is the very thing that we must stamp out in this county, this ungodly superstition.’
‘Stamp it out by hanging or burning every poor wife who sells a charm for a ha’penny?’ snarled de Wolfe, sick to his stomach with this contemptible, unrepentant bigot.
‘Yes, if necessary! God’s work is the reason for the Church’s existence, and those who let it go by default are unworthy to wear the cloth.’
This man is impossible, thought John, grinding his teeth in frustration. He knew that the sheriff was right, in that nothing could be done to Gilbert, who could always shelter behind the impassive face of the Church and its bishop. But Hubert Walter, who was Archbishop of Canterbury and thus Primate of England, as well as being the Chief Justiciar, would get some straight talking from de Wolfe, as soon as he could get to see him.
‘What brought you down here, Sheriff?’ asked Morin. He had to be circumspect with de Revelle, as long as he was still nominally sheriff, as although Ralph was the King’s nominee, the sheriff was his master when it came to everyday matters.
‘What brought me down? God’s garters, those men of yours made enough noise to be heard in France when they left Rougemont. I came to see what had happened, in case it was an invasion!’
John knew he was lying, as he never turned out for any other emergencies, but he could not guess at the reason.
‘I’m going back to the Close now,’ announced the canon, in a voice that suggested that he would make trouble for anyone who tried to detain him. ‘I’ve seen that at least one of the Devil’s disciples has suffered her just deserts.’
With that cryptic remark, he walked away with Richard de Revelle, a soldier following with the sheriff’s horse. The last John saw of them was as they turned the corner into Smythen Street, still deep in conversation.
‘Those two had been plotting something – neither of them was here by chance,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s obvious that the bloody priest deliberately organised this riot. But how did he know Bearded Lucy was hidden here?’
‘He has spies all over the city,’ said John. ‘But I wonder if my dear wife said anything to him when she went to him last night? Anyway, the damage is done now. Somehow, I feel that old Lucy was glad to be finished with life, but perhaps not in that dreadful fashion.’
Gwyn had been listening in the background and now his smutted red face was crinkled in thought. ‘What did that whoreson priest mean when he said that “at least one has suffered her just deserts”? Who was the other one, then?’
Ralph and John stared at each other for a moment. ‘The man’s right, what did he mean?’ asked the constable.
John rubbed his cheeks, the soot on top of the stubble giving added weight to his nickname of ‘Black John’. ‘Lucy warned me several times, in her odd fashion, that Nesta was at risk, as she dabbles a little in herbs and remedies.’
The fleeting memory of the woman with the wry neck came back to him and he slammed a fist into his palm. ‘That damned woman, what was her name, Heloise! Last week, she came to see Nesta on some pretext or other. I saw her again here, among the mob in the lane!’
‘What about her?’ asked Morin, mystified.
‘She was sister to a doxy of the sheriff,’ explained Gwyn.
‘I’ll swear he arranged that, just to get false testimony against her, the same as happened with Jolenta of Ide and Alice Ailward,’ fumed John. ‘If it’s true, then breaking the bastard will not only be a duty, but a great pleasure!’
Gwyn was still worried. ‘If it is true, then Nesta is still in danger. That bloody canon could still get the woman to come forward and denounce Nesta, the same as with the others.’
Morin nodded his big head. ‘If I were you, John, I’d get her away from here for a time, until things settle down. With the Bush burned to the ground, there’s nowhere for her to stay, nor anything for her to do in Exeter.’
With a new worry to burden him, de Wolfe paced up and down for a moment, until he came to a decision. ‘You’re right, the risk is too great, until I’ve had a chance to deal with those swine. I’ll take her to my mother in Stoke-in-Teignhead. She’ll be safe there a
nd well looked after.’
Morin agreed, but added a caution. ‘Try to keep it secret, John, in case those persistent devils try to find her. I’m sure you and Gwyn can find a way.’
The coroner resumed his pacing, deep in thought. Then he came back and gave Gwyn a broad smile. ‘I have a feeling that this afternoon, we will be called out down Sidmouth way to see a dead body. Make sure that Thomas turns out with that mangy pony and that ridiculous side-saddle, fit only for women!’
It would take more than a day for the ruins of the tavern to cool sufficiently for a search to be made for any remnants of Lucy’s poor body and there was nothing to be done about the place until then. Later that morning, de Wolfe and Nesta stood at the door of the kitchen, which thankfully, like the other outbuildings, was undamaged. They sadly surveyed the wreckage, which had stopped flaming and was now a sullen, smoking heap of charred wood and thatch. He thought of the comfortable French bed that he had bought for his mistress and vowed to get another as soon as the place was rebuilt. John solemnly promised Nesta that he would personally pay for the rebuilding out of his considerable profits from the wool-exporting business that he shared with his friend Hugh de Relaga. She agreed, on condition that it was to be a loan, repaid out of the future profits of the inn. This had happened once before, when she was left almost destitute on the death of her husband. The tavern had done so well under her enthusiastic management, with her excellent cooking and superb brewing skills, that she had given him back his money within a year.
With Gwyn’s help, he arranged the covert escape of Nesta from the city and went home briefly to see whether Matilda had come back from her cousin’s house. There was no sign of her, and John confided in Mary the details of the plan, telling her to let it be known when the mistress returned home that he had been called to a suspicious death near Sidmouth. This was in the opposite direction from Stoke-in-Teignhead, though he doubted that Matilda would be fooled for long by his subterfuge.
About noon, Nesta set off with one of her serving maids, allegedly going to stay with the girl’s cousin in the village of Wonford, just south of the city. She dressed in dull, inconspicuous clothes borrowed from her other maid, who lived in Rack Lane, and carefully hid her red hair under a cover-chief. They mingled with a group of pilgrims as they went out through the South Gate and walked a couple of miles down the Topsham road into open country. Here, they met up with the three members of the coroner’s team, waiting with their horses in the shelter of a wood at the side of the road. Thomas de Peyne was almost in tears of relief as he greeted Nesta, safe and sound. He had a dog-like devotion for the Welsh woman, who was always kind and concerned for the poor waif’s well-being. He gladly handed over his side-saddled pony to her and brushed off her apologies for making him walk back to Exeter. He would willingly have crawled back on his hands and knees, if it would help her in any way. Nesta hoisted herself into the saddle and with John and his officer flanking her on either side, set off for Topsham, another couple of miles away, while Thomas and the maid began trudging back to the city.
At the little port of Topsham, where the Exe widened out into its estuary, they crossed the river on the ferry and made for the line of low hills that ran down to the sea at Dawlish. Here Nesta grinned secretly to herself, in spite of her sadness, as she saw de Wolfe, with exaggerated nonchalance, look neither right nor left as they passed through the seaside village. She was well aware that Thorgils’ wife, the delectable blonde Hilda, was an old flame and still an occasional lover of his, but she was now confident enough of his true affection to realise that Hilda was no threat to her.
By early evening they had forded the Teign near where it flowed into the sea, having to wait an hour for the tide to drop sufficiently. Less than another hour later they were in the small village of Stoke-in-Teignhead, where John had been born. It was in a small valley, neat strip fields and some common pasture sweeping up to the trees that surrounded it on all sides. Nesta had been here once before and again received a warm welcome at the small manor house at the far end of the village. John’s widowed mother, Enyd de Wolfe, was a small, sprightly woman with red hair only slightly sprinkled with grey. Her mother had been Cornish and her father was from Gwent, the same Welsh princedom as Nesta herself, so they had much in common, as well as a common language. John’s sister Evelyn was also happy to see Nesta, who was only a few years younger than herself. She was a plump, homely lady and, like her mother, preferred John’s mistress to his wife, who had always treated them with a supercilious disdain, thinking them country yokels and Celtic barbarians. Although Matilda had been born in Devon and and had spent only a month of her life with distant relatives in Normandy, she always considered herself one of that superior race of conquerors.
John’s elder brother William, who ran the two manors to John’s financial benefit, was as usual out supervising the business of the estate, this time at Holcombe, their other manor north of the Teign. Gwyn was hustled off to the kitchens, where eager serving maids made his life complete by plying him with food and drink until he was fit to burst, while the women took John and Nesta into their comfortable hall and sat them down with refreshments, to hear all their news of the big city. They listened with fascinated horror to the tale of woe that their visitors related, especially the burning of the Bush tavern.
‘But it will be rebuilt – and very soon!’ vowed John. ‘The stone shell is still sound and all the outbuildings are intact, so all it needs is a new floor and a roof.’
Nesta looked at him with a mixture of affection and doubt. ‘That will cost a great deal of money, John. And how am I to live until then?’
Evelyn laid a hand across hers. ‘You’ll stay here until it’s done, my dear. You don’t eat much, that I know – and if you want to earn your keep, John says you brew the best ale in Devon, so you can give us all a treat!’
John smiled for the first time in days. He almost wished that he could be like his brother and settle for the quiet life in the countryside. Although William looked almost identical to John, they were not twins and had totally different natures, his elder brother being a quiet, gentle fellow who loved farming and hunting, unlike the restless warrior John.
‘As for the rebuilding, we can get timbers hauled up from our woods at Holcombe, as well as straw for the thatch. There are carpenters and thatchers amongst the patrons of the Bush who will be happy to lend a hand, especially if it means getting their favourite tavern back into action, so they can drink Nesta’s famous ale again.’
The evening sped by and though John had intended to travel back to Exeter the next day, he succumbed to his family’s entreaties and left it until Friday before he and Gwyn saddled up and trotted back up the valley, with Thomas’s pony on a head-rope behind them.
‘She’s in safe hands there, Crowner!’ said his officer reassuringly. ‘Even if those bastards in Exeter discover where she is, I doubt they’ll do anything about it, with your family and the whole village around her.’
John prayed that he was right, but he had misgivings about what was likely to happen in the city over the next week or two, given the turmoil that awaited them there.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In which Crowner John hears a confession
In the late afternoon, the two men rode in through the South Gate and as they walked their tired horses up the hill to Carfoix, John sensed that many of the people they passed seemed either to shy away or give them uneasy stares. They were not hostile and some gave a civil touch of the hand to their temples, but it was as if they expected that the return of the coroner would start some new crisis in the city. Gwyn felt it too and looked up questioningly at the clear sky. ‘Feels like we’re waiting for a thunderstorm!’ he grunted. ‘What in hell’s the matter with everyone?’
They got at least part of the answer when they came level with the new Guildhall in High Street. Standing outside, talking to his clerk, was the flamboyant figure of Hugh de Relaga, one of the city’s portreeves and the active partner in Jo
hn’s wool venture. Dressed in a bright red tunic with a vivid green surcoat over it, he usually had a smile on his tubby face, but today he looked decidedly unhappy. He stepped into the narrow street and held up a hand to the coroner. ‘You’re back, John. Many wish you hadn’t left the city these past couple of days.’
De Wolfe stared down at him, uncomprehending. ‘What’s happened?’
‘That underhanded scut of a sheriff has hanged them already! As soon as your back was turned, he held a special court yesterday, to which the cathedral proctors delivered those two women. He convicted and sentenced them within ten minutes and they were taken to Heavitree this morning.’
Heavitree was where the huge gallows stood, at the far end of Magdalen Street, a mile east of the city. John groaned and Gwyn spat out some of the foulest language he could muster.
‘The evil turd!’ snarled the coroner. ‘His days may be numbered, but he’s making as much trouble as he can before he goes. Did no one try to stop him?’
‘What could anyone do?’ wailed the portly burgess. ‘He’s still the sheriff and shows no sign of stepping down. Ralph Morin was outraged, but he said he was powerless to stop it. I saw the archdeacon arguing with Canon Gilbert, but obviously to no avail.’
‘De Bosco? Trust that madman to be there – why in God’s name doesn’t the bishop intervene? Is he totally spineless?’
The portreeve clutched at the feather in his velvet cap as a sudden breeze whipped up the canyon between the buildings. ‘I have heard a rumour today that Henry Marshal may have lost his appetite for witch-hunting, after all these deaths and the fatal fire at the Bush. We burgesses sent a deputation to him yesterday, complaining about the disorder and the danger from such fires. The whole city could be burned to the ground if we get more of this rioting.’
John tried to suppress his anger and swore to stamp out the evil that seemed to be infecting Exeter over this issue. ‘I’m taking this higher than a bloody bishop,’ he ground out grimly. ‘I’m reporting all this to the Chief Justiciar. Hubert’s the only one who can bring this to an end swiftly.’
The Witch Hunter Page 28
