The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  Richard scowled, having been caught out in a lie before he had even opened his mouth. He had been nowhere near his manor in the west, but had ridden north a week ago. John immediately realised what was going on, for Gloucester was now Prince John’s principal house in England. He had been given no less than six counties, including Gloucestershire and the county of Mortain in Normandy, by his recklessly generous brother at the time of Richard’s accession in 1189. They were taken from him after the abortive rebellion, but recently Gloucester and Mortain had been restored to him. It was obvious that de Revelle had hurried to the Prince’s nearest domain to rustle up support in this latest crisis, and his next words confirmed it.

  ‘This is Roscelin de Sucote, who, though in holy orders, is also a lawyer and an aide to the Count of Mortain. He has come to give me some advice and bring support from his lord.’

  The man nodded at John condescendingly, but made no effort to rise to his feet. ‘Prince John is at present at his court in Normandy, but I can speak for him on virtually every issue,’ he said smoothly.

  De Wolfe grunted back at him and decided that he had no need to offer this rebel lawyer anything more than basic civility. He turned to his brother-in-law. ‘I wanted you at an inquest this week, Richard. If you feel you can vanish from the county, after giving a false account of your movements, and ignore your responsibilities for a week, then it seems an added reason for it being high time for you to relinquish the shrievalty.’

  ‘You have no authority to even suggest that Sir Richard should give up his office,’ cut in de Sucote. ‘And it is both ill mannered and possibly treasonable for you to speak to the King’s representative in that way!’

  John rounded on the man, his long face dark with annoyance. ‘When I want your opinion, clerk, I’ll ask for it – though bulls are more likely to give milk before that happens. And if we’re talking of manners, it would do you well to stand when you speak and address the King’s coroner as “sir”!’

  The lawyer’s sallow face flushed, but he made no effort to rise. John swung back to the sheriff, who stood behind his table, looking nervously defiant. ‘Come, John, there’s no call to be offensive to a guest. I’m sure these recent difficulties can be dealt with in a civilised way.’

  ‘Bollocks, you devious, lying bastard! And if you take offence at my words, I’m more than happy to meet with you with horse, shield and lance down on Bull Mead.’

  He was on safe ground here, as the last thing Richard de Revelle would accept would be a challenge from the battle-hardened coroner. John plunged on, ignoring the look of outrage on the face of the Prince’s emissary. ‘You have even more to answer for now than before you slunk away to your rebel friends. I know now that you paid your whore’s sister to falsely denounce the landlady of the Bush. That led to a death and a major fire in the city, both of which you will be called to account over, when I can finally drag you to an inquest!’

  De Revelle made loud protestations at this and the lawyer-clerk finally jumped to his feet to add his outraged denials. John shouted them down at the top of his voice, to the delight of a cluster of people outside the ill-fitting door. ‘So add manslaughter and conspiracy to arson to your existing crimes of stealing the King’s money, Sheriff!’ he yelled. ‘You’re still on probation for treason, aiding and abetting the King’s enemies. Explain all that to the royal justices when they get here! You’ll need more than a Gloucester lawyer to wriggle out of that!’

  Not trusting himself to avoid physically assaulting his brother-in-law, de Wolfe stalked to the door, went out and slammed it behind him with a force fit to knock it off its hinges. Scattering the eavesdroppers outside, he marched out of the hall, his temper subsiding sufficiently to hope to God that someone in Winchester had taken notice of his urgent message.

  By Sunday morning de Wolfe’s patience was in shreds and he even considered sending Gwyn riding out on the high road to the east to see whether there was any sign of emissaries from Winchester. He soon realised that this was a futile gesture and turned his attention instead to Nesta, wondering if he should ride to Stoke-in-Teignhead to see if all was well there. This idea in turn was rejected, in case someone from the capital should arrive in his absence. Instead, he restlessly alternated between his chamber in Rougemont and the taproom in the Golden Hind, where he drank more ale than his bladder could cope with.

  At noon, he had another silent meal with Matilda, his efforts at conversation being largely unsuccessful. He had told her about her brother’s return on Friday and the fact that he had been in Gloucester, not with his own wife at Revelstoke. He also described the lawyer-priest that Richard had brought back with him, but she seemed uninterested. John had expected her to go up to visit Richard again, but she seemed indifferent to the man who had been for so long her paragon of success and virtue. After the meal, she took herself off to the solar and, feeling that he had done all he could for her in this time of her despair, he whistled for Brutus and went down to Idle Lane to inspect the work that he was paying for. During the past week, Adam had organised more men and now the site was virtually clear of debris. Edwin, the potman, had recovered from his ordeal and, though he was coughing like an old horse, he was comfortably housed in the brew-shed, acting as watchman over the building works. The two serving maids had gone home to stay with their families in nearby streets, with the promise that they would be re-employed as soon as the inn was back in business.

  John walked around the remains of the tavern and saw that the masonry of the front and back walls and the high gables on either side was now intact. Where stones had been pulled down by the fall of the rafters and roof beams, Adam had employed masons to mortar new blocks into place. The stumps of the logs that had held up the floor of the loft had been removed and the holes cleaned out, ready to receive new timbers. John was eager to see these first beams brought up by teams of oxen from Holcombe, as they would surely bring news of Nesta, probably in a note penned by his literate sister Evelyn, which Thomas could translate for him.

  On the way back, he called in at Canons’ Row to see John de Alençon, mainly to ask him whether he knew anything about this Roscelin de Sucote, the priest that Richard had brought from Gloucester.

  ‘I have heard of him by name, no more,’ replied the archdeacon. ‘He is part of Prince John’s entourage and spends more time in Mortain than England. He is an ordained priest, but seems to play no part in religious affairs. He is an aspiring politician and presumably is looking ahead to high office under John, when, God forbid, he takes over the throne from his brother.’

  ‘In that, he has much in common with de Revelle,’ said de Wolfe, cynically. ‘But what’s he doing here? Can he really get Richard off the hook, merely because he is a creature of the Prince?’

  De Alençon shrugged over the wine that he had as usual produced for them both. ‘A desperate situation calls for desperate remedies, I suppose! I know that this Roscelin went with the sheriff for an audience with the bishop yesterday. No one knows what was said there, but I get the impression that Henry Marshal is not too keen to openly associate himself with potential rebels these days – just as he has distanced himself from the witch-hunting campaign.’

  ‘Our bishop was never one to be seen backing the losing side,’ observed John, sarcastically. ‘What’s happened to that bloody fellow-canon of yours, Gilbert de Bosco?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Lying low, as far as we can tell. It seems that he has been afflicted by all manner of ailments, which most folk – including himself – put down to the witch’s curse!’

  ‘What’s wrong with him now? I heard he had some sort of seizure.’

  ‘That seems to have righted itself almost completely, so my steward tells me, as Gilbert refuses any visitors. But he still has a stinking mass of corruption on his neck – and now he has a red rash over all his chest and belly, which the infirmarian tells me is probably some sympathetic reaction to the purulence of his carbuncle.’

  De Wolfe could not r
estrain a lopsided grin, even though his Christian duty was to feel sorry for the canon’s afflictions. The man had obstinately encouraged a period of hysterical madness in the city, which had led to a number of deaths, and John found it hard to forgive him.

  ‘So Bearded Lucy did have some powerful magic, after all! She was not a woman to be crossed – alive or dead!’

  This earned him a disapproving look from his old friend, whose Christian concepts of the after-life did not include dispensing seizures and carbuncles. ‘I despair of you, John,’ he said with mock severity. ‘You are still a heathen at heart!’

  With another grin, de Wolfe sank the last of his wine and left for the castle. Here he found his two servants in their usual postures, Thomas scribing at the table and Gwyn perched in the window embrasure, staring idly down into the outer ward.

  Silence reigned for a time, as the coroner tried to concentrate on a piece of parchment that Thomas slid in front of him, a revision of some simple Latin sentences. His heart was not in it, however, and he kept churning over the various problems he had, especially the failure of anyone to show up in answer to his message.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of his inattentive eye, he saw Gwyn stiffen and lean forward as if to get a better view from his window-slit. ‘Who the hell’s this?’ growled the Cornishman. ‘I know that fellow, I’m sure I do! And the other one, of course!’

  John rose but, before he could get to the other window, Gwyn gave a shout. ‘By Christ, it’s the Marshal himself! Riding alongside Walter de Ralegh.’

  With an excited Thomas trying to peep under his arm, the coroner’s officer kept up a running commentary on the men now riding slowly up Castle Hill to the drawbridge below. ‘William, the Marshal of England, by damn! I thought these days he was always with the King in France.’

  By this time De Wolfe was also looking down and could confirm Gwyn’s words. Two tall erect men, with light surcoats over their tunics, rode finely caparisoned horses up the slope, followed by a pair of esquires and six mounted soldiers. The latter wore round iron helmets, but none of the party wore mailed hauberks or aventails, which would have been intolerable in this hot weather. The surcoats of the men in front bore armorial devices, which were repeated on pennants attached to the lances carried by the two leading men-at-arms.

  De Wolfe almost leapt to the doorway and clattered down the steps at a speed that risked his neck on the steep, twisting stairway.

  At the bottom, he was just in time to meet the riders as they came under the gatehouse arch, where Sergeant Gabriel, almost speechless at this sudden visitation, was sending his guards to fetch ostlers and take a message to summon Ralph Morin.

  John saluted the two men, both of whom he knew well. They hauled themselves wearily from their horses and greeted him with a grasp of the forearm.

  ‘I’d kill for a jug of ale, John,’ were the first words of William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Striguil and the most powerful soldier in England and Normandy. The other man was Sir Walter de Ralegh, a Devon man who was now one of the King’s judges and who had led the last Eyre of Assize in Exeter only a couple of months previously.

  ‘Come across to the hall, you can take your ease there,’ said John, still reeling from the seniority of the men who had come in response to his plea.

  ‘Is that bloody man de Revelle there?’ barked de Ralegh, an elderly man whose face seemed carved from granite.

  Before he could answer, pounding feet brought the castle constable across the bailey. Ralph Morin was as dumbfounded as John by the exalted visitors who had just arrived. He also knew both men, as in the past they had all served in the same campaigns.

  Ralph had heard the last remark and, after a hasty greeting, waved them towards the keep. ‘The sheriff went to Tiverton yesterday, he dare not neglect Lady Eleanor any longer. He said he would be back in the morning.’

  With the two squires in tow and the men-at-arms taken off to barracks to eat and drink, the party made their way to the keep, through a ragged line of soldiers and their families, who came out to doff their caps, touch their foreheads and even give an odd cheer, as William Marshal had long been a popular figure in the land, especially among the military. Now in his late forties, he had already served two kings well – and if the future could have been foreseen, was to serve another two, as well as becoming Regent of England. He had a long face, like his younger brother, Bishop Henry Marshal, who owed his ecclesiastical promotion to royal gratitude for his sibling’s ability.

  They went into Morin’s chamber at the other end of the hall and sat down, servants crowding in after them with wine, ale and food. There were too few seats for everyone and the squires, silent young men with blond hair, went back out into the hall to take their refreshments.

  ‘I’ll arrange for your accommodation, though this bloody place is so small,’ apologised Morin. ‘You can have my quarters, Lord William, and I’ll find somewhere for you, Sir Walter.’

  The Devon-bred baron held up a hand. ‘No, we’ll not stay here. I’ve been to Exeter often enough as a commissioner or a justice to know that the New Inn is the best place, not this miserable stone box. It might have been good enough for William the Bastard years ago, but times have moved on!’

  William Marshal agreed, after sinking at least a pint of ale in one long swallow. ‘In any case, I don’t feel it politic to share our lodgings with the man we’ve come to investigate.’

  As the ale and wine flowed and the plates of meat pastries and chicken legs emptied, John learned how these two senior men had come to travel to Exeter at his behest.

  ‘Your letter arrived and thankfully Hubert Walter was still in Winchester. He thinks well of you, John, and knew that you were not one to cry “wolf” where there was no real need.’

  Walter de Ralegh, another tall man with iron-grey hair, took up the tale. ‘The justiciar called me to him and told me to get down here to see what was going on, as I am familiar with the area and certainly have my own knowledge of de Revelle from some of his past escapades. Hubert said he would have come himself, but he was committed to going to Northampton and then on to London and Canterbury this week.’

  The Marshal’s cool grey eyes fixed on the coroner. ‘You are well known for your faithful service to King Richard, de Wolfe. You proved this in Palestine and when you did your best for him in Vienna. Not many men would have got the Chief Justiciar to consider coming at your call.’

  John warmed at the words, but they prompted a question. ‘Thank you, but how did you become involved in this?’

  William gave a wry smile. ‘By being in the right place at the wrong time, I suppose! I am with the King in France for most of the year, but try to get back to Chepstow now and then to see my wife Isobel and attend to my lands in Wales. I was just returning to Normandy, having to go to Winchester on the way – and walked into this problem of yours. Hubert suggested that I take the sea route from here or Plymouth, instead of Portsmouth, so that I could accompany Walter here on his mission.’

  ‘And maybe call upon your brother at the same time,’ added de Ralegh, rather mischievously.

  William grunted. ‘I’ll call upon him, surely. But in the course of duty, rather than fraternal affection. Henry and I do not often see eye to eye.’ He belched after his hasty consumption of rich food and ale. ‘In fact, I will call upon him this evening, to see what the fellow has been up to this time, before we begin our deliberations tomorrow.’

  For the next hour, de Wolfe recounted all that had been happening in Exeter over the previous few weeks, repeating and expanding upon the facts that he had given in his letter to the justiciar. The two barons listened gravely and had a number of penetrating questions for John, which showed that they were well aware of the seriousness of the situation. At the end, when they were ready to go down to their lodgings in Exeter’s largest inn in the high street, William Marshal leaned forward and tapped de Wolfe on the knee. ‘Crowner, I think you should get this knight, Henry de Furnellis, along in the mo
rning. It looks to me as if by tomorrow Devon might be needing a replacement for its sheriff!’

  The proceedings on that fateful Monday were fragmentary, as the varying issues needed different people at different venues.

  They began in the morning with William Marshal and Walter de Ralegh going to see the bishop. This was a private meeting at the bishop’s palace behind the cathedral and although John de Alençon and several other canons, including the precentor, succentor and treasurer, were called in later, the coroner could only guess at what transpired. Even his good friend the archdeacon was placed under a constraint of confidentiality, so that he could not divulge anything to de Wolfe. One result of the meeting was that Gilbert de Bosco was forced to appear at the coroner’s inquests later in the day.

  Richard de Revelle rode in during the morning and though de Wolfe deliberately kept well clear of him until the formal proceedings began, he learned later from Ralph Morin that the sheriff was shocked to learn that no less a notability than the Marshal of England had arrived to enquire into his misdeeds, together with a senior royal justice.

  De Revelle attempted to speak privately with them, but like the coroner, they declined to compromise themselves with him until the matters were dealt with officially. Richard then shut himself in his office with Roscelin de Sucote and refused to see anyone.

  At breakfast, John told his wife about the arrival of the men from Winchester, but the news seemed to send her deeper into her apathetic gloom. Normally, the arrival in the city of a baron as famous as William the Marshal, especially as he was brother to the Lord Bishop, would have made her demand of him every detail of his dress, his appearance, his entourage and any other titbit of gossip, so enamoured was she of the Norman aristocracy. But now it was as if she realised the enormity of her brother’s problems, that such exalted figures should be sent to investigate him.

  William Marshal and de Ralegh came back to the New Inn around the tenth hour, having completed their business at the cathedral. They sent a message for de Wolfe to meet them there and within minutes he had made the short walk down the hill to their lodgings. In a room set aside by the innkeeper, they sat with some wine and told John that the inquest into the fire at the Bush and the death of Lucy could go ahead, as Canon Gilbert would now appear before them. As members of the Royal Council and as King’s judges, both were also de facto coroners, but they directed him to preside over the proceedings.