The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Once that’s complete, then we will be in a better position to decide how we view the behaviour of both this damned priest and your dear brother-in-law,’ explained Walter.

  John had already primed Gwyn to get everything ready for an inquest in the Shire Hall immediately after the midday meal and when he returned to his chamber he sent his officer with messages to the sheriff’s steward and down to Canons’ Row to demand the attendance of both, on pain of the King’s displeasure. The archdeacon had already called on Gilbert to deliver the bishop’s orders and though the canon still pleaded sickness, de Alençon made it crystal clear that this was a command that could not be disobeyed, even if they had to carry him to the court on a hurdle.

  As always in Exeter, news travelled not just fast but almost instantaneously and a large crowd had converged on Rougemont by the time the inquest began. The sergeant-at-arms called out all his men to keep order and a line of soldiers pressed back the onlookers inside the court, so that a large enough space was left in front of the platform for jurors and witnesses. Another row of helmeted men blocked the arched entrance to keep out those who clustered around to listen from outside.

  For a jury, Gwyn had collected almost thirty men, as although the minimum was accepted as a dozen there was no maximum. In fact, the law stated that in the countryside, every man – which meant all over twelve years of age – from the four nearest villages should be empanelled. This was physically impractical, and in towns and cities impossible. The men Gwyn had rounded up were from among those who had been at the Bush when it was besieged and burnt. Some were mere spectators, others helpful fire-fighters, but some of the instigators and rioters were also reluctantly present. One of them was the man with the torch whom John had felled with the flat of his sword, who appeared with a grubby bandage still around his head.

  One of the last to arrive was Gilbert de Bosco, on his own two feet, rather than a hurdle. He looked awful with a red, swollen face, dotted pustules around his jaw and a wide bandage swathed around his neck. His stroke seemed to have subsided, although there was a slight droop to one side of his lower lip. He was helped into court by his vicar and steward, who found a stool for him at one side of the hall below the dais.

  On this low platform were already assembled a few chairs, some benches and stools, with a trestle table where Thomas de Peyne was already settled with his writing materials. The ubiquitous Brother Rufus was lurking at the back along with a few clerks from the castle and the cathedral, none having any business there apart from their own curiosity.

  Then the official party arrived, the men-at-arms thrusting the crowd back with their staves, to leave a path for the coroner, who led the King’s Marshal and Walter de Ralegh to their chairs. Behind them came Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford, the city’s two portreeves and in the rear the tall figure of Ralph Morin, guardian of Rougemont.

  As agreed, de Wolfe took the central chair, flanked by the two visitors from Winchester, the others finding stools and benches on either side.

  ‘Where’s Richard de Revelle?’ demanded Walter de Ralegh, glaring around the spartan hall. As if his words had conjured him up, the sheriff appeared at the door, dressed in his finest outfit of green linen, gold embroidery at the neck, hem and wrists, with a blue silken cloak draped over his shoulders, secured across the breast with a gold chain. At his heels was Roscelin de Sucote, wearing a plain but elegant black tunic with a gold cross on his breast.

  De Revelle stalked in and, without looking to right or left, made to step up on to the dais, until a barked command from William Marshal stopped him in his tracks. ‘You are a witness in this matter, sir. Your place is down there!’ William pointed to the double line of jurors and witnesses who stood shuffling between the line of soldiers and the front of the platform.

  Richard coloured instantly and protested. ‘I am the sheriff of this county, sir! This is my court and indeed that is my chair you are occupying!’

  William Marshal was not one to be contradicted. ‘A court is not a building, it is a legal device which is constituted according to its function. Today, you are in the same position as any other of the King’s subjects.’ He relented a little, for the sake of Norman solidarity. ‘However, you may have a stool to take your ease, if you so wish.’

  De Revelle’s fury increased and he turned to glare at Roscelin, who stepped forward towards the platform. ‘I must protest, sir! Sir Richard is the King’s representative in this county and it is intolerable that he should be treated in such a way.’

  ‘The King’s representative, as you put it, appears to have been embroiled in instigating a riot that ended in arson and a death. So be quiet, or I will have you put out!’

  So much for being asked to conduct the proceedings, thought de Wolfe wryly – so far he had not had a chance to say a word.

  Now the slighted lawyer was as angry as the man he was there to protect. ‘You cannot speak to me like that! I am Roscelin de Sucote, a priest and an advocate, chamberlain to Prince John, Count of Mortain and the King’s brother!’ he shouted.

  ‘And I am William, the King’s Marshal, Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Striguil. Now be quiet, d’you hear?’

  It was not strictly accurate for him to call himself Earl of Pembroke, but no one was likely to object. It was true that the King had given him the hand of Isabel de Clare, daughter of ‘Strongbow’, Earl of Pembroke, but as the lands were to be kept in royal hands for another ten years, William was not yet entitled to the earldom. Still, everyone knew him by this name and a Devon inquest was not the place to dispute it.

  Glowering, the two men subsided and stood trying to strike a defiant pose while Gwyn yelled out his opening lines.

  John rose to his feet and declared that he was enquiring into the death by fire of one Lucy, a dweller on Exe Island. ‘And as coroners are obliged also to enquire into fires in a town or city, whether or not there is a death, that is also an issue,’ he added. Glaring around the packed court, he carried on in his deep, uncompromising voice. ‘As to a First Finder, it cannot apply to the fire itself, as this conflagration began before the eyes of half a hundred people. As to the death, then I call Adam Kempe, a carpenter of St Catherine’s Gate.’

  The craftsman came to the front of the court, as the coroner’s officer humped the sack of bones to dump on the earth at his feet. Then Gwyn rooted inside the bag and pulled out the scorched skull and a couple of bones, which he held out to Adam. The man studied them and nodded. ‘Yes, Crowner, these were the remains which I recovered from the ashes of the Bush.’

  As Gwyn paraded along the row of jurymen, displaying the grisly relics almost as if he were offering them for sale, de Wolfe continued. ‘It is well known, and witnessed by a hundred pairs of eyes, including my own, that the woman known as Bearded Lucy was in the tavern during the fire. No one else is missing and therefore I am satisfied that these remains belong to her.’

  Once again he ignored the issue of Englishry and proceeded to the cause of the fire. ‘The conflagration was started deliberately and maliciously by rioters in the streets, some of whom flagrantly carried burning torches. I personally felled one of those miscreants!’ He scanned the hall with piercing eyes and then jabbed a finger at someone trying to look inconspicuous as he edged towards the entrance archway. ‘Hold that man!’ he bellowed, and Gabriel and two soldiers forced their way towards him and dragged him before the coroner. ‘You were that man, damn you!’ he shouted at the fellow, whose dirty bandage wrapped around his head was now like a badge of shame. ‘You were not the only evil-doer that day, but you will do! I commit you in custody to the next session of Gaol Delivery. Sergeant, get this wretch to the cells, my clerk can record his details later.’

  As the man was dragged away, hollering with fright, as he would surely be hanged in due course, de Wolfe called for his next witness. ‘Where is Heloise, wife of Will Giffard?’

  There was a scuffle towards the back of the hall and several people prodded the skinny woman with the wry neck, w
ho at first refused to move, until another man-at-arms went and pulled her by the wrists to the front. She stood shivering before the coroner, her eyes swivelled up to regard him fearfully. Her husband, a burly man with a pugnacious expression, pushed through the crowd to stand behind her.

  John glowered down at her, aware that this was the creature who had tried to add Nesta to the list of women who went to the gallows. ‘Heloise Giffard, did you visit Nesta the landlady of the Bush Inn several weeks ago, on the pretext of seeking a cure for the affliction of your neck?’

  ‘It was not a pretext, sir. I wanted a cure. And I had warts on my hands.’

  ‘Did she offer a cure? And I want the truth, woman, not a litany of lies about devils and goblins, or it will be even worse for you!’

  The twisted wife peered furtively to left and right, but whoever she was seeking had made themselves scarce. ‘She said she could do nothing about my neck, sir. But she gave me a salve for my skin.’

  ‘Did she demand money from you for this simple service?’ snapped John. Heloise hesitated, then shook her head, a strange movement given the angle of her neck. ‘No, sir!’ she whispered.

  ‘And did anything untoward happen when that good lady did her best to help you, without so much as a ha’penny fee?’

  Again the woman wagged her head. ‘No, Crowner, nothing.’

  De Wolfe’s voice rose into a roar. ‘Then how was it you told Canon Gilbert that when you visited the tavern, that the woman conjured up black mist out of which came a hellish devil with fire coming from its mouth – and that she and this apparition performed lewd and obscene acts upon you? Answer me, you wretch!’

  Heloise fell to her knees, her hands clenched before her in supplication. ‘It was my sister, Esther, sir,’ she wailed. ‘She persuaded me and gave me good silver coin to do what I did. It was her fault, sir, not mine. I only did what I was bid – and I am a poor woman, deformed in body.’

  ‘This sister of yours, Esther. Is she in this court today?’ John thundered.

  ‘No sir, she left the city last week, in fear of what might become of her after what happened. I don’t know where she is. I think she may have gone to Plymouth to follow the sailors.’

  ‘Your sister is a whore, is she not?’

  Heloise seemed to shrink, like a hedgehog when threatened. ‘She is, sir, God forgive her.’

  ‘I doubt that, woman – and he will have to stretch his compassion to forgive you, too. Tell me, this harlot sister of yours, did she have regular clients in this city?’

  Again, Heloise’s eyes squinted furtively along the front rows of the hall. ‘I don’t know that, Crowner. I tried to keep clear of her immoral business.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Do you see anyone in this court who you know visited her often – or who she visited for carnal knowledge?’

  Here Roscelin de Sucote made his first mistake. He stepped forward a pace from the sheriff’s side to address the three men seated in the centre of the dais. ‘As a lawyer, I must object! The woman has said she doesn’t know, so why badger her further? It is not relevant.’

  William Marshal leaned forward in his chair. ‘If it’s not relevant, why did you intervene, eh? What possible interest can you have in who might be the customer of a whore?’

  The Gloucester cleric flushed and stepped back, getting a venomous look from the sheriff, whose troubles were only just beginning. The coroner dismissed Heloise after attaching her in the sum of four marks to attend the next visitation of the royal justices, then he called Richard de Revelle.

  Again de Sucote intervened, to protest that a sheriff could not be forced to testify in a lower court in his own county, as he himself was the principal law officer. This time, Walter de Ralegh cut him down to size. ‘You talk arrant nonsense, young man! This is the coroner’s court, an office set up only last year by the King, to conduct the King’s business. Have you taken no notice of his title, eh? Custos placitorum corona, “keeper of the pleas of the crown”!’

  On the other side of the upstaged coroner, the Marshal of England spoke again. ‘Your interference is doing more harm than good, sir! I would advise you to keep your mouth shut, before you do more damage.’

  The said mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish, but Roscelin obviously thought better of antagonising two members of the Curia Regis any further, and stepped back.

  ‘De Revelle, come before us!’ grated the Earl Marshal, crooking his finger.

  With reluctance showing in every slow footstep, the sheriff moved to stand below his brother-in-law. Although he stood in a deliberately nonchalant pose, throwing his gaudy cloak back over one shoulder, his small eyes looked up at John with pure poison oozing from them.

  De Wolfe was deliberately correct and polite, doing his best to suppress his own contempt and loathing for the man in the cause of even-handed justice. ‘Sir Richard, were you acquainted with Esther, the sister of Heloise Giffard?’

  ‘Of course not, I’ve never heard of her!’ said the sheriff contemptuously. ‘Why I should know the name of an alehouse strumpet?’

  There were a few cackles of laughter from the back of the court, as de Revelle’s partiality for whores was well known in the city. He turned round furiously, but the culprits had ducked down out of sight.

  ‘I fear we shall hear soon that your memory is failing you, if you continue to claim that she was unknown to you. I suggest that you paid this woman to get her unfortunate sister, who arouses sympathy because of her affliction, to visit the Bush inn under a pretext.’

  ‘Absolute nonsense – or rather, malicious lies!’ snarled de Revelle. ‘I suggest you produce this woman to speak for herself, before you make such unfounded accusations.’

  John sighed. ‘I wish we could, but she has vanished – most conveniently, it seems. Now, Sir Richard, you were at the scene of the fire in Idle Lane, why was that? It’s not your habit to attend criminal events.’

  ‘I was riding in the city and heard the commotion and naturally went to investigate,’ he said loftily.

  ‘It would be the first time you’ve ever investigated anything,’ observed John, cynically. ‘Where were you riding that you could hear what was going on in Idle Lane? It’s not a part of the city that a busy sheriff normally frequents.’

  ‘Were you expecting something to happen there?’ cut in de Ralegh.

  ‘Of course not – I tell you, I was riding down the high street and heard this rumpus.’

  ‘He must have had bloody good hearing!’ muttered Gwyn to Gabriel, at the side of the platform.

  The sheriff stonewalled all further questions with flat denials and, however unconvincing he sounded, there was nothing further to be obtained from him. When the coroner curtly dismissed him, Richard stared haughtily at the three men above him. ‘If you have no further need of my help, I will return to my chamber and get on with the more pressing business of administering this county!’ He turned and, head held high, strode towards the doorway.

  ‘Don’t go too far, Sheriff,’ called William Marshal after him. ‘We have much more to say to you later.’

  Ignoring this, de Revelle stalked out, Roscelin de Sucote falling in behind him as the men-at-arms cleared a path for them through the gawping crowd.

  The last witness was Gilbert de Bosco, now a different man to the arrogant, blustering fellow of a couple of weeks earlier. He looked ill, he was hunched and his face had an unhealthy fullness about it that was worsened by the rash around his jaws and the bulky dressing around his neck.

  De Wolfe motioned to his vicar and steward to help him from his stool and settle him back upon it below the centre of the dais. Having salved his conscience by deferring to a sick man, he then treated him as any other witness. ‘Canon, did you instigate, foment or encourage the attack upon the Bush inn by that mob?’

  De Bosco raised his head slowly and painfully to the coroner. ‘I did my duty as a Christian and a priest, in that I sought out necromancy, witchcraft and those consor
ting with the Devil.’

  ‘That’s not an answer to the question the coroner put to you,’ snapped Walter de Ralegh. ‘Did you stir up a riotous assembly?’

  ‘I received information that two daughters of Satan were hiding in that den of iniquity and acted accordingly.’

  ‘What d’you mean “hiding”?’ barked William Marshal. ‘One of them was the landlady, she owned the bloody place!’

  ‘And from where did you receive this information, as you put it?’ asked the coroner.

  The priest looked uneasily across the front of the hall. Seemingly reassured by the absence of Richard de Revelle, he replied. ‘I had a message from the sheriff, through one of his clerks, that the old witch from the mud flats beyond the West Gate was being sheltered there. It became well known that she was a disciple of the ungodly, probably their leader in these parts.’

  ‘And what of the other, the ale-wife known as Nesta?’ interjected the marshal.

  ‘Sir Richard had already directed a woman to me. The one with the deformed neck, who had been a victim of that tavern-keeper. She told me of the hellish practices that she suffered when she visited her for some simple remedy.’

  ‘And you believed her?’ snapped de Ralegh, incredulously.

  ‘Today, she admitted that everything was a tissue of lies, you gullible fool,’ shouted William.

  John, again excluded for the moment, steered the questions back on to the original path. ‘So how was it that a rabble appeared in Idle Lane, with you virtually at their head, some carrying flaming torches?’