The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  Some of the old defiance flowed back into Gilbert de Bosco. With an effort, he stumbled to his feet and his head rose, despite the pain in his inflamed neck. ‘Yes, I walked the streets that day and preached a crusade against them, calling on good men to help cleanse the stables of God. I sent two proctors’ men to proclaim that witches lurked in the lower town and when enough good folk had assembled we marched there, intending to seize and arrest them and put that house of shame to the torch. It was not intended that anyone should be burned alive.’

  ‘No, you wished to save them for your own court, so that you could hand them on to your fellow-conspirator, the sheriff and have them hanged. Dead either way, the fire or the rope!’ boomed de Ralegh, his face as hard as a Dartmoor rock.

  The canon remained silent, but his face bore a sullen defiance, almost a martyred resignation that these heathen would never understand his dedication to the protection of the Holy Church.

  De Wolfe waved him away in disgust and his helpers led him away to the side again, while the coroner addressed the jury. ‘You have heard the evidence and indeed a confession from this priest. There is no doubt that both on the matter of arson and of the death of Lucy of Exe Island, the cause was a riotous assembly, whipped up by Gilbert de Bosco in an insane, misplaced campaign of hate against harmless women who use their gifts in traditional practices.’ He glared along the line of jurors. ‘The verdict you must return is clear – malicious fire-setting and manslaughter, for we must accept that the immediate object was not to cause death by burning.’

  He paused and looked sideways at the two justices. ‘As to who is responsible, I am in a difficult position at an inquest, which is not a trial. One of the obvious culprits is a priest, over whom I have no jurisdiction when it comes to attachment on a criminal charge – that is a matter for the bishop. Similarly, it is unique for another suspect – for he declined to admit any guilt – to be the county sheriff. I therefore defer any action on him to my seniors present here today. I have attached the woman Heloise Giffard to the next visit of the royal justices and if her sister ever shows her face, she will go the same way.’

  After this long speech, he directed the jury to return the verdicts he had set out, giving them a ferocious glare that defied them to contest or even question his decision. They all hurriedly assented and the Shire Hall broke out into a hubbub of excited gossip, as the men on the platform filed out and went to the castle keep for well-deserved refreshment in the sultry heat.

  The next act in that day’s drama was held not in the public eye, like the inquest, but in the privacy of the sheriff’s chamber. This time, Gabriel and two soldiers guarded the door and others formed a line some yards away, to keep those using the hall well out of eavesdropping range. Inside the large room that was the sheriff’s office were assembled those who were to decide his future. The Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Striguil, sat behind de Revelle’s table with Sir Walter de Ralegh. At one end was one of the clerks who had come with the Marshal, ready with his pen, ink and parchments to record the deliberations.

  An empty chair stood on the other side of the trestle, facing the august pair. At the back of the room, against the shuttered window-slits, sat Constable Morin, John de Wolfe and a large, elderly, florid man with a flowing white moustache. This was Henry de Furnellis, who had occupied this room as sheriff for a short time two years earlier. He had bristly white hair and bags under his pale eyes big enough to accommodate hen’s eggs.

  ‘Get him in here,’ ordered William Marshal and the constable went to an inner door that led to the sheriff’s private quarters, a pair of rooms behind his office. He knocked, went in and returned with Richard de Revelle, followed by Roscelin de Sucote. They were dressed as they had been in the Shire Hall, but de Revelle’s colour was different, in that he had rosy patches on his narrow cheeks and he seemed slightly unsteady on his feet, evidence of the brandy-wine that he had been drinking in the back room. He dropped heavily into the chair set for him, with his acolyte near by.

  ‘Get on with this charade, then!’ he said thickly. ‘I still deny the right you have to invade my privacy and subject me to this discourtesy. Prince John will hear of this, as soon as a messenger can reach Normandy.’

  William Marshal regarded him coldly. ‘If the Count of Mortain objects, he can petition the King about it. But as long as the Lionheart is in France, the administration of England is in the hands of the Chief Justiciar, the Chancellor and the Royal Council.’

  Walter de Ralegh glared at the smooth-faced lawyer standing stiffly behind the sheriff’s chair. ‘Why does this fellow have to be here? This is a confidential matter.’

  ‘Sir Richard has requested that I advise him as to his legal rights and to report what transpires to Prince John, the future King.’

  De Ralegh recognised the veiled threat in Roscelin’s words and responded harshly. ‘The sheriff is an officer of the present King, not a future king, though even that is not a foregone conclusion! With God’s grace, Richard will be on the throne for very many years to come.’

  William Marshal flapped his hand at the cleric from Gloucester. ‘Oh, let him stay. Though it does go to confirm with whom the true sympathies of de Revelle lie.’

  He shuffled some parchments before him, though this was mere habit, as, in spite of being one of the most powerful men in the Plantagenet domains, he had never learnt to read either French or Latin.

  ‘We will keep this short and to the point. Your fidelity and allegiance to the king have long been suspect. The Chief Justiciar himself, when he visited this city some months ago, was apprised of various matters which gave him great concern and which have been discussed in the Curia since then. Only the reluctance of your brother-in-law to press the matter left you in a state of probation, rather than suspension – possibly by the neck!’

  De Revelle opened his mouth to deny this, then found he had nothing useful to say, so shut it again.

  ‘This time, you have been caught out once more in shameful activities. You recently brought treasure trove to the exchequer and claimed it was as intact as when discovered, yet it has been proven that you removed a substantial portion for your own purposes.’

  He pushed some documents across to Walter, who could read, although he had already been through these inventories of the cache found at Cadbury.

  ‘Those documents were falsified. It was part of de Wolfe’s scheming to bring about my ruin!’ cried the sheriff.

  ‘We challenge the authenticity of those lists and the trustworthiness of those who wrote them,’ brayed de Sucote.

  William slapped the table with a large hand. ‘Be silent! We have made all necessary enquiries to show that they are genuine and were made in good faith. We interrogated not only the treasury clerks in Winchester, but stopped at Cadbury on the journey here to confirm with the manor-lord and his priest the amount of coin originally found. Here we have checked with the constable’s steward that he accurately confirmed the contents of that chest, before you made off with it, in defiance of the coroner’s legitimate ruling that the decision upon its disposal be left to the next Eyre of Assize.’ De Ralegh jabbed a forefinger at the discomfited Richard. ‘And not only did you pilfer the hoard, but you attempted to put the blame on an honest coroner’s officer and even had him arrested on a felonious charge, to cover up your own crime!’

  De Revelle began muttering some feeble excuse about a terrible error, but the Marshal overrode his words. ‘Not content with that, you attempted to silence the coroner’s promise to expose you by veiled threats to cause harm to a woman, who, not to put too fine a point on it, was his favoured mistress.’

  ‘Sir Richard strongly denies that!’ broke in de Sucote.

  ‘Let him speak for himself, his mouth has been active enough in other directions!’ rasped Sir Walter. ‘He may deny it all he wants, but what we heard in the court today convinces me that he set a trap for Sir John de Wolfe, paying his whore to get her sister to falsify evidence of witchcraft to that gullible canon
.’

  As the catalogue of de Revelle’s misdeeds was expanded, the sheriff seemed to sag in his chair, convinced now that all was lost and that he would end on the gallows, perhaps after being mutilated and disembowelled for the greater crime of treason. Walter de Ralegh’s finger went down a list on a parchment roll, stabbing a series of items that recorded actual and suspected misdemeanours on the part of Richard, the most serious being his involvement some months earlier in an abortive rebellion on behalf of Prince John, in which the de la Pomeroy family were once again embroiled. When his finger reached the bottom, Walter threw the list aside with a flourish and leaned forward threateningly towards de Revelle.

  ‘Do you call that honourable behaviour for a Norman knight, and a servant of your king, to whom you swore an oath of allegiance when you were elected sheriff, eh?’ He leaned back and looked across at the Marshal, as if handing over the baton to him.

  William shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot tell what is to become of you, de Revelle. We know you claim to have influential friends, some right here in Exeter and perhaps some in Mortain. But I can assure you that you have none in Winchester or London.’

  He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, his long face grave as he stared at the stricken Richard, much as a ferret immobilises a rabbit before pouncing.

  ‘We have discussed this matter with others in the council and have their full authority, especially that of Hubert Walter, to act as we see fit when we have heard all the evidence here in Exeter.’ He paused and looked at de Ralegh, who gravely nodded his assent. ‘What happens to you eventually will depend on further deliberations between the members of the Curia and ultimately what the King wishes to be done. In that, I have no doubt that your own sponsors, if they do not cast you aside, might have some say. That is none of our concern today, whether you ultimately live or die!’ His voice hardened even more. ‘But what is crystal clear and as certain as night follows day is that you are no longer fit to be sheriff of the county of Devon.’

  He rose to his feet, a tall, spare man, with an aura of authority about him that had fortified him in the special role he had played in the history of England.

  ‘Richard de Revelle, from this moment forth you are no longer the King’s representative in this county. Henceforth, you will have no more authority or privileges than any other man in the city streets. The justiciar has given me the power to appoint Sir Henry de Furnellis as sheriff, until such time as the will of the King and his council is known as to a permanent successor.’

  He sat down heavily, leaving a paralysed de Revelle sunk on his chair.

  ‘This is not the end of the matter, sirs,’ brayed Roscelin. ‘The Prince will soon hear of this.’

  William Marshal flung an arm towards the inner door. ‘Just get out of here – and take him with you!’ His eyes dropped to meet those of the deposed sheriff. ‘And if you take my advice, you will collect your chattels from here and quickly get yourself to one of your manors and lay as low as you can, for as long as you can! Maybe then they’ll forget to hang you!’

  As the room cleared in an atmosphere of suppressed embarrassment and excitement, John de Wolfe felt one major emotion – not elation at the final defeat of his long-term adversary, but anxiety about how he was going to report this to Matilda in a way that would cause her the least anguish.

  John was not present at the last chapter of that Monday’s climactic story, but had to rely on his friend the archdeacon for an account of what went on in the bishop’s parlour at the palace. In the evening, when the oppressive heat seemed even more cloying than before, the three archdeacons who happened to be in the city, plus the more senior members of the cathedral chapter, were called to the palace to witness their prelate deliberate on the behaviour of their fellow-canon, Gilbert de Bosco.

  The sun had set when the coroner called upon John de Alençon at his dwelling in the Close. The approaching dusk was made more gloomy by black clouds that had rolled in from the Channel and, as on many of the previous days, a grumble of thunder rolled in the distance every few minutes.

  This evening they sat in the small garden behind the house. Although the usual outhouses and privy were farther down, de Alençon had had a small area fenced off with woven hurdles, where sparse grass grew and a couple of benches flanked a small table. It was an unusual elaboration for a yard, which was usually just a functional addition to a house, frequented only by servants, but the archdeacon had once lived in a priory where gardening was considered a virtue and solitude a blessing.

  They sat at the table to drink wine and talk, giving the occasional glance up at the heavens to gauge whether they needed to run from a sudden thunder-shower.

  ‘This has been an eventful day, John,’ observed the priest. ‘We have lost one sheriff and gained another. You have cleared up several slayings in the city – and we now have another vacancy for a canon in the chapter.’

  De Wolfe rubbed his stubble wearily. It had certainly been a stressful day. He had just left Matilda, who took the news of her brother’s disgrace stoically at first, then retired to her solar, where through the slit that joined it to the hall, he heard her sobbing as if her heart would break. She had slipped the bolt on the door, so he was unable to go in to try to comfort her in his stiff, awkward way and he decided it would be best to leave her alone, until she was ready to face the world again. He knew that her loss of prestige among her many friends, now that she was no longer the sister of the sheriff, would hurt her cruelly, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

  ‘So what happened to the witch-hunter?’ he asked de Alençon.

  The archdeacon turned his wine cup delicately with his long fingers, as he recalled the scene in the palace an hour or two earlier. Henry Marshal had entered his parlour, the large room where he held all his audiences, in a black cassock with a large silver cross on his breast and a round cap on his head. Gloved and beringed, he sat on an ornate chair placed on a dais at the end of the room. His chaplain, a young priest destined for rapid advancement in the Church owing to his high family connections, stood behind him ready to attend to his every wish.

  Facing them in the room on hard benches were Thomas de Boterellis, the precentor, John FitzJohn, Archdeacon of Totnes, Anselm Crassus, Archdeacon of Barnstaple, John of Exeter, the cathedral treasurer, and archivist Jordan de Brent, as well as several of the older canons, including Roger de Limesi and William de Tawton. Two of the proctors and their servants stood at the back of the room, having already led in Gilbert de Bosco, who sat in the centre of the front row of benches.

  ‘He looked dreadfully ill, but his spirit was as stubborn as ever,’ said de Alençon to his friend. ‘I don’t know if as a true Christian I should believe or reject these notions of the supernatural, but I suspect that there are few in Exeter who believe that his recent afflictions were not the work of Lucy’s curse!’

  De Wolfe agreed that in court that day the canon had looked in bad shape. ‘His stroke seems to have healed, but his affliction of boils seems worse. What was the outcome?’

  ‘Like your account of the sheriff’s dismissal, John, it was short, though by no means sweet. The bishop allowed him to remain seated owing to his parlous state of health, but that was the only concession he made. He roundly condemned him for excessive zeal, which he said was grossly misplaced.’

  The coroner drank and set down his cup. ‘Yet at the start the bishop seemed Gilbert’s staunch ally in his crusade against these cunning women. How could he turn around so completely?’

  ‘I’m sure his brother gave him a good talking-to, when he visited. Though to the people at the cathedral the bishop is only one step down from God Almighty, to William the Marshal he is just a younger brother!’ The priest wiped the sweat from his brow, the atmosphere seeming to press in on them, before continuing. ‘Though no one knows what was said between them in private, I suspect that William offered very robust opinions on Henry’s covert support for Prince John, as well as about his aligning himsel
f with crooked sheriffs and dangerously obsessive canons!’

  A large drop of water plopped on to the table between them, followed by another. Looking up, John saw that the roiling clouds were moving across the darkening sky, the large moon appearing in the gaps and then disappearing again.

  ‘Best go inside, John, the heavens may empty on us in a moment.’

  They moved indoors, and sat in the archdeacon’s study, a three-branched candlestick on the table between them.

  ‘So what happened to Gilbert?’ persisted the coroner.

  ‘Henry Marshal upbraided him for being too gullible in accepting the unproven accusations of those who denounced the various women. He blamed him for persuading the parish priests to give inflammatory sermons, encouraging unruly mobs and inciting riots which ended in the deaths of two citizens.’

  ‘What did de Bosco say to this?’

  ‘He fought back valiantly, but the bishop hardly let him speak. At one point I feared he might call the proctor’s men over to shut him up! Endless denials, rambling excuses and an attempt to justify his great crusade seemed to be his object, but his speech was not that clear and, as I say, the bishop rode roughshod over him.’

  There was a long rumble of thunder outside and they could hear the patter of rain beginning to fall outside the window.

  ‘You had better stay here a while, John – in this, you’ll be soaked just crossing the Close,’ said de Alençon, kindly.

  ‘If you’ve more of this particular wine, I’ll gladly stay all night,’ replied the coroner with a grin, the first he’d managed that day. As his cup was refilled from a jug, he continued his quest for news. ‘So what was the outcome? He deserves to be hanged, but that never happens to those of your cloth!’

  ‘No, we don’t go that far, thank God. At the end of it, Henry Marshal delivered a homily for our benefit, as well as for Gilbert, on the perils of taking anything to extremes. He paid lip-service to Gilbert’s good intentions in safeguarding the Holy Church, but condemned him for not seeking support and advice from wiser and cooler-headed counsellors.’