The Witch Hunter (15 page)

She was truly astounded, as well as terrified, when at about the ninth hour on Monday morning she heard a fusillade of knocks on her front door and a chorus of angry shouts in the narrow street outside. The knocks were from stones thrown at the house and, as she opened the door, another rock crashed through the flimsy shutter covering her single window. Outside were a score of people, all shouting and making threatening gestures. Alice knew none of them, as they were not from Rock Lane and she was petrified with fear to find a mob inexplicably clustered in front of her house.

Thankfully, the noise had rapidly brought a dozen of her neighbours to her assistance and both the local women and their husbands gathered outside her door to face the noisy throng in the dusty road.

‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ roared her next-door neighbour, a burly porter built like an ox. A man half his size pushed forward, his bravado bolstered by the greater number of demonstrators in the road. It was Walter Winstone, the secret architect of this performance.

‘It’s none of your business. We have come to denounce this wicked woman here,’ he brayed, pointing dramatically at Alice Ailward. ‘She is a witch and a consort of the Devil.’

There was renewed shouting and gesticulating from the people behind him, one of whom was Adam Cuffe. He came forward on cue, as he had been instructed by the apothecary earlier than morning and flung up an arm to point accusingly at the bemused widow.

‘She put a spell on me, with the aid of the Horned One himself,’ he yelled and then, to validate his bewitchment, fell to the floor where he twitched for a moment before getting up again. It was a transparently false performance, and the porter from next door, who recognised him, gave him a hefty kick to help him to his feet.

‘You damned fool, Cuffe! What mischief are you up to this time?’

Walter Winstone shrieked in his high-pitched voice at the woman still standing distraught at her own front door. ‘I am an apothecary and this fellow came to me last night bidding me to treat his curse! You communed with Satan, woman, and your evil caused this poor man to have fits.’

Alice found her voice at last. She was no wilting violet and anger was rapidly replacing her fear. ‘What nonsense are you talking, man?’ she shouted. ‘He came to me yesterday with a headache and dizziness, probably from some suppuration inside his ear – together with too much ale the night before.’

‘You conjured up the Dark Angel to help you, I saw him in the room with you!’ yelled Adam, his acting skills now stretched to their meagre limit.

Before Alice and the porter could contradict him, there was a shout from the road and the tall, thin figure of Osric appeared, staff in hand. The Saxon was one of the city’s two constables, paid by the burgesses to keep order on the streets. Attracted by the racket, he had hurried to Rock Lane and now pushed his way through the small crowd to reach the figures arguing on the doorstep.

The apothecary got in first with a rapid accusation concerning the widow’s collaboration with the Devil himself. ‘She is one of those whom Canon Gilbert warned us against!’ he screamed. ‘This man unwisely came here for help and was cynically bound with spells by this evil woman. She called on the forces of darkness to aid her wicked desires.’

Osric was a conscientious official, but one not over-imbued with brains. He gaped at the main antagonists, bewildered at events. ‘What are you accusing her of, then? Did she wound him or attempt to slay him?’

‘Don’t be so bloody daft, Osric,’ snapped the neighbour, to whom plain speaking was a way of life. ‘For some reason this pig’s ass wants to cause trouble for the poor woman. You should lock him up, together with this scum from the quay-side, Adam Cuffe.’

The forthright common sense of the brawny porter, together with the constable’s obvious reluctance to do anything, had almost silenced the small crowd and if the matter had been left there, the whole episode might have faded away, in spite of Walter’s efforts to keep it alight. However, at that moment – and not by coincidence, for the apothecary had tipped them off – Cecilia de Pridias and her cousin Gilbert de Bosco appeared in Rock Lane.

The big priest, wearing his voluminous black cloak over his cassock, in spite of the sultry weather, strode down the slope, his cousin pattering alongside to keep up with him. Behind him came a thickset man carrying a heavy staff capped with silver, the symbol of authority of a proctor’s servant. These were the men who enforced order and discipline within the cathedral enclave, acting as ecclesiastical constables and even gaolers for the occasional errant priest or other offender detained in the cells in one of the buildings on the north side of the Close.

Gilbert marched up to the crowd around the door and addressed himself to the bemused Osric. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded of the skinny official.

Before the constable could reply, Walter cut in and tugged Adam Cuffe forward. ‘Your reverence, this man has been bewitched by this depraved woman! He came seeking a cure for a trivial ailment, which I could have treated properly, but out of spite the cunning woman used the forces of the Devil to curse him. She must be stopped from committing further evil, sir.’

Winstone covertly kicked Adam on the ankle and on cue he dropped to his knees and grabbed his throat, muttering in a half-strangled voice that he could not breathe and was in mortal fear of dying.

‘I did no such thing,’ yelled Alice, her anger now tinged with fear that some ghastly plot was being hatched against her. ‘I gave him but a few herbs to soothe his head, nothing more!’

‘This man says you called down the Devil, he saw apparitions in your dwelling,’ yapped the apothecary excitedly.

‘A great red-and-black monster with horns and cloven feet, hovering behind her!’ cried Adam, his voice miraculously recovered. There were murmurings and faint moans from the crowd clustered closely around.

‘You’re a liar, Adam Cuffe,’ roared the burly neighbour, grabbing the actor by the shoulder and shaking him. ‘This man is a well-known trickster, the dregs of the taverns down by the river. You can’t believe a word he says!’

‘Why should he lie? He has nothing to gain from it,’ bleated Walter Winstone, turning to the big priest for support.

Gilbert de Bosco, who had been silent until now, turned to the plump good-wife, trembling on her front doorstep. ‘Did this man come to you yesterday and ask for help?’ he grated ominously.

‘Yes, but only for a potion for his headache …’

‘Just answer my questions, woman, nothing more,’ snapped the canon. ‘And did you give him something and take money from him?’

‘A few dried herbs – and only for a single penny! Is that a crime?’

Gilbert started at her coldly. ‘A crime? We shall see, woman.’

He turned to Adam Cuffe, who had decided to twitch one shoulder. The apothecary was beginning to worry that his accomplice’s enthusiasm for over-acting might ruin the whole performance.

‘What took place when you came here yesterday?’ demanded the canon.

Cuffe stopped jerking and a crafty look came into his small eyes. ‘I told her my symptoms, but she didn’t look at my head nor body, just began canting some strange spells and dancing around me.’

The idea that the rotund middle-aged woman would be likely to dance around a stranger in the cramped confines of her small dwelling should have been ludicrous, but a chorus of gasps and angry murmurs from the audience told of their willingness to accept anything that supported their preconceptions.

‘What happened then?’ grated Gilbert de Bosco, his bulk hovering threateningly over the small man.

‘She first demanded money from me … six silver pennies, no less!’

There was a hiss of disapproval from the crowd at the mention of this extortionate sum.

‘Liar, it was but one penny!’ In her anger, Alice unwisely added, ‘May you be damned for such mischievous untruths!’

‘Hear that, she curses him again, even in the presence of a man of God,’ screeched Walter triumphantly.

‘What then?’ demanded Gilbert, implacably.

‘After I paid her all I had, she chanted more spells and weird verses, in some language I could not understand,’ answered Adam, having been carefully coached beforehand by the apothecary. ‘And the room went dark and there was the flutter of satanic wings. I saw this apparition behind her, it was Beelzebub himself. I fainted and when I came to, she was dragging me to the door. I staggered home and then was sick. I suffered shivering and fits like the ague until I dragged myself to this good apothecary here for help.’ He ended with another bout of twitching, this time with the opposite shoulder.

Alice hotly denied his allegation and her neighbours joined in until there was a rising cacophony of voices. Walter, Adam and even Cecilia now yelled and gesticulated as vehemently as the residents of Rock Lane staunchly supported their besieged neighbour. Osric looked on helplessly, wishing himself far away, until the heavily built canon decided to bring the matter to a head.

‘Be quiet, all of you!’ he bellowed in a bull-like voice. It had the desired effect as the squabbling rapidly subsided and all faces were turned to the priest. He glared back at Osric. ‘This is a public disturbance, constable! The root cause is obviously this woman here, so I charge you to take her into custody until the matter can be properly investigated.’

Dim though he was, Osric knew enough about his duties to resist being ordered about by someone from the cathedral. ‘I can’t do that, sir! I know of no offence she has committed. She stands at her own door and has done nothing apart from deny some accusations!’

There was a roar of approval from the locals and the porter slapped the thin Saxon on the back in admiration. ‘Well said, Osric, you’re not as stupid as you look!’

Irritated by the stubborn rebuff, Gilbert de Bosco turned to the servant with the silver-topped staff, who had been standing stoically in the background all the while. ‘William, seize this woman and take her to the proctor’s gaol. If this oaf will not act on a breach of the peace, then she must be arraigned under canon law, on suspicion of blasphemy and sacrilege.’

Amid howls of protest, the proctor’s servant stepped forward and grabbed Alice Ailward not too gently by the arm and pulled her into the road. Her next-door neighbour, with a roar of anger, launched himself at the man, but received a smart blow across the head from the staff. The other inhabitants of Rock Street surged forward, and for a moment it looked as if there would be a free fight in the lane, but Osric, clear at least about his duty not to allow brawling in the streets, seized the porter by the shoulder to restrain him from further violence.

‘Leave it, Henry!’ he shouted in his ear. ‘You cannot prevail against the bishop’s men. Let the law sort this out.’

With the canon, Cecilia, Adam Cuffe and the apothecary clustered around her, poor Alice was led away, wailing and weeping, with a trailing crowd of supporters and antagonists tagging along behind, still shouting and scuffling.

As they went up Rock Street to Southgate Street and then across through Beargate into the cathedral precincts, the crowd grew larger as, like a snowball, it gathered up more townsfolk, who themselves then took sides.

When they discovered what was going on, there were shouts of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Let the old woman go free!’ mixed with more hysterical yells of ‘Witch, she’s a witch!’ and ‘She’s in league with Satan!’

By the time they reached the church of St Mary Major, one of the six small churches dotted along the west side of the Close, some fifty people were trailing behind, the two factions still shouting abuse at each other. The proctor’s man dragged the still-protesting Alice to a door in a building opposite St Mary’s, which backed on to the houses in the high street. This was the office of the proctors, a pair of canons responsible for keeping law and order in the episcopal enclave, any physical work being delegated to their servants, of whom William was one. He thrust the wailing widow inside and vanished, followed by Canon Gilbert, who slammed the door behind him.

The mob, abruptly deprived of their entertainment, rapidly dispersed, leaving a few of Alice’s friends to round on Walter, Cecilia and Adam, blaming them loudly for the scandalous way in which the widow woman had been treated. The apothecary took fright at the threatening attitude of the burly porter and hurried away in the direction of Martin’s Lane, while Adam also thought it wise to quietly slip away to the nearest tavern to spend some of Walter’s bribes on ale. Only Cecilia de Pridias stood her ground and haughtily declaimed her intention to hound every cunning woman out the city, to avenge herself for the death of her husband.

Having said her piece, she turned and stalked away towards her home near the East Gate.

The sky, which had been holding its hot and humid breath for days, eventually decided that it had had enough. Later that morning, the heavens split above the city in a crashing peal of thunder and black clouds loosed a torrent of vertical rain that fell like a waterfall into the dusty streets.

Thomas de Peyne was caught by the downpour just as he was limping from the cathedral up to Rougemont. Within seconds, his threadbare black tunic was saturated and his mousy hair was plastered in lank strands around his thin face. He was soon so wet that there was no point in sheltering or trying to run the rest of the way, so he ambled along, the rain streaming off his eyebrows and long nose. On either side, tradesmen were cursing as they struggled to cover the goods displayed on their flimsy stalls, the rain drumming on the striped fabric of the awnings over the booths. By the time Thomas got to the bottom of Castle Hill, the high street was already a morass of fine mud. The central gutter was pouring filthy water down towards the river, and he had to stretch his short legs to cross it, as a flotsam of rubbish, including a decaying cat, careered past.

As he passed into the outer ward of Rougemont, he saw that some wives were chasing after their urchins, who were dancing gleefully in the rain, while others were desperately collecting their washing, which had been drying on bushes. At the inner gate, the solitary guard was sheltering under the arch of the gatehouse, thinking dolefully that he would later have to take sand and a rag to his round iron helmet to polish off the new rust that the rain would cause. He nodded at the familiar figure of the coroner’s clerk as Thomas passed behind him to climb laboriously up the steep steps to the upper chamber.