The Witch Hunter (8 page)

‘You cannot treat yourself, John. Much of the power is in the mind, not the herbs. You have to convince the other person that what needs to happen, will happen. You cannot do that to yourself. That is why I went to Bearded Lucy – not that she was successful.’

The woman that Nesta mentioned was an old crone who lived in a hovel on Exe Island and who had a wide reputation as a cunning woman.

De Wolfe felt that this conversation was taking a morbid turn and steered it away to other topics. He was helped by a sudden commotion at the back of the room, where stools were being thrown over and a fist fight had erupted between a pair of tinners who had drunk too much. Nesta streaked away to deal with it and with the help of Edwin and a couple of dependable customers, the most aggressive miscreant was manhandled out into the lane, Nesta’s strident voice following him with pithy advice not to return until he was sober.

John grinned to himself, not intervening as experience had told him that his mistress was more than capable of dealing with such episodes.

The dusk was now well advanced and after one more jug of ale, he kissed the landlady goodnight and with a last regretful look at the ladder to his French bed, called to Brutus and made his way home.

Early the next morning, which was a Wednesday, Cecilia de Pridias forsook her usual church in Fore Street and walked to the cathedral. She went just before the eighth hour to attend prime, the third service of the episcopal day which began with Matins just after midnight. The new widow was swathed in a black mantle, secured at the shoulder with a circular silver brooch, the hood pulled up over the white cover-chief and wimple that enveloped her head. In spite of her sombre attire, her face bore a flinty expression that suggested determination rather than mourning.

Her daughter Avise and podgy son-in-law Roger trailed behind her as she climbed the steps of the West Front and entered the small entrance set in the massive doors, which were opened only on ceremonial occasions.

Inside, the huge nave was almost empty, the only sound apart from their feet on the flagstones being the chirruping of birds as they flew in and out of the unglazed windows high on the walls. Ahead in the distance was the pulpitum, the carved wooden choir-screen that seperated the priests from the common folk. It crossed the nave just before the two side chapels in the bases of the great square towers that formed the arms of the crucifix-shaped building.

Cecilia marched down the centre of the echoing nave, to where a dozen people, mostly women, stood a respectful distance in front of the ornate screen, between the two small altars of St Mary and St John the Baptist. The service was just starting, as with no clock nearer than Germany, everyone’s time-keeping was approximate and the chanterel bell had started ringing before the de Pridias family had turned into Martin’s Lane.

Beyond the screen, the prayers and chanting seemed remote to the small congregation, the clergy and their acolytes being seen and heard indistinctly through the intricate woodwork. This was a choral service, not a Mass and the priests were indifferent to the small audience outside. In the cathedral, the numerous daily offices were not primarily for the benefit of the public, but were held as perpetual acts of worship to God, offered by the complex hierarchy of canons, vicars and secondaries. The lay population was served by more than two dozen churches scattered around the city and it was a matter of indifference to the chapter of the cathedral whether anyone turned up to listen in the nave, other than on special days, when pomp and ceremony required an audience.

Prime droned on for about forty minutes, with psalms, chanting, prayers and responses being orchestrated beyond the choir-screen by the precentor and his assistant, the succentor. Some of the other people dropped to their knees on the cold stones at appropriate moments in the service, but devout as Cecilia was, she had no intention of prostrating herself on the grubby slabs in her best cloak. At St Olave’s, she always took her own padded kneeler, but here she contented herself with a bowed head at the more solemn moments.

The formalities ended with a blessing given in high-pitched Latin by one of the archdeacons, after which the choristers, secondaries and priests processed out of their stalls and dispersed, most to get some refreshment before terce, the next service held at around the ninth hour. This was what Cecilia had been waiting for, and with Avise and Roger trailing behind, she went to the north side, where a passage went through to the crossing of the cathedral, at the base of one of the towers. A stream of boys and young men hurried past in their black cassocks, followed at a more sedate rate by their seniors, most draped in their cloaks as the heat of the day had not yet arrived. The lady stood respectfully with her head downcast, but her sharp eyes were scanning each figure as they emerged from the gloom behind the end of the screen. After a few moments, she saw the person for whom she had been lying in wait and moved forward towards him.

Canon Gilbert de Bosco was her cousin, though a dozen years older than her forty-five summers. He had Cecilia’s forceful manner which bordered on arrogance, probably inherited from their mutual grandfather, who had been a knight in the service of the first King Henry, before becoming embroiled in the civil war between Stephen and Matilda.

Gilbert was a large man and could have been a soldier like his ancestor, rather than a priest, as he was powerful and muscular, though good living was making him run to fat. A thick neck and a red face were topped by bristly hair of a sandy colour with still no grey to be seen. His fair colouring had made him prey to the recent scorching sun and his bald tonsure glowed like a brazier.

He was stalking along oblivious to his surroundings, his mind on a leisurely breakfast, as his vicar was standing in for him at all the later offices until the evening compline. The sudden touch on his arm jerked him into awareness and a scowl was hastily converted to a sympathetic smile when he saw it was his cousin Cecilia. Although they were by no means close, he had approved of his cousin marrying into money and kept on good terms with her and her husband, in case one day some useful legacy might come his way. He had heard of her husband’s death only that morning and hastened to express his sympathy, clasping her hand and managing to look mournful.

‘I was going to seek you out later today, dear cousin, to offer my deepest sympathy and to pray together for the repose of poor Robert’s soul.’

His deep, booming voice managed to sound totally sincere, as if his mind had been filled with sorrow, rather than the anticipation of breakfast.

The widow brusquely acknowledged his concern, then cut straight to the point. ‘There are matters concerning his death which I must urgently discuss with you, Gilbert.’

His big face bent towards her and his rather watery blue eyes sought hers to exude commiserations. ‘Of course, Cecilia, the funeral arrangements. Be assured that I will see to it that a requiem Mass will be conducted with all due dignity …’

She cut him off with an impatient shake of her head. ‘I thank you, Gilbert, but my parish priest at St Olave’s is seeing to that aspect. I need to talk to you of the manner of his death. Is there somewhere more fitting that we can go?’

Mystified and somewhat reluctant to get involved in something which might divert him from more lucrative pursuits, the benign smile on the priest’s ruddy face faded somewhat.

‘Manner of his death? What help could I possibly give you there?’ he rumbled, lowering his voice as some of his colleagues were passing. They were looking curiously at the sight of their fellow canon with his head together with that of a well-dressed woman.

‘I cannot speak of it in public, Gilbert,’ said his cousin sharply.

He looked around the wide, cold nave and sighed. He had no wish to take her to his comfortable house in the Close, as it might interfere with his breakfast. In any event, women, apart from the odd washerwoman or skivvy, were banned from priests’ lodgings – though this was a rule that was regularly ignored by some of his fellows.

‘Very well, cousin, let us go back into the robing room. It will be empty now.’

For the first time, he seemed to become aware of the daughter and her husband, who stood indecisively behind Cecilia. With a grunted acknowledgement, he turned and led them back past the end of the choir-screen, where the last columns of the nave gave way to the massive buttress of the north tower. The high, square chamber at its base had a small altar at one side, dedicated to St Radegund, a sixth-century queen of the Franks, but opposite was a curtained-off area used by the clergy and their acolytes for changing vestments. Canon de Bosco stuck his head through a gap in the drapery to confirm that everyone had departed, then held it aside for the other three to enter. They stood in the centre and with the two younger persons hovering awkwardly behind her, Cecilia de Pridias fixed her cousin with a gimlet eye.

‘My husband was done to death, Gilbert! I know how and I know by whom, but that stubborn coroner will not take me seriously.’

Initially reluctant to get involved, the canon’s well-developed sense of self-advancement stirred within his brain. Although in late middle age, he was still ambitious and so far had climbed from being a lowly parish priest near Tavistock to attaining a coveted prebend near Crediton and thus becoming a canon of the cathedral. He still wanted to go farther and though he was realistic enough to know that a bishop’s crozier was forever beyond his reach, he had his eye on one of the more senior posts in the chapter, preferably that of an archdeacon or treasurer, when one should fall vacant. His ears had pricked up at the mention of the coroner, as de Wolfe was well known as a zealous supporter of the King, whereas the bishop was well disposed towards Prince John. In fact, Henry Marshal, though brother to William, the Marshal of England, was well known to have been actively sympathetic to John’s abortive rebellion when Richard Coeur-de-Lion was imprisoned in Germany. Gilbert de Bosco had no political leanings either way, but being associated with anything that confounded or discredited the coroner might improve his own standing with the bishop, which could do his hopes of advancement no harm at all. All this passed rapidly through the mind of the devious priest as he waited for his cousin to enlarge on de Wolfe’s failings.

‘He refused to investigate the death or even hold an inquest,’ complained Cecilia. ‘He treated my accusations with contempt, even in the face of the evidence!’

‘And what was that, cousin?’ Gilbert was now attentive and solicitous, the oil of self-interest lubricating his manner.

‘You will have heard of the feud between my poor Robert and Henry de Hocforde, over Henry’s desire to acquire our mill?’

The priest had heard no such thing, but he nodded sagely. He could soon catch up on the gossip, if needs be.

‘Well, failing to persuade Robert to sell by legal means, he arranged for his assassination! But that fool coroner will have none of it.’

Gilbert’s interest began to waver. If this silly woman had some obsession about a murder conspiracy that would lead nowhere, he wanted to keep well clear of it. But her next words reclaimed his attention immediately.

‘He was done to death by witchcraft. An effigy was hidden under his saddle, with a spike through its heart!’

Ecclestiastical politics apart, Gilbert de Bosco had a deep, unshakeable devotion to Christianity and the doctrines of Rome, free from some of the doubts and crises of faith that were admitted to by some of his colleagues. One manifestation of this dedication to the Church was a fierce hatred of any competitor to Holy Writ. This included the manifold remnants of paganism and pantheism which pervaded the countryside, in spite of many centuries of Christian influence in the islands of Britain. In the years when he had been a village priest, his sermons had often contained vehement condemnations of the everyday practice of superstition and rural magic, with demands to his flock to abandon the ancient customs of folk medicine, spell-casting and sooth-saying. The fact that his exhortations fell on the deaf ears of folk who had no alternative but to turn to their cunning men and women, did little to dampen his crusading efforts. Since he had moved to the city with its slightly more sophisticated community, his ardour had subsided, but now Cecilia’s words ignited the slumbering embers into sudden flame.

‘Witchcraft! Tell me more of this,’ he commanded.

His cousin had little more to tell, but she repeated and embellished the few facts, then called her daughter and the abashed Roger forward to confirm her story, especially the discovery of the corn-dolly under her husband’s saddlebag.

‘Leave this with me, cousin,’ he snapped, after some very quick thinking. ‘I will look into this matter at once. The archdeacon should be told and perhaps even the bishop himself. When is the funeral to be held?’

Cecilia, gratified that her relative was taking this seriously, told him that Julian Fulk, the priest of St Olave’s, was holding a service the next morning and after that, the burial would take place in the afternoon, following a Mass in the cathedral. As the family was relatively rich, they had bought the right to bury Robert under the flagstones at the back of the nave, rather than out in the chaos of the Close outside, where most of Exeter’s dead had to be deposited. In spite of the multitude of churches in the city, none had the right to bury their parishioners; this was jealously guarded by the cathedral, which collected all the fees for the funeral formalities.

Gilbert de Bosco noded sagely. ‘As this is a family matter, I will deliver an oration at the requiem – and I will make sure that your concerns are voiced in the strongest terms.’

As well as his own genuine crusade against necromancy, he saw an opportunity to bring himself to prominence over this issue. It was a timely move, as one of the archdeacons was in poor health and there were rumours of his post soon falling vacant. Becoming a champion for the Church against what he considered the powers of darkness, should help to persuade the bishop and chapter to consider him more energetic and enthusiastic than the other twenty-three canons. The fact that he had not the slightest evidence that Robert de Pridias had died from anything other than a seizure or stroke hardly occurred to him, for he had the single-mindedness of an obsessive personality.