Bernard Knight - The Witch Hunter

He sat down and Brutus slid under the table after a longing look at two patrons opposite, who were sharing a pig’s knuckle on a thick trencher of gravy-soaked stale bread. The old dog knew that with luck, the bone would come his way when they had finished.

De Wolfe settled his back against the screen and looked around contentedly. For once, his life was fairly stable. Matilda was her usual grumpy self, but was not in any particularly belligerent mood — at least, not until Cecilia de Pridias stirred her into action, as she surely would. His mistress was neither pregnant nor having another affair with a younger man and even Thomas seemed to have abandoned his efforts at suicide. Gwyn, of course, was the same as ever — gruff, amiable and constant in his fidelity.

Feeling at peace with himself, John looked around the crowded taproom, nodding to several aquaintances, who touched their foreheads in a respectful salute to a man almost everyone admired and not a few feared. As the second-most powerful law officer in the county, he was looked upon with some awe by many, yet most acknowledged him as a fair-minded man with an honourable record of serving their king in many a campaign, from Ireland to the Holy Land.

His eyes roved about, but he could not see Nesta, his beloved Welsh mistress. At the back of the chamber was a row of casks propped up on stands and wedges, from which old Edwin, the potman and one of the serving-maids, drew the ale and cider that had made this establishment famous in the city. As soon as Edwin’s one remaining eye saw that the coroner had come in, he filled a clay quart pot from the barrel of ‘best’, and limped over with it, dragging his war-wounded leg through the rushes.

Banging the jar on the table, he beamed a crooked grin at John, the white of his dead eye rolling horribly, a legacy of a spear-thrust at the Battle of Wexford. He greeted John, using his old military title.

‘Evening, Cap’n! The mistress is out in the brew-shed, stirring the mash. She’ll be in shortly.’

Nesta was the genius behind the quality of the ale, having learned her trade in her native Gwent before moving to Devon some years before. She was the widow of Meredydd, a Welsh archer who had served under John, until they had both given up campaigning. He had bought the inn with his accumulated booty from years of warfare, but within twelve months was dead of the yellow jaundice, leaving his wife almost destitute with debt and with a tavern to run alone. De Wolfe had come to her rescue with a loan and gradually a business relationship had grown into affection and then love. It was no secret in the city, where most affluent men had a leman or two — and it was certainly no secret to Matilda, who bore the burden of his infidelity with abrasive ill grace, though she could not bring herself to abandon her marriage to such a senior member of the Norman hierarchy.

John took a deep draught of the ale, a slightly cloudy brew flavoured with oak galls, then stared again at the back of the taproom. A wide wooden ladder gave access to the upper floor, which was mainly an open loft where straw-filled pallets provided the accommodation for overnight lodgers. However, one corner had been partitioned off as a small bedroom for the landlady, in which John had installed a French bed, a novelty in a city where most folk, even the well-to-do, slept on a mattress at floor level. He had spent many a passionate hour in there and even a few nights, when either his boldness or circumstances allowed. Tonight was not going to be one of them, he mused ruefully, his eyes still roaming around for a sight of his mistress.

Eventually he was rewarded, at the same time as his hound was rewarded by the coveted knuckle-bone being thrown down into the rushes by the grinning pair on the next table. The back door of the inn opened and Nesta entered from the yard, where the cook-shed, the brew-house, the pigsty and the privy were situated. She shouted a last command over her shoulder at one of the maids, then scanned the room eagerly with her hazel eyes. When they lighted on John, her heart-shaped face lit up with delight and she hurried across to him, though not failing to give a smile and a touch on the shoulder to her favourite patrons as she went. De Wolfe’s heart warmed as he watched her coming, yet part of his mind stood aloof and cynically asked why a middle-aged old soldier was acting like a callow lovesick youth, for at forty he was twelve years older than the ale-wife. Nesta came up to the table, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and slid on to the bench alongside him.

‘And how is Sir Coroner this evening?’ she asked softly, with her usual bantering affection.

‘All the better for seeing you, cariad ! And even better after a few mouthfuls of this good ale — you’ve excelled yourself with this last brew.’

They spoke in Welsh, her native language and one that John had learned at his own mother’s knee. Even Gwyn spoke it with them, as his own Cornish tongue was very similar — to the eternal annoyance of Thomas de Peyne, who came from Hampshire.

Nesta took a drink from John’s pot and nodded her approval of her own handiwork, then they went on to speak lightly about the day’s events and the increasing trade at the inn. Because of his financial stake in the Bush — though he took no profits from it — he was always interested in its fortunes. Lately it had been sharing in the increasing prosperity of the city, which because of the wool trade and the tin exports was going from strength to strength.

As she talked, he looked down at her, this petite woman coming only to his shoulder. Her light gown of pale yellow linen was tightly girdled at her waist, which emphasised her shapely breasts. A felt helmet, laced under the chin, failed to hide all the deep auburn curls that peeped out across her high forehead. Her large hazel eyes were set wide above a snub nose and when her slightly pouting lips parted, they revealed an almost perfect set of white teeth, unusual in a woman of twenty-eight.

John was totally entranced by her and, in spite of the vicissitudes that they had suffered in past months, he felt closer to her than ever before. They continued to talk for a few minutes, Brutus even forsaking his new bone to lay his slobbering mouth on the hessian apron that she wore over her kirtle. Like Gwyn, she was fond of all animals and they responded in kind. Every few minutes, however, some minor crisis in the inn caused her jump up and go off to harangue either one of her serving maids or a customer who had become obstreperous. Even then her decisive voice and pithy commands avoided giving deep offence — John saw again how well she was suited to handling what could become a fraught or even violent situation.

He managed to decline her offer of another meal, having not long risen from his own supper table. As he drank a few more jugs of the weak liquor, John followed his usual practice of keeping her up to date with his cases, as not only was he flattered by her genuine interest, but sometimes both her common sense and her fund of local knowledge were helpful to him. The Bush, being the most popular inn in Exeter, accommodated a steady stream of travellers seeking a pallet in the loft and more than once, the gossip Nesta picked up from these, as well as from her regular customers, had been of considerable value in his investigations. He related the story of that day’s excursion to Alphington and the death of Robert de Pridias.

‘Did you know him at all, dear lady?’ he asked.

Nesta shook her head. ‘I think he frequented the New Inn, it was nearer his dwelling. But of course I know of him. He was a fuller and weaver, master of his guild.’ She paused and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I heard something else, too. Wasn’t there bad blood between him and another fuller? I remember some of the weavers who come in here talking about it several weeks ago.’