Bernard Knight - The Witch Hunter

‘Henry de Hocforde, that would be. The widow is accusing him of murdering her husband by witchcraft!’ John related the full story, ending by mockingly describing the pierced corn-dolly. He had expected Nesta to be amused, but she looked strangely serious.

‘Don’t dismiss it too easily, John. There are many things that defy explanation.’

‘You sound like Matilda!’ he said in a surprised tone. ‘And even my friend the archdeacon declined to pour scorn on the possibility. Do you believe that these cunning folk have the power of life and death?’

‘We are Celts, John, you and I. At least, your mother had a Welsh father and a Cornish mother. The tradition of spells and charms is strong amongst us, but even the pure English have plenty of faith in occult matters.’

He looked down at her curiously. This was the first time he had ever heard her speak of such things.

‘This is what John of Alençon said, in different words. I had thought as a churchman he would have condemned all such beliefs out of hand, but he was remarkably tolerant of them. He said that the mass of our peasantry had little else to aid them when they were in trouble.’

Nesta pulled off her hot and restricting coif and shook out her luxuriant red hair, which fell to her shoulders.

‘Where else can they turn, with little money and no apothecaries? The parish priests are often of little help. They are either drunks or corrupt or just plain ignorant.’

She glared at him almost defiantly, challenging him to contradict her.

‘I seem to have touched a raw spot in you over this issue,’ he said mildly.

‘Maybe because I have a little talent in that direction myself,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Not so much these days in the city, but when I was at home in Gwent, I did what I could to help those who needed it.’

De Wolfe was intrigued — this was something she had never mentioned before. ‘You mean that you had some gift yourself?’

‘It was nothing important, but my own mother had taught me a little about herbs and various means of treating small illnesses and other problems. She said that her mother and grandmother were quite notable healers in their day, so maybe it runs in families.’

‘What kind of miracles did you perform?’ he asked, half seriously.

Nesta pinched his arm, quite painfully. ‘Don’t mock me, Sir Crowner! Our little village had the same troubles as everywhere else. Sickness, palsies, fits and seizures … though probably there were more problems among the animals and crops. Pigs without litters, fields with strips where the oats always failed.’

She hesitated, her eyes seeing a scene a hundred miles and five years away. ‘Then sometimes, a wife would want a man-child, or any child at all to please her husband — while another poor weak woman could not face being with child yet again. Those of us who had the gift tried to help. The village was like a big family, everyone did what they could.’

John nodded, although he could not fully appreciate what she was saying. Though he had been born and brought up in the Devon village of Stoke-in-Teignhead, he had been comfortably raised in the manor house that owned the village and most of the villagers, so his empathy with the lower reaches of the feudal system was limited.

‘Do you still practise the black arts?’ he said, trying to lighten the mood a little. Nesta gave him a ferocious scowl, which was not entirely feigned.

‘There is black magic as well, John — be assured of that! But what village folk attempt to do against cruel nature is far from that. I have tried to help a few people here, yes. My maid’s mother had a tumour on her neck two months ago, which I tried to assuage with poultices, a potion and a few charms.’

‘Was it successful?’ he asked, soberly now.

Nesta shook her head sadly ‘She died three weeks past. There are many things that only God can deal with. Even an expensive apothecary or the monks at St John’s could not have done anything for her.’

John had a niggling query, but it was a sensitive issue.

‘Nesta, dear, when you were with child yourself not long ago, I know that you wished to be rid of it, mainly for my sake. Yet you went elsewhere for the purpose.’

She sighed and her eyes became moist. He kicked himself for his insensitivity in bringing it up, but Nesta seemed willing to explain.

‘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.