Bernard Knight - The Witch Hunter

Matilda demanded more details and he described the finding of the effigy under the dead man’s saddle. ‘Cecilia de Pridias was very loath to accept that his death was from some stroke seizing his heart, even though he had had these chest pains and had been attended by Walter Winstone for some time,’ he concluded, determined to get his version of events firmly in place.

His wife glowered at him and sniffed her disdain. However, for once her scorn was not directed at John, but at the mention of the apothecary.

‘A scoundrel, that man Winstone! I advised Cecilia to seek a better dispenser, such as Richard Lustcote. Winstone’s reputation is dubious in the extreme. If he was supposed to be treating Robert, he made little success of it, if the poor man fell dead from his horse!’

John noted that Matilda’s mental gymnastics had now allowed her to leave witchcraft in favour of the apothecary’s medical negligence.

‘So what will happen now?’ she demanded, as Mary came in to start setting out their supper.

‘Nothing, as far as I am concerned,’ grunted John, fetching the wine jug to take to the table. ‘A witnessed death from natural causes is no concern of a coroner, much as his widow might demand it.’

‘I trust that you were considerate and civil to the poor woman, John,’ grated Matilda, as she heaved herself from her chair.

‘I was diplomacy itself, wife,’ he replied coldly. ‘Though no doubt she will voice her complaints to you in due course.’

The man and wife sat at opposite ends of the long table, perhaps symbolic of the emotional distance that separated them in life. Mary, their handsome cook and maid-of-all-work, brought in wooden platters of cold meats, which included the remains of the dinner-time goose and some slices of boiled ham. A few hard-boiled eggs and a dish of onions fried in butter completed the meal, apart from a dessert of fresh red plums. They ate their main meal at noon, but Matilda’s robust appetite had expanded their supper repast beyond what most people ate in the evening. There was silence for a while as she got down to the serious business of eating and as soon as she had finished she left the table, muttering that she was retiring to the solar. This was the only other room in the house, built on to the upper part of the hall at the back, reached by outside stairs from the yard. As she lumbered into the vestibule, heading for the passageway, she started screeching for Lucille, her personal maid.

Sighing with relief, de Wolfe refilled his wine cup and went to sit by the hearth to fondle the ears of Brutus, who had slunk in when the mistress had left the hall. He listened to the familiar sounds that came faintly through a slit in the wall high up on one side of the chimney, where the solar communicated with the hall. His wife was chiding Lucille, a snivelling French girl from the Vexin, north of Rouen. The evening ritual of getting prepared for bed was being played out, with Matilda snapping at the maid for brushing her hair too roughly or being too clumsy in undressing her. The coroner knew that all this would eventually subside, when his spouse would say her lengthy prayers before getting into bed. As soon as he decided that she was asleep, he would take Brutus for a walk — and it might just so happen that their feet might take them in the direction of the Bush tavern in Idle Lane.

The sun was setting as Henry de Hocforde strode along the upper part of High Street, away from his fine house in Raden Lane, near the East Gate. The rays reddened the buildings on each side as he walked almost directly towards the fiery orb, now low in the western sky. There were still many folk ambling along, gazing at the few stalls that remained open this late — and more than one drunk rolled out of an alehouse door into his path. But no one hesitated to get out of the way of this tall man as he stalked along with a face like thunder. Well dressed and with an arrogant swing to his shoulders, he was not a person to obstruct, especially as the ivory-headed staff that he carried looked as if it was more for use than ornament. As he reached the Guildhall, one of the city’s finest buildings which had been rebuilt in stone not many years before, he turned right, then left again into Waterbeer Street, which ran behind the high street. It was an unsavoury lane, several low drinking dens and brothels doing nothing for its reputation. However, there were a few respectable houses and shops there as well and it was for one of these that he was aiming. Halfway down on the right was an old timber building, squeezed in between two newer dwellings in stone. It was narrow and roofed with wooden shingles, some of which were missing, thanks to a storm a month earlier. At street level, there was a door alongside a wide window, the shutter of which was hinged down at right angles to form a display counter for the apothecary’s stock-in-trade. It carried a meagre array of pots and jars, the tops covered in parchment tied down with cord. In addition, there were a few crude glass vials of coloured liquid and some small bundles of dried herbs. Inside the window, the apothecary’s apprentice, a runny-nosed lad of about twelve, sat rolling pills on a grooved board, keeping one eye on the counter to see that no light-fingered passer-by lifted any of the unimpressive items. De Hocforde marched through the door, dipping his head to avoid the low lintel. He glared at the boy and demanded to know where his master was.

‘Out in the yard, sir. Hanging bunches of rosemary out to dry.’

Hocforde didn’t care if Walter Winstone was hanging up his dirty hose to dry and rapped on the apprentice’s pill-board with the head of his staff.

‘Go and get him, boy. Quickly!’

The lad looked up at the imperious visitor and saw a stern face below dark hair shaven close around the sides and back, leaving a thick cap on top, in the style beloved of many aristocratic Normans. His dark red tunic was plain, but reeked of quality, as did the intricate silver buckle on a wide belt that carried a handsomely tooled leather pouch and an ornate dagger. He had seen him in the shop before, but did not know his name, as his master always took this customer upstairs for private consultation. The apprentice dropped his board and scurried away through a door at the back of the shop, leaving Henry to scowl at the musty shelves filled with earthenware pots of all sizes, many with crude Latin or alchemaic lettering painted on them. One wall was lined with ranks of small wooden drawers, again labelled with incomprehensible symbols. Hanging from the ceiling, from nails driven into the roof beams, were faded bunches of dried vegetation and some dusty, leathery objects that seemed to be desiccated lizards or snakes. A moment later, the boy hurried back and slipped hastily on to his stool to continue rolling his grimy pills.

‘The master will be with you now, sir,’ he piped, keeping his eyes down to appear industrious when Walter came in. The apothecary appeared in the dooway and bowed his head obsequiously to his visitor. He was a small man, with a marked limp in his left leg due to a childhood illness. A sallow face with projecting yellow teeth gave him the look of a large coney, an appearance that was strengthened by his large stuck-out ears. A frizz of short sandy hair was matched by a narrow beard that rimmed the edges of his face. He wore a nondescript tan tunic over cross-gartered leggings, a long leather apron hanging from his neck. Walter opened his mouth to greet his esteemed customer, but Henry de Hocforde cut him short.

‘Upstairs — now!’ he snapped, crossing to the inner door and almost shoving the apothecary back through it. In the storeroom behind, there was a wide wooden ladder going up to the next floor and Winstone clambered up ahead of his visitor, apprehensive at his obvious ill temper.