Bernard Knight - The Witch Hunter

The sun had set when the coroner called upon John de Alençon at his dwelling in the Close. The approaching dusk was made more gloomy by black clouds that had rolled in from the Channel and, as on many of the previous days, a grumble of thunder rolled in the distance every few minutes.

This evening they sat in the small garden behind the house. Although the usual outhouses and privy were farther down, de Alençon had had a small area fenced off with woven hurdles, where sparse grass grew and a couple of benches flanked a small table. It was an unusual elaboration for a yard, which was usually just a functional addition to a house, frequented only by servants, but the archdeacon had once lived in a priory where gardening was considered a virtue and solitude a blessing.

They sat at the table to drink wine and talk, giving the occasional glance up at the heavens to gauge whether they needed to run from a sudden thunder-shower.

‘This has been an eventful day, John,’ observed the priest. ‘We have lost one sheriff and gained another. You have cleared up several slayings in the city — and we now have another vacancy for a canon in the chapter.’

De Wolfe rubbed his stubble wearily. It had certainly been a stressful day. He had just left Matilda, who took the news of her brother’s disgrace stoically at first, then retired to her solar, where through the slit that joined it to the hall, he heard her sobbing as if her heart would break. She had slipped the bolt on the door, so he was unable to go in to try to comfort her in his stiff, awkward way and he decided it would be best to leave her alone, until she was ready to face the world again. He knew that her loss of prestige among her many friends, now that she was no longer the sister of the sheriff, would hurt her cruelly, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

‘So what happened to the witch-hunter?’ he asked de Alençon.

The archdeacon turned his wine cup delicately with his long fingers, as he recalled the scene in the palace an hour or two earlier. Henry Marshal had entered his parlour, the large room where he held all his audiences, in a black cassock with a large silver cross on his breast and a round cap on his head. Gloved and beringed, he sat on an ornate chair placed on a dais at the end of the room. His chaplain, a young priest destined for rapid advancement in the Church owing to his high family connections, stood behind him ready to attend to his every wish.

Facing them in the room on hard benches were Thomas de Boterellis, the precentor, John FitzJohn, Archdeacon of Totnes, Anselm Crassus, Archdeacon of Barnstaple, John of Exeter, the cathedral treasurer, and archivist Jordan de Brent, as well as several of the older canons, including Roger de Limesi and William de Tawton. Two of the proctors and their servants stood at the back of the room, having already led in Gilbert de Bosco, who sat in the centre of the front row of benches.

‘He looked dreadfully ill, but his spirit was as stubborn as ever,’ said de Alençon to his friend. ‘I don’t know if as a true Christian I should believe or reject these notions of the supernatural, but I suspect that there are few in Exeter who believe that his recent afflictions were not the work of Lucy’s curse!’

De Wolfe agreed that in court that day the canon had looked in bad shape. ‘His stroke seems to have healed, but his affliction of boils seems worse. What was the outcome?’

‘Like your account of the sheriff’s dismissal, John, it was short, though by no means sweet. The bishop allowed him to remain seated owing to his parlous state of health, but that was the only concession he made. He roundly condemned him for excessive zeal, which he said was grossly misplaced.’

The coroner drank and set down his cup. ‘Yet at the start the bishop seemed Gilbert’s staunch ally in his crusade against these cunning women. How could he turn around so completely?’

‘I’m sure his brother gave him a good talking-to, when he visited. Though to the people at the cathedral the bishop is only one step down from God Almighty, to William the Marshal he is just a younger brother!’ The priest wiped the sweat from his brow, the atmosphere seeming to press in on them, before continuing. ‘Though no one knows what was said between them in private, I suspect that William offered very robust opinions on Henry’s covert support for Prince John, as well as about his aligning himself with crooked sheriffs and dangerously obsessive canons!’

A large drop of water plopped on to the table between them, followed by another. Looking up, John saw that the roiling clouds were moving across the darkening sky, the large moon appearing in the gaps and then disappearing again.

‘Best go inside, John, the heavens may empty on us in a moment.’

They moved indoors, and sat in the archdeacon’s study, a three-branched candlestick on the table between them.

‘So what happened to Gilbert?’ persisted the coroner.

‘Henry Marshal upbraided him for being too gullible in accepting the unproven accusations of those who denounced the various women. He blamed him for persuading the parish priests to give inflammatory sermons, encouraging unruly mobs and inciting riots which ended in the deaths of two citizens.’

‘What did de Bosco say to this?’

‘He fought back valiantly, but the bishop hardly let him speak. At one point I feared he might call the proctor’s men over to shut him up! Endless denials, rambling excuses and an attempt to justify his great crusade seemed to be his object, but his speech was not that clear and, as I say, the bishop rode roughshod over him.’

There was a long rumble of thunder outside and they could hear the patter of rain beginning to fall outside the window.

‘You had better stay here a while, John — in this, you’ll be soaked just crossing the Close,’ said de Alençon, kindly.

‘If you’ve more of this particular wine, I’ll gladly stay all night,’ replied the coroner with a grin, the first he’d managed that day. As his cup was refilled from a jug, he continued his quest for news. ‘So what was the outcome? He deserves to be hanged, but that never happens to those of your cloth!’

‘No, we don’t go that far, thank God. At the end of it, Henry Marshal delivered a homily for our benefit, as well as for Gilbert, on the perils of taking anything to extremes. He paid lip-service to Gilbert’s good intentions in safeguarding the Holy Church, but condemned him for not seeking support and advice from wiser and cooler-headed counsellors.’

‘That’s bloody hypocrisy, considering that he strongly encouraged the man at the start,’ growled de Wolfe.

‘That’s as maybe, but the upshot of it was that he deprived him of his several prebends, so he has no living to support him or his vicar, and he is therefore no longer a canon of Exeter Cathedral, which means that he will lose his lodging in the Close. He applied no other penalty or stricture, but said that he would send Gilbert as priest to some remote parish in the diocese, where he would have time and space to reflect on his misplaced zeal and to pray for forgiveness for the damage he has caused.’

The coroner grunted in disgust. ‘So he gets away with having caused at least four deaths and goes off to sit in the sun in the countryside for a few years! As I said, he should have been hanged, like the poor women he betrayed!’

‘That would never happen, given benefit of clergy. And don’t think de Bosco saw it as an easy forfeit, John. When the bishop announced his decision, he howled like a dog and began raving about injustice. But Henry just motioned to the proctors and left the room. Gilbert was hustled away by them, still ranting at his unfair treatment and accusing everyone of conspiring against him.’