Bernard Knight - The Witch Hunter

John commanded Brutus to wait outside as they went up to the iron-bound front door. They were met by John’s steward-cum-bottler, one of only three servants that the austere priest employed. They went into his study, a small room on the ground floor, where de Alençon spent most of his time. A table, two stools and a low cot in one corner were the only furniture, apart from a large wooden crucifix on the wall. The rest of the house was occupied by his two vicars-choral, who deputised for him at some of the nine services each day — and several secondaries and choristers, young men who were prospective priests in training.

John waved his guest to one of the stools and sat on the other, pushing aside a pile of leather-bound books on the table to make way for a flask of wine and two goblets that his servant brought in. The goblets were another luxury, being of heavy glass, instead of the usual pottery or pewter. When they had sampled the French wine and commented on its taste, the archdeacon turned to current events, especially his friend’s recent activities. He always seemed fascinated by the coroner’s work and liked to be kept up to date with happenings outside his sheltered ecclesiastical world.

After relating a few tales about various inquests and cases at the last Shire Court, de Wolfe told him about the death of Robert de Pridias that day.

‘I met him several times,’ mused the canon. ‘Both at guild feasts and when our treasurer purchased a large consignment of cloth for garments for our secondaries and servants. He had many weavers working for him, as well as his fulling mill, so he must have been quite a rich man.’

When the coroner told him of the widow’s accusations against Henry de Hocforde — and the finding of the pierced effigy — de Alençon frowned. ‘Defaming a man like that is unseemly, even allowing for the distress of a bereaved wife,’ he said sadly. ‘But this business of the straw figure is a sign of the Church’s failure to banish magic from the common mind. I despair of ever completely wresting superstition from our flock.’

John gave one of his rare lopsided grins. ‘Isn’t religion just a different kind of superstition, John? We worship a God that none of us has ever seen and we revere his son who was a Jew living in a distant land a thousand years ago!’

If the archdeacon hadn’t known his friend’s penchant for teasing him on the subject of his faith, he would have been shocked — might even have accused him of heresy. As it was, he smiled gently.

‘I know full well you don’t mean that, John de Wolfe! But seriously, the efforts of priests like myself over centuries have only managed to lay a thin skin of Christianity over most of our population.’

He stopped to savour his wine, then continued. ‘Many find it hard to distinguish between the mysteries of the Holy Sacrament and the antics of the old wives and witches who cast spells for a wench to get a good husband or to make their neighbour’s cattle fertile.’

‘So you don’t think that de Pridias was done to death by necromancy?’ asked the coroner, half jokingly.

‘It’s too ridiculous even to contemplate,’ said the archdeacon, rather sharply. ‘You did right in refusing to pander to the woman’s nonsense, though of course I’m sad for her in her loss, God rest his soul.’ He made the sign of the Cross, reminding de Wolfe again of his own clerk’s irritating habit.

‘If the Church so disapproves of the widespread belief in magic and the casting of spells, why does it not proscribe it more severely?’ asked John, the wine putting him in a ruminative mood. ‘Your masters in Rome have always been quick enough to pounce drastically on any whisper of heresy or other activity which is not to their taste.’

De Alençon smiled wryly at his friend’s deliberately provocative cynicism. ‘That day may come, John, but at present we have more pressing enemies at the gates of God’s kingdom, as you should well know, having been a Crusader yourself.’

The coroner continued to worry at the topic like a dog with a bone. ‘But such widespread superstition surely cuts at the heart of your teachings that there is only one God. If he is the jealous God that the Scriptures describe to us, then should not his servants — the Church — be trampling these witches and wizards underfoot?’

The archdeacon, warming to a theological debate, raised his eyebrows at his friend. ‘Where does all this philosophical talk come from, John? You always pretended to be a rough, blunt soldier. You must have been listening too much to that strange relative of mine.’

Thomas de Peyne, the coroner’s clerk, was de Alençon’s nephew and it was through his influence with de Wolfe that the disgraced little priest had at last been given a job. Once a teacher in the cathedral school at Winchester, he had been defrocked when a girl had accused him of interfering with her. Only ‘benefit of clergy’ had prevented him being hanged for attempted rape, but he had almost starved after being ejected from holy orders, until he walked all the way to Exeter to throw himself on his uncle’s mercy.

De Wolfe drank the rest of his wine and refused another glass, as he intended drinking ale at the Bush. Before he left, he made one last assault on his friend’s implacable faith.

‘So you’re not going to round up and hang all the cunning women in Devon? They can continue to compete with the bishop and all his minions in working miracles, without any challenge?’

The archdeacon prodded him hard in the chest with a finger. ‘You’re trying to provoke me, John. You must be short of other challenges this week.’

As they walked to the front door, the priest had the last word. ‘These old wives — though not so old, some of them — do little harm and quite a lot of good, John. Many folk cannot afford to visit an apothecary and, anyway, there are none to visit out in the countryside. Many a croup or constipation has been cured by their harmless herbal potions. And if people are gullible enough to pay a ha’penny for a spell to make their lover more potent or to get a better crop of beans, who are we to deny them?’

De Wolfe had to be satisfied with this moderate and civilised comment, and it gave him something to think about as he whistled for his dog and set off for the tavern.

The archdeacon’s words were still on his mind when he reached Idle Lane, a short track joining Priest Street to the top of Stepcote Hill, which led down towards the West Gate. The name came from the waste ground that surrounded the ale-house — several years earlier, a fire had destroyed the surrounding wooden houses, leaving the stone-built inn standing, and as yet only weeds and bushes had reclaimed the scorched area.

He pushed open the front door, over which a large bundle of twigs hung from a bracket, perpetuating the old Roman sign for a tavern. The big room that occupied the whole ground floor was crowded with drinkers, this being a popular place, famed for its good ale, decent food and relatively clean mattresses in the loft. Thankfully, the warm summer evening did not require a fire in the large stone hearth against the end wall, which made the atmosphere redolent only of the smell of spilt ale, sweat and unwashed bodies, without the eye-watering swirl of wood smoke from the chimney-less fireplace. Benches around the walls and a few rough tables surrounded by stools formed the amenities for patrons, all set on a rush-covered earth floor. At least the rushes were clean, being replaced every few days — unlike in the nearest rival tavern, the notorious Saracen on Stepcote Hill, where the filthy straw was more a nest for rats than a floor-covering.

John advanced to his favourite place against a wattle screen set at the side of the hearth. A couple of young men seated at the small table immediately rose and, bobbing their heads in respect, found stools elsewhere. All the regulars at the Bush knew that this was the coroner’s spot and yielded it to him with good grace.