Bernard Knight - The Witch Hunter

August 1195

The old woman sat on the cold stones of the ledge that ran around the walls of the little church, waiting her turn to take the sacrament. The rest of the congregation stood on the earthen floor of the bare nave, which was barely twenty paces long and half that wide. They were few in number, as the priest of St Martin’s was not popular and there were another twenty-six churches within the walls of Exeter to compete with his ministrations.

Theophania Lawrence could sit down because of her age and presumed infirmity, though in fact she was quite spry for her sixty-six years. As in many other matters, she was crafty and full of guile and ‘going to the wall’ in church was a convenience, rather than a necessity. She sat and watched the dozen communicants shuffle towards the chancel, which was little more than a raised platform. It carried a simple altar, a table covered with a white cloth, on which was a cross of Dartmoor tin and two pewter candlesticks. Theophania was in no hurry and she let the last few townsfolk get near the priest before hoisting herself up and walking with an exaggerated hobble to stand at the end of the queue. Her face was round and smooth, with a pair of mischievous little eyes which stared out below the headband of a frayed linen cover-chief that enveloped her head and hung down the back of her much-darned brown kirtle.

As she stood behind the tall back of a pious cloth merchant from Southgate Street, she could hear the priest muttering the unintelligible Latin as he doled out the wafers and wine. Thin and fair haired, Edwin of Frome was unique in Exeter, as he was the only Saxon priest in a solidly Norman enclave. His sermons were laced with half-concealed diatribes against the invaders, though they had been here for well over a century and none of his parishioners was now likely to rise up in rebellion.

As the three people at the chancel step rose and returned to the nave, Theophania followed the pair in front. With a grunt, she lowered herself to kneel on the edge of the wooden dais. Her eyes darted around and settled with satisfaction on Father Edwin as he took a couple of steps towards the altar to replenish his paten. He refilled the shallow metal dish for holding the wafers from a new supply kept in the pyx. This was a carved wooden box, in which he stored the small pieces of pastry he bought at a cook-stall in High Street. He held the paten up to the cross and mumbled some more Latin to bless them. The old woman glowed internally, as freshly sanctified, they were all the more powerful.

The priest came back to the step and bent over her, mouthing more phrases as he placed a wafer in her supplicant palm. Edwin scowled at her suspiciously, knowing her of old. He waited until she had lifted the scrap to her mouth and made swallowing gestures, before moving on to the clothier. Theophania waited patiently until the priest came around again to offer a sip of cheap wine from the chalice, which she pretended to take. Then she stood up, crossed herself and unobtrusively walked out of the church without waiting for the completion of the Mass.

St Martin’s was at the corner of the cathedral Close and she looked around in the early morning air to make sure that no one was watching her, before putting a hand to her mouth. Spitting out the consecrated Host, which she had kept stored inside her cheek, she carefully wrapped it in a scrap of cloth taken from a small pouch on her girdle, before replacing it and stepping out quite briskly up Martin’s Lane, past the coroner’s house. It was the first step towards an appointment with a noose that would be thrown about her wrinkled neck.

Robert de Pridias was feeling out of sorts on this hot Tuesday afternoon. He rode his big bay gelding slowly along the high road towards Exeter, wondering uneasily what he might have eaten to give him this burning under his breastbone and the frequent belches that erupted from his belly. He had left Buckfast Abbey that morning, but the good breakfast that the monks had given him in the guest hall was surely as wholesome as one could wish. He had settled a mutually-satisfying deal for two hundred bales of new wool from the abbey’s famous flocks and the abbot’s satisfaction had been reflected in the hospitality he had been given.

No, it must have been that damned inn where he had eaten some dinner an hour ago. He had thought then that the pork was over-spiced, probably to conceal the fact that the meat was going off in this hot weather. Robert belched again and tried to ignore the fact that he had had these pains on and off for some weeks. He was forty-eight years old, comfortably rich and considerably overweight. Red of face and short of neck, the fuller had inherited his woollen mill on Exe Island from his father. He had built it up into a good business during the long years of peace that was turning Exeter into one of the most prosperous towns in England. As well as turning the raw wool into yarn, he now had a dozen looms working for him around the city, making the cloth that sold so well at home and abroad.

As he jogged along the dusty road, he tried to ignore the ache across his chest, which felt as if an iron band was being tightened around his ribs. Instead, he diverted his thoughts to his beloved wife Cecilia, who, as with so many successful men, was a powerful spur to his ambitions. A strong character, there was no doubt of that, and she was handsome even in her middle age. She had borne him three strong daughters, but unfortunately not a single son. He supposed that one day he would have to pass on his business to the eldest son-in-law, who was decent enough, though rather stupid — but he would have preferred to see a de Pridias as mill-master. The alternative, which he vowed would happen only over his dead body, would be to sell out to Henry de Hocforde, his main rival in the fulling trade and as obnoxious a man as ever trod the soil of Devon.

The thought of Henry seemed to increase the ache in his chest — now he fancied it was even spreading up into his throat. Though the city was now only a couple of miles away, he felt the need for a rest and something to drink, even it was only the poorest ale. The afternoon was hot, but surely not enough to cause this sweat that was beading on his forehead and sticking his undershirt to his skin?

He was passing through Alphington, a hamlet on the west side of the river, within sight of the cathedral towers. It was little more than a score of thatched wattle-and-daub cottages, a wooden church and a larger hut with two old barrels and a brewing-pole outside to mark it as an alehouse. He pulled the horse to a halt in front of its door and stared down groggily at two old men sitting on a plank placed across two large stones against the front wall. They had earthenware pots in their hands and were staring up uneasily at this well-dressed stranger on such a fine horse. He was not the usual type of client for this mean tavern — and he certainly looked unwell.

The aged peasants knew their place and waited for him speak first — but all they heard was a gargling noise from his throat as he bent forward in his saddle and clutched his arms around his chest. Suddenly, he felt violently sick; the pain had increased to an intolerable degree and radiated like lightning down both arms into his fingers.

He fell across his horse’s neck, but his feet stayed in the stirrups, preventing him from falling off. Alarmed, the old men got to their feet, one stumbling towards the distressed man, the other going to the door of the inn to call in a quavering voice for the ale-wife. A buxom woman hurried out and between them they freed his fine leather boots from the stirrups and managed to slide him off to lay him on the ground, his horse champing and pawing unhappily alongside. The ale-wife also acted as the village nurse and layer-out of corpses, so had no difficulty in recognising a new client when she saw one.