The Witch Hunter (36 page)

With Gwyn’s help, he arranged the covert escape of Nesta from the city and went home briefly to see whether Matilda had come back from her cousin’s house. There was no sign of her, and John confided in Mary the details of the plan, telling her to let it be known when the mistress returned home that he had been called to a suspicious death near Sidmouth. This was in the opposite direction from Stoke-in-Teignhead, though he doubted that Matilda would be fooled for long by his subterfuge.

About noon, Nesta set off with one of her serving maids, allegedly going to stay with the girl’s cousin in the village of Wonford, just south of the city. She dressed in dull, inconspicuous clothes borrowed from her other maid, who lived in Rack Lane, and carefully hid her red hair under a cover-chief. They mingled with a group of pilgrims as they went out through the South Gate and walked a couple of miles down the Topsham road into open country. Here, they met up with the three members of the coroner’s team, waiting with their horses in the shelter of a wood at the side of the road. Thomas de Peyne was almost in tears of relief as he greeted Nesta, safe and sound. He had a dog-like devotion for the Welsh woman, who was always kind and concerned for the poor waif’s well-being. He gladly handed over his side-saddled pony to her and brushed off her apologies for making him walk back to Exeter. He would willingly have crawled back on his hands and knees, if it would help her in any way. Nesta hoisted herself into the saddle and with John and his officer flanking her on either side, set off for Topsham, another couple of miles away, while Thomas and the maid began trudging back to the city.

At the little port of Topsham, where the Exe widened out into its estuary, they crossed the river on the ferry and made for the line of low hills that ran down to the sea at Dawlish. Here Nesta grinned secretly to herself, in spite of her sadness, as she saw de Wolfe, with exaggerated nonchalance, look neither right nor left as they passed through the seaside village. She was well aware that Thorgils’ wife, the delectable blonde Hilda, was an old flame and still an occasional lover of his, but she was now confident enough of his true affection to realise that Hilda was no threat to her.

By early evening they had forded the Teign near where it flowed into the sea, having to wait an hour for the tide to drop sufficiently. Less than another hour later they were in the small village of Stoke-in-Teignhead, where John had been born. It was in a small valley, neat strip fields and some common pasture sweeping up to the trees that surrounded it on all sides. Nesta had been here once before and again received a warm welcome at the small manor house at the far end of the village. John’s widowed mother, Enyd de Wolfe, was a small, sprightly woman with red hair only slightly sprinkled with grey. Her mother had been Cornish and her father was from Gwent, the same Welsh princedom as Nesta herself, so they had much in common, as well as a common language. John’s sister Evelyn was also happy to see Nesta, who was only a few years younger than herself. She was a plump, homely lady and, like her mother, preferred John’s mistress to his wife, who had always treated them with a supercilious disdain, thinking them country yokels and Celtic barbarians. Although Matilda had been born in Devon and and had spent only a month of her life with distant relatives in Normandy, she always considered herself one of that superior race of conquerors.

John’s elder brother William, who ran the two manors to John’s financial benefit, was as usual out supervising the business of the estate, this time at Holcombe, their other manor north of the Teign. Gwyn was hustled off to the kitchens, where eager serving maids made his life complete by plying him with food and drink until he was fit to burst, while the women took John and Nesta into their comfortable hall and sat them down with refreshments, to hear all their news of the big city. They listened with fascinated horror to the tale of woe that their visitors related, especially the burning of the Bush tavern.

‘But it will be rebuilt – and very soon!’ vowed John. ‘The stone shell is still sound and all the outbuildings are intact, so all it needs is a new floor and a roof.’

Nesta looked at him with a mixture of affection and doubt. ‘That will cost a great deal of money, John. And how am I to live until then?’

Evelyn laid a hand across hers. ‘You’ll stay here until it’s done, my dear. You don’t eat much, that I know – and if you want to earn your keep, John says you brew the best ale in Devon, so you can give us all a treat!’

John smiled for the first time in days. He almost wished that he could be like his brother and settle for the quiet life in the countryside. Although William looked almost identical to John, they were not twins and had totally different natures, his elder brother being a quiet, gentle fellow who loved farming and hunting, unlike the restless warrior John.

‘As for the rebuilding, we can get timbers hauled up from our woods at Holcombe, as well as straw for the thatch. There are carpenters and thatchers amongst the patrons of the Bush who will be happy to lend a hand, especially if it means getting their favourite tavern back into action, so they can drink Nesta’s famous ale again.’

The evening sped by and though John had intended to travel back to Exeter the next day, he succumbed to his family’s entreaties and left it until Friday before he and Gwyn saddled up and trotted back up the valley, with Thomas’s pony on a head-rope behind them.

‘She’s in safe hands there, Crowner!’ said his officer reassuringly. ‘Even if those bastards in Exeter discover where she is, I doubt they’ll do anything about it, with your family and the whole village around her.’

John prayed that he was right, but he had misgivings about what was likely to happen in the city over the next week or two, given the turmoil that awaited them there.

In the late afternoon, the two men rode in through the South Gate and as they walked their tired horses up the hill to Carfoix, John sensed that many of the people they passed seemed either to shy away or give them uneasy stares. They were not hostile and some gave a civil touch of the hand to their temples, but it was as if they expected that the return of the coroner would start some new crisis in the city. Gwyn felt it too and looked up questioningly at the clear sky. ‘Feels like we’re waiting for a thunderstorm!’ he grunted. ‘What in hell’s the matter with everyone?’

They got at least part of the answer when they came level with the new Guildhall in High Street. Standing outside, talking to his clerk, was the flamboyant figure of Hugh de Relaga, one of the city’s portreeves and the active partner in John’s wool venture. Dressed in a bright red tunic with a vivid green surcoat over it, he usually had a smile on his tubby face, but today he looked decidedly unhappy. He stepped into the narrow street and held up a hand to the coroner. ‘You’re back, John. Many wish you hadn’t left the city these past couple of days.’

De Wolfe stared down at him, uncomprehending. ‘What’s happened?’

‘That underhanded scut of a sheriff has hanged them already! As soon as your back was turned, he held a special court yesterday, to which the cathedral proctors delivered those two women. He convicted and sentenced them within ten minutes and they were taken to Heavitree this morning.’

Heavitree was where the huge gallows stood, at the far end of Magdalen Street, a mile east of the city. John groaned and Gwyn spat out some of the foulest language he could muster.

‘The evil turd!’ snarled the coroner. ‘His days may be numbered, but he’s making as much trouble as he can before he goes. Did no one try to stop him?’

‘What could anyone do?’ wailed the portly burgess. ‘He’s still the sheriff and shows no sign of stepping down. Ralph Morin was outraged, but he said he was powerless to stop it. I saw the archdeacon arguing with Canon Gilbert, but obviously to no avail.’

‘De Bosco? Trust that madman to be there – why in God’s name doesn’t the bishop intervene? Is he totally spineless?’

The portreeve clutched at the feather in his velvet cap as a sudden breeze whipped up the canyon between the buildings. ‘I have heard a rumour today that Henry Marshal may have lost his appetite for witch-hunting, after all these deaths and the fatal fire at the Bush. We burgesses sent a deputation to him yesterday, complaining about the disorder and the danger from such fires. The whole city could be burned to the ground if we get more of this rioting.’

John tried to suppress his anger and swore to stamp out the evil that seemed to be infecting Exeter over this issue. ‘I’m taking this higher than a bloody bishop,’ he ground out grimly. ‘I’m reporting all this to the Chief Justiciar. Hubert’s the only one who can bring this to an end swiftly.’

‘Do it, John – and quickly! Though it will take at least another week to get a response from Winchester, if the justiciar is still there.’ He thought for a moment, his amiable face wreathed in a frown. ‘Look, I’ve got a fast messenger going to Southampton at dawn tomorrow, with an order for a ship’s master sailing for Flanders. He could easily ride on to Winchester in a few more hours. He reckons on riding forty miles a day, with changes of horses – far quicker than the usual carrier. If you get your clerk Thomas to write a full account of the situation, I could add my portreeve’s seal to it, to ensure that it gets proper attention.’

John accepted the offer gladly and after some more words of wrath and commiseration, rode on to the castle gatehouse. Gwyn carried on through the East Gate to go home to his wife in St Sidwells, who saw less of him than Matilda saw of her husband.

Inside the inner ward, he met both Gabriel and Brother Rufus, both of whom gave him the same news with long faces. Most people had never expected the convictions in the consistory court to end in the death sentence for two women – and certainly not with such unseemly haste, which John strongly suspected was due to the sheriff’s desire to act while the coroner was away. He was very unhappy about this, but felt no personal guilt. It was de Revelle who had hanged them, not John – and his first duty had been to ensure Nesta’s safety.

His simmering anger was such that he did not trust himself to confront the sheriff just yet, until he had cooled down. He gave Odin to a groom in the castle stables, with orders to get him fed and watered, then climbed to his chamber, where he found the industrious Thomas laboriously scribing on his rolls. He too was saddened by the death of the cunning women, but happy to hear that Nesta now seemed to be well out of harm’s way.

‘Give that up for now, Thomas, I’ve got important work for you,’ commanded de Wolfe, and for the next hour the clerk wrote at John’s dictation, translating Norman French directly into perfect Latin. The coroner recorded everything that had transpired during the past weeks, especially the perfidy of the sheriff, the obsessive mania of Gilbert de Bosco and the intransigence of the bishop. When it was finished, Thomas read it back to him and, after a couple of additions, it was ready for delivery to Hubert Walter or one of the members of the Curia Regis, if the justiciar was absent.

‘Add a copy of that treasure inventory from the constable’s clerk,’ John instructed. When Thomas had rolled up the parchments and tied them securely with tape, he impressed his seal upon some wax melted across the knot. He did this with his signet ring, which carried the same snarling wolf’s-head device that was on the battered war shield hanging in his hall at Martin’s Lane.

By the time he had sent Thomas off to Hugh de Relaga with the precious manuscript, he felt that he was ready to face his brother-in-law. As he stalked across the inner bailey with a face like thunder, people scurried out of his path even more readily than usual. However, when John clumped up the steps and marched to the sheriff’s door, once again he found it locked. He spotted one of de Revelle’s clerks trying to pass through the hall without being noticed, but yelled at him, demanding to know where his master was.

‘He’s gone to his manor at Revelstoke, Crowner,’ answered the man nervously. ‘Be away a few days, I reckon.’

‘Yellow-bellied son of a goat!’ muttered John. ‘Afraid to face me, the bloody coward. But he has to come back – unfortunately – then I’ll get him!’

Frustrated on this front, he walked back down to his house, knowing that he now had to face Matilda, who would undoubtedly want to know why he had been away for two nights. He was in no mood for conciliatory excuses and walked into the hall prepared for a blazing row. To his surprise, he found her silent and subdued. She sat in her usual chair, staring at the pile of unlit logs in the cold hearth. Given her strong views on the biblical treatment of witches, he doubted that her depression was due to the hangings that morning. He had not seen her since she left the house two evening ago, after he had told her bluntly about her brother’s latest misdemeanour, so he had no means of knowing how she had reacted to the further fall of her idol.

‘I hear Richard has gone to Revelstoke for a few days,’ he muttered gruffly, for something to say to break the silence.

‘Gone to escape your persecution, no doubt,’ she answered in a dull voice.

This was too much for her husband, who had been prepared to be conciliatory when he saw her low spirits. ‘My persecution, by God!’ he exploded. ‘What do you call his strangling of those two pathetic women this morning? No wonder he’s fled the city, he’s not man enough to face me, after doing that the moment my back is turned!’

Matilda made no reply for a moment. Usually well dressed, with hair stiffly primped by Lucille, today she looked limp and bedraggled, her hair straying untidily from beneath her cover-chief. At forty-four, this evening she looked a decade older, but when she finally turned her head and looked up at her husband hovering over her, there was still fire in her eyes. ‘I cannot decide who I hate most, my brother for his determination to fall from grace – or you, who hound him at every turn!’

De Wolfe jabbed his fists on his hips and bent lower to put his face closer to hers. ‘It was not I who dipped my hand into that treasure chest, woman! Nor did I plot against the king who appointed me to office. And who was it who paid his whore’s sister to give false testimony? And whose name has become a byword in this county for underhand dealings and embezzlement?’