His body was already lying in the building, having been brought on a cart from St Olave’s some hours ago. The coffin lay in the side chapel of St Mary in the base of the south tower, the lid nailed down securely, given the hot weather and the couple of days which had elapsed since his death. The service was to be held there, as the choir and high altar were used only for sanctifying the departure of barons and churchmen.
About fifty people stood in the high, square chamber, and John recognised both the city’s portreeves, one of whom was his partner Hugh de Relaga. Virtually all the guildmasters and guild officials were there together with many of the more senior tradesmen of Exeter. He saw several apothecaries, including Richard Lustcote and Walter Winstone, but one person who was conspicuous by his absence was the rival fuller and weaver, Henry de Hocforde.
Several of the cathedral canons were present, including the archdeacon, John of Alençon and the precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, although this pair took no part in the celebration of the Mass. This was said by another canon, William de Tawton, assisted by his vicar and secondaries and the chanted responses were provided by some of the choirboys, who had been paid a penny each by the widow to forgo their afternoon games to attend.
The coroner stood glumly at the back, in spite of Matilda’s efforts to prod him to a more prominent position near the front of the congregation, where Richard de Revelle was making sure that he was seen by everyone, especially the rich and influential. John saw Canon Gilbert de Bosco at the side of the altar, in his cassock, surplice and maniple. He had expected the widow’s cousin to have conducted the Mass in person, but it transpired that Gilbert was saving himself for later.
The ritual droned on for half an hour and eventually, the congregation partook of the Host before the office ended. Then they stood aside to allow four vergers to carry the bier out past the end of the choir into the empty, echoing nave. Towards the south corner, a deep hole had been dug and a new six-foot slab of stone lay to one side, ready to place on top of the grave. No doubt Cecilia would have Robert’s name chiselled on it in the near future.
For the moment, the dead man had a short respite before being consigned for eternity to his subterranean claustrophobia, as the coffin was left on the edge of the pit while Canon Gilbert delivered his homily. He advanced to the opposite side of the grave, flanked by his vicar and secondary. The large man looked very imposing in his ecclesiastical robes as he glared around to still the murmurs and whispers before he began to speak. The first five minutes of his obituary were a conventional tribute to Robert’s honesty, charity and industry. He was a devout and caring husband and father, boomed the canon, as he delivered the usual platitudes in his fine, deep voice. Then abruptly, his tone changed and he began to harangue the audience with missionary zeal.
‘Fine man that he was, Robert de Pridias met his untimely end in a way which should shock true Christians into action! Though our law officers have seen fit to ignore what stares them in the face, I tell you that our brother Robert lies here dead today from the evil deeds of the Devil’s disciples!’
He threw out his arm and pointed a quivering finger at the coffin. A stir of anxious surprise rippled through his audience and John’s brow furrowed as the import of Gilbert’s words began to sink in.
‘We should be ashamed to admit it, especially the priests amongst us, but witchcraft is alive and well amongst us today! Cunning women, crafty menfolk, evil-doers using the power of Satan to pervert our lives! All this and more, is under our noses and we do nothing about it!’
He glared around his audience, everyone now hanging on his words, as this was a sermon unlike any of the dry, dreary homilies that they were used to receiving from the bored clergy of their parish churches. And Gilbert de Bosco had by no means finished with them.
‘Our king has not long returned from the Crusades and half Christendom marches across the known world to fight the Mohammedans. This is right and proper, commissioned by our Holy Father in Rome. But we need our own crusade much nearer home! A crusade against the pagan superstition and black magic that exists all around us. We call ourselves Christians, yet we use these purveyors of the black arts ourselves without a thought!’
He changed from the ‘we’ to a more accusative style as he continued to glare around the assembled faces. De Wolfe caught John de Alençon’s eye and saw the expression of concern on the archdeacon’s face as he listened to the fiery diatribe from his brother canon.
‘When you want a wart removed from your eye, you visit some old crone who mumbles spells over it and rubs it with toad slime. When you wish for a boy-child, you seek out a cunning woman and give her silver to spin some evil ritual over your belly! Those of you who have land outside the city pay for a potion to cure the barrenness of your best cow!’
The big, beefy priest swung his head from side to side like a bull confronting baiting dogs, as he fixed his audience with an accusing grimace.
‘Yes, most of you pray to God to help you — then next morning go off to find some witch to perform pagan rituals that Our Lord died to abolish from the earth. You are betraying your faith when you sink to dealing with these evil crones!’
There was a shuffling of feet and twitching of shoulders among his listeners, as some felt shame, others embarrassment, especially those who in the last few days had sought out the help of the very agents he was now castigating,
‘I call upon you, you who are leaders in this community and thus persons of influence — seek out these disciples of Beelzebub, the servants of the arch-fiend! Root them out, condemn them and return to the paths of righteousness!’
Before he finished, he once more glared around the throng as he delivered his clarion-call in the new crusade.
‘I am myself found guilty for waiting so long before attacking this evil — but now I will petition the bishop and his senior brethren to declare war on these who mock our faith with their magic. And I also call on the law officers to cast off their apathy and hunt down these creatures of the night and bring down the full penalty of the law upon them!’
He drew himself up to his considerable height for the finale.
‘For keep in your minds what the Book of Exodus commands us — “ Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”!’
There was a stunned silence, as this was not what the comfortable burgesses and their wives had expected at a burial service. Then Gilbert de Bosco seemed to deflate as, dropping his eyes, he began muttering the rituals of committal as he motioned to the verger to lower the coffin by its ropes into the grave. The widow seemed unmoved by the final exit of her husband, as her face was upraised to her cousin, bearing an almost triumphant expression. She hurried around the pit to him and grasped his arm, followed more slowly by a rather abashed daughter and son-in-law.
‘Gilbert, bless you! That was magnificent. I could not have hoped that you would take on this cause so readily and energetically!’
As she gabbled her thanks, another figure sidled up behind her and when he could get a word in, added his support to the proposed crusade against the cunning women. It was Walter Winstone, still smarting at the way he had been bypassed by Henry de Hocforde and full of malice for the folk healers who were depriving him of some of his trade.