‘Reverend sir, you have said at last what has long been needed to be shouted abroad!’ he whined. ‘I am an apothecary and I know the damage these evil folk can do, pretending to offer cures and usually making matters far worse.’
Cecilia turned to him quickly, gratified to find such a ready recruit so soon. The three of them began gabbling together, virtually ignoring the thumping of earth behind them, as the vergers shovelled soil back into the grave-pit. Others gravitated towards the trio, some impelled by the herd instinct, feeling that any new cause with influential members was worth latching on to. Matilda was one, though her friendship and support for her friend Cecilia were added incentives. But one other quick-witted person rapidly weighed up the political and personal advantages of a new campaign and with only momentary hesitation, stepped across to insinuate himself into the group around the burly priest.
‘I can assure you, Canon de Bosco, that as far as it is in my power as the chief law officer in this county, you will find the forces of law and order entirely on your side,’ brayed Richard de Revelle.
Gilbert’s mention of Henry Marshal had tipped the balance for de Revelle, as, like the bishop himself, the sheriff was a covert supporter of Prince John in his aspirations to displace Richard Coeur de Lion from the throne. When Richard had recently been incarcerated in Germany for eighteen months, open rebellion had ensued — until March the year before last, when Richard returned and quashed the revolt. Foolishly, he was far too lenient with his brother, so that John was still at liberty to continue his plotting.
Now the sheriff saw another chance to consolidate his position with the bishop, who was also the younger brother of William, Marshal of England. If the King fell, as he was daily likely to do in his incessant battles against Philip of France — or if another more successful revolt took place — then de Revelle, who had long-standing political ambitions, wanted to be on the winning side.
John de Wolfe watched this development with a sense of foreboding. Anything that brought a crusading priest into an alliance with his brother-in-law was a matter of concern, as the coroner knew the sheriff of old and was sure that he would manipulate any issue to his greatest advantage. As the crowd began to disperse, muttering and whispering among themselves, he caught the eye of his archdeacon friend. Leaving Matilda in the cluster of people around the de Bosco, he moved across to John de Alençon. ‘And what did you make of that?’ he asked sombrely.
The ascetic priest shook his head sadly. ‘I know Gilbert only too well. He either does nothing at all — or he goes off on a rampage, if the issue takes his fancy.’
‘So now he has appointed himself witch-hunter to the county of Devon, by the looks of it.’
The archdeacon nodded, his thin face looking more worried than ever. They began walking behind the throng towards the door and the daylight beyond.
‘What view will the bishop have of this affair?’ asked the coroner.
‘I doubt he has ever considered the matter before, but I am sure that he will not be against it. Strictly speaking, he has no direct authority over the canons of the cathedral, as his remit is the diocese — though few members of the ecclesiastical community would ever care to challenge him.’ He stood aside for de Wolfe to pass through the door on to the steps of the West Front. ‘Yet the Church in the West of England has been in the doldrums lately, and Henry Marshal may see this as an opportunity to stir up some episcopal activity to impress Canterbury and remind them that the See of Devon and Cornwall is still alive and well.’
The two friends walked on in silence for a few yards.
‘What of Richard de Revelle’s sudden enthusiasm for seeking out cunning women?’ asked de Alençon, although he knew the answer well enough.
‘As usual, he wishes to keep in with those in the cathedral who lean towards John, Count of Mortain,’ said John bitterly. ‘We both know whom they might be — and the bishop himself is Richard’s main target, you may be sure.’
In the cathedral, the precentor, the canon responsible for the organisation of services, was Thomas de Boterellis, another supporter of the Prince. Several other canons also favoured the younger royal brother and only John de Alençon and the treasurer, John of Exeter, were declared royalists like the coroner himself.
They caught up with the knot of people at a junction of the paths across the Close, just as Gilbert de Bosco took himself off towards his house in Canons’ Row and the rest dispersed in various directions. The archdeacon excused himself hurriedly as he saw Matilda making for him, but de Wolfe had to stand his ground as his wife beckoned him vigorously towards her. She was standing with her brother, the widow Cecilia and her family close beside them.
‘John, I hope you took to heart what the good canon had to say just now!’ she snapped, fixing him with her cold eyes. He knew that however he replied it would be twisted against him, so he merely nodded and kept his mouth shut.
‘I’d like to talk this over with you, John,’ brayed the sheriff, still resplendent in his red tunic with the silver trimmings. ‘Come to my chamber in the morning and we’ll work out a plan of campaign against this creeping evil. You’ll need to hold that inquest now, as you should have done in the first place.’
De Wolfe glared at his brother-in-law. ‘What plan of campaign? I’m a coroner, not a persecutor of old wives! And since when does a priest order an inquest in his sermons? I take my orders from the King’s Council and the Chief Justiciar, not cathedral canons!’
Incensed beyond measure, he grabbed Matilda’s arm and almost dragged her towards Martin’s Lane. He was well aware that he would pay for his flash of temper very soon, when she gave him a tongue-lashing, but for the moment, anger made him foolhardy. He would regret it later.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the Bush that evening, John de Wolfe related that day’s events to Nesta as they sat together at his table by the empty hearth. Although the ashes were cold, the room was stifling, as the threatening storm had not yet broken and the whole city was perspiring in sullen stillness.
‘So your dearly beloved wife gave you a hard time?’ said the Welsh woman. Although she tried hard to hide her jealousy of John’s spouse, sometimes she could not resist some mild sarcasm.
‘She played merry hell with me,’ he answered feelingly. ‘Both for dragging her off from her friends so abruptly — and for turning down the sheriff’s demand for an inquest.’
‘But Matilda is surely under no delusions about her brother these days,’ objected Nesta. ‘You’ve told me that his endless misbehaviour has embittered her against him.’
De Wolfe ran a finger around the inside of his neck-band, easing it away from the sweaty skin.
‘True, his repeated transgressions, especially his near-treachery, have destroyed the rosy picture she once had of him,’ he answered. ‘But it was my refusal to go along with these fanciful suspicions of the widow that really caused Matilda to shout and snarl at me.’
Feeling the heat as well, Nesta pulled off her trailing head-rail and shook out a cascade of shining auburn hair. The tavern was fairly quiet this evening, the sultry weather too enervating to bring many people out of their dwellings. Refilling his ale mug from a large jug on the table, she picked her words carefully, knowing his short temper.
‘D’you think it might be politic to make a few more enquiries into his death?’ she asked gently. ‘After all, there was that doll with a spike stuck through it. Someone meant him ill will, even if it didn’t cause his death.’