‘Only yesterday, we laid to rest under the stones of our beloved church, the body of a man done to death by satanic means. Though the custodians of the King’s peace — or at least some of them — stubbornly refused to take action, I have no doubt that he was deliberately killed, the black arts being used to effect his death.’
Once more he stopped for effect, his eyes seeking out every third or fourth face in the congregation and drilling into their eyes with his almost hypnotic stare.
‘Brothers, we have a community riddled with practitioners of sorcery, who blatantly ignore, despise and revile the teachings of God’s word. Cunning women, witches, wizards — call them what you will — they are perverting the fabric of our Christian way of life. Now that the scales of ignorance have been cast from my eyes, I am appalled to realise that for centuries we have done nothing about this heresy. The time has come to rise up and enforce the might of the Holy Church against them. They must not prevail or their increase will lead us to the apocalypse, the coming of the Anti-christ!’
His voice gradually rose to a booming crescendo and de Alençon saw that a number of his fellow-prebendaries were nodding enthusiastically and a few were making the sign of the Cross as if in harmony with his exhortations.
Gilbert carried on his diatribe for a some time, now becoming more specific about the transgressions of the servants of Satan. He listed some of their evil deeds, their placing of curses on men and beasts, their tampering with the love lives of honest folk, their perversion of the healing arts — and their procuring of miscarriages, all against the will of God and the tenets of the scriptures, the Holy Father and his Church. John de Alençon, who had been present himself when the canon had made his now notorious requiem sermon, realised that overnight de Bosco must have done some very quick research into the alleged activities of cunning women. He thought that probably the widow Cecilia and the disaffected apothecary must have fed him much of the material, but whatever the source he had certainly got an excellent grasp of the issue in a very short time.
Gilbert came to the end of his harangue with a final flourish, a clarion call for immediate action. ‘I have already spoken to our Lord Bishop, who thankfully was in residence last evening. He thoroughly supports my desire for action against these disciples of Beelzebub and intends to spread the message to his fellow-bishops and indeed, to Canterbury, to make this an all-England crusade! And I have the full support of Sir Richard de Revelle, who agrees that when these evil people break the King’s peace, then the might of the law must fall upon them.’
He raised his brawny arms, the folds of his black cassock falling like the wings of some great bat.
‘Every one of you, my brother canons, must preach against this evil — and those who employ vicars in your livings, you must instruct them to constantly deliver the same message to their flocks. I would implore the archdeacons to do the same in respect of all the parish priests in the whole diocese of Devon and Cornwall.’
His stentorian voice reached a new peak as he raised his right hand and made the sign of the Cross in the air.
‘In the name of God, we must root out this hidden evil, once and for all. Remember what the scriptures exhort us — thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’
He sat down heavily on to his bench, to the accompaniment of much foot-tapping and murmurs of approbation.
The convenor, who was the oldest canon as well as the archivist and librarian, stood up and held his hands out for silence. De Alençon could see by the expression on the old man’s face that he had the same uneasy reservations about Gilbert’s ranting as the archdeacon himself.
‘Is there any discussion of this matter?’ asked Jordan, in a tone that suggested he hoped the issue was closed. The hope was short lived, as a dozen canons scrambled to their feet to speak. Although a few urged caution about upsetting what was mostly harmless folk tradition, most endorsed Gilbert’s crusade and related stories of their own about the wicked activities of sooth-sayers and sorcerers. Cynically, the archdeacon felt that most of their tales were second or third hand, rather than from personal experience. Listening to them, he rapidly came to the conclusion that the chapter was equally divided, as far as supporters and doubters were concerned. Generally, the younger canons were keen to follow de Bosco, while the older and wiser men knew enough about life, especially in the countryside, to doubt the wisdom of this proposed campaign.
He felt obliged to rise himself to try to dampen down what was in danger of becoming a hysterical response to Gilbert’s powerful oratory.
‘Brothers, we must not be hasty in this matter,’ he said above the continued murmur of voices. ‘Of course, I can but agree that where any person transgresses the law, be it secular or religious, then the appropriate censure must be applied.’
His frail figure, topped by the wiry grey hair that fringed his shaven tonsure, seemed insignificant compared to de Bosco’s bulk, but his voice was clear and penetrating.
‘But let us be clear about what is at issue! Does our brother Gilbert wish us to hound the old woman who gives her neighbour a potion to soothe her quinsy? And are we to pursue the goodwife who murmurs some words over her brother’s cow to ensure it gives birth to a she-calf? Or the yeoman who chants an old rhyme and scatters some sycamore ash to increase the yield of his oat field? We must keep a sense of proportion about this. The traditions of the countryside are rooted in antiquity and most do no harm and often some good.’
There was some muted foot-tapping and muttering of agreement from a section of the chapter, but others frowned at John for pouring the cold water of reason on this latest diversion.
Gilbert de Bosco scowled at the archdeacon. ‘Anything not done in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost is either sterile or frankly blasphemous,’ he snapped. ‘I am surprised at your lack of support, Brother John. I am reminded of the text, “He who is not with me, is against me”!’
And with that almost threatening parting shot, he stalked out of the chapter house.
The split in the attitude of the canons soon overflowed into the general population, as the Friday meeting of chapter was soon followed by Sunday sermons at churches all over Exeter and the rest of the county. John de Alençon, who was responsible for the priests in the city, tried to play down the issue and conveniently omitted to instruct the incumbents of Exeter’s twenty-seven churches to preach on the evils of witchcraft and folk magic. However, as with every other facet of life in the city, news travelled as fast as if it too, was imbued with magic and quite a number of the parish priests seized upon the intriguing topic for the subject of their sermons. Their congregations also found it a welcome change from the usual dull exhortations droned from the chancel steps. The novel proposition to hound down cunning men and women led to many discussions and even heated arguments outside church doors after the services were over. The issue was seized upon with almost hysterical fervour and within a few days the city was divided into two camps — those who wished to let the spell-binders and sooth-sayers well alone and those who wished to hang them all or cast them into the Exe, bound hand and foot.
Not all the vehemence was spontaneous, however, as it was helped along by some underhand scheming by the apothecary, Walter Winstone. Incensed by the way that he had been humiliated by Henry de Hocforde, he plotted over the weekend both to get even with the merchant and to strike a blow against the magicians who were undercutting his trade. Walter hired a sly rogue from one of the quay-side alehouses, a fellow he knew from some previous dubious tasks he had carried out for the apothecary. The man was Adam Cuffe, a slaughterer from the Shambles at the top end of Southgate Street. He was sent by Winstone on Sunday afternoon to a woman in Rock Lane, which ran up from the new Watergate pierced through the southern corner of the city walls. She was known to offer cures for various ailments for a few pence. Adam pretended that he had ringing in the ears, dizziness and a splitting headache and staggered about the woman’s small cottage to add substance to his story. The goodwife was Alice Ailward, a benevolent widow of fifty-eight who treated people more from a genuine desire to help, than for the trivial payment. She listened to Adam’s fabricated symptoms, looked in his mouth and eyes and poked in his ears with a piece of stick. Then she went to her table in the corner of the single room that was her home and pounded some dried seeds in a mortar, adding a sprinkling of herbs. Folding the powder into a scrap of cloth, she gave it to the impostor in return for a penny, instructing him to take a large pinch four times a days, washed down with ale. There were no spells or incantations involved and by next morning Alice had almost forgotten the incident.