‘This has holy powers, man,’ she assured him. ‘It has a fragment of the consecrated Host within it!’ A tiny scrap of the communion wafer that she had smuggled out of St Martin’s made the amulet all the more powerful. She looped the thong over his neck and muttered some confused words of prayer to various saints, including Christopher, James and Peter, adding Mary, Mother of God for good measure.
She forced her client to repeat them and as he was mumbling a final ‘Amen’ she held out her hand for her three pence fee.
‘Now get you gone in safety!’ she declared, opening the door and letting the sailor push past Edward Bigge, who was waiting on the step.
‘What can I do for you, fellow?’ she demanded brusquely. Her services were in constant demand and she could afford to dispense with courtesy and amiability.
‘I have this pain in my belly and burning when I piss, mother,’ Edward complained, sticking to the story that the apothecary had given him.
‘How long have you suffered?’
‘About four days now. I also feel feverish and sick to my stomach.’
Theophania took his roughened hands and studied the palms, then poked a finger at his face and pulled down his lower lids to look at the whites of his eyes. ‘Your member stings when you pass water, eh? Have you been with dirty whores this past few weeks?’
He denied it vigorously, but the old wife sniffed her disbelief as she went to a shelf and took down a small earthenware cup. ‘Here, piss into this, while I cut a lock of your hair.’
This was not what Edward was expecting, but he fumbled under his short tunic to loosen the strings of his leggings. Turning his back to her, he held the cup to his loins, while the uncaring crone took a small knife and, with some difficulty, hacked off a small bunch of his cropped hair. He turned round and handed her the filled cup, some embarrassment showing even on the hard face of this rough workman. As he struggled to put his clothing back in place, she opened the door and carelessly threw most of the urine out into the lane, keeping back only an inch in the bottom of the cup. As he watched, she dropped the sample of hair into it, then went to a table in the corner where a candle was burning. She held the cup over it for a few moments until it boiled, the stench in the room becoming even more pungent. Looking into the cup, she muttered something to herself, then set it on the table while she rummaged among pots on the shelf above. Selecting one, she tipped a small quantity of brown powder from it into the cup.
‘What’s that, mother?’ the customer grunted suspiciously, afraid that she was going to ask him to drink the mixture.
‘Soil from a fresh grave, man. It has certain powers that we need.’ With a piece of holly stick, she stirred the concoction, mumbling to herself. Then she advanced on him, holding the cup and stick. Edward recoiled, but she reached out and grabbed his tunic. ‘Lift this up out of the way, if you want to be cured!’ she snapped.
Apprehensively, he hoisted his garment to expose his grubby belly, but was relieved to discover that all Theophania did was to dip the stick in the fluid and make a wide cross on his stomach with the odorous liquid. She repeated this three times, muttering incomprehensible rhymes under her breath. Then she repeated the process on his forehead, before pressing the warm cup into his hand.
‘Go to the cathedral and tip some drops at the north, south, east and west of the Close, saying the paternoster each time. Understand?’
He nodded, uncaring of what she told him, as his mission was nothing to do with his imaginary symptoms.
She reached for another jar on her shelf and tipped some dried flakes of crushed leaves into a scrap of cloth, which she folded and pressed into his hand. ‘Mix a pinch of these in a cup of ale each morning for five days. Say prayers to five saints each day — and keep away from unclean harlots!’ Holding out her hand for two pence, she opened the door and sent him out into the street.
The next morning, Matilda was still sulking with her husband, refusing to speak to him at the early morning meal. He had thought about taking Nesta’s oblique advice and assuaging his wife’s displeasure by at least going through the motions of holding an inquest on the death of Robert de Pridias, but his stubborn faith in the legal processes that existed in the name of his king, prevented him from carrying this through. He decided that he preferred to suffer the familiar scowls and snubs at home, rather than twist the law to his own personal advantage.
When he went up to Rougemont after breakfast, he heard from the constable, his friend Ralph Morin, that Gilbert de Bosco had visited the sheriff to demand that secular charges be brought against Alice Ailward. Although Richard de Revelle had perhaps unwisely promised his support for Gilbert’s crusade, he was unable to find any specific grounds on which to arraign the woman before either the Shire Court or the royal justices, but promised the canon that he would take legal advice when he went to Winchester the following week.
Ralph Morin said that de Bosco went away in a huff, promising to bring Alice before an ecclesiastical court without delay and, if possible, hand her over to the secular authorities for sentencing. ‘The bloody man sees advancement for himself in all this,’ growled the constable, over a mug of ale in the hall of the castle keep. ‘I hear that he has the bishop on his side, but maybe you know more about what goes on down in that nest of vipers around the cathedral.’
John promised to find out what he could from the archdeacon, as this issue was rapidly dividing opinion and heating tempers throughout the city. Although the subject of witchcraft had previously been ignored, since the canon had interfered, it was now as if a wasps’ nest had been poked with a stick. Conflicting opinions were being voiced all over the city and it was the main topic of gossip in both the alehouses and the churches.
Meanwhile, another matter claimed the coroner’s attention, one which potentially held more satisfaction for him. This was the arrival of the treasure chest from Cadbury, which Gwyn had escorted back to Exeter the previous evening and which now rested in the constable’s chamber, at the opposite end of the hall from the sheriff’s quarters.
‘Does he know about it yet?’ asked de Wolfe.
The big warrior grinned over his forked beard. ‘I’ve left that pleasure to you, John! I thought you would enjoy seeing his face when you tell him.’
‘Did you look inside the box?’
Ralph held up his hands in mock horror. ‘No damned fear! I’m keeping well out of this one, knowing de Revelle’s love affair with money. I left the chest exactly as your man brought it, tied up with cords and locked in a box. And I kept a man on the door all night, just to safeguard myself.’
De Wolfe finished his ale and with a grim smile of anticipation, loped to the door of the sheriff’s chamber, at the end of the hall nearest the entrance. As usual, he marched in without ceremony and planted himself in front of Richard’s table, hands on hips. For once, de Revelle was alone, without the clerks that normally buzzed around him like flies, waving their parchments for his attention.
The sheriff, who was signing warrants for this week’s hangings, looked up and sighed when he saw his brother-in-law. ‘Do you still stubbornly refuse to enquire into the death of Robert de Pridias, John? I suspect that this sorcerer woman that is being held by the proctors may be the one that did the deed.’
John smiled his lopsided smile. ‘Yet I hear that you decline to arraign her, Richard! Very sensible, I think — you would have some difficulty in devising criminal charges in the absence of any evidence. Try that on the royal judges and they’ll lock you up!’
De Revelle’s narrow face flushed with annoyance. ‘We’ll see what the consistory court thinks of the matter first. Was there something you wanted?’