Opening the door of the small room, she waved Heloise to a stool, while she sat on the edge of a wide bed. This was raised on legs, a rarity in Devon, where most folk slept on a pallet on the floor. The porter’s wife introduced herself in a sad and downcast manner, wringing the loose end of her shabby belt between her thin fingers.
‘I have heard that you have the gift of healing, mistress. I have three problems which ail me,’ she began, rolling her eyes upwards and sideways to keep Nesta in view. ‘Firstly, I have had this affliction of my neck since I was a child. Is there anything you can do to help me?’
Nesta smiled wanly at the woman, but shook her head sadly. ‘Much as my heart aches for you, Heloise, that is beyond me — and, I suspect, beyond even the most skilled physicians in the land. I have no special powers, you know — only what my mother and her sisters passed on to me when I was younger. They were just wise women in our village in Wales, we made no pretence at having anything more than a knowledge of common cures, passed down through the generations.’
The other woman tried to nod, though she could manage little more than a slight bobbing of her deflected head. ‘Then maybe you can do something about these?’
She held out her hands, palms down, and Nesta saw that on the backs of her fingers and knuckles were a dozen small but unsightly warts.
The Welsh woman smiled. This was one of the most frequent requests and there were literally dozens of recipes for curing warts, ranging from the mundane to the bizarre. She got up from her bed and reached up to a shelf on the wall, where a dozen small pots were arranged.
‘Take this, there’s enough left in the bottom. I must make some more, as warts seem rife in Exeter this year.’ She handed a pot to the bemused Heloise, who asked how to use it. ‘Rub some on the warts morning and night. It’s only willow bark pounded in vinegar, but it will rid you of those lumps in a fortnight. Better than some cures, like rubbing them with the blood of a beheaded eel, then burying the head in the churchyard!’
Nesta suspected that the first two requests were really excuses leading up to the real reason for her visit, although at the time she was unaware of the true nature of this deception. ‘And your third problem? Is it what I suspect?’
Her sister’s promise of a reward had improved Heloise’s acting ability. She dropped her twisted gaze in a parody of chagrin. ‘Yes, mistress, I am with child again. My poor body will not stand yet another carrying. It will kill me this time, as it almost did last year.’
This was a bare-faced lie, as she was totally barren, in spite of her husband’s incessant attempts to father a child on her. Nesta, mindful of her own very recent crisis, was full of sympathy, but this was one thing that she would never contemplate.
‘I cannot help you there either, good woman,’ she said softly. ‘I can help with warts and fevers and croup, but I have neither the skill nor the courage to rid you of that burden.’
Heloise offered no argument, but stood up and fingered the small purse that dangled by its draw-string from her belt. ‘What do I owe you for the ointment?’ she asked woodenly.
Nesta shook her head. ‘Nothing at all, I can make plenty more. Use it and rid your fingers of those abominations. I am only sorry I cannot do more for you on those other serious matters.’
Moments later, the porter’s wife had gone and Nesta went back to haranguing her servants, forgetting the woman’s visit almost immediately. But Heloise smirked as she threw away the pot of ointment as soon as she was around the corner of Idle Lane — the silver pennies she would get from her sister for acting out this charade could buy better medicine than willow in vinegar, even after she had bought her new shawl.
That evening, Matilda was in a neutral mood during supper, seeming to have exhausted her grumbling about his failure to further investigate the death of Robert de Pridias. However, she had heard about the unusual arrest of Alice Ailward by the cathedral proctors and scathingly remarked that it was good to hear that someone in the city was taking the menace of witchcraft seriously. Her husband rode out her criticism in silence, and when Mary had cleared away the debris of the meal, which tonight had been a rather tough boiled fowl, he announced that he was going down to visit the archdeacon.
As it was the truth — although he intended going on to the Bush afterwards — she could hardly complain about his attending upon such a senior man of God and as soon as she had lumbered up to her solar and the attentions of Lucille, he called Brutus and walked the few yards down Canons’ Row to the house of John de Alençon.
Leaving the dog to lie in the evening sun outside the door, he went inside to share a flask of wine with his friend. In the archdeacon’s spartan room they sat for a while, savouring the latest product of the Loire valley. This evening the coroner seemed to sense a certain excitement in his friend, as if he had good news which he was keeping in check. When he asked de Alençon whether he had something new to tell him, the canon’s lean face broke into a smile, but he tapped the side of his nose and told John to divulge his own business first.
‘Nothing pleasant, I’m afraid. I want to pick your ecclesiastical brain about this poor woman who was captured by your proctors.’
The archdeacon’s smile faded. ‘Ah, Gilbert de Bosco! I knew that man would cause more trouble.’
‘Does he have the right and the authority to arrest a woman and cast her into a cell?’
The priest sipped his wine and replaced the pewter cup carefully on the table between them. ‘You should really ask, who is there to stop him? It seems your brother-in-law didn’t object. I presume the bishop could intervene, but he also seems happy to sit on the same wagon which is rolling on this matter.’
‘Can you do nothing about it yourself?’
De Alençon shook his head slowly. ‘Gilbert de Bosco is a canon of this cathedral, just like myself. My post as Archdeacon of Exeter involves administering the priests of the churches in this part of the diocese — it gives me no authority over my fellow-canons.’
‘What about the authority of the chapter?’
‘It’s none of their business, as it does not concern the running of the cathedral. Gilbert de Bosco has done this in his own capacity as a priest, not as a canon. Chapter has no say in diocesan affairs, they are solely the prerogative of the bishop.’
There was a silence as each man pondered over his wine.
‘So what is the attitude of the Church to allegations of witchcraft?’ asked John, still worrying at the problem.
The other John shrugged his narrow shoulders within his cassock. ‘Until now, I was not aware it had one! Though it condemns heresy and generally frowns upon anything which is ungodly, the question of witchcraft has never formally arisen here, until this interfering Gilbert made it an issue.’
‘What will happen to this unfortunate woman, now that de Bosco has her in his clutches?’
‘I presume he will cause her to be brought before the consistory court, as I fail to see what other measures can be taken.’
He refilled his friend’s cup and then his own.
‘Tell me about this court of yours — how does it operate?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘The Holy Church is jealous of its independence from earthly princes and misses no chance to assert that autonomy,’ began the archdeacon, making his guest wonder whether he was to launch into a sermon.