De Wolfe chewed the matter over in his mind for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I expect you’re right. I’m getting unreasonably anxious with all this nonsense about witches in the air.’
‘I hear that the consistory court sits tomorrow on this poor woman Alice Ailward,’ said Thomas, who knew everything that went on within the confines of the cathedral Close. As well as eavesdropping on the gossip of the canons’ servants in the house where he lodged, he knew most of the vicars and secondaries, many of them accepting him as if he were still in holy orders himself.
‘Are you sure that this bishop’s court has the power to try such women?’ demanded de Wolfe, mindful of his discussion with the archdeacon.
The ever-knowledgable Thomas was only too happy to air the fruits of his recent researches among the books in the cathedral library and conversations with his priestly aquaintances. ‘Generally, the Church shows little interest in the transgressions of cunning women,’ he said. ‘Though there have been various pronoucements on the issue for centuries.’ He warmed to his theme, the latent scholar in him bubbling to the surface. ‘The Synod of Elvira in 336 punished apostasy by refusing to offer communion. Then the Frankish bishops at Worms in 829 stated that it was the Devil who aided witches to prepare love potions and poisons and to raise storms. The Synod of Reisbach in 799 demanded penance for withcraft, but no actual punishment …’
‘For Christ’s sake, clerk, will you stop lecturing us,’ boomed Gwyn. ‘We’re not pupils in your cathedral school!’
John was more sympathetic and motioned for Thomas to continue. He poked his tongue out at the Cornishman and carried on.
‘When the issue is forced upon its attention, the Church prefers to divert it to the manorial courts — or presumably, here in Exeter, to the burgesses’ courts. Only if some conspiracy to cause criminal damage is evident will the consistory courts intervene — and even then, they always hand over persons they convict to the other courts for sentencing.’
‘You should have been a bloody lawyer, not a priest, Thomas!’ growled Gwyn with mock sarcasm, as he was really quite proud of the little man’s erudition.
‘What do you mean by criminal damage?’ demanded the coroner.
‘Well, in the villages, if a mare drops a foal or the chickens stop laying, then the owner may claim he has lost profit because a witch cast a spell on them, at the instigation of some neighbour who holds a grudge.’
‘Where I come from in Cornwall, the folk don’t bother with all that nonsense,’ boomed Gwyn. ‘They just form a lynch-mob and hang the suspected culprit from the nearest tree!’
‘We all know what tribe of savages you hail from!’ squeaked the clerk, dodging a playful swing from Gwyn, which would have knocked him from his stool if it had connected.
‘Calm down, you childish pair!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Where and when is this court being held tomorrow, Thomas?’
‘It will be in the chapter house, after terce, sext and nones. But it is a closed hearing, Crowner, only churchmen will be admitted.’
‘I am the coroner for this county, damn it!’ roared John.
Thomas shook his head. ‘No matter, sir. The secular powers have no jurisdiction there. Not even the sheriff could attend.’
‘Can you worm your way in, Thomas?’ asked Gwyn.
The clerk managed to look both sly and sheepish. ‘I had thought of slipping into the back row. My usual garb and my tonsure often make me inconspicuous in such company.’
‘Do that, then let me know straight away what transpires there,’ commanded his master. ‘It’s a damned scandal, having a secret inquisition. Even our sheriff’s court, for all his corruption, is at least open to the people.’
Walter Winstone’s intention was to use Edward Bigge to fabricate a story to incriminate Theophania Lawrence and to make similar accusations against Jolenta of Ide through the false testimony supplied by Edward’s wife, Emelota. Both these were to be fed through to the obsessively receptive ears of Gilbert de Bosco, so that as with Alice Ailward proceedings could be taken against them in the bishop’s court. Unfortunately, the apothecary had unwisely paid half Edward Bigge’s fee in advance, the other part to be given once he had given his lying evidence to the canon. On Monday morning, with twenty pence in his purse, Bigge decided to celebrate and went drinking, first in the Anchor Inn on the quay-side, then at the Saracen on Stepcote Hill, so that by noon he was uproariously drunk.
A surfeit of ale and cider always made Edward Bigge loquacious, usually at the top of his bull-like voice and he reeled out of the Saracen shouting to the world at large that he had had a narrow escape from the Devil. The inhabitants of the area around that disreputable alehouse were all too familiar with noisy drunks and normally no one would have taken any notice of the slurred ranting of yet another inebriate. However, as Edward weaved his way up to Smythen Street, the continuation of Stepcote Hill, he came across an unfortunate old fellow who was looking into the open front of one of the blacksmiths’ forges that gave the street its name. Pinning the man against the door-post, he leaned towards him and uttered a confidential whisper that could be heard twenty paces away. ‘I saw Satan, as plain as I see you now,’ he hissed. ‘Huge and black he was, with horns on his head and red fire coming from his nostrils!’ His voice rose as got into his drunken stride and three men and a woman coming down the street stared at him with curiosity. ‘She conjured up Beelzebub as plain as the nose on your face,’ he roared at the disconcerted old man. ‘This cunning woman over in Bretayne can kill cattle ten miles away and put a spell on husbands so that they leave their wives and cleave to another woman! I saw her bewitch someone myself, with the bats flying out of a great book she had there!’
One of the men passing by stopped at this, then turned to the woman and yelled at her. ‘I told you it was a curse, you damned fool! I was bewitched when I took up with that girl!’
The woman gave him a shove in disgust, but he was already moving towards Edward Bigge, shouting as he went. ‘What cunning woman is this? They should be struck from the earth for the evil they wreak.’
The drunk turned and looked blearily at the newcomer, giving the terrified old man the chance to slip away. Two smiths and three of their customers came out from the interior of the forge to see what all the commotion was about.
‘I said, who was it?’ demanded the passer-by. ‘I live in Bretayne and similar magic has been worked on me, I swear!’
Even though his wits were slowed by ale, Bigge preened his new self-importance. ‘I went to her just for a potion for stomach-ache — but she raised the Devil and frightened the life out of me, so I ran!’
‘What was her name, damn you?’ yelled the exasperated questioner.
‘Theophania, she was. Theophania Lawrence.’
One of the smiths lumbered up closer to the pair. ‘I went to her some months back, with a flux of my bowels. Two pence she took from me, but nothing did she do for my guts.’
Almost as if by another sort of magic, a small crowd began gathering, like iron filings to a lodestone. People came out of the adjacent forges and from some vegetable stalls opposite, to listen to what was going on. Inside a minute, three more people began telling of their good and bad experiences with cunning women and Edward Bigge, encouraged by the attention, spiralled into more and more fanciful accounts of his session with Theophania.
‘The room went dark and there was a smell of brimstone. She grew twice as tall and green lights came from her eyes like rays!’ he ranted, his imagination fuelled by the Saracen’s strong cider.
The man who had demanded the witch’s name became caught up in the excitement and turning to his sceptical wife, took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘See, I told you it was not my doing with that girl. I was bewitched! She should be stopped, that bloody hag.’
By now more than a dozen people had congregated in the street, many primed by the sermons they had heard in the city’s churches the previous day. With the priests’ exhortations fresh in their ears, they were easy prey for the infectious hysteria that started to ripple through the crowd. Now everyone was gabbling about their experiences with sorcerers and memories of mere cough medicines and poultices for ulcers were magnified into spectres of goblins and huge black cats. Every ill that had befallen them in the past few years was suddenly attributed to the curses of wizards — and those who had lost silver coins, had miscarriages, watched their pigs die of a fever or had their thatch catch fire, attributed it all to the evil works of cunning women in general and Theophania Lawrence in particular.