‘That’s the one, sir,’ called Emelota, climbing down from her unaccustomed perch on her steed, an experience with which she would be able to regale her envious neighbours when she got home. With the locals looking anxiously on, the two proctor’s men and a pair of Gilbert’s own servants marched ahead of him towards the dwelling, with Emelota trailing along behind. They were followed by a sullen and apprehensive score of villagers, who had been attracted by the unusual activity in the sleepy hamlet.
The pattern of the assault on Theophania’s house was followed again, as the proctors rudely pushed open the front door and thrust themselves inside. As Gilbert followed, they found Jolenta at a table, pounding herbs in a mortar, a small cauldron of scented water bubbling on a trivet over the fire-pit beside her. She swung round, her handsome face indignant at this rude intrusion. As she protested, the canon swung his saddle-crop along a shelf of pots, bringing them crashing to the floor. ‘Miserable witch, your den is full of the signs of corruption!’ he bellowed. ‘We know of the pacts you make with the spirits of evil. You should be ashamed of your denunciation of the true God!’
Jolenta’s face paled, but her spirit remained strong as she loudly denied his charges and challenged the priest to prove anything against her.
‘Here’s proof, you miserable hag!’ he yelled, spittle appearing at the corners of his mouth as he gestured at Emelota. ‘I doubt you recall this woman, amongst all the poor souls you have defiled — she is but one of those whose mind and body you have fouled with your evil spirits. She will testify as to your pacts with Satan and all your other evil works!’
He pushed his informant forward and shook her by the shoulder. ‘Is this the witch you told me of, eh?’
Emelota avoided the eyes of the other woman, but nodded her head.
Jolenta looked at her treacherous client and sighed resignedly. ‘You too, poor woman? Now I know how Jesus Christ felt when he met Judas Iscariot.’
The canon was ablaze with wrath. ‘How do your dare utter the name of the Blessed Christ with those same fornicating lips that called up Beelzebub from the Pit?’
He motioned to the proctor’s thugs with his crop. They moved forward, seized Jolenta’s arms and hustled her to the door, where her cobbler father had joined the reeve, bailiff and a crowd of neighbours in growling at these intruders from the city.
Confident in his righteous indignation, Canon Gilbert thrust past the crowd, his bulk and clerical robe dissuading anyone from resisting him. But there were guarded snarls and murmurings of discontent as the woman was hauled out into the road to where the horses were being held by another of the canon’s servants.
‘What’s happening, sir?’ asked the bailiff, the one whose relative seniority gave him the nerve to question the priest. ‘Our Jolenta is a good woman, we need her in the village.’
Gilbert, even redder in the face than usual with all the excitement, put a large foot in a stirrup and swung himself up on to his mare. ‘If she is innocent, then the law will find her so.’
‘But she should be brought before the manor court here, sir, not dragged away like this,’ objected the bailiff mulishly.
In his anger, Gilbert almost swung his crop against the man’s face, but managed to restrain himself. ‘You forget this is the bishop’s manor — and you are his servant. I am taking her to another of his courts in the cathedral, so mind your own business or there will be ill times for you!’
With this manipulation of the law, and with silent thanks that Jolenta had not been in another vill with an independent lord, the canon pulled his horse’s head around and set off down the track. Slowly, the cavalcade moved off behind him, with Emelota once more perched sideways on her palfrey and poor Jolenta walking behind one of the proctor’s horses, her wrists tied and roped to its saddle.
CHAPTER NINE
The news of the lynching spread around the city like fire on a parched moorland and by mid-afternoon, very few in Exeter were unaware of the events at the Snail Tower. As before, the citizens were divided into two camps, those who thought it was a scandalous crime and those who felt that justice was being done in the most effective manner.
In the last group was, of course, the apothecary Walter Winstone. He was surprised by the turn of events, as his intention had been to repeat the subterfuge he had used with Alice Ailward and Jolenta of Ide, by denouncing Theophania to Canon Gilbert. He had been unaware that Edward Bigge’s drinking had led to her premature dispatch, but his delight was none the less intense. Now three of these pestilent people had been crushed, and after the rest of his plans had come to fruition, there would be a powerful message sent to others to keep their noses out of his business.
Meanwhile, he had another scheme that he wished to launch, one born out of revenge and vindictiveness, as well as monetary gain. Within hours of hearing of Theophania’s death and Jolenta’s arrest, he set about putting his blackmailing plan into operation. Leaving his runny-nosed apprentice to mind the shop, with threats of dire consequences if the lad failed in any way, Walter limped along the high street in the direction of the East Gate, near which Henry de Hocforde had his grand house. As he pushed through the throng in the narrow streets, where most of the folk were gossiping and arguing about the dramatic affair down in Bretayne, he reviewed his plan of action.
To someone so devoted to wealth as Walter, the arrogance of de Hocforde in demanding the return of his money after claiming that the apothecary had failed to kill Robert de Pridias was anathema itself. Since being forced to hand back the mass of silver pennies, he had racked his devious mind for a way to get his own back — literally — and he finally came up with what he considered to be a fool-proof scheme. His first action had been to bribe de Hocforde’s butler into disclosing which cunning person had been employed to put a curse on de Pridias and to make the straw effigy that had been found by the coroner’s officer. Although the man was reluctant at first, Walter was desperate enough to increase his bribe until the butler gave way, after reassurances that the apothecary merely wished to employ the services of such a successful witch.
As the servant palmed two shillings’ worth of pennies under the table in the New Inn, where they met for their intrigue, he finally disclosed the name. ‘It was Elias Trempole, who lives at the top of Fore Street.’
‘A man, not a cunning woman?’ said Walter in some surprise, as he usually associated witches with the female gender.
‘No, he’s a wizard, though some still call him a witch. He works as a tally-clerk in my master’s fulling mill. His sorcery is but a profitable sideline, it seems.’
As the apothecary walked purposefully towards de Hocforde’s house in Raden Lane, the most affluent part of Exeter, he rehearsed again in his mind how he was going to use this knowledge. Unless the mill-owner returned his fee, he would denounce Elias Trempole to the witch-hunting canon, on the grounds that he had been employed by Henry de Hocforde to bring about the death of de Pridias. Walter calculated that Henry would reckon that the threat of being involved in a conspiracy to murder was not worth a pouch of silver coins, which he could easily afford. And so it transpired, for at the short interview at the door of Henry’s house, the owner listened calmly to the apothecary’s demand.
‘You will have heard that a witch was hanged by the outraged citizens, barely a few hours ago,’ blustered Walter. ‘There are high feelings running against such evil people — and also against those who employ them!’ he added, as a final thrust.
The tall, imposing figure standing at the door of his mansion nodded gravely. ‘Very well, perhaps I was somewhat harsh with you previously — after all, the fellow is dead, whoever brought it about. Be at your shop this evening and I’ll send a servant around with the money.’