‘All are safe, thank God. But that old woman Lucy has vanished, we don’t know if she’s still in there.’
Morin looked around at the crowd, who were now reduced to a muttering, growling rabble. ‘Who did this? Do you want them arrested?’
‘That swine of a canon, Gilbert de Bosco! He’s over there, still trying to egg them on. A few louts had torches, but I doubt we’ll find them now — apart from one whose head I hammered.’
There was the sounds of hoofs from the direction of Priest Street and, turning, they saw a horseman clattering towards them.
‘It’s the sheriff. What the hell does he want here?’ marvelled Morin. It was indeed Richard de Revelle, in his dandified green tunic, sitting on a smart dappled palfrey.
Any further speculation was abruptly halted by a loud crash behind them. They turned back to look at the inn, where a large segment of the roof had fallen in amid a huge gush of sparks and flame. The smoke was now ascending in a great plume, almost straight up because of the lack of any breeze on that sultry day. All faces were turned up to watch, a morbid fascination with fire gripping most of the bystanders.
The quarter of the roof that had fallen was mostly in flames, but the collapse had also torn down an intact section that had been resting on the side gable. In this fire-free area against the wall, a frightening figure now appeared. Bearded Lucy staggered to the edge of the loft floor, which was burning behind her, and looked down on the crowd, who were struck dumb by the apparition. The hair on her head and face was singed, with smouldering straw entwined in it, and the hem of her flowing garment was on fire.
Swaying on the very edge of the boards, she held up her arms like some Old Testament prophet and then swung them slowly around, her forefingers outstretched, to encompass the crowd, who were transfixed with emotions varying from terror to hatred.
‘Jump, Lucy! Quickly, we’ll catch you!’ yelled one more kindly voice. She shook her head slowly, her fingers clawing at the air as the flames licked closer.
‘Burn, then, as you deserve, you bloody old sorcerer!’ screamed another.
A deeper voice boomed out, from the throat of Canon Gilbert. ‘The Lord said thou shalt not suffer a witch to live — so die, woman, and may God have mercy on your soul!’
The red-rimmed eyes of the hag up on the doomed building swivelled to rest on the priest. Her pointing finger followed, then that on the other hand tracked across to transfix the sheriff on his horse. ‘I curse all who have brought this about! I curse those who have persecuted my sisters! And I especially curse you two evil men, who have cast out all compassion from your hearts to make way for ambition!’
There was a creaking noise from behind her head and another section of roof fell in a cascade of sparks and smoke.
‘I curse you, I curse you, I curse you thrice!’ screamed Bearded Lucy, the skirt of her filthy gown now being licked by flames. ‘May the evil that you most fear, befall you before the next full moon!’
Then, with a massive crash, almost the entire rear half of the roof fell downward and forward as the heavy ridge timber burnt through.
A mass of flaming hazel withes and the burning thatch that it had supported fell on top of Lucy. There was a heart-rending scream, then silence.
A huge mushroom of black smoke, almost like a thundercloud, puffed up as the roof hit the remnants of the loft floor and from more than a hundred throats an awe-struck gasp went up with it. John, by no means an imaginative man, later swore that for a fraction of a second he saw the swirling cloud form the image of a young woman’s face, comely and free from hair — but unmistakably that of Lucy of Exe Island.
The collapse of the roof and the horrible death of the old woman ended the last vestiges of the riot. The crowd became subdued, both those who had first gathered to revile and threaten, as well as those who came to watch. They soon began to drift away, urged on by Gabriel and his troops, who ungently shoved and prodded any stragglers until Idle Lane was almost empty. One who was not ushered away was Gilbert de Bosco, who in spite of the awful drama at the end, had regained his bluster and arrogance.
Ralph Morin and John de Wolfe closed in on him in a threatening manner and the coroner laid a hand on his arm, which the priest angrily shook off.
‘When — or if — we recover any of the remains of that poor woman, I will hold an inquest, and you will be a witness!’ grated the coroner.
‘You have no power over me, I am a cleric and a member of the cathedral chapter, as you well know.’
The sheriff, who had dismounted and come across to the group, brayed his agreement. ‘Leave well alone, John, you have no jurisdiction over this good man.’
‘And you have no jurisdiction at all — or soon will have none!’ retorted John. ‘He is not in the Close now, he is in the city and at the very least was a witness to one death and a number of injuries, for several fellows have received burns. The pot man is alive, I hope, but only just!’
‘You are thrashing at the wind, John,’ snapped de Revelle. ‘Why waste your time? The bishop will soon intervene in this.’
‘I care nothing for the bishop, except to censure him for allowing this man to cause so much trouble. My task is to record everything for the King’s justices and see that they are made aware of all that has gone on in Exeter this past week or two.’
De Revelle, who had regained his colour after blanching at the old crone’s curse, paled again at John’s pointed allusion to informing London of his own misdeeds.
Ralph Morin caught the change and mischievously turned the screw. ‘How long to the next full moon, John, d’you happen to know?’
The canon affected contempt, but his face had a film of sweat. ‘Pah, what damned nonsense! This is the very thing that we must stamp out in this county, this ungodly superstition.’
‘Stamp it out by hanging or burning every poor wife who sells a charm for a ha’penny?’ snarled de Wolfe, sick to his stomach with this contemptible, unrepentant bigot.
‘Yes, if necessary! God’s work is the reason for the Church’s existence, and those who let it go by default are unworthy to wear the cloth.’
This man is impossible, thought John, grinding his teeth in frustration. He knew that the sheriff was right, in that nothing could be done to Gilbert, who could always shelter behind the impassive face of the Church and its bishop. But Hubert Walter, who was Archbishop of Canterbury and thus Primate of England, as well as being the Chief Justiciar, would get some straight talking from de Wolfe, as soon as he could get to see him.
‘What brought you down here, Sheriff?’ asked Morin. He had to be circumspect with de Revelle, as long as he was still nominally sheriff, as although Ralph was the King’s nominee, the sheriff was his master when it came to everyday matters.
‘What brought me down? God’s garters, those men of yours made enough noise to be heard in France when they left Rougemont. I came to see what had happened, in case it was an invasion!’
John knew he was lying, as he never turned out for any other emergencies, but he could not guess at the reason.
‘I’m going back to the Close now,’ announced the canon, in a voice that suggested that he would make trouble for anyone who tried to detain him. ‘I’ve seen that at least one of the Devil’s disciples has suffered her just deserts.’
With that cryptic remark, he walked away with Richard de Revelle, a soldier following with the sheriff’s horse. The last John saw of them was as they turned the corner into Smythen Street, still deep in conversation.
‘Those two had been plotting something — neither of them was here by chance,’ said Ralph. ‘It’s obvious that the bloody priest deliberately organised this riot. But how did he know Bearded Lucy was hidden here?’
‘He has spies all over the city,’ said John. ‘But I wonder if my dear wife said anything to him when she went to him last night? Anyway, the damage is done now. Somehow, I feel that old Lucy was glad to be finished with life, but perhaps not in that dreadful fashion.’