The Witch Hunter by Bernard Knight

exigent on the fifth day of November last.’
    He sat down and handed the roll back to Thomas. The sheriff sighed to express his boredom and looked down at the bedraggled figure below him. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself, fellow?’
    The bruised face rose briefly. ‘Whatever I say will be of no account. But I did not harm that girl.’
    ‘Did you steal that money?’ asked John, more out of curiosity than for anything relevant.
    ‘That’s never been proved,’ said Aethelard sullenly.
    ‘Because you never showed up in court to plead your innocence,’ observed the coroner.
    ‘Stop wasting my time!’ cut in the sheriff irritably. ‘It’s of no interest to me whether you were guilty or not. You were legally declared outlaw and now you have been recaptured. The only penalty for that is death! It would have saved the time of the court – and my patience – if someone had seen fit to cut off your head at the roadside!’ His stomach rumbled to remind him of dinner-time. ‘Take him away and hang him tomorrow. Bring in the next case.’
    Half an hour later, John de Wolfe sat down at his own table, having forgotten all about Stephen Aethelard, although he would see him again briefly the next day, when he was pushed off a ladder at the gallows, with a rope around his neck – one of six hangings scheduled for the Thursday executions. Even then, the outlaw would be of little concern to the coroner, as he had no land nor chattels for him to confiscate for the royal treasury, which was the main purpose of the coroner’s attendance at the gallows-beam on Magdalen Street, out of the city towards Heavitree.
    De Wolfe had dismissed the youth from his mind and was concentrating on the mutton stew that Mary had set before them. It was too liquid to be served on trenchers of bread, so they had wooden bowls and horn spoons, with small loaves alongside. A large jug of ale stood between John and his wife, who sat at either end of the oaken table and Mary bustled in frequently to ladle more stew into their bowls and to refill their pottery mugs from the jug. As usual, the meal was a silent occasion, apart from the slurping of the stew, especially from Matilda’s end, as she was a voracious eater. When they had eaten their fill, Mary appeared with a slab of hard yellow cheese to accompany the remainder of the bread. John hacked some slices off with his dagger and Mary carried the platter up to her mistress. When she left, de Wolfe tried to start up some conversation to break the strained silence.
    ‘I hear that the funeral Mass of Robert de Pridias will take place tomorrow afternoon.’ He chose something to do with the Church to catch her attention.
    Her face lifted towards him and he waited until her jaws had finished champing the hard bread. Though she still had most of her front teeth, albeit yellowed, most of her molars had either crumbled or had been wrenched out by the itinerant tooth-puller.
    ‘I know that. I shall be there to support poor Cecilia. But we also have a private memorial service in St Olave’s beforehand – the widow was a faithful attender there, though like you, Robert himself came but seldom.’
    She managed to squeeze a reprimand even out of a stranger’s death, thought John sourly. He waited for the expected complaint about his failure to hold an inquest and was not disappointed.
    ‘My poor friend tells me that you were less than helpful yesterday, when she called you, John.’ Her eyes were like gimlets and her lips like a rat-trap, he thought, as she glowered at him down the length of the table.
    ‘There was no call to do otherwise! The man was seen to clutch his chest and fall dead across his horse.’
    ‘You know of the feud between de Hocforde and Robert. Could you not take it more seriously?’
    ‘I didn’t know then. But it would have made no difference, the law is not for giving credence to old wives’ tales.’
    As the words left his lips, he knew he had said the wrong