The Witch Hunter

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The old woman sat on the cold stones of the ledge that ran around the walls of the little church, waiting her turn to take the sacrament. The rest of the congregation stood on the earthen floor of the bare nave, which was barely twenty paces long and half that wide. They were few in number, as the priest of St Martin’s was not popular and there were another twenty-six churches within the walls of Exeter to compete with his ministrations.

Theophania Lawrence could sit down because of her age and presumed infirmity, though in fact she was quite spry for her sixty-six years. As in many other matters, she was crafty and full of guile and ‘going to the wall’ in church was a convenience, rather than a necessity. She sat and watched the dozen communicants shuffle towards the chancel, which was little more than a raised platform. It carried a simple altar, a table covered with a white cloth, on which was a cross of Dartmoor tin and two pewter candlesticks. Theophania was in no hurry and she let the last few townsfolk get near the priest before hoisting herself up and walking with an exaggerated hobble to stand at the end of the queue. Her face was round and smooth, with a pair of mischievous little eyes which stared out below the headband of a frayed linen cover-chief that enveloped her head and hung down the back of her much-darned brown kirtle.

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