A Plague of Heretics (10 page)

There was virtually no audience – different from the usual inquest in a village, when everyone turned out to gawp at a novelty that livened their dull lives. Rather to John’s surprise, there was one unexpected onlooker, his friend and partner Hugh de Relaga, dressed in his usual colourful costume, in spite of the sombre occasion.

‘What brings you here, Hugh?’ asked de Wolfe, taking him aside just before he began the procedure.

‘I represent the guilds, John. We were told of this poor man’s death and that he has no known family. We shall look after his funeral and see that his property is safeguarded, if he has any.’

Each trade had its guild, which not only regulated the quality of goods, fixed their prices, controlled working conditions and prevented unfair competition but acted as a friendly society for members, looking after widows and children in times of hardship.

‘Did you know anything of this particular man?’ asked John.

De Relaga’s chubby face was framed by a bright green coif, a tight-fitting helmet of linen, tied under his chin with tapes. He looked like some woodland elf, John thought, but it was an effective protection against the cold east wind that had arisen.

‘Not personally, as obviously he was in a different guild from mine,’ he answered. ‘But the warden of the woodworkers who told me of this tragedy this morning said that he had been a very devout man and worthy of all our help.’

The coroner thought it best not to disillusion his friend of the direction of Budd’s devotion and moved off to conduct his inquest. Gwyn bellowed his call to order and the jury shuffled into a line facing the coroner. Thomas set up his parchment, pen and ink on the back of a handcart, as far away from the corpse as possible, ready to transcribe the proceedings for future presentation to the royal justices when they arrived for the next Eyre of Assize.

John first called the lad who had discovered the body, who seemed quite unaffected by the gruesome experience. Osric and Theobald told how they had been called, and Gwyn in turn reported that all enquiries so far had found no witnesses to the killing. Nicholas Budd had worked alone, so that there was not even a journeyman or an apprentice to offer any evidence about his habits, mental state or even when he had last been seen alive. The woman from above Budd’s workshop was the only one who could state that the carver had been heard two evenings before, but she had nothing else to offer.

Finally, Gwyn paraded the reluctant jurors past the cadaver, demonstrating the neck wound and offering the severed tongue and voice-box to them, in the manner of a butcher trying to sell offal to a housewife. When they were back in line, a few shades paler in the face, de Wolfe harangued them to obtain a verdict, though in fact giving them little choice.

‘This is a preliminary enquiry, so that the law may allow the deceased man to be buried,’ he snapped, glaring along the row of faces. ‘The verdict is yours, but it seems unavoidable that you must find that Nicholas Budd was foully murdered. It cannot be an accident and I doubt he would have cut out his own throat and then laid it carefully on a stone beside him!’

He pulled his wolfskin cloak more tightly around him as an icy gust swept through the yard. Then he stabbed a finger towards the largest man in the jury, a bruiser of a fellow who wore the bloodstained apron of a slaughterman.

‘I appoint you foreman, so consult your fellows and give me your verdict.’

He didn’t actually add ‘And be damned quick about it’, but the message was there and within a brief moment the man from The Shambles turned back to mumble their agreement that the woodcarver had been slain by persons unknown.

‘When I get further information I may need to reconvene this inquest, but until then you may all go about your business.’

When they had shuffled away, Gwyn covered up the corpse and put it back into the mortuary until Hugh de Relaga sent men to collect it. John took his friend the portreeve aside.

‘I don’t know what plans you have for a funeral, but I would advise you to keep clear of the cathedral,’ he murmured.

The portreeve immediately pressed him for an explanation, but John held up his hand. ‘I can’t explain now, but suffice to say that it would be best if you have him buried in one of the smaller churches. Better still, go out to one of the nearby country parishes. He has no relatives, so it will make no difference.’ He clapped a hand on the shoulder of his mystified friend and made his way back to Rougemont.

‘So what do we do now?’ asked the sheriff. ‘If it was an ordinary killing, some knife fight in a tavern or a robbery with violence, we could arrest everyone within sight and beat it out of them. But with these secret murders, we never seem to get anywhere.’

De Wolfe was amused at the ‘we’, as Henry de Furnellis rarely stirred himself to go hunting miscreants. He was sheriff for the second time, reluctantly coming back after John’s brother-in-law had been ignominiously deprived of office. Now over sixty, he wanted a quiet life and was looking forward to someone else being appointed in his place.

‘Surely this heretic business must be involved?’ boomed the third man in the sheriff’s chamber. ‘Why else would someone want to cut the poor bastard’s throat out, if he was just an inoffensive woodworker?’

This was Ralph Morin, the castle constable, a man as big as Gwyn, looking like one of his Viking ancestors with his forked beard. Rougemont had always been a royal possession, ever since the castle was built by the Conqueror, and Morin, as castellan and commander of the garrison, was responsible directly to the king.

De Wolfe nodded, as he reached for the inevitable cup of wine, dispensed by Henry. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Ralph. But I have a lot of digging to do before I can find out why.’

‘The archdeacon said that a few of the canons were after this fellow, so are you going to tackle them about it?’ asked the sheriff.

John nodded. ‘I’ll start this very day,’ he promised. ‘Though if I know these snooty clergy, they’ll be reluctant to even give me the time of day. They always shelter behind the power of the bishop or some such excuse.’

‘Is he buried yet?’ queried the castellan.

‘Being put down this afternoon, I think. Probably in St Bartholomew’s, where they disposed of those plague victims.’

De Furnellis looked across at John from his seat behind his table. ‘There were five more deaths in Topsham last night,’ he said sombrely. ‘I hope by Christ and all His Blessed Saints that we get no more in the city. Did you get any help from that doctor last night?’

‘He was as much use as my hound! Less, in fact, as Brutus can at least catch a few rats if he shifts himself.’

‘You think rats might be a cause?’ asked Morin. ‘I’m afraid of them getting among my garrison. The unmarried soldiers all live close together in the barrack-halls, and if one gets a cough or running nose they all get it.’

‘Get a few dogs in, Ralph, and get rid of any rats,’ advised John. ‘God knows if they are anything to do with the yellow plague, but according to this bloody doctor I’ve got next door the only prevention is prayer!’

Morin threw down the last of his wine and stood up. ‘Apart from Exeter itself, the other cases have been in Lympstone, Dartmouth and now Topsham. They’re all ports, so maybe there is something in this allegation that bloody sailors are bringing it in.’

‘Well, we can’t stop them coming – and half of them are Devon ship-men who live here,’ countered Henry.

When the castellan had gone, Henry looked quizzically at de Wolfe. ‘I gather you were not too impressed by your new neighbour?’

John gave one of his all-purpose grunts. ‘Thinks too much of himself for my taste. He’s only interested in the sound of coins jingling in his purse and preaching at everyone about the power of God! Told me to my face that he won’t help out at St John’s or go near the plague sufferers in case it affects his trade with the high-paying patients.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘But he’s got a most desirable wife!’

Henry, knowing his friend of old, clucked his tongue. ‘Now, John, none of that! You’ve got enough problems as it is. Stick to hunting criminals and having a trip to Dawlish now and then.’

It was good advice, and de Wolfe decided to take it. He was overdue for a visit to his family in Stoke-in-Teignhead and Dawlish was on the same road.

He left the keep, clattering down the wooden steps from the high entrance to reach the rock-hard mud of the frozen inner ward. Going back to the gatehouse to collect Thomas, they walked together back to the centre of the city.

‘I need to talk to this canon your uncle mentioned,’ said John as they went through a lane which came out in the Close.

‘Richard fitz Rogo? He was Archdeacon of Cornwall until recently; now he’s settled back into being just a canon. He is a rich man, with a private income, apart from his benefice.’

As John expected, his clerk was a walking encyclopaedia, especially where the Church was concerned.

‘What sort of man is he?’ he asked as they walked through the dishevelled area in front of the cathedral. Though it was holy ground, it was hardly a haven of episcopal calm. Rough paths led between grave-mounds, some fresh, some weed-covered and others gaping open awaiting fresh customers. Urchins played among the piles of dumped refuse, and dogs romped along with them. A few beggars slumped against the mounds, half-dead with cold, and a drunk wandered erratically past, singing incoherently.

‘This place is a disgrace,’ muttered Thomas indignantly before answering the coroner. ‘Richard fitz Rogo? He is a stern man, an upright pillar of the Church, but not given to much humour or pleasantries.’

‘Does he live in a simple fashion, like your uncle John de Alençon?’ asked the coroner.

Thomas shook his head. ‘He enjoys the luxuries of life very much, as you will see if we can get invited into his dwelling. It is just there.’

He pointed to one of the houses that lined the Close on the side facing the great West Front of the cathedral. It lay behind the small church of St Mary Major and its yard backed on to buildings in the High Street beyond.

John had brought his clerk with him, as he had learned that the presence of a priest was often useful when dealing with the clergy, especially those in the senior ranks. Thomas trotted to the door of the stone-built house and sought out the canon’s steward. Many of the lower orders of priest would be in the cathedral now, at one of the interminable services that occupied most of the day, but the less energetic canons had vicars and secondaries to stand in for them. Canon Richard was evidently one of these, for Thomas reappeared and conducted his master into the house, following the steward to a door leading to one of the two rooms on the ground floor.

Inside, he found a comfortable chamber with a large brazier glowing hotly in the centre. Some padded chairs stood around it, and a table, a cupboard and a wine cabinet completed the furnishings, apart from some expensive tapestries that softened the harshness of the stone walls.

A fat man with a bald head hauled himself from one of the chairs and greeted John as Thomas made a brief introduction and then retired to stand inconspicuously against the door. Richard fitz Rogo was pink and fat all over, including his cheeks and puffy neck, which overhung the neckband of his black cassock. A heavy woollen cape hung over his shoulders against the cold, though at the moment his room was probably one of the warmest places in Exeter.

‘Sir John, we have not met before, but I have seen you in the distance, attending Mass with your devout wife.’

His voice was strong and resonant, the utterance of a man used to getting his own way. The coroner muttered something neutral and sat down in the other chair, as the canon indicated.

‘I have no doubt that you wish to seek my help in respect of this sinner who was found dead yesterday in Raden Lane?’

‘You know about that, then?’ said John.

‘All Exeter knows about it, coroner. Even to the strange injuries he suffered.’ Again de Wolfe marvelled at the way in which news passed around the city like lightning.

‘You knew this man Nicholas Budd?’

The canon, who had let his corpulent body sink back into the chair, shook his head.

‘I had never met him, though I would have done shortly when he was due to be arraigned at the bishop’s court – but God took a hand in the matter.’

‘So how did you discover that he was deserving of your attention?’

Fitz Rogo smiled indulgently, but his small cold eyes took away any hint of humour. ‘Those who deny the authority of the Holy Church cannot conceal themselves for long. They are like rats skulking in the midden, but the hounds of Rome always flush them out!’

This colourful reply did nothing to answer John’s question.

‘But how came he to be brought to answer for his sins at this particular time?’

The priest ran a finger around his collar to ease away his drooping jowls. ‘Let me explain, Sir John,’ he said rather condescendingly, as if lecturing a backward chorister. ‘Some time ago, the Papal Legate – the Holy Father’s representative in England – passed on to every bishop a message from Rome. This expressed concern at the revival of blasphemous and seditious beliefs contrary to the Catholic teachings of the Church, especially in southern France and Germany.’

‘And in England?’ interposed de Wolfe.

The canon hummed and hawed a little. ‘Admittedly, they were not on the same scale as in these other places. But we were all told to be vigilant and to stamp out heresy wherever it may be found, lest these evil seeds take root and blossom.’