A Plague of Heretics (24 page)

‘Well, that’s his sacred duty as a priest,’ she retorted loftily.

Her husband glared at her for compounding her lack of charity. ‘I wonder if that selfish fat parson at St Olave’s, who you adore so much, would have risked standing at the edge of a plague pit!’

This started off yet another acrimonious argument, which as usual escalated into a shouting match. Matilda revisited all the old insults, such as his desire to stay away from home as much as possible, leaving his neglected wife alone.

‘You use the coroner’s job as an excuse to frequent alehouses and brothels,’ she snarled and went on to list the various women with whom he had had adulterous affairs, ending with ‘the Saxon whore in Dawlish’.

After five minutes of this, John could stand it no more. He already felt drained by the fear that his brother might be dying, and now Thomas was in the same situation. His wife’s ranting inflamed him so much that he kicked back his chair, its legs screeching on the flagstones. Advancing on Matilda with clawed hands outstretched, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging with passion, for the first time in his life he felt murderous towards her.

‘Shut up, woman, or I’ll shut you up for ever!’ he yelled.

Even as the words left his mouth, he realised that he did not mean them literally, but he needed to stop her battering his already overburdened mind with her spiteful tongue.

Unknown to him, those same words that left his mouth also percolated through the shutters into the narrow lane outside, where Clement and Cecilia were passing on their way to the cathedral. The physician’s eyebrows rose and he stopped and leaned closer to the window, but his wife jerked at his arm and dragged him away.

Later that evening the coroner sat morosely in the Bush, his hands resting on the edge of the table, one each side of an untouched quart pot of ale. Gwyn was still in his brew-shed in the yard and Martha was getting him some food from the kitchen-hut, as he had walked out on his half-eaten meal at Martin’s Lane. Edwin was stumping about serving other patrons and chivvying the two slatterns, girls hardly more than children, who helped carry the platters and collect the used mugs.

John’s anger had subsided, to be replaced by despondency. Foremost of his concerns were his brother and his clerk, but also the fight with Matilda had been more virulent than usual and had depressed him markedly. He had never used violence against her, however much she had provoked him, and although tonight’s episode was an empty threat on his part it showed how far relations between them had deteriorated. The only bright spot was that as he had stalked to the door to leave, she threw a final taunt after him.

‘You can do me one last service, husband, by arranging a passage on one of the ships that used to belong to that Dawlish strumpet. I will go to stay with my relations in Normandy, where I will at least be safe from your murderous intentions!’

Her words echoed through his head as he sat by the fire in the Bush. ‘If your poor bloody cousins will have you!’ he muttered to himself. ‘You battened on them last year, so maybe they’ll not be so keen on repeating the experience.’

The other problem was that unless she went very soon, the sailing season in the western Channel would be over until the spring, by which time he might really have throttled the damned woman. As he sat staring into the fire, the old potman came up and pointed at the untouched ale.

‘Something wrong with Gwyn’s latest brew, Crowner?’ he croaked. ‘He was quite proud of it – though pride is often the sinner’s downfall!’ he added hastily, crossing himself as he remembered his newly acquired sanctity.

In spite of his gloom, John grinned at the silly old fool’s antics and wondered how long it would be before he would drift back to cursing and blaspheming.

‘I hear that some of those evil opponents of Christ’s Holy Church are to be hauled before the canons tomorrow, Sir John,’ Edwin cackled with relish. ‘I hope you’ll see their necks well and truly stretched when the bishop hands them over for their just punishment – unless this killer beats you to it!’

‘Nothing to do with me, old man,’ growled John. ‘That’s Church business. I’m only concerned with murder. Stabbing a heretic is just as much a crime as stabbing anyone else.’

Edwin snorted in disbelief but moved away as Gwyn advanced on John’s table, still wearing his stained brewer’s apron, which smelled strongly of malt.

‘How did you find the little fellow, Crowner?’ he asked, with deep concern on his rugged face. John had told Martha that he had called at St John’s on the way to the Bush.

‘Much the same. He’s muttering under his breath, so he’s not totally out of his wits. But the yellow tint of his eyes is worse and you can see it in his skin now.’

Gwyn nodded sombrely. ‘I’ll go up there first thing in the morning. No point in disturbing them again tonight.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I hear the plague is spreading even more. A carter came in earlier and said that there were many cases in Totnes now.’

This was a town in the centre of Devon, also a port even though it was several miles upriver from Dartmouth.

‘It must be coming in with ship-men, as we suspected,’ growled John. ‘Perhaps that damned brother-in-law of mine was right for once – we should close the ports for a time.’

Gwyn shook his head. ‘Don’t see how it could be done! The whole trade of this area depends on sending out wool and tin and bringing in goods for ourselves. Folk would be dying of starvation instead of the distemper!’

Martha bustled up with a knuckle of pork on a large trencher of bread, with a side dish of boiled leeks and carrots.

‘Get this down you, Sir John, it’ll lift your spirits a little. I’d send Gwyn up to the priory with some choice bits for poor Thomas, but I gather he’s not in a fit state to eat yet – but he’ll survive, never fear.’

The motherly woman hurried away to quell some noisy argument between a farrier and a baker as Gwyn lowered himself on to the bench opposite to watch his master eat.

‘Are you going to listen to this performance in the cathedral tomorrow, Crowner?’

De Wolfe spooned some boiled carrots on to his trencher before picking up the pork bone to nibble away at the succulent meat.

‘No, none of my business! I’m riding down to Stoke after I’ve called to see Thomas, so that I can get back by evening.’

‘I’d better go with you, then. You shouldn’t ride alone,’ said his henchman, worried about outlaws lurking along the roads.

John’s teeth tore a strip of meat from the joint before he answered. ‘No, I’ll take Odin. He’s slower, but no one will attack a knight on a warhorse. I want you to stay here and keep an eye on Thomas’s condition, as well as looking into any new cases that are reported to Rougemont.’

After eating his fill, he and Gwyn spent an hour talking around the fire with some of the regular patrons, discussing the insidious spread of the yellow plague and also the other main talking point, the investigation of the heretics the following day. Being steeped in the all-pervasive power of the Church since infancy, most of the men were strongly opposed to any challenge to the dominance of the priesthood, but a few said that people should be able to choose their own way of worship. John had the impression that several might have been covertly in agreement with the religious mutineers but were too cautious to openly admit it.

When the distant curfew bell rang from the Guildhall at the ninth hour, John made his way back to his house. After curfew, all open fires were supposed to be banked down for the night as a precaution against conflagrations. Anyone walking the streets after dark was supposed to carry a horn lantern and have good cause to be abroad, but these regulations were held more in the breach than the observance, as with only two constables in the city it was almost impossible to enforce the rules.

When de Wolfe got back to Martin’s Lane, he found the hall in darkness and when he walked around the passage to the backyard, Mary came from her hut to tell him that his wife was no longer there.

‘The mistress is in a great huff, Sir Coroner,’ she said, using the slightly sarcastic title she employed when he had done something to exasperate her. ‘She’s gone to stay with her brother, saying that she would be afraid for her life if she stayed here any longer!’

‘Stupid bitch!’ he growled. ‘She knows damned well that I’d never hurt her. It was all words, though God knows she provokes me so.’

His maid stood with her fists on her hips, glaring at him accusingly. ‘I know that well enough! But your tongue runs away with you sometimes. No doubt she’s pouring her woes into the ear of Richard around in North Gate Street. It’ll give him something more to use against you.’

He grunted, then gave her a chaste kiss on her cheek.

‘After all the grief I’ve caused him over the past couple of years, he can now add my refusal to do anything about protecting his damned pig farms. Though I must admit that he may be right in thinking that the yellow curse is being brought in from overseas.’

He refused her offer of yet more food and found his way up the outer stairs to the empty solar and, stripping off his clothes, huddled under the blanket and bearskin. He was tired and despondent, yet sleep was a long time coming as he churned over all his problems. The wide mattress seemed strange without Matilda and, much as he disliked her, he missed her ample body snoring on the other side.

Both canons and the other clergy were fond of their dinner, so on that November Wednesday a well-fed convocation assembled in the chapter house soon after noon, the cathedral community eating earlier than many folk outside the Close. This was not, of course, a regular chapter meeting, which always took place between Prime and Terce, two of the services held earlier in the morning. However, many of the canons, vicars-choral, secondaries and choristers attended again, mainly out of curiosity about this novel event. Robert de Baggetor had encouraged this, as he wanted the maximum publicity for his campaign against the heretics – even a few townsmen had sidled in without challenge, including Clement the physician.

As the senior clergy trooped in, John de Alençon followed them unenthusiastically. He took his place in the chair that had been set on a small dais alongside the lectern used daily by a secondary to read a chapter from the Rule of St Benedict, a ritual that gave the chapter its name. The benches were ranked in a half-circle before him, with another on each side of his seat to accommodate the interrogators. These were the three prime movers, the canons who had pressed for this enquiry, and the other senior proctor, Canon William de Swindon. In addition, the bishop was represented by his chaplain and the deacon who was his legal adviser, a wizen-faced man who looked as if he drank vinegar instead of wine. The two proctors’ men, Gale and Blundus, stood one each side of the entrance door, looking as if they hoped for a riot, so that they could lay about them with their cudgels.

After the shuffling and fidgeting had subsided, the archdeacon nodded to the bishop’s chaplain, who went to the lectern and read out a passage from the Vulgate, chosen by de Baggetor. Unsurprisingly, it was one of the more lurid and threatening parts of the Book of Revelation, obviously intended to emphasise the tortures of hell that St John alleged were waiting for heretics. John de Alençon then rose to his feet to intone a prayer. It was a fairly neutral supplication, asking for God’s guidance in their deliberations, but free from any blood-and-thunder imprecations, which would have better pleased the canons. Then the two bailiffs went outside and marched in the five subjects of the inquisition, who were stood in a line before the dais, with Gale and Blundus at either end.

‘Give us your names and where you live,’ requested the archdeacon, in a mild tone that held no hint of threat.

Adam the fishmonger, Oliver and Peter and Jordan Cosse from Ide gave the details without demur, but the fifth man took a step forward, which made Blundus grab his arm and try to pull him back until de Alençon signalled to him to desist.

‘I will give you my name, as it is no secret,’ boomed the man in a deep voice. ‘It is Algar, a fuller from the lower town. But I deny the right of this court to bring us here and to question us. We are all freemen who have done no wrong. By whose authority do you claim to hold sway over us?’

Before the archdeacon could respond, Robert de Baggetor had jumped from his seat, red-faced and furious.

‘What authority?’ he shouted. ‘The authority of God in Heaven, transmitted through His vicar on earth, the Holy Father in Rome!’

Algar, a stocky man with wide shoulders and bulging muscles, was unrepentant. ‘We acknowledge God and His precious Son as fervently as you, sir. We are no heathens or pagans, but we do not need a vast army of priests and their acolytes to intercede on our behalf.’

This blunt statement set the tone for the arguments, bluster and threats that followed for the next hour. John de Alençon did his best to act as an impartial referee, but the three canons became more and more intemperate as the men arrayed before them kept stoically to their principles.

De Baggetor was the most aggressive, but Richard fitz Rogo and Ralph de Hospitali attacked the five men with more penetrating vigour. However, whatever accusations and religious dogma were employed, the men stuck to their theme that they were entitled to worship their God in whatever way they chose.