A Plague of Heretics (25 page)

‘We are more steadfast in our beliefs than many priests, especially those in high positions,’ claimed Adam. ‘At least we do not sell absolution from sin as if it was a pound of herrings on my stall!’

This inflamed de Baggetor, especially as he knew it was true. He rose and pointed a quivering finger at the fishmonger.

‘You add insults to Christ’s Holy Church as well as your admitted sin of heresy! You condemn yourselves out of your own mouths!’

Again and again, de Alençon had to rise and attempt to quell what was becoming a tirade on one side and a stubborn stonewalling on the other. It was Algar the fuller and Adam of Dunsford who did most of the responding to the blistering if repetitive attacks of the canons. After they had angrily covered the same ground several times, the archdeacon held up his hands, demanding quiet both from the disputants and the audience, who were now calling out and arguing among themselves, though as they were virtually all in holy orders, there was nothing but support for the canons.

‘This is supposed to be an examination of these men, not just an opportunity for invective and condemnation,’ he called out sternly. ‘Neither is this a trial, for which we require the express consent of the bishop and preferably his presence.’

De Baggetor swung around on his bench to face John.

‘You are the bishop’s vicar-general – you represent him and could make judgements here and now, archdeacon.’

‘Indeed, you could send these men to the secular authorities – as well as excommunicating them on the spot!’ added Richard fitz Rogo. A buzz of agreement rippled around the circle of benches.

‘Not only excommunication, but anathema itself!’ grated de Baggetor.

‘They have not only failed to deny their heresy, but appear to revel in it!’ snapped Ralph de Hospitali. ‘What more do we need to hear? They are condemned out of their own mouths!’

‘This is not the bishop’s court, in spite of what you claim,’ said de Alençon stubbornly. ‘The matter must be put before Our Grace Lord Henry when he returns. It is too important a matter to be dealt with behind his back. Both the message from the Papal Legate and the terms of the original decretal of Verona specifically put the onus to prosecute heresy on
bishops
.’

A heated argument broke out between the three canons and the vicar-general, but de Alençon was adamant. Nothing would be done until the bishop was consulted. He swept his arm around to encompass the five men still standing resolutely before them.

‘We know who they are. They have lived in the city or nearby for years. What else can we do with them except release them?’

Protests and argument welled up again, involving the people in the congregation as well as the angry canons, but the archdeacon stepped up to the empty lectern and rapped hard on it with the handle of his small eating-knife which he pulled from his pouch.

‘This convocation is now closed,’ he shouted, motioning at the five men below. ‘For now, you are free to go. You proctors’ men, make sure that they are allowed to leave the precinct safely, do you understand?’

Glowering, Gale and Blundus shepherded the accused out through the door, reluctantly pushing aside a number of secondaries and choristers who shouted, jostled and even spat at them. Inside the chamber, unexpectedly one of the listeners from the back benches strode forward and addressed the canons. It was Clement of Salisbury, arrayed in the traditional costume of a physician, a long black tunic with a narrow white apron running down from neck to hem and a black skullcap upon his head.

‘I am but a layman, but a good Christian and a fervent disciple of the Holy Church!’ he called in his strong voice, vibrant with emotion. ‘I speak for many members of Exeter’s devout worshippers in that we believe that these heretics are being dealt with far too lightly. They should be exposed to the full might of the Church’s authority and then turned over to the king’s officers for punishment – though I must confess that I have little faith in some of those officers, who seem to be too sympathetic to these heretical opinions!’

There was a chorus of cheers and stamping at that, ill suited to the usual solemn atmosphere of the chapter house. But the canons on the front benches seemed delighted with Clement’s intervention, and fitz Rogo overrode the archdeacon’s attempt at moderation by leaping to his feet.

‘You see, we have the overwhelming support of our flock in this matter! Though the Holy Roman Church is quite capable of protecting itself, it is comforting to know that our congregations are of the same mind!’

Robert de Baggetor turned angrily to the archdeacon, eager to remonstrate with him for losing the opportunity to settle the matter quickly.

‘Why are you so sympathetic to these blasphemers?’ he snapped. ‘You above all people are supposed to give a lead, not defend these vile men!’

De Alençon shook his grey head. ‘I defended no one, and neither did I condemn them, for it is not within my remit so to do. You will have your chance to conclude this matter when you have placed it before Henry Marshal.’

He pulled the folds of his black cloak around him and walked out into the misty Close.

In spite of Gwyn’s anxiety about John riding alone to Stoke, the journey was uneventful. A weak sun had burned off the mist before mid-morning, and he reached his brother’s manor by noon, even though his heavy destrier Odin was appreciably slower than a rounsey or a palfrey.

Before leaving Exeter, he had called at St John’s Priory to see Thomas and found him in much the same state as the previous day, still feverish and restless. Though he would not respond sensibly to any questions or seem to recognise his master, at least he was no worse. Brother Saulf was noncommittal about his prospects, saying that some victims of the yellow distemper had recovered rapidly, while others had deteriorated after a good start. They prayed together over his pallet, John shedding his indifference about his religious belief in a genuine and heartfelt effort to persuade God to save this good little priest.

When he arrived at Stoke, he did much the same thing, as William was also in the same state as before, though the fever seemed to have subsided. He was even more yellow than on the previous visit, but Enyd, anxious to grasp at any shred of hope, reported that he had been passing slightly more water and that they had managed to force a fair quantity of water past his cracked lips. As with Thomas, he was semi-conscious and perhaps even more unreactive to any attempts to rouse him. At the table where Enyd had prepared her usual copious meal, she commiserated with John over Thomas’s affliction by the same hateful illness, for like most people she was very fond of his clerk, who had visited them several times. Then she passed stoically to the almost unthinkable possibility that her son might die.

‘The two manors are being run well enough for the present by the bailiffs and reeves, but what will become of us if we lose William?’ she asked tremulously. ‘He is such a good husbandman, for the crops, the livestock and the forest. Our servants, faithful though they are, cannot plan and organise in that way, and I am sure that neither Evelyn nor I have nearly enough knowledge to run an estate.’

John laid a comforting hand on his mother’s sleeve.

‘Do not seek problems before they arise, for I feel it in my bones that William will survive. But should the worst happen, I will come here to live, at least for much of the time, though I cannot pretend to have as much skill as my brother. I would have to find a competent steward to assist us, as happens in so many manors where there are absentee lords.’

His sister Evelyn, looking drained and weary from her ceaseless nursing of the sick in the village, as well as of her brother, dabbed her eyes with a kerchief.

‘We only wish you could have been wedded to Hilda, though we realise that it would not have been possible in the old days, with her the daughter of one of our own reeves. But now she is a rich and independent woman, you could have brought her here to live.’

De Wolfe smiled bleakly. ‘If only we had the gift of reading the future! So much would have been done differently.’

He told them of his latest spat with Matilda, which was more serious than ever before. ‘She is like a millstone around my neck, my penance for all I have done wrong in my life,’ he said sadly. ‘Now she claims I intend to harm her, which is far from the truth, much as I dislike her.’

‘You have not seen Hilda lately?’ asked Enyd, who also would have liked her for a daughter-in-law in place of Matilda de Revelle, who always treated the Stoke family with disdain.

‘I have been afraid to risk taking the distemper to her, though Dawlish already must be a vulnerable place, if it is true that it is being brought in on the ships.’

Enyd de Wolfe leaned to kiss her son on his forehead. ‘You are a good man, John, but I think you should go to see Hilda. This foul affliction is so erratic in its attacks that I think it is pointless trying to avoid it. We have had no more victims in the village, and Holcombe had none at all, like Dawlish.’

So when he left Stoke in the early afternoon, John took his mother’s advice and knocked on Hilda’s sturdy front door. When little Alice opened it, he was going to tell her to ask her mistress if she wished to risk seeing him, but suddenly Hilda appeared and threw her arms about his neck, dragging him inside. Sending the giggling maid for wine and pastries, John’s mistress pulled him by the hand up to her solar and, until Alice’s feet were heard on the stairs, they kissed hungrily, grasping each other as tightly as if they wished to fuse their bodies together.

Soon, they were sitting decorously opposite each other on folding chairs, sipping the good wine that her late husband had brought back from France. Alice perched inconspicuously on a stool in the corner, watching with fascination as her beautiful blonde mistress was so obviously captivated by this forbidding, black-haired man who reminded her of some huge bird of prey.

Hilda listened to his sad news about both his brother and Thomas, but told him to have hope for them both.

‘I have been praying constantly for Lord William,’ she said. ‘And now I shall do the same for poor Thomas, bless him. I am sure that God will not want to take such a good soul to heaven so soon.’

Unlike John, the blonde Saxon was very devout and was a pillar of faith and charity in Dawlish, where she looked after the well-being of a number of widows and families who had lost their ship-men husbands and fathers at sea, including those who had been murdered along with her husband Thorgils on his ship the previous year.

Hilda listened gravely to John’s sour description of Matilda’s increasing intransigence. ‘She is such an unhappy soul, poor woman,’ she said. ‘But I wish she would not spread her bitterness all about her like a black cloud.’

Though de Wolfe would dearly have liked to have stayed with Hilda, preferably all night, the various troubles that assailed him seemed to tell both of them that this was not the right time. Soon he reluctantly made his farewell, promising Hilda that he would call each time he made the journey to Stoke. He walked to the inn, where Odin was being fed and watered, and hauled himself into the saddle.

As he trotted gently towards Exeter, he managed to drag his thoughts away from William and Thomas to wonder how the inquisition in the cathedral had gone that day. If he had not been so preoccupied with other problems, he supposed that he should have attended, in case any of the alleged heretics had confessed to any knowledge that might have helped in his investigation of the murders, though he thought that unlikely. He decided to go down later to see his friend the archdeacon, to hear what had transpired, but his priority was to visit Thomas, and when he reached the city he forced his big stallion through the crowded, narrow streets straight up to St John’s Hospital.

He found Gwyn already there, crouched by the mattress, with Saulf standing at the foot. John’s first thought was that something terrible had happened, but then he saw his officer’s lips moving beneath his great moustache and, looking at his clerk’s face, he was overjoyed to see that his eyes were open.

He dropped to his knees and bent over the little priest.

‘Thomas, can you hear me? How are you?’ It seemed an inane question, but it produced a result.

‘I have felt better, Crowner,’ whispered the clerk. ‘But I will be back at my duties as soon as I am able.’

John, rugged soldier that he was, felt two beads of moisture appear in his eyes as he gave Thomas’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then climbed to his feet.

‘Is this a miracle, brother?’ he asked Saulf.

The Benedictine gave a gentle smile. ‘I would like to think so, but every recovery is a miracle wrought by the Almighty. I told you that there are different degrees of severity of this yellow distemper, from rapid death to rapid cure.’

John looked down at Thomas and at Gwyn, who was looking as delighted as if he had found a barrel of gold pieces.

‘Will he recover completely now?’ he asked the monk.

‘Only God knows, but I see no reason why he should not,’ answered Saulf. ‘He needs to expel all the yellow humour from his blood, which will take some days, but we will care for him here until that happens. He needs to rest and rebuild his strength.’

Taking the hint, John murmured his goodbyes to Thomas with a promise to visit him often, then motioned to Gwyn to leave their clerk in peace. On the way out, de Wolfe emptied his purse into Saulf s hand, with fervent thanks and instructions to purchase whatever was needed for Thomas’s care. Outside, after celebrating Thomas’s withdrawal from the brink of death, John asked Gwyn if anything had happened during the day.