A Plague of Heretics (26 page)

‘There’s been an affray out near Honiton – two killed in a robbery, but both miscreants captured after the hue and cry caught up with them,’ reported his officer.

‘We’ll have to go out there in the morning. Without Thomas to take a record, I’ll have to borrow one of the sheriff’s clerks. Anything else? What about this business at the cathedral?’

Gwyn ran a hand through his tangled ginger hair. ‘I don’t know what went on inside the chapter house, but there was a hell of a fuss afterwards!’ he chuckled. ‘They released those five men, but a crowd outside took against them and chased them out of the city. I can’t see our fishmonger selling any more herrings in Exeter for a long time.’

As Gwyn enlarged on his story, John gathered that a mob had assembled in the Close and had started yelling abuse at the men as they left the chapter house. On leaving the Close, more protesters gathered and started jostling and punching the alleged heretics.

‘Didn’t the bailiffs or constables intervene?’ demanded John.

‘It seems that the proctors’ men just stood back and did nothing while the mob was inside the cathedral precinct – outside, Osric and Theobald tried to keep order, but they had no chance against a hundred angry townsmen and women – in fact, the women were worse than their menfolk. Someone said that even that doctor who lives near you was there, shouting and shaking his fists!’

‘That man is half-crazed! So then what happened?’

‘The crowd got bigger as they went down Fore Street – it fed on itself. I suspect half the mob didn’t know what they were rioting about, anyway; they were just itching for a fight. But the poor men from Ide had a rough time until they reached the West Gate, where the crowd seemed to lose interest in them. They were bruised and bleeding by then. It’s a wonder we haven’t got a corpse to deal with!’

‘What happened to Adam the fisherman? I thought he lived in the city.’

Gwyn shrugged. ‘I heard nothing more of him. Maybe he’s lying dead in a gutter in Bretayne.’

De Wolfe put a foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself up into Odin’s deep saddle. ‘I’ll see what John de Alençon has to say later this evening,’ he promised. With another fervent thanks to God for Thomas’s deliverance, he rode away, hoping against hope that a similar miracle would be granted down at Stoke-in-Teignhead.

The house in Martin’s Lane was empty and, though Mary had a fire burning in the hall, it was too cavernous and bleak for him to sit eating alone. He went around to her kitchen-shed, as he had done many times before, and ate at her small table. He told her his news and, as he expected, she was delighted to hear that Thomas seemed mercifully delivered from the fear of death.

‘Any word from your mistress?’ he asked.

‘She has gone to her brother’s house, as you know. Lucille came around earlier to fetch some more of her clothes from her chests in the solar, but there was no message.’

John gnawed the last of the meat from a chicken leg. ‘I wonder who’ll get tired of each other’s presence first,’ he asked, ‘Matilda or Richard?’

‘Probably Eleanor de Revelle. She and the mistress are hardly best friends,’ grinned Mary. Richard’s icy and aloof wife considered that her own father had chosen too far down the social scale when he married her off into the de Revelle family. John washed his food down with some cider.

‘So where can she go then? Polsloe won’t take her in for the third time, I’m sure. She said she was going to batten herself on those poor bloody cousins in Normandy, but unless she is quick there’ll be no ships sailing until the spring.’

Mary, in spite of suffering years of indignities and harsh words from Matilda, usually tried to heal the frequent breaches between John and his wife.

‘You had better crawl around to North Gate Street tomorrow and try to make your peace with her,’ she advised. ‘That’s what she’ll be waiting for, and the sooner you grasp the nettle the better.’

Reluctantly, he agreed, as his sense of duty to a wife, however objectionable she might be, sat awkwardly on his conscience as he enjoyed the freedom her absence gave him.

After his supper he set out in the dusk to see his friend the archdeacon and again met his next-door neighbours as soon as he set foot outside his door. They seemed to be almost as bad as Matilda for beating a frequent path to and from either the cathedral or St Olave’s Church.

With the weather slightly warmer, Cecilia had discarded her fur-lined cloak and was attractively arrayed in a green woollen pelisse over her gown and a flowing cover-chief of white silk. The physician also wore a green mantle, his head encased in a close-fitting coif of crimson linen. He greeted John politely but made to walk on, whereas his wife stopped impulsively to enquire after his brother.

‘He is much the same, perhaps slightly improved,’ replied John, thanking her for her solicitude. ‘My clerk also fell victim to the yellow plague several days ago, but thank God is rapidly recovering. No doubt the power of prayer was responsible!’ he added, trying not to sound too sarcastic as he stared at Clement. This seemed to animate Exeter’s only doctor.

‘Never underestimate its power, Sir John!’ he declaimed. ‘I have been praying for the downfall of those evil blasphemers who were arraigned today at the cathedral. Did you hear that they were run out of the city by decent Christians?’

‘I heard that they were set upon by an unruly mob! I must discuss with the sheriff and the portreeves how best these illegal riots can be prevented in the future.’

Clement became quite incensed. ‘I cannot imagine why you have any sympathy for these evil men, Crowner!’ he snapped. ‘It was emphasised in the chapter house today that the secular authorities are bound to assist the Church in every way in bringing these blasphemers to justice!’

De Wolfe was unmoved, especially by this physician who seemed woefully short of sympathy for his fellow men.

‘I will do everything that the law requires, if and when they are deemed guilty by a competent court,’ he observed.

If the twilight was not so dark, Clement’s face would have shown his angry flush.

‘Surely your duty to God to preserve His Kingdom on earth comes before any duty to petty mortal laws!’ he hissed. ‘These agents of Satan wish to pull down the very foundations of the Holy Church, whose doctrines have been so painstakingly constructed over a thousand years! They should be exterminated, like pouring a boiling kettle over an ants’ nest!’

John was in no mood to debate theology with someone who was so obviously obsessed with eliminating anyone who challenged the status quo.

‘I’m afraid I have no say in these matters, sir. I am only a royal servant who does what King Richard and his justices expect of me.’

He bobbed his head to the doctor and smiled at Cecilia, who had stood uneasily during this exchange with her husband, then he turned on his heel and stalked away towards Canon’s Row. A few minutes later he was sitting in de Alençon’s bare chamber, with the inevitable goblet of good wine. The archdeacon was aware that his nephew Thomas was recovering, as several times he had called at the priory to see him.

‘He’s a tough little fellow, in spite of the hard times he has suffered in recent years,’ he observed. ‘He has often told me how much he owes you for saving his sanity and his life.’

De Wolfe told him of his brother’s serious condition and found that de Alençon was yet another who had been praying for William, so hopefully the barrage of supplications to heaven might prove effective.

‘Now what about today, John?’ asked the coroner of his namesake. ‘I suppose nothing came out in the proceedings which might give me some clue as to who is responsible for these deaths?’

The archdeacon shook his head. ‘It was not that sort of enquiry, my friend. It was merely an attack by my colleagues on these fellows and an equally persistent denial of any wrongdoing by them.’

‘They denied they were heretics?’

‘No, but they claimed their right to practise as Christians in the way they thought best.’

De Wolfe sensed that de Alençon was torn between his ingrained lifelong acquiescence to Rome and his personal sense of tolerance. ‘So what was the final outcome?’ he demanded.

‘Little better than chaos, John! My brother canons persisted in their inflexible condemnation, and like a lot of sheep virtually every vicar, secondary and even choirboy was infected by their enthusiasm.’

He paused to fortify himself with a sip of Loire red. ‘Robert de Baggetor and the others even tried to force my hand, to convert this enquiry into a trial and to send those men to your secular powers for punishment. I refused, as I don’t want their blood on my hands. Let the bishop deal with it.’

‘So they’ve gone home?’

The archdeacon raised his hands in exasperation. ‘They were chased out, as far as I could see. A mob was waiting for them and pursued them. I feared for their lives, quite honestly.’

De Wolfe was puzzled. ‘These men were already known to many; that’s how the proctors’ spies picked them out. They’ve not been attacked before – apart from the three who were killed – so why should a mob suddenly set upon them?’

The archdeacon smiled wryly. ‘It would not surprise me if the proctors’ men did not pass the word – and a few coins – around to some who enjoy mayhem and persecution. Others will soon follow suit once some leading voice shouts loud enough.’

‘Who are these agitators?’ asked de Wolfe. ‘I suppose they are those spies that your fellow canons have used to infiltrate the city?’

‘I have heard of two men who have twisted their religious fervour into strange convictions. One is a lay brother from one of the parish churches, whose name escapes me, the other a former monk from St Nicholas Priory, a man called Alan de Bere, who was ejected some years ago for violent behaviour against foreigners, whom he considered heathens.’

John made a mental note to follow up these men as possible candidates for his murderers. While they finished their wine, they talked about the parlous state in which William remained and went on to speak of the progress of the yellow plague.

‘It has been known for centuries, according to the old chronicles,’ said de Alençon. ‘There were two great outbreaks in Ireland in the sixth and seventh centuries – and the Welsh saint, Teilo, had to flee with his followers to Brittany to escape it around that time. Strangely, there was an eclipse of the sun on each occasion.’

He drank the last from his goblet. ‘There are more outbreaks in Cornwall, and we have lost three parish priests in the diocese. It is difficult to understand God’s purpose in sending this pestilence upon innocent people.’

John could not resist twisting his friend’s tail. ‘Then perhaps these heretics are right and there is no predestination. Man may be free to bring down his own problems upon himself.’

The archdeacon, who usually had a good sense of humour, did not smile at this. ‘Be careful what you say and do, John. I have heard whispers that some may not take too kindly to you associating with these heretics.’

Though weary and aching from his round trip to Stoke, that night John slept like a log until the first glimmers of light came through the shutters of the solar. After splashing water on his face from a bucket in the yard, he ate oatmeal gruel sweetened with honey and a small loaf of fresh bread in Mary’s kitchen. As Odin had had enough exercise the previous day, he took a rounsey from Andrew’s stable and rode up to meet Gwyn at St John’s Hospital to check on Thomas’s progress. Their clerk was still very weak, but he was fully alert and almost apologetic for being ill.

‘He’s been taking bread in warm milk,’ reported Brother Saulf, who seemed very pleased with their clerk’s progress.

John was never comfortable as a visitor to the sick, unlike Gwyn, who would have stopped and chatted all day. Once the coroner was satisfied that Thomas seemed out of danger, he wanted to be out of that depressing sickroom as soon as possible.

‘Rest well and be sure to eat and drink,’ he advised in a severe voice. ‘No hurry to get back on your feet – you take your time.’

When he had prised Gwyn away from his little friend, they set off for Honiton, a large village about fifteen miles to the east, on the road to Ilminster and faraway London. It was one of the main highways out of Exeter on the line of the ancient Fosse Way, and they were rarely out of sight of either an ox-cart, a flock of sheep being driven or people on foot. The last tended to come together in groups for mutual safety, a mixture of pilgrims going to or coming from Canterbury, chapmen hawking their wares or priests and craftsmen going about their business.

It was a mild, still day, with a slight mist, and the dry weather had firmed up the usual churned mud of the track, so if the deep wheel-ruts could be avoided, the going was quite good.

They reached Honiton by mid-morning and had no need to seek out the bailiff, as there was a crowd of villagers waiting to conduct them to a barn where the offenders were shut in and well guarded.

‘Caught the bastards within half an hour!’ exclaimed the bailiff, a big, black-bearded man.

John insisted on having their horses watered and fed first, so they were taken to the village tavern where both steeds and riders were revived. Over a pot of ale and a bowl of thin potage, the bailiff described what had happened.