A Plague of Heretics (29 page)

The women who were aboard the
Saint Augustine
had hurried down the gangplank and were now hugging their husbands, including the wife of Peter, who was now recovered enough to be helped to his feet. John strode across to the vessel and called up to the shipmaster, who with his crew had been watching the turmoil ashore with consternation.

‘Are you leaving on the next tide?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, if we can get those porters to finish loading.’

‘And did you promise to take these men and their wives as passengers?’

The burly captain nodded. ‘They paid their fares as far as Rye. We go on from there to Calais,’ he explained.

John looked around at the bedraggled victims of the mob and walked back to Adam of Dunsford. ‘Are you still willing to leave on this ship?’

The fishmonger nodded. ‘There is nothing left for us here – either the mob will kill us or the canons will find a way to destroy us. But will you let us go?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘You were the victims, not the aggressors! You have committed no breach of the peace, to my knowledge.’ He waved a hand towards the gangplank of the
Saint Augustine
.

‘Go now, and I hope you will find a quiet life wherever you end up. I would suggest that you keep your religious beliefs to yourselves in future.’

The small group of men and their wives seemed half-afraid that the soldiers would prevent them from leaving, but with profuse thanks to John they shuffled to the ship, supporting the injured Peter between them.

‘I’ll leave a few men to guard the ship until she sails,’ suggested Ralph Morin, ‘in case some of those unruly bastards creep back to cause more trouble.’

As life settled back to normal on the quayside, Gwyn collected John’s ‘borrowed’ horse and, together with Brother Rufus, walked it back to Rougemont, the garrison commander and Sergeant Gabriel marching the remainder of the troops in front of them, their two prisoners in the centre, protesting loudly.

‘You’ll be in bad odour with the cathedral for this, John,’ warned the chaplain as they went through the West Gate. ‘They already have you marked down as sympathising with these heretics. There are a few people vindictive enough to make a lot of trouble for you.’

John felt that with all his existing problems, another one would be barely noticed.

In the keep of Rougemont, Henry de Furnellis listened gravely to the news that de Wolfe and Ralph Morin gave him. Riots and civil disturbance were uncommon in Devon. At the fairs and local tournaments, there was always some trouble from brawling drunks, armed robbers and purse-snatchers, but they could usually be dealt with either by the constable’s heavy staffs or by a few soldiers sent down from the castle. But today’s riot involving a hundred people was most unusual.

‘The last time was a year ago, when those poor women were hounded by a mob who raved that they were chasing witches,’ recollected Morin.

‘And they hanged one, as well,’ said de Wolfe. ‘At least today we were in time to stop that happening.’

‘Get a couple of ringleaders agitating and the rest follow like a lot of sheep!’ growled the sheriff. ‘As with that witch-hunt, some kind of hysteria arises that feeds on itself.’

‘So what are we going to do with these two troublemakers?’ asked John, referring to Rugge and de Bere, who were incarcerated below their feet in the foul cells of the castle’s undercroft gaol.

‘Haul ’em before the county court next week,’ suggested the castellan. ‘Charge them with fomenting a breach of the peace. That’ll keep them locked up until the justices come.’

The king’s courts were the Eyres of Assize, whose royal judges trundled around the counties very slowly to dispense justice. As it was sometimes years between their visits, additional courts had been added, where Commissioners, usually barons or senior court clerks, came more often to carry out ‘gaol delivery’. It was part of the coroner’s duty to prepare all the cases to put before these justices, though as the delays were so great, many of the accused had either escaped from – or died in – prison before justice could be dispensed.

‘So you let these heretics escape, John?’ observed Henry, leaning back in his chair. ‘That won’t increase your popularity down in the cathedral Close!’

‘What else could be done?’ grunted John defensively. ‘They had committed no crime against the King’s Peace, so we couldn’t lock them up. And did you want extra mouths to feed for God knows how long, down in the cells?’

‘We could have told them to go to their homes, I suppose?’ said Morin. ‘But then we would have to mount a guard, in case some of those madmen from the cathedral had another go at them. They’ve killed three already, according to John here.’

‘The Church has been trying to rid the county of heretics, so now we’ve done it for them, as far as four are concerned,’ said de Wolfe. ‘They can go and cause problems in Rye or wherever that ship lands them. At least they are no longer our concern.’

Gwyn, who had been standing quietly by the door, joined the discussion. ‘We sent four on their way, with some wives. But what happened to the fifth man who was hauled before the canons yesterday?’

De Wolfe had been told about him by the archdeacon.

‘It was a fuller called Algar, who lives in Milk Lane. I know nothing more about him, but it seems he was the most defiant of those arraigned yesterday and virtually told the canons that they had no right even to question him.’

The sheriff groaned. ‘The canons will be after him again; they won’t let him get away with that. I hear they have a list of other suspects, drawn up by the proctors’ men and their spies.’

‘I agree. He’d better stay at home after dark,’ said the coroner. ‘Otherwise he’ll find himself without a tongue or voice-box one of these nights.’

By the time he left the castle, it was early evening, when he would normally be going home to have supper with his wife, cheerless though that usually was. But with no Matilda, he reluctantly decided to go to her brother’s house in North Gate Street to see if he could pour some oil on the very troubled waters – at least it would satisfy Mary.

His brother-in-law kept a town house in the city, though he also had two large manors, one at Revelstoke near Plymouth and the other in the opposite direction up at Tiverton. His glacial wife Eleanor spent most of her time at the latter place, but these days Richard favoured the Exeter house, where he could supervise his various business ventures and consort with loose women, which was one of his main pastimes.

When John reached the tall house in North Gate Street, the door was opened by the timid Lucille, who had gone into exile with her mistress. She showed him into a small room off the hall, for the house was larger than John’s and had two extra chambers, as well as a solar. Matilda was sitting on a cushioned settle, with a brazier of glowing charcoal nearby. She scowled at her husband by way of greeting.

‘What makes you think I wish to set eyes on you?’ she snapped.

Determined not to lose his temper, he dug his nails into his palms and found some conciliatory words, even apologising for any hasty language he may have used.

‘You threatened me, John! What kind of behaviour is that?’ she responded ungraciously.

He tried to dismiss the claim by making light of it. ‘We have shouted at each other for the past sixteen years, wife,’ he said earnestly. ‘All married couples do; it’s part of wedded life. It was merely words; you know damned well I didn’t mean any of it.’

She sniffed and looked away, pretending to be indifferent, but John knew from experience that she was weakening. Even a day or two with her brother and sister-in-law was enough to make her pine for home. She and Eleanor de Revelle were mutually incompatible, as Richard’s wife made no effort to conceal her disdain for her husband’s family.

John was stumbling through more platitudes and apologies, which he knew were an essential part of the forgiveness ritual, when the door opened and Matilda’s brother entered. He stiffened as soon as he saw John, their long-standing dislike of each other crystallising into contempt on de Wolfe’s side and sheer hatred on Richard’s.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t trust you to be alone with Matilda!’

‘Don’t be so bloody silly, she’s my wife,’ glowered John. ‘I don’t come spying on you and Eleanor when you are having a spat in your own house!’

‘You offered violence to my sister,’ brayed Richard, his pointed beard wagging in indignation. ‘I heard you threaten to kill her!’

Vehemently, John protested that it was merely talk generated by high temper, and for several minutes they argued back and forth, that same temper beginning to show itself more on both sides as they went on. It was brought to an abrupt end by Matilda herself, as she lumbered to her feet and screamed at them both.

‘Enough of this! My husband is an impulsive fool with a foul humour, but my place is at home with him, for better or worse! I shall return there tomorrow, Richard, when my maid has packed my belongings.’

De Wolfe noticed that though her brother huffed and puffed and warned her again about the danger she would be in, he made no real effort to persuade her to stay, as a little of Matilda was more than enough for him or his wife and she could outstay her welcome in a matter of hours.

John decided there was no point in further discussion and, with a muted farewell to his wife until the morrow, he left the room. Richard followed him to the front door, strutting as if to make sure he did not steal anything or assault his staff.

As de Wolfe stepped into the street, his brother-in-law made one last parting shot. ‘Behave yourself, John! My sister is very dear to me,’ he bleated with false sincerity. ‘If any harm befalls her, I will know where the blame lies!’

Resisting the temptation to punch him on the nose, the coroner stalked off, not deigning to offer a reply.

After the chapter meeting next morning, ten of the twenty-four canons stayed behind in the chapter house after the vicars and secondaries had left. The three keenest heretic-crushers had been joined by the other proctor, William de Swindon, as well as the precentor, the treasurer and three other prebendaries. The tenth was John de Alençon, who as archdeacon and the bishop’s vicar-general, could hardly absent himself. Henry Marshal’s chaplain and the legal deacon were also in attendance as Robert de Baggetor took it upon himself to lead the meeting without seeking any approval from the others.

‘We are in an intolerable situation!’ he boomed. ‘The cathedral, and indeed the Holy Church itself, has been slighted and insulted by the arrogant and high-handed actions of those barbarians in Rougemont!’

Though the archdeacon had intended to keep as low a profile as possible, this was too much for him. ‘Come, my brother, that is putting it too strongly!’ he retorted. ‘There was a major riot in the city, one man was injured and another almost hanged – what did you expect the law officers to do? Ignore it?’

‘The citizens were displaying their anger and abhorrence of the presence of those cursed unbelievers in the town,’ snapped Richard fitz Rogo. ‘They are not fit to live and if we, as guardians of the faith, failed to take proper action, then I do not condemn the townsfolk for taking the law into their own hands.’

‘A failure, I regret having to point out to you, de Alençon, was in no small measure due to your unhelpful leadership at the inquisition on Wednesday, archdeacon,’ added Ralph de Hospitali waspishly.

John de Alençon remained silent, not wanting to fuel the tirade by responding, but de Baggetor was unwilling to let the matter drop.

‘Not only have they arrested two men in holy orders, but they set the blasphemers free – and in fact assisted them in leaving by ship!’ he blustered. ‘How do you view that piece of defiance to the Church, archdeacon?’

Questioned directly in that way, de Alençon had no option but to reply.

‘There seems no doubt, according to eyewitnesses among the stevedores and ship-men on the other vessel, that Rugge and de Bere were the instigators of the riot and were central to the seizure and threatened execution of the alleged heretics, so is it at all surprising that the sheriff’s men arrested them?’

‘Not alleged heretics – they were self-confessed heretics!’ interrupted de Hospitali hotly. ‘They boasted as much before us on Wednesday.’

The archdeacon ignored this and carried on. ‘Those men had committed no civil or criminal offence and were quite entitled to go about their business until such time as the bishop’s court passed a judgement upon them. And part of that business was the right to take ship, if they so chose.’

This was too much for Robert de Baggetor, who almost exploded into loud speech. ‘Brother John, you seem suspiciously sympathetic to these wretches who defy the might of the Church of Rome! Are you losing your faith, man, to be so partial to the cause of those who would mock and seek to bring down the very structure that for over a thousand years has steered the unlettered common herd in the true path of Christianity?’

Pale with anger, the archdeacon turned upon his fellow canon. ‘I beg you, do not dare to question my faith and my devotion to the Church I have served all my life! But like our Saviour Himself, I seek to tread the path of justice and compassion. As yet, those men have been convicted of nothing and do not deserve to be hounded by a mob, half of them drunk, who wished to string them up from the nearest tree.’