A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 20

  ‘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.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In which the Coroner rides to Honiton

  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.

  ‘Two strangers, probably outlaws from the forest, broke into a barton on the outskirts of the village in the early hours of yesterday,’ he reported. ‘They had beaten the farmer and his wife unconscious, ransacked the house, took some money stored in a jar, then stolen a horse from the stable. Thankfully, a young servant who slept in the barn raced down here to the village and raised the hue and cry!’

  The reeve and the bailiff had turned out on horseback and had caught up with the robbers before they reached the shelter of the forest, as they were leading the stolen horse on a halter and trying to drive two fat pigs before them. A fight ensued but the mounted reeve felled one man with his staff and the bailiff ran the other down with his horse. A number of villagers had run after them and discovered that the farmer and his wife were already both dead. Enraged, they beat the two outlaws half to death before dragging them back to be thrown, bound hand and foot, into the grain store behind the mill.

  The story told, de Wolfe got to his feet, anxious to get his business done and return to Exeter. ‘Where are the two dead people?’ he asked. ‘They are my only concern.’

  The bailiff’s brow furrowed. ‘What about the villains who did this, sir? What are we to do with them?’

  The coroner considered for a moment. ‘Either wait for the sheriff to send men-at-arms to take them back to Exeter, or get your lord’s steward to try them at the manorial court. I’m sure you can find a good oak tree to hang them from!’

  Strictly speaking, he should have insisted on having them brought before the king’s justices or commissioners at the next Eyre of Assize, as one of the coroner’s functions was to sweep as much business as possible into the royal courts. But he reasoned that in this case two outlaws would have no property to be confiscated for the treasury, and hauling them back to Exeter, keeping them in prison for months or even a year before trial, would be a drain on the royal purse, not a benefit.

  This suited the bailiff well, and he took them to St Michael’s Church to examine the victims, who had died of severe head injuries. A quick inquest with a vindictive jury brought in the inevitable verdict of murder upon the two bruised and battered renegades, and by early afternoon the coroner and his officer were back on the road to the city once again.

  That same afternoon, Robert de Baggetor held a private meeting in his house in the Close. In addition to some of his fellow canons, which this time also included the other proctor, William de Swindon, he had invited the bishop’s chaplain and the deacon who was the diocesan lawyer. A notable absence was that of John de Alençon.

  ‘I fail to understand why our brother John is so lukewarm over this issue,’ complained Richard fitz Rogo. ‘Several months ago, a parish priest just outside the city sent me a crude pamphlet full of these heretical claims, which had been sent to him anonymously. I took it to the archdeacon and he promised to look into it, but nothing ever happened.’

  ‘I have heard that some priests are secretly in sympathy with the arguments of the Gnostics,’ contributed Ralph de Hospitali in a doleful voice.

  ‘Our brother John has many claims on his energy and his time,’ observed William de Swindon mildly. ‘Perhaps he found it was just some chance tract that had found its way here from France.’

  De Baggetor thumped the table impatiently. ‘That is no excuse for de Alençon. He is the archdeacon and the bishop’s vicar-general, and he should be in the forefront of our campaign to eradicate these dissenters.’

  De Swindon hastened to agree. Though he had not been one of the first three to take up the crusade against the heretics, he now seemed equally enthusiastic. ‘There is no question of our Brother in Christ John having any lessening of faith. He has been a pillar of strength and devotion here these many years. But it occurs to me that his well-known friendship with the coroner may be worth considering.’

  Eyes swivelled towards de Swindon, as this was an unfamiliar suggestion. ‘That’s true, William,’ said Ralph de Hospitali. ‘His nephew is even the coroner’s clerk.’

  ‘W
hat are you trying to imply?’ fitz Rogo asked de Swindon.

  ‘I have heard whispers – in fact, more than whispers – that John de Wolfe may be sympathetic to these blasphemers.’

  There was a mutter of consternation around the table, but de Baggetor did not join in, as he already had heard the same whispers.

  ‘As you know, our proctors’ bailiffs have been charged with keeping a sharp eye out for any signs of heresy,’ he said ponderously. ‘In fact, virtually all our knowledge of their identity and their activities comes from their efforts. They have reported that de Wolfe attended a clandestine meeting of these creatures, only a few days ago, for they had a spy who was able to eavesdrop on that coven.’ The others digested this for a moment.

  ‘But the coroner is investigating the deaths of three of them,’ objected fitz Rogo. ‘Surely such a meeting would be a legitimate part of his enquiries?’

  ‘At a secret meeting, skulking in a remote barn in the countryside?’ said de Baggetor scathingly. ‘In addition, he has expressed the opinion that it is none of his business to give any aid to our campaign, even though this was expressly demanded by Ab Abolendum.’

  ‘Shall we add him to our list of persons to be interrogated?’ suggested the young chaplain in a tone that suggested that he was being facetious. This was met with scowls from most of those facing him.

  ‘Do not dismiss it too lightly,’ grated Robert de Baggetor. ‘It has not gone unnoticed that de Wolfe is a very reluctant and infrequent attender at Mass. He is rarely seen in a place of worship unless his devout wife drags him there.’

  The lean and restless Ralph de Hospitali brought them back to more immediate issues. ‘We need to decide how we proceed, after yesterday’s convocation achieved so little.’

  ‘It caused those devils a fright afterwards, with half the town chasing after them,’ said de Swindon. ‘It shows that we have popular support for our efforts.’

  ‘We do not need popular support!’ snapped de Baggetor arrogantly. ‘It matters not what the rabble of Exeter think. We have the whole power of Rome behind us.’

  ‘So how do we harness it?’ persisted de Hospitali.

  ‘Thanks to de Alençon’s stubbornness, this has to go to the bishop,’ grunted fitz Rogo. He turned to the chaplain. ‘When is His Grace expected to return?’

  ‘In the next few days, God willing. He has parish visitations to make next week and wishes to deal with accumulated business before then.’

  ‘Well, we have some more business for him as a matter of urgency,’ rasped de Baggetor. ‘I would be obliged if you would arrange an audience with him as soon as possible, as we need him to agree to set up a formal court hearing without delay.’ He turned to the others. ‘Those swine we saw yesterday may have disappeared into thin air by now, but our bailiffs have collected more names for us, and next time they will go straight to the bishop’s court – and from thence hopefully straight to the gallows.’

  When he returned from Honiton, John went to see the sheriff, to tell him of the murders and the capture of the culprits by the villagers. Henry de Furnellis applauded John’s decision to let the matter go to the manorial court there, as anything that saved him work was welcome, especially as there was no profit for the king in hanging penniless outlaws.

  ‘You say the Honiton folk gave them a good beating – a pity they didn’t kill them, it would have saved a lot of trouble,’ he added. His attitude to justice was not as rigid as that of the coroner.

  After leaving the keep, de Wolfe reluctantly decided to take Mary’s advice and try to make peace with Matilda. He recalled some old country adage about ‘taking the bull by the horns’, which seemed an apt description of facing his wife. As he went across the inner ward towards the gatehouse, he had to walk around a troop of young soldiers being drilled by Sergeant Gabriel, an old friend and veteran who had shared several campaigns with de Wolfe. By the look on Gabriel’s craggy face, the recruits were exasperating him with their lack of skill, but they had little chance to experience real fighting, as the last military violence in this area had been fifty years ago, during the civil war of King Stephen’s reign.

  As John neared the arch leading to the drawbridge, another friend hailed him. This was Brother Rufus, the garrison chaplain, who had just emerged from his tiny chapel of St Mary, set to the left of the gate. Rufus was a large, muscular Benedictine, with the jovial nature that big people often possess. He, too, had seen his share of battlefields, as he had been a military chaplain in the campaigns in France and Palestine, which gave him much in common with de Wolfe. He was a straightforward man, free from the pomposity and cant that many of the Exeter clergy exhibited. Admirably suited to his calling of a soldier’s padre, he enjoyed his ale and wine and a game of dice in the guard-room, without forfeiting any of his compassion and devotion.

  In no hurry to face Matilda, John accepted Rufus’s invitation to sit with him on a bench outside the little church and enjoy the weak sun that had managed to penetrate the autumn haze.

  ‘I hear that young Thomas is recovering, thank God and all His saints,’ he said. ‘We have prayed for him daily.’

  John went on to tell him about his own brother’s affliction, but of course the city grapevine had long ago spread the news. ‘He seems no worse and we are hoping that he, too, will recover,’ said John, almost afraid to be too optimistic in case it was dashed to the ground.

  ‘You have been busy with our heretical competitors in the religious world,’ grinned Rufus, who had an impish sense of humour. ‘It seems that over this matter, the noble canons down in the Close are like a swarm of wasps that have had their nest stirred with a stick!’

  Those in the monastic orders did not always see eye to eye with the diocesan priesthood, as Exeter cathedral was one of the dozen in England that was ‘secular’, in that it was not a monastery or an abbey.

  ‘I saw many brands of religious belief on my travels in Outremer,’ continued Rufus. ‘Many were either different types of Christian, from Greece or Byzantium – and some were not Christian at all.’

  He stopped to scratch an itch on his newly shaven tonsure. ‘But many of them were intensely devout and scrupulously honest men, so I do not rush to condemn even the smallest deviation from our own Church. That does not divert me from my lifelong dedication to Rome, but I fear I cannot accept this current hysteria against a few sincere souls who wish to follow a different path.’

  They talked for a while about the different types of heresy and then went on to wonder at the unpredictable ebb and flow of the yellow plague, which seemed to be maintaining its sporadic attacks. The incessant activity of the busy castle went on around them as they chatted, ox-carts lumbering in with fodder for the garrison horses, a blacksmith hammering a new shoe on a grey gelding and soldiers’ wives passing by with small children clinging to their skirts. Then Rufus’s eye was caught by someone running across the drawbridge on the outer side of the arched gateway. Even at a distance, he could see that the man was almost collapsing from the effort of hurrying up the steep track of Castle Hill, and waving his arms to attract attention.

  ‘Here’s our brave constable, Osric!’ exclaimed the monk.

  ‘What can be so urgent that he’s running fit to burst?’

  An unruly mob stormed down Rock Lane, gathering more people as they approached the Water Gate, which led out on to the quayside along the river. Mostly men, but with a few matrons on the fringes, they surged through the gate, brushing aside the pair of porters who were there to collect tolls on goods from the wharf.

  The crowd, which numbered almost a hundred, was led by two men who capered and waved their arms to further inflame the mob. One was a skinny monk, dressed in a frayed black habit of the Benedictine order, and the other a stocky man in a brown serge cassock, both having shaven circles on their heads.

  ‘Find the denouncers of the Holy Father!’ yelled the monk, Alan de Bere. He waved a heavy stick, which ended in a crude hook like a bishop’s crozier, and pointed with
the other hand at the two vessels that were leaning against the quay, beached on the mud at low tide. The proctors’ spies had discovered that four of the five men arraigned at the inquisition the previous day were trying to escape by sea, having decided that Exeter was too dangerous for them.

  Not to be outdone, Reginald Rugge, the lay brother, screamed inaccurately at the top of his voice, ‘Seize the disciples of the Antichrist!’ as he brandished a rusty sword. A few stevedores, who had been carrying bales of wool towards a gangplank, dumped their loads and nervously retreated to the back of the quayside against the town wall, which here climbed steeply up towards the South Gate.

  The mob, which contained quite a few drunks attracted out of the rougher taverns, was shouting incoherently, their excitement fanned by the two agitators. They spread out along the edge of the wharf opposite the two merchant cogs, from where bemused ship-men and dockers stared down at the angry crowd.

  ‘Where are the bloody heretics? … Give us the blasphemers!’ came the cries. An unfortunate stevedore, a youth barely into his teens, was engulfed by the crowd as he ran for the gangplank of the nearer ship. Alan de Bere grabbed him with unmonastic violence and brandished his crozier at him threateningly.

  ‘Tell me which vessel shelters these bastards!’ he roared.

  Without hesitation, the lad pointed at the next ship along, the larger of the two. ‘They are aboard that one, sir!’ he squealed and, ducking away as soon as he was released, scampered off along the quay to join his fellows huddled against the city wall.

  Like a flowing liquid, the mob moved to the other ship, the Saint Augustine, and Reginald Rugge was first up the plank that led up to a gap in the bulwarks. A burly sailor blocked his way and, when the lay brother raised his sword in a threatening gesture, he lifted his foot and planted it on Rugge’s chest. With a quick thrust, he sent the man staggering backwards into the man behind, almost pitching them both off on to the unyielding quayside.