A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries) Read online

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In which various meetings

  are held in Exeter

  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.’

  He pointed a quivering finger at de Baggetor. ‘And whether you like it or not, those same men are avowed Christians, who merely wish to think their own thoughts about their faith and not be dictated to by the likes of us as to how their minds must function!’

  De Baggetor laughed sardonically. ‘The next thing you will be advocating will be a translation of the Vulgate into English and then teaching the peasants how to read it!’ he sneered. ‘Would such a catastrophe please you, archdeacon? It would make us priests redundant as their means of intercession with the Almighty!’

  William de Swindon, who seemed to be a late convert to the anti-heretic camp, broke in to stop this personal squabble between de Alençon and de Baggetor. ‘Let us direct our minds to the immediate problems, brothers. We seem to have lost those four men who came before us, though I understand that the fifth, the fuller Algar, chose to remain in the city, no doubt to defy us further.’

  ‘He will be attended to very soon,’ interjected Robert de Baggetor. ‘I have already given instructions to our proctors’ men to seize him and place him in the cells in the Close.’

  The archdeacon, his sense of justice overriding his caution, objected at once. ‘At the end of that inquisition, I gave orders to the bailiffs that the five men be guarded from public assault. Now you are going back on our direction not to let them be interfered with.’

  ‘It was not our direction, brother – it was entirely yours!’ snapped de Hospitali. ‘Personally, I would have welcomed the crowd stoning them to death, as the Old Testament prescribed for those who denied the Lord God.’

  The archdeacon could see that it was futile to again point out that the accused men had denied no one except the autocracy of Rome and were equally as good Christians as the entire chapter of canons. He was conscious that he had already put himself in a difficult position and there was no point in making matters worse.

  The other proctor, William de Swindon, returned to his practicalities. ‘The other aspect is most urgent. We have two men now incarcerated in the castle gaol, who, however hasty their actions yesterday, are still in holy orders. I hear that they will be brought before the sheriff court and thence probably to the next Eyre of Assize, though God knows when that will be. Are we to let them rot there without protest?’

  A gabble of indignation rippled around the circle of priests, but again Robert de Baggetor raised a hand and took over the proceedings. ‘By no means! I am sending our law deacon up to Rougemont this very morning, with a demand to the sheriff that they be released forthwith into our custody. They can be lodged in the proctors’ cells for a time, though I see no reason why they should not be dealt with very leniently, as they were only doing what they saw as God’s will.’

  ‘Who exactly are they?’ asked one of the canons who had not previously spoken. He was Jordan de Brent, the cathedral librarian and archivist, an elderly, amiable man, more immersed in books and manuscripts than with everyday events.

  ‘One is Reginald Rugge, a lay brother who helps out at St Olave’s Church,’ replied fitz Rogo. ‘The priest there, Julian Fulk, came to see me last night, entreating me to help in getting Rugge released.’

  ‘But St Olave’s is not part of our cathedral enclave,’ objected the archivist gently. ‘It is not even within the jurisdiction of our bishop, for it belongs to St Nicholas Priory, which itself is a cell of Battle Abbey in Sussex.’

  There were some muted mutterings among the others about the old canon being more concerned with church history than current emergencies, but de Baggetor ignored them. ‘All the more reason for us to assist them, as it might take weeks to get any action from Sussex. This Alan de Bere is in holy orders and deserves our protection, whatever his affiliation. That goes for the other one, too.’

  ‘But everyone knows that he is half-mad!’ objected the precentor, Thomas de Boterellis. ‘A monk he may have been, but he is surely crazed, running around the city in a ragged habit, talking to himself!’

  ‘He still wears the tonsure and is one of our brothers,’ declared fitz Rogo, conveniently forgetting that Alan de Bere had been an embarrassment to the clergy for half a decade. He was obviously slightly deranged, but had been given a menial job in the cathedral to occupy some of the time in which he would otherwise be on the streets chanting some incomprehensible message of salvation and damnation that fermented in his disordered mind.

  John de Alençon, who had no disagreement with this desire to retrieve the two men from the secular powers, felt on safer ground when he asked if they were going to plead ‘benefit of clergy’ to get them released.

  ‘Of course, there is no question of them not being eligible,’ snapped de Baggetor. ‘Rugge has some education, for all that he is now but a lay brother. He can read and write a little, and even the mad monk can easily deliver the “neck verse”.’

  To prove they were entitled to plead ‘benefit of clergy’, the supplicant had be able to read, a prerogative almost confined to the clergy – but in fact if they could recite a short section of the scriptures, that was sufficient. As it might save them a hanging in the king’s courts, it became known as the ‘neck verse’, usually a few words from the fiftieth Psalm of the Vulgate, though many illiterates merely memorised the words.

  The discussion in the chapter house continued about the details of getting the two men released and also about further action against suspected heretics.

  ‘We have had four of them snatched from under our noses, but there are many more lurking in the shadows,’ proclaimed Richard fitz Rogo. ‘The list compiled by our bailiffs contains another six names, and more will be unearthed as the days go by.’

  De Baggetor turned to the bishop’s chaplain. ‘It is still urgent that we have a meeting with His Grace as soon as he returns to Exeter,’ he said aggressively, as if it was the chaplain’s fault that the bishop was so often absent. ‘We shall not let these other heretics slip through our fingers so easily!’

  John de Wolfe needed to go to Stoke again to see how his brother was faring, but he knew that it would be a grave mistake not to be at home when Matilda returned. He rose at dawn and had his breakfast of honeyed oatmeal gruel, bread and cheese in Mary’s kitchen-shed, reassuring her that her mistress had agreed to come home that day. Like his maid, John’s feelings about his wife’s return were mixed – though she was cantankerous, sullen and bad-tempered, both of them were used to her being there, and the gloomy house seemed strange without her brooding presence.

  ‘Make something she particularly likes for dinner,’ John suggested to her. ‘That should please her after the dishes she probably suffered at her brother’s house, as he has a lousy cook!’

  He wanted to go up to St John’s to see how Thomas was getting on, but again was afraid that Matilda might turn up when he was out.

  ‘Why don’t you go up to North Gate Street with old Simon and offer to carry her bundles home?’ suggested Mary. ‘That might put her in a better mood.’

  As usual, she talked good sense, and John commandeered the old man who chopped their firewood and cleaned the pigs and privy. Marching ahead of Simon, he went through the streets, full of people doing their morning shopping at the stalls. As his servant was stone-deaf, he had no need to attempt any conversation and they arrived at the de Revelle house just in time to find Matilda leaving. Lucille was staggering under an armful of cloaks and gowns, but his wife had left behind a large bundle of her belongings to be collected later.

  There was no sign of Richard de Revelle, for which John was grateful, and in silence they set off for Martin’s Lane, Matilda grasping his arm possessively to show the city that she was still married to the second most important law officer in the county.

  The two servants trudged along behind as they p
ushed through the crowds in the narrow streets, Matilda using her free hand to lift her skirts up out of the ordure that covered the ground, especially where the central gutter was filled with a sluggish ooze of debris that included dead rats and an occasional decomposing cat.

  When they reached the tall house in Martin’s Lane, John gallantly held the door open for her and at last got a muttered word of thanks. The weather was dull, though not particularly cold, but Mary had a good fire blazing in the hearth, and Matilda sank into her favourite monks’ chair with a sigh of relief.

  ‘John, send Mary with a hot posset for me,’ she commanded, knowing that for a time, at least, he would be polite and subservient. ‘Then I shall go up to my solar to make sure that that stupid Lucille puts my clothes properly in the chests.’

  He did as he was ordered. When his wife had had her cup of hot milk curdled with wine and spiced with cinnamon, he announced that he must go to his chamber in the castle to attend to his duties, omitting to mention that he was first calling to see Thomas, which might have jolted her out of her present relatively benign mood.

  At the little hospital, he found his clerk remarkably recovered and could only hope that his brother William might be making a similar improvement.

  ‘God must have listened to all the prayers for me offered up by so many good people,’ said Thomas brightly, crossing himself as he spoke. He was sitting on the edge of his mattress, but had been walking about the ward, visiting other sick people to deliver comfort and consolation in his usual selfless fashion.

  ‘Your colour has greatly improved, Thomas!’ said his master, giving him the present he had bought on the way, a fresh meat pasty from one of the cook-stalls. Certainly, the yellow colour of his skin had faded, though there was still a noticeable tinge in the clerk’s eyes.

  ‘I am almost well again, Crowner,’ agreed Thomas eagerly. ‘Brother Saulf, who has been kindness itself, told me that I may go home in the next day or two. I am now no danger to anyone else, he says, so I can return to my duties later next week.’