A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 8

  He left the keep, clattering down the wooden steps from the high entrance to reach the rock-hard mud of the frozen inner ward. Going back to the gatehouse to collect Thomas, they walked together back to the centre of the city.

  ‘I need to talk to this canon your uncle mentioned,’ said John as they went through a lane which came out in the Close.

  ‘Richard fitz Rogo? He was Archdeacon of Cornwall until recently; now he’s settled back into being just a canon. He is a rich man, with a private income, apart from his benefice.’

  As John expected, his clerk was a walking encyclopaedia, especially where the Church was concerned.

  ‘What sort of man is he?’ he asked as they walked through the dishevelled area in front of the cathedral. Though it was holy ground, it was hardly a haven of episcopal calm. Rough paths led between grave-mounds, some fresh, some weed-covered and others gaping open awaiting fresh customers. Urchins played among the piles of dumped refuse, and dogs romped along with them. A few beggars slumped against the mounds, half-dead with cold, and a drunk wandered erratically past, singing incoherently.

  ‘This place is a disgrace,’ muttered Thomas indignantly before answering the coroner. ‘Richard fitz Rogo? He is a stern man, an upright pillar of the Church, but not given to much humour or pleasantries.’

  ‘Does he live in a simple fashion, like your uncle John de Alençon?’ asked the coroner.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘He enjoys the luxuries of life very much, as you will see if we can get invited into his dwelling. It is just there.’

  He pointed to one of the houses that lined the Close on the side facing the great West Front of the cathedral. It lay behind the small church of St Mary Major and its yard backed on to buildings in the High Street beyond.

  John had brought his clerk with him, as he had learned that the presence of a priest was often useful when dealing with the clergy, especially those in the senior ranks. Thomas trotted to the door of the stone-built house and sought out the canon’s steward. Many of the lower orders of priest would be in the cathedral now, at one of the interminable services that occupied most of the day, but the less energetic canons had vicars and secondaries to stand in for them. Canon Richard was evidently one of these, for Thomas reappeared and conducted his master into the house, following the steward to a door leading to one of the two rooms on the ground floor.

  Inside, he found a comfortable chamber with a large brazier glowing hotly in the centre. Some padded chairs stood around it, and a table, a cupboard and a wine cabinet completed the furnishings, apart from some expensive tapestries that softened the harshness of the stone walls.

  A fat man with a bald head hauled himself from one of the chairs and greeted John as Thomas made a brief introduction and then retired to stand inconspicuously against the door. Richard fitz Rogo was pink and fat all over, including his cheeks and puffy neck, which overhung the neckband of his black cassock. A heavy woollen cape hung over his shoulders against the cold, though at the moment his room was probably one of the warmest places in Exeter.

  ‘Sir John, we have not met before, but I have seen you in the distance, attending Mass with your devout wife.’

  His voice was strong and resonant, the utterance of a man used to getting his own way. The coroner muttered something neutral and sat down in the other chair, as the canon indicated.

  ‘I have no doubt that you wish to seek my help in respect of this sinner who was found dead yesterday in Raden Lane?’

  ‘You know about that, then?’ said John.

  ‘All Exeter knows about it, coroner. Even to the strange injuries he suffered.’ Again de Wolfe marvelled at the way in which news passed around the city like lightning.

  ‘You knew this man Nicholas Budd?’

  The canon, who had let his corpulent body sink back into the chair, shook his head.

  ‘I had never met him, though I would have done shortly when he was due to be arraigned at the bishop’s court – but God took a hand in the matter.’

  ‘So how did you discover that he was deserving of your attention?’

  Fitz Rogo smiled indulgently, but his small cold eyes took away any hint of humour. ‘Those who deny the authority of the Holy Church cannot conceal themselves for long. They are like rats skulking in the midden, but the hounds of Rome always flush them out!’

  This colourful reply did nothing to answer John’s question.

  ‘But how came he to be brought to answer for his sins at this particular time?’

  The priest ran a finger around his collar to ease away his drooping jowls. ‘Let me explain, Sir John,’ he said rather condescendingly, as if lecturing a backward chorister. ‘Some time ago, the Papal Legate – the Holy Father’s representative in England – passed on to every bishop a message from Rome. This expressed concern at the revival of blasphemous and seditious beliefs contrary to the Catholic teachings of the Church, especially in southern France and Germany.’

  ‘And in England?’ interposed de Wolfe.

  The canon hummed and hawed a little. ‘Admittedly, they were not on the same scale as in these other places. But we were all told to be vigilant and to stamp out heresy wherever it may be found, lest these evil seeds take root and blossom.’

  He scowled at some private memory. ‘I regret to say that Bishop Marshal did not appear to be unduly disturbed by the threat, probably because he is so concerned with the politics of Church and State that he has little time for dangers closer to home.’

  He sniffed disdainfully, mindful of his own failed efforts to obtain the mitre. ‘In fact, our bishop is rarely in his diocese, as I expect you are aware.’

  Even John, uninterested as he was in religious matters, knew from his conversations with John de Alençon that Bishop Henry Marshal was to be found more often in Westminster, Canterbury or Coventry than he was in Devon. But all this was not getting him any nearer to learning about Nicholas Budd.

  ‘But how came you to seize upon this particular man?’ he demanded, tiring of the canon’s lecture.

  ‘My brother canons – at least, two of them – and myself decided to augment the bishop’s lack of enthusiasm by carrying out the Legate’s instructions more directly,’ explained fitz Rogo with an air of self-importance. ‘We instructed the proctors’ men to keep a special lookout for any hints of heresy and even to pay agents among the common folk to keep their ears open for the same.’

  ‘You mean you set spies among the people?’ said John bluntly, but the canon seemed impervious to sarcasm.

  ‘All means are legitimate in the service of God,’ he said piously. ‘The devil employs every evil artifice in his campaigns, so we need to follow his example.’

  ‘So what did your spies report to you?’ asked John irreverently.

  ‘They found that Budd was seducing people with his blasphemous ideas, both among his customers and folk that he met in the market or the alehouse. And as if this was not blatant enough, more recently he has been meeting secretly with others in dwellings or in the countryside to discuss and elaborate on their foul concepts.’

  ‘How could you know of this, if they were held in private places?’ demanded John.

  ‘Our agents passed themselves off as possible converts to this religion of the Antichrist,’ boomed the priest. ‘In fact, one of them seemed to be so taken with the sedition that he has refused to work for the proctors any longer. We are keeping a sharp eye on him,’ he added threateningly.

  ‘Did Nicholas Budd know that he was to be arraigned?’

  ‘Indeed he did. The proctors’ men delivered a message to him a week ago, telling of the time and place that he must present himself before the preliminary examination. If he had failed to appear, they would have seized him and incarcerated him in the proctors’ cells near St Mary’s Church.’

  The canon rubbed his podgy hands together, almost in delight.

  ‘But now he has been spared that ordeal – and the Church is rid of one more blasphemer.’ Fitz Rogo seemed quite pleased at
the outcome.

  ‘If the Church had found him guilty, would he have had his tongue and throat cut out?’ asked de Wolfe cynically. ‘For that was his fate, and I see no other reason for a quiet tradesman to be so brutally done to death, apart from his beliefs.’

  The former archdeacon shrugged. ‘Perhaps some citizen more zealous than the Church itself was so incensed by this man’s heresy that he took the law into his own hands.’

  The coroner felt that he was going to gain very little from this man and his entrenched attitude. ‘You say that you have two fellow canons who are equally assiduous in heeding the Legate’s warning. Can you tell me who those are?’

  ‘All the priesthood should be equally assiduous, Sir John, in carrying out the orders of the Papal Bull issued some twelve years ago. And, indeed, every Christian man and woman who respects the authority of Rome should be on the lookout for these evil people who would undermine the very fabric of the Church, including yourself, coroner,’ he brayed pompously. ‘But the leaders in this crusade were Ralph de Hospitali and Robert de Baggetor – and, of course, myself’

  ‘What about the other canons – there are twenty-four, are there not?’

  Fitz Rogo looked slightly evasive. ‘Naturally, we are all concerned about this insidious evil – but some of my fellow prebendaries have other duties and other priorities, so it is left to we three to push forward the campaign. And I might tell you, Sir John, this man Budd was but one of many who have fallen by the wayside and absorbed this poison that seeps into the country from abroad.’

  The canon’s last words rang in John’s head as he and Thomas walked back across the Close. ‘Poison seeping in from abroad’ was all too familiar a phrase, given the possibility that the yellow plague was being imported into Devon from foreign parts.

  ‘So what did you make of that, Thomas?’ he asked his clerk as they trudged towards South Gate Street. ‘Somehow I can’t see that fat priest as a knife-wielding killer.’

  His clerk looked shocked at the suggestion that one of his seniors could even be considered as a murderer. ‘Indeed not, master! Yet I agree that there seems to be every reason to think that Budd’s heretical beliefs were the cause of his death.’

  ‘So we must look elsewhere for a culprit, Thomas. Yet do not dismiss anyone from suspicion, especially those with strong religious convictions. I spent two bloody years of my life at the Crusades, which were all about one faith trying to annihilate another.’

  They walked through Bear Gate, then crossed the busy road that led down to one of the main city gates, to reach the warren of small lanes that ran down the slope towards the river.

  ‘I will have to speak to the other two zealous canons that fitz Rogo named,’ said John as they walked down towards Priest Street, where Thomas lodged. ‘But we can go together in the morning. What do you know about them?’

  ‘Like fitz Rogo, Robert de Baggetor was formerly another archdeacon, this time of Barnstaple. He is a severe man, immovable in his old-fashioned attitudes. I have heard him preach thunderously about those who voice the slightest criticism of the established Church. He is a reactionary in the strongest sense of the word.’

  ‘And the other one?’ prompted de Wolfe.

  ‘Ralph de Hospitali? A little younger than the other two, but equally zealous. He is a thin, active man, never still and always wanting to impress upon his juniors the perils of straying outside the strict rituals and formalities laid down by Rome. He is especially insistent that the Vulgate should never be made available in the vernacular, in case common people should read it and not require the interpretation of we priests.’

  Thomas sounded bitter about this particular canon, and John suspected that his clerk had suffered a tongue-lashing from him at some time.

  They parted at the end of Idle Lane, as John wished to call at the Bush to down a quart or two of his officer’s new ale, to see if he had mastered Nesta’s recipe. It was still an hour or two until dusk, and Thomas announced that after a prayer and a bite to eat in his lodgings he would walk down to St Bartholomew’s to see if there was any more news of the latest plague victims.

  ‘When I told you that one man was not yellowed, you said we must enquire further,’ he said with a frown. ‘Something worries me over that, but I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘You be careful, Thomas,’ admonished the coroner. ‘That part of town is unhealthy, and we don’t know how contagious this curse might be.’

  His little clerk limped away, the cold weather making his spinal problem worse. John turned off down the lane to the tavern and sank thankfully on to his bench by the fire, where a pile of oak logs was warming the low taproom. The inn was quieter than usual, and John guessed that some of the regular patrons had stayed at home, fearful of possible contagion in crowded places. Edwin came up with a pottery mug of ale and waited until John had passed a favourable comment on Gwyn’s efforts.

  ‘Edwin, they tell me that you have become very religious these days,’ ventured the coroner. ‘What do you know of any people preaching heresy in the city nowadays?’

  The old man leaned with his fists on the table, his one good eye fixed intently on de Wolfe. ‘It’s a scandal, sir, a real scandal that such folk should be allowed to walk the earth!’

  He sounded almost viciously indignant, unlike the easy-going, hard-drinking old soldier that John knew previously.

  ‘Blasphemers like those should be hanged – or, better still, burned at the stake, to get them used to the everlasting fires of hell that they are bound to suffer eventually!’

  De Wolfe could almost smell the brimstone coming from the potman’s nostrils and thought he might learn something useful here.

  ‘Who are these people you speak of, Edwin?’

  The potman tapped the side of his prominent nose. ‘I know that fellow that was killed was one of them,’ he said, again confirming the efficiency of Exeter’s gossip-mill. ‘I heard him spouting his evil nonsense once, down in the Plough Inn in North Gate Street. There were several of them in there, gabbing about free will and the right of every man to choose his own salvation. Fair makes me sick now, though then I had not seen the light of God’s will and knew no better.’

  ‘Do you know of any more like him in the city?’

  ‘I used to hear others, but I never knew their names, back in the days when I was too ignorant to care. If I spotted any now, I’d be straight around to the proctors to denounce them!’

  He banged an empty pot angrily on the table, and John marvelled at the change that the prospect of hellfire had on the elderly when they felt that they were soon to come face to face with the Almighty.

  ‘What about in the countryside – are these heretics confined to the towns?’ he asked.

  Edwin scowled, his dead eye wandering horribly out of line with the good one. ‘The bastards are everywhere these days, Sir John! My sisters live out in a village and even there they tell me that some men and even a woman or two refuse to attend the church. They have heard that they meet secretly in a barn, but I don’t know if that’s true.’

  John was willing to clutch at any straw that might further his investigation and asked Edwin where his sisters lived.

  ‘In Ide, Crowner, just a couple of miles outside the city. It’s a scandal that their parish priest doesn’t do something about it, but he’s a drunken sot who can hardly read.’

  Just then, Martha bustled in through the back door and Edwin limped away, trying to look busy.

  ‘What nonsense has that old fool been stuffing you with, Sir John?’ she asked, but with a smile on her face. ‘Since he’s taken up religion, that’s all he talks about. He’ll end up as a bishop before he’s seventy.’

  ‘They say that only fools and children speak the truth, Martha. I pick up useful information in some of the most unlikely places.’ He turned down her usual offer of food, pleading that he must go home and eat whatever Mary had prepared that night, though Gwyn’s buxom wife was also an excellent cook.

  �
��How’s that husband of mine behaving himself, Sir John?’ she demanded. ‘I hope his new passion for brewing ale isn’t keeping him from his proper tasks.’ She was eternally grateful for de Wolfe’s generosity in given them the tenancy of the Bush, which gave them a far better home than the decrepit cottage they had rented in St Sidwell’s.

  The coroner reassured her that his officer was as diligent as ever, but as they were going through a quiet patch in their duties, apart from this murder, Gwyn was quite welcome to spend time in his brewing-shed, especially if he produced such good ale as today’s batch.

  With her thanks ringing in his ears, he left for home and another sullen session at the supper table with Matilda. As he reached his front door, he glanced at the neighbouring house, hoping to see the lissom shape of a far more attractive woman that his wife, but there was no sign of Cecilia and with a sigh he went inside to face the bane of his life.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In which John decides against

  an investigation

  ‘I thought there was something I’d missed, Crowner,’ said Thomas next morning. They were in their usual place in the bleak tower room of the gatehouse, though thankfully the cold weather had moderated and instead there was a thin drizzle borne on a westerly wind.

  John looked at his clerk from under his black brows. Gwyn, perched on his window ledge, waited expectantly.

  ‘That man in the plague pit, the one who wasn’t yellow,’ continued Thomas obscurely. ‘I got only a glimpse of his dead face and I failed to make the connection then, as I was intrigued by the difference between him and the other victims.’

  ‘What connection?’ demanded de Wolfe, convinced now that his clerk was becoming as long-winded as Gwyn.

  ‘I had seen him before, only the previous day. It had slipped my mind, but he was the man who was preaching heresy in the street at Carfoix.’

  ‘So what? Even a religious crank is allowed to catch the plague!’ grunted Gwyn, scratching at a flea bite on his thigh.