A Plague of Heretics (16 page)

‘Sir John, you are most welcome.’ She waved him in and he went into their hall, which was well furnished and better lit than his own, with a large fire flaming in the firepit and a series of tallow-dips flickering in sconces around the walls.

‘I am afraid my husband is not here, though he said he will be early this evening as he wishes to attend a special service at the cathedral. It seems that one of the canons is to preach a sermon on the dangers of heresy,’ she added with a wry smile.

The doctor’s wife looked as attractive as always, slender and erect, with a crisp linen head-cloth and a silken gorget covering her throat up to her chin. She offered him refreshment, which he gravely declined.

‘I was hoping to see him to ask his professional advice,’ said John and went on to tell her of his brother being stricken by the yellow distemper. Cecilia seemed genuinely upset by his news, holding her fingers to her lips in a gesture of concern.

‘Your only brother? That is desperately sad,’ she said solicitously, reaching out to lay a consoling hand gently on his arm. Her maid lurked in the background, resolutely chaperoning her mistress. As if in answer to her suspicions, there was a noise from the outer vestibule and the girl hurried out to meet her master, who had just arrived.

Clement of Salisbury handed her his cloak and broad-brimmed pilgrim’s hat and came into the hall, looking slightly startled as he saw the tall, looming figure of his neighbour. Cecilia started forward, but John noticed that she did not give him a welcome embrace. Instead, she launched into the reason for him being there.

‘Sir John has grave tidings, Clement! His brother, the Lord of Stoke and Holcombe, has been stricken by this plague.’

The physician made sympathetic noises and declared how mortified Sir John must be at the news.

‘He is still alive but looks dreadfully sick,’ said John.

‘You have seen him?’ asked Clement, apparently surprised.

‘Only a few hours ago – I have just returned from his bedside.’

‘Is there anything we can do to help you?’ offered the physician.

‘I would be very grateful if you would come with me tomorrow to see if you can do anything for my brother. I would naturally pay whatever fee you desire.’

From his previous conversations with the doctor, John expected a polite refusal, but he was confounded by Clement’s answer.

‘Tomorrow? I think I could manage that, though I would have to desert several of my patients. There is no question of a fee, Sir John; you are my neighbour.’

As the coroner made a rapid revision of his opinion of the physician, they agreed on the details of a late start next morning, then John took his leave, with profound thanks to Clement and a stiff bow to Cecilia.

‘I will pray for your brother and your whole family,’ she murmured as she followed him to the front door, which the maid opened for him.

He went out into the lane and took a few steps towards his own house, then stopped. Making a sudden decision, he swung around and strode off towards the High Street.

Later that evening the coroner walked down to the Bush, with his old hound weaving ahead of him, enjoying the smells of the odorous Exeter streets. In the tavern he sat with Gwyn at his usual table by the fire, as though the icy weather had moderated it was still a chilly, windswept night and he was glad of the warmth.

By the time Edwin had brought them a quart mug apiece, Thomas appeared, summoned by Gwyn at John’s request after returning from Stoke. Almost by habit, the priest sidled into the inn as if entering a den of sin, though he had been there innumerable times before, especially when mothered by Nesta, during his worst period before being restored to the priesthood. Settled with a cup of cider, he asked solicitously after William de Wolfe and fervently promised to pray for his recovery.

‘Afterwards, I went up to seek advice from Richard Lustcote and he immediately agreed to come down to Stoke tomorrow with the doctor to see William.’

Lustcote was the senior of the three Exeter apothecaries, who had a shop in North Street. From past experience, John held a high opinion of him, both as a man of integrity and as a good apothecary. Like Clement of Salisbury, he had warned John that there was very little he could do, except perhaps to alleviate some of the symptoms, but he was willing to make the long ride to Stoke for the sake of his friendship with de Wolfe.

John then got down to business, glad to have something to take his mind off his personal problems for a while.

‘Gwyn has discovered something about the heretics, Thomas. It seems that one group holds covert meetings not far from the city. Did you glean any more from the cathedral?’

‘Not so much about the blasphemers themselves, master, but I did pick up some facts about the people who are determined to stop them.’

He hunched closer across the table, as if he was about to disclose some state secrets. ‘The three canons who are the prime movers in this matter are very keen indeed to extirpate any deviation from the rule of Rome. Some of my vicar friends even say that they are totally obsessed by what they see as a crusade.’

‘So why have they chosen to start their crusade now?’ asked John. ‘Surely these critics of the Church have been around for a long time.’

Thomas wiped a drop from the tip of his sharp nose with the back of his hand. The cold weather affected him and he was always sniffing and wheezing. ‘Robert de Baggetor spent some time in Aquitaine and Toulouse a year ago, and when he came back it seems he was full of outrage about the rise of the Albigensian heresy in that region. Then he began hearing reports of men with similar sympathies in this county and tried to persuade the bishop to act against them.’

Gwyn yawned and banged his pot on the table to attract Edwin’s attention. He was a man of action and Thomas’s tales tended to send him to sleep. De Wolfe, however, was keen to learn more.

‘I take it that Henry Marshal had more important things on his mind, like plotting with Prince John to oust King Richard?’

Thomas shrugged. ‘Probably, but as de Baggetor could raise little enthusiasm in the bishop’s palace, he started a campaign of his own. He found two other canons of a like mind and they have been using the proctors’ bailiffs to do their spying for them.’

‘We know all that already,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘What we need to know is who is likely to have snuffed out the woodcarver and possibly the man you saw in the plague pit.’

De Wolfe ignored his officer’s grumble and jabbed a long finger at his clerk. ‘So what are they going to do about it now?’ he asked. ‘They’ve lost the man who they were going to haul up before the bishop’s court. Are there any others under suspicion?’

Thomas bobbed his head. ‘So it seems! They have this list of names which we copied and their bailiffs are actively seeking more. They say they know that several groups meet for discussions and to hold their own type of sacrilegious services. They wish to catch them red-handed.’

This stimulated Gwyn to take more interest. ‘If I could learn of one of these meetings just from visiting a couple of taverns, then the proctors’ men can do the same.’

‘Have you got that list with you, Thomas?’ demanded John.

The clerk scrabbled under his cloak for the pouch on his belt and took out a folded scrap of parchment. ‘A dozen names on it, Crowner,’ he said, smoothing out the piece of thin sheepskin on the table. ‘They mean nothing to me, I must admit.’

‘Let’s hear them,’ commanded the coroner. ‘Maybe Gwyn can recognise someone from his tour of the alehouses.’

Thomas began to read out the twelve names, and Gwyn halted him after the fifth.

‘Adam of Dunsford! I recall that name, not from a tavern, but from a jury I assembled, just before we went off to London.’

‘Why would you recall that particular juror from scores of others?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘Because he never became a juror – the night before the inquest, he slipped and broke his foot. I had to find someone else to make up the numbers.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Alphington, on the other side of the river. He was a fishmonger, I remember. He had a stall on West Street.’

Thomas read the remaining names and the very last one was familiar to John himself.

‘Wait, I know that name! Hengist of Wonford, accused of stealing a chalice from a church. He came before the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery last year, but was acquitted. I recall him because of that strange Saxon name.’

‘His parents must have been familiar with the works of the Venerable Bede to give him a name like that,’ said Thomas wryly, but his historical allusion was lost on the other two.

‘So we can find two of these heretics, if they haven’t already been assassinated!’ observed Gwyn.

‘Why do we need them?’ objected the clerk. ‘It’s the killer we need to find.’

De Wolfe sided with his officer. ‘They might know something about who is harassing them most severely. Some may have had death threats, for all we know.’

After more discussion, the coroner finally decided to seek out the two named men in the morning, before he rode off again to Stoke-in-Teignhead with the physician and the apothecary.

West Street was the continuation of Fore Street, as it sloped downhill towards the West Gate from the crossroads at Carfoix. The top end was lined with the stalls and booths of tradesmen, varying from exposed trestle tables to tent-like erections of brightly striped canvas. All manner of goods were on display, though food was the mainstay of this part of the market. Meat which still dripped blood hung on the butchers’ stalls, fresh from The Shambles at the top end of South Gate Street, where the slaughterers felled cattle, sheep and pigs at the edge of the road. Many other traders offered vegetables, though the range was limited at this time of year, mainly root crops and cabbage. Between the stalls, women – many of them aged crones – crouched over baskets of eggs or had a few live chickens or a goose trussed at their feet. This early part of the morning was the busiest, as the cooks, house-servants and the city’s wives were all out shopping for the day’s provisions and the roads were thronged with people. Though the fear of plague was almost palpable, the townsfolk still had to buy the makings of their meals.

The coroner’s trio were looking for a fishmonger and they found a choice of four or five. Enquiries took them to a burly, red-faced man who stood behind a table carrying flat trays of fish, some still flapping feebly. Wicker baskets on the ground held other larger fish, as well as eels, crayfish and mussels.

One look told him that a Norman knight, a priest and a red-headed giant were not there to buy fish. Frowning, he finished dealing with a customer, putting ten herrings in the bowl she held out, in exchange for half a penny-piece.

‘You are Adam of Dunsford?’ asked John as soon as the woman had moved away. The fish-man nodded and wiped his hands on his apron, a length of once-white linen now soiled with fish blood and entrails.

‘And you are the coroner, sir,’ he answered civilly. ‘You are very well known in the city.’

De Wolfe checked to make sure that no one was standing nearby, as this was business that need not be shouted abroad. He lowered his voice a little.

‘We have seen your name on a certain list held by the cathedral authorities,’ he began. ‘That is no concern of mine, except that it may lead me to discover who might have killed Nicholas Budd. I presume that name means something to you?’

The weather-beaten face clouded over, and he became instantly suspicious. ‘I know that the poor fellow met a terrible death,’ he said cautiously. ‘But what business is it of mine?’

John leaned across the table, his fists avoiding fish scales and blood.

‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Adam. We both know you are on the Church’s list of suspected heretics. Budd is dead and we suspect that Vincente d’Estcote may be another. Do you know anything about his death?’

The fishmonger looked furtively from side to side, as if he was afraid that Bishop Marshal might be lurking in the pastry-cook’s booth next door. ‘Vincente just vanished from his lodgings; no one saw him go,’ he muttered. ‘He was in good health an hour before, because I saw him myself.’

‘He was one of your group, was he?’ asked de Wolfe, but Adam shook his head.

‘No, he subscribed to the beliefs of the Cathars. He had been in the king’s army and had spent time down in France.’

‘So what are you, man?’ demanded John. ‘You may as well answer, you admit you knew him.’

Adam drew in a deep breath, as if committing himself to an irrevocable decision. ‘I follow the ways of Pelagius – and I am not alone in that.’

Thomas in his surprise and disbelief made a noise almost like a mouse’s squeak. ‘A Pelagian! There have been no Pelagians for six centuries!’

Adam regarded the priest placidly. ‘It has been revived by many, even if not in name. The principles are well known, and those who disagree with the dictatorship of Rome come together to discuss the True Way.’ He held his dirty hands out towards the clerk as if inviting him to put bonds upon them. ‘Now you may denounce me, if you wish.’

Thomas seemed nonplussed for once and looked to the coroner for support. ‘I am here as an assistant to an officer of the King’s Peace. I leave Church discipline to others.’

De Wolfe nodded his agreement. ‘I am investigating a murder, Adam, not doing the Pope’s work for him. You might be more at risk from whoever killed those men than from the bishop’s court. Have you any idea who might have wished them dead?’