A Plague of Heretics (18 page)

‘Did you know what kind of heretic he was?’ asked John. ‘I understand from my learned clerk that there are a number of different beliefs.’

‘We argued about predestination, free will and the right of any man to communicate with God without the intervention of a priest. He claimed that all worldly manifestations are innately evil. Such dangerous nonsense must mean that he sympathises with these bloody French Cathars.’

De Wolfe was there to investigate a murder and now a missing man, rather than debate theology, about which he was sublimely indifferent and ignorant.

‘So as far as you know, there is no cell of heretics within this village?’

Patrick shook his bull-like head, the dewlaps under his chin shaking vigorously. ‘Not in my parish, Crowner! Having one evil bastard is more than enough – and I have dealt with him, through the Church.’

‘But where do you think he’s gone?’ demanded Gwyn.

‘Run away, that’s what! He knew he had to face the God-given power of the Church next week, so he’s taken the coward’s way out and run off

John thought of the drag-marks on the cottage floor and doubted that Hengist had left voluntarily. There was nothing more to be learned from the priest, and they made their way back to Exeter, leaving instructions with Robert the bailiff that he should send them word if Hengist was found, dead or alive.

They called in at Rougemont before going home for dinner and found Thomas there, carrying a message that there had been two deaths reported in the city, one a fatal brawl in the Saracen Inn, the roughest tavern in Exeter. The other was a body recovered from the river at Exe Island, too decomposed to be recognised.

‘They’ll have to wait until Monday, as it’s Sunday tomorrow, but you get down there, Gwyn,’ he ordered. ‘Get details and the names of those who will be First Finders and who must form a jury for the inquests.’

‘I thought I was coming with you to Stoke?’ objected his officer.

‘Clement the physician and Richard Lustcote are riding with me. I don’t know about the doctor, but the apothecary is big and fit and can use a sword if we are waylaid by outlaws. The coroner’s duties have to be attended to until I get back.’

After another silent meal with a sullen wife, John prepared to leave to visit his sick brother. This time, as speed was not an issue, he took Odin from the stables and, as arranged, met Clement there, who took out his fine grey gelding. As they rode away down West Street, John noted again, with some surprise and admiration, that Clement was a fine horseman; controlling the frisky grey with considerable skill.

They met up with the apothecary at the West Gate. Lustcote was a tall man, grey-haired and with a calm nature, who never became flustered. He was the city’s favourite apothecary, with a flourishing business that employed a journeyman and two apprentices.

Clement seemed a little surprised at seeing that a mere ‘pill-pusher’ was to accompany them, but he was civil enough to him as they rode towards the coast. Once again John forced himself to trot through Dawlish without calling on Hilda. He hoped that his quick passage through the village would not be reported to her, as she might think that he was shunning her if she did not know of the plague in Stoke-in-Teignhead, though on reflection it was unlikely that her family in Holcombe would not have been unaware of it, as William was also their manor-lord.

They reached Stoke without problems and found his brother in much the same condition as the previous day. There had been no more cases of the plague in the village and none of those who were ill had died.

‘He murmurs fretfully in his sleep now and then,’ reported Enyd. ‘He is still so hot, his forehead feels as if it is on fire.’

Clement examined the victim patiently, now apparently indifferent to the fear of contagion, looking into his yellowed eyes and feeling his pulse. He timed William’s rapid, shallow breathing with a tiny sandglass he carried in his scrip, then examined a sample of his urine collected in a small glass vial. Holding it up against the light of a candle, for it was now dusk, he shook it and smelled it.

‘Very thick and dark,’ he commented, almost to himself.

Turning to John’s mother and sister, he advised them to try to force more watered ale down the patient’s throat. ‘I know it’s difficult, but he needs to flush out the poisons from his system. Don’t use wine; that merely dries him up.’

Richard Lustcote also examined William and then had a murmured discussion with the physician, both of them seemingly amicable professional colleagues in spite of their differing status.

With a last sad look at his suffering brother, John went with the others into the hall and sat down to a good meal. When his mother and sister had forced food into them almost to bursting point, they sat around the fire with cups of wine.

The doctor and the apothecary did their best to reassure the family that all that could be done was being done. Clement emphasised the power of prayer and fell into an earnest conversation with Evelyn, who was very religious and who had wanted to take the veil herself.

Lustcote stuck to the medical aspects, speaking to John and his mother. ‘I only wish there was more I can do. As we have no idea what causes this distemper, there is no rational way to treat it. I can leave some herbs and drugs to soothe him and try to abate his fever, but it is your nursing and love that will be the best treatment.’

Evelyn, a plump woman, thanked them both with tears in her eyes. ‘Does the fact that no one else in the village has since caught this vile disease – and no more of those who are now sick have died – give us hope that it is abating?’ she asked hopefully.

Richard was cautious in his reply, but had not the heart to deny her clutching at straws. ‘It may be so, lady. It seems that after the first few days the contagion does not pass so easily from one person to another. I most sincerely hope so!’ he added with feeling, as they were all at risk.

In the morning little had changed, but William opened his eyes properly for a few moments and briefly seemed to take in his surroundings, before lapsing again into a troubled, mumbling sleep. Clement again checked his pulse and breathing and tried to get another urine sample, but failed.

‘His main problem is in not passing enough water,’ he repeated. ‘Do all you can to force drink into him – spring water, diluted cider or ale, anything to flush out whatever evil humour is infecting his body.’

When there was no more they could do or say, they rode away, leaving a grateful and more hopeful family to wave them off.

The following afternoon, the second Sunday in November, the Feast of St Martin, four men sat huddled on the bank of the River Exe, a mile upstream from the city wall. They looked as if they were fishing, but in fact only one had bothered to bait his hook. This was Adam of Dunsford and, as a fishmonger, he felt it was incumbent on him to at least try to catch a fish.

Two of the other men were from Ide, a mile away, and the last one was from further afield near Crediton, a small town a few miles to the north. They met in what they hoped was the least noticeable gathering, just four fishermen whiling away a Sunday afternoon in the most innocent of pastimes. All they needed for camouflage was a short pole, with a length of twine attached to the end to dangle in the brown waters of the river.

As usual, they debated their faith at these meetings, but today there were also more pressing matters on the agenda.

‘I had the coroner after me two days ago,’ said Adam. ‘He wants to attend our meeting tomorrow.’

‘And bring men-at-arms to arrest us, I suppose,’ said Peter, a thin man with tousled red hair, a shepherd from Ide.

‘No, he seemed to have no interest in our faith. He said he was concerned only in solving the murder of Nicholas – and possibly that of Vincente.’

‘Was he really killed?’ asked Oliver. He was the third man, a small, puny fellow with a face like a weasel. ‘I heard today from a carter that one of the Cathars has vanished from Wonford.’

‘What’s happening to us all? Will we be hanged after this inquisition next week?’ Peter’s voice was tremulous, as he felt the grip of Rome tightening around them.

Adam shook his head and jiggled his hook in the water. ‘They have little power to do anything. I have read something about their disciplinary methods. We can be excommunicated, sure – but we have already done that voluntarily.’

A literate fishmonger was something of a rarity in the West Country, but when young, Adam had had a year’s schooling.

‘These bloody proctors have summoned us all to the bishop’s palace next week, so what can we expect from that?’ persisted Oliver. ‘In spite of what you say, Adam, I fear for my neck.’

‘All we can do is pray for God’s mercy,’ said the fourth man, who was much older, with a rim of white hair around his bald head. He was Jordan Cosse from Ide, a free smallholder who scratched a living from two cows, some pigs and geese. ‘The early Christians died in their thousands for their faith, when it was still untainted by scheming and corruption, so we should not fear dying for our beliefs.’

The others did not seem so sanguine about sacrificing themselves, but they held their tongues.

‘Let’s see what this John de Wolfe has to say tomorrow,’ said Adam eventually. ‘For some reason, I trust him. I have heard he is an honourable man and is not in the pocket of the cathedral. Perhaps he can tell us what powers the priests have over us.’

Unexpectedly, he felt a pull on his rod and for a few moments theology gave way to piscatology.

While the furtive opponents of the Pope’s hegemony were trying to land a bream on the bank of the Exe, another meeting was taking place in the chapter house attached to the south side of the cathedral. This was an old two-storeyed timber building, though plans were afoot for a new stone building on land the bishop had donated from his garden.

This meeting was not a regular session of the chapter, the governing body of the cathedral which met every morning. The ground-floor chamber, with its circle of benches and raised lectern, was being used for a small private meeting of senior priests. The three canons who were pursuing the issue of heresy were the prime movers, and they had co-opted a rather reluctant John de Alençon. As the archdeacon responsible for the Exeter area, as well as being the bishop’s vicar-general, he felt obliged to attend and also hoped that he might be able to dampen down any overenthusiasm on the part of the others. The bishop was represented by his chaplain, his secretary and a deacon, who, though in lower orders, was more a lawyer than a cleric.

They sat on a couple of benches pulled around to face each other, the three canons on one side, the rest on the other. The archdeacon thought irreverently that in their black cassocks they all looked like crows sitting on a pair of fences.

‘So who is to officiate on Wednesday?’ asked Ralph de Hospitali.

‘His Grace will be away, attending a meeting in Wells,’ announced his secretary, a prim young cleric with a pasty face and pimples. ‘So the archdeacon, as the bishop’s vicar-general, will lead the proceedings.’

‘Our Brother in Christ John is the obvious choice,’ announced Richard fitz Rogo heavily.

De Alençon groaned inwardly but accepted that he had no alternative but to accept his obligations, even if it meant listening to these ranting bigots for a few hours. Immediately, he felt ashamed of his unworthy thoughts and determined to make confession as soon as possible.

‘How many of these men are to be brought before the enquiry?’ he asked in a resigned voice.

‘Four at present, from this coven of blasphemers in Ide,’ answered fitz Rogo.

‘And how are these men to be persuaded to come before us?’

‘Gale and Blundus will be sent to warn them the day before,’ snapped Robert de Baggetor. ‘They know that failure to appear will lead to their arrest by the sheriffs men.’

‘How can that be brought about?’ asked the chaplain, an ambitious young man from a noble family, who saw being the bishop’s acolyte a useful stepping stone to his political ambitions.

‘The
Ab Abolendum
makes it clear that the secular powers must give every assistance to the Church in stamping out heresy,’ retorted de Baggetor.

‘And where are we to conduct this interrogation?’ asked the archdeacon wearily.

‘This chapter house seems the most convenient,’ responded fitz Rogo. ‘No one uses it in the afternoon.’

‘That does not seem appropriate,’ objected de Alençon. ‘This is the business of the diocese, not the cathedral. Bishop’s courts are held in the palace, surely.’

Ralph de Hospitali waved a hand impatiently. ‘We must not quibble over such details! Heresy is undermining the whole of the Holy Roman Church, so whether it is the diocese or the chapter that fights it seems immaterial!’

There was a murmur of agreement around the benches. ‘This is just a preliminary inquisition, not the trial,’ volunteered the deacon, keen on airing his legal knowledge. ‘But when it comes to definitively trying these creatures, then I agree with the archdeacon that it must be within the bishop’s precinct. Perhaps we might even persuade him to officiate,’ he added wistfully.

Robert de Baggetor leaned forward. ‘These are but four men, though we all know that the poison spreads far more widely. Two of the men on my list are already dead, for the Lord has struck them down, one by murder, the other by the yellow plague. But there must be many more, hiding under stones like slugs and toads.’