A Plague of Heretics (30 page)

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 pushed 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.’

John shook his head at his clerk’s enthusiasm. ‘You came very near to death, Thomas. I am amazed that you have recovered so quickly. But do not strain your good fortune. You must rest until you feel quite well again. Gwyn and I can manage, though I admit we miss your prowess with a pen and parchment.’

Thomas wriggled with happy embarrassment at this rare praise, then went on to enquire after William de Wolfe’s health.

‘I am riding down there to see him after dinner and will be back tomorrow morning,’ replied John. ‘I fear that when I last saw him he had not made your miraculous recovery, but your progress gives me more hope.’

‘Brother Saulf was also surprised by the way the fever subsided and my colour faded,’ said the clerk. ‘Unfortunately, two of those poor people in here who also had the yellow curse died, but five more are recovering, two almost as rapidly as myself. The ways of the Almighty are certainly mysterious.’

John grunted. ‘It’s bloody mysterious why He sends the plague in the first place!’ he muttered, but not wanting to offend his clerk’s deep religious feelings he changed the subject and told Thomas all that had happened down on the quayside.

‘No doubt the cathedral will be clamouring for the release of these two scurrilous bastards who fomented the riot,’ he concluded.

‘I know of that monk Alan de Bere,’ said Thomas. ‘There is no doubt that his mind is unhinged, poor fellow. He was ejected from St Nicholas Priory several years ago for beating up another brother over some obscure point of religious belief. It was not the first offence, it seems, for he was originally in the mother house at Battle, but was posted out of there for some such similar offence.’

‘What about this Reginald Rugge?’ asked the coroner. ‘Do you know anything of him?’ Thomas was usually a mine of information about all things ecclesiastical, but this time he had little to impart.

‘I know the name and have seen him about the town – but your wife might know more, for he has some connection with St Olave’s. He helps the priest keep the place in order and assists in a lowly way at the Mass. I think he actually lives in a hut at the back of the church.’

They talked for a little while longer, though de Wolfe was a poor sick visitor, never knowing what to say. Thomas told him that the monks at St John’s had kept abreast of the outbreaks of plague in the locality, and it seemed that no new cases had been reported for a few days, raising hopes that the present epidemic might be over.

He left the priory after seeking out Brother Saulf to thank him for his care of Thomas and leaving some more money as a thank-offering, then went up to Rougemont. Here he found Gwyn playing dice in the guard-room with Sergeant Gabriel and a couple of soldiers. They chatted for a few minutes about the drama down on the quayside the previous day, and Gabriel confirmed that the
Saint Augustine
had sailed on the tide with the fugitives without any further interference.

‘What about those two troublemakers you have in the undercroft?’ asked the coroner.

‘Ha! The cathedral have already demanded their release,’ growled the sergeant disgustedly. ‘Some lawyer fellow from the cathedral is with the sheriff at this very minute.’

Hearing this, de Wolfe hurried across the inner ward to the keep and clattered up the wooden steps to the high entrance door. In the sheriffs chamber he found the weaselly deacon from the bishop’s palace seated across the table from Henry de Furnellis. The sheriff looked relieved to see the coroner walk in.

‘John, I’m glad to see you! It seems that the cathedral want me to release those two instigators of yesterday’s riotous assembly.’