A Plague of Heretics

CHAPTER NINE

Having left at dawn, the coroner and his officer were back in Exeter soon after the cathedral bells tolled for High Mass in mid-morning. Gwyn went straight to his family and another large breakfast at the Bush, while John went up to Rougemont. He had not seen the sheriff for a few days and felt he should tell him of yet another murder, that of Hengist of Wonford.

‘What in God’s name is going on, John?’ exclaimed Henry de Furnellis as they sat on each side of his cluttered table. ‘Three heretics slain in a week? By whom?’

De Wolfe turned up his hands in a gesture of bafflement. ‘Someone is taking the law into their own hands, not trusting the Church or the king to deal with these people,’ he growled. ‘These three canons are the obvious suspects, but I can’t see them getting blood on their own hands in such a barbaric fashion.’

‘Are they getting someone else to do their dirty work?’ queried the sheriff. ‘What about these two proctors’ men?’

‘William Blundus is ruffian enough, I suppose,’ answered the coroner. ‘He is used to throwing drunks out of the Close and beating a few hooligans with his staff when the occasion arises. The senior bailiff is Herbert Gale, a more serious fellow altogether. But why should two men who are little more than constables or beadles take to murdering heretics?’

Henry, whose main concern was getting in Devonshire’s taxes, was content to leave the problem to de Wolfe, but the latter reminded him what Thomas had told him about the Papal decretal.

‘Our good friend and master Hubert Walter has sent a reminder to all the bishops about the need to stamp out heresy. My clerk Thomas tells me that we secular officers — and that especially means you, Henry — are obliged to give all necessary aid to the ecclesiastical authorities in detecting, securing and punishing these blasphemers. So we may not get out of this situation so lightly.’

De Furnellis sighed and pulled a face. ‘You certainly know how to cheer me up, John! I need no distractions to scraping together the county farm, after this year’s awful harvest.’

‘We may have little choice after tomorrow, when they hold the first of these inquisitions,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘They are dragging in a handful of so-called heretics for interrogation and, if they are sent to the bishop’s court, they may well call upon you to deal with them.’

John left the sheriff muttering under his breath at these extra labours likely to be piled upon him and went back to his chamber high in the gatehouse. He expected to find Thomas there, labouring away with his pen, ink and parchment, but there was no sign of the little priest, and John assumed he was either at one of the interminable services in the cathedral or working in the scriptorium on the upper floor of the chapter house.

With no new deaths reported and no hangings to attend that day, he felt rather at a loose end, so he settled down to a boring hour before dinner, trying to follow the reading lessons that Thomas had set him. He had been coached on and off for a year or so, by a vicar-choral from the cathedral, but had made little progress. Then Thomas had taken over, but their move to Westminster earlier that year had dislocated his tuition and he was no further forward, mainly from a lack of enthusiasm on his part.

He sat staring at a few curled sheets of parchment on which Thomas had carefully inscribed the Latin alphabet and some simple sentences, but his mind kept straying to Stoke-in-Teignhead and the vision of his brother lying so desperately ill on his bed. He found himself praying again, ill-formed words muttered under his breath, but nevertheless sincere in their plea to whoever was up above in heaven, asking him to deliver William from danger.

His lessons ignored, he sat gazing into space until the noon bell from the cathedral told him it was past dinner-time. Back in Martin’s Lane, he endured another silent meal with Matilda, after he had told her of his brother’s desperate condition and she had grudgingly admitted that she had prayed for his recovery or, if that was too much to ask of God, for the salvation of William’s soul.

‘I also hear that there is another outbreak of the plague down on Exe Island,’ she added in a rare burst of loquacity. ‘Not surprising, with such people living in those squalid shacks that dot the marshes there.’

He felt like telling her that not everyone had such a soft life as her, with a relatively rich husband, her own income bequeathed by her father from the de Revelle estates and a substantial house to live in. But he held his tongue, preferring silence to provoking another tirade.

News of a fresh attack of the yellow disease was worrying. He had begun to hope that the present sporadic epidemic had burned itself out. So far, about twenty people had died in the city, and the fear and tension that this engendered could be felt as he walked the streets. People seemed more bent and furtive as they hurried along, as if keeping inconspicuous lessened the danger of contagion.

After the meal, Matilda clumped up the outer stairs to the solar to take her usual postprandial rest until it was time for her to go again to St Olave’s. John took a quart of ale and sat near his beloved stone hearth, nudging Brutus away with his foot so that he could be nearer the warmth from the glowing logs.

He had plenty to think about, as he stared into the flames. Apart from his brother’s desperate condition, he was frustrated by the lack of progress on the heretic killings. There seemed nothing to grasp hold of in his search — the heretics themselves had no idea who was preying upon them and the only possible suspects, the canons, seemed too improbable a target to be seriously considered. The only people he had not questioned now were the two proctors’ men, and for want of any other inspiration he decided to seek them out this very afternoon.

When he had finished his ale, he whistled to his old hound and went out into the lane, shrugging on his grey wolfskin cloak, though he found that the cold had moderated considerably as a dense mist had descended upon the city. When he went into the Close, the bulk of the cathedral was shrouded in fog, the tops of the great towers lost in a grey blanket.

The proctors’ bailiffs had a small building alongside St Mary’s Church, which was little more than a room for them to sit over a brazier and three cells with barred doors for incarcerating miscreants, most often drunks or aggressive beggars making a nuisance of themselves in the cathedral precincts — though occasionally it was someone in holy orders who was locked up.

De Wolfe rapped on the outer door and pushed it open, telling Brutus to stay outside. In the bare chamber he found Herbert Gale sitting at a rough table, eating from some food spread on a grubby piece of cloth. Half a loaf, a slab of hard yellow cheese and some strips of smoked pork appeared to be his late dinner. In one of the cells, a scarecrow of a man, dressed in rags and with filthy hair and a straggling beard, slumped on a slate shelf that did service as a bed. He was snoring like a hog and obviously sleeping off the effects of too much drink.

The cathedral constable got to his feet as he saw the coroner enter. Everyone in Exeter knew Sir John de Wolfe, though this particular citizen did not look too pleased to see him. About the same age as John, Gale was a thin, leathery man with a permanent expression of distaste, as if he disliked the world and all that was in it. He wore a long tunic of black serge, with a thick leather belt carrying a dagger. His cropped iron-grey hair was uncovered indoors, but a helmet of thick black felt lay on the table, alongside a heavy wooden cudgel.

‘I came to talk to you and Blundus about these so-called heretics,’ announced John without any preamble.

‘They are heretics, coroner, not “so-called”,’ retorted Gale. ‘And William Blundus is out about his duties.’

De Wolfe’s black eyebrows rose. ‘So they have been judged ahead of tomorrow’s enquiry, have they?’

‘If Canon Robert, who is a proctor and my master, thinks they are heretics, that’s good enough for me, sir!’ growled the bailiff.

John was not inclined to bandy words with a constable.

‘I have no interest in their religious leanings, Gale. I am investigating two, probably three, murders. All of men you must have known.’

‘What do you want from me, Crowner?’ asked Gale suspiciously. ‘This is a cathedral matter; we are independent of you in the castle and the borough.’

De Wolfe crashed his fist on to the table, making the remnants of Gale’s dinner scatter on the cloth.

‘Don’t try to tell me my business, man!’ he shouted. ‘Firstly, these deaths took place well away from the cathedral precinct. And in any event, Bishop Marshal long ago agreed that serious crimes against the person are within the purview of the king’s law, whether they are committed in or out of his territory.’

The bailiff remained silent, as when angry de Wolfe was not a man to be argued with.

‘Now then, what dealings have you had with these dead men?’ snapped the coroner.

‘We received reports about them, starting some weeks ago. I passed these on to one of the proctors, as is my duty.’

‘What sort of reports?’

‘Accusations that they were either preaching sedition against the Church or that they were acting in some blasphemous manner. We have had many more such suspicions, not just about those who are either dead or will face the canons tomorrow.’ He said this last with an expression of smug satisfaction, but just then the door opened and a large man burst in, already in full flow.

‘Herbert, I’ve found another of the bastards …’

His voice trailed off as he saw that Gale was not alone. Blundus was a powerful, pugnacious fellow, almost the size of Gwyn, but younger and darker. A short, thick neck supported a head like a large turnip, with small eyes and a flat nose that reminded John of a pig.

‘The coroner wants to know about those dead blasphemers,’ said Gale, a warning note in his voice.

‘Best thing that ever happened to ’em!’ snarled Blundus. ‘Saves everyone the trouble of a hanging.’

De Wolfe controlled his temper with an effort. ‘When did you last see them? Let’s start with Nicholas Budd.’

Herbert Gale replied quickly, afraid of his partner’s intemperate mouth. ‘We warned him of this enquiry tomorrow and told him that if he didn’t attend we would come for him. But he died before that.’

‘And Vincente d’Estcote, the porter from Bretayne?’

‘The same thing. We knew of his attendance at that barn near Ide, and the canons said to add him to the list. But he vanished, and I’m told he caught the plague.’

‘God’s retribution for forsaking Him,’ muttered Blundus, but closed his mouth after a poisonous glance from Herbert.

The coroner could see that he would get very little help from these men, but he had to persist.

‘And what about Hengist of Wonford? I suppose you know he’s been killed as well?’

Gale nodded. ‘Blundus here went out several days ago to give him a final warning for tomorrow, but he’d vanished as well. Now we hear he’s been stabbed.’

‘And you say you know nothing at all about their deaths?’ rasped John.

‘Why should we?’ growled Blundus sullenly. ‘We are but messengers in this, doing our masters’ bidding, as is our job.’

The coroner scowled at the two men, for it was like pulling teeth to try to get information from them.

‘How did you go about discovering those you suspect of non-conformity with the tenets of the Church?’ he asked.

From the blank look on Blundus’s face, he failed to understand, but the more educated Herbert Gale responded testily.

‘Surely that is a cathedral matter, not part of a coroner’s remit!’

John fixed him with an icy glare. ‘Nothing is exempt in the search for a murderer. You seem keen on gathering folk for interrogation — so how would you both like to share a cell in Rougemont’s gaol until your tongues are loosened?’

The expression on de Wolfe’s face convinced the two men that this was no idle threat.

‘We kept our eyes and ears open,’ growled Herbert Gale. ‘And the proctors gave us some funds to encourage others to do the same.’

‘You mean you paid spies and informers?’

‘Why not? Any means justify the end in doing God’s work, which here was through the decretals issued by Rome.’

John realised that Gale was not only sanctimonious but had some education, certainly more than the coroner himself. He questioned them for a few more minutes but came to the conclusion that they knew — or would not admit to — anything other than the names of heretical suspects, corresponding with the list that Herbert had given the canons, plus a few more recently collected.

He left them standing in sullen silence and had no doubt that they would soon be reporting his unwelcome interest to the three canons, but that was of no concern to him. Collecting Brutus from outside, he made his way back up to the castle in case any more deaths, rapes, fires or assaults had been notified, as usually such messages were left with the sentries in the guard-room in the gatehouse. There were none, and he hauled himself up the steep stairs to find Gwyn alone in the bare room overlooking the city.

‘Still no sign of Thomas?’ he asked, slightly annoyed that his clerk was absent, even though there was little work to be done.

‘Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him today,’ replied the Cornishman. ‘I suppose he’s scribbling away in that place above the chapter house.’

With a shrug, John sat down at his trestle table and Gwyn poured them each a mug of cider from a large jug standing on the floor. The jug was two-thirds empty and the remaining contents looked more like the bottom of a duckpond, with wreaths of turbid sediment swirling in the fluid. Neither man seemed bothered with this as they sat talking about the fog, which had thickened and had obscured most of the view from the slit windows. John thought about the road to Dawlish, which would be similarly blanketed by the sea-fret, which had rolled up the estuary of the Exe. That led his thoughts on to Stoke and his brother lying there so desperately ill. He must ride down there again tomorrow, the fog being no hindrance to a horse, but it might encourage the footpads who infested the roads to take advantage of its cover to surprise passing riders. Still, if Gwyn came with him again, they would be a match for all but the largest gangs.

He was distracted from his reverie by the sound of feet coming up the stairs, and a moment later the hessian draught-curtain was pulled aside and a hesitant face appeared.

‘The man-at-arms downstairs said I was to come up, sirs,’ said the visitor, whose projecting head bore the tonsure of someone in holy orders. His face looked vaguely familiar to John, but Gwyn recognised him.

‘You are the vicar who shares our Thomas’s lodgings in Priest Street,’ he boomed. ‘Come on in, we were wondering where the little fellow had got to.’

The cassock-clad young man came in and stood anxiously before them. ‘Not a vicar, sir, only a secondary. Arnold is my name. But yes, that’s why I came, for Thomas is sick and I did not know who else to tell.’

Both de Wolfe and Gwyn rose quickly to their feet, disturbed by the news. ‘What’s wrong with him, d’you know?’ demanded John.

‘He lies on his pallet, feverish and almost without words,’ gabbled Arnold. ‘I have been away for several days visiting my mother, so had not seen Thomas since Sunday, when he was quite well.’

De Wolfe grabbed his cloak and Gwyn was already making for the stairs, shrugging on the creased leather jerkin that he habitually wore. Within minutes, they had hurried down through the town to the street that housed many of the junior priests and clerks from the cathedral. Arnold led them into a narrow timber-framed house which was divided into a number of small rooms, in one of which they found Thomas de Peyne huddled on a hay-stuffed mattress on the floor. He was crouched under the coverlets, his back to the door.

‘He was shivering, so I put my blanket over him as well, before coming up to find you,’ said the secondary.

Gwyn, who was very fond of their little clerk, in spite of his endless teasing, squatted alongside the bed and put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

‘How are you, my friend?’ he said, with a gentleness at odds with his huge size. ‘Have you any pain?’

There was no response, so Gwyn gently rolled him over on to his back. ‘Oh, God, no!’ he whispered in an agonised voice as soon as he saw the priest’s face.

‘He must have caught it when he insisted on attending those burials,’ muttered John an hour later.

They were in St John’s Hospital, up near the East Gate, where they had examined the corpse of the slain woodcarver. As soon as they had seen the yellow staining of Thomas’s eyes, Gwyn had wrapped him in the blankets and carried him as effortlessly as a child up to the hospital, where Brother Saulf had taken him in without demur, even though his single ward was already overflowing, half the patients suffering from the yellow plague.

‘He’s a selfless little bastard, always putting others before himself,’ growled Gwyn, ignoring the fact that he had just carried a plague victim in his own arms halfway across the city. They were standing with the gaunt Benedictine monk alongside Thomas’s mattress, in a corner of the large room that now held three closely packed rows of sufferers. Thomas was half-conscious, moving restlessly under his blankets and muttering incoherently to himself. His face was flushed and sweating, but a lemon-yellow tinge was obvious when his fluttering lids revealed his eyes. His lips were swollen and crusted with fever, and his fingers picked agitatedly at the bedcoverings.

‘He had those under the clothes when he came in,’ said Saulf, pointing to Thomas’s precious copy of the Vulgate and a rosary that lay at the foot of the palliasse. ‘I suspect that when he first fell ill, he began preparing himself for the worst.’

De Wolfe, worried and anxious beyond measure, looked around the ward at the legion of sufferers, some inert, others restless or moaning.

‘Of those with this damned plague, how many will survive?’ he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

‘It is a strange disease, the like of which I have not seen before, though I know it has visited in the past,’ replied the monk. ‘Some die within a day of the first symptoms appearing, yet others who survive for a few days can make a rapid recovery.’

John looked down at the pathetic figure of his clerk, huddled and shivering under the blankets. ‘What chance has he got, brother?’

Saulf held out a hand and rotated it several times in a gesture of uncertainty. ‘At this stage, probably an equal prospect of living or dying, Sir John. I can say no more than that. This is the first such epidemic I have experienced.’

‘Is there anything you can do for him? I could ask Richard Lustcote to visit, as he did with my brother, but he was honest enough to say that there are no medicaments that are effective.’

The Benedictine nodded his agreement. ‘All we can do is keep him comfortable, and let God’s will be done. We must all pray for him.’

Another monk came and claimed Saulf’s attention and left Gwyn and de Wolfe at Thomas’s side. They stood around awkwardly for a few moments until they decided there was little point in waiting.

‘There’s nothing we can do and we’re just in the way,’ muttered de Wolfe. As they went out, promising to return later that evening, Gwyn raised the matter of their clerk’s family.

‘They should be told, whatever is going to happen,’ he said gruffly. ‘His father is a minor manor-lord somewhere near Winchester.’

‘I’ll speak to Henry de Furnellis when we get back to Rougemont,’ promised John. ‘He has riders going regularly to Winchester. They can take a message to the cathedral, where Thomas was well known.’

He was as good as his word and the sheriff promised to add a letter to the pouch of a messenger who was leaving the next day with tax accounts relating to tin production from the Dartmoor stannaries. Leaving the keep, he walked across the inner ward with Gwyn, both subdued by their concerns over Thomas, which had come like a bolt from the blue, in spite of their knowledge of the risks the clerk had taken in helping to give plague victims a proper burial.

‘Yet that may be nothing to do with him catching the distemper,’ said Gwyn glumly. ‘Look at these new cases down on Exe Island. The bloody poison could be blown on the wind, affecting anyone at will.’

John did not answer, as his attention was caught by a horseman who had just clattered over the drawbridge to stop at the guard-room. The man was dressed in black, and an icy hand reached into John’s chest to rip at his heart, as he feared the rider might be Alfred, the reeve from Stoke-in-Teignhead, come to give him news of his brother’s death. As the man finished speaking to the sentry, he slid from his saddle and began leading his horse towards the stables, when thankfully John could see that it was a total stranger.

Shaken, he began to wonder if these repeated blows of bad news were beginning to affect his mind — they were certainly diverting his full attention from his duties and the need to pursue whoever was killing these heretics. He said nothing about it to Gwyn, but mentally he hardened his resolve to keep on top of his various problems. Straightening his back from his habitual slight stoop, he set his mouth in a scowl of grim determination that frightened an old woman passing with two live ducks under her arms, then marched off home to warm himself by his hearth until the evening meal, after which he would go back to St John’s Hospital.

His maid Mary was desolated to hear the news of Thomas’s affliction, as she was very fond of the little fellow. In the days before he had been restored to the priesthood, he had lived a very frugal existence, sleeping in the passageway of the servants’ quarters of a canon’s house, and Mary had often fed him in her cook-shed when Matilda was not around. John’s wife treated him with utter contempt, as even after the accusations of indecent assault on one of his pupils in the school in Winchester had been proven wrong, Matilda always considered him a pervert and a disgrace to her beloved Church.

When John made his usual attempt to strike up some conversation over the silent supper table by telling her of his clerk’s suffering, she offered only a grunt and the comment that many other people had also succumbed to the yellow murrain. Incensed by her indifference, he pointed out that Thomas had almost certainly caught it by his efforts to give other sufferers a Christian burial.

‘Well, that’s his sacred duty as a priest,’ she retorted loftily.

Her husband glared at her for compounding her lack of charity. ‘I wonder if that selfish fat parson at St Olave’s, who you adore so much, would have risked standing at the edge of a plague pit!’

This started off yet another acrimonious argument, which as usual escalated into a shouting match. Matilda revisited all the old insults, such as his desire to stay away from home as much as possible, leaving his neglected wife alone.

‘You use the coroner’s job as an excuse to frequent alehouses and brothels,’ she snarled and went on to list the various women with whom he had had adulterous affairs, ending with ‘the Saxon whore in Dawlish’.

After five minutes of this, John could stand it no more. He already felt drained by the fear that his brother might be dying, and now Thomas was in the same situation. His wife’s ranting inflamed him so much that he kicked back his chair, its legs screeching on the flagstones. Advancing on Matilda with clawed hands outstretched, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging with passion, for the first time in his life he felt murderous towards her.

‘Shut up, woman, or I’ll shut you up for ever!’ he yelled.

Even as the words left his mouth, he realised that he did not mean them literally, but he needed to stop her battering his already overburdened mind with her spiteful tongue.

Unknown to him, those same words that left his mouth also percolated through the shutters into the narrow lane outside, where Clement and Cecilia were passing on their way to the cathedral. The physician’s eyebrows rose and he stopped and leaned closer to the window, but his wife jerked at his arm and dragged him away.

Later that evening the coroner sat morosely in the Bush, his hands resting on the edge of the table, one each side of an untouched quart pot of ale. Gwyn was still in his brew-shed in the yard and Martha was getting him some food from the kitchen-hut, as he had walked out on his half-eaten meal at Martin’s Lane. Edwin was stumping about serving other patrons and chivvying the two slatterns, girls hardly more than children, who helped carry the platters and collect the used mugs.

John’s anger had subsided, to be replaced by despondency. Foremost of his concerns were his brother and his clerk, but also the fight with Matilda had been more virulent than usual and had depressed him markedly. He had never used violence against her, however much she had provoked him, and although tonight’s episode was an empty threat on his part it showed how far relations between them had deteriorated. The only bright spot was that as he had stalked to the door to leave, she threw a final taunt after him.

‘You can do me one last service, husband, by arranging a passage on one of the ships that used to belong to that Dawlish strumpet. I will go to stay with my relations in Normandy, where I will at least be safe from your murderous intentions!’

Her words echoed through his head as he sat by the fire in the Bush. ‘If your poor bloody cousins will have you!’ he muttered to himself. ‘You battened on them last year, so maybe they’ll not be so keen on repeating the experience.’

The other problem was that unless she went very soon, the sailing season in the western Channel would be over until the spring, by which time he might really have throttled the damned woman. As he sat staring into the fire, the old potman came up and pointed at the untouched ale.

‘Something wrong with Gwyn’s latest brew, Crowner?’ he croaked. ‘He was quite proud of it — though pride is often the sinner’s downfall!’ he added hastily, crossing himself as he remembered his newly acquired sanctity.

In spite of his gloom, John grinned at the silly old fool’s antics and wondered how long it would be before he would drift back to cursing and blaspheming.

‘I hear that some of those evil opponents of Christ’s Holy Church are to be hauled before the canons tomorrow, Sir John,’ Edwin cackled with relish. ‘I hope you’ll see their necks well and truly stretched when the bishop hands them over for their just punishment — unless this killer beats you to it!’

‘Nothing to do with me, old man,’ growled John. ‘That’s Church business. I’m only concerned with murder. Stabbing a heretic is just as much a crime as stabbing anyone else.’

Edwin snorted in disbelief but moved away as Gwyn advanced on John’s table, still wearing his stained brewer’s apron, which smelled strongly of malt.

‘How did you find the little fellow, Crowner?’ he asked, with deep concern on his rugged face. John had told Martha that he had called at St John’s on the way to the Bush.

‘Much the same. He’s muttering under his breath, so he’s not totally out of his wits. But the yellow tint of his eyes is worse and you can see it in his skin now.’

Gwyn nodded sombrely. ‘I’ll go up there first thing in the morning. No point in disturbing them again tonight.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I hear the plague is spreading even more. A carter came in earlier and said that there were many cases in Totnes now.’

This was a town in the centre of Devon, also a port even though it was several miles upriver from Dartmouth.

‘It must be coming in with ship-men, as we suspected,’ growled John. ‘Perhaps that damned brother-in-law of mine was right for once — we should close the ports for a time.’

Gwyn shook his head. ‘Don’t see how it could be done! The whole trade of this area depends on sending out wool and tin and bringing in goods for ourselves. Folk would be dying of starvation instead of the distemper!’

Martha bustled up with a knuckle of pork on a large trencher of bread, with a side dish of boiled leeks and carrots.

‘Get this down you, Sir John, it’ll lift your spirits a little. I’d send Gwyn up to the priory with some choice bits for poor Thomas, but I gather he’s not in a fit state to eat yet — but he’ll survive, never fear.’

The motherly woman hurried away to quell some noisy argument between a farrier and a baker as Gwyn lowered himself on to the bench opposite to watch his master eat.

‘Are you going to listen to this performance in the cathedral tomorrow, Crowner?’

De Wolfe spooned some boiled carrots on to his trencher before picking up the pork bone to nibble away at the succulent meat.

‘No, none of my business! I’m riding down to Stoke after I’ve called to see Thomas, so that I can get back by evening.’

‘I’d better go with you, then. You shouldn’t ride alone,’ said his henchman, worried about outlaws lurking along the roads.

John’s teeth tore a strip of meat from the joint before he answered. ‘No, I’ll take Odin. He’s slower, but no one will attack a knight on a warhorse. I want you to stay here and keep an eye on Thomas’s condition, as well as looking into any new cases that are reported to Rougemont.’

After eating his fill, he and Gwyn spent an hour talking around the fire with some of the regular patrons, discussing the insidious spread of the yellow plague and also the other main talking point, the investigation of the heretics the following day. Being steeped in the all-pervasive power of the Church since infancy, most of the men were strongly opposed to any challenge to the dominance of the priesthood, but a few said that people should be able to choose their own way of worship. John had the impression that several might have been covertly in agreement with the religious mutineers but were too cautious to openly admit it.

When the distant curfew bell rang from the Guildhall at the ninth hour, John made his way back to his house. After curfew, all open fires were supposed to be banked down for the night as a precaution against conflagrations. Anyone walking the streets after dark was supposed to carry a horn lantern and have good cause to be abroad, but these regulations were held more in the breach than the observance, as with only two constables in the city it was almost impossible to enforce the rules.

When de Wolfe got back to Martin’s Lane, he found the hall in darkness and when he walked around the passage to the backyard, Mary came from her hut to tell him that his wife was no longer there.

‘The mistress is in a great huff, Sir Coroner,’ she said, using the slightly sarcastic title she employed when he had done something to exasperate her. ‘She’s gone to stay with her brother, saying that she would be afraid for her life if she stayed here any longer!’

‘Stupid bitch!’ he growled. ‘She knows damned well that I’d never hurt her. It was all words, though God knows she provokes me so.’

His maid stood with her fists on her hips, glaring at him accusingly. ‘I know that well enough! But your tongue runs away with you sometimes. No doubt she’s pouring her woes into the ear of Richard around in North Gate Street. It’ll give him something more to use against you.’

He grunted, then gave her a chaste kiss on her cheek.

‘After all the grief I’ve caused him over the past couple of years, he can now add my refusal to do anything about protecting his damned pig farms. Though I must admit that he may be right in thinking that the yellow curse is being brought in from overseas.’

He refused her offer of yet more food and found his way up the outer stairs to the empty solar and, stripping off his clothes, huddled under the blanket and bearskin. He was tired and despondent, yet sleep was a long time coming as he churned over all his problems. The wide mattress seemed strange without Matilda and, much as he disliked her, he missed her ample body snoring on the other side.