A Plague of Heretics

CHAPTER FIVE

John spent the early part of the afternoon with Thomas in their chamber, as they had to work on some of the submissions to the royal justices when they came to hold the Eyre in a few weeks’ time. As de Wolfe had been away for months, most of the few cases were left over from Nicholas de Arundell, manor-lord of Hempston Arundell, near Totnes. He had reluctantly taken over the coronership when John was posted to Westminster and had now gone back to Hempston with a sigh of relief.

Thomas de Peyne was rewriting some of the scrappy records left by a junior clerk that Nicholas had borrowed from the castle, as his pride would not allow him to put such imperfect parchments before the king’s judges. In addition, he had to record a couple of fatal assaults, a rape, two house fires, seven hangings and four declarations of outlawry that John had dealt with since his return. As the coroner could only just about write his name, Thomas took dictation from him and read back any material that John needed to know about. The arrangement worked well, especially as Thomas used his own initiative to improve the content and style of his master’s words, without John being aware of it.

As they worked, de Wolfe listened for the cathedral bells, the only way of gauging the time, other than dawn and dusk. The only other means was going to a church that had graduated candles used for timing services.

‘That was for Vespers, so we’ll wait a while, then go down to tackle this other canon,’ he decided.

If de Baggetor had actually graced Vespers with his presence, instead of sending a vicar in his stead, he should be back within the hour.

In due course the coroner and his clerk walked back down to the Close, and Thomas took him to another house a few doors away from Ralph de Hospitali. Here they were again conducted by a steward to a comfortable room with even better furniture than before. De Baggetor was a tall, stooped man of about fifty, with a long, deeply lined face which reminded John of a hunting hound. The canon had an aloof manner which went with a stubborn and inflexible nature.

He offered no invitation for them to be seated, and de Wolfe was again made aware of the antagonism and jealousies that often existed between the clergy and the city. The cathedral precinct was almost a state within a state, as the writ of the sheriff and burgesses did not run in the Close, except along the public paths. Discipline and justice were meted out by the bishop and the cathedral chapter, through the strong arms of the proctors’ bailiffs. This had been softened a little by the decision of Bishop Marshal to delegate jurisdiction over serious crimes like murder to the sheriff and coroner, but it was always made clear that the secular powers operated in the precinct only under sufferance.

‘You want to talk to me about this slain heretic?’ asked de Baggetor. His voice was slow and almost lazy, but was belied by the steely look in his dark eyes. The ring of frizzled hair around his tonsure was grey, but his eyebrows were jet black, like John’s.

‘It is just possible that we may have two slain heretics,’ answered de Wolfe. ‘I can’t prove it for various reasons, but another man said to have similar beliefs has died suddenly. Does the name Vincente d’Estcote mean anything to you?’

A look of surprise came over the canon’s face, which John felt was genuine. ‘No, never heard of him. Why do you say that he might also have been a blasphemer?’

‘My clerk here heard him addressing folk in the street on the subject. I thought he might have been one of the names that your bailiffs had reported to you. Ralph de Hospitali told us that you held a list of such suspects.’

Robert de Baggetor turned to his table and reached up to a shelf above it, where a number of rolled parchments rested, tied with pink tape. Everything in the room was in meticulously neat order, with nothing out of place. Even the large ebony and ivory crucifix on the wall shone as if it had been polished only an hour before.

He took a thin roll and untied it, before scanning it rapidly and then handing it to John. ‘That name is not on there, Sir John.’

The coroner, always slightly sensitive about his illiteracy, slid the curled sheet across to Thomas.

‘How did your men come by these names?’ he asked.

The canon rubbed one of his eyes, which was red and inflamed.

‘On my instructions, they seek out meetings of such evildoers. They also have paid informers who can acquire such names without arousing suspicion. Experience in Italy and France has shown that since the Papal Bull on the matter, threatened exposure can lead to violence and even murder of the investigators.’

John made a mental note to ask Thomas about this notorious Bull, but he did not wish to show his ignorance before this patronising cleric.

‘I would like to keep this list — or have my clerk make a copy of it,’ he requested.

De Baggetor’s dark brows came together in displeasure. ‘Impossible! It is for the use of the bishop and the proctors. This is an ecclesiastical matter; it is none of the business of a sheriff or coroner.’

Thomas, emboldened by his knowledge of Church law, ventured to enter the dispute. ‘With the greatest respect, canon, the Papal Bull Ab Abolendum specifically stated that bishops should seek the aid of stewards, bailiffs and all other officers in pursuing heretics and that such secular authorities were obliged to offer such help.’

The former archdeacon glowered at this little upstart but was unable to contradict him. ‘I am one of the cathedral proctors and know the laws as well as you,’ he grated. ‘But if you think you can find more of these vermin, then make a copy of this list. There is pen, ink and parchment on that table.’

As Thomas, with hidden glee, hurried to take advantage of de Baggetor’s climbdown, John had more questions.

‘What has occurred recently to bring this matter to the surface?’ he asked.

‘Events in northern Italy and the south-west of France have caused anxiety in Rome,’ answered the canon, who seemed more ready to speak of generalities than his own activities. ‘The Papal Legate in England has passed on instructions from the Vatican for all bishops to be far more vigilant in detecting and stamping out the growing cancer that is eating away at the very roots of our Holy Roman Church.’

‘So what is intended in regard to these other persons? Are they all to be arrested?’

‘There is to be an inquisition, where they will be strictly interrogated. Depending on what arises from that, further action will be taken.’

This sounded somewhat sinister to de Wolfe, but the proctor refused to be drawn on the matter, saying it would be the decision of the bishop and of the chancellor of any court he might set up.

As soon as Thomas had finished copying the list, for there were only a dozen names on it, they left, as de Baggetor made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of telling them any more.

The cloud-filled sky was darkening by now, the November weather already warning of the coming of winter. Again the coroner and his acolyte made their way down towards the lower town, where the old wall gave on to the quayside where smaller ships could get up on the tide past Topsham. John was on his way to the Bush and Thomas to his lodgings, and as they parted at Idle Lane de Wolfe gave him his orders for the morning.

‘Tomorrow you must explain to me about this Bull and the demands of the Pope — it’s all a mystery to me. Then we’ll look at that list you made and decide what to do about it. I smell more trouble coming and we need to be prepared for it.’

The coroner did not stay very long at the inn, as Gwyn had taken him at his word and gone off early on his tour of the taverns, allegedly in search of information. If John knew anything about him, he would get several gallons of ale inside him in the process, but knowing of his capacious stomach and iron head, John had little fear of him coming to any harm.

Dusk was falling, but it was not yet dark when he got back to Martin’s Lane and, as he passed the little church of St Martin’s on the corner of Canon’s Row, he met Cecilia, the doctor’s wife. She was swathed in a mantle of heavy green wool, with a fur-edged hood framing her handsome face. Behind her, her young maid lugged a large shopping basket. He greeted Cecilia warmly, for any good-looking woman always melted the usual forbidding expression on his face.

‘Best that you reach home and hearth while there’s still light, mistress,’ he said affably. ‘Especially when you ladies are abroad alone in these streets.’

She smiled at him as they stopped to speak, close enough for him to smell a flowery fragrance coming from her.

‘At this time of day, my husband sees his patients in his chamber in Goldsmith Street,’ she explained, ‘so he can never escort me when I wish to visit the booths or the tradesmen’s shops.’

For a fleeting moment de Wolfe wondered if this rather unnecessary explanation was a covert message that she was alone at this time every day — but then he discarded the thought, knowing what a godly and upright woman she was. But one could have said exactly the same thing about his Hilda of Dawlish, who was a pillar of her church and community yet had been John’s mistress for many years.

‘You have been about the king’s business today, sir?’ asked Cecilia, almost as if she wanted to spin out their encounter.

Being quite happy to dally with her, John gave a brief account of his efforts to track down who might have killed the heretic — and mentioned the possibility that another one of that persuasion might also have been slain.

‘Poor people. It seems cruel that they should suffer just because they have a different view of God from the majority,’ she said surprisingly. ‘My husband has such strict opinions on the matter, but I fear I see them as human beings deserving of compassion.’

‘They may well suffer even more soon, if the bishop has to carry out his orders from Rome,’ said John grimly. He explained about the forthcoming inquisition of any suspected of deviating from the prescribed pathway laid down by the Pope. ‘As the coroner, I have to hold inquisitions, but I fear that the religious variety may be far more harsh than my questioning.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘It is wrong that a man’s private thoughts and beliefs — or, indeed, a woman’s — should be dictated to by others and any transgression punished by violence.’

De Wolfe was intrigued by her words. A freethinking woman was almost unknown, at least any daring to put such thoughts into words.

‘You have some sympathy with these heretics, lady?’ he asked gently.

Cecilia looked startled, as if she had just realised that perhaps she was speaking unwisely. ‘My husband would not favour my expressing such thoughts, I’m sure! He has very strong views on this subject, as on everything else.’

John did not miss the trace of bitterness in her voice and fell to wondering what might go on in the house next to his own. But not wanting to end the meeting, he steered the conversation on to safer ground.

‘Your husband is busy, then? His practice is flourishing?’

She smiled wanly. ‘I rarely see him except at mealtimes!’

And in bed, thought John — what husband would not wish that? ‘He visits his patients at their homes as well as at his doctor’s chamber?’

She nodded. ‘He is being called from far afield now, to manors and castles all across the county. He keeps a fine horse there, where your great destrier also lodges.’ A gloved hand appeared from under her cloak, pointing to Andrew’s livery stables opposite their houses.

‘I trust he looks to his safety, Mistress Cecilia,’ he said gravely. ‘Riding the Devon roads can be a dangerous business, given the number of outlaws and malcontents that infest the forests. Even a rough old Crusader like myself rarely rides alone these days.’

‘Clement always has a manservant with him, a former soldier,’ she said, pulling her cloak around her more tightly. ‘And I don’t think you are a rough old Crusader, Sir John. You are a gentleman and a brave one at that, by all the accounts I’ve heard!’

Flushing slightly at her own boldness, she bowed her head and hurried away, her maid trotting at her heels. De Wolfe watched her until she vanished around the corner of his house, for hers was set back slightly from the edge of the lane.

‘Well, well!’ he thought to himself, feeling a pleasant glow at being flattered by a desirable woman. ‘She seems at odds with her husband’s opinion. There’s a woman with a mind of her own.’

He walked to his front door and, once inside, heard voices in the hall. He sat on the bench in the vestibule to pull off his boots, then, as he hung up his cloak on a peg and put on some leather slippers, he groaned when he recognised the reedy tones of his brother-in-law on the other side of the inner door. Reluctantly, he pushed it open and went between the draught-screens into the hall. As he feared, Richard de Revelle was standing with his back to the hearth, bleating and gesticulating to his sister Matilda, who sat in one of the hooded monks’ chairs. Hearing John enter, he jerked up his head and redirected his high-pitched voice towards him.

‘It’s not good enough, John. You and that lazy successor of mine must do something about it!’

De Wolfe had no idea what he was talking about, but he advanced to the centre of the hall and bobbed his head curtly in greeting. Though he detested the man, he felt obliged as the host to at least be civil and went to his side table to pour some wine, this time into pewter cups, rather than the grand glass goblets that he had brought out for the doctor and his wife.

As he handed one to Richard and his sister, he sighed and asked his visitor what urgent problem had brought him to his door.

‘This damned plague, John, what else?’ screeched de Revelle.

He was a slim, neat man of average height, a few years older than John. Another dandified dresser, with a penchant for bright green, he had wavy hair of a light brown colour, matching the small pointed beard, a fashion which was more that of Paris than of the Normans, who were usually clean-shaven. John suspected that he grew it to hide the weak chin at the lower end of his narrow, triangular face.

‘The plague?’ repeated John, still mystified. ‘Have you caught it, then?’ he asked facetiously. He wished his brother-in-law would stop hogging the fire, as being master of the house John felt that it should be his own cold backside that should be warmed.

‘Be serious, damn it!’ snapped Richard. ‘I mean that it’s ruining my business!’

‘Why, have all your students in Smythen Street been stricken?’

‘Not that business, I mean my pork-exporting venture!’ said the other, exasperated at John’s deliberate obfuscation.

The coroner feigned sudden enlightenment. ‘Ah, yes, I had heard that you were now a swineherd. But what has the yellow disease got to do with that? Are pigs able to catch it?’

With even less sense of humour than John, the former sheriff thought he was being serious. ‘Not the pigs, you fool! The men who work for me, of course. Three have died at Dartmouth and half a dozen are sick near to death at my holding near Clyst St George.’

De Wolfe was immediately more concerned. ‘There is plague at Clyst? I had not heard that!’

‘Nor had I until an hour ago. All the other slaughterers and salters have downed tools and run home. Only one old man has stayed to throw the hogs some food.’

‘And it is at Dartmouth as well?’

Richard nodded in agitation, then swallowed his wine in a gulp. ‘I have large orders for the king’s army to fulfil! How can I carry on with the workers refusing to attend to their duties?’

‘They could hardly work if they were sick or dead,’ pointed out John. ‘Best they stay away from their workplace until the danger of infection is past.’

This only inflamed de Revelle even more. ‘Impossible! Think of the money I am losing every day! Unless I can find other men who will take on the tasks, I will be ruined. I cannot feed hundreds of pigs and get nothing in return!’

‘So why come to me about it?’ demanded John. ‘I am a law officer, not a physician or apothecary!’

‘Surely there is something you can do, you and that idle fellow now sitting in my chamber in Rougemont!’ brayed Richard. ‘Forbid ships from entering our ports, as I have heard that it is likely that foreign seamen are bringing the poison. And also make it unlawful for these workers to stay away from their employment. If they were serfs on a manor, they would have no choice but to work for their lord.’

John looked scathingly at his brother-in-law. ‘And just how do you think that could be done? Most of the seamen coming to our harbours live there. They are now returning for the winter season. Would you have us ban them from their homes?’

Richard scowled at him. ‘Then the workers! Surely they can be put back to their labours?’

‘How? Send a troop of men-at-arms to each of your piggeries, to stand prodding the men with their lances?’

He advanced to the hearth and ostentatiously stood close to Richard, easing him away from the fire.

‘There’s nothing to be done. We all have to make the best of a bad situation and pray that it does not spread to obliterate the city and the county, as has happened sometimes abroad.’

‘We must all pray to Almighty God for deliverance,’ said Matilda, speaking for the first time. ‘For once, John is right. There’s nothing that can be done by we weak mortals.’

‘And as for physicians,’ added de Wolfe scornfully, ‘they can only offer the same advice — prayer! We have a smart doctor next door now, but he’s made it clear that he won’t go within a furlong of a plague victim!’

De Revelle huffed and puffed for a time, but it was apparent that he had no support from either Matilda or John. This was an unusual state of affairs, as though Matilda’s former hero-worship of her rich elder brother had collapsed with her realisation that he was a rogue, she normally contradicted her husband on principle.

Eventually, having gained nothing from his visit, he departed, muttering about having to find more men at a higher rate of pay to deal with his pigs.

‘He thinks of nothing else but his purse and his treasure chest,’ grunted John after the front door had slammed. ‘He has two manors and a rich wife, so why is he always pursuing more wealth?’

Matilda hunched in her chair, unwilling to side with her husband any longer. ‘At least he is aiding the economy of the county and giving work to many men,’ she sniped.

‘And what d’you think I and Hugh de Relaga are doing?’ demanded John. ‘We ship almost half the raw wool that goes from the Exe and a goodly proportion of the finished cloth. It’s that that keeps those in this house warm and well fed!’

Matilda sniffed disdainfully, then returned to attack from a different direction. ‘You should not cast aspersions on Doctor Clement like that,’ she complained. ‘He is a professional man and, if he is so busy with his regular patients to attend to the poor, then that is his concern.’

‘He’s afraid of catching the yellow distemper, that’s what!’ countered John.

‘And who isn’t afraid?’ she demanded. ‘You and that perverted little priest might be foolhardy enough to risk bringing it home to your family and friends, but normal people keep well clear for everyone’s sake.’

Another developing row was averted by Mary coming in to ask if they were ready for their supper, as it was now virtually dark outside. John suspected that she had been listening at the inner door and had interrupted to save him becoming enmeshed in yet another futile shouting match with his cantankerous wife.

The prospect of food always mollified her, and soon they were sitting at the table in smouldering silence as they ate their way through venison in broth, carp and eels in a crust and finally frumenty.

Afterwards, John sat by the fire with a pot of ale and his wife dozed in her chair opposite, while a cold wind whined around the shutters and sudden draughts sucked showers of sparks up the wide chimney. It was not a night on which to expect visitors, and John was all the more surprised to hear an urgent knocking on the outer door. Mary usually answered it, but it took her a time to get around the side passage from her hut in the yard, so he went out into the vestibule and pulled open the heavy oak door. A horse was tied to the rail across the lane and a man stood before him, shivering in a damp riding cloak.

‘Sir John, it’s me, Alfred from Stoke!’

In the dim light from a pitch-brand guttering on the corner of the Close, de Wolfe recognised the reeve from the family manor at Stoke-in-Teignhead, where he had been born and brought up. Surprised and apprehensive, he ushered the man inside and, aware of Matilda in the hall, took him around to Mary’s kitchen-shed, where a good fire burned and the man could get warm and have some food. But first Alfred had to give his momentous news.

‘I have bad tidings, Sir John. The yellow plague has appeared in the village and two are dead and half a dozen taken sick. I am afraid that your brother William is one of them!’