A Plague of Heretics

CHAPTER TWELVE

Though weary and aching from his round trip to Stoke, that night John slept like a log until the first glimmers of light came through the shutters of the solar. After splashing water on his face from a bucket in the yard, he ate oatmeal gruel sweetened with honey and a small loaf of fresh bread in Mary’s kitchen. As Odin had had enough exercise the previous day, he took a rounsey from Andrew’s stable and rode up to meet Gwyn at St John’s Hospital to check on Thomas’s progress. Their clerk was still very weak, but he was fully alert and almost apologetic for being ill.

‘He’s been taking bread in warm milk,’ reported Brother Saulf, who seemed very pleased with their clerk’s progress.

John was never comfortable as a visitor to the sick, unlike Gwyn, who would have stopped and chatted all day. Once the coroner was satisfied that Thomas seemed out of danger, he wanted to be out of that depressing sickroom as soon as possible.

‘Rest well and be sure to eat and drink,’ he advised in a severe voice. ‘No hurry to get back on your feet — you take your time.’

When he had prised Gwyn away from his little friend, they set off for Honiton, a large village about fifteen miles to the east, on the road to Ilminster and faraway London. It was one of the main highways out of Exeter on the line of the ancient Fosse Way, and they were rarely out of sight of either an ox-cart, a flock of sheep being driven or people on foot. The last tended to come together in groups for mutual safety, a mixture of pilgrims going to or coming from Canterbury, chapmen hawking their wares or priests and craftsmen going about their business.

It was a mild, still day, with a slight mist, and the dry weather had firmed up the usual churned mud of the track, so if the deep wheel-ruts could be avoided, the going was quite good.

They reached Honiton by mid-morning and had no need to seek out the bailiff, as there was a crowd of villagers waiting to conduct them to a barn where the offenders were shut in and well guarded.

‘Caught the bastards within half an hour!’ exclaimed the bailiff, a big, black-bearded man.

John insisted on having their horses watered and fed first, so they were taken to the village tavern where both steeds and riders were revived. Over a pot of ale and a bowl of thin potage, the bailiff described what had happened.

‘Two strangers, probably outlaws from the forest, broke into a barton on the outskirts of the village in the early hours of yesterday,’ he reported. ‘They had beaten the farmer and his wife unconscious, ransacked the house, took some money stored in a jar, then stolen a horse from the stable. Thankfully, a young servant who slept in the barn raced down here to the village and raised the hue and cry!’

The reeve and the bailiff had turned out on horseback and had caught up with the robbers before they reached the shelter of the forest, as they were leading the stolen horse on a halter and trying to drive two fat pigs before them. A fight ensued but the mounted reeve felled one man with his staff and the bailiff ran the other down with his horse. A number of villagers had run after them and discovered that the farmer and his wife were already both dead. Enraged, they beat the two outlaws half to death before dragging them back to be thrown, bound hand and foot, into the grain store behind the mill.

The story told, de Wolfe got to his feet, anxious to get his business done and return to Exeter. ‘Where are the two dead people?’ he asked. ‘They are my only concern.’

The bailiff’s brow furrowed. ‘What about the villains who did this, sir? What are we to do with them?’

The coroner considered for a moment. ‘Either wait for the sheriff to send men-at-arms to take them back to Exeter, or get your lord’s steward to try them at the manorial court. I’m sure you can find a good oak tree to hang them from!’

Strictly speaking, he should have insisted on having them brought before the king’s justices or commissioners at the next Eyre of Assize, as one of the coroner’s functions was to sweep as much business as possible into the royal courts. But he reasoned that in this case two outlaws would have no property to be confiscated for the treasury, and hauling them back to Exeter, keeping them in prison for months or even a year before trial, would be a drain on the royal purse, not a benefit.

This suited the bailiff well, and he took them to St Michael’s Church to examine the victims, who had died of severe head injuries. A quick inquest with a vindictive jury brought in the inevitable verdict of murder upon the two bruised and battered renegades, and by early afternoon the coroner and his officer were back on the road to the city once again.

That same afternoon, Robert de Baggetor held a private meeting in his house in the Close. In addition to some of his fellow canons, which this time also included the other proctor, William de Swindon, he had invited the bishop’s chaplain and the deacon who was the diocesan lawyer. A notable absence was that of John de Alençon.

‘I fail to understand why our brother John is so lukewarm over this issue,’ complained Richard fitz Rogo. ‘Several months ago, a parish priest just outside the city sent me a crude pamphlet full of these heretical claims, which had been sent to him anonymously. I took it to the archdeacon and he promised to look into it, but nothing ever happened.’

‘I have heard that some priests are secretly in sympathy with the arguments of the Gnostics,’ contributed Ralph de Hospitali in a doleful voice.

‘Our brother John has many claims on his energy and his time,’ observed William de Swindon mildly. ‘Perhaps he found it was just some chance tract that had found its way here from France.’

De Baggetor thumped the table impatiently. ‘That is no excuse for de Alençon. He is the archdeacon and the bishop’s vicar-general, and he should be in the forefront of our campaign to eradicate these dissenters.’

De Swindon hastened to agree. Though he had not been one of the first three to take up the crusade against the heretics, he now seemed equally enthusiastic. ‘There is no question of our Brother in Christ John having any lessening of faith. He has been a pillar of strength and devotion here these many years. But it occurs to me that his well-known friendship with the coroner may be worth considering.’

Eyes swivelled towards de Swindon, as this was an unfamiliar suggestion. ‘That’s true, William,’ said Ralph de Hospitali. ‘His nephew is even the coroner’s clerk.’

‘What are you trying to imply?’ fitz Rogo asked de Swindon.

‘I have heard whispers — in fact, more than whispers — that John de Wolfe may be sympathetic to these blasphemers.’

There was a mutter of consternation around the table, but de Baggetor did not join in, as he already had heard the same whispers.

‘As you know, our proctors’ bailiffs have been charged with keeping a sharp eye out for any signs of heresy,’ he said ponderously. ‘In fact, virtually all our knowledge of their identity and their activities comes from their efforts. They have reported that de Wolfe attended a clandestine meeting of these creatures, only a few days ago, for they had a spy who was able to eavesdrop on that coven.’ The others digested this for a moment.

‘But the coroner is investigating the deaths of three of them,’ objected fitz Rogo. ‘Surely such a meeting would be a legitimate part of his enquiries?’

‘At a secret meeting, skulking in a remote barn in the countryside?’ said de Baggetor scathingly. ‘In addition, he has expressed the opinion that it is none of his business to give any aid to our campaign, even though this was expressly demanded by Ab Abolendum.’

‘Shall we add him to our list of persons to be interrogated?’ suggested the young chaplain in a tone that suggested that he was being facetious. This was met with scowls from most of those facing him.

‘Do not dismiss it too lightly,’ grated Robert de Baggetor. ‘It has not gone unnoticed that de Wolfe is a very reluctant and infrequent attender at Mass. He is rarely seen in a place of worship unless his devout wife drags him there.’

The lean and restless Ralph de Hospitali brought them back to more immediate issues. ‘We need to decide how we proceed, after yesterday’s convocation achieved so little.’

‘It caused those devils a fright afterwards, with half the town chasing after them,’ said de Swindon. ‘It shows that we have popular support for our efforts.’

‘We do not need popular support!’ snapped de Baggetor arrogantly. ‘It matters not what the rabble of Exeter think. We have the whole power of Rome behind us.’

‘So how do we harness it?’ persisted de Hospitali.

‘Thanks to de Alençon’s stubbornness, this has to go to the bishop,’ grunted fitz Rogo. He turned to the chaplain. ‘When is His Grace expected to return?’

‘In the next few days, God willing. He has parish visitations to make next week and wishes to deal with accumulated business before then.’

‘Well, we have some more business for him as a matter of urgency,’ rasped de Baggetor. ‘I would be obliged if you would arrange an audience with him as soon as possible, as we need him to agree to set up a formal court hearing without delay.’ He turned to the others. ‘Those swine we saw yesterday may have disappeared into thin air by now, but our bailiffs have collected more names for us, and next time they will go straight to the bishop’s court — and from thence hopefully straight to the gallows.’

When he returned from Honiton, John went to see the sheriff, to tell him of the murders and the capture of the culprits by the villagers. Henry de Furnellis applauded John’s decision to let the matter go to the manorial court there, as anything that saved him work was welcome, especially as there was no profit for the king in hanging penniless outlaws.

‘You say the Honiton folk gave them a good beating — a pity they didn’t kill them, it would have saved a lot of trouble,’ he added. His attitude to justice was not as rigid as that of the coroner.

After leaving the keep, de Wolfe reluctantly decided to take Mary’s advice and try to make peace with Matilda. He recalled some old country adage about ‘taking the bull by the horns’, which seemed an apt description of facing his wife. As he went across the inner ward towards the gatehouse, he had to walk around a troop of young soldiers being drilled by Sergeant Gabriel, an old friend and veteran who had shared several campaigns with de Wolfe. By the look on Gabriel’s craggy face, the recruits were exasperating him with their lack of skill, but they had little chance to experience real fighting, as the last military violence in this area had been fifty years ago, during the civil war of King Stephen’s reign.

As John neared the arch leading to the drawbridge, another friend hailed him. This was Brother Rufus, the garrison chaplain, who had just emerged from his tiny chapel of St Mary, set to the left of the gate. Rufus was a large, muscular Benedictine, with the jovial nature that big people often possess. He, too, had seen his share of battlefields, as he had been a military chaplain in the campaigns in France and Palestine, which gave him much in common with de Wolfe. He was a straightforward man, free from the pomposity and cant that many of the Exeter clergy exhibited. Admirably suited to his calling of a soldier’s padre, he enjoyed his ale and wine and a game of dice in the guard-room, without forfeiting any of his compassion and devotion.

In no hurry to face Matilda, John accepted Rufus’s invitation to sit with him on a bench outside the little church and enjoy the weak sun that had managed to penetrate the autumn haze.

‘I hear that young Thomas is recovering, thank God and all His saints,’ he said. ‘We have prayed for him daily.’

John went on to tell him about his own brother’s affliction, but of course the city grapevine had long ago spread the news. ‘He seems no worse and we are hoping that he, too, will recover,’ said John, almost afraid to be too optimistic in case it was dashed to the ground.

‘You have been busy with our heretical competitors in the religious world,’ grinned Rufus, who had an impish sense of humour. ‘It seems that over this matter, the noble canons down in the Close are like a swarm of wasps that have had their nest stirred with a stick!’

Those in the monastic orders did not always see eye to eye with the diocesan priesthood, as Exeter cathedral was one of the dozen in England that was ‘secular’, in that it was not a monastery or an abbey.

‘I saw many brands of religious belief on my travels in Outremer,’ continued Rufus. ‘Many were either different types of Christian, from Greece or Byzantium — and some were not Christian at all.’

He stopped to scratch an itch on his newly shaven tonsure. ‘But many of them were intensely devout and scrupulously honest men, so I do not rush to condemn even the smallest deviation from our own Church. That does not divert me from my lifelong dedication to Rome, but I fear I cannot accept this current hysteria against a few sincere souls who wish to follow a different path.’

They talked for a while about the different types of heresy and then went on to wonder at the unpredictable ebb and flow of the yellow plague, which seemed to be maintaining its sporadic attacks. The incessant activity of the busy castle went on around them as they chatted, ox-carts lumbering in with fodder for the garrison horses, a blacksmith hammering a new shoe on a grey gelding and soldiers’ wives passing by with small children clinging to their skirts. Then Rufus’s eye was caught by someone running across the drawbridge on the outer side of the arched gateway. Even at a distance, he could see that the man was almost collapsing from the effort of hurrying up the steep track of Castle Hill, and waving his arms to attract attention.

‘Here’s our brave constable, Osric!’ exclaimed the monk.

‘What can be so urgent that he’s running fit to burst?’

An unruly mob stormed down Rock Lane, gathering more people as they approached the Water Gate, which led out on to the quayside along the river. Mostly men, but with a few matrons on the fringes, they surged through the gate, brushing aside the pair of porters who were there to collect tolls on goods from the wharf.

The crowd, which numbered almost a hundred, was led by two men who capered and waved their arms to further inflame the mob. One was a skinny monk, dressed in a frayed black habit of the Benedictine order, and the other a stocky man in a brown serge cassock, both having shaven circles on their heads.

‘Find the denouncers of the Holy Father!’ yelled the monk, Alan de Bere. He waved a heavy stick, which ended in a crude hook like a bishop’s crozier, and pointed with the other hand at the two vessels that were leaning against the quay, beached on the mud at low tide. The proctors’ spies had discovered that four of the five men arraigned at the inquisition the previous day were trying to escape by sea, having decided that Exeter was too dangerous for them.

Not to be outdone, Reginald Rugge, the lay brother, screamed inaccurately at the top of his voice, ‘Seize the disciples of the Antichrist!’ as he brandished a rusty sword. A few stevedores, who had been carrying bales of wool towards a gangplank, dumped their loads and nervously retreated to the back of the quayside against the town wall, which here climbed steeply up towards the South Gate.

The mob, which contained quite a few drunks attracted out of the rougher taverns, was shouting incoherently, their excitement fanned by the two agitators. They spread out along the edge of the wharf opposite the two merchant cogs, from where bemused ship-men and dockers stared down at the angry crowd.

‘Where are the bloody heretics? … Give us the blasphemers!’ came the cries. An unfortunate stevedore, a youth barely into his teens, was engulfed by the crowd as he ran for the gangplank of the nearer ship. Alan de Bere grabbed him with unmonastic violence and brandished his crozier at him threateningly.

‘Tell me which vessel shelters these bastards!’ he roared.

Without hesitation, the lad pointed at the next ship along, the larger of the two. ‘They are aboard that one, sir!’ he squealed and, ducking away as soon as he was released, scampered off along the quay to join his fellows huddled against the city wall.

Like a flowing liquid, the mob moved to the other ship, the Saint Augustine, and Reginald Rugge was first up the plank that led up to a gap in the bulwarks. A burly sailor blocked his way and, when the lay brother raised his sword in a threatening gesture, he lifted his foot and planted it on Rugge’s chest. With a quick thrust, he sent the man staggering backwards into the man behind, almost pitching them both off on to the unyielding quayside.

A roar of anger went up from the crowd and a stone was thrown at the seaman, narrowly missing his head. A moment later, half the crowd was scrabbling on the ground for missiles, and a hail of pebbles and debris was soon being hurled at the luckless crew on the deck of the Saint Augustine. As it was not their battle, the half-dozen sailors retreated to the hold and sheltered behind the piles of wool that had already been loaded. Yelling with excitement, Rugge and de Bere led a cavalcade of rioters up the gangplank to the deck, where they spotted a few figures cowering in the low hut on the stern, which served as a shelter for crew and passengers.

With whoops of righteous triumph, they converged on this primitive cabin and dragged out four struggling figures and frogmarched them back down to the quayside, leaving three weeping and distraught women on the deck.

The mob had first formed outside the Saracen alehouse in Smythen Street, notorious for its ruffianly clientele, the frequency of bar fights and the poor quality of its cheap ale. Much of the violent crime in the city was connected with the Saracen in one way or another, and the landlord, a massive man named Willem the Fleming, enforced order only with the help of a bludgeon he kept always by his side. The inflammatory exhortations of Rugge and de Bere had attracted a score of men to gather around them in the road outside, collecting even more as they moved off towards the quayside. Their departure did not go unnoticed however, as Osric, the skinny constable, frequently kept a wary eye on the tavern, the seat of so many of his problems. Rapidly deciding that the odds of more than twenty to one were too great for his health and safety, he hurried away towards Rougemont, the ultimate seat of authority and law enforcement in the city.

Panting as he half-ran, half-trotted up the last incline, he passed through the gatehouse arch and thankfully saw the coroner sitting outside the chapel with the garrison chaplain.

‘Sir John, Sir John!’ he gasped, stumbling to halt before them as he leaned forward with his hands clutching his thighs, to get his breath back. ‘You must come at once — and turn out a posse. There’s likely murder being done down on the quayside!’

John and Rufus jumped up and lowered Osric down on to the bench to hear his urgent tale of the mob down on the river wharf. Wasting no time, the coroner turned and yelled across at Sergeant Gabriel, beckoning him urgently. Immediately, the sergeant hurried off to find Ralph Morin, the castle constable, to get him to organise an anti-riot squad, which would be comprised mostly of the recruits already in the inner ward.

‘I can’t wait for them to arrive. I’m going down there!’ snapped de Wolfe and headed for a mare that was ready-saddled and tethered to a rail below the stairs to the keep. Heedless of who it belonged to, he swung into the saddle and cantered off through the gatehouse, scattering chickens and pigs on his way.

Knowing of the difficulty of running a horse through the crowded lanes of the city, he turned left at the bottom of Castle Hill and went out through East Gate, then followed the walls past the gardens of Southernhay and the South Gate to reach the gradient down to the river. As he slowed to let the mare feel her way down the steep path, he could both see and hear the commotion down on the quayside below. A mass of figures, looking from that distance like a disturbed anthill, was moving away from the moored vessels, along the wharf downstream to where the banks of the Exe began, covered with a tangle of bushes and small trees.

With some slithering, his horse got to the bottom and there he abandoned her to a group of cowering dockers and began racing across the quay towards the mob. As he ran, he hauled his sword from its scabbard and began adding to the tumult with his own voice.

‘Stop, in the name of the king!’ he yelled, but no one took any heed, apart from two women who were trailing along behind the crowd, wailing and sobbing.

‘Save them, sir, they’re going to hang our men,’ screamed one of the women, a middle-aged matron with tears running down her face.

‘Not if I can help it!’ he growled back and, catching up with the edge of the crowd, began yelling again that he was an officer of the king and calling on them to desist from whatever they were doing. This time a few faces turned towards him and several men faltered and dropped back, but the bulk of the mob kept going, a straggling circle moving crabwise towards the end of the wharf.

Still shouting himself hoarse, de Wolfe began laying about him with the flat of his broadsword as he forced himself towards the front of the swarm. He caught a couple of men heavy blows on the shoulders, and one man collapsed after he hit him on the back of the head. At last, he was making the rioters notice his presence, and several of them, full of ale and cider, began to turn nasty. As he shouldered them aside, they began to push back at him, and a stream of foul language and blasphemy sat strangely with their supposed crusade against enemies of the Church.

One black-bearded ruffian spat at him and, lacing his words with some of the choicest oaths that John had ever heard, demanded to know who he thought he was. Obviously from out of town, he was ignorant of the coroner’s identity.

‘Clear off, you bastard!’ he snarled and produced a dagger that he waved threateningly. De Wolfe had no time for niceties and promptly hacked at the man’s arm and pushed him aside. Blackbeard howled, dropped his weapon and clutched at his arm, which was pumping blood from a deep slash. This certainly brought some attention, and those around stumbled and flailed about as they tried to get out of reach of this tall dark figure who was not afraid to cut a path through them. They fell back and, though many others were still yelling, John forced through to the centre, where a dozen activists were dragging four men across the stony surface of the wharf. Three of them were struggling in the grip of brawny captors, but the fourth was inert, the head that was slumped on his chest red with blood from a scalp wound.

In front of them, in the vanguard of rioters, were the two ringleaders, Rugge and de Bere. John yelled at them over the heads of the captives and their escorts.

‘Stop this at once, do you hear!’ he hollered, wishing Gwyn was with him, both for his brawn and for his stentorian voice. ‘This is an affray against the King’s Peace! As a law officer, I command you to break up this riot and release these men!’

The skinny monk de Bere turned as if realising for the first time that some interloper had arrived. When he saw the well-known black head of the county coroner, he faltered, but then decided to brazen it out, having God on his side.

‘This is none of your business, Crowner,’ he shouted. ‘We are doing the Lord’s work, not the king’s.’

De Wolfe thrust his way nearer, pushing between two of the heretics and their captors.

‘Everything that happens in England is the king’s business!’ he rasped. ‘This is a riotous assembly and is therefore illegal and a felony. You can hang for this!’

He was jostled aside and took the opportunity to whack a few more shoulders with his sword, but the mood of the crowd was becoming ugly.

‘Clear off, Crowner. Everyone knows you are a friend of heretics!’ yelled one man, and the cry was taken up by others.

‘Leave us be, we are cleansing the stables of Israel,’ shouted one, illogically. ‘We carry out the commands of the Holy Father. What business is it of yours!’ screamed another wild-eyed drunkard, suddenly having discovered religion after a lifetime in the tavern. The mob pressed in on him so tightly that he was unable to lift his sword, but when someone tried to prise it from his hand John kneed him in the groin and then hit him in the face with the hilt, sending him staggering with a bloody nose.

But numbers were beginning to tell and as the hysterical mob became more excited he began to fear seriously for his own safety. Hemmed in by a ranting mob, he saw Rugge and de Bere moving away from him, their acolytes dragging two of the captives with them. For the first time, John saw that they already had rope nooses around their necks and that they were heading for some trees just beyond the end of the wharf. Though stunted, they were high enough to dangle a man by the neck, with his feet clear of the ground.

Desperately, John lashed out at those who were scrabbling at his clothing and landing fairly ineffectual punches on his back and arms. Struggling to get clear, he struck another fellow in the face with the pommel of his sword and punched another in the throat with his free hand. But things were getting out of hand and de Wolfe began wondering if he would survive as knives began appearing. In an almost detached manner, he considered how ironic it would be if he, who had survived so many battles and campaigns in France, Ireland and the Holy Land, were to be slain by a horde of drunken rioters just a few furlongs from his own doorstep.

‘In the name of the king, I order you to let those men go free!’ he yelled desperately, as his sword arm was grabbed by several horny hands.

Suddenly, he heard a bass voice roaring behind him and, craning his neck, looked expecting to see Gwyn coming to his rescue. In fact, the big Cornishman was there, but in front of him, thrashing his way through the mob, was Brother Rufus, commanding everyone in the name of God to get out of his way, a request he reinforced by swipes of the thick staff he was wielding. He struck one of the ruffians hanging on to John’s arm, and with a yelp of pain he let go. Gwyn was close behind, cursing and also laying about him with a cudgel in each hand, virtually carving a path to the coroner.

In a trice, the three big men were standing together and the tide of battle turned almost immediately as they began moving apart, thrashing everyone within reach.

‘Stop those bastards up at the front!’ shouted John. ‘They’re trying to hang the fishmonger!’

They ploughed through the remaining protesters to reach the smaller group that were still dragging their prisoners towards the end of the quayside. John, now that his sword was free again, circled in front of Rugge and stuck the tip against his throat.

‘Let that man loose or I’ll cut your bloody head off!’ he snarled.

By way of reply, the lay brother lifted his old sword in a futile gesture of defiance, but John swung his own heavy blade sideways against Rugge’s wrist. The blow, though blunt, temporarily paralysed his hand, and the rusty weapon clattered to the ground. Adam of Dunsford, the Pelagian fish-vendor, jerked the rope from Rugge’s other hand and hauled the noose up over his head, wincing as it rubbed against his bloody face and black, swollen eye.

‘Thanks be to God, Sir John. Another five minutes and I’d have been swinging from that tree.’

The crowd was now more sullen than aggressive, but a new factor soon changed their mood more dramatically. Several yelled out a warning and pointed up at the steep slope that led to the South Gate. A score of men-at-arms, led by another giant and a sergeant, were pounding down towards them, bearing a variety of weapons, including some lances, ball-maces and heavy staffs.

Just as a flock of birds will change direction simultaneously without a command, so the mob dispersed as if it had exploded. The captives were abandoned and men ran in all directions, some along the riverbank, others back through the Water Gate and the remainder northwards towards Exe Island and the West Gate. By the time Ralph Morin and his men arrived, they could grab only a few stragglers, which included the two leaders, Alan de Bere and Reginald Rugge. John and his two rescuers were more concerned with the victims than with rounding up the rioters.

‘This one’s coming round,’ said Gwyn, bending over Peter of Ide, the unconscious one who had been dropped to the ground when his captors had run off. Brother Rufus had knelt alongside him, ready if necessary to give him the last rites, but Peter groaned and tried to lift his bruised face towards them.

They laid him on the ground again and the castle constable detailed two soldiers to guard him.

‘Will he be safe here?’ asked Adam, who came limping over to them, followed by the other two, Jordan Cosse of Ide and Oliver, both of whom were bedraggled and bruised.

‘I’ve told those two men of mine to stay with him until we know what the hell’s happening,’ grunted Morin. ‘Though what the hell is happening?’ he asked the coroner.

‘Some of our noble citizens seem to have been disappointed with the failure of the cathedral to deal with these dissidents, so they took it upon themselves to mete out their own type of justice,’ answered John bitterly.

‘We’ve lost most of the bastards,’ growled Morin. ‘We arrived a couple of minutes too late.’

‘Never mind. You’ve got the two ringleaders,’ said John. ‘Lock those swine up in the cells at the castle — the rest are of no importance. You might as well let those fellows go free.’

‘What about these other men we rescued?’ asked Sergeant Gabriel. De Wolfe looked at the trio of heretics and the one on the ground, who was starting to drag himself to his knees.

‘They’ve committed no crime that I know of,’ he growled. ‘They were lawfully aboard a vessel, seeking passage. What grounds have we for interfering?’

The women who were aboard the Saint Augustine had hurried down the gangplank and were now hugging their husbands, including the wife of Peter, who was now recovered enough to be helped to his feet. John strode across to the vessel and called up to the shipmaster, who with his crew had been watching the turmoil ashore with consternation.

‘Are you leaving on the next tide?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, if we can get those porters to finish loading.’

‘And did you promise to take these men and their wives as passengers?’

The burly captain nodded. ‘They paid their fares as far as Rye. We go on from there to Calais,’ he explained.

John looked around at the bedraggled victims of the mob and walked back to Adam of Dunsford. ‘Are you still willing to leave on this ship?’

The fishmonger nodded. ‘There is nothing left for us here — either the mob will kill us or the canons will find a way to destroy us. But will you let us go?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘You were the victims, not the aggressors! You have committed no breach of the peace, to my knowledge.’ He waved a hand towards the gangplank of the Saint Augustine.

‘Go now, and I hope you will find a quiet life wherever you end up. I would suggest that you keep your religious beliefs to yourselves in future.’

The small group of men and their wives seemed half-afraid that the soldiers would prevent them from leaving, but with profuse thanks to John they shuffled to the ship, supporting the injured Peter between them.

‘I’ll leave a few men to guard the ship until she sails,’ suggested Ralph Morin, ‘in case some of those unruly bastards creep back to cause more trouble.’

As life settled back to normal on the quayside, Gwyn collected John’s ‘borrowed’ horse and, together with Brother Rufus, walked it back to Rougemont, the garrison commander and Sergeant Gabriel marching the remainder of the troops in front of them, their two prisoners in the centre, protesting loudly.

‘You’ll be in bad odour with the cathedral for this, John,’ warned the chaplain as they went through the West Gate. ‘They already have you marked down as sympathising with these heretics. There are a few people vindictive enough to make a lot of trouble for you.’

John felt that with all his existing problems, another one would be barely noticed.

In the keep of Rougemont, Henry de Furnellis listened gravely to the news that de Wolfe and Ralph Morin gave him. Riots and civil disturbance were uncommon in Devon. At the fairs and local tournaments, there was always some trouble from brawling drunks, armed robbers and purse-snatchers, but they could usually be dealt with either by the constable’s heavy staffs or by a few soldiers sent down from the castle. But today’s riot involving a hundred people was most unusual.

‘The last time was a year ago, when those poor women were hounded by a mob who raved that they were chasing witches,’ recollected Morin.

‘And they hanged one, as well,’ said de Wolfe. ‘At least today we were in time to stop that happening.’

‘Get a couple of ringleaders agitating and the rest follow like a lot of sheep!’ growled the sheriff. ‘As with that witch-hunt, some kind of hysteria arises that feeds on itself.’

‘So what are we going to do with these two troublemakers?’ asked John, referring to Rugge and de Bere, who were incarcerated below their feet in the foul cells of the castle’s undercroft gaol.

‘Haul ’em before the county court next week,’ suggested the castellan. ‘Charge them with fomenting a breach of the peace. That’ll keep them locked up until the justices come.’

The king’s courts were the Eyres of Assize, whose royal judges trundled around the counties very slowly to dispense justice. As it was sometimes years between their visits, additional courts had been added, where Commissioners, usually barons or senior court clerks, came more often to carry out ‘gaol delivery’. It was part of the coroner’s duty to prepare all the cases to put before these justices, though as the delays were so great, many of the accused had either escaped from — or died in — prison before justice could be dispensed.

‘So you let these heretics escape, John?’ observed Henry, leaning back in his chair. ‘That won’t increase your popularity down in the cathedral Close!’

‘What else could be done?’ grunted John defensively. ‘They had committed no crime against the King’s Peace, so we couldn’t lock them up. And did you want extra mouths to feed for God knows how long, down in the cells?’

‘We could have told them to go to their homes, I suppose?’ said Morin. ‘But then we would have to mount a guard, in case some of those madmen from the cathedral had another go at them. They’ve killed three already, according to John here.’

‘The Church has been trying to rid the county of heretics, so now we’ve done it for them, as far as four are concerned,’ said de Wolfe. ‘They can go and cause problems in Rye or wherever that ship lands them. At least they are no longer our concern.’

Gwyn, who had been standing quietly by the door, joined the discussion. ‘We sent four on their way, with some wives. But what happened to the fifth man who was hauled before the canons yesterday?’

De Wolfe had been told about him by the archdeacon.

‘It was a fuller called Algar, who lives in Milk Lane. I know nothing more about him, but it seems he was the most defiant of those arraigned yesterday and virtually told the canons that they had no right even to question him.’

The sheriff groaned. ‘The canons will be after him again; they won’t let him get away with that. I hear they have a list of other suspects, drawn up by the proctors’ men and their spies.’

‘I agree. He’d better stay at home after dark,’ said the coroner. ‘Otherwise he’ll find himself without a tongue or voice-box one of these nights.’

By the time he left the castle, it was early evening, when he would normally be going home to have supper with his wife, cheerless though that usually was. But with no Matilda, he reluctantly decided to go to her brother’s house in North Gate Street to see if he could pour some oil on the very troubled waters — at least it would satisfy Mary.

His brother-in-law kept a town house in the city, though he also had two large manors, one at Revelstoke near Plymouth and the other in the opposite direction up at Tiverton. His glacial wife Eleanor spent most of her time at the latter place, but these days Richard favoured the Exeter house, where he could supervise his various business ventures and consort with loose women, which was one of his main pastimes.

When John reached the tall house in North Gate Street, the door was opened by the timid Lucille, who had gone into exile with her mistress. She showed him into a small room off the hall, for the house was larger than John’s and had two extra chambers, as well as a solar. Matilda was sitting on a cushioned settle, with a brazier of glowing charcoal nearby. She scowled at her husband by way of greeting.

‘What makes you think I wish to set eyes on you?’ she snapped.

Determined not to lose his temper, he dug his nails into his palms and found some conciliatory words, even apologising for any hasty language he may have used.

‘You threatened me, John! What kind of behaviour is that?’ she responded ungraciously.

He tried to dismiss the claim by making light of it. ‘We have shouted at each other for the past sixteen years, wife,’ he said earnestly. ‘All married couples do; it’s part of wedded life. It was merely words; you know damned well I didn’t mean any of it.’

She sniffed and looked away, pretending to be indifferent, but John knew from experience that she was weakening. Even a day or two with her brother and sister-in-law was enough to make her pine for home. She and Eleanor de Revelle were mutually incompatible, as Richard’s wife made no effort to conceal her disdain for her husband’s family.

John was stumbling through more platitudes and apologies, which he knew were an essential part of the forgiveness ritual, when the door opened and Matilda’s brother entered. He stiffened as soon as he saw John, their long-standing dislike of each other crystallising into contempt on de Wolfe’s side and sheer hatred on Richard’s.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t trust you to be alone with Matilda!’

‘Don’t be so bloody silly, she’s my wife,’ glowered John. ‘I don’t come spying on you and Eleanor when you are having a spat in your own house!’

‘You offered violence to my sister,’ brayed Richard, his pointed beard wagging in indignation. ‘I heard you threaten to kill her!’

Vehemently, John protested that it was merely talk generated by high temper, and for several minutes they argued back and forth, that same temper beginning to show itself more on both sides as they went on. It was brought to an abrupt end by Matilda herself, as she lumbered to her feet and screamed at them both.

‘Enough of this! My husband is an impulsive fool with a foul humour, but my place is at home with him, for better or worse! I shall return there tomorrow, Richard, when my maid has packed my belongings.’

De Wolfe noticed that though her brother huffed and puffed and warned her again about the danger she would be in, he made no real effort to persuade her to stay, as a little of Matilda was more than enough for him or his wife and she could outstay her welcome in a matter of hours.

John decided there was no point in further discussion and, with a muted farewell to his wife until the morrow, he left the room. Richard followed him to the front door, strutting as if to make sure he did not steal anything or assault his staff.

As de Wolfe stepped into the street, his brother-in-law made one last parting shot. ‘Behave yourself, John! My sister is very dear to me,’ he bleated with false sincerity. ‘If any harm befalls her, I will know where the blame lies!’

Resisting the temptation to punch him on the nose, the coroner stalked off, not deigning to offer a reply.