A Plague of Heretics

CHAPTER FOUR

‘I thought there was something I’d missed, Crowner,’ said Thomas next morning. They were in their usual place in the bleak tower room of the gatehouse, though thankfully the cold weather had moderated and instead there was a thin drizzle borne on a westerly wind.

John looked at his clerk from under his black brows. Gwyn, perched on his window ledge, waited expectantly.

‘That man in the plague pit, the one who wasn’t yellow,’ continued Thomas obscurely. ‘I got only a glimpse of his dead face and I failed to make the connection then, as I was intrigued by the difference between him and the other victims.’

‘What connection?’ demanded de Wolfe, convinced now that his clerk was becoming as long-winded as Gwyn.

‘I had seen him before, only the previous day. It had slipped my mind, but he was the man who was preaching heresy in the street at Carfoix.’

‘So what? Even a religious crank is allowed to catch the plague!’ grunted Gwyn, scratching at a flea bite on his thigh.

‘Two heretics found dead on the same day?’ mused de Wolfe. ‘That’s a coincidence, right enough.’

Thomas was impatient with the others for not seeing the full significance of his news. ‘Look, I saw him alive and perfectly well in the street at around midday on Tuesday. By the evening, he was dead along with those other poor people. Even this serious plague doesn’t kill you within such a few hours. I saw the corpse next morning and he wasn’t yellow then, so he can’t have died of the distemper.’

John leaned his folded arms on the table and stared at Thomas, his head jutting out like a vulture.

‘You’re a clever little fellow, Thomas de Peyne,’ he observed. ‘I wish I had half your brains!’

‘What’s to be done about it, Crowner?’ asked Gwyn.

‘I had better get down to Bretayne and ask a few questions. You said you knew this man’s name?’

‘Vincente d’Estcote, a porter from down there. That’s about all I know, except that he was certainly preaching blasphemous opinions in the street.’

De Wolfe rose from his stool and took down his grey cloak.

‘No time like the present. Then I’ll have to ask your uncle if he knows anything of this man and also talk to the other two canons who seem most involved in this affair.’

‘Do you want me to come down to Bretayne as well?’ asked Gwyn uneasily. John knew that though his henchman would happily fight a dozen Saracens single-handed, he was reluctant to face some invisible infection.

‘You go back to the Bush and try brewing some better ale,’ he said roughly. ‘That last lot tasted like horse-piss!’ He winked broadly at Thomas to give the lie to what he said, and both knew that he was saving the Cornishman’s pride at avoiding the hazards of Bretayne.

They went out into the fine rain that made the morning miserable and walked down to the bottom of the High Street.

‘This is where I saw the fellow. He was talking to a group of bystanders over there,’ said Thomas, pointing across Carfoix. When Gwyn left them a few yards further on, the coroner and his clerk crossed the street and turned right near St Olave’s Church into one of the lanes that led down into Bretayne. Slippery with mud and refuse, the narrow alleys were lined with a motley collection of huts and small shacks, all either thatched or roofed with splintered or rotted shingles. Goats, mangy dogs and ragged children abounded, and rats were scuttling freely in the filthy drains between the dwellings.

‘Where’s the best place to ask for some information, Thomas?’ asked his master.

‘Try the parish priest, the one we saw when that man was nailed to the tree in his churchyard,’ suggested Thomas, referring to a previous drama they had dealt with down here.

At St Bartholomew’s, a small chapel set in a neglected half-acre of trees and weeds, they found the sexton, an old man whose face was badly disfigured by cowpox scars.

‘Father Robin is not well; he didn’t get up this morning,’ he told them rather sheepishly. John knew that the incumbent was probably drunk, but the sexton seemed to know plenty of local gossip.

‘My clerk here tells me that one of those plague victims had none of the usual yellowness of the skin,’ said John. ‘Do you recall that?’

The old man, who had a severe tremor of his fingers, pondered a moment, then agreed. ‘Not that I noticed much, nor cared. All me and my labourer wanted was to get a hole dug and tip them in as quick as we could.’

‘Did you notice anything else about the corpse?’ he demanded. ‘Any injuries that you could see?’

The sexton shook his head vehemently. ‘We had cloths over our heads. I could hardly see nor breathe!’ he exclaimed querulously. ‘Got ’em down under ground as quick as we could, no time to bloody examine them!’

‘Well, it may be that you’ll have to dig them up again!’ snapped the coroner.

Again the old man shook his head and held up his hands as if to ward off the devil. ‘That can never be done, sir!’ he wailed. ‘You’ll not find a man who’ll put a spade into that pit, not for a king’s ransom.’

De Wolfe argued with him for a few moments, but the sexton was adamant that neither he, his gravediggers nor any sensible fellow would risk disturbing the remains of plague victims.

‘Then tell me more about this fellow,’ said John. ‘My clerk says that he was probably one of these malcontents who preached heresy.’

‘That was well known, Crowner,’ agreed the sexton. ‘Though he was but a common porter, he had a mind above his station in life, did Vincente. Father Robin had great arguments with him, when they sat here in the churchyard with a pitcher of ale between them.’

‘And your priest did not denounce him?’

The old man leered. ‘Father Robin is one for a quiet life, sir. It would be far too much trouble for him to start something like that.’

The only other useful fact that de Wolfe could get from the sexton was that there were quite a few others in Bretayne who seemed to share Vincente d’Estcote’s views and that they sometimes even met in the churchyard to discuss their beliefs. Having exhausted what little the sexton knew, John walked back towards the city centre with Thomas, picking his brains as he went.

‘Tell me more about these heretics, before I visit the other canons,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to appear too ignorant.’

The clerk, a born teacher, was only too eager to oblige. ‘They disagree with the dogma and rituals of the Roman Church, though, of course, they are still Christians — and often very devout ones, for they care more about their beliefs than the average man.’

That was true enough, thought John, who accepted religion merely as an ordinary fact of life, just like food, drink and sex. ‘So what do they believe?’ he asked.

‘There are many types of heretics — in fact, one could even call the Eastern Church based in Constantinople a heresy, as they refuse to abide by the rules of Rome, as did the Celtic Church of Ireland and Wales, until eventually Rome trod them under foot.’

This didn’t answer de Wolfe’s question, but he waited for Thomas to continue.

‘The early bishops of the Roman Church set down their rigid beliefs and ceremonies in a series of synods in the first few centuries after the death of our Blessed Saviour.’

The little clerk paused to cross himself. ‘The main article of faith was that man is born with original sin, derived from the fall of Adam, and can achieve salvation only through the intercession of the Holy Church and its priests.’

John had not heard it put so plainly before, not in all the hundreds of boring sermons he had sat through over the years.

‘In other words, Rome claims a monopoly on salvation?’ he asked provocatively.

As a faithful servant of the Church, Thomas bridled a little at this. ‘And quite rightly so, for we have that power given by God, through the laying on of a bishop’s hands during ordination.’

‘So what do the heretics say to that?’

Thomas pattered alongside, keeping up with the coroner’s long strides. ‘There are many different sects of heretics, but most have one thing in common. They deny that all men are born into sin and say that every man has it within him to makes choices that will lead him to his own salvation, without the interference of a priest. In other words, free will can direct him to heaven or hell.’

‘Seems quite sensible to me, Thomas,’ said de Wolfe, impishly goading his clerk.

‘Oh, don’t say that, sir!’ squeaked the clerk. ‘I would never forgive myself if I thought that I had led you out of the path of righteousness.’

‘Don’t worry, lad, I’m not that concerned with my immortal soul. But tell me, what sort of heretics would these Exeter fellows be likely to be?’

They had reached the cathedral Close by now, where John sat down on a low wall near the little church of St Mary Major that faced the West Front. He motioned Thomas to a place alongside him, as he knew he was panting after the rapid climb up from Bretayne. When he had regained his breath, the clerk expounded his knowledge once more.

‘It is hard to say, there are so many different sects, each disputing with the other as to who is correct.’

‘Your uncle mentioned the Cathars, from southern France?’

‘It is possible, though I doubt that many Englishmen belong to them, numerous though they are in Albi and around Toulouse. If those here are home-grown blasphemers, they are probably Gnostics or some descendants of the Pelagians, who were called the British heretics long ago.’

John’s brow furrowed, as his clerk’s breadth and depth of learning often left him behind. ‘Who the hell are they?’ he asked.

‘Hell is the right word, master, as no doubt Pelagius has been languishing there for the past eight hundred years. After Arianism, his beliefs were virtually the first to challenge the early Roman Church.’

The coroner wisely decided not to ask about the Arians.

‘Why was this heresy called British, then?’ he demanded instead, interested in spite of his usual apathy about religion.

‘He was a Briton — a Celt like you, sir. In fact, he is also known as Morcant or Morgan — probably a monk from the monastery at Bangor-on-Dee in North Wales, though all his active life was spent in Rome and Carthage.’

‘And these heretical beliefs of his gained adherents?’

‘Indeed they did!’ replied Thomas, gesticulating in the full flow of his lecturing mode. ‘In the early fourth century, they spread so widely that at one time it was a possibility that they would gain the ascendancy over Rome. They were especially popular in Britain, so much so that Pope Celestine had to send three bishops, including St Germanus, to try to quell the rise of the cult, which even had many Roman priests convinced of its worth.’

He was now really into his stride. ‘Pelagius fled from Rome to Carthage and St Augustine of Hippo strove to overcome his heresy — in fact, the Council of Carthage in 418 set down the nine articles which remain the basic tenets of the Roman Catholic faith, as a direct reaction to Pelagius’s teachings.’

This was getting too scholarly for de Wolfe, so he moved the subject on a little.

‘So what about these Cathars? Even I heard about them when I was campaigning in France, down near the Languedoc. Some of the other knights were muttering about exterminating them.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘They are very different from the old Pelagians — and they are a new breed of heretics, posing a modern threat to Rome. I fear there will be a Crusade against them before many years are out. They believe that all material things, including our very bodies, are works of the devil and that only our souls belong to God. They see no reason for the existence of the Holy Church and also claim that a man must work out his own salvation.’

John rose from the wall, bemused by an excess of knowledge.

‘I suppose it matters not one bit which kind of blasphemy our Devon heretics subscribe to, Thomas!’ he observed. ‘Your masters in the cathedral no doubt tar them all with same brush when it comes to getting rid of them.’

The clerk nodded soberly as he followed the coroner. ‘But retribution must be applied through the proper processes — the bishop’s court and the like, not by a knife to the throat, Crowner.’

This time, they went across the Close to Canon’s Row to find one of the other heretic-hunters, Ralph de Hospitali. He occupied a house three doors beyond that of John de Alençon, and Thomas repeated his actions to get de Wolfe admitted to the canon’s presence.

Once again, he found the prebendary living in some luxury, so different from the ascetic home of Thomas’s uncle, just along the road. The well-furnished chamber had a blazing fire in a side hearth like the one in John’s home, and there seemed to be a surfeit of servants about the house.

Ralph was a younger man than Canon fitz Rogo, only a few years older than John himself. He was tall and lean, with a mop of fair hair around his shaved tonsure. A nervous, overactive man, he seemed unable to keep still, restlessly sitting down and then standing up, calling for wine, which his visitors declined.

‘Richard fitz Rogo told me of your visit, and no doubt you need to consult me as well,’ he stated in a staccato voice that suited his twitchy nature. He made no effort to seat his visitors, but paced around them like an angry lion.

‘I heard of the death of this woodworker, who we were about to bring to account,’ he snapped. ‘Even my Christian charity cannot stretch to the hypocrisy of expressing sorrow for it, though I would not wish that method of death on any of God’s creatures.’

His attitude rankled with John, but he suppressed his distaste with an effort. ‘How came you to know of this man’s activities?’ he asked.

‘It was reported to me by Herbert Gale, the senior of our two proctors’ bailiffs. He said he had an informant in the city and so personally went down to a meeting in a house where this Nicholas Budd was expounding his dangerous blasphemy.’

‘You did not personally hear the man commit heresy?’

The canon shook his head vigorously. ‘There was no need! The bailiff’s accusation was sufficient to have the fellow called in for interrogation, which was to be in a few days’ time.’

De Wolfe stared hard at the priest. ‘A servant’s opinion was enough for you?’ he grated.

‘Why not? If the man Budd could explain himself, so be it. If not, he must face the consequences.’

The coroner breathed hard at this cavalier approach to justice.

‘Was Budd the only one you suspected of heresy?’

Ralph de Hospitali leaned against the edge of his table and drummed his fingers on the top. ‘I suspect many more. It seems obvious that there is a spreading cult of these evil thinkers in Devon, many right here in Exeter. But they will be extirpated, mark my words!’ His voice rose in pitch as he became more vehement.

‘Do you know more names?’ asked John, thinking of the pale-faced man in the plague pit.

‘I have suspicions of several, reported by the proctors’ men. My brother in Christ, Robert de Baggetor, is compiling a list of suspects, based on the information passed to him by the two bailiffs and their contacts in the city.’

‘Does the name Vincente d’Estcote appear in his list?’

Ralph looked blankly at the coroner. ‘I do not recall that name, but, as I say, de Baggetor is at present compiling a list and for all I know that person may be included. Why do you ask?’

‘I have certain information that he might have been one of these men with very different views from your own,’ answered John obliquely.

The canon’s sharp wits soon picked him up. ‘What do you mean “might have been”? Has he then seen the error of his ways?’

‘He is dead as well!’ answered John bluntly. ‘And I have no means of determining how he came by his demise.’

De Hospitali jerked himself upright and took a step towards the coroner. ‘If you have other names, you must give them to me. You have a duty under God to do so.’

‘And I have a duty under the king’s peace to see that the law is upheld, sir,’ retorted de Wolfe. ‘Where can I find your bailiff? I need to see this list of his, in case others have met an untimely fate.’

For the first time, Thomas opened his mouth, for until now he had been studiously ignored by the canon.

‘Sir, how does the bailiff, who is really but a constable, make a record of these men? Can he read and write?’

Ralph looked down at the clerk as if noticing his presence for the first time. ‘Herbert Gale is a former merchant’s clerk, who spent some of his youth in the abbey school at Bath. His fellow bailiff is illiterate, but Herbert has some learning. You will no doubt find him in the small building which houses the cathedral detention cells, on the north side of the Close.’

He rang a small bell to summon his steward, an unambiguous sign that the interview was over. Realising that there was nothing more to be gained, John left, his clerk trailing behind him. They walked slowly back along Canon’s Row, in silence for the first hundred paces.

‘Not very likeable, that fellow,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘Is he always like that?’

‘He has a reputation for being strict in all matters concerning the observance of cathedral rules and customs,’ answered Thomas. ‘He is a pillar of the chapter, but it is hard to warm towards him.’

‘What about this remaining canon, Robert de Baggetor? What’s he like? I’ve only seen him in the distance, when my wife drags me to the cathedral.’

‘Another former archdeacon, this time of Barnstaple. He is older, probably in his sixtieth year. Another proud and somewhat arrogant man, may God forgive me for so saying.’ He crossed himself rapidly as a precaution against being struck by a thunderbolt for his disparagement of a senior churchman.

‘So where do we find him, Thomas?’

‘He lives further along from fitz Rogo on the north side. He is one of the two cathedral proctors who have houses reserved for their use. The other one is William de Swindon.’

‘I gather the proctors are responsible for order and discipline within the cathedral community,’ said John. ‘Is that all they do?’ His knowledge of ecclesiastical politics and administration was hazy.

‘They are, but much of their function is to deal with legal and ceremonial matters for the chapter and the bishop. They don’t soil their own hands with mere physical matters like riot or affray. For that, they employ proctors’ bailiffs, who are the cathedral’s equivalent of our Osric and Theobald in the city.’

Just then a bell began tolling in the cathedral and several groups of vicars, secondaries and one or two canons appeared from various houses and began converging on the various entrances to the great church of St Mary and St Peter.

‘You’ll not see him now, master,’ said Thomas, pointing to one group as they trod sedately across the Close. ‘He’s there, off to celebrate Terce, Sext and Nones.’ These were the mid-morning offices of the daily devotions.

‘We’d best catch him when he comes back for his dinner at noon,’ added the clerk. ‘I should be there myself, if you don’t need me at the moment.’

John waved him away, and Thomas followed the rest of the celebrants into the cathedral. These incessant services were not meant for the benefit of the public except on feast days, as the common folk were served by a plethora of parish churches in the city. The rituals in the cathedral were for the endless glorification of God by the priesthood and their lesser acolytes.

John walked slowly back to his house around the corner, somewhat at a loss as to what to do next. It was too late to trudge back up to the castle and too early for his dinner. Partly from old habits left from the Nesta days, he decided to take Brutus for a walk, his old weak alibi for going down to the Bush. Fetching him from the house, where thankfully Matilda was either in her solar or out somewhere, he walked down to Idle Lane and sampled the new batch of ale, which fully lived up to his expectations.

The big Cornishman came and sat with him, basking in the compliments about his latest efforts at brewing. A fervent dog-lover, he brought a bone from the kitchen-shed for Brutus, who lay in the rushes under the table, gnawing happily while the men above talked.

‘The yellow plague has hit Dartmouth now, so a carter told us this morning,’ said Gwyn. ‘Another port. We don’t hear of it happening up on Dartmoor, so it must surely be brought in by ship-men.’

They discussed this for a time, but felt futile and helpless in the face of a disease which struck so rapidly and so randomly.

‘That doctor next door to me is useless,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘I’ll have a word with Richard Lustcote, the apothecary. He’s a sensible man, though I suppose if there was anything he could do, he would have done it by now.’

His officer, depressed by the subject, moved to another problem. ‘What are we going to do about this murder? Where do we start?’

‘The heretic fraternity is the only lead I can see,’ answered the coroner. ‘Unless some fanatic comes to confess to it, which seems as likely as the moon breaking in half, we can only attack the problem by discovering whom the heretics fear or even suspect of such an act.’

‘And what about Thomas’s pale man in the plague pit?’

John shrugged and took a deep draught of his ale. ‘We’ve no chance of getting him dug up again, in the circumstances. And even if we did and found another bloody great wound in his head, what good would that be in finding out who did it? We’ve already got one example, and that’s taking us nowhere at the moment.’

Gwyn scratched his crotch, which seemed his alternative to Thomas crossing himself. ‘So we’ve got to find us some unbelievers?’

‘Unbelievers in the Roman way, certainly — though our clerk says they are more than devout in their own way. Someone said they heard such heresy being voiced in the Plough tavern, so maybe you should do one of your tours around the alehouses and keep those big ears open.’

Where Thomas gained much gossip from among his ecclesiastical colleagues, Gwyn was adept at eavesdropping in taverns, a task that suited him admirably.

‘I’ll start tonight, Crowner — my goodwife can hardly complain if I’m doing it on behalf of the king and his coroner!’