A Plague of Heretics

CHAPTER SEVEN

The following afternoon, the second Sunday in November, the Feast of St Martin, four men sat huddled on the bank of the River Exe, a mile upstream from the city wall. They looked as if they were fishing, but in fact only one had bothered to bait his hook. This was Adam of Dunsford and, as a fishmonger, he felt it was incumbent on him to at least try to catch a fish.

Two of the other men were from Ide, a mile away, and the last one was from further afield near Crediton, a small town a few miles to the north. They met in what they hoped was the least noticeable gathering, just four fishermen whiling away a Sunday afternoon in the most innocent of pastimes. All they needed for camouflage was a short pole, with a length of twine attached to the end to dangle in the brown waters of the river.

As usual, they debated their faith at these meetings, but today there were also more pressing matters on the agenda.

‘I had the coroner after me two days ago,’ said Adam. ‘He wants to attend our meeting tomorrow.’

‘And bring men-at-arms to arrest us, I suppose,’ said Peter, a thin man with tousled red hair, a shepherd from Ide.

‘No, he seemed to have no interest in our faith. He said he was concerned only in solving the murder of Nicholas — and possibly that of Vincente.’

‘Was he really killed?’ asked Oliver. He was the third man, a small, puny fellow with a face like a weasel. ‘I heard today from a carter that one of the Cathars has vanished from Wonford.’

‘What’s happening to us all? Will we be hanged after this inquisition next week?’ Peter’s voice was tremulous, as he felt the grip of Rome tightening around them.

Adam shook his head and jiggled his hook in the water. ‘They have little power to do anything. I have read something about their disciplinary methods. We can be excommunicated, sure — but we have already done that voluntarily.’

A literate fishmonger was something of a rarity in the West Country, but when young, Adam had had a year’s schooling.

‘These bloody proctors have summoned us all to the bishop’s palace next week, so what can we expect from that?’ persisted Oliver. ‘In spite of what you say, Adam, I fear for my neck.’

‘All we can do is pray for God’s mercy,’ said the fourth man, who was much older, with a rim of white hair around his bald head. He was Jordan Cosse from Ide, a free smallholder who scratched a living from two cows, some pigs and geese. ‘The early Christians died in their thousands for their faith, when it was still untainted by scheming and corruption, so we should not fear dying for our beliefs.’

The others did not seem so sanguine about sacrificing themselves, but they held their tongues.

‘Let’s see what this John de Wolfe has to say tomorrow,’ said Adam eventually. ‘For some reason, I trust him. I have heard he is an honourable man and is not in the pocket of the cathedral. Perhaps he can tell us what powers the priests have over us.’

Unexpectedly, he felt a pull on his rod and for a few moments theology gave way to piscatology.

While the furtive opponents of the Pope’s hegemony were trying to land a bream on the bank of the Exe, another meeting was taking place in the chapter house attached to the south side of the cathedral. This was an old two-storeyed timber building, though plans were afoot for a new stone building on land the bishop had donated from his garden.

This meeting was not a regular session of the chapter, the governing body of the cathedral which met every morning. The ground-floor chamber, with its circle of benches and raised lectern, was being used for a small private meeting of senior priests. The three canons who were pursuing the issue of heresy were the prime movers, and they had co-opted a rather reluctant John de Alençon. As the archdeacon responsible for the Exeter area, as well as being the bishop’s vicar-general, he felt obliged to attend and also hoped that he might be able to dampen down any overenthusiasm on the part of the others. The bishop was represented by his chaplain, his secretary and a deacon, who, though in lower orders, was more a lawyer than a cleric.

They sat on a couple of benches pulled around to face each other, the three canons on one side, the rest on the other. The archdeacon thought irreverently that in their black cassocks they all looked like crows sitting on a pair of fences.

‘So who is to officiate on Wednesday?’ asked Ralph de Hospitali.

‘His Grace will be away, attending a meeting in Wells,’ announced his secretary, a prim young cleric with a pasty face and pimples. ‘So the archdeacon, as the bishop’s vicar-general, will lead the proceedings.’

‘Our Brother in Christ John is the obvious choice,’ announced Richard fitz Rogo heavily.

De Alençon groaned inwardly but accepted that he had no alternative but to accept his obligations, even if it meant listening to these ranting bigots for a few hours. Immediately, he felt ashamed of his unworthy thoughts and determined to make confession as soon as possible.

‘How many of these men are to be brought before the enquiry?’ he asked in a resigned voice.

‘Four at present, from this coven of blasphemers in Ide,’ answered fitz Rogo.

‘And how are these men to be persuaded to come before us?’

‘Gale and Blundus will be sent to warn them the day before,’ snapped Robert de Baggetor. ‘They know that failure to appear will lead to their arrest by the sheriffs men.’

‘How can that be brought about?’ asked the chaplain, an ambitious young man from a noble family, who saw being the bishop’s acolyte a useful stepping stone to his political ambitions.

‘The Ab Abolendum makes it clear that the secular powers must give every assistance to the Church in stamping out heresy,’ retorted de Baggetor.

‘And where are we to conduct this interrogation?’ asked the archdeacon wearily.

‘This chapter house seems the most convenient,’ responded fitz Rogo. ‘No one uses it in the afternoon.’

‘That does not seem appropriate,’ objected de Alençon. ‘This is the business of the diocese, not the cathedral. Bishop’s courts are held in the palace, surely.’

Ralph de Hospitali waved a hand impatiently. ‘We must not quibble over such details! Heresy is undermining the whole of the Holy Roman Church, so whether it is the diocese or the chapter that fights it seems immaterial!’

There was a murmur of agreement around the benches. ‘This is just a preliminary inquisition, not the trial,’ volunteered the deacon, keen on airing his legal knowledge. ‘But when it comes to definitively trying these creatures, then I agree with the archdeacon that it must be within the bishop’s precinct. Perhaps we might even persuade him to officiate,’ he added wistfully.

Robert de Baggetor leaned forward. ‘These are but four men, though we all know that the poison spreads far more widely. Two of the men on my list are already dead, for the Lord has struck them down, one by murder, the other by the yellow plague. But there must be many more, hiding under stones like slugs and toads.’

‘I thought your two bailiffs were searching them out?’ said fitz Rogo with a suspicion of a sneer.

‘They are, but it is a slow job!’ snapped Robert. ‘We have informers scattered around, but they are clever, these heretics. But we will find them eventually, just as the hounds flush out the fox.’

‘Can we not apply some pressure to the four we know?’ suggested de Hospitali. ‘Get the sheriff’s gaoler to put them to some ordeal to loosen their tongues?’

John de Alençon looked perturbed at this. ‘The Church does not allow blood to be spilled — and I hear that Rome is considering forbidding the participation of clergy in Ordeals.’

‘There is no spilling of blood in picking a stone from a vat of boiling water,’ countered fitz Rogo. ‘Nor in iron plates pressing the chest.’

‘Nor in walking across nine red-hot ploughshares!’ contributed de Baggetor, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

The archdeacon raised his hand for silence. ‘You are running far ahead of yourselves, brothers! Let us first see what these men have to say for themselves — and to hear from witnesses. I presume you have some?’

Ralph nodded complacently. ‘My bailiffs, of course. And they can produce people to support them.’ He gave a broad wink, as if to indicate that the witnesses would provide whatever evidence might be required.

As de Alençon walked slowly across the Close to his house, he tried to analyse his concern over this matter. ‘I am a devout and senior priest in the Church of Rome and owe my allegiance to it with every fibre of my body,’ he pondered. ‘It is my duty and should be my profound desire to stamp out all those who conspire to reduce its power, which is directed towards bringing all men into the Kingdom of God by the pathway ordained by centuries of Popes and their brethren.’

Yet the archdeacon found that a part of his mind respected those who were ardent Christians — probably far more sincere than the majority of people who went automatically through the observances of the Catholic Church — who wished to take their own path to salvation. He disliked the almost savage delight that seemed to emanate from his fellow canons at the prospect of a witch-hunt and he feared for the future if this zealotry became more intense and more widespread, as it was in France and Germany.

Reaching his study, he fell to his knees in front of the large cross on the wall and prayed earnestly for guidance.

Monday morning was a busy one for the coroner. He began by going to the cart-shed in Rougemont, which was used as a mortuary when required. It was just a shingled roof built against the inner wall of the bailey opposite the keep and this morning housed two bodies covered with a tattered canvas.

Gwyn pulled this away to reveal a sodden partly skeletalised corpse that had been washed up on the riverbank. The other cadaver was fresh, but the front of the coarse tunic was soaked in blood from a stab wound in the chest.

‘That one could have died in the summer, by the look of it,’ said Gwyn, airing his knowledge of decomposition.

The coroner nodded. ‘Might have washed down all the way from Exmoor, for all we know.’

Neither corpse provided much of a challenge to his powers. No one knew who the rotted body belonged to and no one ever would, so a short inquest with the finders and few onlookers from Exe Island disposed of the matter and allowed the corpse to be buried in an anonymous pauper’s grave. The stabbing from the Saracen, the roughest tavern in the city, had been witnessed by at least a score of other men, and a verdict of murder against another ship-man was returned by his jury in under a minute. The man would be incarcerated in the city gaol in one of the towers of the South Gate — if he survived the violence or disease rampant in prison, he would be brought before the king’s justices when they next perambulated to Exeter and John would see him again at the gallows on Magdalen Street.

All the time, de Wolfe was fearing the arrival again of the reeve from Stoke, to tell him his brother was dead. It was impossible for John to keep riding down there every day or two; he had his duties to attend to in the city, as well as the three-hour journey each way being too much to endure on an almost daily basis. As he walked back home for his dinner after the inquests, he pondered on what he would do if William did pass away. His elder brother was an expert at running two manors, a born farmer at heart — while John knew nothing about estate management, having been a soldier all his life. And where would he live — Exeter or Stoke? Much as he disliked Matilda, he could hardly walk out and leave her alone in Martin’s Lane for good.

The atmosphere in his house was as gloomy as ever. His favourite dish, roast pork, failed to lift his spirits, even though Mary had provided a side dish of leeks cooked in butter and there was a tart of prunes to follow. When a fresh loaf and a cheese appeared, he silently cut slices of each and slid some across to his wife on a pewter platter, trying to keep up some pretence of good manners, though she never responded with so much as a muttered thanks.

In a desperate attempt to break the silence, he made his first mistake. ‘I wonder how my brother is faring?’ he asked. ‘I must go down there tomorrow afternoon and return the next morning, so that I can attend to my duties.’

This started Matilda off on a familiar tirade about him leaving her alone overnight. ‘I suppose you are using the excuse of visiting your brother to call upon your whore in Dawlish,’ she spat.

On top of his deep concern for William, this was too much for him to bear, considering that he had resolutely avoided Hilda for fear of taking the disease to her.

‘You evil old bitch!’ he yelled, pushing back his chair so violently that it crashed over backwards. ‘You measure everyone by your own spiteful nature, damn you!’

A furious row broke out, as Matilda gave as good as she got, matching insult for insult. John had a quick temper, and this led to a screaming match that was probably a record for this household. Even Brutus, used as he was to these scenes, crawled away from the hearth and lay down inconspicuously in a corner. Matilda also lumbered to her feet, and they stood on each side of the table, shouting at each other at the tops of their voices.

‘Why I’ve not strangled you years ago, I’ll never know!’ he yelled at her finally. ‘But by God, I’ll do it one of these days!’

‘Is that so, John? I’ll remember that,’ came a third voice and, wheeling around, de Wolfe saw his hated brother-in-law standing just inside the door.

‘I knocked, but no one answered. Your maid must be hiding away like your hound,’ said Richard de Revelle smoothly.

‘What the hell do you want?’ demanded John. ‘Anyone with a little decency would have stayed outside.’

‘I thought my sister might need some protection from the threats of her husband,’ retorted the intruder.

‘And what protection d’you think you could offer?’ snarled John. The former sheriffs bravery had been called into question more than once.

‘You’ll go too far one day, John. Perhaps my sister was safer in Polsloe Priory than living here with you and your threats of violence.’

Matilda, breathing heavily and red in the face, tried to recover her poise. ‘Sit down, Richard. John, bring wine for my brother!’

‘Let him get it himself. I’m going out!’ snapped de Wolfe, abandoning any pretence at hospitality, which he considered would have been the height of hypocrisy.

He moved towards the door to get away from this odious couple, but Richard tried to delay him with an upraised hand.

‘John, I came to discover what is being done about the yellow distemper. My pork enterprise is being ruined. I have had to close both those at Exmouth and Dartmouth, as most of the men are dead or sick — and how can I sell meat which has been so near such contamination?’

De Wolfe looked at him incredulously. ‘You selfish bastard! Men, women and children are dying by the score, my own brother is near death, and all you can think of is your bloody bacon trade!’

He dragged open the door to the vestibule and stood on the threshold. ‘All you can do is pray, Richard! Presumably to the gods of Mammon!’

With that parting shot, he went out and slammed the door so hard that the latch snapped.

Rather aimlessly, John wandered into the cathedral Close, as his bad temper slowly subsided. His feet then almost instinctually took him in the direction of Idle Lane and the Bush Inn. Yet again, he regretted the loss of Nesta, who always had the ability to soothe him with her gentle words and divert him with her loving passion.

In the tavern, Edwin brought him a quart of Gwyn’s latest brew and his usual gossip. ‘I hear that on Wednesday, some of those faithless creatures from hell are going to get their just deserts,’ he announced with grim satisfaction.

‘Where did you hear that?’ demanded John, again marvelling at how an alehouse potman became privy so quickly to the bishop’s business.

‘Herbert Gale, one of the proctors’ bailiffs, was in here, and he said he had to bring them in from Ide. The other bailiff was supposed to collect one from Wonford, but it seems he’s disappeared. Run away, no doubt, when he heard that his blasphemy had been discovered!’

De Wolfe had his own ideas about that, but he was not going to tell Edwin, or it would be common knowledge all over the city inside an hour.

Gwyn ambled in, smelling pleasantly of fresh ale-mash, and sat down to share a pot with John. ‘Are we going down to this barn near Ide later on?’ he asked.

John nodded. ‘We’ll leave Thomas out of it, but I need to speak to these men to see if they have any ideas who may be so incensed against them that they resort to murder.’

‘It surely has to be a priest or someone in holy orders?’ said the Cornishman. ‘Who else would care that much?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘There are some folk who are so devout that they might do anything. I wouldn’t put murder past my wife,’ he added darkly.

At that moment a small figure appeared alongside them in some state of agitation. It was Thomas, once again venturing into the den of sin that was an alehouse, though in fact Martha was as kind to him as Nesta had been, insisting on feeding him and mending his shabby clothes when necessary.

‘Crowner, a man has arrived at Rougemont from Wonford, saying he’s the bailiff,’ he gabbled. ‘He wants you to go there at once. They have found the body of the man who went missing.’

John stared at Gwyn, then held up his hands in frustration. ‘I’ve just got to go to this place near Ide. I may not get another chance if they all get locked up after the canons get at them. But I couldn’t get to Wonford and back in time to go there!’

His officer took it calmly. ‘I can go with Thomas, just to view the body. You can see it again tomorrow, before you go off to Stoke.’

Their clerk looked worried, but de Wolfe assured him that he would be going about coroner’s business to see a suspected murder, which was nothing to do with condoning heresy.

‘Did the bailiff give you any details?’ he asked Thomas.

‘Only that it was obviously violence with a knife.’

Gwyn grunted and passed a thick finger across his throat. ‘Not another Adam’s apple missing?’

Thomas shivered. ‘He didn’t say so, but you can ask him yourself. He’s waiting for us at Rougemont.’

‘No, not his neck, but there’s a knife still sticking out of his belly,’ announced Robert of Wonford as he climbed into his saddle in the inner ward of the castle. ‘Covered in blood all down his front. I think there are other stab wounds in his chest, but I’ll leave that to you.’

Gwyn and Thomas were already mounted, and the three riders set off over the drawbridge across the dry moat and took their horses cautiously down the steep track through the outer ward to the gates in the stockade. As they trotted the mile or so to the village, Robert told them where they had eventually found the corpse.

‘In an earth closet behind an abandoned toft, half a mile away,’ he said with disgust. ‘Thank God no one had lived in the place for a few years, but it was still stinking!’

They confirmed this when they reached the old cottage, a crumbling ruin built of wattle and daub on the road out of Wonford towards Clyst St Mary. It was an isolated place, an overgrown half-acre set between trees. The roof had collapsed, but the remains of a couple of small outbuildings still stood at the back.

‘He’s in here. We left him for you to see just as we found him.’ He led the way to a small roofless hut made of planks, guarded by two villagers, though Gwyn thought that there was little chance of anyone interfering with the corpse in this isolated place. He looked inside the privy, where a rotting plank with a large hole formed the seat, but saw no sign of a dead man.

‘He’s around the back, in the pit,’ explained Robert. The toft was on a slope and the back of the hut was lower than the front, with a wide hole for clearing out the ordure — apparently at long intervals, by the amount and smell of the contents.

The bailiff pointed at the hole and Gwyn bent down to look inside, a move not copied by the more squeamish Thomas. He first saw a pair of legs and, as he stooped even lower, glimpsed a whole body stuffed into the space.

‘From above, you can see the knife and the blood through the shite-hole,’ said Robert. ‘Shall we get him out now?’

With the clerk standing well back, with the sleeve of his tunic over his nose, the two villagers came and hauled the corpse out on to the grass behind the privy. The back was smeared with the decaying contents of the pit, but thankfully a couple of years’ disuse had moderated the smell. Hengist of Wonford was an elderly man, with a stubble of grey beard and lank hair to match. The legs were drawn up and the head flexed down on the chest.

‘He’s still got some death stiffness,’ muttered Gwyn, testing the muscles. ‘So he hasn’t been dead for more than a few days.’

‘We know he was alive last Thursday,’ said the bailiff. ‘What about that knife? Are you going to pull it out?’

Just to one side of the navel was the handle of a large knife, all of the blade being buried in the belly. It had a crude wooden hilt and looked more like a tool than a weapon. The brown serge tunic was soaked in dried blood from neck to thighs, though most of this appeared to be coming from a series of stabs in the front of the chest, as the fabric showed half a dozen rents, each about an inch long.

Gwyn touched the hilt with a finger, then shook his head. ‘I’ll leave this for Sir John,’ he decided. ‘He hates his corpses to be interfered with before he gets to see them!’

The face of the dead man was remarkably peaceful, considering the violence of his demise, but Gwyn knew from long experience, both in battle and as the coroner’s officer, that the common belief that the expression on the features bore any relation to the act of dying was totally false.

‘What’s that stitched on to his tunic?’ asked Thomas, venturing nearer to point at the shoulder of the dead man.

‘He always wore that,’ said Robert. ‘He said it was a badge of his faith.’

‘Looks like a bit of felt in the shape of a fish,’ grunted Gwyn, not really interested.

‘That’s what it is, the ichthys sign,’ explained Thomas, crossing himself. ‘It’s the word for “fish” in Greek.’

‘I thought he was a leather-worker, not a fishmonger?’ quipped Gwyn. ‘We’ve already got one of those as a heretic.’

The clerk looked at his big friend with scorn. ‘You ignorant Cornish peasant!’ he said scathingly. ‘It was the secret sign for the persecuted Christians in the first century, as the Greek letters stood for the first letters of “Jesus, Christ, God, Son and Saviour”!’ He crossed himself yet again.

‘Well, this one was certainly persecuted, as were Nicholas Budd and Vincente d’Estcote,’ said Gwyn.

‘Father Patrick didn’t like him wearing that badge, but Hengist said that it was none of his business,’ offered the bailiff.

‘Heretics are Christians, so I suppose they are as entitled to wear it as anyone else,’ conceded Thomas.

Gwyn became impatient. ‘None of this helps to discover who killed the damned fellow,’ he rumbled. ‘Who would know of this cottage as a good hiding place?’

Robert waved a hand to encompass the whole countryside. ‘Anyone who passed by, as well as our villagers, of course,’ he answered. ‘But none of us would slay Hengist. He’s been accepted as being strange for years.’

Gwyn stood up and stared down at the corpse.

‘Better leave him where he lies until the coroner comes in the morning. Cover him with something and keep him guarded against foxes. Sir John will no doubt hold an inquest, so gather together whoever found him and a dozen men from the village for a jury by the ninth hour.’

While his assistants were in Wonford, de Wolfe was setting off in the opposite direction, west of the city. He had obtained directions from the fishmonger and made his way down a lane off the highway to Crediton. The river lay between him and the small village of Ide a mile away, and at the edge of some common pasture which led to the start of dense woodland he saw a dilapidated barn that stored hay cut in the summer. The walls were made of crude boards, with irregular gaps between them, and the old thatch was lopsided and rotted. He rode past and entered the edge of the woods to tie up Odin in a small clearing, which still had some grass which had escaped the frost, then walked back to the barn.

There were no other horses about, and it was obvious that everyone else attending the meeting had come on foot. He silently approached the back of the barn but was suddenly confronted by Adam of Dunsford, who must have heard Odin’s hooves on the track.

‘You found us, then?’ he asked abruptly, looking around suspiciously, as if uncertain whether the coroner had brought a troop of soldiers to arrest them.

‘I doubt your attempts at secrecy are very effective, Adam,’ scolded John. ‘I suspect that half Devonshire knows where and when you meet.’

He was right, as unknown to him another pair of eyes was watching from the cover of a bramble thicket where the trees ended.

The fishmonger led him around the front and into the barn, which was about half-filled with this year’s fodder. Seated or sprawled on this were eight men and two women, who seemed to have an air of resigned martyrdom about them. The men rose to their feet when the coroner entered and stood uneasily before him. Adam, who seemed to be the leader and spokesman, waved a hand around the small congregation.

‘These are our brothers and sisters, but I won’t give you all their names,’ he said cautiously. ‘But as four of us will be hauled before the bishop’s tribunal on Thursday, our names will no doubt be bandied about the city within hours.’

He pointed at Oliver and Peter and Jordan Cosse of Ide, telling the coroner who they were. John remained standing, taller than any of them and looking like a predatory eagle in his black and grey clothing.

‘I am not concerned with your religion, your beliefs, your faith,’ he began in his sonorous voice. ‘That is for other authorities to deal with. I am a king’s law officer, and my only concern is investigating the death of two, probably three, persons who are of a similar religious persuasion.’

Jordan Cosse looked startled. ‘You said three, Crowner? We know about Nicholas and Vincente, but who is the other one?’

All faces were turned towards him, waiting intently.

‘A man called Hengist has been missing from Wonford for some days. I have just been told that he has been found stabbed to death.’

There was a shocked silence, then a buzz of whispering.

‘We know of no one of our community by that name, sir,’ said Adam.

‘I understand that there are others who dispute the authority of the Roman Church, apart from your community?’ De Wolfe made this into a question rather than a statement.

Adam nodded and explained. ‘We have no name, like Cathars or Bogomils, but I suppose we follow the precepts of Pelagius, of whom I have read.’

‘My learned clerk tells me that the cult of that man faded centuries ago,’ objected John.

Adam, the philosophical fishmonger, smiled. ‘Maybe his following under that name dwindled and was crushed, but the basic truths that he preached and wrote about remain in men’s minds. We have revived them, and I know many others have similar beliefs.’

‘I asked about other branches of heresy. I was told that this man Hengist was attracted to the Cathar beliefs.’

There was another murmur among the others and some nodding of heads.

‘True, there are many pathways that a man can follow, without being chained by the Church to one narrow track,’ said Adam. ‘The Cathars are very numerous in France and pose the greatest threat to Rome. Not like us!’ he added rather wistfully, looking around at his small group.

At the back of the barn, unseen by those inside, an eye appeared in a crack between the rough boards and a hand cupped to a ear listened intently.

‘So this man in Wonford was not one of you?’ repeated John.

Heads shook in reply and Peter of Ide expressed his sorrow. ‘We revere all life, perhaps not like the Cathars, who consider the material world to be evil. I am saddened that any man or woman should be harmed, especially if it be for their faith.’

‘I agree with you. I regret that I once killed many men in the name of my religion,’ said de Wolfe — and the listening ear picked up his sentiments with satisfaction. He had heard enough and slipped away soundlessly back to the shelter of the trees, to find his horse tethered a safe distance away.

The coroner now got to the purpose of his visit. ‘I came here today to meet you, to learn if any of you suspect who might be so incensed at your different view of Christianity that they would wish to slay you?’

There was some more murmuring and one of the women, a gaunt dame of late middle age with sparse hair straggled over a pink scalp, spoke up. ‘Those canons — may they pay for their hatred when they meet their Maker — they are the ones who wish to persecute us!’

There was a general mutter of agreement, which again Adam put into words. ‘One is a cathedral proctor, that Robert de Baggetor, so he can use his heavy-handed bailiffs to hound us.’

Oliver, the pale-faced younger man with the narrow face, spoke for the first time. ‘That is so, but I find it hard to believe that priests, corrupt though so many might be, would stoop to foul murder, when they have the power of the Church to crush us, as they are plainly intent upon doing.’

‘But has anyone attacked any of you, either by mouth or fist?’

Adam laughed sardonically. ‘Plenty of abuse, when we speak publicly of our faith. I’ve had a punch or two aimed at me, but it was in the heat of the moment; it was nothing serious.’

‘Even those proctors’ beadles, Gale and Blundus, have never yet gone beyond a push and a shove,’ added Jordan Cosse.

De Wolfe spoke to them for another few minutes, asking each individually whether they had any cause to suspect who might wish them dead. His suggestion that perhaps one of the other sects might be jealous or inflamed by their different beliefs was met with derision. ‘We are all Christians and we respect each other’s right to worship in our own way. We have no desire to convert the great mass of Romish folk; they are as entitled as we are to freedom of expression. I only wish they felt the same about us!’

There was no more to be learned and John wished them well, though, like them, he was apprehensive about what their interrogation on Thursday might lead to. He went back to find Odin, who was peacefully grazing in the wood, and rode slowly back to the city, pondering the multiple problems that were churning in his mind.