Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

‘So what has this woodworker been doing, to bring down the wrath of your chapter upon him?’

The archdeacon sighed. ‘It was not what he was doing, John, but what he was saying. One of the proctors’ bailiffs heard Budd talking to a group of labourers on the quayside, dispensing the usual nonsense about every man being his own salvation. The proctor told one of my colleagues and he began a crusade against this man.’

He paused to sip his wine and sighed again. ‘I’m afraid the matter has escalated since then, as this canon found supporters for his views and has forced the chapter to take the matter to the bishop. It is difficult for me, as I admit to not having such strong feelings about the issue as some of my colleagues.’

The archdeacon paused to top up John’s cup before continuing. ‘Somewhat to my discomfort, I am the one who will have to deal with this matter, as the bishop appointed me as his vicar-general. Unlike some other dioceses, the bishop here has no chancellor to deal with such administrative and disciplinary matters.’

‘But I thought that the chapter dealt with such things?’ objected John, to whom the labyrinthine workings of the Church were a mystery.

De Alençon shook his grey head. ‘It has been traditional for the archdeacon of the see to be given this duty. In fact, we are sometimes called the oculus episcopi , “the eye of the bishop” — which does not increase my popularity with my brother canons, who sometimes suspect me of being Henry Marshal’s spy!’

De Wolfe looked at the priest from under lowered brows. ‘I get the feeling that you are not as enthusiastic as your brothers about pursuing this man?’

‘I am not, John. Our Church has been plagued by such critics since its early days in Rome. Then they posed a more serious threat, but stern measures over the centuries have repulsed them until, certainly in this country, they are mere irritations like the fleas and lice in our hair.’

‘I have heard somewhere that in the south of France there are many who challenge the supremacy of the Roman Church,’ said de Wolfe.

‘That is true. That area has always been full of strange beliefs, such as claiming that the Holy Mother herself fled there with Mary Magdalene — ludicrous, when everyone knows that after the Crucifixion she went to Ephesus to live out her days near St John.’

The coroner did not know that, but he failed to see the relevance. ‘Are they not called after the town of Albi?’ he asked as he stood up to leave. ‘I once rode through there to get to some campaign in Toulouse.’

De Alençon nodded. ‘The Albigensians, sometimes called the Cathars. They might pose a threat one day and will have to be dealt with, but I doubt we have many adherents in Devon.’ He finished his wine and saw his friend to the door. ‘If you want to know more, get my nephew Thomas to give you a lecture! He’s always keen to show off his knowledge.’

As they stood on the doorstep, John had a final question. ‘What will happen to this enquiry now that Budd is dead?’

John de Alençon shrugged. ‘No doubt it will be dropped, as Canon fitz Rogo can hardly press for the prosecution of a corpse.’

With much more to think about than when he came, the coroner left the cathedral precinct and went home to Mary’s grilled fish.

The inquest on the woodcarver that afternoon was a brief and unhelpful formality. For convenience, John held it in the yard behind St John’s, adjacent to the ramshackle mortuary. Gwyn had assembled a dozen men and older boys for a jury, which included anyone who might be of use as a witness. The enquiry had to be held with a viewing of the corpse, so Gwyn had lifted it out of the shed and laid it gently on the ground. He left the sheet over it for as long as possible, but at some stage the dreadful wound had to be displayed to the jurymen.

There was virtually no audience — different from the usual inquest in a village, when everyone turned out to gawp at a novelty that livened their dull lives. Rather to John’s surprise, there was one unexpected onlooker, his friend and partner Hugh de Relaga, dressed in his usual colourful costume, in spite of the sombre occasion.

‘What brings you here, Hugh?’ asked de Wolfe, taking him aside just before he began the procedure.

‘I represent the guilds, John. We were told of this poor man’s death and that he has no known family. We shall look after his funeral and see that his property is safeguarded, if he has any.’

Each trade had its guild, which not only regulated the quality of goods, fixed their prices, controlled working conditions and prevented unfair competition but acted as a friendly society for members, looking after widows and children in times of hardship.

‘Did you know anything of this particular man?’ asked John.

De Relaga’s chubby face was framed by a bright green coif, a tight-fitting helmet of linen, tied under his chin with tapes. He looked like some woodland elf, John thought, but it was an effective protection against the cold east wind that had arisen.

‘Not personally, as obviously he was in a different guild from mine,’ he answered. ‘But the warden of the woodworkers who told me of this tragedy this morning said that he had been a very devout man and worthy of all our help.’

The coroner thought it best not to disillusion his friend of the direction of Budd’s devotion and moved off to conduct his inquest. Gwyn bellowed his call to order and the jury shuffled into a line facing the coroner. Thomas set up his parchment, pen and ink on the back of a handcart, as far away from the corpse as possible, ready to transcribe the proceedings for future presentation to the royal justices when they arrived for the next Eyre of Assize.

John first called the lad who had discovered the body, who seemed quite unaffected by the gruesome experience. Osric and Theobald told how they had been called, and Gwyn in turn reported that all enquiries so far had found no witnesses to the killing. Nicholas Budd had worked alone, so that there was not even a journeyman or an apprentice to offer any evidence about his habits, mental state or even when he had last been seen alive. The woman from above Budd’s workshop was the only one who could state that the carver had been heard two evenings before, but she had nothing else to offer.

Finally, Gwyn paraded the reluctant jurors past the cadaver, demonstrating the neck wound and offering the severed tongue and voice-box to them, in the manner of a butcher trying to sell offal to a housewife. When they were back in line, a few shades paler in the face, de Wolfe harangued them to obtain a verdict, though in fact giving them little choice.

‘This is a preliminary enquiry, so that the law may allow the deceased man to be buried,’ he snapped, glaring along the row of faces. ‘The verdict is yours, but it seems unavoidable that you must find that Nicholas Budd was foully murdered. It cannot be an accident and I doubt he would have cut out his own throat and then laid it carefully on a stone beside him!’

He pulled his wolfskin cloak more tightly around him as an icy gust swept through the yard. Then he stabbed a finger towards the largest man in the jury, a bruiser of a fellow who wore the bloodstained apron of a slaughterman.

‘I appoint you foreman, so consult your fellows and give me your verdict.’

He didn’t actually add ‘And be damned quick about it’, but the message was there and within a brief moment the man from The Shambles turned back to mumble their agreement that the woodcarver had been slain by persons unknown.

‘When I get further information I may need to reconvene this inquest, but until then you may all go about your business.’

When they had shuffled away, Gwyn covered up the corpse and put it back into the mortuary until Hugh de Relaga sent men to collect it. John took his friend the portreeve aside.