Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

‘I don’t know what plans you have for a funeral, but I would advise you to keep clear of the cathedral,’ he murmured.

The portreeve immediately pressed him for an explanation, but John held up his hand. ‘I can’t explain now, but suffice to say that it would be best if you have him buried in one of the smaller churches. Better still, go out to one of the nearby country parishes. He has no relatives, so it will make no difference.’ He clapped a hand on the shoulder of his mystified friend and made his way back to Rougemont.

‘So what do we do now?’ asked the sheriff. ‘If it was an ordinary killing, some knife fight in a tavern or a robbery with violence, we could arrest everyone within sight and beat it out of them. But with these secret murders, we never seem to get anywhere.’

De Wolfe was amused at the ‘we’, as Henry de Furnellis rarely stirred himself to go hunting miscreants. He was sheriff for the second time, reluctantly coming back after John’s brother-in-law had been ignominiously deprived of office. Now over sixty, he wanted a quiet life and was looking forward to someone else being appointed in his place.

‘Surely this heretic business must be involved?’ boomed the third man in the sheriff’s chamber. ‘Why else would someone want to cut the poor bastard’s throat out, if he was just an inoffensive woodworker?’

This was Ralph Morin, the castle constable, a man as big as Gwyn, looking like one of his Viking ancestors with his forked beard. Rougemont had always been a royal possession, ever since the castle was built by the Conqueror, and Morin, as castellan and commander of the garrison, was responsible directly to the king.

De Wolfe nodded, as he reached for the inevitable cup of wine, dispensed by Henry. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Ralph. But I have a lot of digging to do before I can find out why.’

‘The archdeacon said that a few of the canons were after this fellow, so are you going to tackle them about it?’ asked the sheriff.

John nodded. ‘I’ll start this very day,’ he promised. ‘Though if I know these snooty clergy, they’ll be reluctant to even give me the time of day. They always shelter behind the power of the bishop or some such excuse.’

‘Is he buried yet?’ queried the castellan.

‘Being put down this afternoon, I think. Probably in St Bartholomew’s, where they disposed of those plague victims.’

De Furnellis looked across at John from his seat behind his table. ‘There were five more deaths in Topsham last night,’ he said sombrely. ‘I hope by Christ and all His Blessed Saints that we get no more in the city. Did you get any help from that doctor last night?’

‘He was as much use as my hound! Less, in fact, as Brutus can at least catch a few rats if he shifts himself.’

‘You think rats might be a cause?’ asked Morin. ‘I’m afraid of them getting among my garrison. The unmarried soldiers all live close together in the barrack-halls, and if one gets a cough or running nose they all get it.’

‘Get a few dogs in, Ralph, and get rid of any rats,’ advised John. ‘God knows if they are anything to do with the yellow plague, but according to this bloody doctor I’ve got next door the only prevention is prayer!’

Morin threw down the last of his wine and stood up. ‘Apart from Exeter itself, the other cases have been in Lympstone, Dartmouth and now Topsham. They’re all ports, so maybe there is something in this allegation that bloody sailors are bringing it in.’

‘Well, we can’t stop them coming — and half of them are Devon ship-men who live here,’ countered Henry.

When the castellan had gone, Henry looked quizzically at de Wolfe. ‘I gather you were not too impressed by your new neighbour?’

John gave one of his all-purpose grunts. ‘Thinks too much of himself for my taste. He’s only interested in the sound of coins jingling in his purse and preaching at everyone about the power of God! Told me to my face that he won’t help out at St John’s or go near the plague sufferers in case it affects his trade with the high-paying patients.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘But he’s got a most desirable wife!’

Henry, knowing his friend of old, clucked his tongue. ‘Now, John, none of that! You’ve got enough problems as it is. Stick to hunting criminals and having a trip to Dawlish now and then.’

It was good advice, and de Wolfe decided to take it. He was overdue for a visit to his family in Stoke-in-Teignhead and Dawlish was on the same road.

He left the keep, clattering down the wooden steps from the high entrance to reach the rock-hard mud of the frozen inner ward. Going back to the gatehouse to collect Thomas, they walked together back to the centre of the city.

‘I need to talk to this canon your uncle mentioned,’ said John as they went through a lane which came out in the Close.

‘Richard fitz Rogo? He was Archdeacon of Cornwall until recently; now he’s settled back into being just a canon. He is a rich man, with a private income, apart from his benefice.’

As John expected, his clerk was a walking encyclopaedia, especially where the Church was concerned.

‘What sort of man is he?’ he asked as they walked through the dishevelled area in front of the cathedral. Though it was holy ground, it was hardly a haven of episcopal calm. Rough paths led between grave-mounds, some fresh, some weed-covered and others gaping open awaiting fresh customers. Urchins played among the piles of dumped refuse, and dogs romped along with them. A few beggars slumped against the mounds, half-dead with cold, and a drunk wandered erratically past, singing incoherently.

‘This place is a disgrace,’ muttered Thomas indignantly before answering the coroner. ‘Richard fitz Rogo? He is a stern man, an upright pillar of the Church, but not given to much humour or pleasantries.’

‘Does he live in a simple fashion, like your uncle John de Alençon?’ asked the coroner.

Thomas shook his head. ‘He enjoys the luxuries of life very much, as you will see if we can get invited into his dwelling. It is just there.’

He pointed to one of the houses that lined the Close on the side facing the great West Front of the cathedral. It lay behind the small church of St Mary Major and its yard backed on to buildings in the High Street beyond.

John had brought his clerk with him, as he had learned that the presence of a priest was often useful when dealing with the clergy, especially those in the senior ranks. Thomas trotted to the door of the stone-built house and sought out the canon’s steward. Many of the lower orders of priest would be in the cathedral now, at one of the interminable services that occupied most of the day, but the less energetic canons had vicars and secondaries to stand in for them. Canon Richard was evidently one of these, for Thomas reappeared and conducted his master into the house, following the steward to a door leading to one of the two rooms on the ground floor.

Inside, he found a comfortable chamber with a large brazier glowing hotly in the centre. Some padded chairs stood around it, and a table, a cupboard and a wine cabinet completed the furnishings, apart from some expensive tapestries that softened the harshness of the stone walls.

A fat man with a bald head hauled himself from one of the chairs and greeted John as Thomas made a brief introduction and then retired to stand inconspicuously against the door. Richard fitz Rogo was pink and fat all over, including his cheeks and puffy neck, which overhung the neckband of his black cassock. A heavy woollen cape hung over his shoulders against the cold, though at the moment his room was probably one of the warmest places in Exeter.

‘Sir John, we have not met before, but I have seen you in the distance, attending Mass with your devout wife.’