Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

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.’