Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

‘You want to talk to me about this slain heretic?’ asked de Baggetor. His voice was slow and almost lazy, but was belied by the steely look in his dark eyes. The ring of frizzled hair around his tonsure was grey, but his eyebrows were jet black, like John’s.

‘It is just possible that we may have two slain heretics,’ answered de Wolfe. ‘I can’t prove it for various reasons, but another man said to have similar beliefs has died suddenly. Does the name Vincente d’Estcote mean anything to you?’

A look of surprise came over the canon’s face, which John felt was genuine. ‘No, never heard of him. Why do you say that he might also have been a blasphemer?’

‘My clerk here heard him addressing folk in the street on the subject. I thought he might have been one of the names that your bailiffs had reported to you. Ralph de Hospitali told us that you held a list of such suspects.’

Robert de Baggetor turned to his table and reached up to a shelf above it, where a number of rolled parchments rested, tied with pink tape. Everything in the room was in meticulously neat order, with nothing out of place. Even the large ebony and ivory crucifix on the wall shone as if it had been polished only an hour before.

He took a thin roll and untied it, before scanning it rapidly and then handing it to John. ‘That name is not on there, Sir John.’

The coroner, always slightly sensitive about his illiteracy, slid the curled sheet across to Thomas.

‘How did your men come by these names?’ he asked.

The canon rubbed one of his eyes, which was red and inflamed.

‘On my instructions, they seek out meetings of such evildoers. They also have paid informers who can acquire such names without arousing suspicion. Experience in Italy and France has shown that since the Papal Bull on the matter, threatened exposure can lead to violence and even murder of the investigators.’

John made a mental note to ask Thomas about this notorious Bull, but he did not wish to show his ignorance before this patronising cleric.

‘I would like to keep this list — or have my clerk make a copy of it,’ he requested.

De Baggetor’s dark brows came together in displeasure. ‘Impossible! It is for the use of the bishop and the proctors. This is an ecclesiastical matter; it is none of the business of a sheriff or coroner.’

Thomas, emboldened by his knowledge of Church law, ventured to enter the dispute. ‘With the greatest respect, canon, the Papal Bull Ab Abolendum specifically stated that bishops should seek the aid of stewards, bailiffs and all other officers in pursuing heretics and that such secular authorities were obliged to offer such help.’

The former archdeacon glowered at this little upstart but was unable to contradict him. ‘I am one of the cathedral proctors and know the laws as well as you,’ he grated. ‘But if you think you can find more of these vermin, then make a copy of this list. There is pen, ink and parchment on that table.’

As Thomas, with hidden glee, hurried to take advantage of de Baggetor’s climbdown, John had more questions.

‘What has occurred recently to bring this matter to the surface?’ he asked.

‘Events in northern Italy and the south-west of France have caused anxiety in Rome,’ answered the canon, who seemed more ready to speak of generalities than his own activities. ‘The Papal Legate in England has passed on instructions from the Vatican for all bishops to be far more vigilant in detecting and stamping out the growing cancer that is eating away at the very roots of our Holy Roman Church.’

‘So what is intended in regard to these other persons? Are they all to be arrested?’

‘There is to be an inquisition, where they will be strictly interrogated. Depending on what arises from that, further action will be taken.’

This sounded somewhat sinister to de Wolfe, but the proctor refused to be drawn on the matter, saying it would be the decision of the bishop and of the chancellor of any court he might set up.

As soon as Thomas had finished copying the list, for there were only a dozen names on it, they left, as de Baggetor made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of telling them any more.

The cloud-filled sky was darkening by now, the November weather already warning of the coming of winter. Again the coroner and his acolyte made their way down towards the lower town, where the old wall gave on to the quayside where smaller ships could get up on the tide past Topsham. John was on his way to the Bush and Thomas to his lodgings, and as they parted at Idle Lane de Wolfe gave him his orders for the morning.

‘Tomorrow you must explain to me about this Bull and the demands of the Pope — it’s all a mystery to me. Then we’ll look at that list you made and decide what to do about it. I smell more trouble coming and we need to be prepared for it.’

The coroner did not stay very long at the inn, as Gwyn had taken him at his word and gone off early on his tour of the taverns, allegedly in search of information. If John knew anything about him, he would get several gallons of ale inside him in the process, but knowing of his capacious stomach and iron head, John had little fear of him coming to any harm.

Dusk was falling, but it was not yet dark when he got back to Martin’s Lane and, as he passed the little church of St Martin’s on the corner of Canon’s Row, he met Cecilia, the doctor’s wife. She was swathed in a mantle of heavy green wool, with a fur-edged hood framing her handsome face. Behind her, her young maid lugged a large shopping basket. He greeted Cecilia warmly, for any good-looking woman always melted the usual forbidding expression on his face.

‘Best that you reach home and hearth while there’s still light, mistress,’ he said affably. ‘Especially when you ladies are abroad alone in these streets.’

She smiled at him as they stopped to speak, close enough for him to smell a flowery fragrance coming from her.

‘At this time of day, my husband sees his patients in his chamber in Goldsmith Street,’ she explained, ‘so he can never escort me when I wish to visit the booths or the tradesmen’s shops.’

For a fleeting moment de Wolfe wondered if this rather unnecessary explanation was a covert message that she was alone at this time every day — but then he discarded the thought, knowing what a godly and upright woman she was. But one could have said exactly the same thing about his Hilda of Dawlish, who was a pillar of her church and community yet had been John’s mistress for many years.

‘You have been about the king’s business today, sir?’ asked Cecilia, almost as if she wanted to spin out their encounter.

Being quite happy to dally with her, John gave a brief account of his efforts to track down who might have killed the heretic — and mentioned the possibility that another one of that persuasion might also have been slain.

‘Poor people. It seems cruel that they should suffer just because they have a different view of God from the majority,’ she said surprisingly. ‘My husband has such strict opinions on the matter, but I fear I see them as human beings deserving of compassion.’

‘They may well suffer even more soon, if the bishop has to carry out his orders from Rome,’ said John grimly. He explained about the forthcoming inquisition of any suspected of deviating from the prescribed pathway laid down by the Pope. ‘As the coroner, I have to hold inquisitions, but I fear that the religious variety may be far more harsh than my questioning.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘It is wrong that a man’s private thoughts and beliefs — or, indeed, a woman’s — should be dictated to by others and any transgression punished by violence.’

De Wolfe was intrigued by her words. A freethinking woman was almost unknown, at least any daring to put such thoughts into words.