Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

‘Adam of Dunsford! I recall that name, not from a tavern, but from a jury I assembled, just before we went off to London.’

‘Why would you recall that particular juror from scores of others?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘Because he never became a juror — the night before the inquest, he slipped and broke his foot. I had to find someone else to make up the numbers.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Alphington, on the other side of the river. He was a fishmonger, I remember. He had a stall on West Street.’

Thomas read the remaining names and the very last one was familiar to John himself.

‘Wait, I know that name! Hengist of Wonford, accused of stealing a chalice from a church. He came before the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery last year, but was acquitted. I recall him because of that strange Saxon name.’

‘His parents must have been familiar with the works of the Venerable Bede to give him a name like that,’ said Thomas wryly, but his historical allusion was lost on the other two.

‘So we can find two of these heretics, if they haven’t already been assassinated!’ observed Gwyn.

‘Why do we need them?’ objected the clerk. ‘It’s the killer we need to find.’

De Wolfe sided with his officer. ‘They might know something about who is harassing them most severely. Some may have had death threats, for all we know.’

After more discussion, the coroner finally decided to seek out the two named men in the morning, before he rode off again to Stoke-in-Teignhead with the physician and the apothecary.

West Street was the continuation of Fore Street, as it sloped downhill towards the West Gate from the crossroads at Carfoix. The top end was lined with the stalls and booths of tradesmen, varying from exposed trestle tables to tent-like erections of brightly striped canvas. All manner of goods were on display, though food was the mainstay of this part of the market. Meat which still dripped blood hung on the butchers’ stalls, fresh from The Shambles at the top end of South Gate Street, where the slaughterers felled cattle, sheep and pigs at the edge of the road. Many other traders offered vegetables, though the range was limited at this time of year, mainly root crops and cabbage. Between the stalls, women — many of them aged crones — crouched over baskets of eggs or had a few live chickens or a goose trussed at their feet. This early part of the morning was the busiest, as the cooks, house-servants and the city’s wives were all out shopping for the day’s provisions and the roads were thronged with people. Though the fear of plague was almost palpable, the townsfolk still had to buy the makings of their meals.

The coroner’s trio were looking for a fishmonger and they found a choice of four or five. Enquiries took them to a burly, red-faced man who stood behind a table carrying flat trays of fish, some still flapping feebly. Wicker baskets on the ground held other larger fish, as well as eels, crayfish and mussels.

One look told him that a Norman knight, a priest and a red-headed giant were not there to buy fish. Frowning, he finished dealing with a customer, putting ten herrings in the bowl she held out, in exchange for half a penny-piece.

‘You are Adam of Dunsford?’ asked John as soon as the woman had moved away. The fish-man nodded and wiped his hands on his apron, a length of once-white linen now soiled with fish blood and entrails.

‘And you are the coroner, sir,’ he answered civilly. ‘You are very well known in the city.’

De Wolfe checked to make sure that no one was standing nearby, as this was business that need not be shouted abroad. He lowered his voice a little.

‘We have seen your name on a certain list held by the cathedral authorities,’ he began. ‘That is no concern of mine, except that it may lead me to discover who might have killed Nicholas Budd. I presume that name means something to you?’

The weather-beaten face clouded over, and he became instantly suspicious. ‘I know that the poor fellow met a terrible death,’ he said cautiously. ‘But what business is it of mine?’

John leaned across the table, his fists avoiding fish scales and blood.

‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Adam. We both know you are on the Church’s list of suspected heretics. Budd is dead and we suspect that Vincente d’Estcote may be another. Do you know anything about his death?’

The fishmonger looked furtively from side to side, as if he was afraid that Bishop Marshal might be lurking in the pastry-cook’s booth next door. ‘Vincente just vanished from his lodgings; no one saw him go,’ he muttered. ‘He was in good health an hour before, because I saw him myself.’

‘He was one of your group, was he?’ asked de Wolfe, but Adam shook his head.

‘No, he subscribed to the beliefs of the Cathars. He had been in the king’s army and had spent time down in France.’

‘So what are you, man?’ demanded John. ‘You may as well answer, you admit you knew him.’

Adam drew in a deep breath, as if committing himself to an irrevocable decision. ‘I follow the ways of Pelagius — and I am not alone in that.’

Thomas in his surprise and disbelief made a noise almost like a mouse’s squeak. ‘A Pelagian! There have been no Pelagians for six centuries!’

Adam regarded the priest placidly. ‘It has been revived by many, even if not in name. The principles are well known, and those who disagree with the dictatorship of Rome come together to discuss the True Way.’ He held his dirty hands out towards the clerk as if inviting him to put bonds upon them. ‘Now you may denounce me, if you wish.’

Thomas seemed nonplussed for once and looked to the coroner for support. ‘I am here as an assistant to an officer of the King’s Peace. I leave Church discipline to others.’

De Wolfe nodded his agreement. ‘I am investigating a murder, Adam, not doing the Pope’s work for him. You might be more at risk from whoever killed those men than from the bishop’s court. Have you any idea who might have wished them dead?’

‘Those canons undoubtedly hate us, but I doubt they would stoop to murder,’ muttered the other man. ‘His proctors are bullies but are just paid servants, so why would they care?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I cannot guess who may have done this terrible thing. Perhaps some mad parish priest? We have sympathisers all over the county. Any village parson with an unhinged mind could have taken the law into his own hands.’

The coroner decided to change his approach. ‘Where can we find the other men on this list?’ he asked. ‘We know of this Hengist of Wonford, but maybe the others can help us to track down this killer.’

He motioned to Thomas, who took out his piece of parchment and started to read out the remaining ten names. However, Adam took it from them and scanned it himself, much to the astonishment of the others.

‘How is it that an Exeter fish-man can read and be so knowledgeable of Church history?’ asked Thomas, slightly affronted that his monopoly of such knowledge was being displaced by a mere tradesman.

Adam smiled wanly. ‘It goes to prove that priests are not indispensable in man’s dealings with the Almighty,’ he answered. ‘My father put me as a child into St Nicholas’s Priory, intending me to enter holy orders — but he died and I had to leave to support my mother and sisters. In the few years I was there, I learned a great deal, especially how to hate priests, begging your pardon!’

The fishmonger went back to studying the list and nodded at several of them. ‘Those three belong to our way of thinking,’ he said cautiously, repeating their names. ‘I am not sure where they live, but they attend most of our meetings.’

‘Are those the meetings you hold in a barn near Ide?’ snapped John.