Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

De Wolfe, holding his short temper in check with difficulty, explained who he was and that he wanted to talk about Hengist the leather-worker.

‘You know he’s missing?’ snapped John irritably.

‘Of course I do. Wasn’t I out half the day and night looking for him with the rest of the village?’ responded the priest testily. He spoke English with an Irish accent, reminding the coroner of his campaigning days in that green isle.

Grudgingly, he invited them in to his one-roomed abode, though a back door led into a cubbyhole that was his kitchen. The main feature of his living room was a large box-bed at one side, with sliding doors to keep out the draughts. John suspected that he spent a large part of his time snoring inside it. There were a few books and some writing materials on a table, so Patrick was not illiterate, a failing not uncommon in the incumbents of rural parishes.

‘What can you tell us about this Hengist?’ he asked as they stood around the near-dead firepit. ‘We were told that he had a disagreement with you, some time ago.’

Father Patrick snorted. ‘Disagreement! The man was a damned pagan, with his blasphemous ideas. I would have banned him from my church, except that he refused to come anyway!’

‘Is that why the proctors’ men called on you last week?’

The priest glared at the coroner as if to condemn his prying into his business. ‘It was indeed! I had several times reported this Hengist to the bishop, after many months of his refusing to come to Mass or make his confession.’

‘So you think he was a heretic?’

Patrick’s paunchy face reddened with annoyance. ‘Think? I knew! He would argue with me when I remonstrated with him. Gave me a lot of seditious nonsense about free will and the freedom to choose his own path to salvation. To damnation, more like!’

De Wolfe considered this for a moment. ‘You said you told the bishop more than once about this. What happened on the first occasions?’

‘Absolutely nothing!’ ranted the priest. ‘They ignored me in Exeter. I heard when I visited there later that the bishop and his staff thought that it was not serious and that in any event they had no time to deal with it.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Gwyn, speaking for the first time.

‘As no one in the bishop’s palace seemed interested, I sought out my archdeacon, John de Alençon, who is also vicar-general, having the bishop’s ear. But he, too, said that there was little he could do about it, but he sent me to one of the other canons, who he said had an interest in heresy.’

Now John wondered whether this lone man in Wonford had been the one who had sparked off this witch-hunt. ‘Which canon was that?’ he asked.

‘Robert de Baggetor. He was the first one who listened to me with any concern. He said he and several other members of the chapter would look into the matter.’

‘When was this?’

‘About a month ago, before the outbreaks of plague started to occur.’ He beat a fist into the palm of his hand, animated at last.

‘I am not surprised that the Lord has sent this curse. It is punishment for the rise of apostasy in the land!’

John was not clear what ‘apostasy’ meant and resolved to ask Thomas when he next saw him.

‘So why did these proctors’ bailiffs visit you?’ he asked.

‘The canons had eventually persuaded the bishop to investigate Hengist and came to tell me to be in Exeter next week, when he would be brought before his chancellor for interrogation. They also wanted to know if I knew of any others with such heretics’ beliefs.’

‘And do you?’ demanded the coroner.

The priest clutched his shabby bed-robe closer about him. It was cold in here with the fire just a heap of ashes with a faint glow in the centre. ‘I know there are more, but not in Wonford. Hengist used to walk out somewhere every week or so, and I suspect he met other blasphemers, but he refused to tell me about them.’

‘Did you know what kind of heretic he was?’ asked John. ‘I understand from my learned clerk that there are a number of different beliefs.’

‘We argued about predestination, free will and the right of any man to communicate with God without the intervention of a priest. He claimed that all worldly manifestations are innately evil. Such dangerous nonsense must mean that he sympathises with these bloody French Cathars.’

De Wolfe was there to investigate a murder and now a missing man, rather than debate theology, about which he was sublimely indifferent and ignorant.

‘So as far as you know, there is no cell of heretics within this village?’

Patrick shook his bull-like head, the dewlaps under his chin shaking vigorously. ‘Not in my parish, Crowner! Having one evil bastard is more than enough — and I have dealt with him, through the Church.’

‘But where do you think he’s gone?’ demanded Gwyn.

‘Run away, that’s what! He knew he had to face the God-given power of the Church next week, so he’s taken the coward’s way out and run off

John thought of the drag-marks on the cottage floor and doubted that Hengist had left voluntarily. There was nothing more to be learned from the priest, and they made their way back to Exeter, leaving instructions with Robert the bailiff that he should send them word if Hengist was found, dead or alive.

They called in at Rougemont before going home for dinner and found Thomas there, carrying a message that there had been two deaths reported in the city, one a fatal brawl in the Saracen Inn, the roughest tavern in Exeter. The other was a body recovered from the river at Exe Island, too decomposed to be recognised.

‘They’ll have to wait until Monday, as it’s Sunday tomorrow, but you get down there, Gwyn,’ he ordered. ‘Get details and the names of those who will be First Finders and who must form a jury for the inquests.’

‘I thought I was coming with you to Stoke?’ objected his officer.

‘Clement the physician and Richard Lustcote are riding with me. I don’t know about the doctor, but the apothecary is big and fit and can use a sword if we are waylaid by outlaws. The coroner’s duties have to be attended to until I get back.’

After another silent meal with a sullen wife, John prepared to leave to visit his sick brother. This time, as speed was not an issue, he took Odin from the stables and, as arranged, met Clement there, who took out his fine grey gelding. As they rode away down West Street, John noted again, with some surprise and admiration, that Clement was a fine horseman; controlling the frisky grey with considerable skill.

They met up with the apothecary at the West Gate. Lustcote was a tall man, grey-haired and with a calm nature, who never became flustered. He was the city’s favourite apothecary, with a flourishing business that employed a journeyman and two apprentices.

Clement seemed a little surprised at seeing that a mere ‘pill-pusher’ was to accompany them, but he was civil enough to him as they rode towards the coast. Once again John forced himself to trot through Dawlish without calling on Hilda. He hoped that his quick passage through the village would not be reported to her, as she might think that he was shunning her if she did not know of the plague in Stoke-in-Teignhead, though on reflection it was unlikely that her family in Holcombe would not have been unaware of it, as William was also their manor-lord.

They reached Stoke without problems and found his brother in much the same condition as the previous day. There had been no more cases of the plague in the village and none of those who were ill had died.

‘He murmurs fretfully in his sleep now and then,’ reported Enyd. ‘He is still so hot, his forehead feels as if it is on fire.’

Clement examined the victim patiently, now apparently indifferent to the fear of contagion, looking into his yellowed eyes and feeling his pulse. He timed William’s rapid, shallow breathing with a tiny sandglass he carried in his scrip, then examined a sample of his urine collected in a small glass vial. Holding it up against the light of a candle, for it was now dusk, he shook it and smelled it.