Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

After they had talked for a little while, Thomas asked if any progress had been made on the murders while he had been lying in St John’s.

‘None at all, to my shame and regret,’ admitted de Wolfe. ‘I have four prime suspects, those bailiffs belonging to the proctors — and the two crazed fellows who have used holy orders to escape their involvement in the riot. But there could be others in the city demented enough to kill out of religious zeal.’

He was thinking of the ease with which Julian Fulk and the physician had roused the congregation at St Olave’s into marching upon the cathedral chapter. If such a normally placid group of people could be so easily inflamed, then there might well be some others out there who would feel it their sacred duty to carry out God’s will in exterminating any opposition to the Church.

In a little while the coroner left his clerk with further admonitions to build up his strength by eating well and resting, though he suspected that the conscientious little priest would soon tire of inaction and wriggle his way back to his former duties. Brutus was glad to see his master emerge from the house and even happier to find him turning into Idle Lane. The Bush was one the hound’s favourite places, where Gwyn or Martha would always find him a bone or scrap of meat as he lay under a table while the others talked above him.

Over a quart pot, de Wolfe and Gwyn discussed a few cases that were pending at the next county court and began to think about some others that would need work on them if the threatened Eyre of Assize came to Exeter in the near future.

‘We really need Thomas back in action as soon as possible,’ mused John. ‘It’s not the same trying to use the sheriff’s clerks in his place; they don’t understand the system like him.’

Gwyn was more realistic about the likelihood of the royal justices getting to the city. ‘It takes them years sometimes. We’ll have to make do with the Commissioners for a bit, I suspect. They’re easier to deal with than these bloody barons, who want everything written down and presented to them in duplicate.’

As neither he nor the coroner could read, they were totally dependent on Thomas to keep their records and depositions in order.

De Wolfe told his officer what he had learned from Matilda about the deputation to the canons concerning the leniency they had shown the heretics. ‘We are in the cathedral’s bad books for letting them sail away — though I am not happy about the fate of that fuller who decided to brazen it out here. I hope we don’t find him in a back lane with his voice-box lying alongside him!’

Gwyn nodded soberly. ‘I hear from the gossip in the tavern here that the search for new heretics goes on. It seems that those damned proctors’ men have openly offered money to anyone who will lead them to any folk suspected of deviating from the straight and narrow path laid down by Rome. I even heard that they are going to question all those who do not regularly go to Mass on a Sunday!’

De Wolfe scowled at this. ‘That will include you and me, Gwyn! Maybe I’d better accompany Matilda to the cathedral in the morning. It might save my neck in the long run!’

Partly because of his half-serious remark about going to Mass, but mainly because of his revived hope in the power of prayer to affect the course of his brother’s sickness, John volunteered to escort his wife to the cathedral next morning. She grudgingly accepted, mildly surprised that for once she did not have to nag him into this duty.

The nine devotional offices each day were for the benefit of the clergy in their endless glorification of God and, except on high festival days, they were not concerned about the participation of the public, considering this to be the responsibility of the many parish priests. However, Masses were said for the locals before the small side altars, and so on Sunday morning de Wolfe found himself standing alongside Matilda in the base of the massive North Tower. This formed one arm of the cruciform plan of the cathedral begun by Bishop Warelwast some seventy years earlier.

There were two altars against one wall, one dedicated to the Holy Cross and the other to St Paul. A small crowd had gathered before the latter, and they joined the back of the score of townspeople as the Mass began. The celebrant was a vicar-choral, aided by a secondary and another lay brother. John stared at him for a moment, hardly believing what his eyes told him, for the man was Reginald Rugge, whom he had last seen only the day before in the cells under Rougemont’s keep.

Unable to say anything to his wife, he suppressed his annoyance with difficulty. The sight of this near-murderer, who should have been hanged or left to rot in chains in a dungeon, being allowed to serve at the altar as if he was the epitome of devotion and innocence, made him grind his teeth in frustration. Presumably, the other bastard, the mad monk Alan de Bere, was also at liberty somewhere, even after the promise that they would be incarcerated in the proctors’ cells.

But he tried to dismiss the aggravation and concentrate on the actions and incomprehensible Latin of the priest, for it was for William’s sake that he had come today, to offer up his stumbling prayers for his brother’s recovery.

After the taking of the Eucharist, he marched Matilda back to the house, not a word passing between them, though she held his arm when in public view, in the usual possessive way she had, showing that she had a knight of the realm and a king’s officer for a husband. As soon as they were in the vestibule, she dropped her hand from his elbow as if it had become red-hot and yelled for Lucille to come and help her out of her cloak and pelisse, ready for dinner.

John would like to have gone down to Canon’s Row to talk to his friend John de Alençon, to learn what was happening about the heretic issue and the likely stance the bishop would take when he eventually returned — but he hesitated to do that when Matilda was around, as the archdeacon was certainly not in favour with her anti-heretic faction at the moment.

Mary soon arrived with the first remove, a small cauldron of steaming vegetable potage which she ladled into pewter bowls. Fresh bread sopped up the fluid, then she arrived with a ‘charlet’, a hash of chopped pork and egg, with milk and saffron, served on a bread charger. When this was demolished by the silent but hungry couple, the cook-maid brought her ‘Great Pie’, a small version of one usually served at Christ Mass. Under the crust, a mixture of chopped beef, chicken and pigeon was cooked with suet, spices and dried fruit. This was washed down with ale, but when a slab of cheese was produced, a jug of red wine from the Loire helped it to end the meal.

For once, Matilda could find no fault with the food and wordlessly pushed past Mary at the door, stumping up to her bed for the rest of the afternoon, until it was time to go to St Olave’s. John followed her example, snoring before the hearth after he had finished what was left in the wine jug. Exhausted from his frequent journeys up and down to Stoke, he slept for hours.

When he awoke, to his surprise it was getting dark and he could hear his wife’s voice berating Lucille about some offence against her hair or her dress. There was a narrow slit in the wall between the solar and the hall, high up to the side of the stone chimney-piece, which allowed a restricted view downwards and some sound, when the voices were shrill enough. He gathered that she was being got ready for yet another foray to praise the Lord at her favourite church in Fore Street. Shaking himself fully awake, he called softly to the dog and slipped out of the house, grabbing his cloak as he went, for there was a chill wind outside.