Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

He had almost given up trying to revive any intercourse between them, as his efforts were usually met with a snub or ridicule — or more often just stony silence. De Wolfe knew full well that she had a long-term strategy to punish him, not only for his infidelities, but for his destruction of her adoration of her brother Richard. John had, in the course of his duties as a law officer, repeatedly exposed de Revelle as a charlatan and traitor, until eventually he was ignominiously dismissed as sheriff of Devon. And now, of course, the final indignity was his depriving her of her moment of glory as wife of the coroner to the king’s court.

Mary returned to clear away the bowls and place before each of them a thick trencher of yesterday’s bread carrying a trout grilled with almonds. When she had refilled their pewter cups from a jug of Burgundian wine and departed through the draught-screen, John made a new effort to break the oppressive silence, this time at least with some useful motive in mind.

‘There is talk of the yellow distemper arriving in the city,’ he began. ‘I hear that a family in Bretayne may be affected, so perhaps it might be wise if you kept clear of St Olave’s until more definite news is known.’

Matilda’s favourite church was on the edge of Bretayne, the worst slum area of Exeter. It was so named because centuries ago the invading Saxons had pushed the Celtic British inhabitants out of the higher parts of the city down into the less desirable north-west corner of the Roman walls.

The mention of her beloved St Olave’s forced his wife out of her sullen silence. ‘I’ll not be dissuaded from attending the House of God by some fever,’ she snapped.

‘It would be wiser to find some other House of God while this danger lasts,’ he said mildly. ‘Why not stick to the cathedral?’

To his credit, it did not even cross his mind that if Matilda succumbed to the plague it would solve many of his problems.

‘The Lord will protect me and those who worship Him in the face of adversity,’ she said sententiously. ‘What is this ailment that people are speaking of, anyway? We have managed to survive all the fevers and sweats over the years, as well as the gripes that turn one’s bowels to water!’

‘It’s the yellow distemper, woman,’ he said impatiently. ‘It was well known in former days but has not been seen for many years.’

The topic, for once, seemed to catch Matilda’s attention. ‘What causes it, then?’ she demanded. ‘And is there any cure?’

John picked some fine fish bones from his tongue before answering. ‘No one knows where it came from, but many suspect that it is brought in from abroad by ship-men. For it to appear inside the city is a new departure. Some blame rats for spreading it, but I can’t see why foreign rats should come within the walls of Exeter.’

She had fallen silent again and, as John raised his wine-cup to wash down the remaining bones, he looked across at her, wondering why fate had cast them together. She was a stocky, thickset woman with a square face and a mouth like a rat-trap. In the house she wore no cover-chief, and her wiry brown hair looked like the head of a mop, in spite of Lucille’s efforts to tame it with a brush and tongs.

He made an effort to start the sparse conversation again. ‘I thought to ask our new neighbour if he has any opinions on the matter. Maybe as a physician he has some advice about avoiding the contagion.’

This immediately revived his wife’s interest. Apart from anything connected with food, drink and the Church, social advancement was her major concern. ‘Doctor Clement? Yes, he would be aware of all there is to be known about it. His wife told me that he had attended two of the best medical schools in Europe,’ she enthused.

Her small eyes suddenly narrowed as she glared at her husband.

‘But you told me that you did not much care for him, you barbarian!’ she snapped. ‘We at last get a respectable next-door neighbour, instead of a murderer, and you snub him!’

John capitulated; it was the easiest path. ‘Well, he’s not so bad, I suppose, if he dropped a little of his airs and graces. His wife is a handsome woman, I’ll admit.’

Matilda snorted. ‘Trust you to notice a good-looking woman! Don’t you get any of your usual lecherous ideas about her; she’s a most devout and chaste lady.’

She attacked the rest of her trout fiercely, wielding her small eating-knife as if she were cutting out her husband’s heart with a dagger. After a further long silence, she abruptly restarted the stilted conversation.

‘If you really want to talk to the doctor, I’ll invite them in for supper tonight. I doubt I can get that lazy, useless maid of ours to prepare a decent meal, but as you refuse to get anyone better, we’ll just have to put up with her.’

De Wolfe went back to Rougemont after his dinner and again went to see Henry de Furnellis in his chamber in the keep. On the way he met Thomas de Peyne, who was coming out of the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary in the inner ward, and learned from him that there was indeed an outbreak of the yellow plague in Bretayne.

‘Five dead and several more very sick in a couple of huts just below St Nicholas Priory,’ he reported. ‘They are digging a grave pit in St Bartholomew’s churchyard, rather than risk hauling the corpses over to the cathedral Close.’

The cathedral had normally enforced a monopoly of all burials in the city, even though there were twenty-seven other churches within the walls. John was already on his way to talk to the sheriff about this new hazard and Thomas’s news only made it the more urgent. In a city where the inhabitants were packed in so closely together, there was a real danger of a widespread epidemic. He said as much to the grizzled old warrior when he reached his office.

‘Henry, is there anything we can do to lessen the risk of this plague taking a hold in the city?’

The sheriff shrugged, his weathered face wrinkled in despondency. ‘Years ago I saw disease rampage through a town in France. Nothing seemed to stop it, even burning down the afflicted houses. Though that wasn’t this yellow curse, it was vomiting and flux of the bowels.’

John shook his head. ‘This is different. Their skin and eyes go yellow, almost green in some cases. I’m going to do what you suggested, have a word with this new physician; maybe he has some more modern ideas.’ He scratched an itching point in his scalp. ‘I don’t care for the fellow, but this is too serious a situation to pass up anything that might help.’

‘What about this rat business that people are talking about?’ asked de Furnellis. ‘Should we start a war against the little bastards?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘God’s guts, Henry! There are a hell of a lot more rats than people in Exeter. You’d need an army of rat-catchers and dogs to clear out half of them.’

The sheriff sadly agreed. ‘I take it you needn’t get involved with inquests down in Bretayne, John?’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘This is a doctor’s business, not a coroner’s! Let’s hope more cold weather will kill whatever poison that’s causing it.’

As he went down the wooden steps from the first-floor entrance to the keep, he could certainly vouch for the cold weather. The east wind had risen more strongly and was moaning through the battlements on the top of the castle wall. There was no snow, but patches of ice glistened on the ground, where water had frozen in the ruts formed by cartwheels and horses’ hooves.

To avoid going home, he sat for a while in his lofty chamber, but in spite of the small charcoal brazier which stood on a slab of stone on the wooden floor, the cold soon drove him out. He left Thomas there, muffled up in an old Benedictine habit over his thin cassock, as he sat at the table carefully penning the last of the parchment rolls for presentation at the Shire Court next day.