Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

‘Any idea where this soldier saw him?’ asked John, looking at the rickety footbridge across the river and the ford just below it.

‘He said not far from the new bridge,’ answered Gwyn, pointing to where a number of spans of a long stone bridge ended abruptly at the edge of the river. It was an ambitious project of Nicholas Gervase, but the money had given out before it was finished.

There were a few huts dotted about in that area, where some sheep and goats were cropping the sparse grass. The coroner and his officer made their way towards them, jumping across ditches filled with brown mud and turbid water. Some of the shacks were empty, but a few had forlorn families living in them, though none of the occupants admitted to knowing Alan de Bere. A few of the shanties had collapsed and others teetered on the edge of deep leats, ready to fall in at the next flood.

‘That one’s nearest the bridge,’ said Gwyn, pointing at a wooden hut with a roof of grassy turfs, which was almost under one of the stone arches of the unfinished bridge. They walked towards it and were within a dozen paces when the sacking that covered the door-hole was suddenly thrown aside and a thin figure shot out, obviously intent on making his escape.

‘That’s the swine!’ yelled Gwyn and set off in pursuit, with John close on his heels.

The more nimble fugitive, his monk’s habit tucked up between his legs and secured by a belt giving his long legs the freedom to go fast, might well have escaped had he not gone in the wrong direction. The doorway of the hut faced the river and de Bere had run straight ahead, being cut off by the deep main channel of the Exe. John and Gwyn fanned out on each side of him as he stood at bay on the bank and, converging, grabbed him almost simultaneously. He wriggled violently, but Gwyn threw him to the grass and planted a large foot on his chest.

‘You were released from the king’s gaol to be confined in the bishop’s cells,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘So how is it that you are lurking on Exe Island?’

The skinny man in his tattered habit glared up at the coroner, his pale blue eyes having a glint of madness. ‘You have no authority over me. I am a servant of God!’ he screeched.

‘Aren’t we all?’ answered John grimly. ‘You are a miserable little toad, and I want to know where you were on Sunday night.’

‘I was in this hut here, minding my own business.’

Gwyn slid the toe of his boot up until it was pressed against Alan’s throat.

‘You’re a liar. You were in Milk Lane setting a fire. Was Reginald Rugge with you, eh?’

‘I was not, I swear it!’ gurgled the man. ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

Gwyn pressed down harder and the renegade monk began to go blue in the face as he could not breathe.

‘You tried to hang those men last week — and the one who didn’t sail away was Algar the fuller,’ snarled de Wolfe, half-convinced that this was the man they wanted.

‘So you decided to get rid of him in another way, blast you!’ boomed Gwyn, screwing his heel into Alan’s chest.

‘I didn’t, I swear by God and the Virgin!’ gasped the monk. ‘It may have been Rugge for all I know. I’ve not seen him since we were let out by the proctors’ men. Father Julian wouldn’t let me go back to my hut at St Olave’s, so I came here.’

John sighed, as without proof his sense of justice prevailed over his revulsion for the man. He motioned to Gwyn to let the man get to his feet.

‘If I get any evidence that you were responsible for this mortal sin, I’ll see you on your way to hell personally!’ he threatened.

De Bere staggered to his feet, his face contorted in hate. ‘You have no right to hound me like this. The bishop will hear of this.’

‘That’s what your accomplice in crime said — and much good it will do you both,’ snapped John.

‘Can we take him back to Rougemont and let Stigand get some practice on him with his branding irons?’ suggested Gwyn, holding Alan’s arm in a grip of steel.

‘I wish we could, but some of us still keep to the letter of the law, thank God,’ answered de Wolfe. ‘You’d better let him go for now. We know we can always find him in some pigsty or under a flat stone!’

They were standing on the edge of a deep leat that ran under the bridge. As Gwyn released the man, John sent him on his way with a shove, which overbalanced him into the ditch. He fell face down into the glutinous mud and struggled up covered in filth.

‘That’s for trying to hang those men on the quayside last week!’ declared de Wolfe. ‘Now clear off, you evil bastard!’

De Bere scrambled up the opposite side of the leat, wiping mud from his face and spitting dirty water from his mouth. When he had moved a safe distance away, he turned and screamed back at the coroner. ‘You’ll pay for this, de Wolfe — I’ll get even with you yet!’

Back in Rougemont, John and his officer went into the hall to warm themselves at the firepit and to get something to eat and drink. They found a heated discussion going on between the sheriff and Sergeant Gabriel and came nearer to discover what the trouble might be.

‘I’ll have those two idiots in chains for a week,’ fumed Gabriel. ‘This is what comes of having milksops as soldiers, boys who have never seen a sword raised in anger!’

‘What’s the problem, sergeant?’ asked the coroner, but it was Henry de Furnellis who answered.

‘Those two bastards you saw at Polsloe, the rapists,’ he said bitterly. ‘They’ve bloody well escaped!’

‘And committed another crime already,’ added Gabriel, fuming with anger at the incompetence of his men-at-arms. ‘We sent two men to drag them back here to await trial in the gaol and what happens? Those two fools I thought were proper soldiers were overpowered and lost them!’

When the story was told in full, it appeared that Martin of Nailsea and David the Welshman while in the cowshed had managed to free themselves from the ropes that bound their wrists and ankles. They had armed themselves with baulks of timber prised from the stalls and, as soon as the two soldiers opened the door to take them away, had beaten them to the ground and ran away into the nearby woods.

‘Where they’ll no doubt remain as outlaws!’ glowered de Wolfe.

Gabriel shook his head. ‘No such luck! The swine came back into the city within the hour, for they attacked a merchant in an alley off North Gate Street, choking him near to death before stealing his purse and making off into the lanes of Bretayne!’

The coroner sighed at the futility of arresting people only to let them escape. ‘Are you looking for them now?’ he barked.

The sheriff nodded irritably. ‘It’s like a bloody rabbit warren, that Bretayne! Half the folk there are thieves themselves and they’ll readily give shelter to any evil brethren. But we’ll get them in the end, though it may take a day two, knowing that place.’

Though he shook his head in disgust, John was preoccupied with his other problems. The sergeant marched away, ready to give another roasting to his incompetent soldiery, while the sheriff joined Gwyn and the coroner in another pot of ale as they bemoaned the way the world seemed to be going to the dogs.

Heavy cloud banks and a cold drizzle combined with the advancing days of November to bring an early dusk, and when John came down from the castle into the town it was already twilight. After the particularly virulent quarrel with Matilda at dinner-time, he decided to miss his supper at home and instead went down to the Bush, where Martha would be happy to feed him. On the way to Idle Lane he called on Thomas and found his clerk in good spirits. The yellow tinge had virtually vanished from his eyes, and he declared himself eager to resume his duties.