Bernard Knight - A Plague of Heretics

Lucille was blubbering with fright, but Mary was made of much sterner stuff. She rose to her feet and shook the maid by her thin shoulders.

‘Stop that stupid noise, girl!’ she commanded. ‘Now run over to Andrew in the stables and tell him that someone has been attacked and to raise the hue and cry. Hurry, damn you!’

She pushed Lucille towards the door and bent over the maid again. There was nothing she could do for her in the dark and moving her might cause more damage. The unexpected finding had momentarily driven from her mind the fact that there was someone else moaning outside. She sped to the back door and went out into the yard, where there was still some twilight.

‘God preserve us from more bodies!’ she muttered as she saw yet another figure lying on the cold earth, between the privy and the well. ‘At least this one is still moving.’

Once more, she dropped to her knees. This time alongside Cecilia, for it was the mistress of the house who was sprawled face down on the dirt, making harsh, guttural noises, alternating with pitiful moans. Mary tried to lift her up but only managed to roll her on to her back, where her croaking breaths became more laboured. Squatting on the ground, Mary hoisted her shoulders up and cradled her on her lap, feeling powerless to do any more for the ailing woman.

‘At least it’s not the damned plague,’ she murmured distractedly. ‘But is someone trying to assassinate all the women in Martin’s Lane?’

Thankfully, there was the noise of boots in the hall and Andrew, the red-headed farrier from across the lane, appeared with one of his stable boys.

‘I’ve sent for help. The constables and some neighbours will soon be here!’ he announced tersely. His groom held a lantern, a pair of candles behind a window of thin horn, which was enough to dimly illuminate the scene. By its flickering light they could see that Cecilia’s face was congested and puffy, with a speckle of blood spots in the whites of her eyes. Mary pulled away her cover-chief to release a cascade of black hair and, in case it was impeding her breathing, loosened the silken gorget which ran from ear to ear under her chin.

‘Look at her neck!’ exclaimed the farrier. ‘Covered in bruises, poor lady!’

Mary recalled that it was the second time in a few days that she had seen marks like this, then her mind soared! Surely two such stranglings, not fifty paces apart, must have been made by the same attacker? And that could not be John de Wolfe, as he was incarcerated in St Mary’s Chapel!

Her elation was promptly interrupted by Cecilia, who grasped the arm that was supporting her and began croaking unintelligibly.

‘You are safe now, mistress,’ soothed Mary. ‘Help is coming soon, then we will get you to bed.’ She almost added that they would also send for a physician, until she realised that the only doctor this side of Bristol was the woman’s own husband.

In spite of Mary’s reassurance, the injured woman persisted in trying to speak. Putting her ear closer and telling Cecilia to whisper instead of trying to croak, she managed after several attempts to make out a few words.

‘Clement … my husband … tried to kill me … just as he killed poor Matilda!’

John de Wolfe was sitting on his ledge in the garrison chapel, thinking rather selfishly that they were late with his supper tonight, as his stomach was rumbling. For the moment he was dwelling more on his hunger than on his serious predicament.

It was now virtually dark and he had lit one of his thin rushlights from the single candle that burned on the altar, sticking the grease-soaked reed between two cracks in the masonry.

Suddenly, he heard running feet echoing in the gatehouse archway and some indistinct shouting. Before he could get to the porch, the bulky figure of Brother Rufus burst in, shouting for him.

‘John! Gwyn has just come up from town, seeking the sheriff. He told me to tell you that your next-door neighbour has been attacked!’

‘What! Clement the physician?’

‘No, it’s his wife! Their maid is injured as well.’

‘Did Gwyn say who did it? What the hell’s going on?’ demanded de Wolfe.

The chaplain shook his head, dimly seen in the gloom. ‘I don’t know, your man didn’t stop. He was heading for the keep to get Henry de Furnellis.’

‘Henry’s not there. He told me he was going back to his house,’ exclaimed John, agitated that something important was going on and he was not a part of it. He fumed for a moment, then pushed past Rufus to get to the door.

‘I’m going out and to hell with the consequences!’ he snarled. ‘I must know what’s happening out there.’

The monk grabbed him with a very strong arm. ‘Wait, John! If you break sanctuary, you may pay for it with your life. I’ll go and find out what all this is about, before you do anything rash.’ He vanished and, moving quickly for such a big man, hurried over to the keep. At the foot of the wooden stairs that went up to the entrance, he met Ralph Morin clattering down, Gwyn close behind him.

‘We must collect the sheriff from North Gate Street and get down to Martin’s Lane as fast as we can!’ shouted the castle constable.

As the three men set off across the inner ward, Ralph yelled at a passing soldier and told him to collect Sergeant Gabriel and half a dozen men, to follow them down to the town.

‘De Wolfe was on the point of breaking out when he heard the news,’ panted Rufus, his bulk beginning to slow him down. ‘I managed to stop him, but not for long, I suspect!’

Morin stopped dead near the gatehouse. Tugging at his forked beard, he made a decision. ‘He can come with us now! I’ll vouch for him. I’ll say he’s my prisoner under parole.’

Gwyn shot towards the chapel and immediately emerged with the coroner, who had been standing in the porch in a fever of anxiety.

‘We’re all going down to find Henry,’ snapped Morin, starting to jog again. ‘Officially, you’re my prisoner, John, so please don’t make a run for it!’

‘Why the hell should I do that now?’ retorted de Wolfe. ‘It sounds as if this might vindicate me, though I’m still not clear what’s happened.’

‘Nor am I, so let’s find out!’ growled Ralph.

They trotted down the hill and along the High Street and when they reached the corner of Martin’s Lane they heard and saw a crowd of people milling around outside the two houses that stood side by side opposite the livery stables.

‘Gwyn, go to the sheriffs house and drag him out,’ commanded Morin. ‘Tell him what you know and bring him back here as fast as you can.’

With John and Rufus at his side, Ralph pushed his way through the throng, where Osric and Theobald, the city constables, were trying to organise a hue and cry from the disorderly crowd. Inside Clement’s hall, a couple of local matrons were bending over the young maid, who was still unconscious.

‘She’s had a bad blow on the head, poor lamb,’ said one. ‘We’ve sent for Richard Lustcote the apothecary, but I think she should be taken to the monks at St John’s.’

A few candles had now been lit, and John, who suddenly became a coroner once more, suspected that by the look of the large bruise on her jaw, the girl had been punched in the face and had then fallen backwards, striking her head.

There was cry from outside the back door, and de Wolfe recognised Mary’s voice. He hurried out ahead of Morin and the monk, to see his cook-maid sitting on the earth in the gloom, still cradling the head and shoulders of Cecilia of Salisbury.

‘She has been throttled, John!’ said Mary, forgetting the ‘Sir’ in her agitation. ‘But she seems in no danger, though her voice has almost gone. But she managed to tell me that she cannot remember anything since he attacked her.’