A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  The priest scowled at Gwyn, for although they were firm friends he sometimes tired of the Cornishman’s jibes at his small size and puny muscles.

  ‘You’ve had your hair shorn,’ grunted de Wolfe, almost accusingly, staring at his clerk’s head. ‘Is it some sort of religious penance?’ He glared up from where he sat at his trestle table.

  ‘No, Crowner, not at all!’ replied Thomas indignantly. ‘It’s just that I wanted less cover for fleas. My lodgings are infested with them.’ The clerk shared a room with a cathedral secondary in a house on Priest Street in the lower town.

  He pulled a stool up to the table, which along with the coroner’s wooden chair and a small charcoal brazier was the only furniture in the spartan chamber. Sir Richard de Revelle, the previous sheriff and de Wolfe’s brother-in-law, had grudgingly allotted John the least desirable room in the whole castle, as a token of his contempt for the new office of coroner, which he looked on as usurping his own authority.

  As Thomas spread out his writing materials on the table, John resumed his conversation with Gwyn. Usually, the pair conversed in the Celtic tongue, as Gwyn was Cornish and John had learned Welsh at his mother’s knee. However, they reverted to English in deference to Thomas.

  ‘Some claim that this yellow curse is brought into the ports by ship-men from abroad,’ growled the coroner. ‘Did you ever see such outbreaks in Cornwall?’

  Gwyn shook his massive head. ‘Not myself, but my grandfather told me of such deaths many years ago. They were around Falmouth and Newlyn, so maybe they’re right about harbours giving it entrance into the country.’

  ‘I’ve heard people blaming rats for the plague,’ contributed Thomas as he smoothed out a sheet of parchment.

  The Cornishman scratched his crotch ruminatively. ‘Odd you should say that, for my father used to be a tinner before he took to fishing at Polruan. He said that in tin workings where there were many rats, men used to get sick with yellow skin and eyes and some died. But they didn’t pass it on to other men, as far as I could make out.’

  He squinted out of his narrow window opening at the roofs of the city below, where a cold east wind was swirling a few flakes of snow about.

  ‘Are we going out to every death from this pestilence, Crowner?’ he grumbled. ‘If it spreads, we’ll have no time for any other work, especially if it reaches other more distant ports, like Dawlish or Dartmouth.’

  He almost bit his tongue as he let slip ‘Dawlish’, for that was where his master’s woman lived and he had not meant to mention the possibility of the yellow death endangering her there. But de Wolfe was phlegmatic about the risks.

  ‘Thank Christ it’s almost the end of the sailing season, so there’ll be few vessels coming in there from abroad until the spring.’

  ‘It’s said that very cold winter weather freezes out the contagion,’ said Thomas consolingly. ‘So let’s pray for plenty of snow and ice this year.’

  ‘Looks as if it’s starting already,’ growled Gwyn, staring out through the embrasure. ‘I’ll have to scrounge another brazier from the barracks. This bloody chamber gets cold enough to freeze the balls off those rats of yours, Thomas.’

  ‘They’re not my rats, you Cornish lump!’ retaliated the clerk, but John cut short their frequent bickering.

  ‘You asked about holding inquests on these deaths, Gwyn,’ he said. ‘The sheriff was talking about that earlier. It seems that the Justices in Eyre have declared that unless there’s anything suspicious, we can dispense with investigating them.’

  His officer pulled his thick jerkin more closely around him, as the strengthening wind blew more persistently through the unglazed window slit.

  ‘That’s a blessing. I don’t fancy taking the curse back to my wife and sons at the Bush,’ he muttered.

  The coroner, also feeling the sudden cold, rose from his seat behind the rough table and draped his dark cloak around his shoulders. ‘I’m going down to the Guildhall. I want to talk to Hugh de Relaga about our vessels. Talking of Dawlish, I think that two of the ships are there now, so I want to know if they can make any more voyages before being beached for the winter.’

  As he made for the doorway, the mischievous Gwyn added a helpful suggestion. ‘Best go down to the coast and see for yourself, Crowner!’

  Though his expression was blandly innocent, de Wolfe knew that he was slyly hinting at an excuse for visiting the delectable Hilda of Dawlish.

  The Guildhall, recently rebuilt in stone, was in the High Street, only a few hundred paces from de Wolfe’s house in Martin’s Lane. He strode down from the castle, conscious of the biting wind, though the snow flurries had ceased. If this was the weather in early November, thought John, we might be in for a hard winter – perhaps all to the good, if it damped down this threatened epidemic.

  The narrow street was as crowded as usual, stalls and booths obstructing each side. The middle, with its central culvert that carried filth downhill, was filled with handcarts, porters pushing barrows and ox-carts piled with bales of wool or straw. The rest of the space was clogged with jostling humanity, all buying, selling, talking, shouting and cursing.

  The coroner, a head taller than most men, pushed his way through to reach the wide door of the hall, which was the centre of the economic and civic life of Exeter. As well as providing accommodation for the various trade guilds, it housed the city council, the group of burgesses who ran the administration, under the leadership of the two portreeves. There was talk of electing a mayor, a continental practice which had recently been adopted by London and a few other towns, but for now Hugh de Relaga and Henry Rifford led the more prominent merchants and tradesmen who governed the city.

  Almost all the building was taken up by the main hall, parts of which were divided up by movable screens to form alcoves to accommodate a variety of guild and business functions. A number of merchants and tradesmen were standing around, chattering and gesticulating as they conducted their business. At the back was a pair of small rooms, one of which was for the portreeves and their clerks. The two leaders came in at least once a day, though they had their own profitable businesses to run elswhere in the town. Hugh de Relaga was a prominent dealer in wool, and his colleague, Henry Rifford, was a leather merchant and tannery owner.

  John was pleased to find Hugh at his table in a corner of the chamber, poring over a list of accounts just supplied by his chief clerk. As a trader, it was essential to be literate – a rare accomplishment in a society where few but those in holy orders could read and write.

  ‘I trust we are making a fortune, Hugh!’ he called from the doorway.

  The rotund merchant rose from his chair with a broad smile and waved de Wolfe to a nearby stool. He was an unfailingly cheerful fellow, with a fondness for gaudy clothing. Today he wore a yellow linen tunic under a surcoat of bright red satin, with a mantle of green velvet draped over the back of his chair. His head was swathed in a turban-like coil of red brocade, the free end hanging down over one shoulder.

  ‘We’re doing very well, John, though these outbreaks of distemper may affect the transport of goods,’ he said breezily. ‘However, our long voyages will soon be ending for the winter.’

  He was repeating John’s earlier remark to Gwyn about their ships being laid up for the season. They were vital for their business venture, as when Hilda had been widowed the previous year she had brought her late husband’s three ships into the existing partnership between de Relaga and the coroner. They used them to move their wool and cloth around the Channel ports as far distant as Flanders and the Rhine.

  The portreeve sent one of his clerks for wine and pastries, and over refreshments he gave John a summary of their present trading position. Though de Wolfe was a ‘sleeping partner’, he took a healthy interest in the fortunes of their firm. He had invested the wealth he had acquired over years of campaigning into their joint business and had benefited considerably from the thriving expansion of Exeter’s commercial life.

  Hugh pushed aside his p
archments and smiled benignly at the coroner. ‘So you’ll not starve this month, John. We are doing quite nicely. But tell me how other matters are going with you – have you settled back fully into your old harness?’

  The coroner set his cup on the table and wiped his lips appreciatively. Trust Hugh to have only the best wine from the Loire.

  ‘It hardly seems as if I’ve been away for those months,’ he said candidly. ‘At least, it does as far as my duties go. At home it’s a different matter!’

  The portreeve nodded sympathetically. It was a little difficult for him, as he was about the only friend of John’s that Matilda would tolerate, mainly because he was rich, well dressed and always made a point of flattering her. But he knew the situation in Martin’s Lane and was sad that his friend felt so frustrated and unhappy with his lot. He decided to avoid the subject and stick to John’s coronership.

  ‘You found Westminster not to your taste?’ he asked.

  ‘Like living in a bloody hive full of bees!’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘All gossip and scandal and intrigue, but very little actual work for me.’

  He had been Coroner of the Verge for only a short while, posted there on the direct orders of King Richard, but after dealing with an extraordinary crime he decided that he wanted to leave, partly from feelings of guilt at not having done enough to solve it.

  They spoke a little more about the sporadic cases of the yellow plague that had been cropping up, and John told him of the most recent one in Lympstone. For once, Hugh looked seriously concerned. ‘Lympstone! That’s getting uncomfortably close to Topsham.’

  This was the port at the upper end of the estuary of the River Exe, where much of their goods were handled. If the disease hit Topsham, then their shipments would be badly disrupted. Like so many worried people around the southern coast, they began discussing possible causes of the yellow curse, without any hope of an answer.

  ‘Why don’t you ask the opinion of your new neighbour?’ suggested Hugh. John looked at him blankly for a moment, then realised what he meant.

  ‘The new physician? I’ve hardly said a word to him yet, though my wife seems to think that he’s some kind of saint.’

  Three months earlier, while John was away in London, the house next door in Martin’s Lane had found a new tenant. Empty for well over a year since the silversmith who lived there had been murdered, it had been bought cheaply by the former sheriff, Richard de Revelle, John’s brother-in-law. Always striving to make yet more money, Richard had rented it out to Exeter’s first resident physician, Clement of Salisbury, who had recently arrived in the city to set up in practice.

  Apart from muttering an occasional greeting when they passed in the street, John had kept clear of his neighbours, not being a very sociable individual. However, from the limited conversation he had with Matilda, he gathered that the new doctor and his wife were welcome additions to the upper levels of Exeter society.

  Clement was a good-looking man of about John’s age, who dressed exceptionally well, as did his handsome wife. Best of all in Matilda’s eyes, they were very devout and already constant attenders at the cathedral. Now Matilda had invited them to her own church of St Olave’s in Fore Street, for additional services during the week.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll have a few words with him when I next see him,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘Though I doubt he’ll know any more about plagues and distempers than the monks at St John’s Hospital. He seems to be more interested in dancing attendance on the wealthier folk in the city.’

  As he spoke, he realised that his friend was one of those wealthier folk, but de Relaga was not one to take offence. They spoke for a little while longer, until the clerks began to get restive as they hovered about the portreeve with sheaves of parchment. John finished his wine and rose to leave, his final query to Hugh being about his brother-in-law.

  ‘Have you seen anything of Richard de Revelle lately?’ he asked. ‘I’ve not set eyes on him since I returned – not that it distresses me, but I always feel uneasy if I don’t know what mischief he might be up to!’

  The portreeve grinned. ‘Have you not heard that he’s become a pig farmer now?’

  John stared at him, suspecting some jest, for which Hugh was well known. ‘A pig farmer? The last I heard, he was making money with that private school of his down in Smythen Street.’

  De Relaga nodded, the length of brocade wound around his head bobbing as he did so. ‘He’s still got that, but he’s found a new way of making yet more money. He has several acres of mud down near Clyst St George and another somewhere about Dartmouth, where he has hundreds of swine.’

  John almost gaped in surprise. ‘I can’t see that dandified creature pouring buckets of pigswill or shovelling manure!’ he exclaimed.

  The portreeve shook his head. ‘I doubt he’s ever even seen the damned hogs! He’ll have ill-paid slaves to do that for him.’

  ‘So what’s he up to, for God’s sake?’

  ‘As I said, making money! He discovered that the king’s army in France needed feeding, so he’s supplying salted pork and smoked bacon by the ton. No doubt at inflated prices, but the soldiers have to be fed. He sends shiploads of the stuff over to Barfleur and Honfleur, mainly out of Exmouth, Topsham and Dartmouth.’

  ‘Well, well! It’s a change to see that rascal engaged in some honest trade for once,’ grunted John. ‘But I’ll wager there’s some mischief somewhere – bribing royal purveyors to give a higher price or some such crafty deceit.’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’s seen the error of his ways at last. I even considered offering to carry some of his cargoes across the Channel in our ships.’

  ‘His money is as good as anyone’s, I suppose,’ conceded John. ‘I’ll leave it to you, as long as you watch the bastard like a hawk!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  In which Crowner John visits the Bush Inn

  John de Wolfe went out into the cold wind and the crowded streets, this time walking to Carfoix near where Thomas had had his hair cut and seen his heretic. The coroner marched across and down the slope of Fore Street, past the tiny church of St Olave’s, where his wife worshipped almost every day. Then he turned left into even narrower lanes and came out into Smythen Street, where his brother-in-law owned a small college which taught logic, mathematics and theology to a handful of earnest young men.

  Further down, a side turning crossed some weed-filled land which had lain barren for several years since fire destroyed a row of wooden houses. Now logically known as Idle Lane, the only structure left was a stone-built tavern, the Bush. Since he had returned from the Crusade four years ago, this inn had been as much a part of John’s life as his own house. It was here that his former mistress Nesta had reigned as landlady until she left for Wales to get married. Now Gwyn’s wife Martha was in charge, as John had bought the inn and set them up to run it for him.

  He ducked his head to enter the low front door, set in a whitewashed wall under a steep thatched roof. The whole of the ground floor was a single ale-room, with a large loft above where straw pallets provided lodging for anyone wishing to spend the night. The Bush was one of Exeter’s most popular inns, with a reputation for good food, excellent ale and clean mattresses. A large heap of logs glowed in the firepit near the centre of the room, the smoke finding its way out through the eaves under the edge of the thatch, which was barely above head height. The eye-watering atmosphere was compounded by the smell of cooking, sweat and spilled ale, but unlike many of the other alehouses in the city there was no stench of urine and the rushes on the floor were changed regularly.

  He made his way to his usual seat, a bench at a table near the firepit, sheltered from the draughts from the door by a shoulder-high wicker hurdle. His bottom had hardly touched the bench when an old man materialised, sliding a pottery ale-jar in front of him, filled with a quart of the Bush’s finest brew.

  ‘God and His Blessed Son be with you, Sir John!’ bleated Edwin, the tavern’s ‘potboy’, though he was well past sixty. An old
soldier, he had lost an eye and was crippled in one leg from wounds suffered in Ireland. Usually, he called the coroner ‘captain’ in deference to his military reputation, but Gwyn had told John that he had recently become very religious, probably as an insurance against hellfire as he felt his final years approaching. Now Edwin eschewed all mention of warfare and violence, mouthing pious platitudes instead, much to the ribald amusement of many of the Bush’s patrons, who for years past had been used to his barrack-room oaths and blasphemies.

  ‘Gwyn’s out in the yard. I’ll tell him you’re here,’ he said as he moved off with some empty mugs, his collapsed and whitened eye rolling horribly as he tried to wink at the coroner.

  John settled down to enjoy his quart, nodding to acquaintances and exchanging a word with others he knew, who were seated at the few tables scattered around the room. Almost everyone in Exeter knew de Wolfe by sight. He was admired as an ex-Crusader and respected as one of the few honest officials in the county. Not a few feared him, as though he was an almost obsessional champion of justice he was not a man to cross, as he came down hard on any wrongdoing.

  A moment later Martha bustled in through the back door, which led to the cook-shed, the brewing hut and the laundry, set outside in the muddy yard at the rear, which they shared with the privy, the pigsty and the chicken run. Gwyn’s wife was a large, matronly woman, brisk and efficient in spite of her bulk, which was emphasised by her voluminous dress of brown wool, covered by a tent-like linen apron. She had a broad, genial face, already lined from forty years of hard work. A fringe of iron-grey hair hung below the linen cloth that enveloped her head, but her small, dark eyes were as bright as buttons.

  ‘Sir John, can I get you some victuals?’ she demanded in her broad Cornish. ‘We’ve a new smoked ham – none the worse for coming from your brother-in-law’s piggery!’

  John grinned up at her amiable face. ‘I’ve only just heard about his venture with hogs and sows. Let’s hope he’s better at making bacon that he was at being sheriff!’