A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Just that, sir, he’s disappeared. We’ve been searching for him since yesterday.’

  The man picked up the handles of his barrow ready to walk on. ‘You’d best speak to the bailiff, sir, he knows most about it. Ask for him in the alehouse.’

  He marched away and the coroner and his officer jerked their horses into motion and went on into the little village, where the squat church and the alehouse opposite were the only substantial buildings.

  Gwyn slid from his saddle outside the tavern, marked by a bedraggled bush hanging over the door. He stuck his head under the low lintel of the doorway and a moment later came out, followed by a young man with sandy hair and a long brown tunic.

  ‘I’m Robert the bailiff, sir. I understand you are also seeking Hengist?’

  ‘I am indeed, but what’s happened to him?’ demanded de Wolfe.

  ‘He’s our harness-maker and he was in his workshop the night before last, but no one has seen him since,’ replied Robert, who John thought seemed an intelligent-looking fellow.

  ‘Does his family not know where he is?’

  ‘He is a widower, sir. His two sons live elsewhere in the vill. One came to visit the next afternoon, but there was no sign of him. We have looked all through the crofts and tofts and the fields – nothing!’

  ‘How can he vanish in such a small place?’ grunted Gwyn.

  ‘His sons are now out searching further afield, but beyond our strips, the forest starts. He could be anywhere in there, maybe having lost his wits or had a palsy.’

  ‘We need to find him. Can you show us where he lives, bailiff?’

  A lad came out of the alehouse to hold their horses and, with a couple of curious villagers trailing behind them, the bailiff led them on foot across the rutted road and past the church. Here there was a small cottage of whitewashed cob, with a grass-infested thatch. A large open lean-to at the side was his workshop, filled with oddments of leather, ox-harness and a variety of tools.

  ‘Can I ask why you are seeking him, coroner?’ said Robert respectfully, as they stood looking around at the crudely equipped workplace.

  ‘I wanted to question him, but now I fear he may be in danger – or worse!’ growled de Wolfe. ‘Tell me more about him. What sort of a man was he?’ Unconsciously, he had already spoken in the past tense.

  For the first time the bailiff looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, he was an odd fellow. A good worker, but he fell out with the parish priest some years ago and refused to attend church or take part in any of the village festivities. He was a freeman, so we let him go his own way.’

  There seemed nothing to find outside, so the bailiff led them into the one-roomed cottage through a shaky wooden door secured by leather hinges and simple hasp and staple, with a piece of twig jammed through to keep it closed.

  ‘No fear of thieves in this village,’ said Robert, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Inside, there was again little to see, just a mattress on the straw-covered floor of beaten earth, a small table and two stools, a few shelves with pots and pans, and some food.

  Gwyn bent to feel the ashes in the central firepit, which were as cold as the rest of the room. John saw no signs of a struggle or any bloodstains, but, as they were leaving, Gwyn touched his arm and pointed down at the floor just inside the threshold. In the dusty straw were two tracks, each a couple of inches wide and a foot-length apart. They passed out of the doorway and vanished on the harder earth outside.

  ‘They look like heel-marks from someone being dragged,’ murmured Gwyn.

  John and the bailiff looked at them for a long moment. ‘I can’t think of a better explanation,’ agreed John. He turned to Robert.

  ‘Has anyone visited him lately? Any strangers been in the village?’

  ‘Only the usual folk, a chapman and, a few days back, a man with a cart trying to sell pots and bowls. Oh, and, of course, those men from the bishop, who came to see the priest last week.’

  John was instantly alert. ‘What did they want?’ he snapped.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Father Patrick told us to mind our own business.’

  ‘Were they priests?’ asked de Wolfe.

  Robert shook his head. ‘No, though they wore black tunics. They weren’t clerks, for they carried clubs on their saddle-bows, as well as wearing long daggers.’

  ‘The proctors’ men,’ muttered Gwyn.

  ‘But Hengist has been seen since then?’ demanded John.

  ‘Yes, that was more than a week ago. He was seen about his usual business until Thursday.’

  The bailiff had nothing else to tell them, and de Wolfe decided to talk to the parish priest. Robert took them to the gate in the churchyard wall and pointed to a small house in the far corner.

  ‘You’ll find him there, sir. He’s a forthright sort of man, Crowner,’ he added, a hint of warning in his voice.

  De Wolfe and Gwyn walked between the low grave-mounds, set among a wide ring of ancient yews, to reach the parsonage. The warped boards of the door opened to repeated knocking, and the sleepy face of a rotund priest appeared, having been awakened from sleep, even though the morning was by now well advanced. He was a fat man, with jowls hanging below a bad-tempered face. His tonsure had not been shaved for some time, a grey stubble sprouting over it, matching his unshaven cheeks.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ he muttered, staring at his two tall visitors through bleary eyes.

  De Wolfe, holding his short temper in check with difficulty, explained who he was and that he wanted to talk about Hengist the leather-worker.

  ‘You know he’s missing?’ snapped John irritably.

  ‘Of course I do. Wasn’t I out half the day and night looking for him with the rest of the village?’ responded the priest testily. He spoke English with an Irish accent, reminding the coroner of his campaigning days in that green isle.

  Grudgingly, he invited them in to his one-roomed abode, though a back door led into a cubbyhole that was his kitchen. The main feature of his living room was a large box-bed at one side, with sliding doors to keep out the draughts. John suspected that he spent a large part of his time snoring inside it. There were a few books and some writing materials on a table, so Patrick was not illiterate, a failing not uncommon in the incumbents of rural parishes.

  ‘What can you tell us about this Hengist?’ he asked as they stood around the near-dead firepit. ‘We were told that he had a disagreement with you, some time ago.’

  Father Patrick snorted. ‘Disagreement! The man was a damned pagan, with his blasphemous ideas. I would have banned him from my church, except that he refused to come anyway!’

  ‘Is that why the proctors’ men called on you last week?’

  The priest glared at the coroner as if to condemn his prying into his business. ‘It was indeed! I had several times reported this Hengist to the bishop, after many months of his refusing to come to Mass or make his confession.’

  ‘So you think he was a heretic?’

  Patrick’s paunchy face reddened with annoyance. ‘Think? I knew! He would argue with me when I remonstrated with him. Gave me a lot of seditious nonsense about free will and the freedom to choose his own path to salvation. To damnation, more like!’

  De Wolfe considered this for a moment. ‘You said you told the bishop more than once about this. What happened on the first occasions?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing!’ ranted the priest. ‘They ignored me in Exeter. I heard when I visited there later that the bishop and his staff thought that it was not serious and that in any event they had no time to deal with it.’

  ‘So what did you do?’ asked Gwyn, speaking for the first time.

  ‘As no one in the bishop’s palace seemed interested, I sought out my archdeacon, John de Alençon, who is also vicar-general, having the bishop’s ear. But he, too, said that there was little he could do about it, but he sent me to one of the other canons, who he said had an interest in heresy.’

  Now John wondered whether this lone man in Wonford had been t
he one who had sparked off this witch-hunt. ‘Which canon was that?’ he asked.

  ‘Robert de Baggetor. He was the first one who listened to me with any concern. He said he and several other members of the chapter would look into the matter.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About a month ago, before the outbreaks of plague started to occur.’ He beat a fist into the palm of his hand, animated at last.

  ‘I am not surprised that the Lord has sent this curse. It is punishment for the rise of apostasy in the land!’

  John was not clear what ‘apostasy’ meant and resolved to ask Thomas when he next saw him.

  ‘So why did these proctors’ bailiffs visit you?’ he asked.

  ‘The canons had eventually persuaded the bishop to investigate Hengist and came to tell me to be in Exeter next week, when he would be brought before his chancellor for interrogation. They also wanted to know if I knew of any others with such heretics’ beliefs.’

  ‘And do you?’ demanded the coroner.

  The priest clutched his shabby bed-robe closer about him. It was cold in here with the fire just a heap of ashes with a faint glow in the centre. ‘I know there are more, but not in Wonford. Hengist used to walk out somewhere every week or so, and I suspect he met other blasphemers, but he refused to tell me about them.’

  ‘Did you know what kind of heretic he was?’ asked John. ‘I understand from my learned clerk that there are a number of different beliefs.’

  ‘We argued about predestination, free will and the right of any man to communicate with God without the intervention of a priest. He claimed that all worldly manifestations are innately evil. Such dangerous nonsense must mean that he sympathises with these bloody French Cathars.’

  De Wolfe was there to investigate a murder and now a missing man, rather than debate theology, about which he was sublimely indifferent and ignorant.

  ‘So as far as you know, there is no cell of heretics within this village?’

  Patrick shook his bull-like head, the dewlaps under his chin shaking vigorously. ‘Not in my parish, Crowner! Having one evil bastard is more than enough – and I have dealt with him, through the Church.’

  ‘But where do you think he’s gone?’ demanded Gwyn.

  ‘Run away, that’s what! He knew he had to face the God-given power of the Church next week, so he’s taken the coward’s way out and run off

  John thought of the drag-marks on the cottage floor and doubted that Hengist had left voluntarily. There was nothing more to be learned from the priest, and they made their way back to Exeter, leaving instructions with Robert the bailiff that he should send them word if Hengist was found, dead or alive.

  They called in at Rougemont before going home for dinner and found Thomas there, carrying a message that there had been two deaths reported in the city, one a fatal brawl in the Saracen Inn, the roughest tavern in Exeter. The other was a body recovered from the river at Exe Island, too decomposed to be recognised.

  ‘They’ll have to wait until Monday, as it’s Sunday tomorrow, but you get down there, Gwyn,’ he ordered. ‘Get details and the names of those who will be First Finders and who must form a jury for the inquests.’

  ‘I thought I was coming with you to Stoke?’ objected his officer.

  ‘Clement the physician and Richard Lustcote are riding with me. I don’t know about the doctor, but the apothecary is big and fit and can use a sword if we are waylaid by outlaws. The coroner’s duties have to be attended to until I get back.’

  After another silent meal with a sullen wife, John prepared to leave to visit his sick brother. This time, as speed was not an issue, he took Odin from the stables and, as arranged, met Clement there, who took out his fine grey gelding. As they rode away down West Street, John noted again, with some surprise and admiration, that Clement was a fine horseman; controlling the frisky grey with considerable skill.

  They met up with the apothecary at the West Gate. Lustcote was a tall man, grey-haired and with a calm nature, who never became flustered. He was the city’s favourite apothecary, with a flourishing business that employed a journeyman and two apprentices.

  Clement seemed a little surprised at seeing that a mere ‘pill-pusher’ was to accompany them, but he was civil enough to him as they rode towards the coast. Once again John forced himself to trot through Dawlish without calling on Hilda. He hoped that his quick passage through the village would not be reported to her, as she might think that he was shunning her if she did not know of the plague in Stoke-in-Teignhead, though on reflection it was unlikely that her family in Holcombe would not have been unaware of it, as William was also their manor-lord.

  They reached Stoke without problems and found his brother in much the same condition as the previous day. There had been no more cases of the plague in the village and none of those who were ill had died.

  ‘He murmurs fretfully in his sleep now and then,’ reported Enyd. ‘He is still so hot, his forehead feels as if it is on fire.’

  Clement examined the victim patiently, now apparently indifferent to the fear of contagion, looking into his yellowed eyes and feeling his pulse. He timed William’s rapid, shallow breathing with a tiny sandglass he carried in his scrip, then examined a sample of his urine collected in a small glass vial. Holding it up against the light of a candle, for it was now dusk, he shook it and smelled it.

  ‘Very thick and dark,’ he commented, almost to himself.

  Turning to John’s mother and sister, he advised them to try to force more watered ale down the patient’s throat. ‘I know it’s difficult, but he needs to flush out the poisons from his system. Don’t use wine; that merely dries him up.’

  Richard Lustcote also examined William and then had a murmured discussion with the physician, both of them seemingly amicable professional colleagues in spite of their differing status.

  With a last sad look at his suffering brother, John went with the others into the hall and sat down to a good meal. When his mother and sister had forced food into them almost to bursting point, they sat around the fire with cups of wine.

  The doctor and the apothecary did their best to reassure the family that all that could be done was being done. Clement emphasised the power of prayer and fell into an earnest conversation with Evelyn, who was very religious and who had wanted to take the veil herself.

  Lustcote stuck to the medical aspects, speaking to John and his mother. ‘I only wish there was more I can do. As we have no idea what causes this distemper, there is no rational way to treat it. I can leave some herbs and drugs to soothe him and try to abate his fever, but it is your nursing and love that will be the best treatment.’

  Evelyn, a plump woman, thanked them both with tears in her eyes. ‘Does the fact that no one else in the village has since caught this vile disease – and no more of those who are now sick have died – give us hope that it is abating?’ she asked hopefully.

  Richard was cautious in his reply, but had not the heart to deny her clutching at straws. ‘It may be so, lady. It seems that after the first few days the contagion does not pass so easily from one person to another. I most sincerely hope so!’ he added with feeling, as they were all at risk.

  In the morning little had changed, but William opened his eyes properly for a few moments and briefly seemed to take in his surroundings, before lapsing again into a troubled, mumbling sleep. Clement again checked his pulse and breathing and tried to get another urine sample, but failed.

  ‘His main problem is in not passing enough water,’ he repeated. ‘Do all you can to force drink into him – spring water, diluted cider or ale, anything to flush out whatever evil humour is infecting his body.’

  When there was no more they could do or say, they rode away, leaving a grateful and more hopeful family to wave them off.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In which a fishmonger confers with friends

  The following afternoon, the second Sunday in November, the Feast of St Martin, four men sat huddled on the bank
of the River Exe, a mile upstream from the city wall. They looked as if they were fishing, but in fact only one had bothered to bait his hook. This was Adam of Dunsford and, as a fishmonger, he felt it was incumbent on him to at least try to catch a fish.

  Two of the other men were from Ide, a mile away, and the last one was from further afield near Crediton, a small town a few miles to the north. They met in what they hoped was the least noticeable gathering, just four fishermen whiling away a Sunday afternoon in the most innocent of pastimes. All they needed for camouflage was a short pole, with a length of twine attached to the end to dangle in the brown waters of the river.

  As usual, they debated their faith at these meetings, but today there were also more pressing matters on the agenda.

  ‘I had the coroner after me two days ago,’ said Adam. ‘He wants to attend our meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘And bring men-at-arms to arrest us, I suppose,’ said Peter, a thin man with tousled red hair, a shepherd from Ide.

  ‘No, he seemed to have no interest in our faith. He said he was concerned only in solving the murder of Nicholas – and possibly that of Vincente.’

  ‘Was he really killed?’ asked Oliver. He was the third man, a small, puny fellow with a face like a weasel. ‘I heard today from a carter that one of the Cathars has vanished from Wonford.’

  ‘What’s happening to us all? Will we be hanged after this inquisition next week?’ Peter’s voice was tremulous, as he felt the grip of Rome tightening around them.

  Adam shook his head and jiggled his hook in the water. ‘They have little power to do anything. I have read something about their disciplinary methods. We can be excommunicated, sure – but we have already done that voluntarily.’

  A literate fishmonger was something of a rarity in the West Country, but when young, Adam had had a year’s schooling.

  ‘These bloody proctors have summoned us all to the bishop’s palace next week, so what can we expect from that?’ persisted Oliver. ‘In spite of what you say, Adam, I fear for my neck.’

  ‘All we can do is pray for God’s mercy,’ said the fourth man, who was much older, with a rim of white hair around his bald head. He was Jordan Cosse from Ide, a free smallholder who scratched a living from two cows, some pigs and geese. ‘The early Christians died in their thousands for their faith, when it was still untainted by scheming and corruption, so we should not fear dying for our beliefs.’