A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  ‘He’s still got some death stiffness,’ muttered Gwyn, testing the muscles. ‘So he hasn’t been dead for more than a few days.’

  ‘We know he was alive last Thursday,’ said the bailiff. ‘What about that knife? Are you going to pull it out?’

  Just to one side of the navel was the handle of a large knife, all of the blade being buried in the belly. It had a crude wooden hilt and looked more like a tool than a weapon. The brown serge tunic was soaked in dried blood from neck to thighs, though most of this appeared to be coming from a series of stabs in the front of the chest, as the fabric showed half a dozen rents, each about an inch long.

  Gwyn touched the hilt with a finger, then shook his head. ‘I’ll leave this for Sir John,’ he decided. ‘He hates his corpses to be interfered with before he gets to see them!’

  The face of the dead man was remarkably peaceful, considering the violence of his demise, but Gwyn knew from long experience, both in battle and as the coroner’s officer, that the common belief that the expression on the features bore any relation to the act of dying was totally false.

  ‘What’s that stitched on to his tunic?’ asked Thomas, venturing nearer to point at the shoulder of the dead man.

  ‘He always wore that,’ said Robert. ‘He said it was a badge of his faith.’

  ‘Looks like a bit of felt in the shape of a fish,’ grunted Gwyn, not really interested.

  ‘That’s what it is, the ichthys sign,’ explained Thomas, crossing himself. ‘It’s the word for “fish” in Greek.’

  ‘I thought he was a leather-worker, not a fishmonger?’ quipped Gwyn. ‘We’ve already got one of those as a heretic.’

  The clerk looked at his big friend with scorn. ‘You ignorant Cornish peasant!’ he said scathingly. ‘It was the secret sign for the persecuted Christians in the first century, as the Greek letters stood for the first letters of “Jesus, Christ, God, Son and Saviour”!’ He crossed himself yet again.

  ‘Well, this one was certainly persecuted, as were Nicholas Budd and Vincente d’Estcote,’ said Gwyn.

  ‘Father Patrick didn’t like him wearing that badge, but Hengist said that it was none of his business,’ offered the bailiff.

  ‘Heretics are Christians, so I suppose they are as entitled to wear it as anyone else,’ conceded Thomas.

  Gwyn became impatient. ‘None of this helps to discover who killed the damned fellow,’ he rumbled. ‘Who would know of this cottage as a good hiding place?’

  Robert waved a hand to encompass the whole countryside. ‘Anyone who passed by, as well as our villagers, of course,’ he answered. ‘But none of us would slay Hengist. He’s been accepted as being strange for years.’

  Gwyn stood up and stared down at the corpse.

  ‘Better leave him where he lies until the coroner comes in the morning. Cover him with something and keep him guarded against foxes. Sir John will no doubt hold an inquest, so gather together whoever found him and a dozen men from the village for a jury by the ninth hour.’

  While his assistants were in Wonford, de Wolfe was setting off in the opposite direction, west of the city. He had obtained directions from the fishmonger and made his way down a lane off the highway to Crediton. The river lay between him and the small village of Ide a mile away, and at the edge of some common pasture which led to the start of dense woodland he saw a dilapidated barn that stored hay cut in the summer. The walls were made of crude boards, with irregular gaps between them, and the old thatch was lopsided and rotted. He rode past and entered the edge of the woods to tie up Odin in a small clearing, which still had some grass which had escaped the frost, then walked back to the barn.

  There were no other horses about, and it was obvious that everyone else attending the meeting had come on foot. He silently approached the back of the barn but was suddenly confronted by Adam of Dunsford, who must have heard Odin’s hooves on the track.

  ‘You found us, then?’ he asked abruptly, looking around suspiciously, as if uncertain whether the coroner had brought a troop of soldiers to arrest them.

  ‘I doubt your attempts at secrecy are very effective, Adam,’ scolded John. ‘I suspect that half Devonshire knows where and when you meet.’

  He was right, as unknown to him another pair of eyes was watching from the cover of a bramble thicket where the trees ended.

  The fishmonger led him around the front and into the barn, which was about half-filled with this year’s fodder. Seated or sprawled on this were eight men and two women, who seemed to have an air of resigned martyrdom about them. The men rose to their feet when the coroner entered and stood uneasily before him. Adam, who seemed to be the leader and spokesman, waved a hand around the small congregation.

  ‘These are our brothers and sisters, but I won’t give you all their names,’ he said cautiously. ‘But as four of us will be hauled before the bishop’s tribunal on Thursday, our names will no doubt be bandied about the city within hours.’

  He pointed at Oliver and Peter and Jordan Cosse of Ide, telling the coroner who they were. John remained standing, taller than any of them and looking like a predatory eagle in his black and grey clothing.

  ‘I am not concerned with your religion, your beliefs, your faith,’ he began in his sonorous voice. ‘That is for other authorities to deal with. I am a king’s law officer, and my only concern is investigating the death of two, probably three, persons who are of a similar religious persuasion.’

  Jordan Cosse looked startled. ‘You said three, Crowner? We know about Nicholas and Vincente, but who is the other one?’

  All faces were turned towards him, waiting intently.

  ‘A man called Hengist has been missing from Wonford for some days. I have just been told that he has been found stabbed to death.’

  There was a shocked silence, then a buzz of whispering.

  ‘We know of no one of our community by that name, sir,’ said Adam.

  ‘I understand that there are others who dispute the authority of the Roman Church, apart from your community?’ De Wolfe made this into a question rather than a statement.

  Adam nodded and explained. ‘We have no name, like Cathars or Bogomils, but I suppose we follow the precepts of Pelagius, of whom I have read.’

  ‘My learned clerk tells me that the cult of that man faded centuries ago,’ objected John.

  Adam, the philosophical fishmonger, smiled. ‘Maybe his following under that name dwindled and was crushed, but the basic truths that he preached and wrote about remain in men’s minds. We have revived them, and I know many others have similar beliefs.’

  ‘I asked about other branches of heresy. I was told that this man Hengist was attracted to the Cathar beliefs.’

  There was another murmur among the others and some nodding of heads.

  ‘True, there are many pathways that a man can follow, without being chained by the Church to one narrow track,’ said Adam. ‘The Cathars are very numerous in France and pose the greatest threat to Rome. Not like us!’ he added rather wistfully, looking around at his small group.

  At the back of the barn, unseen by those inside, an eye appeared in a crack between the rough boards and a hand cupped to a ear listened intently.

  ‘So this man in Wonford was not one of you?’ repeated John.

  Heads shook in reply and Peter of Ide expressed his sorrow. ‘We revere all life, perhaps not like the Cathars, who consider the material world to be evil. I am saddened that any man or woman should be harmed, especially if it be for their faith.’

  ‘I agree with you. I regret that I once killed many men in the name of my religion,’ said de Wolfe – and the listening ear picked up his sentiments with satisfaction. He had heard enough and slipped away soundlessly back to the shelter of the trees, to find his horse tethered a safe distance away.

  The coroner now got to the purpose of his visit. ‘I came here today to meet you, to learn if any of you suspect who might be so incensed at your different view of Christianity that they would wish to slay
you?’

  There was some more murmuring and one of the women, a gaunt dame of late middle age with sparse hair straggled over a pink scalp, spoke up. ‘Those canons – may they pay for their hatred when they meet their Maker – they are the ones who wish to persecute us!’

  There was a general mutter of agreement, which again Adam put into words. ‘One is a cathedral proctor, that Robert de Baggetor, so he can use his heavy-handed bailiffs to hound us.’

  Oliver, the pale-faced younger man with the narrow face, spoke for the first time. ‘That is so, but I find it hard to believe that priests, corrupt though so many might be, would stoop to foul murder, when they have the power of the Church to crush us, as they are plainly intent upon doing.’

  ‘But has anyone attacked any of you, either by mouth or fist?’

  Adam laughed sardonically. ‘Plenty of abuse, when we speak publicly of our faith. I’ve had a punch or two aimed at me, but it was in the heat of the moment; it was nothing serious.’

  ‘Even those proctors’ beadles, Gale and Blundus, have never yet gone beyond a push and a shove,’ added Jordan Cosse.

  De Wolfe spoke to them for another few minutes, asking each individually whether they had any cause to suspect who might wish them dead. His suggestion that perhaps one of the other sects might be jealous or inflamed by their different beliefs was met with derision. ‘We are all Christians and we respect each other’s right to worship in our own way. We have no desire to convert the great mass of Romish folk; they are as entitled as we are to freedom of expression. I only wish they felt the same about us!’

  There was no more to be learned and John wished them well, though, like them, he was apprehensive about what their interrogation on Thursday might lead to. He went back to find Odin, who was peacefully grazing in the wood, and rode slowly back to the city, pondering the multiple problems that were churning in his mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which the coroner meets two ladies

  De Wolfe took his big stallion back to Andrew’s stables and, as he came out into the lane, saw his next-door neighbours leaving their front door. Immediately, Cecilia stepped forward and put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Sir John, how is your brother? Please tell me he is much improved!’

  The sincerity in her voice was unmistakable; it was not just a polite remark. John explained that he had ridden down there again and would be going again next day, hoping to hear better news.

  ‘I am most appreciative of your accompanying me, doctor,’ he said to Clement. ‘My mother and sister also were gratified to have a physician examine William, especially as it took much of your valuable time.’

  ‘You are welcome. It was the least I could do at such a difficult time,’ replied the doctor. ‘Now Cecilia and I are off to make our devotions at St Olave’s,’ he added. ‘We are most grateful to your wife for introducing us to that excellent place of worship. In fact, we are having a meeting of the congregation there with the good priest Father Fulk, to discuss how we can best encourage the cathedral authorities to pursue this scandal of the heretics with the utmost vigour!’

  He spoke with vibrant enthusiasm, his eyes glinting as he anticipated his vigilante role in ‘cleansing the stables of the temple’, as he had described it to his wife earlier that day.

  Cecilia, wrapped against a rising east wind in a hooded mantle of blue velvet lined with white fur, was looking worried, but smiled at John and said she hoped that he would find a great improvement in William’s condition next day. Her husband seized her arm and urged her towards the High Street, but as they went she looked over her shoulder and again gave him an enigmatic smile.

  John felt confused about his new neighbours, as his initial dislike of Clement had subsided, particularly after he had so readily agreed to make the overnight visit to see brother William. Though full of his own importance – and too keen on religion for John’s taste – he seemed a good enough man at heart. As for Cecilia, he could not make her out. She played the devoted wife, but his long experience of courting women told him that there was more to her than met the eye – though that was indeed pleasant enough!

  He turned towards his own house and there, watching him with a scowl, was Matilda, also muffled up, with skinny Lucille trailing behind her.

  ‘Ogling our neighbour again, I see!’ she grated as she advanced upon him. ‘Why can’t you leave the sweet lady alone? You must see how it embarrasses her husband.’

  John opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, thinking it not worth the waste of words to spar with her in the street.

  ‘I’m also off to St Olave’s,’ snapped his wife. ‘Our diligent priest is preaching a sermon this evening about the dangers of heresy.’

  ‘Why his sudden interest?’ asked John. ‘He never shifted himself before to take up any cause.’

  ‘It seems the Archbishop of Canterbury has reminded all his clergy that blasphemy and apostasy are becoming rife in the land, another infection imported from France,’ countered his wife. ‘Father Fulk has taken this to heart and is to exhort us to be vigilant in seeking out those who would undermine Christ’s Holy Church. A pity you do not have the same concerns!’

  Julian Fulk was the odious fat priest who officiated at St Olave’s, and who was Matilda’s idol. For a time John had suspected that she was in love with him, until he realised that she was incapable of such a secular emotion.

  ‘Our neighbour more than makes up for my defects,’ grunted John. ‘He seems intent on interfering in the bishop’s duties by organising some protest meeting there.’

  Matilda glowered at him. ‘If all townsfolk were as devout and conscientious as Doctor Clement, Exeter would be a far better place,’ she snapped.

  ‘Why does a physician take such an interest in ecclesiastical affairs?’ John retaliated. ‘Better if he used his energies in offering medical help to those who most need it.’

  ‘You are so godless yourself, husband, that you cannot conceive of men like Clement who have the interests of our beloved Church at heart!’

  Having delivered her rebuke, his wife plodded past him without another glance, so he went indoors to find Mary and get something to eat from her kitchen-shed in the yard. He gave her a kiss in exchange for a platter of eggs fried in butter, followed by some bread, cheese and ale. As he ate and drank, his cook-maid brought him up to date with gossip in the market.

  ‘The plague seems to have abated in the city,’ she reported. ‘It’s now giving way to heretics as the favourite for the chatter around the stalls and street corners.’

  ‘What are they saying about it?’ he asked over the rim of an ale-pot.

  ‘The usual exaggerations! That we are about to be besieged by hordes of pagans reeking of brimstone – and that a few brave canons are waging a war against the forces of evil!’

  ‘Bloody nonsense!’ grunted her master. ‘The heretics I’ve met seem better Christians than most of us – genuine and sincere, anyway. And they are getting murdered for their faith.’

  ‘They say that there’s some kind of trial set for this week. Will they hang them or burn them at the stake?’ asked Mary, with a frisson of morbid excitement.

  John swallowed a lump of cheese and shook his head irritably. ‘Stupid rumours! The Church itself can do them no harm other than excommunicate them – and I doubt that heretics will care a damn about that.’

  Mary frowned at him. ‘Well, you be careful, Sir Crowner! At the onion stall I even heard one man say that you had been seen consorting with a known blasphemer in a friendly fashion.’

  John shook his head in wonderment. ‘What a bloody town this is, Mary! You can’t so much as belch without everyone discussing it on the street!’ He assumed that long noses and flapping ears had seen him talking to Adam at the fishmonger’s booth.

  After he had eaten, he took Brutus on his usual perambulation to cock his leg everywhere along the familiar route to the Bush Inn. He had arranged to meet his two assistants there when they returned from W
onford, to tell him what they had found.

  In spite of Mary’s food, he succumbed to Martha’s insistence that he had something more to eat, and by the time he had devoured a spit-roasted capon, Gwyn and Thomas arrived.

  They sat with him at the table by the firepit and Martha brought more food for the two new arrivals, sitting with them as they ate and talked. A large, matronly woman of forty, she had a nimble mind and a tough, courageous spirit, which was just as well, with her husband absent with John de Wolfe for most of the previous twenty years.

  Gwyn, between mouthfuls of mutton stew, told the coroner what they had found in Wonford. ‘At least he hadn’t had his tongue cut out,’ added Thomas with a shudder.

  ‘No, but there was far more violence than was needed to kill him,’ countered Gwyn. ‘I suspect that some of the wounds were made after he was dead, just for spite.’

  John mused on what he had just heard. ‘Is this a random killing, nothing to do with our heretics – or is it part of a campaign against them?’

  ‘He was a poor man, with nothing worth stealing,’ observed Thomas. ‘His toft was little more than a workshop and a room to sleep in. Who would want to kill him for anything other than the same reason as the other two died?’

  ‘He wasn’t of the same religious persuasion as the pair in the city,’ answered John. ‘He was some sort of Cathar, according to the parish priest. But I agree with you, it would be a great coincidence if it wasn’t connected, especially as he was on the canon’s list of suspects.’

  While the other two finished their food, he told them of his attendance at the covert meeting in the barn near Ide. ‘None of them had any notion of who might wish them dead, apart from our friends the canons,’ he said. ‘And even they felt that those ardent priests would hardly stoop to murder, especially as they had just started on their campaign to bring all heretics before the bishop’s court.’