A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  News of a fresh attack of the yellow disease was worrying. He had begun to hope that the present sporadic epidemic had burned itself out. So far, about twenty people had died in the city, and the fear and tension that this engendered could be felt as he walked the streets. People seemed more bent and furtive as they hurried along, as if keeping inconspicuous lessened the danger of contagion.

  After the meal, Matilda clumped up the outer stairs to the solar to take her usual postprandial rest until it was time for her to go again to St Olave’s. John took a quart of ale and sat near his beloved stone hearth, nudging Brutus away with his foot so that he could be nearer the warmth from the glowing logs.

  He had plenty to think about, as he stared into the flames. Apart from his brother’s desperate condition, he was frustrated by the lack of progress on the heretic killings. There seemed nothing to grasp hold of in his search – the heretics themselves had no idea who was preying upon them and the only possible suspects, the canons, seemed too improbable a target to be seriously considered. The only people he had not questioned now were the two proctors’ men, and for want of any other inspiration he decided to seek them out this very afternoon.

  When he had finished his ale, he whistled to his old hound and went out into the lane, shrugging on his grey wolfskin cloak, though he found that the cold had moderated considerably as a dense mist had descended upon the city. When he went into the Close, the bulk of the cathedral was shrouded in fog, the tops of the great towers lost in a grey blanket.

  The proctors’ bailiffs had a small building alongside St Mary’s Church, which was little more than a room for them to sit over a brazier and three cells with barred doors for incarcerating miscreants, most often drunks or aggressive beggars making a nuisance of themselves in the cathedral precincts – though occasionally it was someone in holy orders who was locked up.

  De Wolfe rapped on the outer door and pushed it open, telling Brutus to stay outside. In the bare chamber he found Herbert Gale sitting at a rough table, eating from some food spread on a grubby piece of cloth. Half a loaf, a slab of hard yellow cheese and some strips of smoked pork appeared to be his late dinner. In one of the cells, a scarecrow of a man, dressed in rags and with filthy hair and a straggling beard, slumped on a slate shelf that did service as a bed. He was snoring like a hog and obviously sleeping off the effects of too much drink.

  The cathedral constable got to his feet as he saw the coroner enter. Everyone in Exeter knew Sir John de Wolfe, though this particular citizen did not look too pleased to see him. About the same age as John, Gale was a thin, leathery man with a permanent expression of distaste, as if he disliked the world and all that was in it. He wore a long tunic of black serge, with a thick leather belt carrying a dagger. His cropped iron-grey hair was uncovered indoors, but a helmet of thick black felt lay on the table, alongside a heavy wooden cudgel.

  ‘I came to talk to you and Blundus about these so-called heretics,’ announced John without any preamble.

  ‘They are heretics, coroner, not “so-called”,’ retorted Gale. ‘And William Blundus is out about his duties.’

  De Wolfe’s black eyebrows rose. ‘So they have been judged ahead of tomorrow’s enquiry, have they?’

  ‘If Canon Robert, who is a proctor and my master, thinks they are heretics, that’s good enough for me, sir!’ growled the bailiff.

  John was not inclined to bandy words with a constable.

  ‘I have no interest in their religious leanings, Gale. I am investigating two, probably three, murders. All of men you must have known.’

  ‘What do you want from me, Crowner?’ asked Gale suspiciously. ‘This is a cathedral matter; we are independent of you in the castle and the borough.’

  De Wolfe crashed his fist on to the table, making the remnants of Gale’s dinner scatter on the cloth.

  ‘Don’t try to tell me my business, man!’ he shouted. ‘Firstly, these deaths took place well away from the cathedral precinct. And in any event, Bishop Marshal long ago agreed that serious crimes against the person are within the purview of the king’s law, whether they are committed in or out of his territory.’

  The bailiff remained silent, as when angry de Wolfe was not a man to be argued with.

  ‘Now then, what dealings have you had with these dead men?’ snapped the coroner.

  ‘We received reports about them, starting some weeks ago. I passed these on to one of the proctors, as is my duty.’

  ‘What sort of reports?’

  ‘Accusations that they were either preaching sedition against the Church or that they were acting in some blasphemous manner. We have had many more such suspicions, not just about those who are either dead or will face the canons tomorrow.’ He said this last with an expression of smug satisfaction, but just then the door opened and a large man burst in, already in full flow.

  ‘Herbert, I’ve found another of the bastards …’

  His voice trailed off as he saw that Gale was not alone. Blundus was a powerful, pugnacious fellow, almost the size of Gwyn, but younger and darker. A short, thick neck supported a head like a large turnip, with small eyes and a flat nose that reminded John of a pig.

  ‘The coroner wants to know about those dead blasphemers,’ said Gale, a warning note in his voice.

  ‘Best thing that ever happened to ’em!’ snarled Blundus. ‘Saves everyone the trouble of a hanging.’

  De Wolfe controlled his temper with an effort. ‘When did you last see them? Let’s start with Nicholas Budd.’

  Herbert Gale replied quickly, afraid of his partner’s intemperate mouth. ‘We warned him of this enquiry tomorrow and told him that if he didn’t attend we would come for him. But he died before that.’

  ‘And Vincente d’Estcote, the porter from Bretayne?’

  ‘The same thing. We knew of his attendance at that barn near Ide, and the canons said to add him to the list. But he vanished, and I’m told he caught the plague.’

  ‘God’s retribution for forsaking Him,’ muttered Blundus, but closed his mouth after a poisonous glance from Herbert.

  The coroner could see that he would get very little help from these men, but he had to persist.

  ‘And what about Hengist of Wonford? I suppose you know he’s been killed as well?’

  Gale nodded. ‘Blundus here went out several days ago to give him a final warning for tomorrow, but he’d vanished as well. Now we hear he’s been stabbed.’

  ‘And you say you know nothing at all about their deaths?’ rasped John.

  ‘Why should we?’ growled Blundus sullenly. ‘We are but messengers in this, doing our masters’ bidding, as is our job.’

  The coroner scowled at the two men, for it was like pulling teeth to try to get information from them.

  ‘How did you go about discovering those you suspect of non-conformity with the tenets of the Church?’ he asked.

  From the blank look on Blundus’s face, he failed to understand, but the more educated Herbert Gale responded testily.

  ‘Surely that is a cathedral matter, not part of a coroner’s remit!’

  John fixed him with an icy glare. ‘Nothing is exempt in the search for a murderer. You seem keen on gathering folk for interrogation – so how would you both like to share a cell in Rougemont’s gaol until your tongues are loosened?’

  The expression on de Wolfe’s face convinced the two men that this was no idle threat.

  ‘We kept our eyes and ears open,’ growled Herbert Gale. ‘And the proctors gave us some funds to encourage others to do the same.’

  ‘You mean you paid spies and informers?’

  ‘Why not? Any means justify the end in doing God’s work, which here was through the decretals issued by Rome.’

  John realised that Gale was not only sanctimonious but had some education, certainly more than the coroner himself. He questioned them for a few more minutes but came to the conclusion that they knew – or would not admit to – anything other than the names of heretical suspects, corres
ponding with the list that Herbert had given the canons, plus a few more recently collected.

  He left them standing in sullen silence and had no doubt that they would soon be reporting his unwelcome interest to the three canons, but that was of no concern to him. Collecting Brutus from outside, he made his way back up to the castle in case any more deaths, rapes, fires or assaults had been notified, as usually such messages were left with the sentries in the guard-room in the gatehouse. There were none, and he hauled himself up the steep stairs to find Gwyn alone in the bare room overlooking the city.

  ‘Still no sign of Thomas?’ he asked, slightly annoyed that his clerk was absent, even though there was little work to be done.

  ‘Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him today,’ replied the Cornishman. ‘I suppose he’s scribbling away in that place above the chapter house.’

  With a shrug, John sat down at his trestle table and Gwyn poured them each a mug of cider from a large jug standing on the floor. The jug was two-thirds empty and the remaining contents looked more like the bottom of a duckpond, with wreaths of turbid sediment swirling in the fluid. Neither man seemed bothered with this as they sat talking about the fog, which had thickened and had obscured most of the view from the slit windows. John thought about the road to Dawlish, which would be similarly blanketed by the sea-fret, which had rolled up the estuary of the Exe. That led his thoughts on to Stoke and his brother lying there so desperately ill. He must ride down there again tomorrow, the fog being no hindrance to a horse, but it might encourage the footpads who infested the roads to take advantage of its cover to surprise passing riders. Still, if Gwyn came with him again, they would be a match for all but the largest gangs.

  He was distracted from his reverie by the sound of feet coming up the stairs, and a moment later the hessian draught-curtain was pulled aside and a hesitant face appeared.

  ‘The man-at-arms downstairs said I was to come up, sirs,’ said the visitor, whose projecting head bore the tonsure of someone in holy orders. His face looked vaguely familiar to John, but Gwyn recognised him.

  ‘You are the vicar who shares our Thomas’s lodgings in Priest Street,’ he boomed. ‘Come on in, we were wondering where the little fellow had got to.’

  The cassock-clad young man came in and stood anxiously before them. ‘Not a vicar, sir, only a secondary. Arnold is my name. But yes, that’s why I came, for Thomas is sick and I did not know who else to tell.’

  Both de Wolfe and Gwyn rose quickly to their feet, disturbed by the news. ‘What’s wrong with him, d’you know?’ demanded John.

  ‘He lies on his pallet, feverish and almost without words,’ gabbled Arnold. ‘I have been away for several days visiting my mother, so had not seen Thomas since Sunday, when he was quite well.’

  De Wolfe grabbed his cloak and Gwyn was already making for the stairs, shrugging on the creased leather jerkin that he habitually wore. Within minutes, they had hurried down through the town to the street that housed many of the junior priests and clerks from the cathedral. Arnold led them into a narrow timber-framed house which was divided into a number of small rooms, in one of which they found Thomas de Peyne huddled on a hay-stuffed mattress on the floor. He was crouched under the coverlets, his back to the door.

  ‘He was shivering, so I put my blanket over him as well, before coming up to find you,’ said the secondary.

  Gwyn, who was very fond of their little clerk, in spite of his endless teasing, squatted alongside the bed and put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

  ‘How are you, my friend?’ he said, with a gentleness at odds with his huge size. ‘Have you any pain?’

  There was no response, so Gwyn gently rolled him over on to his back. ‘Oh, God, no!’ he whispered in an agonised voice as soon as he saw the priest’s face.

  ‘He must have caught it when he insisted on attending those burials,’ muttered John an hour later.

  They were in St John’s Hospital, up near the East Gate, where they had examined the corpse of the slain woodcarver. As soon as they had seen the yellow staining of Thomas’s eyes, Gwyn had wrapped him in the blankets and carried him as effortlessly as a child up to the hospital, where Brother Saulf had taken him in without demur, even though his single ward was already overflowing, half the patients suffering from the yellow plague.

  ‘He’s a selfless little bastard, always putting others before himself,’ growled Gwyn, ignoring the fact that he had just carried a plague victim in his own arms halfway across the city. They were standing with the gaunt Benedictine monk alongside Thomas’s mattress, in a corner of the large room that now held three closely packed rows of sufferers. Thomas was half-conscious, moving restlessly under his blankets and muttering incoherently to himself. His face was flushed and sweating, but a lemon-yellow tinge was obvious when his fluttering lids revealed his eyes. His lips were swollen and crusted with fever, and his fingers picked agitatedly at the bedcoverings.

  ‘He had those under the clothes when he came in,’ said Saulf, pointing to Thomas’s precious copy of the Vulgate and a rosary that lay at the foot of the palliasse. ‘I suspect that when he first fell ill, he began preparing himself for the worst.’

  De Wolfe, worried and anxious beyond measure, looked around the ward at the legion of sufferers, some inert, others restless or moaning.

  ‘Of those with this damned plague, how many will survive?’ he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  ‘It is a strange disease, the like of which I have not seen before, though I know it has visited in the past,’ replied the monk. ‘Some die within a day of the first symptoms appearing, yet others who survive for a few days can make a rapid recovery.’

  John looked down at the pathetic figure of his clerk, huddled and shivering under the blankets. ‘What chance has he got, brother?’

  Saulf held out a hand and rotated it several times in a gesture of uncertainty. ‘At this stage, probably an equal prospect of living or dying, Sir John. I can say no more than that. This is the first such epidemic I have experienced.’

  ‘Is there anything you can do for him? I could ask Richard Lustcote to visit, as he did with my brother, but he was honest enough to say that there are no medicaments that are effective.’

  The Benedictine nodded his agreement. ‘All we can do is keep him comfortable, and let God’s will be done. We must all pray for him.’

  Another monk came and claimed Saulf’s attention and left Gwyn and de Wolfe at Thomas’s side. They stood around awkwardly for a few moments until they decided there was little point in waiting.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do and we’re just in the way,’ muttered de Wolfe. As they went out, promising to return later that evening, Gwyn raised the matter of their clerk’s family.

  ‘They should be told, whatever is going to happen,’ he said gruffly. ‘His father is a minor manor-lord somewhere near Winchester.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Henry de Furnellis when we get back to Rougemont,’ promised John. ‘He has riders going regularly to Winchester. They can take a message to the cathedral, where Thomas was well known.’

  He was as good as his word and the sheriff promised to add a letter to the pouch of a messenger who was leaving the next day with tax accounts relating to tin production from the Dartmoor stannaries. Leaving the keep, he walked across the inner ward with Gwyn, both subdued by their concerns over Thomas, which had come like a bolt from the blue, in spite of their knowledge of the risks the clerk had taken in helping to give plague victims a proper burial.

  ‘Yet that may be nothing to do with him catching the distemper,’ said Gwyn glumly. ‘Look at these new cases down on Exe Island. The bloody poison could be blown on the wind, affecting anyone at will.’

  John did not answer, as his attention was caught by a horseman who had just clattered over the drawbridge to stop at the guard-room. The man was dressed in black, and an icy hand reached into John’s chest to rip at his heart, as he feared the rider might be Alfred, the reeve from Stoke-in-Teignhead, come to gi
ve him news of his brother’s death. As the man finished speaking to the sentry, he slid from his saddle and began leading his horse towards the stables, when thankfully John could see that it was a total stranger.

  Shaken, he began to wonder if these repeated blows of bad news were beginning to affect his mind – they were certainly diverting his full attention from his duties and the need to pursue whoever was killing these heretics. He said nothing about it to Gwyn, but mentally he hardened his resolve to keep on top of his various problems. Straightening his back from his habitual slight stoop, he set his mouth in a scowl of grim determination that frightened an old woman passing with two live ducks under her arms, then marched off home to warm himself by his hearth until the evening meal, after which he would go back to St John’s Hospital.

  His maid Mary was desolated to hear the news of Thomas’s affliction, as she was very fond of the little fellow. In the days before he had been restored to the priesthood, he had lived a very frugal existence, sleeping in the passageway of the servants’ quarters of a canon’s house, and Mary had often fed him in her cook-shed when Matilda was not around. John’s wife treated him with utter contempt, as even after the accusations of indecent assault on one of his pupils in the school in Winchester had been proven wrong, Matilda always considered him a pervert and a disgrace to her beloved Church.

  When John made his usual attempt to strike up some conversation over the silent supper table by telling her of his clerk’s suffering, she offered only a grunt and the comment that many other people had also succumbed to the yellow murrain. Incensed by her indifference, he pointed out that Thomas had almost certainly caught it by his efforts to give other sufferers a Christian burial.

  ‘Well, that’s his sacred duty as a priest,’ she retorted loftily.

  Her husband glared at her for compounding her lack of charity. ‘I wonder if that selfish fat parson at St Olave’s, who you adore so much, would have risked standing at the edge of a plague pit!’