‘I suppose it matters not one bit which kind of blasphemy our Devon heretics subscribe to, Thomas!’ he observed. ‘Your masters in the cathedral no doubt tar them all with same brush when it comes to getting rid of them.’
The clerk nodded soberly as he followed the coroner. ‘But retribution must be applied through the proper processes — the bishop’s court and the like, not by a knife to the throat, Crowner.’
This time, they went across the Close to Canon’s Row to find one of the other heretic-hunters, Ralph de Hospitali. He occupied a house three doors beyond that of John de Alençon, and Thomas repeated his actions to get de Wolfe admitted to the canon’s presence.
Once again, he found the prebendary living in some luxury, so different from the ascetic home of Thomas’s uncle, just along the road. The well-furnished chamber had a blazing fire in a side hearth like the one in John’s home, and there seemed to be a surfeit of servants about the house.
Ralph was a younger man than Canon fitz Rogo, only a few years older than John himself. He was tall and lean, with a mop of fair hair around his shaved tonsure. A nervous, overactive man, he seemed unable to keep still, restlessly sitting down and then standing up, calling for wine, which his visitors declined.
‘Richard fitz Rogo told me of your visit, and no doubt you need to consult me as well,’ he stated in a staccato voice that suited his twitchy nature. He made no effort to seat his visitors, but paced around them like an angry lion.
‘I heard of the death of this woodworker, who we were about to bring to account,’ he snapped. ‘Even my Christian charity cannot stretch to the hypocrisy of expressing sorrow for it, though I would not wish that method of death on any of God’s creatures.’
His attitude rankled with John, but he suppressed his distaste with an effort. ‘How came you to know of this man’s activities?’ he asked.
‘It was reported to me by Herbert Gale, the senior of our two proctors’ bailiffs. He said he had an informant in the city and so personally went down to a meeting in a house where this Nicholas Budd was expounding his dangerous blasphemy.’
‘You did not personally hear the man commit heresy?’
The canon shook his head vigorously. ‘There was no need! The bailiff’s accusation was sufficient to have the fellow called in for interrogation, which was to be in a few days’ time.’
De Wolfe stared hard at the priest. ‘A servant’s opinion was enough for you?’ he grated.
‘Why not? If the man Budd could explain himself, so be it. If not, he must face the consequences.’
The coroner breathed hard at this cavalier approach to justice.
‘Was Budd the only one you suspected of heresy?’
Ralph de Hospitali leaned against the edge of his table and drummed his fingers on the top. ‘I suspect many more. It seems obvious that there is a spreading cult of these evil thinkers in Devon, many right here in Exeter. But they will be extirpated, mark my words!’ His voice rose in pitch as he became more vehement.
‘Do you know more names?’ asked John, thinking of the pale-faced man in the plague pit.
‘I have suspicions of several, reported by the proctors’ men. My brother in Christ, Robert de Baggetor, is compiling a list of suspects, based on the information passed to him by the two bailiffs and their contacts in the city.’
‘Does the name Vincente d’Estcote appear in his list?’
Ralph looked blankly at the coroner. ‘I do not recall that name, but, as I say, de Baggetor is at present compiling a list and for all I know that person may be included. Why do you ask?’
‘I have certain information that he might have been one of these men with very different views from your own,’ answered John obliquely.
The canon’s sharp wits soon picked him up. ‘What do you mean “might have been”? Has he then seen the error of his ways?’
‘He is dead as well!’ answered John bluntly. ‘And I have no means of determining how he came by his demise.’
De Hospitali jerked himself upright and took a step towards the coroner. ‘If you have other names, you must give them to me. You have a duty under God to do so.’
‘And I have a duty under the king’s peace to see that the law is upheld, sir,’ retorted de Wolfe. ‘Where can I find your bailiff? I need to see this list of his, in case others have met an untimely fate.’
For the first time, Thomas opened his mouth, for until now he had been studiously ignored by the canon.
‘Sir, how does the bailiff, who is really but a constable, make a record of these men? Can he read and write?’
Ralph looked down at the clerk as if noticing his presence for the first time. ‘Herbert Gale is a former merchant’s clerk, who spent some of his youth in the abbey school at Bath. His fellow bailiff is illiterate, but Herbert has some learning. You will no doubt find him in the small building which houses the cathedral detention cells, on the north side of the Close.’
He rang a small bell to summon his steward, an unambiguous sign that the interview was over. Realising that there was nothing more to be gained, John left, his clerk trailing behind him. They walked slowly back along Canon’s Row, in silence for the first hundred paces.
‘Not very likeable, that fellow,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘Is he always like that?’
‘He has a reputation for being strict in all matters concerning the observance of cathedral rules and customs,’ answered Thomas. ‘He is a pillar of the chapter, but it is hard to warm towards him.’
‘What about this remaining canon, Robert de Baggetor? What’s he like? I’ve only seen him in the distance, when my wife drags me to the cathedral.’
‘Another former archdeacon, this time of Barnstaple. He is older, probably in his sixtieth year. Another proud and somewhat arrogant man, may God forgive me for so saying.’ He crossed himself rapidly as a precaution against being struck by a thunderbolt for his disparagement of a senior churchman.
‘So where do we find him, Thomas?’
‘He lives further along from fitz Rogo on the north side. He is one of the two cathedral proctors who have houses reserved for their use. The other one is William de Swindon.’
‘I gather the proctors are responsible for order and discipline within the cathedral community,’ said John. ‘Is that all they do?’ His knowledge of ecclesiastical politics and administration was hazy.
‘They are, but much of their function is to deal with legal and ceremonial matters for the chapter and the bishop. They don’t soil their own hands with mere physical matters like riot or affray. For that, they employ proctors’ bailiffs, who are the cathedral’s equivalent of our Osric and Theobald in the city.’
Just then a bell began tolling in the cathedral and several groups of vicars, secondaries and one or two canons appeared from various houses and began converging on the various entrances to the great church of St Mary and St Peter.
‘You’ll not see him now, master,’ said Thomas, pointing to one group as they trod sedately across the Close. ‘He’s there, off to celebrate Terce, Sext and Nones.’ These were the mid-morning offices of the daily devotions.
‘We’d best catch him when he comes back for his dinner at noon,’ added the clerk. ‘I should be there myself, if you don’t need me at the moment.’
John waved him away, and Thomas followed the rest of the celebrants into the cathedral. These incessant services were not meant for the benefit of the public except on feast days, as the common folk were served by a plethora of parish churches in the city. The rituals in the cathedral were for the endless glorification of God by the priesthood and their lesser acolytes.
John walked slowly back to his house around the corner, somewhat at a loss as to what to do next. It was too late to trudge back up to the castle and too early for his dinner. Partly from old habits left from the Nesta days, he decided to take Brutus for a walk, his old weak alibi for going down to the Bush. Fetching him from the house, where thankfully Matilda was either in her solar or out somewhere, he walked down to Idle Lane and sampled the new batch of ale, which fully lived up to his expectations.