They went back and sat alongside William’s pallet for a time, watching helplessly as he lay inert, only his rapid breathing showing that he was still alive. From time to time the steward’s wife moved forward and gently wiped his face with a cloth dipped in warm scented water.
‘Has he been awake at all today?’ asked John.
‘He mumbled and muttered some hours ago, but has not spoken rationally to us since last evening. He has passed no water since then, which worries me. The last lot was almost green.’
‘Has he drunk anything?’
‘We tipped a little watered ale between his lips, but he has swallowed very little,’ replied Enyd.
John recalled from his fighting days that wounded men sometimes died of thirst as much as their injuries and, desperate to find some advice to contribute, suggested that they tried harder to get some fluid into his brother.
‘I’ll try to get that bloody doctor to come down here with me,’ he grunted. ‘And if that fails, then at least a good apothecary.’
At noon they sat down to dinner in the hall; though the food was ample and well cooked, no one had much of an appetite — not even Gwyn, whose capacity for his victuals was legendary. Afterwards, they sat again with William, who had hardly moved on his mattress, until John’s mother decided that there was no point in his staying too late.
‘Get you back to Exeter, my son. There’s nothing you can do here. I know you will have duties there to carry out.’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow, later in the day, and will stay until next morning,’ he promised. ‘If you need me more urgently before then, send Alfred and I’ll come, even if it be in the middle of the night!’
As they were climbing into their saddles in the bailey, with the family and servants gathered around, his mother asked him if he was going to call upon Hilda on the way home. Enyd was very fond of the handsome blonde from Dawlish — if there had not been the social gap between the daughter of a Saxon reeve and a knight’s son, she would have welcomed her as a daughter-in-law. But her husband wanted John married off into an aristocratic Norman family and had pushed him into wedlock with Matilda de Revelle. Enyd had done her best to accept Matilda, but in return John’s wife had never concealed her disdain for his mother, mainly because of her Cornish and Welsh parentage.
John considered her question as he arranged his cloak over the back of his saddle. ‘I think not, Mother. I would never forgive myself if I took contagion to her, just for the sake of seeing her face for a few minutes. Alfred says Holcombe is free of it — it would be better if she went to stay there with her parents, rather than keep to Dawlish, with its ships and ship-men coming and going.’
This time, it was only Gwyn and his master who trotted off through the stricken village. John hoped that he would not see Alfred coming again to Exeter, as it would probably mean that he brought news of William’s death.
As they rode, Gwyn told him of what he had learned the previous evening from his tour of the taverns. ‘I found a couple of men who knew some heretics,’ he said. ‘They seem to think that there is no law against it, as no one gets punished.’
‘Did you get to speak to any yourself?’ called John as they rode almost saddle to saddle along the coast road.
His officer shook his bushy head. ‘No, those sort are not likely to be great frequenters of alehouses. But I know they meet in various places to discuss their beliefs.’
He said that one group used an old derelict barn off the Crediton road, not far from the village of Ide, which the potman at the Bush had mentioned.
‘Who are these people, I wonder?’ queried de Wolfe. ‘We know our corpse was a woodworker and, if Thomas was right about the other, he was just a labourer.’
‘One fellow said that several he knew were foreigners, probably French,’ replied Gwyn. ‘Maybe they were from the Languedoc; that seems to be a breeding place for these folk.’
They passed through Dawlish, and once again John had to resist the temptation to call on Hilda, though this time the fear of bringing contamination, however small the risk, made it easier for him to pass by. They reached Exeter as dusk was falling, and Gwyn went off to the Bush to see his wife and check his latest batch of ale-mash. John carried on to Martin’s Lane to hand back his hired horse, but when he emerged from the stables he did not go straight across to his own front door. Instead, he went to the next house and rapped on the heavy oak with the pommel of his dagger. It was opened by a young maid, but before he could state his business Cecilia appeared behind her.
‘Sir John, you are most welcome.’ She waved him in and he went into their hall, which was well furnished and better lit than his own, with a large fire flaming in the firepit and a series of tallow-dips flickering in sconces around the walls.
‘I am afraid my husband is not here, though he said he will be early this evening as he wishes to attend a special service at the cathedral. It seems that one of the canons is to preach a sermon on the dangers of heresy,’ she added with a wry smile.
The doctor’s wife looked as attractive as always, slender and erect, with a crisp linen head-cloth and a silken gorget covering her throat up to her chin. She offered him refreshment, which he gravely declined.
‘I was hoping to see him to ask his professional advice,’ said John and went on to tell her of his brother being stricken by the yellow distemper. Cecilia seemed genuinely upset by his news, holding her fingers to her lips in a gesture of concern.
‘Your only brother? That is desperately sad,’ she said solicitously, reaching out to lay a consoling hand gently on his arm. Her maid lurked in the background, resolutely chaperoning her mistress. As if in answer to her suspicions, there was a noise from the outer vestibule and the girl hurried out to meet her master, who had just arrived.
Clement of Salisbury handed her his cloak and broad-brimmed pilgrim’s hat and came into the hall, looking slightly startled as he saw the tall, looming figure of his neighbour. Cecilia started forward, but John noticed that she did not give him a welcome embrace. Instead, she launched into the reason for him being there.
‘Sir John has grave tidings, Clement! His brother, the Lord of Stoke and Holcombe, has been stricken by this plague.’
The physician made sympathetic noises and declared how mortified Sir John must be at the news.
‘He is still alive but looks dreadfully sick,’ said John.
‘You have seen him?’ asked Clement, apparently surprised.
‘Only a few hours ago — I have just returned from his bedside.’
‘Is there anything we can do to help you?’ offered the physician.
‘I would be very grateful if you would come with me tomorrow to see if you can do anything for my brother. I would naturally pay whatever fee you desire.’
From his previous conversations with the doctor, John expected a polite refusal, but he was confounded by Clement’s answer.
‘Tomorrow? I think I could manage that, though I would have to desert several of my patients. There is no question of a fee, Sir John; you are my neighbour.’
As the coroner made a rapid revision of his opinion of the physician, they agreed on the details of a late start next morning, then John took his leave, with profound thanks to Clement and a stiff bow to Cecilia.
‘I will pray for your brother and your whole family,’ she murmured as she followed him to the front door, which the maid opened for him.
He went out into the lane and took a few steps towards his own house, then stopped. Making a sudden decision, he swung around and strode off towards the High Street.
Later that evening the coroner walked down to the Bush, with his old hound weaving ahead of him, enjoying the smells of the odorous Exeter streets. In the tavern he sat with Gwyn at his usual table by the fire, as though the icy weather had moderated it was still a chilly, windswept night and he was glad of the warmth.