By the time Edwin had brought them a quart mug apiece, Thomas appeared, summoned by Gwyn at John’s request after returning from Stoke. Almost by habit, the priest sidled into the inn as if entering a den of sin, though he had been there innumerable times before, especially when mothered by Nesta, during his worst period before being restored to the priesthood. Settled with a cup of cider, he asked solicitously after William de Wolfe and fervently promised to pray for his recovery.
‘Afterwards, I went up to seek advice from Richard Lustcote and he immediately agreed to come down to Stoke tomorrow with the doctor to see William.’
Lustcote was the senior of the three Exeter apothecaries, who had a shop in North Street. From past experience, John held a high opinion of him, both as a man of integrity and as a good apothecary. Like Clement of Salisbury, he had warned John that there was very little he could do, except perhaps to alleviate some of the symptoms, but he was willing to make the long ride to Stoke for the sake of his friendship with de Wolfe.
John then got down to business, glad to have something to take his mind off his personal problems for a while.
‘Gwyn has discovered something about the heretics, Thomas. It seems that one group holds covert meetings not far from the city. Did you glean any more from the cathedral?’
‘Not so much about the blasphemers themselves, master, but I did pick up some facts about the people who are determined to stop them.’
He hunched closer across the table, as if he was about to disclose some state secrets. ‘The three canons who are the prime movers in this matter are very keen indeed to extirpate any deviation from the rule of Rome. Some of my vicar friends even say that they are totally obsessed by what they see as a crusade.’
‘So why have they chosen to start their crusade now?’ asked John. ‘Surely these critics of the Church have been around for a long time.’
Thomas wiped a drop from the tip of his sharp nose with the back of his hand. The cold weather affected him and he was always sniffing and wheezing. ‘Robert de Baggetor spent some time in Aquitaine and Toulouse a year ago, and when he came back it seems he was full of outrage about the rise of the Albigensian heresy in that region. Then he began hearing reports of men with similar sympathies in this county and tried to persuade the bishop to act against them.’
Gwyn yawned and banged his pot on the table to attract Edwin’s attention. He was a man of action and Thomas’s tales tended to send him to sleep. De Wolfe, however, was keen to learn more.
‘I take it that Henry Marshal had more important things on his mind, like plotting with Prince John to oust King Richard?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Probably, but as de Baggetor could raise little enthusiasm in the bishop’s palace, he started a campaign of his own. He found two other canons of a like mind and they have been using the proctors’ bailiffs to do their spying for them.’
‘We know all that already,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘What we need to know is who is likely to have snuffed out the woodcarver and possibly the man you saw in the plague pit.’
De Wolfe ignored his officer’s grumble and jabbed a long finger at his clerk. ‘So what are they going to do about it now?’ he asked. ‘They’ve lost the man who they were going to haul up before the bishop’s court. Are there any others under suspicion?’
Thomas bobbed his head. ‘So it seems! They have this list of names which we copied and their bailiffs are actively seeking more. They say they know that several groups meet for discussions and to hold their own type of sacrilegious services. They wish to catch them red-handed.’
This stimulated Gwyn to take more interest. ‘If I could learn of one of these meetings just from visiting a couple of taverns, then the proctors’ men can do the same.’
‘Have you got that list with you, Thomas?’ demanded John.
The clerk scrabbled under his cloak for the pouch on his belt and took out a folded scrap of parchment. ‘A dozen names on it, Crowner,’ he said, smoothing out the piece of thin sheepskin on the table. ‘They mean nothing to me, I must admit.’
‘Let’s hear them,’ commanded the coroner. ‘Maybe Gwyn can recognise someone from his tour of the alehouses.’
Thomas began to read out the twelve names, and Gwyn halted him after the fifth.
‘Adam of Dunsford! I recall that name, not from a tavern, but from a jury I assembled, just before we went off to London.’
‘Why would you recall that particular juror from scores of others?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘Because he never became a juror — the night before the inquest, he slipped and broke his foot. I had to find someone else to make up the numbers.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘In Alphington, on the other side of the river. He was a fishmonger, I remember. He had a stall on West Street.’
Thomas read the remaining names and the very last one was familiar to John himself.
‘Wait, I know that name! Hengist of Wonford, accused of stealing a chalice from a church. He came before the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery last year, but was acquitted. I recall him because of that strange Saxon name.’
‘His parents must have been familiar with the works of the Venerable Bede to give him a name like that,’ said Thomas wryly, but his historical allusion was lost on the other two.
‘So we can find two of these heretics, if they haven’t already been assassinated!’ observed Gwyn.
‘Why do we need them?’ objected the clerk. ‘It’s the killer we need to find.’
De Wolfe sided with his officer. ‘They might know something about who is harassing them most severely. Some may have had death threats, for all we know.’
After more discussion, the coroner finally decided to seek out the two named men in the morning, before he rode off again to Stoke-in-Teignhead with the physician and the apothecary.
West Street was the continuation of Fore Street, as it sloped downhill towards the West Gate from the crossroads at Carfoix. The top end was lined with the stalls and booths of tradesmen, varying from exposed trestle tables to tent-like erections of brightly striped canvas. All manner of goods were on display, though food was the mainstay of this part of the market. Meat which still dripped blood hung on the butchers’ stalls, fresh from The Shambles at the top end of South Gate Street, where the slaughterers felled cattle, sheep and pigs at the edge of the road. Many other traders offered vegetables, though the range was limited at this time of year, mainly root crops and cabbage. Between the stalls, women — many of them aged crones — crouched over baskets of eggs or had a few live chickens or a goose trussed at their feet. This early part of the morning was the busiest, as the cooks, house-servants and the city’s wives were all out shopping for the day’s provisions and the roads were thronged with people. Though the fear of plague was almost palpable, the townsfolk still had to buy the makings of their meals.
The coroner’s trio were looking for a fishmonger and they found a choice of four or five. Enquiries took them to a burly, red-faced man who stood behind a table carrying flat trays of fish, some still flapping feebly. Wicker baskets on the ground held other larger fish, as well as eels, crayfish and mussels.
One look told him that a Norman knight, a priest and a red-headed giant were not there to buy fish. Frowning, he finished dealing with a customer, putting ten herrings in the bowl she held out, in exchange for half a penny-piece.
‘You are Adam of Dunsford?’ asked John as soon as the woman had moved away. The fish-man nodded and wiped his hands on his apron, a length of once-white linen now soiled with fish blood and entrails.
‘And you are the coroner, sir,’ he answered civilly. ‘You are very well known in the city.’
De Wolfe checked to make sure that no one was standing nearby, as this was business that need not be shouted abroad. He lowered his voice a little.