De Wolfe was there to investigate a murder and now a missing man, rather than debate theology, about which he was sublimely indifferent and ignorant.
‘So as far as you know, there is no cell of heretics within this village?’
Patrick shook his bull-like head, the dewlaps under his chin shaking vigorously. ‘Not in my parish, Crowner! Having one evil bastard is more than enough — and I have dealt with him, through the Church.’
‘But where do you think he’s gone?’ demanded Gwyn.
‘Run away, that’s what! He knew he had to face the God-given power of the Church next week, so he’s taken the coward’s way out and run off
John thought of the drag-marks on the cottage floor and doubted that Hengist had left voluntarily. There was nothing more to be learned from the priest, and they made their way back to Exeter, leaving instructions with Robert the bailiff that he should send them word if Hengist was found, dead or alive.
They called in at Rougemont before going home for dinner and found Thomas there, carrying a message that there had been two deaths reported in the city, one a fatal brawl in the Saracen Inn, the roughest tavern in Exeter. The other was a body recovered from the river at Exe Island, too decomposed to be recognised.
‘They’ll have to wait until Monday, as it’s Sunday tomorrow, but you get down there, Gwyn,’ he ordered. ‘Get details and the names of those who will be First Finders and who must form a jury for the inquests.’
‘I thought I was coming with you to Stoke?’ objected his officer.
‘Clement the physician and Richard Lustcote are riding with me. I don’t know about the doctor, but the apothecary is big and fit and can use a sword if we are waylaid by outlaws. The coroner’s duties have to be attended to until I get back.’
After another silent meal with a sullen wife, John prepared to leave to visit his sick brother. This time, as speed was not an issue, he took Odin from the stables and, as arranged, met Clement there, who took out his fine grey gelding. As they rode away down West Street, John noted again, with some surprise and admiration, that Clement was a fine horseman; controlling the frisky grey with considerable skill.
They met up with the apothecary at the West Gate. Lustcote was a tall man, grey-haired and with a calm nature, who never became flustered. He was the city’s favourite apothecary, with a flourishing business that employed a journeyman and two apprentices.
Clement seemed a little surprised at seeing that a mere ‘pill-pusher’ was to accompany them, but he was civil enough to him as they rode towards the coast. Once again John forced himself to trot through Dawlish without calling on Hilda. He hoped that his quick passage through the village would not be reported to her, as she might think that he was shunning her if she did not know of the plague in Stoke-in-Teignhead, though on reflection it was unlikely that her family in Holcombe would not have been unaware of it, as William was also their manor-lord.
They reached Stoke without problems and found his brother in much the same condition as the previous day. There had been no more cases of the plague in the village and none of those who were ill had died.
‘He murmurs fretfully in his sleep now and then,’ reported Enyd. ‘He is still so hot, his forehead feels as if it is on fire.’
Clement examined the victim patiently, now apparently indifferent to the fear of contagion, looking into his yellowed eyes and feeling his pulse. He timed William’s rapid, shallow breathing with a tiny sandglass he carried in his scrip, then examined a sample of his urine collected in a small glass vial. Holding it up against the light of a candle, for it was now dusk, he shook it and smelled it.
‘Very thick and dark,’ he commented, almost to himself.
Turning to John’s mother and sister, he advised them to try to force more watered ale down the patient’s throat. ‘I know it’s difficult, but he needs to flush out the poisons from his system. Don’t use wine; that merely dries him up.’
Richard Lustcote also examined William and then had a murmured discussion with the physician, both of them seemingly amicable professional colleagues in spite of their differing status.
With a last sad look at his suffering brother, John went with the others into the hall and sat down to a good meal. When his mother and sister had forced food into them almost to bursting point, they sat around the fire with cups of wine.
The doctor and the apothecary did their best to reassure the family that all that could be done was being done. Clement emphasised the power of prayer and fell into an earnest conversation with Evelyn, who was very religious and who had wanted to take the veil herself.
Lustcote stuck to the medical aspects, speaking to John and his mother. ‘I only wish there was more I can do. As we have no idea what causes this distemper, there is no rational way to treat it. I can leave some herbs and drugs to soothe him and try to abate his fever, but it is your nursing and love that will be the best treatment.’
Evelyn, a plump woman, thanked them both with tears in her eyes. ‘Does the fact that no one else in the village has since caught this vile disease — and no more of those who are now sick have died — give us hope that it is abating?’ she asked hopefully.
Richard was cautious in his reply, but had not the heart to deny her clutching at straws. ‘It may be so, lady. It seems that after the first few days the contagion does not pass so easily from one person to another. I most sincerely hope so!’ he added with feeling, as they were all at risk.
In the morning little had changed, but William opened his eyes properly for a few moments and briefly seemed to take in his surroundings, before lapsing again into a troubled, mumbling sleep. Clement again checked his pulse and breathing and tried to get another urine sample, but failed.
‘His main problem is in not passing enough water,’ he repeated. ‘Do all you can to force drink into him — spring water, diluted cider or ale, anything to flush out whatever evil humour is infecting his body.’
When there was no more they could do or say, they rode away, leaving a grateful and more hopeful family to wave them off.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following afternoon, the second Sunday in November, the Feast of St Martin, four men sat huddled on the bank of the River Exe, a mile upstream from the city wall. They looked as if they were fishing, but in fact only one had bothered to bait his hook. This was Adam of Dunsford and, as a fishmonger, he felt it was incumbent on him to at least try to catch a fish.
Two of the other men were from Ide, a mile away, and the last one was from further afield near Crediton, a small town a few miles to the north. They met in what they hoped was the least noticeable gathering, just four fishermen whiling away a Sunday afternoon in the most innocent of pastimes. All they needed for camouflage was a short pole, with a length of twine attached to the end to dangle in the brown waters of the river.
As usual, they debated their faith at these meetings, but today there were also more pressing matters on the agenda.
‘I had the coroner after me two days ago,’ said Adam. ‘He wants to attend our meeting tomorrow.’
‘And bring men-at-arms to arrest us, I suppose,’ said Peter, a thin man with tousled red hair, a shepherd from Ide.
‘No, he seemed to have no interest in our faith. He said he was concerned only in solving the murder of Nicholas — and possibly that of Vincente.’
‘Was he really killed?’ asked Oliver. He was the third man, a small, puny fellow with a face like a weasel. ‘I heard today from a carter that one of the Cathars has vanished from Wonford.’