‘What’s happening to us all? Will we be hanged after this inquisition next week?’ Peter’s voice was tremulous, as he felt the grip of Rome tightening around them.
Adam shook his head and jiggled his hook in the water. ‘They have little power to do anything. I have read something about their disciplinary methods. We can be excommunicated, sure — but we have already done that voluntarily.’
A literate fishmonger was something of a rarity in the West Country, but when young, Adam had had a year’s schooling.
‘These bloody proctors have summoned us all to the bishop’s palace next week, so what can we expect from that?’ persisted Oliver. ‘In spite of what you say, Adam, I fear for my neck.’
‘All we can do is pray for God’s mercy,’ said the fourth man, who was much older, with a rim of white hair around his bald head. He was Jordan Cosse from Ide, a free smallholder who scratched a living from two cows, some pigs and geese. ‘The early Christians died in their thousands for their faith, when it was still untainted by scheming and corruption, so we should not fear dying for our beliefs.’
The others did not seem so sanguine about sacrificing themselves, but they held their tongues.
‘Let’s see what this John de Wolfe has to say tomorrow,’ said Adam eventually. ‘For some reason, I trust him. I have heard he is an honourable man and is not in the pocket of the cathedral. Perhaps he can tell us what powers the priests have over us.’
Unexpectedly, he felt a pull on his rod and for a few moments theology gave way to piscatology.
While the furtive opponents of the Pope’s hegemony were trying to land a bream on the bank of the Exe, another meeting was taking place in the chapter house attached to the south side of the cathedral. This was an old two-storeyed timber building, though plans were afoot for a new stone building on land the bishop had donated from his garden.
This meeting was not a regular session of the chapter, the governing body of the cathedral which met every morning. The ground-floor chamber, with its circle of benches and raised lectern, was being used for a small private meeting of senior priests. The three canons who were pursuing the issue of heresy were the prime movers, and they had co-opted a rather reluctant John de Alençon. As the archdeacon responsible for the Exeter area, as well as being the bishop’s vicar-general, he felt obliged to attend and also hoped that he might be able to dampen down any overenthusiasm on the part of the others. The bishop was represented by his chaplain, his secretary and a deacon, who, though in lower orders, was more a lawyer than a cleric.
They sat on a couple of benches pulled around to face each other, the three canons on one side, the rest on the other. The archdeacon thought irreverently that in their black cassocks they all looked like crows sitting on a pair of fences.
‘So who is to officiate on Wednesday?’ asked Ralph de Hospitali.
‘His Grace will be away, attending a meeting in Wells,’ announced his secretary, a prim young cleric with a pasty face and pimples. ‘So the archdeacon, as the bishop’s vicar-general, will lead the proceedings.’
‘Our Brother in Christ John is the obvious choice,’ announced Richard fitz Rogo heavily.
De Alençon groaned inwardly but accepted that he had no alternative but to accept his obligations, even if it meant listening to these ranting bigots for a few hours. Immediately, he felt ashamed of his unworthy thoughts and determined to make confession as soon as possible.
‘How many of these men are to be brought before the enquiry?’ he asked in a resigned voice.
‘Four at present, from this coven of blasphemers in Ide,’ answered fitz Rogo.
‘And how are these men to be persuaded to come before us?’
‘Gale and Blundus will be sent to warn them the day before,’ snapped Robert de Baggetor. ‘They know that failure to appear will lead to their arrest by the sheriffs men.’
‘How can that be brought about?’ asked the chaplain, an ambitious young man from a noble family, who saw being the bishop’s acolyte a useful stepping stone to his political ambitions.
‘The Ab Abolendum makes it clear that the secular powers must give every assistance to the Church in stamping out heresy,’ retorted de Baggetor.
‘And where are we to conduct this interrogation?’ asked the archdeacon wearily.
‘This chapter house seems the most convenient,’ responded fitz Rogo. ‘No one uses it in the afternoon.’
‘That does not seem appropriate,’ objected de Alençon. ‘This is the business of the diocese, not the cathedral. Bishop’s courts are held in the palace, surely.’
Ralph de Hospitali waved a hand impatiently. ‘We must not quibble over such details! Heresy is undermining the whole of the Holy Roman Church, so whether it is the diocese or the chapter that fights it seems immaterial!’
There was a murmur of agreement around the benches. ‘This is just a preliminary inquisition, not the trial,’ volunteered the deacon, keen on airing his legal knowledge. ‘But when it comes to definitively trying these creatures, then I agree with the archdeacon that it must be within the bishop’s precinct. Perhaps we might even persuade him to officiate,’ he added wistfully.
Robert de Baggetor leaned forward. ‘These are but four men, though we all know that the poison spreads far more widely. Two of the men on my list are already dead, for the Lord has struck them down, one by murder, the other by the yellow plague. But there must be many more, hiding under stones like slugs and toads.’
‘I thought your two bailiffs were searching them out?’ said fitz Rogo with a suspicion of a sneer.
‘They are, but it is a slow job!’ snapped Robert. ‘We have informers scattered around, but they are clever, these heretics. But we will find them eventually, just as the hounds flush out the fox.’
‘Can we not apply some pressure to the four we know?’ suggested de Hospitali. ‘Get the sheriff’s gaoler to put them to some ordeal to loosen their tongues?’
John de Alençon looked perturbed at this. ‘The Church does not allow blood to be spilled — and I hear that Rome is considering forbidding the participation of clergy in Ordeals.’
‘There is no spilling of blood in picking a stone from a vat of boiling water,’ countered fitz Rogo. ‘Nor in iron plates pressing the chest.’
‘Nor in walking across nine red-hot ploughshares!’ contributed de Baggetor, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
The archdeacon raised his hand for silence. ‘You are running far ahead of yourselves, brothers! Let us first see what these men have to say for themselves — and to hear from witnesses. I presume you have some?’
Ralph nodded complacently. ‘My bailiffs, of course. And they can produce people to support them.’ He gave a broad wink, as if to indicate that the witnesses would provide whatever evidence might be required.
As de Alençon walked slowly across the Close to his house, he tried to analyse his concern over this matter. ‘I am a devout and senior priest in the Church of Rome and owe my allegiance to it with every fibre of my body,’ he pondered. ‘It is my duty and should be my profound desire to stamp out all those who conspire to reduce its power, which is directed towards bringing all men into the Kingdom of God by the pathway ordained by centuries of Popes and their brethren.’
Yet the archdeacon found that a part of his mind respected those who were ardent Christians — probably far more sincere than the majority of people who went automatically through the observances of the Catholic Church — who wished to take their own path to salvation. He disliked the almost savage delight that seemed to emanate from his fellow canons at the prospect of a witch-hunt and he feared for the future if this zealotry became more intense and more widespread, as it was in France and Germany.
Reaching his study, he fell to his knees in front of the large cross on the wall and prayed earnestly for guidance.
Monday morning was a busy one for the coroner. He began by going to the cart-shed in Rougemont, which was used as a mortuary when required. It was just a shingled roof built against the inner wall of the bailey opposite the keep and this morning housed two bodies covered with a tattered canvas.