‘A courageous man,’ observed John dryly. ‘If he dared to voice opinions like that to most of the barons or the king’s court, they would have had him hanged for sedition and fomenting revolution!’
Matilda failed to recognise his irony and preened herself in the reflected glory of the outspoken doctor. ‘He is a remarkable man. I feel he is wasted as a physician, noble though that profession may be. He could have been a major cleric or an officer of state.’
‘And what was the outcome of his efforts?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘Four or five of the canons, including the two who are proctors, promised to press the bishop most strongly as soon as he returns. They will insist on his arresting all known heretics and those suspected of such evil leanings, to bring them before a properly constituted ecclesiastical court — and to demand the most stringent penalties allowed by the Papal edicts. They will also insist on the proper harnessing of the secular powers, as prescribed by the Holy Father and his Legates.’
She scowled at her husband even more fiercely. ‘So you and that lazy idiot of a sheriff will not be able to slide out of your responsibilities in future!’
Matilda suddenly seemed to realise that she was failing in her long-lasting campaign of ignoring her husband, after all the indignities and disappointments that he had heaped upon her. She fell silent and attacked an inoffensive boiled capon as if it was John himself, savagely tearing off a leg and gnawing at it to indicate that the conversation was at an end, but her husband doggedly pursued the subject, as he needed to know what was in store, especially if it led to more unrest, riots and even murders.
‘So what will happen until the bishop eventually arrives home?’ he asked with false innocence. ‘Have they found more heretical victims to persecute?’
She stared at him suspiciously but put down her chicken leg to take a drink from her wine-cup. ‘Canon William de Swindon, one of the proctors, told us that they will be sending out their bailiffs again, together with other agents, to seek informants who will trawl for unbelievers, both in the city and the county. They already know of one, the man who did not escape on that ship, no thanks to you!’ she snapped. ‘But they admit that until Bishop Marshal returns, there is little point in arresting him, as there is no competent tribunal able to try him.’
‘I suppose they mean that fuller, whose name I forget,’ he mused. Silently, he hoped the man would see the dangers and quietly leave the city, together with his family, if he had one. His wife made no reply, concentrating on her stew, her fowl and then the dessert that Mary brought in, a rosy almond cream with cinnamon and ginger.
After the meal, when Matilda had stumped off to the solar for her afternoon rest, John sat by his fire with a jug of ale, as the day had turned colder, though the rain had stopped. He mused that autumn had not yet seemed to make its mind up to turn into winter, the flurries of snow that fell a couple of weeks earlier having turned to cold rain and occasional fog. He threw on a couple more oak logs from the stack alongside the hearth, stamping out some glowing embers that flew from the fire on to the stone floor. That was one fad of Matilda’s that was useful, as she had insisted on having the hall flagged, instead of the usual reeds or straw scattered over beaten earth. At least, he thought, it saves having the bloody stuff catching fire every time a spark spits out of the fire.
When his ale was finished, he prodded Brutus, who was snoring near his feet, and together they went out into the vestibule. Taking his cloak from a peg, John went out into the lane and looked hopefully at the house next door, but there was no sign of Cecilia. Though he had no real designs on her, the sight and company of a beautiful woman was always pleasant. Turning the other way, he followed his hound as he zigzagged his erratic path from bush to grave-mound across the cathedral Close.
As they passed St Mary Major, one of several small chapels in the precinct, he looked towards the small building that housed the proctors’ men, but there was no sign of either the bailiffs or their prisoners. Like Gwyn, he suspected that their incarceration would be far from rigorous — and probably brief. He doubted whether they would ever appear before the Consistory Court to answer for their behaviour in leading a raucous crowd through the streets of the city — and in getting very close to lynching the heretics. With a mental shrug, he decided he had no interest in their fate, but he still suspected them of involvement in the deaths of the three murdered men, though neither had he eliminated the two proctors’ bailiffs as candidates for those crimes.
As they neared Idle Lane, Brutus was confounded, as from long experience the dog turned into the lane from Priest Street, assuming that his master was going to the Bush. Instead, de Wolfe carried on down the slope, where some of the small houses were given over to lodgings for the more junior clerics from the cathedral. Every canon had a vicar and usually a young secondary living in his house as part of his establishment, but a number had no such patronage and found accommodation in Priest Street.
Thomas, since his restoration to favour after his years in the wilderness, shared a room there, and now John went to call upon him to make sure that he was well enough to fend for himself. Leaving his dog outside, he found the little clerk in his small chamber, eating heartily of the food that Martha had sent around from the tavern. Gwyn and his wife had already been to see that Thomas was comfortable back at his lodging, and John was sure that the little fellow would lack for nothing until he was fully recovered.
‘Fresh mutton pasties, Crowner!’ he said proudly. ‘And a trout baked with chestnuts.’ He displayed a wooden platter now devoid of all but a few crumbs and bones. ‘Gwyn also sent a gallon jar of good cider.’ He hoisted it on to the small table and insisted that John joined him in a cup of the powerful liquid.
‘You have made a remarkable recovery, Thomas,’ he said, lifting the mug in a toast to his clerk’s continuing health. ‘But you must not tempt Fate by assuming you are utterly recovered.’
‘But I feel so much better, master!’ protested Thomas. ‘God must have decided that there are still tasks that I can usefully perform on this earth — and one of them is serving you to the best of my ability.’
John grinned at his clerk’s earnest devotion. He certainly had recovered so rapidly that even the sceptical coroner wondered if the Almighty really had taken a hand in the cure. Apart from the lingering yellowness in his eyes, Thomas looked as well as he had ever seen him, probably helped by the mild euphoria that deliverance from death had generated. John only wished that a similar miracle could be worked upon his brother.
After they had talked for a little while, Thomas asked if any progress had been made on the murders while he had been lying in St John’s.
‘None at all, to my shame and regret,’ admitted de Wolfe. ‘I have four prime suspects, those bailiffs belonging to the proctors — and the two crazed fellows who have used holy orders to escape their involvement in the riot. But there could be others in the city demented enough to kill out of religious zeal.’
He was thinking of the ease with which Julian Fulk and the physician had roused the congregation at St Olave’s into marching upon the cathedral chapter. If such a normally placid group of people could be so easily inflamed, then there might well be some others out there who would feel it their sacred duty to carry out God’s will in exterminating any opposition to the Church.
In a little while the coroner left his clerk with further admonitions to build up his strength by eating well and resting, though he suspected that the conscientious little priest would soon tire of inaction and wriggle his way back to his former duties. Brutus was glad to see his master emerge from the house and even happier to find him turning into Idle Lane. The Bush was one the hound’s favourite places, where Gwyn or Martha would always find him a bone or scrap of meat as he lay under a table while the others talked above him.