A Plague of Heretics (28 page)

Like a flowing liquid, the mob moved to the other ship, the
Saint Augustine
, and Reginald Rugge was first up the plank that led up to a gap in the bulwarks. A burly sailor blocked his way and, when the lay brother raised his sword in a threatening gesture, he lifted his foot and planted it on Rugge’s chest. With a quick thrust, he sent the man staggering backwards into the man behind, almost pitching them both off on to the unyielding quayside.

A roar of anger went up from the crowd and a stone was thrown at the seaman, narrowly missing his head. A moment later, half the crowd was scrabbling on the ground for missiles, and a hail of pebbles and debris was soon being hurled at the luckless crew on the deck of the
Saint Augustine
. As it was not their battle, the half-dozen sailors retreated to the hold and sheltered behind the piles of wool that had already been loaded. Yelling with excitement, Rugge and de Bere led a cavalcade of rioters up the gangplank to the deck, where they spotted a few figures cowering in the low hut on the stern, which served as a shelter for crew and passengers.

With whoops of righteous triumph, they converged on this primitive cabin and dragged out four struggling figures and frogmarched them back down to the quayside, leaving three weeping and distraught women on the deck.

The mob had first formed outside the Saracen alehouse in Smythen Street, notorious for its ruffianly clientele, the frequency of bar fights and the poor quality of its cheap ale. Much of the violent crime in the city was connected with the Saracen in one way or another, and the landlord, a massive man named Willem the Fleming, enforced order only with the help of a bludgeon he kept always by his side. The inflammatory exhortations of Rugge and de Bere had attracted a score of men to gather around them in the road outside, collecting even more as they moved off towards the quayside. Their departure did not go unnoticed however, as Osric, the skinny constable, frequently kept a wary eye on the tavern, the seat of so many of his problems. Rapidly deciding that the odds of more than twenty to one were too great for his health and safety, he hurried away towards Rougemont, the ultimate seat of authority and law enforcement in the city.

Panting as he half-ran, half-trotted up the last incline, he passed through the gatehouse arch and thankfully saw the coroner sitting outside the chapel with the garrison chaplain.

‘Sir John, Sir John!’ he gasped, stumbling to halt before them as he leaned forward with his hands clutching his thighs, to get his breath back. ‘You must come at once – and turn out a posse. There’s likely murder being done down on the quayside!’

John and Rufus jumped up and lowered Osric down on to the bench to hear his urgent tale of the mob down on the river wharf. Wasting no time, the coroner turned and yelled across at Sergeant Gabriel, beckoning him urgently. Immediately, the sergeant hurried off to find Ralph Morin, the castle constable, to get him to organise an anti-riot squad, which would be comprised mostly of the recruits already in the inner ward.

‘I can’t wait for them to arrive. I’m going down there!’ snapped de Wolfe and headed for a mare that was ready-saddled and tethered to a rail below the stairs to the keep. Heedless of who it belonged to, he swung into the saddle and cantered off through the gatehouse, scattering chickens and pigs on his way.

Knowing of the difficulty of running a horse through the crowded lanes of the city, he turned left at the bottom of Castle Hill and went out through East Gate, then followed the walls past the gardens of Southernhay and the South Gate to reach the gradient down to the river. As he slowed to let the mare feel her way down the steep path, he could both see and hear the commotion down on the quayside below. A mass of figures, looking from that distance like a disturbed anthill, was moving away from the moored vessels, along the wharf downstream to where the banks of the Exe began, covered with a tangle of bushes and small trees.

With some slithering, his horse got to the bottom and there he abandoned her to a group of cowering dockers and began racing across the quay towards the mob. As he ran, he hauled his sword from its scabbard and began adding to the tumult with his own voice.

‘Stop, in the name of the king!’ he yelled, but no one took any heed, apart from two women who were trailing along behind the crowd, wailing and sobbing.

‘Save them, sir, they’re going to hang our men,’ screamed one of the women, a middle-aged matron with tears running down her face.

‘Not if I can help it!’ he growled back and, catching up with the edge of the crowd, began yelling again that he was an officer of the king and calling on them to desist from whatever they were doing. This time a few faces turned towards him and several men faltered and dropped back, but the bulk of the mob kept going, a straggling circle moving crabwise towards the end of the wharf.

Still shouting himself hoarse, de Wolfe began laying about him with the flat of his broadsword as he forced himself towards the front of the swarm. He caught a couple of men heavy blows on the shoulders, and one man collapsed after he hit him on the back of the head. At last, he was making the rioters notice his presence, and several of them, full of ale and cider, began to turn nasty. As he shouldered them aside, they began to push back at him, and a stream of foul language and blasphemy sat strangely with their supposed crusade against enemies of the Church.

One black-bearded ruffian spat at him and, lacing his words with some of the choicest oaths that John had ever heard, demanded to know who he thought he was. Obviously from out of town, he was ignorant of the coroner’s identity.

‘Clear off, you bastard!’ he snarled and produced a dagger that he waved threateningly. De Wolfe had no time for niceties and promptly hacked at the man’s arm and pushed him aside. Blackbeard howled, dropped his weapon and clutched at his arm, which was pumping blood from a deep slash. This certainly brought some attention, and those around stumbled and flailed about as they tried to get out of reach of this tall dark figure who was not afraid to cut a path through them. They fell back and, though many others were still yelling, John forced through to the centre, where a dozen activists were dragging four men across the stony surface of the wharf. Three of them were struggling in the grip of brawny captors, but the fourth was inert, the head that was slumped on his chest red with blood from a scalp wound.

In front of them, in the vanguard of rioters, were the two ringleaders, Rugge and de Bere. John yelled at them over the heads of the captives and their escorts.

‘Stop this at once, do you hear!’ he hollered, wishing Gwyn was with him, both for his brawn and for his stentorian voice. ‘This is an affray against the King’s Peace! As a law officer, I command you to break up this riot and release these men!’

The skinny monk de Bere turned as if realising for the first time that some interloper had arrived. When he saw the well-known black head of the county coroner, he faltered, but then decided to brazen it out, having God on his side.

‘This is none of your business, Crowner,’ he shouted. ‘We are doing the Lord’s work, not the king’s.’

De Wolfe thrust his way nearer, pushing between two of the heretics and their captors.

‘Everything that happens in England is the king’s business!’ he rasped. ‘This is a riotous assembly and is therefore illegal and a felony. You can hang for this!’

He was jostled aside and took the opportunity to whack a few more shoulders with his sword, but the mood of the crowd was becoming ugly.

‘Clear off, Crowner. Everyone knows you are a friend of heretics!’ yelled one man, and the cry was taken up by others.

‘Leave us be, we are cleansing the stables of Israel,’ shouted one, illogically. ‘We carry out the commands of the Holy Father. What business is it of yours!’ screamed another wild-eyed drunkard, suddenly having discovered religion after a lifetime in the tavern. The mob pressed in on him so tightly that he was unable to lift his sword, but when someone tried to prise it from his hand John kneed him in the groin and then hit him in the face with the hilt, sending him staggering with a bloody nose.

But numbers were beginning to tell and as the hysterical mob became more excited he began to fear seriously for his own safety. Hemmed in by a ranting mob, he saw Rugge and de Bere moving away from him, their acolytes dragging two of the captives with them. For the first time, John saw that they already had rope nooses around their necks and that they were heading for some trees just beyond the end of the wharf. Though stunted, they were high enough to dangle a man by the neck, with his feet clear of the ground.

Desperately, John lashed out at those who were scrabbling at his clothing and landing fairly ineffectual punches on his back and arms. Struggling to get clear, he struck another fellow in the face with the pommel of his sword and punched another in the throat with his free hand. But things were getting out of hand and de Wolfe began wondering if he would survive as knives began appearing. In an almost detached manner, he considered how ironic it would be if he, who had survived so many battles and campaigns in France, Ireland and the Holy Land, were to be slain by a horde of drunken rioters just a few furlongs from his own doorstep.

‘In the name of the king, I order you to let those men go free!’ he yelled desperately, as his sword arm was grabbed by several horny hands.

Suddenly, he heard a bass voice roaring behind him and, craning his neck, looked expecting to see Gwyn coming to his rescue. In fact, the big Cornishman was there, but in front of him, thrashing his way through the mob, was Brother Rufus, commanding everyone in the name of God to get out of his way, a request he reinforced by swipes of the thick staff he was wielding. He struck one of the ruffians hanging on to John’s arm, and with a yelp of pain he let go. Gwyn was close behind, cursing and also laying about him with a cudgel in each hand, virtually carving a path to the coroner.

In a trice, the three big men were standing together and the tide of battle turned almost immediately as they began moving apart, thrashing everyone within reach.

‘Stop those bastards up at the front!’ shouted John. ‘They’re trying to hang the fishmonger!’

They ploughed through the remaining protesters to reach the smaller group that were still dragging their prisoners towards the end of the quayside. John, now that his sword was free again, circled in front of Rugge and stuck the tip against his throat.

‘Let that man loose or I’ll cut your bloody head off!’ he snarled.

By way of reply, the lay brother lifted his old sword in a futile gesture of defiance, but John swung his own heavy blade sideways against Rugge’s wrist. The blow, though blunt, temporarily paralysed his hand, and the rusty weapon clattered to the ground. Adam of Dunsford, the Pelagian fish-vendor, jerked the rope from Rugge’s other hand and hauled the noose up over his head, wincing as it rubbed against his bloody face and black, swollen eye.

‘Thanks be to God, Sir John. Another five minutes and I’d have been swinging from that tree.’

The crowd was now more sullen than aggressive, but a new factor soon changed their mood more dramatically. Several yelled out a warning and pointed up at the steep slope that led to the South Gate. A score of men-at-arms, led by another giant and a sergeant, were pounding down towards them, bearing a variety of weapons, including some lances, ball-maces and heavy staffs.

Just as a flock of birds will change direction simultaneously without a command, so the mob dispersed as if it had exploded. The captives were abandoned and men ran in all directions, some along the riverbank, others back through the Water Gate and the remainder northwards towards Exe Island and the West Gate. By the time Ralph Morin and his men arrived, they could grab only a few stragglers, which included the two leaders, Alan de Bere and Reginald Rugge. John and his two rescuers were more concerned with the victims than with rounding up the rioters.

‘This one’s coming round,’ said Gwyn, bending over Peter of Ide, the unconscious one who had been dropped to the ground when his captors had run off. Brother Rufus had knelt alongside him, ready if necessary to give him the last rites, but Peter groaned and tried to lift his bruised face towards them.

They laid him on the ground again and the castle constable detailed two soldiers to guard him.

‘Will he be safe here?’ asked Adam, who came limping over to them, followed by the other two, Jordan Cosse of Ide and Oliver, both of whom were bedraggled and bruised.

‘I’ve told those two men of mine to stay with him until we know what the hell’s happening,’ grunted Morin. ‘Though what the hell
is
happening?’ he asked the coroner.

‘Some of our noble citizens seem to have been disappointed with the failure of the cathedral to deal with these dissidents, so they took it upon themselves to mete out their own type of justice,’ answered John bitterly.

‘We’ve lost most of the bastards,’ growled Morin. ‘We arrived a couple of minutes too late.’

‘Never mind. You’ve got the two ringleaders,’ said John. ‘Lock those swine up in the cells at the castle – the rest are of no importance. You might as well let those fellows go free.’

‘What about these other men we rescued?’ asked Sergeant Gabriel. De Wolfe looked at the trio of heretics and the one on the ground, who was starting to drag himself to his knees.

‘They’ve committed no crime that I know of,’ he growled. ‘They were lawfully aboard a vessel, seeking passage. What grounds have we for interfering?’