I should digress here to point out that there was a difference between a clergyman demanding Benefit of Clergy and being tried in a church court, and a secular felon being tried in the Bishop’s court; the Bishop’s court wasn’t a cushy number. A felon would be hanged as quickly by, for example, the Abbot of Tavistock’s court as he would by the King’s own; indeed, it is recorded that a thief was hanged by the Abbot of Tavistock in 1322.
Yet while the clergy were theoretically living a separate life, they mixed continually with people from the city.
The Church was the social service of the age. Members of the clergy nagged and exhorted congregations to look after those less well off, using the teachings of Christ to show how men ought to behave. Throughout society, in every wealthy household, alms-dishes were circulated to collect food from diners. These would later be deposited at the door, or an almoner would distribute it among the poor.
There was no state aid for those who were hardest off, only occasional tax exemptions, but the Church ensured that all those who needed it would receive food. Theologically the Church had problems with the idea of rich people being morally acceptable – after all, Jesus had said something about a camel and a needle’s eye – but after a while it was decided that wealth in itself wasn’t bad, provided that the wealthy man concerned was pious and generous. If he displayed the courtly attribute of ‘largesse’, giving away freely from his wealth, he could go to Heaven – but woe-betide the grasping lord who gave little. At a time when the people largely believed in the reality of Heaven and the life to come, this was a powerful incentive.
Everyone had to pay tithes to the local parish church. From the total, one third was redistributed to the local poor and needy. The Church taught that surplus – any profit over and above what was actually needed for the family – should be given away. This was not charity, it was justice. In the flawed world which had been formed from Original Sin and the Fall of Man, there was no fair allocation of the nation’s resources. Wealth was inequitably shared out and it was the duty of men to balance the availability of necessities. True charity was giving up more than one’s surplus and depriving oneself. That was real Christian love and mercy.
All poor relief was in the hands of the clergy, who looked after widows, orphans, lepers and cripples with more concern to the means of the individuals than a specific disability. Thus a widowed woman who had plenty of money would not receive much, while a crippled man with no means of earning a living would be helped a great deal.
Religious organisations gave away food, money, clothing, and shelter. They maintained leper hospitals, homes for the injured and even looked after the aged in their retirement. Some may think they did a better job serving the needy than we do today.
I have often been asked what happened to convicted felons once they had been found guilty. Some have questioned my descriptions of hangings.
The worst excesses of judicial brutality had not yet occurred in Britain. Refined tortures were the invention of future generations, especially the Tudors. Under the Plantagenets there was only one punishment – hanging – although drawing and quartering were used occasionally for treason and peculiarly heinous crimes, and lords could be honoured by beheading instead.
This may not sound much of a concession, but these hangings took place in the days prior to scientific (-ish) executions: the victim would be turned off a ladder or a cart, or sometimes simply lifted off his or her feet by a rope. Invariably they died slowly, throttled as all air was cut off. Friends and relatives would pull on the victim’s legs or thump the chest to try to end the suffering, because the process could take anything from five minutes to three-quarters of an hour, according to Reverend Samuel Haughton, a Victorian polymath who tried to use scientific principles to end villains’ lives more efficiently. Later, the British developed the ‘long drop’ method of execution which broke the neck and killed almost instantaneously, but the medieval age was not so inventive.
So it’s easy to understand that a lord would prefer to have his head removed, rather than ‘dance the Tyburn jig’. A good, strong arm with a battle-axe could take off a head with one quick sweep. Sadly, life – or death, in this case – isn’t always that easy and executioners were often incompetent. Take the example of Jack Ketch. During his attempt to execute Lord William Russell in 1683, it took him four blows of his axe to remove the head; the Duke of Monmouth in 1685 had to endure five attempts, before Ketch resorted to his knife.
Of course, many people who were accused and convicted of crimes never made it to the gallows. All too often the poor devils died in gaol. Naturally the English have always had a sense of fair play, and if a gaoler caused the death of his inmates by too harsh a regime, he could be arrested as a homicide himself. Every death in prison resulted in an inquest, we are assured. So, for example, when we look at a two-month period in Wallingford Gaol in 1316, during which time twenty-eight people died as a result of cold, disease, hunger, thirst or peine fort et dure – literally ‘severe and hard punishment’ (OED), which meant, among other things, a starvation diet – one is reassured to read that the gaoler was attached and an inquest held.
It is less reassuring to see the conclusion that all the deaths were from ‘natural causes’ and that the gaoler himself was exonerated!
Exeter suffered badly during the Second World War. Many of the fine old buildings were destroyed, but I am glad to say that some remain. The Cathedral is still there, as are many of the tunnels, and there are guided tours of both. If you visit, go and see the Guildhall too; it is a wonderful ancient building.
For me it was an enormous pleasure to sit in the sun on the Green and imagine the people who used to walk along there: the Canons in their unrelenting black, their Vicars following them, Choristers and Secondaries at their heels, all hurrying to the summons of the bells that ordered their lives, while the city people milled about the nave, meeting and greeting, making deals and haggling, or stamping documents with their seals in the Guildhall.
I hope this novel will give you some idea of how the city was. Rough and ready, stinking, crowded, smog-filled – but also exuberant, lively and rich with teeming humanity. As always, I have researched all aspects of the period as carefully as I can and any inaccuracies are my own fault. That aside, I hope you enjoy this story.
Michael Jecks
Dartmoor
January 2000
Chapter One
The first of the murders which so shook the Cathedral passed with little comment. Those who knew most about it thought it was a mere robbery. The murdered man’s body was found stabbed, in his shop with all of his jewels and cash missing. There was nothing at first to connect his murder to the later deaths since he was not discovered in the Cathedral and the obvious suspect was captured so swiftly.
It took Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the knight investigating the crime, to show that this victim was only one in the dreadful series of killings that spread such alarm and fear throughout the whole of Exeter.
The victim’s name was Ralph Glover, and he felt as though his heart would burst with contentment when he threw open his shutters in the grey half-light before dawn on the Feast Day of St Thomas the Apostle, twenty-first December in the year of our Lord 1321. He adored the winter-time, especially when there was a fire and hot food indoors, and this fine, crisp morning struck him as perfect. A pair of clouds floated overhead; apart from them the sky was clear in the east. All was clean and pure and when he inhaled it felt as though he was drinking in air as fresh as the water from a Dartmoor spring, with none of the sting of wood- and coal-smoke which would later pollute it.
Leaving the house in response to the summons of the Cathedral bell, he saw that there was a light frost riming the timbers of the house opposite. The water puddled in the mud of the roadway had turned to ice and he had to mind his step if he didn’t want to fall; he must also take care to avoid the piles of excrement that lay frozen like small cobbles in the gutter running down the middle of the road. This
road was fortunate enough to be fed from its own spring and the stream usually washed the gutter clean, but today it too had frozen.
People were already up and about. Hawkers were making their way along the streets, maids and servants were busily sweeping dirt from the houses, innkeepers standing in the doorways watching for their first customers. All were swaddled in thick coats or cloaks against the chill breeze. At one corner Ralph passed a few poorer folk huddled round a brazier of charcoal. In the glover’s opinion they looked little better than heathens, standing with their hands outstretched to the flames like priests worshipping fire, but when he saw a beggar nearby, Ralph gave him a coin.
Ralph was a cheery soul with a prominent belly and, in this cold weather, his cheeks were so red they might have been painted. Small blue eyes glittered in a fat jowly face, and his mouth was invariably fixed in a wide grin. Even in the foulest of weather he could be seen striding through the city, his great staff in one hand, clad in a cheap tunic of tatty wool, scratched and torn hose covering his legs, a heavy black cloak to exclude the worst of the weather, a simple felt hat to keep the rain from his face and scuffed, stained boots on his feet.
Despite his shabby appearance, Ralph often gave money to the poor and needy; he was rich enough from the proceeds of his glovemaking and mercantile ventures, but as a pious man he disliked flaunting his wealth. That seemed to him disgraceful. If God gave a man skills and abilities to make money, that was God’s benevolence. There was nothing for the recipient of His kindness to brag about. To some extent that was why Ralph tended not to mix with other members of the Freedom of the City. He privately thought most of them were too irreligious for their own good. There were too many who sought all their rewards here on earth and Ralph felt faintly uneasy in their presence – worried that by associating with such people he might himself become tainted. The new Receiver of the City, Vincent le Berwe, was one such. Ralph couldn’t like him. He was too greedy, quite prepared to tread upon those who were weaker in his quest for personal wealth. Nick Karvinel, another glovemaker, used to be the same, until he fell on hard times. Nick had shown almost intolerable greed until recently; strangely, once his fortunes were lost he hardly appeared to care.
As a member of the Freedom, Ralph was one of the most senior men in the city now he had won the Wardenship of the Bridge, but that didn’t make him feel differently and he still had no desire to mix with rich people. He harboured a suspicion that a certain member of the Freedom was guilty of corruption, and he wanted as little to do with such people as possible.
Ralph was happier mingling with ordinary folk; like a friar he often went among the poor. On this, his last day, he behaved as he did on every other: walking up the High Street towards Cook Row he exchanged quips and jokes with the whores touting for business near the Fissand Gate, gave money to the poor at St Martin’s Lane, silently dropped a few coins into a leper’s bowl near St Petrock’s Church. He always asserted that it was the duty of every man to help his fellow, and he demonstrated his conviction by liberality on a level that in others would have been called foolhardiness – or, more probably, lunacy.
He knew how people spoke about him, but didn’t care. Ralph’s outlook was as simple as his clothing: Christ told men to give away their money to help those poorer than themselves; the poor would most easily find the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, and Ralph intended to do the Good Lord’s bidding. That was why he held feasts through the year to which he invited the indigent, giving them food and drink and gifts of clothing. There was little else for him to spend his money on. He had no family to worry him, only his apprentice Elias, who was old enough to leave Ralph’s service now; he was certainly qualified.
Ralph slipped and almost fell on a patch of ice, but he only chuckled at his clumsiness and continued past St Petrock’s Church and down Cook Row. He stopped at a stall and took a pie for a few pennies, chewing slowly as he returned up the road to enter the Close via the Fissand Gate.
He adored this season: he loved to see frost liming the trees, icicles dangling dangerously from roofs and upper storeys. In his cheap clothing the cold could penetrate and chill his skin, but he didn’t care. Wherever he went there were fires, in houses and in the streets. And even as the flesh of his belly was chilled, his chortle of delight remained unabated. Everyone was happy at this time of year, laughing and joking, for it was almost Christmas, and all would celebrate.
It wasn’t only the religious connotation of the season that gave him pleasure; he took a keen delight in the cold, ice and snow. He loved the starkness of the landscape, the bare trees, fields empty and brown, while the water solidified and stopped in the stream-beds. All the world appeared to pause and take stock, waiting for God’s renewal, just as the whole of mankind would soon be forced to stop in its mad onward rush and consider its position as the Day of Judgement approached. Winter reminded him that before too long, God willing, he would be able to join his wife in Heaven. As was his wont, he glanced upwards at the thought and murmured a short but devout prayer before continuing on his way.
Which is why he wasn’t looking where he was going and accidentally got in the path of a cleric who was running full pelt towards him.
‘Oh, I’m…’ There was a squeak of shock, and the cleric fled.
The collision was so forceful, Ralph was winded. He staggered backwards into a man behind him, and had to grasp the stranger’s shoulder to save himself from falling.
‘Clumsy damned fool,’ the man growled in a deep voice as the figure in clerical garb hared off towards the Fissand Gate and darted into the Close.
‘The enthusiasm of youth, I fear, friend,’ Ralph gasped. He stood a while with a hand on his heart and caught his breath. ‘I am easy to stumble into, I’m afraid,’ he continued with a better humour. ‘It’d be different if I were a young maiden with tits out to here and a saucy smile, but I’m just an old fat man with a belly like a hog’s. Let me release you, I must be straining your shoulder. I assure you I’m better now.’
‘Are you sure, Master Glover? You lost all the air in your lungs for a while there.’
Ralph recognised the voice and squinted at the man. Years of careful, close work had made it difficult for him to focus, but he was sure that he knew him. ‘My lord?’
‘Don’t fear, Ralph. It is I, Canon Stephen. My Heavens, he must have hit you hard! Did you see who it was?’
‘No,’ Ralph lied, smiling. He had no intention of having a youthful cleric like poor Peter the Secondary reprimanded for a minor accident – especially when it was largely Ralph’s own fault for not looking where he was going. In addition, Ralph knew that even the lowest groups of clerics lived within the Cathedral’s grounds, and yet here was Peter outside before full light: he had probably been tempted by a girl with a pleasing smile, or maybe had fallen asleep before a fire with a belly full of ale. Whatever the reason, Ralph had no wish to see the lad punished. With a polite bow and a smiling ‘Godspeed,’ Ralph left the unsettling Canon to continue on his way. Ralph himself turned back so that he need not enter with the Canon.
The Bear Gate was open as always and Ralph passed beneath the great gatehouse into the large triangular yard beyond, slowly plodding up the shallow gradient until he stood in front of the huge western doors of the Cathedral.
Ralph knew he was a simple man. Many of his friends and competitors in the city thought him almost idiotic in his straightforward belief, but he didn’t care about their sniggers. To Ralph, the proof of his faith was here, in the massive building still being rebuilt, where the Canons, Vicars, Annuellars and Choristers gathered each day to sing the praises of the Lord God.
Inside, the silence assailed his ears; it was a great void into which any sound was swallowed. This early in the morning there were only a few Secondaries around, for the most part ex-Choristers whose voices had broken and were hoping to find some new occupation. They were often to be found performing minor tasks about the place and today Ralph could see three of them lighting candles up
near the altar as he walked in. Apart from them there were few people in the nave this early in the morning. Ralph didn’t spot his own murderer, who had watched his entrance and now stood in the shadow of one of the huge pillars.
It was wonderful: the broad, spacious area before the door was empty as if to remind the viewer how minuscule he was in God’s creation, while beyond columns towered up on either side. It was larger than any great hall Ralph had ever seen, a glorious space lighted by the coloured glass in the windows. Later this place would be filled with men talking, making deals, praying or gossiping, carrying on the daily round of hard work and business which kept the city of Exeter profitable. Soon Master Thomas of Witney, the architect, would be heard fussily ordering his workmen outside and up at the eastern end.
The fact that the Cathedral was being rebuilt detracted somewhat from its magnificence, but Ralph absorbed the sanctity of the place, gazing at the painted walls with their pictures representing God’s works on earth, showing how men could prepare themselves for the afterlife and help to save the souls already passed on. No amount of builder’s rubble and dust could detract from these, he thought.
Soon others entered, and a little crowd of the city’s most devout people gathered to witness the first Mass celebrated by two chantry priests. These Annuellars were paid by a bequest to celebrate Mass for the soul of its founder, Henry Bratton, at St Mary’s altar. While the two went through their daily ritual, the crowd tried desperately not to shuffle or make too much noise, but the cold was biting. Their breath steamed in the air, adding to the smoke left by the censer and creating a grey misty dampness.
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