A Plague of Heretics Read Online Free PDF Page B

St Olave’s, where his wife worshipped almost every day. Then he turned left into even narrower lanes and came out into Smythen Street, where his brother-in-law owned a small college which taught logic, mathematics and theology to a handful of earnest young men.
    Further down, a side turning crossed some weed-filled land which had lain barren for several years since fire destroyed a row of wooden houses. Now logically known as Idle Lane, the only structure left was a stone-built tavern, the Bush. Since he had returned from the Crusade four years ago, this inn had been as much a part of John’s life as his own house. It was here that his former mistress Nesta had reigned as landlady until she left for Wales to get married. Now Gwyn’s wife Martha was in charge, as John had bought the inn and set them up to run it for him.
    He ducked his head to enter the low front door, set in a whitewashed wall under a steep thatched roof. The whole of the ground floor was a single ale-room, with a large loft above where straw pallets provided lodging for anyone wishing to spend the night. The Bush was one of Exeter’s most popular inns, with a reputation for good food, excellent ale and clean mattresses. A large heap of logs glowed in the firepit near the centre of the room, the smoke finding its way out through the eaves under the edge of the thatch, which was barely above head height. The eye-watering atmosphere was compounded by the smell of cooking, sweat and spilled ale, but unlike many of the other alehouses in the city there was no stench of urine and the rushes on the floor were changed regularly.
    He made his way to his usual seat, a bench at a table near the firepit, sheltered from the draughts from the door by a shoulder-high wicker hurdle. His bottom had hardly touched the bench when an old man materialised, sliding a pottery ale-jar in front of him, filled with a quart of the Bush’s finest brew.
    ‘God and His Blessed Son be with you, Sir John!’ bleated Edwin, the tavern’s ‘potboy’, though he was well past sixty. An old soldier, he had lost an eye and was crippled in one leg from wounds suffered in Ireland. Usually, he called the coroner ‘captain’ in deference to his military reputation, but Gwyn had told John that he had recently become very religious, probably as an insurance against hellfire as he felt his final years approaching. Now Edwin eschewed all mention of warfare and violence, mouthing pious platitudes instead, much to the ribald amusement of many of the Bush’s patrons, who for years past had been used to his barrack-room oaths and blasphemies.
    ‘Gwyn’s out in the yard. I’ll tell him you’re here,’ he said as he moved off with some empty mugs, his collapsed and whitened eye rolling horribly as he tried to wink at the coroner.
    John settled down to enjoy his quart, nodding to acquaintances and exchanging a word with others he knew, who were seated at the few tables scattered around the room. Almost everyone in Exeter knew de Wolfe by sight. He was admired as an ex-Crusader and respected as one of the few honest officials in the county. Not a few feared him, as though he was an almost obsessional champion of justice he was not a man to cross, as he came down hard on any wrongdoing.
    A moment later Martha bustled in through the back door, which led to the cook-shed, the brewing hut and the laundry, set outside in the muddy yard at the rear, which they shared with the privy, the pigsty and the chicken run. Gwyn’s wife was a large, matronly woman, brisk and efficient in spite of her bulk, which was emphasised by her voluminous dress of brown wool, covered by a tent-like linen apron. She had a broad, genial face, already lined from forty years of hard work. A fringe of iron-grey hair hung below the linen cloth that enveloped her head, but her small, dark eyes were as bright as buttons.
    ‘Sir John, can I get you some victuals?’ she demanded in her broad Cornish. ‘We’ve a new smoked ham