The Hand of Justice (23 page)

At first, Bartholomew could not detect any unexpected visitor in the sea of faces that greeted him. Then he realised that
every single person, regardless of age or sex, was facing in one direction, towards a figure who sat in the
seat of honour next to the blazing hearth. It was almost as though no one else existed; even the baby’s great blue orbs were
drawn that way.

An old lady sat there, small, slight and almost swallowed up by an array of cushions and blankets. Yet she was upright and
spry, and exuded the sense that here was a woman of great strength and determination. Her emerald eyes were unreadable, but
unmistakably intelligent, and she had a large hooked nose. Bartholomew recognised her immediately and a sense of foreboding
flowed through him. Matilde gestured to the old woman with an elegant hand.

‘You remember Dame Pelagia, I am sure, Matthew,’ she said. ‘She is Michael’s grandmother, and the King’s best and most famous
agent.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Bartholomew, as he fought to remember his manners and make a bow that was suitably low and deferential. It
would not do to offend a woman like Dame Pelagia with inadequate shows of obsequiousness, even inadvertently. ‘Now the corpses
will start piling up.’

Dame Pelagia’s elderly appearance was deceptive, and her hearing was just as sharp as it had been when she was a comely young
maiden some sixty years before. Her smile was enigmatic and impossible to interpret.

‘Do not complain, Matthew,’ she replied, her green eyes, so like Michael’s, gleaming with mischief. ‘My grandson tells me
you need all the fourpenny fees you can get.’

The following morning, Bartholomew visited the small house on Shoemaker Row, near the Market Square, where Lenne’s widow lived.
Michael went with him, on the understanding that the physician would then accompany him to interview the Fellows at Gonville
Hall.

The Market Square was noisy and colourful that day. Apprentices were everywhere, carrying goods in barrels, sacks, crates
and buckets, clad in liveries to advertise their masters’ businesses. Customers weaved among them – haughty retainers from
wealthy households, friars and monks from religious houses and the University, and wide-eyed peasants from the surrounding
villages. The air rang with sound, and Bartholomew and Michael had to shout to make themselves heard above the yelling of
traders, the clatter of hoofs, the squealing of pigs headed for Butchery Row, and the furious barking of a dog. The acid stench
of old urine from the tanneries and the rank, sickening aroma of decaying offal from the slaughterhouses was especially pungent
that morning, making Bartholomew’s eyes water so that he could barely see where he was walking.

Shoemaker Row was a narrow, congested lane that was inhabited mostly, but not exclusively, by cobblers. Its largest building
was Ely Hall, rented by a contingent of Benedictine monks from nearby Ely Abbey, while the Lenne home was one of the smallest,
comprising a single ground-floor room with a lean-to kitchen at the back.

The red ribbon that had fluttered outside the house, to tell passers-by the nature of Lenne’s profession, had been
taken down, probably by other barbers keen to secure his customers for themselves. When a feeble voice answered Bartholomew’s
tap, he pushed open the door and entered, squinting against the sudden sting of smoke and waiting for his eyes to become accustomed
to the gloom. Mistress Lenne lay on a pallet, dangerously close to the fire.

‘I keep expecting him to come home,’ she whispered as Bartholomew crouched next to her. Michael busied himself by taking a
broom handle to the flue in the roof, in an attempt to clear some of the choking pall that rose from the peat faggots in the
hearth. ‘I think I hear him chatting outside with his customers, and that he will come in to tell me the gossip.’ Her eyes
filled with tears.

‘How is your chest?’ asked Bartholomew, not knowing what to say, so taking refuge in practical matters. ‘Does it still ache
when you breathe?’

‘They say he was drunk when he murdered my husband. Thomas Mortimer, I mean. Is it true, Doctor? Did he ride him down as though
he was a dog, and then laugh at the damage he had done?’

‘He did not laugh,’ replied Bartholomew truthfully.

‘But he did not cry, either,’ she said bitterly. ‘He just lied to protect himself. Sheriff Tulyet tells me that he cannot
charge him with my husband’s murder, because Bosel is dead. Mortimer has not even said he is sorry.’

She turned away, tears leaving silvery trails in the soot that dusted her cheeks. Bartholomew took her hand and held it while
she sobbed. When she quietened, he helped her to sit up and drink a syrup of angelica he had prepared the previous evening,
which he thought would soothe the racking cough that left her gasping for breath. Then he eased her under the covers again,
and sat with her while Michael sang soft, haunting ballads. Eventually, she dozed.

Michael was silent when they left, closing the door gently, so it would not wake her. Bartholomew took a deep breath,
wondering whether he would ever become inured to some aspects of life as a physician. He glanced around, in the hope that
one of his students might be nearby, because he wanted someone to be with her when she woke again. He was in luck: Quenhyth
was tugging insistently at the sleeve of Cheney the spicer, while informing him that his handwriting was the best in Michaelhouse,
and that his rates for writing trade agreements were very low. Quenhyth was usually to be found at his studies, and Bartholomew
had seldom seen him doing anything else. He listened with interest to the conversation that followed.

‘I do not need another clerk,’ snapped Cheney. ‘I already have Redmeadow.’

‘But he steals,’ said Quenhyth. ‘So, if you notice items missing, and you require a clerk whose honesty is beyond question,
you will know where to come. To me.’

‘All the University’s scribes steal,’ said Cheney matter-of-factly. ‘It is a grim reality – and the reason why no sensible
merchant ever leaves one unattended in his home or near anything valuable.’

‘Oh,’ said Quenhyth, deflated. ‘Well, I am no thief, I promise you, Master Cheney. My father is a wealthy merchant, just like
you, and he taught me right from wrong.’

‘If he is wealthy, then why are you scribing for pennies?’ asked Cheney, not unreasonably.

‘He pays my fees and board,’ explained Quenhyth. ‘But the food has recently become inedible at Michaelhouse, and we are all
obliged to buy victuals from elsewhere. That requires money.’

‘True,’ muttered Michael, watching the spicer waddle down the street, leaving a disconsolate Quenhyth behind him. ‘Buying
supplies to supplement what Michaelhouse provides has become a necessity of late.
We
have friends who give us meals – do not look startled, Matt. You have
dined out at least four times recently – but Quenhyth has not, and must win his victuals by scribing instead.’

‘Have you spoken to Wynewyk about this?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Quenhyth did not decide to practise medicine for money
if he could not secure work by writing.

‘He says food prices are increasing – they always do at the end of winter – so we must economise.’ Michael was disgusted.
‘The words “economise” and “food” should never be used in the same sentence. They are anathema to each other, like “small”
and “portion”.’

Bartholomew waved to catch Quenhyth’s attention, and told the student he wanted him or Redmeadow to visit Mistress Lenne three
times a day until her son arrived from Thetford. Quenhyth nodded, eager to accept the responsibility. He took parchment and
a pen from his scrip and wrote down his teacher’s instructions, doing so flamboyantly, in the hope that his literary skills
might attract customers.

‘None of this is fair,’ said Michael bitterly, when Quenhyth had gone. The visit to Mistress Lenne had distressed the monk.
‘Look what Thomas Mortimer has done! He killed
two
people with his careless driving, because that old woman will not last long now her husband is gone. He was lucky Isnard
is built like an ox, or there might have been three.’

‘Isnard is recovering well,’ said Bartholomew, wanting to say something to cheer him. ‘He is pestering Robert de Blaston to
finish carving his new false leg. When he has mastered its use – which he anticipates will only be a matter of an hour or
two – he plans to visit Mortimer.’

‘Then thank God wooden legs take time to make,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Isnard has a black temper, and Mortimer is likely
to enrage him with his uncaring attitude. But we should visit Gonville before any more time passes. We must
resolve this business with Bottisham and Deschalers, and—’

‘There he is,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to where Thomas Mortimer lurched through the market stalls with various packets
and parcels in his arms. One fell, and an urchin had scampered forward and stolen it before his wine-addled brain had even
registered that it had dropped. ‘He is drunk again, and it is barely past dawn.’

Michael’s expression turned into something dangerous. ‘His brother Constantine is with him. Shall we ask them why they have
inflicted such suffering on our town with the careless driving of carts and the buying of pardons for killers?’

‘I do not think that is a good idea, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was likely to instigate a brawl. Many scholars
were indignant about what had happened to a member of a University choir, and might well grab the opportunity to mete out
justice with their fists. Meanwhile, the Mortimer clan employed a large number of apprentices, all of whom would fight to
protect their masters’ good name.

But Michael was not listening. He strode up to the Mortimer brothers and beamed falsely at them. Bartholomew’s heart sank,
and he saw he should not have taken the soft-hearted monk to visit Mistress Lenne. While Michael liked to give the impression
that he was cool and dispassionate, few things enraged him as much as injustice and suffering among the poor. Bartholomew
sensed the ensuing confrontation was going to be an unpleasant one.

‘Good morning,’ said Michael, addressing the reeling miller. Thomas Mortimer promptly lost the rest of his parcels and looked
down at them with a bemused expression, trying to work out what had gone wrong. ‘Surely it is too early for wine? I have only
just had breakfast.’

‘That is from last night,’ said Constantine, snapping his fingers at an apprentice, ordering him to retrieve the fallen items.
‘Thomas has had no wine this morning.’

Constantine the baker was a fighting cock of a man, who had once been notorious for his vicious temper and bullying manners
– a smaller version of his brother Thomas. But his son’s exile and the death of his wife Katherine had affected him deeply,
and rendered him milder and sadder. He was still loyally devoted to his numerous cousins, aunts and nephews, but he was not
quite as pugilistic as he had once been.

‘That makes it all right, then,’ said Michael caustically. ‘It is perfectly natural for a man to imbibe so much wine that
he is still drunk after a night in his bed. Still, at least he has the sense not to do his shopping in a cart.’

‘Lenne was an accident,’ said Constantine wearily, as though tired of repeating himself. ‘Everyone makes it sound as though
Thomas did it on purpose. He cannot help it if careless peasants stray across the streets without warning.’

‘And if people do not shut up about it, then the town can look elsewhere for money to repair the Great Bridge,’ slurred Mortimer
nastily. ‘I am not giving good silver to help a gaggle of ingrates!’

Bartholomew saw that a number of Mortimer apprentices, all wearing distinctive mustard-yellow livery, were gathering. He tugged
on Michael’s arm, to pull him away. He disliked brawling and, although he was angry enough with Thomas and he would enjoy
punching the man, he had no intention of being drawn into a fight in which he was so heavily outnumbered. Michael shook him
off.

‘Did you see this “accident” yourself?’ the monk asked archly. Constantine shook his head. ‘Then how do you know what happened?
Thomas certainly did not, and he was driving!’

‘We have business at Gonville, Brother,’ Bartholomew
whispered urgently, trying again to pull the monk away. ‘We need to exonerate Bottisham from these accusations before there
is trouble.’

‘Then tell me why you arranged for Edward to be pardoned,’ ordered Michael, when neither Mortimer responded to his question.
He freed his arm firmly enough to make Bartholomew stagger. ‘Why did you want him back, after all he did?’

Constantine flushed and looked down at his feet. ‘Partly because my son’s conviction was a slur on the Mortimer name. And
partly because it was
my
fault that he turned to evil ways – I drove him to crime with my temper. I thought I could make amends by bringing him home.’

‘And that has not happened?’ asked Michael. He grimaced in disgust when Thomas toppled backwards and would have fallen, if
his apprentices had not darted forward and caught him.

Constantine shook his head. ‘Edward refuses to live with me. Nor will he resume his baker’s training. His mother would not
have been pleased.’

‘She is here, you know,’ said Thomas, his arrogance suddenly replaced by fear. ‘I saw Katherine near the Great Bridge, and
she
looked
at me. She is back from her grave to haunt us. I had to visit the Hand of Valence Marie, and pay a shilling to ask for its
protection from her troubled spirit.’

‘He saw Bess,’ explained Constantine, when he saw Michael assume it was the wine speaking. ‘That madwoman who is here to look
for her husband. She gave me a turn when
I
first saw her, too. The likeness between her and my wife is uncanny – even Deschalers commented on it, and he
never
spoke to me about Katherine. He was always too ashamed for making me a cuckold.’

‘Did Katherine have a younger sister?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Deschalers had not been the kind of man to feel shame
for enjoying himself with another man’s
wife. It seemed more likely that the grocer had never mentioned Katherine because the memory had been too painful for him.