The Hand of Justice (24 page)

‘Katherine was an only child,’ replied Constantine. ‘She hailed from the Fens, whereas Bess comes from London. Their similarity
is coincidence, nothing more. They are not related.’

‘Edward will become a miller, like me,’ rambled Thomas; he had already forgotten the scare ‘Katherine’ had given him. He cast
a triumphant look in his brother’s direction, so Bartholomew surmised it was a source of discord between them. ‘And together
we shall siphon water away from the King’s Mill until it is dry.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘There is enough to run both.’

‘There
was
enough for both, when Thomas was grinding corn,’ explained Constantine. ‘But fulling needs far more water.’

‘So the Millers’ Society can go and hang themselves,’ declared Thomas thickly, trying to fix the physician in his sights.
He blinked hard and stood swaying, while his apprentices tensed, ready to catch him again. ‘The scholars of Gonville Hall
will see them off. Lawyers are cunning and scholars are cunning. So a scholar–lawyer will be
very
cunning.’

‘Is that why you hired Gonville?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Because you think them more sly than the town lawyers?’

‘Well, it is true,’ said Constantine. ‘We cannot lose this case, because the forfeits would be fierce – loss of our mill,
heavy fines, legal costs. It does not bear thinking about.’

‘Do you know why one of your Gonville lawyers – Bottisham – should have been with Deschalers at the King’s Mill on Sunday
night?’ asked Michael, seizing the opportunity to advance his investigation a little. ‘You heard what happened?’

‘Stabbed, then thrown on to the millstones,’ said Constantine. He shuddered. ‘I have seen mills working, and that would not
be a pleasant way to die. But if Bottisham was meeting Deschalers on our behalf, then he said nothing of his plans to us.
You must ask Bernarde and his cronies about it. After all, it was in
their
mill that this tragedy occurred.’

‘What are we going to do about Edward?’ asked Bartholomew when he saw the Mortimers knew – or would reveal – nothing about
Bottisham’s death. ‘Even
you
have no control over your son, and the whole town is waiting for him to do something terrible. We must act before someone
is hurt.’

‘But I do not know what to do!’ cried Constantine. His sudden wail startled physician, monk and miller alike. ‘God forgive
me! I thought I was doing the right thing when I bought their pardons – Edward asked me to help Thorpe, too, because his father
had disowned him. But I did not know how much they had both changed.’

‘He is no longer the malleable boy you knew?’ asked Michael.

‘He is not, and I do not like what he has become. He unnerves me with his vengeful glowers and spiteful comments. If I could
go to the King and tell him I had made a mistake, I would. But Edward said he would kill me if I did that.’

‘Did he now?’ asked Michael thoughtfully, wondering whether threats of murder might be sufficient to see the pardons withdrawn.

‘More than once.’ Constantine lowered his voice so his brother would not hear, although Thomas was leaning so heavily against
a staggering apprentice that Bartholomew thought he might have passed out. ‘The combination of Thomas’s drinking and Edward’s
resentful fury is not a good one. I am afraid: for me, for my bakery, for my
brother and for his mill. I shall have to go to the Hand of Valence Marie, and pray for its help.’

‘I doubt that will do any good,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘The best way to ensure no one is hurt is to prevent trouble in the
first place. Do you have
any
idea what Edward and Thorpe might be plotting? If you do, then we may be able to thwart it, and we can rectify this miscarriage
of justice that
you
have brought about.’

‘The Hand will answer our prayers,’ slurred Thomas, struggling over his words as though his tongue belonged to someone else.
‘Young Hufford of Honville Gall has been praying for days for a cure. And he has one.’

‘A cure for what?’ asked Bartholomew warily. He hoped rumours were not about to circulate that the Hand had healing powers,
because then the spread of the cult would be unstoppable.

‘For a sore on his mouth,’ explained Constantine.

‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘It healed naturally – the Hand had nothing to do with it.’

‘Never mind this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What about Edward’s plans?’

‘Edward barely speaks to me,’ said Constantine bitterly. ‘And he is destroying our family by making us take sides against
each other – brother against brother, cousin against cousin. We were solidly loyal before he arrived, but now we argue all
the time. We will lose all our power and influence in the town if we allow our clan to fragment – and then where will we be?’

‘Where indeed?’ mused Michael thoughtfully.

Once Constantine had struggled away with his reeling brother, Bartholomew and Michael fought their way through the Market
Square towards Gonville Hall. But Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go, unaccountably afraid he might learn something
that would disappoint or shock him about
the scholar he had so liked and admired. It would not be the first time an investigation had revealed a seemingly good man
to be something rather different, and he realised his work for Michael had turned him from someone naturally trusting to someone
uneasy and suspicious. He walked slowly, aware that Michael was matching his reduced pace and was probably assailed with the
same concerns.

‘You must be pleased to see your grandmother,’ he said, yawning. He wished he had spent less of the previous night reminiscing
with the old lady, and more in his own bed. ‘Were you expecting her?’

Michael smiled fondly. ‘No, but I am not surprised she is here. She played an important role in convicting Edward Mortimer
and Thorpe, and she is not a woman who likes loose ends. She came to see for herself what was happening.’

‘It is a pity she did not prevent the pardons from being issued in the first place. From what I hear, the King listens to
her and never does anything she believes to be imprudent or wrong.’

‘Unfortunately, she was in Avignon when the matter went to the King’s Bench clerks. She only heard about it when it was too
late to do anything. She was not pleased, I can tell you!’

Bartholomew could well imagine, and was wryly amused with himself for feeling safer now the old lady was there. Dame Pelagia
was elderly and slight, but her deceptively frail figure concealed a core of steel, a raw and ruthless cunning, and a rather
shocking talent for throwing knives. Bartholomew had come to understand Michael’s fondness for intrigue and deception far
better once he had met his formidable forebear. He stopped to fiddle with a strap on his boot, knowing it was a deliberate
ploy to delay what he was certain was going to be an unpleasant interview at Gonville.

‘What was she doing in Avignon?’ he asked. He had
been under the impression that she had retired from her long and distinguished service as the King’s best agent. Then it occurred
to him that Bishop Bateman had been poisoned in Avignon.

‘She has always liked France,’ replied Michael, airily vague. ‘And she has spent a good deal of time there in the past. She
told me she had a desire to see it again.’

Bartholomew did not respond immediately. England had been at war with France for the past twenty years, and he suspected her
sojourns there had been spent implementing plots and intrigues – all designed to harm France and benefit England. He wondered
whether the conflict might have ended a good deal sooner, had the likes of Dame Pelagia not been on hand to stir it up.

‘So, who killed Bishop Bateman?’ He glanced up at Michael. ‘It was not her, was it?’

Michael regarded him with astonishment. ‘Of course not! If she had killed anyone, it would have been the French ambassador,
who was refusing to listen to Bateman’s terms for peace.’

‘But Bateman was not a successful diplomatist,’ said Bartholomew. He stood up and started walking again. ‘Perhaps the King
wanted rid of him, without the inconvenience of saying why.’

‘Well, if he did, my grandmother did not oblige him,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘She does not murder well-regarded prelates.’

The tone of his voice suggested she might well dispatch a couple of unpopular ones, though, and Bartholomew supposed the haughty
and irascible Bishop of Ely had better watch himself if Dame Pelagia was back in the country.

‘Here is Gonville,’ said Bartholomew, deciding to end the discussion before it ranged too far into uncharted waters. ‘We should
not discuss the murder of their founder when they might overhear us.’

‘Especially if you accuse my grandmother of doing it,’ said Michael huffily.

‘Are you not concerned for her?’ asked Bartholomew, knocking at Gonville’s gate. He did so tentatively, and his soft tap was
unlikely to be heard by any but the most sharp-eared of gatekeepers. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer seem to blame her for their exile,
and I am worried about the fact that she has chosen to stay with Matilde. If they attack Dame Pelagia, then Matilde may be
hurt.’

‘She only intends to impose herself on Matilde for one night,’ said Michael. ‘She has other arrangements for the rest of her
stay here.’

‘Where?’ asked Bartholomew. He regarded the monk uneasily. ‘Not at Michaelhouse?’

Michael snorted his laughter. ‘Of course not! How could she stay in a College that only admits men? I know her disguises are
legendary, and she could pass herself off as a travelling academic, if she was so inclined. But she is almost eighty years
old, and she yearns for a little comfort in her old age. She will stay with Mayor Morice.’

Bartholomew was unable to prevent himself from gaping. ‘With Morice? But why?’

‘Because he has the best house in Cambridge, why else? His corruption has made him a rich man, and he can offer a high level
of accommodation that is unavailable elsewhere. Deschalers would have been her first choice – he was wealthier still – but
she can hardly claim his hospitality now he is dead.’

‘Does Morice know who she is?’

‘He knows she has the ear of the King, and that is enough for him to welcome her. Morice has many enemies – folk he has cheated
and deceived over the years – so his house is sturdily built and protected like a fortress. It is a very safe place for her
to be.’

Bartholomew did not know what to think. Perhaps news
of Morice’s brazen dishonesty had reached royal ears, and Dame Pelagia had another, more sinister, reason for demanding the
Mayor’s hospitality. It also occurred to him that it had been Morice’s letter to the King’s Bench that had tipped the appeal
in Mortimer and Thorpe’s favour, and had gone a long way towards getting them their royal pardons. He wondered whether Morice
would survive the visit, or whether he would die in some mysterious accident before his enigmatic guest finally took her leave
of the town.

Michael hammered on the sturdy oaken gate, seeing no one was going to reply to the physician’s polite raps. They exchanged
an unhappy glance while they waited, neither looking forward to the task of prising personal secrets from Bottisham’s friends.

Gonville Hall comprised two stone mansions linked by a central gatehouse. The upper floor of the smaller house held the College
library, which Bartholomew coveted – Michaelhouse’s ‘library’ comprised a couple of shelves in the conclave and hall. Gonville’s
books were housed in a handsome room that boasted polished wooden floors and a hearth where there was nearly always a fire.
The chamber was usually peaceful, since teaching was conducted in the hall below, and Bartholomew imagined it would be an
excellent place to study, away from distractions.

Adjacent to the library were the foundations for the new chapel. Bartholomew could see them through gaps in the wood of the
gate. It was to be a substantial structure, and he wondered how it would be funded now that Bishop Bateman was dead.

Michael pounded on the gate yet again, claiming no College had the right to keep the Senior Proctor waiting. There was a grille
set in the door, and Bartholomew saw it open very slowly, as if the person peering out did not want the visitors to know they
were being examined. It did not escape Michael’s attention, however.

‘Let me in,’ he ordered, thrusting his large face close to the opening. ‘I have come to talk to you about Bottisham.’

‘Brother Michael,’ said the watcher with relief, and there were loud clicks as a key was turned in a lock. ‘I am sorry. But
one cannot be too careful these days – what with pardoned exiles strutting around freely.’

‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Michael, easing himself through the gate. Bartholomew followed, and watched while the
scholar secured it again. ‘I heard what happened to you.’

The scholar on gate duty that day was John of Ufford. Bartholomew recalled Redmeadow telling him that Mortimer and Thorpe
had picked a fight with Ufford, and folk had been surprised when he was trounced. Ufford was the son of an earl, and therefore
trained in the arts of swordplay, battle tactics and horsemanship. The fact that the two exiles had beaten him said a good
deal for the skills they had learned in France. Ufford had a cut on his nose, and was limping. The sore on his mouth had all
but healed, though, and Bartholomew supposed he had taken his advice about its care when they had met before the
Disputatio de quodlibet
.

‘I was not even doing anything,’ said Ufford indignantly. ‘I was outside St Mary the Great, thanking the Hand for not letting
me contract leprosy, when they started to pick on me. I drew my dagger, thinking the sight of it would see them off, but they
pulled out their own and I was defeated.’ He shook his head, as if he could not imagine how such a thing had happened.

‘Then you must have been dismayed when you learned Thorpe had inveigled himself a home in your own College,’ said Michael.

Ufford grimaced. ‘I was not dismayed – I was furious! But, fortunately for all concerned, Thorpe is rarely here.
I think he just wanted to prove to his father that he could secure his own place in the University. It is common knowledge
that Valence Marie refused to accept him.’