The Hand of Justice (7 page)

‘I have heard such complaints before,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Michael was looking around for evidence that Isnard had
been drinking. He recalled an archer in France telling him the same thing about an amputated arm. ‘It is not unusual to imagine
a limb is still there for some time after it has been removed. And I did not throw it in the river, by the way. People drink
from that.’

‘But what can I do about it?’ asked Isnard, distressed. ‘I cannot think about anything other than this itch, and yet I cannot
put an end to it. Will it last for the rest of my life? If so, I do not think I can stand it.’ His voice was unsteady.

‘I can dig it up and give it a good scratch, if you like,’ offered Redmeadow, trying hard to be useful. ‘That might cure you.’

‘He needs a purge,’ countered Quenhyth with great conviction. ‘A tincture of linseed fried in fat should put an end to his
miseries. Or perhaps mallow leaves stewed in old ale.’

‘It might put an end to him, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want his humours unbalanced by purges. He needs to gain strength
from his food, not lose it by vomiting.’

‘A clyster, then,’ said Quenhyth with unseemly relish. ‘I can prepare a potion of green camomile, salt, honey and lard, and
you can squirt it into his anus and cleanse his bowels.’

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Isnard uneasily. ‘My bowels are my own affair, and not for others to explore as they
please.’

‘I quite agree,’ interposed Michael, the expression on his face indicating that he found the discussion distasteful.
He changed the subject. ‘Why was Bottisham visiting you, Isnard? I did not know the two of you were acquainted.’

‘I regularly haul barges for his College – Gonville,’ replied Isnard. ‘And Master Bottisham has always been kind to me. He
came to ask if there was anything I need, but, apart from strong ale, which Doctor Bartholomew says I cannot have, I am well
looked after by my neighbours.’

‘I prescribed a clyster for Master Bernarde the miller when he had an aching elbow,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘It worked very
well.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did what?’

‘You were out inspecting corpses with Brother Michael,’ said Quenhyth, becoming defensive when he saw his teacher was shocked.
‘What am I supposed to do when a patient comes wanting help? Send him away empty handed?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘And then tell me, so I can visit him myself. You must
not
dispense medicines to my patients. You are not qualified, and you do not have enough experience to start giving out remedies
of your own.’

‘I have been watching you for
six months
,’ objected Quenhyth, making it sound like a decade. ‘And I am a quick learner. I know more than you give me credit for.’

‘But still not enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will not argue with you. Either you do as I say or you can find yourself
another teacher.’

‘I will obey you,’ said Quenhyth in the kind of voice that indicated he considered it an immense favour. ‘But I was only trying
to help.’

‘Then go back to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And do not “help” without my permission again.’

‘I do not want
him
tampering with my personal places, thank you very much,’ said Isnard after Quenhyth had gone. ‘He can take his green camomile
and lard and shove them up his own arse.’

‘I am sorry, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot help with your itch, either. I do not know what can be done to alleviate
it.’

Isnard sat back with a grimace and folded his arms. ‘Do not worry about that, Doctor. I am already cured. The notion of that
boy loose on my bowels has quite put the itch out of my mind.’

‘And there were doucettes and a rose pudding to follow,’ enthused Michael gleefully the following Saturday, as he walked with
Bartholomew and Michaelhouse’s Master of Civil Law, John Wynewyk, to the Church of St Mary the Great. ‘Along with more Lombard
slices than I have ever seen in one place, although I prefer the almond variety to the date.’

‘We will be late,’ warned Wynewyk, more interested in the debate they were about to engage in than his colleague’s detailed
analysis of the repasts he had enjoyed at various academic and religious institutions during the week. ‘I do not want Gonville
to win the
Disputatio de quodlibet
by default, just because we fail to arrive on time.’

‘All right,’ muttered Michael, not pleased to have his culinary reminiscences cut short. ‘I am going as fast as I can. I thought
you would be interested in what is eaten at the high tables of other Colleges, since you hold Michaelhouse’s purse strings
these days. Gonville keeps a remarkably fine table, and Michaelhouse … well, Michaelhouse does not.’

‘Langelee trusts me to spend our funds sensibly,’ said Wynewyk primly. ‘That means peas for pottage and flour for bread, not
cream and sugars for custards.’

Although the monk complained constantly that Michaelhouse’s fare was inferior to that of other institutions, and his colleagues
had learned to take his grumbles with a grain of salt, Bartholomew thought his gripes were currently justified. For some unaccountable
reason the standard of
College food had plummeted dramatically during the last two weeks, and even the least discerning scholars had been prompted
to comment on it. Bartholomew supposed that Wynewyk had been obliged to use the funds usually earmarked for victuals for some
other – doubtless equally deserving – purpose, and just hoped the situation would not be permanent. It was not pleasant to
be hungry all the time.

He was about to ask, when there was a clatter of hoofs behind them. With the memory of Isnard’s shattered leg fresh in his
mind, Bartholomew darted to one side of the road, with his friends not far behind; even the obese Michael could move quickly
when life and limb were under threat. A horse galloped past, too fast for a narrow thoroughfare like St Michael’s Lane. It
reached the end of the street and its rider wheeled it around, to return at a more sedate trot.

‘Rob Thorpe,’ said Michael heavily when he recognised the culprit. Wynewyk immediately raised his hood and bowed his head,
and Bartholomew saw that Thorpe’s reputation had gone before him. Even men like Wynewyk, who had not been in Cambridge when
the lad had embarked on his spree of violence, were unwilling to attract his attention. ‘So, it is true. You have indeed decided
to return to the town you used so badly.’

Thorpe had changed during the two years that he had been in exile. He was no longer a bony, gangly youth with immature fluff
framing a childish face. He was a man, with a man’s strength and a man’s confidence, even though he was not yet twenty. He
was clean shaven, and wore a close-cut quilted tunic with buttoned sleeves – called a gipon – over which was thrown a shoulder-cape
fastened with a gold pin. His hose were soled, rendering shoes unnecessary, and his hood turban was one of the most elaborately
decorated Bartholomew had ever seen. It comprised a triangle of scarlet worsted with a hole for the head, and
the two ends fell elegantly over his shoulders in the fashion currently popular at the King’s Court.

‘I have been meaning to pay you a visit, monk,’ said Thorpe insolently. The smile that played around his full, red lips did
not reach his eyes. His gaze shifted to Bartholomew, and he bowed his head in a gesture that was more insulting than polite.
‘And you, too, Bartholomew, although I did not think you would still be here.’

‘Where else would I be?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised by the statement.

‘I thought you would have been burned at the stake for using unorthodox and dangerous remedies,’ Thorpe replied nastily. ‘But
perhaps people are more forgiving these days. Times change, I suppose.’ The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.

‘What do you want?’ demanded Michael curtly. ‘You must know you are not welcome in Cambridge. You were found guilty of several
vicious murders, and you are fortunate you were not hanged. You are not the kind of man we want in our town.’

‘I have come to visit old friends,’ replied Thorpe, unruffled by the monk’s hostility. His eyes were spiteful as he addressed
the physician. ‘I intend to pay my respects to
your
family soon – your sister Edith and her husband Oswald Stanmore. I am sure they will be delighted to see me after all these
years.’

‘“All these years”?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘It has only been twenty-six months.’

Bartholomew knew delight would be the last thing on his family’s mind if they were visited by Thorpe. Stanmore was a wealthy
clothier, and Thorpe had been one of his apprentices. He and Edith had taken the lad into their house and treated him like
a much-loved son. Their sense of betrayal when they discovered they had nurtured a killer was still not forgotten.

‘You will have to wait for that pleasure,’ said Bartholomew, relieved that they were away and did not plan to return to Cambridge
for some weeks. With luck Thorpe would be gone by then. ‘They are not here.’

Thorpe shrugged, although Bartholomew sensed he was disappointed. ‘It does not matter. I have been waiting for a long time
to reacquaint myself with my old master and his wife, so a few more days are nothing. When did you say they will return?’

‘I did not,’ replied Bartholomew coolly. ‘But Hunting-don is a long way from here, so I doubt it will be very soon.’

‘Huntingdon is
not
far,’ flashed Thorpe with sudden anger. ‘
France
is a long way from here – and that is where
I
was condemned to go. No one would speak for me at my trial – not my father, not the Stanmores, and not you scholars. I will
repay you all for that.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘No one spoke for you, because you were guilty – by your own admission. You cannot blame others
because you were caught and punished. You are a man now, so act like one, and accept responsibility for what you did.’

Thorpe became smug. ‘But my case has now been reviewed by His Majesty’s best law-clerks. I have been granted a King’s Pardon
– which means no one can hold those crimes against me ever again.’

Michael was unimpressed. ‘I shall hold crimes against whomever I like. However, I do not want to talk to you when I have important
matters to attend. Move that miserable nag out of my way and let me past.’

They all looked around as a second horseman arrived, also riding too fast for the small lane. Bartholomew’s heart sank when
he recognised him, too, and Wynewyk huddled even deeper into his cloak.

‘Edward Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew, taking in the
sober clothing and soft features of the exiled baker’s son – the second of the two felons to be pardoned and permitted to
return to the scene of his crimes. Like Thorpe, Mortimer had grown sturdier and stronger during the time he had been away.
Bartholomew remembered him as a dreamy lad, bullied by his domineering father, but there was no weakness in his face now.
It was cold, hard and determined, and Bartholomew saw the malleable youth had long gone.

Michael was puzzled as he looked from one felon to the other. ‘You two did not know each other before the King’s Bench ordered
you to abjure the realm – on the same day, but in separate trials – so why are you together now? Is it because no one else
will entertain your company?’

Thorpe’s eyes glittered at the insult, and Bartholomew suspected Michael had touched a raw nerve. Mortimer simply smiled.

‘I belong to a large and powerful family, Brother; they are always pleased when another Mortimer swells their ranks. My father,
uncles and cousins are thrilled to have me back.’

The jealous glance Thorpe shot his way confirmed to Bartholomew that the younger man’s kin had indeed been less than pleased
about
his
return. The physician understood why. Thorpe’s father was Master of a large and wealthy College, and would not want a murderous
son hovering in the background, spoiling his chances of promotion. For Mortimer it was different: his family was rich, influential
and not afraid to consort with those on the fringes of legality. Edward was doubtless telling the truth about his reception:
the Mortimers would be only too happy to swell their ranks with a seasoned criminal.

‘I have no wish to linger here,’ said Thorpe, affecting indifference to the discussion. He forced a grin at Mortimer. ‘I will
buy you an ale at the Lilypot.’

With a mock salute, he kicked hard at his horse’s sides. It reared, then cantered up St Michael’s Lane and turned towards
the Great Bridge, scattering pedestrians as it went. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief when Mortimer followed, and realised
his heart was pounding, not because he was afraid, but because the pair brought back memories of an adventure he would sooner
forget. He watched them leave with a sense of foreboding. Neither seemed reformed by exile; on the contrary, they appeared
to be nastier than ever.

‘The infamous Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Wynewyk, rubbing his hands together as though the encounter had chilled him. He pushed
his hood away from his face. ‘The town has been full of talk about their misdeeds ever since they arrived back. I looked up
their trial in the Castle’s records, and, as an expert on civil law, I can tell you there is no doubt at all that their conviction
was sound. The evidence against them was irrefutable.’

Michael nodded. ‘I cannot imagine how they managed to persuade the King’s clerks to review their sentences, or why a Pardon
was granted.’

‘I suppose money changed hands,’ said Wynewyk. ‘That is what usually happens in cases like this. But it is odd that they should
arrive in Cambridge just before Bosel the beggar – chief witness against Mortimer’s uncle – should be murdered. I doubt it
is coincidence.’

‘Dick Tulyet said they were both at a meeting of the town’s burgesses when Bosel died,’ said Michael, although his eyes were
troubled. ‘And I do not see why they would pick on Bosel anyway.’

‘Because he was poor and friendless, and no one will invest too much time or energy in hunting his killers,’ suggested Bartholomew.
‘It is entirely possible that Bosel was an experiment – to see what would happen when they committed their first new murder.
All their alibi from Tulyet
does is tell us they were not present when Bosel actually ingested the poison.’