Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘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.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Dick thinks they may have persuaded that madwoman to give it to him, but I disagree. She seems too witless to entrust with such a task.’

  ‘I have heard so many rumours about that pair that it is difficult to separate fact from fiction,’ said Wynewyk, beginning to walk again. ‘What really happened? Are they the Devil’s spawn, as Agatha the laundress claims? Or are they poor misguided children, as Master Kenyngham would have me believe?’

  ‘Neither,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘They are just men who killed without remorse or hesitation, solely to realise their own plans for revenge and riches.’

  ‘They were caught – thanks to some clever investigating by me – and confessed to their crimes,’ elaborated Michael rather smugly. ‘Did you know that Thorpe’s father is Master of the Hall of Valence Marie? It is hard to believe: a high-ranking scholar spawning a murderer.’

  ‘Master Thorpe is the man who first found the sacred Hand of Valence Marie,’ mused Wynewyk, changing the subject. ‘I heard the Hand came from a local saint, and is imbued with great power.’

  ‘The Hand was hacked from the corpse of a simpleton,’ corrected Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is not imbued with any kind of power, sacred or otherwise.’

  ‘That is not what most folk believe,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is stored in the University Chest in the tower of St Mary the Great, and people petition it all the time. Many of them have had their prayers answered. To my mind – and theirs – that makes it a genuine relic.’

  Bartholomew was exasperated when he turned to Michael. ‘I told you to destroy the thing three years ago, Brother. You had the chance: you could easily have tossed it into the marshes. But you insisted on keeping it, and now it is too late. It has become an object of veneration – again.’

  ‘Again?’ asked Wynewyk. ‘It has been worshipped before?’

  ‘Briefly,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When it was first dredged from the ditch outside Valence Marie. But we proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was hacked from Peterkin Starre – because his corpse happened to be available at the time – and it is not and never has been sacred.’

  ‘The fascination with it will not last,’ insisted Michael, although he sounded uneasy. ‘These things come and go, and what is popular today is forgotten tomorrow. And anyway, it is not my business to decide what should and should not be destroyed. I pass that responsibility to the Chancellor.’

  Bartholomew laughed in disbelief. ‘I am not a complete innocent, Brother! Everyone knows Chancellor Tynkell does exactly what you say, and there is only one man who determines what happens in the University these days: you. If you wanted these bones destroyed, they would have vanished by now.’
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  Michael grinned, unabashed by the reprimand and amused that his friend had so accurately described his relationship with the Chancellor. Tynkell was indeed becoming a figurehead, with Michael holding the real power. Tynkell had expressed a desire to resign and allow Michael to take the reins, since he was already making most of the important decisions, but the monk demurred. He liked things the way they were – it was useful to have someone to blame when anything went wrong.

  ‘Tynkell does listen to my advice,’ he confessed modestly. ‘But destroying the Hand would have been an extreme reaction – and one that could never be reversed. I thought it might come in useful one day, and that it would be safely anonymous in the University Chest.’

  ‘Not safely anonymous enough, apparently,’ grumbled Bartholomew, unappeased. ‘Wynewyk is right: there are always pilgrims around the tower these days. It will not be long before we have a wave of religious zeal to quell, and there is no reasoning with folk once they have decided upon issues of faith. The Hand has always been dangerous. Look what happened to Thorpe’s father over the thing.’

  ‘What?’ asked Wynewyk, intrigued. ‘Anything to do with his son?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But, as you just said, Master Thorpe was the one who found the Hand in the ditch outside his College. The King and the Bishop of Ely were so angry with him for starting what might have become a powerful cult that they forced him to leave Valence Marie and take a post at a grammar school in York.’

  ‘York,’ said Wynewyk with distaste. ‘I have heard it smells of lard. But Master Thorpe is not in York. He is here, in Cambridge.’

  ‘He was reinstated after a series of appeals to the King,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Apparently, his successor was not gentlemanly enough, and kept wiping his teeth on the tablecloth during meals.’

  ‘Nasty,’ said Wynewyk with a fastidious shudder. ‘The Bishop of Norwich does that, too.’

  ‘Since then, Master Thorpe has impressed everyone with his diligence and scholarship,’ continued Michael. ‘He is a changed man, but, unlike his son, he has changed for the better.’

  Wynewyk became aware of the passing time with sudden alarm. ‘We should not be reviewing ancient history now, my friends. We should be debating with the scholars of Gonville and, unless we hurry, they will assume we are too frightened to meet them. The honour of Michaelhouse is at stake – we must run.’

  * * *

  St Mary the Great was the town’s largest and most impressive church. Its chancel had recently been rebuilt, replacing the narrow pointed lancet holes of an earlier age with great windows full of delicate tracery. These fabulous arches, so vast and open that it seemed they would be incapable of supporting the weight of the roof above them, allowed sunlight to flood in and bathe the building with light and warmth. The coloured glass that had been used in places caught the sun’s brilliance and accentuated the scarlets, golds and emeralds of the wall paintings.

  Over the last few weeks Bartholomew had noticed more and more people praying outside the church, and there were often folk kneeling on the roughly paved ground by the tower. There were three there that morning, busily petitioning the Hand that languished in the University Chest just above their heads. One was John of Ufford, a son of the Earl of Suffolk, who was learning law so he could forge himself a career at Court. He was a pleasant enough fellow, with a perfectly straight fringe of dark hair over his eyes. He nodded a greeting as the Michaelhouse men passed, raising one hand to touch a sore on his mouth as he did so.

  ‘If you leave it alone, it will heal more quickly,’ said Bartholomew, unable to help himself. The lesion looked as though it was played with constantly, and he knew it would only disappear if it was granted a reprieve from the sufferer’s probing fingers.

  ‘I am praying to the Hand of Valence Marie,’ said Ufford. He looked frightened. ‘This sore might be the first sign of leprosy, and I need the intervention of a powerful saint to help me.’

  ‘It is not leprosy,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Rougham had been talking to him. The Gonville physician had a nasty habit of diagnosing overly serious ailments in his patients so that he could charge them more for their ‘cures’.

  ‘No?’ asked Ufford with sudden hope. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘If you keep your fingers away from it, and do not smother it with salves, you will notice a difference in a week. It needs clean air and time to heal, nothing more.’

  He followed Michael and Wynewyk inside the church. It was packed to overflowing. Public debates were important occasions – particularly the end-of-term Disputatio de quodlibet – and representatives were present from every College and hostel, many wearing the uniform of their institutions. There was the black of Michaelhouse and the dark blue of Bene’t, mixed with paler blues and greens from places like King’s Hall, Valence Marie and Peterhouse. Among them were the blacks, browns, greys and whites of the religious Orders, and the whole church rang with the sound of voices – some arguing amiably, others more hostile. Although debates were designed to bring scholars together in an atmosphere of learning and scholasticism, they were also often used as excuses to re-ignite ancient feuds and hatreds, and Bartholomew noticed that Michael had arranged for a large contingent of beadles to be present, too.

  ‘There you are,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, when he spotted his three colleagues. His barrel-shaped soldier’s body cut an imposing figure, and other scholars gave him a wide berth as he shoved his way through them. He was no one’s idea of an academic, with a mediocre intellect and only a hazy grasp of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was an able administrator, and a definite improvement on his predecessor. ‘I know I told you not to arrive too early – to dull your wits in mindless chatter while you wait for the Disputatio to begin – but I did not expect you to cut it this fine.’

  ‘Not knowing whether your opponents will arrive is a sure way to unsettle the enemy,’ said Michael comfortably, glancing towards the place where the scholars of Gonville Hall had gathered.

  ‘Well, I was beginning to think you had decided not to come, too,’ said Langelee, a little irritably. ‘And Gonville have been claiming that their minds are too quick for us, and we have decided to stay away, rather than risk a public mental drubbing.’

  ‘We shall see about that,’ said Wynewyk, grimly determined. ‘The likes of Gonville will not defeat me in verbal battle!’

  Langelee started to move towards the dais that had been set up where the nave met the chancel. ‘Do not underestimate Gonville, Wynewyk: they are very good. We are not talking about Peterhouse here. Well, are you ready? Have you spent the morning honing your debating skills on each other, as I recommended?’

  ‘We do not need to practise,’ declared Michael immodestly. ‘Although, I confess I have not taken part in a major Disputatio de quodlibet since the Death.’

  ‘The subject you three will be asked to debate could be anything – theology, the arts, mathematics, natural philosophy, even politics,’ said Langelee, as if his Fellows might not know. ‘That is the meaning of quodlibet: “whithersoever you please”.’

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael dryly. ‘I am glad you told us that.’

  Bartholomew ignored the monk’s sarcasm. He was looking forward to the occasion, and was honoured that Langelee had chosen him to stand for Michaelhouse. ‘These debates are opportunities for us to express opinions and ideas with a freedom not always possible within the rigid constraints of more formal lectures,’ he said.

  The others regarded him uneasily. ‘I hope you do not intend to say anything that might be construed as heresy,’ said Langelee. ‘I should have thought of this before inviting you to represent us. I had forgotten your penchant for anathema.’

  ‘He will not say anything inappropriate,’ said Michael firmly, fixing his friend with the kind of glare that promised all manner of retribution if he was disobeyed. ‘Spouting heresy will see Michaelhouse disqualified, and none of us want
that – nor do we want inflammatory remarks to spark a riot.’

  Langelee arrived at the dais, and looked his three Fellows up and down before sighing in exasperation. ‘I told you to dress nicely, Bartholomew, and you have turned up looking like a pauper from Ovyng Hostel.’

  ‘This is my best tabard,’ objected Bartholomew indignantly. He glanced down at the stained and crumpled garment. ‘But I had to visit Isnard earlier, to change the bandages on his leg, and some—’

  ‘No details, please,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘If you are to stand near me for the next two hours, I do not want to know the origin of any peculiar smells. Still, I suppose I can rest easy knowing you have clean fingers.’ He started to chuckle, convinced as always that Bartholomew’s obsession with rinsing his hands after dealing with bloody wounds and decaying corpses was an unnaturally fastidious fetish.

  Michael saw that his friend was about to begin a lecture on hygiene, so he intervened hastily, nodding to where the scholars of Gonville Hall were waiting. ‘We are supposed to be arguing with them, not each other. We should start, or they really will think we are afraid of them.’

  ‘Michaelhouse will see these upstarts off,’ proclaimed Wynewyk fiercely. He cleared his throat and looked uneasy. ‘At least, we stand a fighting chance if the Chancellor selects a decent Question.’

  ‘That is why I chose you three to argue on our behalf,’ said Langelee. ‘You are our best lawyer; Michael’s knowledge of theology surpasses anyone’s except gentle old Kenyngham’s – but he lacks the killer instinct necessary for this kind of event; and Bartholomew can cover the sciences. Gonville will crumble before our onslaught.’

  ‘They will,’ vowed Wynewyk with keen determination. ‘I prayed to the Hand at a special mass held in St Clement’s Church last Wednesday, and asked it to let us win. So, what with our wits and the intervention of a saint, victory will be ours for certain.’