Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I can,’ said Rougham. ‘You alone of the Cambridge physicians read the kinds of books where such information might be found. You know more about poisons than the rest of us put together.’

  ‘Take me home, Rougham,’ said Bottisham, when he saw Bartholomew draw breath to take issue. ‘Bateman’s death has distressed me, and I need to lie down.’

  Rougham began fussing around his colleague, making loud, confident proclamations about the remedies he prescribed for shocks, while Bottisham turned to Bartholomew and winked. Bartholomew smiled, grateful that he had been spared from wasting more time with a man of narrow vision like Rougham. He was about to leave the church when he saw himself summoned by a peremptory flick of Michael’s fat, white hand. He disliked the way Michael brandished his plump digits and expected people to come scurrying, so he ignored him. He did not get far, however. As he passed the place where the monk conferred with Langelee and Tynkell, a powerful hand shot out and grabbed him. He tried to free himself from Langelee’s vicelike grip, but it was impossible without an undignified struggle. The Master of Michaelhouse was a very strong man.

  ‘We are talking about Thorpe and Mortimer,’ said Michael, ignoring Bartholomew’s irritation at being manhandled. ‘Chancellor Tynkell made some enquiries in Westminster, regarding why they were pardoned. The official reason is that there was some question about the legality of the evidence that convicted them. That is why they have been declared free men again.’

  ‘But they both confessed to what they did – murder and theft!’ exclaimed Langelee, outraged. ‘I heard them myself. And Wynewyk, who is an excellent lawyer, said there was no legitimate argument for overturning their convictions.’

  ‘Apparently, the Mortimers wanted to clear the family name, so decided to appeal against the verdict,’ explained Tynkell. ‘The law-clerks contacted the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire, and asked for more details. Unfortunately, the Sheriff at the time was not Tulyet.’

  ‘It was Morice,’ snarled Langelee, railing at the combination of circumstances that had led to an injustice. ‘That corrupt vagabond was Sheriff for a brief period last year.’

  ‘It seems the Mortimers paid Morice to sign a letter urging the clerks to clemency,’ Tynkell went on. ‘Then the clerks cooked up their excuse about the evidence being inadmissible. Rumour has it that gold changed hands there, too. So, the upshot is that Thorpe and Mortimer were able to buy a King’s Pardon. I thought they would stay away – that a sense of shame would prevent them from showing their faces here – but I was wrong.’

  ‘They may kill again,’ warned Langelee, as if he imagined the others needed to be told.

  ‘They will not find it easy,’ said Michael. ‘My beadles and Dick Tulyet’s soldiers will be watching their every move. But we will not be able to do so for long.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Langelee. ‘Because you need your peace-keepers for other duties?’

  ‘Because the Mortimers have threatened to sue if we harass their Edward,’ explained Tynkell. ‘We cannot afford to pay huge sums in compensation because his liberty is being curtailed.’

  Bartholomew gazed at him. ‘His liberty? What about the liberty of the people who are dead because of him and Thorpe? This is not justice!’

  ‘No, but it is the law,’ said Tynkell flatly. ‘None of us want that pair in our town, but they have the King’s Pardon, and there is nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘But this is preposterous!’ exclaimed Langelee furiously. ‘They are criminals!’

  Tynkell sighed. ‘You are not listening, Master Langelee. The law is not about who is the criminal and who is the aggrieved. It is about enforcing a set of rules. And those rules have just put Thorpe and Mortimer in the right.’

  Bartholomew started to walk home, Tynkell’s words echoing in his mind. He could not believe that self-confessed killers were not only free to wander where they liked, but were enjoying protection by the very laws that should have condemned them. He was grateful his sister and brother-in-law were away, and hoped Mortimer and Thorpe would have tired of their sport and left before they returned.

  He had not travelled far when he saw the town’s wealthiest merchant, Thomas Deschalers, riding along the High Street on an expensive-looking horse. Despite his fine, jewel-sewn clothes, the grocer looked ill, and Bartholomew’s professional instincts told him there was something seriously amiss with his health. Oddly, the madwoman who had discovered Bosel’s corpse was trailing behind him. Bartholomew studied her, noting her flat, dead eyes, and wondered what she and Deschalers planned to do together. They were odd bedfellows, to say the least.

  Deschalers reeled suddenly, and something slipped from his hand to the ground. He righted himself, then gazed at the thing that had fallen, as though asking himself whether retrieving it was worth the effort. Since the woman did not attempt to help, Bartholomew went to pick it up for him. It was a leather purse, heavy with coins and embossed with the emblem that represented Deschalers’s wares: a pot with the letter D emblazoned across it. This distinctive motif was also engraved in the lintel above the door to his house, and it often appeared on the goods he sold.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Deschalers, taking the purse gratefully. ‘I would have had to dismount to get that, and I do not know whether I have the strength.’

  ‘You could have asked her,’ said Bartholomew, indicating the woman, whose dirty hand rested on the grocer’s splendid saddle. She regarded him blankly, and he realised that his earlier sense that he knew her had been wrong. There was something familiar about her face and the colour of her hair, but the familiarity was simply because she reminded him of someone else. However, the woman who looked similar hovered just outside his memory.

  ‘She is slow in the wits,’ said Deschalers. ‘It would have been just as much trouble to make her understand what I wanted as to collect it myself. I do not have the will for either.’

  ‘You are unwell?’ asked Bartholomew, since Deschalers seemed to expect such an enquiry.

  ‘Very,’ said Deschalers. ‘Rougham says I will recover my former vigour, but I know that whatever is rotting inside will soon kill me. I do not think any physician in England can help me now, not even one who flies in the face of convention to affect his cures. But thank you for the offer, anyway.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ said Bartholomew, who would never have done any such thing. First, he seldom saw eye to eye with the laconic, aloof grocer and suspected Deschalers would be a difficult patient, arguing over every scrap of treatment and advice. Second, Rougham would not appreciate the poaching of his wealthiest patient. And third, Bartholomew knew Deschalers’s self-diagnosis had been correct: he already walked hand in hand with death, and no physician could snatch him back.

  Deschalers rode on with the woman in tow, and Bartholomew watched him acknowledge Rougham and Bottisham with a weary wave as he passed. Rougham called something about a new tincture of lavender that he claimed would make the grocer a new man, but Deschalers shot him a bleak look that made him falter into silence. Sickness made Bartholomew think of Isnard, who had been stricken with a mild fever earlier that morning. He recalled his concern, and started to stride towards the Mill Pond.

  ‘Slow down, Matt!’ came a breathless voice from behind him. He turned to see Paxtone, the Master of Medicine from King’s Hall, hurrying after him. ‘I have been chasing you all along the High Street, shouting your name, and you have ignored me completely.’

  Bartholomew smiled. He liked Paxtone, who was merry faced with twinkling grey eyes and rosy cheeks, like russet apples in the autumn. He was a large man, although not as big as Michael, and usually moved slowly when he walked, as if his weight was too much for the joints in his knees and he needed to proceed with care lest they collapse. But he had a sharp mind and was willing to listen to some of Bartholomew’s more exotic medical theories, even if he did not usually agree with them.

  Paxtone held Bartholomew’s arm, and used it as a prop while he recovered his breath. ‘You were racing al
ong like Thomas Mortimer’s cart,’ he gasped.

  ‘That was what I was thinking about,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer escaping justice because Bosel is dead. His nephew buying a King’s Pardon.’

  ‘My College’s lawyers discussed those King’s Pardons at length yesterday. They concluded that if we appeal against them, we are essentially saying that His Majesty is wrong – and that might be construed as treason. We will be fined far more than we can pay, just to teach us never to challenge the royal courts, no matter how wicked and corrupt their decisions.’

  ‘It is a depressing state of affairs.’

  ‘It is an appalling state of affairs, but a decision has been made in the King’s name, and we must live with the consequences. I heard you were instrumental in catching Thorpe and Edward Mortimer, so you had better be careful of them.’

  ‘I played a very small part in their downfall. There were others who did far more to bring them to justice than me – Michael, my brother-in-law, Sheriff Tulyet, Master Langelee, various soldiers from the Castle, and even Michael’s grandmother, Dame Pelagia.’

  ‘They were overheard bragging to some of Edward’s cousins in the Market Square the other day. They said they intended to repay everyone who played any role in their capture. Your name was among the many they listed, so do not think they have forgotten whatever it was you did. It is a pity you allowed your book-bearer to accompany your sister to Huntingdon. If you ever needed his ready sword it is now.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’

  Paxtone patted his arm. ‘I know. But you can allow a friend to show a little concern. Remember that if anything happens to you, I shall be left with Lynton and Rougham – and neither of them will discuss Arab medicine with me.’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘We can learn a great deal from the Arab world. For example, did you know that there is a hospital in Egypt that can house eight thousand patients simultaneously? It teems with physicians, apothecaries and folk to cater to the patients’ daily needs. If a man is sick in the stomach, then a physician who knows about stomachs will tend him. If he has a hardened spleen, then the physician who studies spleens will come.’

  ‘I do not think that is a good system. Your expert in spleens may concentrate on the one part of the body he loves to the exclusion of all else, and ignore other, more serious, ailments.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I would like to know more about this place – how many inmates are cured and how many die. However, for now, I am only going to visit Isnard.’

  ‘I heard you performed his surgery,’ said Paxtone disapprovingly. ‘You must not demean yourself by undertaking such base tasks. Would you sharpen your students’ pens or replace the wax on their writing tablets? No! And you should not dabble in cautery, either. It is a filthy business, and best left to the likes of Robin of Grantchester, who is a filthy man.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bartholomew, irritated that Paxtone should preach at him. ‘That is why so many of his patients do not survive his operations. I do not want Isnard to die, when I know I can save him.’

  ‘We should not argue,’ said Paxtone, seeing he was close to overstepping the boundaries of their friendship. ‘I am only trying to warn you. I do not want Rougham to use your fascination with surgery to discredit you. He is jealous of you, and would love to see you fall from grace.’

  ‘That is what Michael says, but he can have no quarrel with me. I have done him no harm.’

  ‘Let us discuss Isnard instead,’ said Paxtone with a sigh, seeing they would not agree. ‘What method did you employ to prevent the fever that usually follows the removal of a limb? Did you attempt to rebalance the humours by purging and bleeding?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is important to restore the balance of humours, but my teacher Ibn Ibrahim maintained that this is best achieved by a poultice of yarrow and ensuring the injury is free to drain. Tightly wrapped wounds fester, because they trap evil humours. Rather than drawing them off by purges, I find it is better to let them ooze away of their own accord.’

  Paxtone was sceptical, and they were still debating the issue in a friendly way when they reached Isnard’s house. Bartholomew tapped on the door, aware of voices within. Isnard had more visitors. He was surprised to see Walter, Michaelhouse’s porter, there with his cockerel tucked under his arm.

  ‘I thought Isnard might like to see Bird,’ said Walter, standing when the physicians entered. ‘He often brings a smile to a sick man’s face.’

  ‘I am not sick,’ said Isnard, who was sitting up in his bed and looking more hale and hearty than the pallid Walter. ‘I am temporarily incapacitated.’ He pronounced the last two words carefully, evidently unused to them. ‘At least, that is what Master Bottisham says. Robert de Blaston the carpenter is going to make me a leg of wood. He is even carving a foot on it, with proper toes.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, easing away from Walter when he became aware that the cockerel had fixed its mean little eyes on him, evidently sizing him up as something to peck.

  ‘Thank you for bringing him, Walter,’ said Isnard. ‘But next time, I would prefer a wench. Even Agatha would do. I have not set eyes on a woman for five days now, and I am desperate.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Walter archly, offended that Bird should be regarded as second best to a woman. Walter had no time for ladies, which was why he was so well suited for life in a College like Michaelhouse, where, with the exception of Agatha, they were forbidden to enter.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isnard. ‘I would like to hear the choir. Can you ask Michael to bring them? I have a fancy for a little music.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ murmured Paxtone to Bartholomew. ‘The man is not healing after all. In fact, he is deranged and out of his wits. I can think of no other explanation for anyone willingly subjecting himself to the unholy caterwauling that passes for music among the Michaelhouse choir.’

  ‘Bishop Bateman’s death will be a blow to Gonville Hall,’ said Michael, not without malice, after the noon meal the following day. ‘His patronage was useful, and they will miss it now he has gone – especially since they have just started to build that chapel.’

  He was sitting in the conclave at Michaelhouse, a pleasantly comfortable chamber with a wooden floor and tapestries that took the chill from the stone walls. The College’s books were housed both there and in the hall, attached to their shelves by thick chains to ensure no one made off with them; books were rare and expensive, and no institution risked having them stolen. Each week, one of the Fellows was detailed to dust them and conduct an inventory, to make sure none were missing.

  Because the weather was still cold for the time of year, the conclave’s window shutters were closed, even though it was the middle of the day. The fire in the hearth sent a homely orange glow around the room, accompanied by the earthy scent of burning peat. There had once been glass in the windows, but a series of accidents had resulted in too many breakages, and Langelee had finally thrown up his hands in despair, claiming that the College could not fund repairs each time there was a mishap. Michaelhouse’s Fellows were forced to make a daily choice between a light room that was cold, or a dark one that was warm.

  The Fellows often gathered in the conclave on Sundays, to while away the hours until it was time to eat or sleep, while the students tended to claim the larger, but less comfortable hall next door. Michaelhouse had eight Fellows, including the Master, and all were present that afternoon. Some were trying to read by the flickering light of a wall torch, and others were just enjoying the opportunity to relax after a morning of masses.

  Langelee occupied the best chair, not because he was Master, but because he was strong and better equipped to seize it in the customary post-prandial scramble for seats. The elderly Gilbertine friar Kenyngham perched next to him, staring into the flames as he recited a prayer, wholly oblivious to the desultory conversations that were taking place around him. On Langelee’s other side, the gloomy Carmelite Thomas Suttone w
as informing Wynewyk that the plague would return in the next year or so, and kill everyone it had missed the first time round. Wynewyk was pretending to be asleep.

  Bartholomew and Michael sat at a table together. Bartholomew was sharpening the knives he used for the surgery of which his colleagues so disapproved, while Michael studied the message Master Colton of Gonville Hall had written to Chancellor Tynkell regarding the death of Bishop Bateman, looking for inner meanings that were not there. Meanwhile, the Dominican John Clippesby, who was Master of Music and Astronomy, watched the physician intently, like a cat waiting at the hole of a mouse. It was common knowledge, not only at Michaelhouse but throughout the town, that Clippesby was insane, largely because he held frequent and public conversations with animals and dead saints. His insanity did not usually induce bouts of unwavering scrutiny, however, and Bartholomew found it disconcerting. He tried to ignore him.

  ‘How will Gonville pay for their fine chapel with Bateman dead?’ asked the Franciscan Father William with spiteful satisfaction. He was the last of the Fellows, and occupied a comfortable wicker chair opposite Clippesby. He answered his own question gleefully. ‘They will not, and they will be left with a scrap of bare land and a few foundations for ever.’

  William had once been Michael’s Junior Proctor, but had performed his duties with such enthusiasm and vigour that even peaceful and law-abiding scholars were not safe from fines and imprisonment. Everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had been ‘promoted’ to Keeper of the University Chest. However, while most scholars were relieved to see him occupying what they considered a harmless post, Bartholomew was concerned. It was William who had revived interest in the dubious Hand of Valence Marie, using his new authority to rescue the so-called relic from the depths of the Chest and bring it back to the public’s attention by putting it on display.

  ‘Gonville’s chapel will be a very grand building,’ said Wynewyk, interrupting Suttone’s tirade about the plague. ‘It will have similar dimensions to one I saw in Albi, in southern France.’