‘We soon have this mess resolve,’ boasted Lavenham. ‘We finish by dusk, and then we all go to King’s Head for celebration ales.’
‘We shall not,’ said Master Thorpe firmly, accepting a pot of angelica root and handing some coins to Isobel. ‘It is only a preliminary meeting, and we cannot hope to forge a solution so quickly. I anticipate we will be working on this for some time to come – hearing witnesses and the arguments of lawyers for both sides.’
‘We see,’ said Lavenham smugly.
The physician nodded his thanks to Lavenham, ignored the wink thrown in his direction by Isobel, and followed Master Thorpe outside. He was immediately aware of how the shuttered windows banished sounds, for it was noisy in the street. Carts clattered as their wooden wheels snapped across a section of the road that had recently been cobbled, and a cacophony of animal sounds emanated from the Market Square. A cow lowed, probably being led to Slaughterhouse Lane, and a group of pigs squealed in voices that were eerily human. People hollered back and forth, while a mangy yellow dog yapped at a group of boys who were pelting it with mud.
‘I am sorry my son is here,’ said Master Thorpe quietly, as they walked to the High Street with Quenhyth trailing behind them. Like Constantine Mortimer, the Master of Valence Marie had changed since his son’s trial. He had lost his arrogance, and seemed kinder and more humble. ‘I tried to persuade him to leave again, but he is no longer a boy, and he listens to nothing I say.’
‘I doubt he listens to anyone,’ said Bartholomew, sensing the man’s distress. ‘It is not your fault he turned bad.’
Thorpe swallowed hard. ‘I hear Brother Michael is investigating the odd case of Deschalers and Bottisham in the King’s Mill. My son is a … I am afraid …’
Bartholomew understood what he was trying to say. ‘There is no evidence that your son had anything to do with it,’ he said, but suspected he did not sound very convincing. ‘Bernarde the miller would have seen him running away, had he been responsible.’
Thorpe was not so easily convinced. ‘He is a cunning lad, Bartholomew, and fooling a miller would be no great challenge for him. He has killed before, and the murders of Deschalers and Bottisham have already set town and University against each other. Perhaps that is why he came back: to start a riot that will damage us all. He has always been spiteful, and his exile has made him worse.’
Bartholomew suspected that nothing he could say would allay Master Thorpe’s fears. They ran deep, and there might even be something in them. Bartholomew had always thought it an odd coincidence that two dreadful murders should have occurred just after Thorpe and Mortimer had reappeared. But could Bernarde’s testimony be overlooked? And would the two young men really be so stupid as to kill as soon as they had been granted their royal pardons? He did not know the answers, but he did know that such a solution would exonerate Bottisham from the accusations that were beginning to circulate around the town. It was therefore an appealing one.
Master Thorpe said no more, and he, Bartholomew and Quenhyth walked in silence until they reached St Mary the Great. A small knot of people knelt outside the tower, eyes raised devoutly towards the chamber where the University Chest and its dubious contents were housed.
‘I wish you had never found that Hand,’ Bartholomew said fervently to Thorpe. ‘Even though we proved it was not a real relic, there are still folk who insist on its authenticity.’
‘I explained that phenomenon to you years ago,’ said Master Thorpe, a little condescendingly. ‘It does not matter whether it is authentic or not; what matters is what people believe. And people believe in the Hand. But you should not condemn folk for visiting it. Where lies the harm in giving them hope for hopeless causes?’
‘Because it is not real,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many times he would need to say it. ‘It is not the hand of a saint or a martyr. It is Peterkin Starre’s.’
Master Thorpe sighed. ‘You are still missing my point. Its authenticity does not matter! Do you really believe that the blood of Thomas à Becket can cure the blind? Or that St Etheldreda at Ely lies uncorrupted in her shrine? Of course not! We are men of science, who naturally question such claims. But others believe. And it is they, not the doubters, who are important here.’
‘Are you saying the University should encourage people in this lie? Give them false hope?’
‘I am saying the University should not keep the Hand from folk who think they need its comfort. Michael should make it available to everyone. There will be “cures” and “miracles”, and the University should accept the gratitude of successful petitioners. And then there will be fewer prayers answered than requests made, and people will begin to lose faith. Gradually it will be forgotten, and then you can throw it in the river.’
‘You mean we may be strengthening the cult by restricting access to the Hand?’
‘Precisely. By keeping it secret, you merely tell people it is important. Once it is freely accessible, and people can see it, then it will lose its mysterious appeal. You should act on my advice, Doctor: it is the only way to deal with the Hand of Valence Marie.’
Bartholomew was on his way to take the poultice to Isnard when three familiar figures approached him. He was appalled when he saw that one was his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore. He had been under the impression that his family had intended to remain in Huntingdon for some weeks, and was horrified that they were home early now that young Thorpe was at large. Matilde was with Stanmore, on her way home from the Market Square, and two of Yolande de Blaston’s children staggered under the weight of her purchases. The third familiar figure was Michael, who was rummaging in her baskets and brazenly helping himself to whatever edibles he could find. The children were far too sensible to try to deter the monk, while Matilde was so deeply engrossed in her discussion with Stanmore that she had not noticed what Michael was doing.
‘Why are you here?’ Bartholomew demanded of his brother-in-law when they drew level. ‘You should be in Huntingdon. Where is my sister?’
‘There is an affectionate greeting,’ said Stanmore to Matilde, his tone wry. ‘I have not seen Matt for nigh on six weeks, and this is how he hails me.’
‘Edith is still in Huntingdon,’ replied Matilde, understanding the reason for Bartholomew’s sharpness. ‘She will not return for some weeks, so do not worry about her.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew fervently. ‘But you should not be here either, Oswald, not with Thorpe stalking around. You should return to Huntingdon and stay there until he leaves.’
‘I certainly shall not,’ retorted Stanmore indignantly. ‘This is my home, and no ex-apprentice will drive me from it. Besides, it is not my fault he committed murder and was caught. I do not see how he can hold me responsible for his downfall, just because he was living in my house when it happened.’
Bartholomew saw there was no point in arguing, although he was certain that was not how Thorpe viewed the situation. He looked at Matilde. ‘How is Bess? Is she still with you, or have you found her somewhere else to sleep?’
Matilde frowned worriedly. ‘She owns a huge hoard of coins. I cannot imagine where it came from. Not from a grateful customer – it is far more than the usual going rate for Frail Sisters in Cambridge – even the very good ones.’
Michael chuckled, his cheeks flecked with pastry as he investigated another of her parcels. ‘Perhaps it came from Deschalers. I saw him towing her home at one point.’
‘So did I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was last Saturday, the day before he died.’ He saw Stanmore’s thoughtful expression. ‘But I do not think she is Deschalers’s killer.’
Michael agreed. ‘Especially if Bernarde is telling the truth about no one else being inside the mill.’
‘I would be surprised if Bess is your culprit, too,’ said Matilde. ‘She is too addled, poor thing. I sewed a secret compartment in her cloak for her coins, but I doubt she will keep them long, because she does not understand their value. She is staying with Una tonight.’
&nbs
p; ‘What about Dame Pelagia?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Has she gone, too?’
‘She has. It is just me, Yolande, Robert and their ten children now,’ said Matilde with a smile. ‘My house feels almost empty!’
‘Have you heard about the King’s Commission?’ asked Stanmore, who found town politics far more interesting than sleeping arrangements for madwomen.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Master Thorpe and Warde are good choices, but I do not think it was wise to have Bernarde and Lavenham on the committee, too.’
‘Why not?’ asked Stanmore. ‘They will ensure the Millers’ Society is properly represented.’
‘But there is no one to put the Mortimers’ side of the argument,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
Stanmore waved a dismissive hand. ‘That is unnecessary. They have no side worth presenting.’
Bartholomew was startled. ‘Why are you against them?’
‘The Mortimers full cloth at that mill, and it interferes with my business,’ replied Stanmore grimly.
‘But the next nearest fulling mill is in Ely,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Surely Thomas Mortimer provides you a valuable service?’
‘Not at the prices he charges,’ said Stanmore stiffly. ‘His brazen extortion is exactly the kind of sinful behaviour that will bring the pestilence back again.’
‘I have never understood fulling,’ said Michael, interrupting Bartholomew, who was about to argue that the price of cloth had nothing to do with whether the plague returned. ‘What is it, exactly?’
‘Only light cloths, like worsteds, are good without fulling,’ said Stanmore, sounding pompous as he lectured on something he knew a lot about. ‘But most materials these days are heavy broadcloths, and need to be felted. We do this by soaking them in an alkaline solution and pounding them. In the old days, this was done by men and women trampling the cloth with their feet, but we have moved on from primitive technology and use fulling mills now. These batter the cloth with wooden hammers that are driven by water. It is all very sophisticated. That is what happens at Mortimer’s Mill.’
Michael rummaged in another of Matilde’s baskets. ‘Is that it? Cloth is soaked, then thumped with hammers?’
‘Not at all,’ said Stanmore crisply. ‘That is only the beginning. After the pounding, the cloth is dried, then stretched on a device we call a “tenter”. The nap is raised by rubbing with teasels, and then evened with shears. It is difficult and exacting work, and one wrong move can destroy hours of labour. Then it is dyed. That is where I come in.’
‘That is a skilled process, too, I imagine,’ said Matilde politely.
The clothier puffed himself up. ‘It certainly is! I need to decide exactly how much of each dye will achieve the colour my customer wants, and I need to assess how long to leave a material soaking – too long may rot the cloth, too short will see it wash out. But it will not be long before Mortimer turns his hand to dyeing, too, and then where will I be? I have prayed to the Hand that he will lose his case, and that the King will order him to dismantle his mill before he does me harm.’
‘But the Commission comprises two men who have a vested interest in finding against him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Mortimer may decide to ignore its decision.’
‘No one would dare go against the King,’ said Stanmore. ‘His word is law.’
‘Until he changes his mind,’ said Bartholomew bitterly. ‘Look what happened with Thorpe and Edward and their royal pardons.’
Stanmore glanced around uneasily. ‘You should watch what you say, Matt. It is not wise to criticise our monarch so openly. You do not know who might be listening. I admire Dame Pelagia, as you know, but she is the King’s agent, and she may report you, if you are not careful.’
‘She would not,’ said Michael confidently, thrusting cake into his mouth. Matilde became aware that he was seriously depleting her supplies, and gestured for the children to move away. Michael sighed his annoyance, but still managed to secure some bread before they left.
‘You would not know she was listening,’ persisted Stanmore. ‘She is like a shadow: here one moment and vanished the next. Still, I feel better knowing she has come here to help us.’
‘She went to see Tynkell and Dick Tulyet today,’ said Michael. ‘Dick promised to lend her soldiers whenever she needed them. She says she plans to need them very soon.’
‘God help us,’ muttered Bartholomew. It was a bizarre situation indeed when men of power like the Chancellor and the Sheriff relied on an old lady to solve their problems.
‘Constantine admits he made a mistake in buying a pardon for his son,’ said Matilde. ‘He all but killed the fatted calf when Edward returned, but Edward declines to have anything to do with him.’
‘It is a pity Deschalers is dead,’ said Stanmore. ‘He could control Edward, because the lad is his kin by marriage to Julianna – and obeyed him to be sure of inheriting his wealth. There are rumours that Edward had him killed, and that he hired Bottisham to do it.’
Bartholomew was horrified, thinking that while Edward might well have had a hand in Deschalers’s death, Bottisham was unlikely to have been his willing tool. ‘Surely you do not believe that?’
Stanmore shook his head. ‘No, I do not. Edward and Thorpe are far too clever to start killing as soon as they arrive back in the town. But …’ He hesitated, and regarded Bartholomew uneasily.
‘But what?’ asked Bartholomew, with the sense that he was about to hear something he would not like.
‘But Bottisham is a different matter,’ said Stanmore. He held up a hand to quell the physician’s objections. ‘I know you liked him, Matt, but he and Deschalers had a history.’
‘We know,’ said Michael, throwing the bread to a hopeful dog. The discussion of the mill deaths had deprived him of his appetite. ‘About the field and the funds for the chapel.’
Stanmore nodded. ‘Deschalers’s abrupt withdrawal made other benefactors rethink, too, and Gonville was left in a terrible mess. He once told me that he had managed the whole thing out of spite, to humiliate Bottisham. It would not surprise me to learn Bottisham was so angry that he lured Deschalers to the King’s Mill and slew him. Then he killed himself when he realised he would hang.’
‘People do not hang for murder these days,’ said Matilde acidly. ‘They spend a couple of years in France, then return to claim compensation for false conviction.’
‘But Bottisham did not kill Deschalers, anyway,’ said Bartholomew, finding the discussion distasteful. ‘He would be more likely to use the law for vengeance.’
‘Deschalers was very rich,’ said Matilde thoughtfully. ‘I should inspect his will, if I were you, to ascertain whether he intended to change or amend it. It would not be the first time a man expressed a desire to leave his wealth to someone different, and those about to be disinherited took matters into their own hands. You should not strike anyone from your list of suspects yet, and …’
She trailed off as she became aware of a commotion near St Mary the Great, where a large number of people had gathered, as usual. As they moved towards the massing crowd, one word could be heard spoken over and over again. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he realised it was ‘miracle’.
‘Master Thorpe warned me about this,’ he said to Matilde. ‘He said there would be “miracles” if we continue to keep the Hand in a sealed room, and restrict access to it.’
‘He is right,’ replied Matilde. ‘Folk are far more interested in things that are forbidden. Bring the Hand out and display it, and it will be forgotten in a few months.’ She caught the arm of Una, who was hurrying away with her face set in a broad grin. ‘What is it? What is going on?’
‘A miracle,’ declared Una. ‘We knew it would only be a matter of time before one occurred, and we were right. This will be the first of many.’
‘What kind of miracle?’ asked Bartholomew warily.
‘Isnard the bargeman,’ said Una joyfully. ‘His severed leg has just regrown!’
CHAPTER 7
‘You
are a heartless man,’ said Michael approvingly, as he and Bartholomew walked home from Isnard the bargeman’s house later that day. ‘You dismayed half the town’s population, embarrassed Isnard, and exposed Thomas Mortimer as a fraud, all within a few moments.’
‘Mortimer is a selfish liar,’ declared Bartholomew uncompromisingly. ‘He informed everyone that Isnard’s leg had grown back because he had petitioned the Hand of Valence Marie on Isnard’s behalf. However, he knew it would not be long before someone noticed Isnard was still sans leg. When that happened, he planned to tell people that Isnard was so sinful, the cure had been withdrawn.’
‘It was a daring plan. Had it worked, it would have seen him free of all the venomous mutterings over the cart incident.’
‘He would have benefited enormously – at Isnard’s expense. However, when Isnard eventually wakes up from his drunken slumbers, he will find himself in great pain. His wound has reopened, because he allowed Mortimer to affix the wooden leg and take him out on it too soon. He might even die, if it does not heal.’
‘Isnard will do anything for a drink,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Even sit in the company of the man who injured him. He allowed himself to be plied with ale, carried to St Mary the Great with his new leg, and paraded as though he was fully recovered.’
‘And the astonishing thing is that people were prepared to believe it, even though Isnard could not stand and there was blood seeping from the injury.’ Bartholomew was disgusted. ‘That was partly Rougham’s fault, for supporting Mortimer when he said Isnard’s leg had reappeared. Was he drunk, do you think, to make such a stupid assertion?’
‘He was sober,’ replied Michael sombrely. ‘And you have made yourself a greater enemy of him than ever, by pointing out his folly to the crowd. You should have seen his face when you removed the bandages to reveal a bloody stump and a wooden calf. If he had been a man for surgery, one of his knives would be embedded in you this very moment.’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 25
