They walked slowly, taking the long way back along the river bank, since it was still too early for the evening meal, and neither wanted to sit in the conclave while William boasted about the revenues he was amassing from the ‘Hand of Justice’. Bartholomew heard several folk discussing the relic as they went, and was unsettled to hear its new name already in common usage. Edward was right: the epithet was one that people would readily adopt.
Early evening was a pleasant time in Cambridge, particularly when a blossom-scented breeze blew away the stench from the river and the manure-carpeted streets. The sun shone, giving an illusion of warmth, and seemed to cheer people as they wended their way home. Someone sang a popular song in a loud, toneless voice, and a small group of children, who had spent an exhausting day selling spring flowers, sprawled at the water’s edge to chatter and laugh.
A barge had arrived from the Low Countries, bringing fine cloth for Stanmore, and his apprentices hurried to transfer the valuable cargo to his warehouses before daylight faded and the wharves became dangerous. Bartholomew was delighted to see that he and Michael were not the only ones taking an evening stroll. Matilde was also out, holding the hand of a reluctant Bess. As they closed the gap between them, he admired Matilde’s slender body and the natural grace with which she moved. He hoped Yolande’s husband would finish his house soon; he longed for the family to move out, so he could have her alone again. It had already been far too long.
‘Your shadows are not with you tonight?’ Matilde asked, looking around as they met. ‘Quenhyth, Redmeadow and Deynman?’
‘Redmeadow and Deynman are at St Mary the Great,’ replied Michael. ‘Asking the Hand to tell them ways to discover whether Tynkell is afflicted with a certain rare physiology.’
‘Redmeadow is a curious young man,’ said Matilde. ‘I saw him early last Monday morning covered in pale dust, so he looked like a ghost. He was brushing at it furiously, but the stuff was difficult to get off. He told me it was the result of a practical joke Deynman had played on him, but I am sure he was lying. I suspect he had been with a woman.’
Bartholomew recalled seeing a whitish powder ingrained on the student’s sleeve, too, and supposed Redmeadow had used his teacher’s convenient absence on Sunday night – while he investigated the bodies at the mill – to secure himself a lover. Some of the town’s Frail Sisters used chalky substances on their faces, and Bartholomew knew such stains could be very difficult to remove.
‘Quenhyth is studying,’ said Michael, making it sound like the most dreadful of vices. ‘He does nothing else, and is as tedious a young fellow as I have ever encountered. He will make an extremely dull physician one day, who will kill his patients by boring them to death.’
‘He needs something to take his mind away from himself,’ said Matilde. ‘Also, he has the look of a young man who has been crossed in love.’
‘Quenhyth?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of the student’s prim manners. ‘I do not think so!’
‘You mark my words,’ said Matilde. ‘I am not saying he was involved in a physical affair, only that he loved someone who perhaps did not return his adoration. He is a passionate young man.’
Bartholomew supposed that was true. ‘But all his passion is aimed at his studies.’
‘For now,’ said Matilde. ‘But I would not like to be the woman – or the man – who attracts his devotion. He is very single-minded.’
‘She does not look as if she wants to go with you,’ said Michael, indicating Bess with a nod of his tonsured head. ‘Where are you taking her?’
‘To Una again,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know what else to do with her. Nothing she says makes any sense. I wonder how long she has been looking for her man.’
‘My man,’ murmured Bess, looking as if she expected him to appear. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘What does he look like?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that if he asked often enough he might have an answer.
Bess smiled for the first time since he had met her. ‘Beautiful and strong. Like a tree, with long limbs and smooth bark.’
‘I have seen no one answering that description,’ said Michael. ‘Have you tried the forest?’
‘My man does not visit woods,’ replied Bess, unusually communicative. ‘He prefers taverns.’
‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And what makes you think he is here?’
‘He might be here,’ she agreed. ‘His name was to have been “husband”.’
‘She had a lot of money two days ago, but there is not a penny left now,’ said Matilde. She turned to the woman. ‘Bess? Where is all that gold you had? Did someone take it?’
‘He promised,’ said Bess, her eyes filling with tears. ‘He said he would tell me.’
‘Someone promised to take you to your man if you gave him coins?’ asked Bartholomew.
Bess nodded. ‘But he did not know. I cannot find him. I have been looking since the snows fell.’
Matilde’s face was a mask of fury. ‘I knew some villain would cheat her. Have people no shame? How could they take advantage of someone who is out of her wits?’
‘Many felons will see her as fair game,’ said Michael. ‘I will ask my beadles to look for men spending gold they cannot explain, but I doubt we shall get it back for her.’
Bess went to stand at the edge of the river, gazing at the eddies created by the mills upstream.
Matilde watched her. ‘I think her man is dead, and his demise damaged her mind. She could spend the rest of her life looking for someone who is already in his grave,’ she said.
‘She looks like Katherine Mortimer,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I see Katherine each time I meet Bess now.’
‘But a very shabby and ill-conditioned Katherine Mortimer,’ said Matilde. ‘I wondered whether they might be related, too, and asked the Mortimers about it, but none admit to owning her as kin.’
‘We have just been to Deschalers’s house,’ said Michael, bored with the subject of the madwoman. ‘The Mortimers are squabbling over his estate like dogs with a carcass. It is not an edifying sight.’
‘That does not surprise me,’ said Matilde. ‘Deschalers was wealthy, and there is a good deal to fight over. I heard they quarrel frequently now Edward is back, whereas before they were rather taciturn. The Frail Sisters do not enjoy visiting members of the Mortimer clan these days, although they enjoyed the rare occasions when Deschalers summoned them.’
‘I did not know Deschalers regularly enjoyed whores,’ said Michael baldly.
‘He did not,’ said Matilde shortly, not liking the crude reference to women she regarded as her friends. ‘He liked an occasional female companion – but only after Katherine had ended their affair. He was also fond of Bernarde the miller’s wife – before she died of the Death, obviously.’
‘Bernarde’s wife?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. He exchanged a glance with Michael. Here was another reason why the miller might have killed Deschalers. No man liked being a cuckold, and Bernarde’s wife had been a pretty lady.
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Matilde. ‘I do not know whether Bernarde was aware of it or not.’
‘Would Deschalers have hired Bess?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking about the day she had followed the merchant’s horse, clearly bound for his home.
Matilde laughed. ‘Of course not! He would never have gone with an unclean thing like her. He prided himself on his standards.’
‘Then why was she with him on the High Street last Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I have no idea,’ said Matilde. ‘Perhaps she was following him in the hope of information about her man.’
‘Could Deschalers have known what happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I doubt it,’ replied Matilde. ‘Unless he hired the fellow to guard his goods or some such thing. Unfortunately, with Deschalers dead, there is no one to ask. His apprentices are unlikely to co-operate, given their bitterness over being left nothing in his will and then dismissed by Edward, a
nd Julianna will not know.’
‘I do not suppose you have heard anything about Deschalers or Bottisham through the Frail Sisters?’ asked Michael hopefully. A network of gossip was accumulated by the town’s prostitutes and fed to Matilde, who was very good at making sense of disparate details and putting them into context.
‘Not really,’ said Matilde. ‘I have asked them to listen for anything that may be important, but no one has said anything yet. Certainly no client has boasted of being the killer, or of knowing who the killer is. There is a lot of speculation, of course, but no evidence.’
‘And what does this speculation say?’ asked Michael, somewhat desperately.
‘That Thorpe and Edward are responsible, so that the University will rise up and attack the town.’
‘And what about Bosel the beggar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He has been all but forgotten.’
‘Bess is alleged to have made an end of him,’ said Matilde. ‘It is said that Thomas Mortimer hired her, to prevent Bosel from speaking against him over the accident that killed Lenne. But you can see for yourself that she is incapable of carrying out even the most simple of tasks – and murder would be wholly beyond her.’ She turned to Bartholomew. ‘How is Mistress Lenne?’
‘She is waiting for her son to arrive, but I think she will let herself die when he comes.’
‘Should we take her to the Hand of Justice?’ asked Matilde wickedly. ‘It may answer an entreaty from her, since she has been the victim of a particularly dreadful miscarriage of justice.’
‘Have you seen my man?’ came Bess’s pitiful voice from the river bank as she addressed someone who was passing.
Bartholomew turned just in time to see young Thorpe raise his hand to slap her so that she tumbled backwards on to the grass. Matilde gave a strangled cry and rushed to her side, while Bartholomew stepped forward and shoved Thorpe in the chest as hard as he could. He saw the young man’s face run through a gamut of emotions before he lost his balance: satisfaction, followed by alarm, ending with shocked indignation. Then he hit the water with a tremendous splash.
Stanmore’s apprentices released a great cheer when Thorpe disappeared under the sewage-dappled surface of the River Cam. The nearby bargemen started to laugh, and a number of children screeched their delight in high voices. Others flocked to join them, and soon a small but vocal crowd was watching the events that were unfolding on the river bank. It comprised scholars and townsmen, all united in a common purpose: when Thorpe emerged spluttering and spitting, they jeered at him with a single voice.
‘I am not sure that was wise, Matt,’ said Michael, watching with folded arms. ‘No man likes to be made a fool of, and you have turned Thorpe into a spectacle for all to mock.’
‘Help me!’ cried Thorpe as he floundered. Bartholomew was not unduly alarmed. The river was deep at that point, but Thorpe was easily reachable. ‘I cannot swim!’
‘Let him drown!’ called one of the apprentices. His sentiment was applauded by his fellows.
‘Is she all right?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to Bess. There was a trickle of blood from a split lip, but she seemed more shocked than harmed. ‘I do not like men who hit women.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Matilde furiously. ‘And if you had not punched him, then I would have done so.’
‘Help!’ gasped Thorpe, his voice barely audible over the sound of splashing. ‘Please!’
‘Pull him out, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘Tempting though it is to leave him there, my monastic vocation does not allow me to stand by while men die. Give him your hand.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will drag me in with him.’
‘Is this your idea of practising medicine?’ came an angry voice at Bartholomew’s shoulder. It was Rougham, and he wore a pained expression on his face. ‘You stand gossiping while a man drowns?’
‘I thought you were in Ely,’ said Michael. ‘With the other Gonville Fellows.’
Rougham looked smug. ‘Someone needs to stay here and look after College business. I have been entrusted with Gonville’s safe keeping until Acting Master Pulham and the others return.’
‘In that case,’ said Michael, ‘you can tell me why they all lied about the Mortimers’ donation—’
Rougham brushed him aside. ‘I will not answer questions put by the likes of you while a member of my own College perishes before my very eyes. I will save him!’
‘He can swim,’ said Bartholomew.
‘He is dying,’ countered Rougham firmly. He turned to the crowd. ‘Bartholomew may be content to stand by and watch a man perish, but I, William Rougham of Gonville Hall, am not. Remember that when you next summon a physician.’
‘Wait, Rougham,’ began Bartholomew. ‘He has—’
‘We can discuss your refusal to save lives later,’ said Rougham harshly.
He turned around, and made a great show of preparing himself. With much grunting and wincing, to demonstrate that what he did was not easy, he knelt on the river bank and offered an arm to the figure in the water. Thorpe flopped towards it, took the proffered hand and gave an almighty heave. Rougham went into the water head first, to emerge coughing and spluttering some distance away. There was another howl of delighted amusement from the onlookers.
‘We shall remember you, William Rougham of Gonville Hall,’ called Agatha the laundress, drawing more mocking laughter from the crowd. ‘But I prefer my physicians dry, thank you!’
Thorpe hauled himself from the river with one easy, sinuous movement. He stalked over to Bartholomew, and, for an instant, the physician thought he might draw a knife or strike him with his balled fists. But Thorpe was not stupid, and was aware of Michael standing nearby, not to mention Agatha. Since harming Bartholomew and escaping unscathed was impossible – Michael had grabbed a stout stick, while Agatha was casually inspecting one of her cooking knives – Thorpe settled for a warning.
‘I will not forget this, physician,’ he hissed venomously. ‘Your time will come.’
‘Help me,’ came an unsteady voice from the river.
‘If you harm another woman,’ said Bartholomew, in a quiet, calm voice that held far more menace than Thorpe’s hiss, ‘I will make sure you never feel safe again. That is not a threat, because threats are not always carried out.’
He shouldered Thorpe out of the way with more force than was necessary, and knelt on the bank to offer his arm to the floundering Rougham, hoping the Gonville physician did not also intend to drag his rescuer into the water. But Rougham was far too shaken to do anything of the kind. He grasped Bartholomew’s hand with a grip that was painful, and allowed himself to be helped out, to lie on the grass gasping like a landed fish.
‘He could swim,’ he panted furiously. ‘He said he could not. He deceived me!’
‘My brother-in-law teaches all his apprentices to swim,’ said Bartholomew, removing his cloak and offering it to his shivering colleague. ‘It is an essential part of their training, because they unload barges at the quays, and they occasionally fall in. I tried to warn—’
Rougham snatched the shabby garment. ‘You deceived me, too,’ he declared. ‘You happily allowed me to fall foul of that trick. Thorpe is not the only one who will have his revenge.’
Michael sniggered at the sight of the portly physician waddling away up the towpath with water slopping from his boots. ‘I did not think Rougham could despise you any more than he already does, Matt, but I see I was wrong. You have achieved the impossible!’
‘It was his own fault for not listening to me.’ Bartholomew gave a sudden grin. ‘But it was worth it! Who would have thought we would see Rougham and Thorpe take an unintentional swim? But it is cold here with no cloak. I am going home.’
They had barely reached the bottom of St Michael’s Lane when they met Walter. The porter was wearing one of his rare smiles, and Bartholomew supposed he had been among those who had witnessed the lessons meted out at the riverside.
‘You are needed at Valence Marie, Doctor,’
he said. ‘Urgent. Someone has been struck down and they want you to come. In fact, Master Thorpe said he would pay you double if you run.’
‘You had better go to it, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘I shall return to Michaelhouse, and you can give me the grisly details later – but not while I am eating.’
‘It is Warde,’ elaborated Walter. ‘He was eating his evening meal, when he began to cough. He is unable to stop and they think he will die.’
‘You should come with me, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, aware of a gnawing unease growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘Warde has a tickling throat, not a disease of the lungs. He should not cough so much that his colleagues are in fear of his life.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, alarmed. ‘That someone has done something to him?’
‘I think we should bear it in mind,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into a run, not because of the promised double fee, but because he liked Warde. ‘Do not forget that Warde is one of the King’s Commissioners.’
CHAPTER 8
Because the Hall of Valence Marie enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, money was no object for the scholars who lived there, and a good deal of it had been lavished on their home. The floor of the main hall had recently been relaid with mature oak, so that rugs and rushes were not needed to hide it, like those in most other Cambridge buildings. Its planks shone, carefully polished to show off the fine grain of the wood. The walls were adorned with tapestries sewn in bright colours, and their quality was so outstanding that Bartholomew assumed they must have been made by the Countess’s talented ladies-in-waiting.
At the far end of the hall was a new minstrels’ gallery. It, too, was made from best-quality oak, and had been seasoned and oiled to ensure it would last. The roof was a complex hammerbeam design, and had been painted in bright reds, golds and greens, so that students bored with their lectures could tip their heads back and lose themselves in the intricate patterns that swirled and twined above. Bartholomew was grateful that Michaelhouse had no such tempting distractions.
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 29
