Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘I hope Tulyet orders Thomas Mortimer to pay most of it,’ said Lenne in disgust. ‘Justice!’ He spat at the river, causing a flapping frenzy among the ducks, and stalked away. Bartholomew thought he had every right to be angry, and wondered if he might decide to dispense a little ‘justice’ of his own. He said as much.

  ‘He will not,’ said Isnard. ‘He will rage and rail, then he will bury his mother and go back to Thetford. He is not stupid, and knows the law favours the rich. But perhaps he should ask his prior to petition the King, to tell him what is really happening here. His Majesty deserves to know what vile things are being done in his name.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I suspect he already does,’ said Bartholomew. He recalled what Tulyet had said about the law. ‘But it is all that stands between us and chaos.’

  ‘I suspect we will soon learn that it does not make a very good barrier,’ said Isnard. ‘There are rumblings of discontent in this town – about the ownership of the Hand, about the mills, and about the compensation for Thorpe and Edward. It will not be long before we are in flames.’

  Bartholomew felt even more restless after his encounter with Isnard, and did not know what to do to take his mind off the array of problems and questions that tumbled about his mind like demanding acrobats. When Michael would have strolled back towards Michaelhouse, Bartholomew steered him to the High Street instead, thinking they could walk as far as the Castle or beyond. The hill would be good exercise for Michael, and there was a sick woman in the derelict cottages opposite the fortress who might appreciate a visit from a physician and a monk.

  As they approached the Church of All Saints in the Jewry, Bartholomew saw people begin to emerge after its Sunday service. Among them were Stanmore and Tulyet, who expressed their sadness over the death of Warde.

  ‘What is this about the town paying Thorpe and Edward Mortimer for the costs of their exile?’ demanded Michael, brushing their condolences aside. ‘Surely it cannot be right?’

  Tulyet’s expression was disgusted. ‘I had word from the King’s Bench yesterday, and the sum we have been ordered to pay is enormous. It will cause all manner of strife, because the burgesses are already demanding that some of it should be paid by the University.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Michael indignantly. ‘Neither Thorpe nor Mortimer were scholars when they committed their crimes. Why should the University contribute to compensation?’

  ‘Because the merchants are already struggling to fund the repairs to the Great Bridge,’ replied Tulyet tartly. ‘Thorpe and Mortimer’s demand has come at a very bad time.’

  ‘The burgesses are right,’ said Stanmore who, as one of the town’s wealthiest merchants, was likely to be asked to put up a significant amount. ‘The University should help us with this.’

  ‘Will you contest the decision?’ asked Bartholomew of Tulyet. ‘There must be something we can do to avoid rewarding criminals for their wrongdoings.’

  ‘We have no case,’ said Tulyet. ‘The King’s Bench has made a decision in His Majesty’s name, and we cannot refuse to part with our gold because we think it is wrong. The King would respond by accusing us of rebellion. All we can do is pay the money, and hope Thorpe and Mortimer leave.’

  ‘I will never pay a Mortimer,’ vowed Cheney the spicer, overhearing their discussion as he walked past. He bustled forward to have his say. ‘Not a penny! I hurl stones every time I see Edward swagger along the High Street, but I always miss.’

  Cheney’s Millers’ Society colleagues were at his heels. They had evidently been using the service to engage in a little impromptu business, because all held documents, and Morice carried an abacus.

  ‘We were sorry about Warde,’ said Isobel, breaking off from an apparently intense discussion with Bernarde and her husband. ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘The King’s Commission miss he,’ said Lavenham gravely, when she pinched his arm to tell him to make a suitably sympathetic comment. ‘He school-man with nose in book, but honest.’

  ‘He was fair minded,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘I do not know how the King’s Commission will fare without his calm voice and gentle reason.’

  ‘Master Thorpe will be even-handed,’ said Michael.

  ‘So will I,’ declared Bernarde, affronted. ‘And Lavenham. We will give the King the verdict he wants.’

  ‘Point proven,’ muttered Bartholomew.

  ‘I do not see your problem,’ said Bernarde, genuinely puzzled. ‘Surely you want the King happy?’

  ‘Everyone wants the King happy,’ said Stanmore, before his brother-in-law could incriminate himself by saying he did not much care. ‘The King unhappy is always a bad thing, because it means increased taxes. None of us want that.’

  There was a chorus of fervent agreement, with Cheney adding that it was especially true now everyone had to dig deep in his coffers to pay Edward and Thorpe’s compensation – as well as financing the repairs to the bridge.

  ‘Master Warde was not as unbiased as everyone believes,’ said Bernarde, returning to the matter of the Commission. ‘When we had our first meeting, he insisted on putting the Mortimers’ point of view – and Master Thorpe actually listened to him.’ He sounded as if he could scarcely credit their outrageous behaviour.

  ‘Did he, by God?’ said Cheney, pursing his lips in disapproval. ‘I might have known scholars would support the wrong side. After all, the Mortimers did choose Gonville Hall to present their case at the formal hearing, and University men always stick together.’

  ‘They cleaves with each other,’ agreed Lavenham angrily. ‘Like with Hand of Injustice, which belong to town. School-men claim belong to University.’

  ‘The Hand of Justice, Lavenham,’ corrected Bernarde. ‘It does not do to confuse them.’

  ‘Why not?’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Everyone else does, including the King.’ Michael gave him a hard elbow-jab that hurt enough to make him think twice about saying anything else.

  ‘If the University is forced to help pay this compensation, they will definitely keep the Hand of Justice for themselves,’ said Cheney angrily. ‘They will continue to lock it in St Mary the Great, and it will cost us townsfolk dear each time we want to petition it.’

  ‘But Father William has been charging scholars and townsfolk the same amount,’ said Tulyet reasonably. ‘There was a nasty argument this morning, because he refused Langelee a free viewing. They almost came to blows, and only the intervention of Dame Pelagia prevented a brawl.’

  ‘That Hand will cause trouble wherever it goes,’ said Michael. ‘Young Thorpe has asked the King if Gonville can have it. But other Colleges are sure to be jealous. As far as I am concerned, the town can have the thing, and good riddance.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Tulyet hastily. ‘I do not want to deal with the strife it will cause, either.’

  ‘Warde’s will is going to be read tomorrow morning,’ said Stanmore, changing the subject to one all merchants loved: money. ‘He was a wealthy man by University standards. I wonder what he will leave his College.’

  ‘Books, I imagine,’ said Cheney distastefully. ‘It is what they all like. Did you hear about Deschalers’s will? Julianna inherited the lot.’

  ‘Except for a wooden chest,’ said Stanmore. ‘That went to some clerk, although I understand it is a paltry thing. The clerk admired it – he was probably being polite – and Deschalers took him at his word. I suspect the fellow is now wishing he had praised something a little more expensive.’

  ‘I would be,’ said Bernarde wistfully. ‘A box is useful, but virtually worthless. Deschalers did not leave his apprentices a penny, you know. He was wrong to be so miserly. They served him for many years, and they deserved better.’

  ‘And then Edward dismissed most of them,’ added Cheney. ‘It is almost as if he wants his business to fail. How will he run it without men who know what they are doing? He has neither the experience nor the knowledge to become a grocer.’

  ‘I do not think he intends to stay long,’ said Stanmore. �
�A man intent on making a venture profitable does not rid himself of those who can help him. I suspect he intends to reap what funds there are – from Julianna’s inheritance and this wretched compensation – and then leave.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Tulyet. ‘He has done nothing criminal yet, but he has come close. He pesters the Frail Sisters, too. I doubt Julianna would approve, if she knew. Perhaps I should drop her a few hints. That would put an end to his philandering.’

  ‘Be direct,’ advised Stanmore. ‘She is not a woman who understands hints.’

  Tulyet balked. ‘That would be a gentlemanly thing to do.’

  Bartholomew listened to them with half an ear. He was looking towards the well in the Jewry, where the object of their discussion was lounging against a wall. Edward Mortimer, with Thorpe at his side, was watching the young women lining up to draw water. The girls soon became uneasy under their lecherous scrutiny. Mortimer moved close to one of the prettiest and whispered something in her ear, pushing himself against her. She dropped her bucket and fled, tears starting from her eyes, while the others edged closer together, their faces rigidly hostile.

  Mortimer was unperturbed by their animosity. He merely selected another victim, and began to look her up and down as a housewife might examine a carcass at the butchers’ stalls. Bartholomew took several steps towards him, intending to intervene if he made a nuisance of himself: he had meant what he had said to Thorpe on the river bank the previous day and, as far as he was concerned, the threat applied to Mortimer, too. He was just close enough to hear what was being said, when a familiar figure sidled up to the miscreants and the women used the distraction to scatter.

  ‘I have been hoping to meet you, sir,’ said Quenhyth with one of his ingratiating smiles.

  ‘I have already told you that I do not want your services,’ snapped Mortimer, angry to have lost his prey. ‘I can write as well as, or better than, you, and I do not require a scribe.’

  ‘But I need the money,’ objected Quenhyth in a whine. ‘How can I buy medicines for the patients I will soon have, if I have no funds? Every other student in the University makes ends meet by scribing for wealthy merchants, and I am the only one without a patron. Even Deynman writes for Stanmore on occasion.’

  ‘Clear off!’ growled Thorpe.

  ‘But I have tried everyone else,’ persisted Quenhyth. ‘Redmeadow works for Cheney, and Ulfrid and Zebedee, the Franciscans, scribe for Bernarde and Lavenham. You are my last hope.’

  ‘You are not the sort any decent man would hire,’ said Thorpe nastily. ‘You are opinionated and judgmental, and no one likes you.’

  Bartholomew saw Quenhyth blanch, and felt sorry for him. He had forgotten Quenhyth was short of funds, and felt he must be desperate indeed if he was obliged to beg for work from Mortimer.

  ‘I am liked,’ said Quenhyth in a strangled voice. ‘Deynman and Redmeadow are fond of me.’

  ‘Deynman tolerates you,’ said Mortimer unpleasantly. ‘But Redmeadow loathes you. I heard him telling Cheney so the other day, when he was scribing for him in St Clement’s Church. He says you spy on him all the time, so he cannot do what he wants.’

  Bartholomew wondered what Redmeadow had meant, but then reflected that Quenhyth was a sanctimonious lad, who made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of rule-breaking. Redmeadow had probably learned that he could not drink in taverns, gamble, or flirt with the town’s women as long as Quenhyth shared his room.

  ‘We are busy,’ snarled Mortimer at the hapless student. ‘Do not bother us again.’

  He strutted away, heading towards a tinker, who was flouting Sunday laws by sitting with his wares laid out on a dirty rug. The tinker reached out to attract his attention, and Bartholomew was astonished to see Mortimer kick him. The tinker reeled, but recovered to screech curses after the swaggering men. When they reached the edge of the Jewry, Mortimer turned and made an obscene gesture, which resulted in even more frenzied oaths. Thorpe immediately retraced his steps. Bartholomew could not hear what was said, but the tinker fell silent. He bowed his head as the two felons left.

  Bartholomew watched with distaste. Folk who were obliged to peddle their wares from rugs on the ground were the poorest of traders, and could not be blamed if the occasional hand reached out to a potential customer. Bartholomew disliked being grabbed himself, but it was easy enough to pull away. Mortimer’s kick had been vicious and unnecessary. Not for the first time the physician wondered what kind of men the King’s clerks had set free with their casually granted pardons.

  Michael was happy to continue gossiping with the merchants, but the incident with the tinker had unsettled Bartholomew. He followed Thorpe and Mortimer at a discreet distance until they entered a tavern on the High Street, open despite Sabbath restrictions. He peered through a window shutter and heard them demanding ale from a pot-boy. He supposed that as long as they were in an inn, the town’s women would be safe enough – until the two men emerged fuelled for more mischief. He moved away as the first heavy drops of a spring shower started to fall, turning his thoughts back to whatever it was that Redmeadow wanted to do that Quenhyth’s presence at Michaelhouse made difficult. Was it more than a mere flouting of the University’s rules? Had Cheney asked his scribe to do something to further the mill dispute, something Redmeadow was finding difficult because of his roommate’s nosy presence?

  Bartholomew retraced his steps up the High Street, passing the row of hovels opposite the Hospital of St John. The shacks had been an eyesore for years. Their roofs sagged, wall plaster dropped to the ground in clumps when it was too wet or too dry, and they stank of mould and decay. During the previous winter, snow had caused roofs to collapse, and some major restoration had been necessary – a task undertaken by the carpenter Robert de Blaston, on the understanding that one house would be his when it was completed. Matilde was looking forward to the day when the carpenter, his wife and their children moved into their own home, and so was Bartholomew. He longed to have her to himself again.

  Since he was close, he walked to her house, and knocked on the door. The metal hinges gleamed like gold, and the wood had been polished so that he could all but see his face in it. He smiled. Blaston’s brood were not taking Matilde for granted, and were doing small tasks to repay her for her hospitality.

  Matilde was pleased to see Bartholomew, while Yolande immediately removed herself to the pantry at the back, where delicious smells indicated there was a meat stew simmering. She took one baby with her, and called to another to follow, but Bartholomew and Matilde were still accompanied by at least three children he could see, and a peculiar sensation at the back of his head made him suspect there were more hiding on the stairs. Within moments, they heard the sound of water splashing, and Matilde raised her eyes heavenward.

  ‘Yolande has cleaned my pans at least three times today. If she continues to scrub them so often, she will scour through their bases.’

  ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ asked Bartholomew, unnerved by so many silent watchers.

  ‘It is raining,’ said Matilde with a laugh. ‘But do not mind the children. They are always good when you are here. In fact, I am thinking of asking you to move in, too, because they are never so demure the rest of the time.’ She ruffled the hair of the one who sat at her feet.

  ‘We should introduce them to Dickon Tulyet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He could learn from them how to behave when there are guests in the house.’

  ‘Dickon is a reformed character,’ said Matilde. ‘He has met his match.’

  ‘Did the Devil pay him a visit, then?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. Julianna Mortimer invited him to play with her daughter – the child that came from her marriage to Master Langelee – and Dickon has not misbehaved since. If he screams now, his mother only needs mention a visit to Julianna and he becomes as quiet as a lamb. I would not accept her as a patient, if I were you, Matthew. Leave her for Rougham.’ Her expression was angry, and Bartholomew supposed she had heard the accus
ations Rougham had made about Warde. He did not want to discuss it, so said the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘Michael appointed me as his Corpse Examiner last week,’ he said, before realising that such a topic was hardly suitable for the ears of small children.

  ‘I heard,’ said Matilde. ‘It is no more than you deserve, although I imagine you dislike being at his beck and call in an official capacity.’

  ‘I need the money it pays. Most of my wealthy patients have gone to Rougham or Paxtone, and I cannot buy the medicines I need for the others without their fees.’

  ‘You are a good man, Matthew,’ said Matilde. ‘I heard you gave your last penny to make a potion for Una, and you have not charged Isnard for your services. I would help you, but …’ Her eyes strayed significantly to the child who had made itself comfortable on her feet. She changed the subject. ‘I hear you earned another fourpence last night.’

  ‘Warde from Valence Marie,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He died of coughing.’

  ‘Is that natural?’ asked Matilde. ‘I have never heard of such a thing.’

  ‘It is not impossible,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I did not examine him properly when he was alive, so it is difficult to say what happened.’

  ‘Rougham did not examine him properly, either,’ said Matilde with distaste. ‘He calculated a horoscope, but he did not put an ear to Warde’s chest and listen to the sounds within, as you do.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Surely you were not present when Warde summoned Rougham for a consultation?’

  ‘Neither was Rougham,’ said Matilde. ‘The whole thing was conducted through a messenger – young Alfred, here.’ She nodded to a black-haired boy of nine years or so, who was sitting near the hearth, listening to the conversation with his chin resting on his cupped hands. ‘Tell him, Alfred.’

  ‘The scholars at Valence Marie often use me if they want messages delivered,’ said Alfred proudly. ‘They say I am honest and reliable. Master Warde paid me a penny for taking spoken missives to Doctor Rougham and carrying others back. I remember everything they said.’