Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  Lurking by the window was Edward, his face expressionless, while Julianna perched on a stool, looking bored and restless. Thorpe lounged against a nearby pillar, and his face creased into a sneer when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. Both he and Edward wore clothes that were dishevelled and soot-stained, although Bartholomew suspected they had done little to help quench any flames.

  ‘This was Mistress Lenne’s doing,’ said Constantine, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to face the scholars, and Bartholomew was shocked by the change in the man. He seemed small and cowed, and his bristling confidence had been replaced by a crushing grief.

  ‘She is dead,’ said Bartholomew, thinking the man must be out of his wits. ‘Whatever happened to Thomas was not her fault.’

  ‘It was!’ cried Constantine, so loudly that his voice echoed all around the church. Tynkell faltered at the High Altar mass, and the baker struggled to regain control of himself and explain. ‘She cursed Thomas with the Hand of Justice. She asked her son to carry her to it the day she died.’

  ‘She did,’ said Bartholomew to Michael. ‘The journey hastened her end by several hours. I wondered why she had insisted on going to the Hand, when it was clear she did not want to live. I assumed she was making an act of contrition for some ancient sin that plagued her conscience.’

  ‘She met Thomas there,’ continued Constantine in a whisper. ‘She looked him in the eye, pointed her finger at him, and declared he would die horribly for what he had done to her husband.’

  ‘We assumed the Hand of Justice had seen his side of the story when he was not struck down immediately,’ added Edward, who did not sound at all sorry that his uncle was dead. Bartholomew wondered if he stood to benefit in some way – perhaps he had urged his drunken kinsman to sign a document that would see him inherit the mill to the exclusion of more deserving heirs. ‘I see we were wrong.’

  ‘Mistress Lenne brought about my brother’s death,’ wept Constantine. ‘Poor innocent Thomas!’

  ‘He was hardly that!’ remarked Julianna from her stool. ‘Your brother did kill Mistress Lenne’s husband, Constantine. We all know that was no accident. I saw it with my own eyes.’

  Bartholomew stared at her. ‘You did? But why did you not tell the Sheriff?’

  Julianna raised her eyebrows in cynical amusement. ‘You think I should have told Tulyet that I saw my uncle-by-marriage so deep in his cups that his eyes were closed – I am sure he was asleep – when he drove his cart into that old man? Have you not heard of family loyalty, Bartholomew?’ Her voice took on a mocking quality, and she glared at Constantine, as if she had heard these words rather too often since her wedding.

  ‘Shut up, woman!’ snapped Edward.

  ‘Why?’ flashed Julianna. ‘Thomas is dead now – cursed by an old woman whose piteous voice was heard by the Hand of Justice. What difference does it make whether I speak out? Will you kill me, as you murdered Bosel?’

  ‘You must protect the Mortimer name – your name – now,’ said Constantine in a low, shocked voice. ‘You are our kin. And we did not kill Bosel. I have no idea who did that.’

  ‘Marriages can be annulled,’ said Julianna sulkily. ‘I know men who can arrange it, and I do not want Edward any more. He is disappointing as a lover now he has secured the Deschalers fortune. He prefers the company of his man-friend to that of his wife.’ She made an obscene gesture in Thorpe’s direction, lest anyone be in any doubt as to what she meant.

  ‘No, I am just weary of you,’ said Edward unpleasantly. ‘Other women in the town can attest to my manliness, so do not think to tarnish me with that brush.’

  ‘I do not care about your family obligations,’ said Michael sternly to Julianna. ‘You should have told the truth about what you saw.’

  ‘I know,’ said Julianna bitterly. ‘I should have denounced the old sot and seen him hanged.’

  ‘So what stopped you?’ demanded William.

  ‘This lot,’ said Julianna, waving a hand at her assembled in-laws. ‘They kept droning on and on about kinship and loyalty, and they nagged me so much that I did as they asked, just to shut them up. But justice prevailed in the end. The Hand and Mistress Lenne saw to that.’

  ‘You are still under an obligation to put your new family first, Julianna,’ said Constantine hoarsely. ‘Thomas’s death does not change the fact that you are married to my son.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied Julianna enigmatically, causing Constantine to look sharply at her, although Edward did not deign to respond. He smiled, rather unpleasantly, as though he knew something she did not. Bartholomew guessed what it was: Julianna was clearly under the impression that she could have her marriage dissolved, just as she had done with Master Langelee, but she would be in for a shock. Marriages were not often annulled, especially not if the husband objected. Julianna’s inheritance represented a fortune, and Edward was not going to let any part of it slip through his fingers. Poor Julianna was stuck with him, no matter what she thought.

  ‘What happened to Thomas?’ asked Michael, looking down at the shrouded figure.

  Edward stepped forward and whisked the sheet away so that Bartholomew and Michael could see the extent of the injuries Thomas had suffered before his death. His clothes were drenched in blood, his face was crushed almost beyond recognition, and his limbs and chest were unnatural shapes where bones had broken. But if Edward had wanted to shock the scholars, he was disappointed. Bartholomew had an academic interest in such matters, while Michael, although he disliked the more grisly aspects of his post, had sufficient self-control not to flinch. Even William had seen enough violent death to be dispassionate.

  ‘A horse bolted from Lavenham’s stables during the fire,’ said Constantine, sounding as if he was going to cry again. ‘It collided with Thomas, and he was trampled.’

  ‘He was drunk when the fire raged,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how the miller had reeled and slobbered from his wineskin just before the inferno had started. He edged past Michael to inspect the body properly, and frowned. The injuries did not fit with the story he had been told. ‘But there are no hoof marks here. Just signs that he was crushed.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Edward. ‘There are hoof marks everywhere and we shall use them as proof.’

  ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘Proof that will allow us to sue Lavenham,’ said Edward, casually inspecting his fingernails. ‘He was negligent in the way he stabled his nags. If he had tethered them properly, they would not have escaped and Thomas would still be alive.’ He exchanged a grin with Thorpe.

  Bartholomew gazed at him, uncertain whether he was making a jest in poor taste, but he seemed perfectly serious. Julianna saw the physician’s bemusement.

  ‘He means it,’ she said. ‘He really does intend to make Lavenham pay for the death of Thomas.’

  ‘After what you have just said?’ asked Michael, astounded. ‘That Thomas killed Lenne and injured Isnard because he fell asleep at the reins? Does it not occur to you that suing Lavenham would be a gross injustice?’

  Thorpe did his best to be nonchalant, but he was enjoying himself too much to succeed. His smile was triumphant when he saw the scholars’ shock. ‘We know our rights. The town did not care about justice when Edward and I were ordered to abjure the realm, so why should we care about it now?’

  ‘Well, you might take a lesson from Thomas,’ suggested Michael. ‘He thought he could evade punishment for his sins, and look what happened to him.’

  Thorpe had the grace to look uneasy, but Edward did not react. ‘That is different,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ asked William.

  ‘Because we have not been cursed by Mistress Lenne.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Thorpe, regaining his confidence. ‘Nor did we crush any old men with carts. The folk we killed two years ago deserved to die.’

  Some of Edward’s family looked distinctly uncomfortable with this claim, and one of them collected his wife and aimed for the door. Two or three others followed, and Bartholomew
saw there were fractures in the clan that had not been there before. A month ago, they would have stuck together no matter what, but Edward’s outrageous behaviour seemed too much, even for them. Constantine watched the dissenters leave with a troubled expression.

  ‘The Hand of Justice will never allow mischief to befall us,’ Thorpe continued, ignoring the small exodus. ‘It knows how we have suffered – exiled to places like Albi and Calais.’

  ‘But even if Lavenham survived the fire, he will be penniless,’ reasoned Michael. ‘The fire deprived him of all he owns. He will not be able to pay you anything – negligently tethered horses or no.’

  ‘That is not our problem,’ said Thorpe loftily. ‘The town will pay – as it will pay the compensation owed to me and Edward for our unjust banishment. After all, it is only fair.’

  Neither Bartholomew nor Michael could think of much to say as they walked to Tulyet’s house on Bridge Street that evening. They were appalled by Edward’s plan to sue Lavenham and, while they hoped the law would be sufficiently sane to see the claim for the outrage it was, their recent experience with England’s eccentric legal system and its dishonest clerks did not fill them with confidence.

  ‘I cannot believe this,’ said Michael, as they passed the outskirts of the Jewry. A miasma of rosewater still encased him, and Bartholomew tried to keep his distance. ‘If the Mortimers gain a single penny over Thomas’s death I shall join those restless peasants who are urging rebellion, and overthrow the King myself.’

  ‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, glancing around him uneasily. The monk’s voice had been loud, and there were plenty of people close enough to have heard. ‘You are always warning me about making treasonous remarks, but I have never made that sort of proclamation on the High Street.’

  ‘Well, I am angry,’ pouted Michael. ‘And disillusioned. I have been upholding University laws for five years now, and I thought right was on my side. But, in the last two weeks I have seen murderers pardoned; I have seen them awarded money for their “suffering”; I have seen a drunken merchant crush folk under his cart with no reprisals; I have seen Deschalers, Warde and Bottisham dead by foul means and I do not know why; and I have seen Bosel callously dispatched to protect Thomas’s precious reputation. And now Edward plans to sue the destitute Lavenham.’

  ‘We do not know Lavenham is destitute,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He may have a fortune secreted away – he certainly still has his share of the King’s Mill. And he may be dead and therefore beyond the Mortimers’ clutches. We do not know Bosel was killed to protect Thomas, either. Constantine says not. And finally you know as well as I do that “right” and “justice” have nothing to do with the law, so you cannot be disillusioned.’

  At Tulyet’s house, Michael rapped on the door, becoming impatient when it was not answered immediately. He had missed a number of snacks that day, so was hungry and wanted to get at Mistress Tulyet’s lamb and Lombard slices as soon as possible.

  ‘Summer must be closer than I thought,’ said Tulyet, ushering them inside. ‘I can smell blossom. Rather strongly, actually. Or perhaps one of the Frail Sisters passed this way, and her scent lingers.’

  ‘Weeds,’ said Tulyet’s wife, coming to greet them and also detecting something aromatic. ‘Like lily of the valley or some such plant. No. It is less pleasant than that. Henbane. I believe that reeks at this time of year.’ She inspected the bushes that grew along the front of her house.

  ‘Henbane killed Warde,’ said Michael, making his way to Tulyet’s solar and oblivious to the mortified expression on the faces of his hosts as they identified the origin of the stench. ‘It is not hard to believe that something so foul-smelling contains such a virulent poison.’

  ‘And Bess,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting her to be forgotten. He entered the solar behind Michael and was surprised to see Stanmore there, sipping warmed wine by the hearth. The clothier winked at Bartholomew and told him that it was more pleasant to inveigle invitations from friends than to dine alone while his wife was away.

  ‘God’s angels!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. ‘What is that?’

  He pointed to an object that lay on its side in one corner of the room, all wooden legs and frayed fur, like a Trojan horse that had seen some terrible wars. Its face was unscathed, however, and Bartholomew immediately recognised the beady, malevolent eyes and grinning, tooth-filled mouth of the toy Quenhyth had crafted.

  ‘We have young Quenhyth to thank for that,’ said Tulyet with a fond smile. ‘He gave it to Dickon when he hurt himself, and it has become his favourite toy. I offered to return it, since it was originally intended for Quenhyth’s brother, but the kind lad said we could keep it.’

  Bartholomew imagined that Quenhyth’s generosity had nothing to do with kindness. He knew he was likely to be asked to help tend Dickon in the future so would not want to accept the toy back and run the risk of being speared by Dickon’s wooden sword when their paths next crossed.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Michael dubiously, picking up the object by one of its legs. It had suffered during its few days in the Tulyet house. One of its feet had broken, there were bald patches where its fur had come off, and it was missing its tail.

  ‘It is a rat,’ came the piping, childish voice of Dickon from behind them, where he had been eating the sugared cherries off the tops of all the Lombard slices. ‘You stink! I am a Saracen!’

  With a wild whoop and little warning, Dickon produced the dreaded sword and rushed at Michael, brandishing it to show he meant serious harm. Bartholomew had never seen the monk move so fast, and Dickon’s weapon succeeded only in cleaving thin air. Aggrieved to be deprived of his target, the brat looked around furiously, and drew breath for another attack.

  ‘Dickon!’ shouted Tulyet. ‘What have I told you about assaulting guests?’

  Dickon’s dark eyes settled rebelliously on his father, and then with calm deliberation he issued another ear-piercing war-shriek and aimed for Michael a second time. This time the monk was ready. He gripped the rat in both hands and used it to block the sword’s hacking blow. The toy disintegrated in his hands, the head skittering off to land in the fire and the body falling in two unequal pieces to the floor. Michael was left holding a hind leg that ended in some vicious-looking splinters. Dickon gaped at the shattered ruins in disbelief, and his little sword dangled at his side.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Now look what you have done.’

  Slowly it dawned on Dickon that his rat was irreparably damaged. He opened his mouth and roared his fury at the world – and at Michael in particular – with all the power his lungs could muster. Bartholomew winced, certain it was not normal for a small child to generate such volume.

  ‘You will hurt your throat,’ he warned, although whether Dickon heard him was a matter of conjecture. He considered repeating the message, then decided that a sore throat might actually benefit Dickon’s parents. He should not deprive them of a quiet week by attempting to soothe the brat.

  ‘I will take him to the garden,’ shouted his mother. ‘You said you wanted to talk, and you will not be able to do so with him here. Do not forget to bar the door. He will not stay outside for long.’

  ‘Do hurry back,’ said Michael to Dickon, with what Bartholomew thought was raw menace. ‘I would like to play with you again.’

  Dickon’s howls stopped, and he regarded Michael with a coolly assessing eye. Bartholomew watched him reach the understanding that Michael was not someone who would be easily bested. Dickon was the first to look away. He continued his bawling, although not quite as loudly, as his mother led him away by the hand.

  ‘Are you sure he is yours, Dick?’ asked Michael, following Tulyet into the chamber he used as an office and watching him secure the door in a way that would have probably deterred several real Saracens. ‘Only I have heard that the Devil occasionally sires a child.’

  Tulyet was not amused. ‘Matt says he will grow out of his tantrums soon. We probably should not indulge him so, but
my wife still has not forgotten the time when ruthless men stole him from us.’

  ‘I would like to see them try now,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that anyone who deliberately sought out the company of Dickon deserved everything he got. Stanmore added a nod of heartfelt agreement.

  ‘He is a dear child,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I can barely remember what it is like to have a peaceful home. Still, he will soon be old enough to play with other children, and that may calm him.’

  ‘Julianna’s daughter?’ suggested Stanmore. ‘She is a brat who knows her own mind. You should betroth them. It would be an excellent marriage for both children.’

  ‘An excellent marriage for their parents, perhaps,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But they would probably kill each other on their wedding night.’ He thought he heard Stanmore mutter ‘quite’.

  Tulyet poked the fire in the hearth until there was a merry blaze. Shadows flickered across the walls, making the murals seem alive, with leaves moving in a breeze and strange beasts lurking among the foliage. Tulyet gave a hearty sigh when Dickon gave his most almighty screech yet, and made a comment about how difficult it was going to be to get him to sleep that night, after the excitement of the day.

  ‘He shouted “fire”,’ said Bartholomew, going to the window and throwing the shutter open. So far, Dickon’s parents had kept him away from flames, but the physician knew it was only a matter of time before the hellion learned it was a usefully destructive force. He did not want to be sipping wine in Tulyet’s sealed office while the house burned, and end up like Bernarde.