The Hand of Justice (11 page)

‘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 was 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.’

‘Pride is a terrible sin,’ proclaimed Suttone in his
sepulchral voice. ‘It was pride that drove the scholars of Gonville to build themselves a chapel, and God is showing them
the error of their ways by taking away the man who might have paid for it.’

‘I do not follow your logic,’ said Bartholomew, looking up from his knives. ‘Are you saying God does not approve of chapels
being built? If that is the case we should raze St Michael’s to the ground, and conduct our offices in the graveyard instead.’

Suttone glared at him. ‘That is different. Michaelhouse men are not hedgerow priests!’

‘Neither are the scholars of Gonville. They are only doing what our founder did for us thirty years ago. What is wrong with
a College wanting its own chapel? Would
you
like to be in a position where you had to vie for space with half a dozen other institutions in St Mary the Great?’

‘Gonville’s building is sinful,’ persisted Suttone staunchly. ‘And it is pride and false humility that will have the Death
yapping at our heels again. You mark my words.’

‘It is a pity Warde declared Gonville the winner of the
Disputatio
yesterday,’ said Kenyngham, aiming to prevent a squabble. He abhorred discord and was always trying to keep the peace in
his College – which was no mean feat when there were belligerent and opinionated men like William, Suttone and Langelee to
contend with, to say nothing of the lunatic Clippesby. Bartholomew glanced up from his whetting and saw the Master of Music
and Astronomy still staring at him. He went back to ignoring him, hoping the Dominican would soon fix his manic gaze on something
else.

‘We were shamefully wronged by Warde,’ said William angrily. ‘Even the most stupid of mediators must have seen that
we
had superior arguments and that
we
debated with better skill.’

‘Warde is from Valence Marie, so what do you expect?’
said Suttone glumly. ‘I imagine Gonville bribed him to grant them the victory.’

‘They did not!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, laughing at the notion that Gonville would stoop to such a low trick – and that Warde
would accept the offer. ‘It was a perfectly fair contest, and Warde was right: Gonville did outperform us yesterday.’

‘Gonville won because the Question was about law,’ grumbled William. ‘It was an unfair choice on Tynkell’s part, because all
Gonville’s scholars, with the exception of Rougham, are lawyers.’

‘Gonville played us very fairly,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘They used Rougham as one of their disputants – and he is not a lawyer,
as you pointed out. They could have supplied three lawyers, not two and a physician. What is wrong, Clippesby?’ He was unable
to stand the unblinking gaze any longer. ‘You are making me nervous, and I do not want to slip and cut myself.’

‘I do not know why you possess knives,’ said Clippesby coldly. ‘You are supposed to be a physician, not a surgeon, so you
should not need such implements. The rats by the river told me that you severed the bargeman’s leg on Wednesday night. It
is not natural.’

‘The rats are right, Matt,’ said Langelee from the hearth. ‘You should not perform surgery. First, it is forbidden for those
in holy orders to practise cautery, and second, Robin of Grantchester will accuse you of poaching his trade again. We do not
want a dispute between you and him to spill over and become a fight between scholars and townsfolk.’

‘I am not bound by the edicts of the Lateran Councils,’ said Bartholomew, referring to a writ of 1284 that forbade clerics
to practise surgery. ‘I am not a monk or a friar. And what would you have had me do? Wait for Robin to finish his ale at the
King’s Head, while Isnard bled to death?’

‘Isnard would be dead for certain if Robin had got at
him,’ agreed Wynewyk. ‘Matt saved his life, so leave him alone, Clippesby.’

‘Now there are four physicians in Cambridge, you should be more careful, Matt,’ advised Michael, not for the first time. ‘You
have an odd reputation with your penchant for knives, and you will lose more customers to Paxtone and Rougham if you do not
watch out.’

‘What are they like?’ asked Langelee conversationally. ‘As medical men? I have met them both, of course, and Paxtone seems
a decent fellow, although I did not take to Rougham.’

‘Rougham is ambitious and aggressive,’ stated William in his uncompromising manner. ‘I do not like him.’ He folded his arms,
as if he considered the discussion over now that he had had his say. This was one of the reasons why he was never allowed
to represent Michaelhouse at debates.

‘Paxtone is a good physician,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But Rougham tends to dismiss any theories that are not written down in
Latin or Greek.’

‘Does he slice his patients up with sharp knives?’ asked Langelee meaningfully.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, becoming tired of pointing out that his most important duty was to save or cure a patient, and if
that involved surgery, then it was his moral obligation to offer that choice. The patient could always decline the treatment,
if he did not want it.

‘Then neither should you,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not want you accused of witchcraft. It would be embarrassing for the College
if you were put to death or exiled for unseemly practices.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ muttered Bartholomew, sharpening his knives more vigorously and sorely tempted to practise a little
surgery on some of his colleagues.

* * *

‘Has everyone heard the news about the town’s mills?’ asked Michael that evening, after Langelee had produced a cask of wine
as an unexpected Sunday treat, and the Fellows were in a more mellow frame of mind as they relaxed in the conclave. Bartholomew’s
knives were back in his bag, and he was scanning a tract on the Book of Job by the famous scholar Robert Grosseteste – which
was sufficiently uncontroversial to offend no one.

‘What about them?’ asked William drowsily. He had drunk twice as much as everyone else, and it had had a soporific effect
on him. This suited his colleagues very well.

‘There is a dispute brewing between them over water,’ said Michael. ‘I detect Edward Mortimer’s hand in it personally, because
his uncle’s fulling mill and the King’s Mill worked perfectly harmoniously together until
he
came back.’