The Hand of Justice (28 page)

Bartholomew was surprised, since he had never seen the Michaelhouse lawyer and the King’s Hall physician together before.
He started to walk towards them, intending to pass the time of day, but Paxtone happened to glance up and see him. He grabbed
Wynewyk’s arm and hauled him towards the Trumpington Gate. Wynewyk stole a quick look behind him as they went, and walked
even faster when he saw Bartholomew was watching. The physician stared in total mystification, wondering what had
induced such odd behaviour in two people he regarded as friends.

‘There is Master Warde from the Hall of Valence Marie,’ said Redmeadow, pointing in the opposite direction. ‘He was the fellow
who robbed us of victory in the
Disputatio de quodlibet
. It was a bad decision. Michaelhouse was much better than Gonville.’

‘We were not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham argued very elegantly, and so did Pulham.’

‘Rougham was rubbish, though,’ said Quenhyth, gnawing at a fingernail. ‘I do not like him. He shouted at Redmeadow, just because
he fetched calamint from the apothecary the other day, not catmint.’ His voice was smug, as though
he
would not have made such a basic mistake.

‘He can be brusque,’ said Bartholomew. He watched as Warde hacked helplessly, struggling to catch his breath. ‘Warde has had
that cough for a long time now.’

‘He is being treated by Rougham, and we all know how ineffective
he
is as a healer,’ said Quenhyth. ‘You are much better.’ He flashed an ingratiating smile, and Bartholomew winced.

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Warde hoarsely, as their paths converged. ‘This tickling throat will be the death of me. I have had it a
full ten days, and it still shows no sign of abating. I have tried everything – even a potion from Egypt that Deschalers the
grocer sold me before he died.’

‘What kind of potion?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And how do you know it came from Egypt?’

‘Deschalers told me Arabs use it when desert sand clogs their lungs, although it tasted like a simple syrup of honey and acid
fruits to me.’ Warde shook his head sadly. ‘It is a terrible business with him and Bottisham. I was fond of them both. I cannot
imagine what happened to them, or why they should have been together in the King’s Mill.’

‘Nor can we,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But they had an ancient disagreement over a field, then Deschalers pretended he was going
to give Gonville money for their chapel but withdrew it at the last moment – to embarrass Bottisham, apparently. We also know
that Bottisham planned to represent the Mortimers in the mill dispute – against Deschalers and the Millers’ Society.’

‘The situation was more one-sided than that,’ said Warde, coughing again. ‘Bottisham held no ill feelings for Deschalers;
he told me so himself. But Deschalers harboured them for Bottisham. Deschalers was protective of his possessions, and did
not like losing a field that was his by rights.’

‘Was it his by rights?’

Warde nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I reviewed the evidence when Bottisham accepted the case, some twenty years ago now. But the other
claimant bribed witnesses. Deschalers wanted to do the same, but Bottisham refused. Deschalers was bitter about Bottisham’s
incorruptibility, and said a lawyer’s principles should not come between a man and his property. I can see his point: he lost
a valuable piece of land because Bottisham refused to employ tactics used openly by other clerks.’

‘Do you think this festered, and Deschalers decided to have his revenge while he still could?’ Bartholomew was sceptical.
He did not really believe Rougham’s assurances that the dying man had mustered the physical strength for a final act of vengeance.

Warde shrugged. ‘I do not know. However, I must point out that most men who are mortally ill avoid committing sins close to
the time when their souls will be weighed. Perhaps it was not
Deschalers
who killed Bottisham, but a member of the Mortimer clan.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Bottisham was going to work for them, as one of their lawyers.’

‘Quite,’ said Warde. ‘And who wants a clerk so scrupulous that he will lose a case before resorting to dishonesty? However,
I have heard that no one else was in the mill when Deschalers and Bottisham died, so I am doubtless wrong in my speculations.
What did you think of my lecture at Merton Hall last Wednesday?’

‘The one about the neglect of mathematics in academic studies?’ asked Bartholomew, casting his mind back to the lively debate
that had taken place the morning before Isnard and Lenne were crushed by Mortimer’s cart. ‘You are right: mathematical principles
underlie our most basic philosophical tenets, and we should ensure our students are well versed in their application.’

‘Because of that lecture, Doctor Bartholomew is going to talk about Euclid’s
Elementa
all day,’ said Quenhyth to Warde, clearly less than happy about the prospect. ‘Particularly the theory that parallel lines
will never meet, even in an infinite universe.’

‘Good,’ said Warde, rubbing his hands over his oily yellow hair and coughing a little. ‘There is nothing like the
Elementa
to drive cobwebs from the mind.’

‘
God
must be able to make parallel lines meet,’ said Redmeadow thoughtfully. ‘He is omnipotent, after all, and it cannot be that
hard to do.’

‘I imagine He has better things to do than confound Euclidean geometric universals,’ said Warde. A smile took the sting from
his words. ‘Hah! There is Rougham. I must consult with him again about my cough.’

Rougham was in a hurry. He strode along the street in a flurry of flapping sleeves and billowing cloak, showing all who saw
him that here was a man with important business to attend. It gave the impression that he was much in demand, and that patients
who secured
his
services were gaining the attention of a man who knew what he was about. He carried a thick book by Galen, to indicate that
he was learned as well as busy, but was not burdened down with battered bags full of potions and knives, like a common surgeon.
Despite the fact that his rapid progress indicated that he had not a moment to spare before descending on his next lucky customer,
he was prepared to stop and talk to Warde.

‘The syrup of blackcurrants did not work?’ he asked, making a show of consulting his book, although Bartholomew was certain
Galen never mentioned this particular fruit in his analysis of foods with medicinal qualities. He said nothing, but Quenhyth
was not so prudent.

‘Galen does not talk about blackcurrants in that,’ he declared, tapping a bony, ragged-nailed finger on Rougham’s tome. ‘He
discusses black
berries
, but not black
currants
.’

If Quenhyth expected Rougham to be grateful for having his mistake pointed out in front of a patient, he was to be disappointed.
‘What do you know about physic, boy? You do not even know the difference between calamint and catmint.’

‘That was not me,’ objected Quenhyth indignantly. ‘It was Redmeadow. But that is beside the point. There is nothing about
blackcurrants in Galen.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Is there?’

‘We should be on our way,’ said Bartholomew tactfully. ‘We can talk about Galen as we go.’

‘No!’ cried Quenhyth stubbornly. ‘I am right. Tell him!’

‘Do you see this boy?’ roared Rougham suddenly, addressing the people who were nearby. Some stopped to listen, and Warde began
to cough in agitation, uncomfortable with the scene Rougham was about to create. Redmeadow simply turned and fled, and Bartholomew
wished he could do the same. ‘He thinks he is a great physician who can challenge his betters. But I advise you all to let
him nowhere near you, because he will kill you with his inexperience and foolishness.’

Quenhyth’s normally pallid skin flushed a deep red. ‘I will not! I am—’

‘An imbecile,’ said Rougham, cutting through the student’s stammering objections. ‘A dangerous fool. Take my warning seriously,
friends, or he will bring about your deaths with false remedies.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew quietly, moved by the tears of humiliation that spilled down Quenhyth’s downy cheeks. ‘He will make
a good physician one day, and he is right about the blackcurrants. Galen does not mention them.’

‘I said black
berries
,’ asserted Rougham loudly. He opened the book and pointed to a spot on the page, waving it far too close to the physician’s
face for him to be able to read it. ‘Here. Do you see that? You are as bad as your dithering, blundering student.’

He snapped the book closed and stalked away. Quenhyth gazed after him, tears staining his face and his hands clenched at his
sides. He was shaking so much that Bartholomew put an arm around his shoulders, but Quenhyth knocked it away. Seeing the show
was over, people began to disperse, some laughing at the sight of physicians quarrelling publicly.

‘He did say blackcurrants,’ said Warde kindly to Quenhyth. ‘And he recommended black
currant
syrup to me.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Does this mean I asked Lavenham for the wrong thing?’

‘Someone spoke mine name?’ asked the apothecary, who happened to be passing with Cheney the spice merchant and Bernarde the
miller. Their heads were down, as though they had been deep in serious conversation. ‘I here.’

‘I need a potion of black
berries
for my cough,’ said Warde. ‘Do you have one?’

‘I give blackcurrant,’ said Lavenham in surprise. ‘Blackberry now? You want all black potions future? Bartholomew
give black medicine for black bile. Charcoal for Una the prosperous—’

‘Una the
prostitute
,’ corrected Bernarde, jangling his keys. ‘She is not prosperous at all.’

‘She should charge her customers more, then,’ said Cheney, as though the solution to Una’s poverty was obvious. ‘These women
call themselves the Guild of Frail Sisters, but then they cheat themselves by charging ridiculously low amounts for their
services.’

‘They cannot demand too much,’ said Bernarde. It seemed he, too, was intimately acquainted with the Frail Sisters’ economic
shortcomings. ‘Or men would just take what they could not afford. That happened with flour after the Death – people had no
money, so they stormed the mill and stole what they needed. The Frail Sisters will not want that to happen to them.’

‘And there is issue for quality,’ added Lavenham knowledgeably. ‘Una do not ask much, because she not good. Not like Yolande
de Blaston, who ask more, and is very good when she can be got.’

‘We should go,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to become engaged in a public discussion about the town’s prostitutes. ‘Come on,
Quenhyth.’

‘Rougham did not have to do that,’ sniffed Quenhyth, as he and Bartholomew left the burgeoning conversation about the town’s
Frail Sisters and their value for money. Warde waited for it to finish so that he could order Rougham’s next ineffective remedy.
Although syrups were good for coughs of short duration, Bartholomew felt Warde’s had lingered long enough to warrant something
more powerful, and hoped Rougham would soon prescribe a remedy that might work.

‘Rougham was unkind,’ he agreed. ‘But do not take his words to heart.’

‘He confused me with Redmeadow,’ said Quenhyth in
a broken voice. ‘That is the only explanation. I do not see why else he should attack me.’

‘There is Bess,’ said Bartholomew, hoping to distract him from his misery. ‘Shall we talk to her, and see whether she is more
rational today?’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth, beginning to weep again. ‘I do not want to talk to anyone. I want to go to our room and hide. If you
had not stepped in, he would still be abusing me now. I hate him! How can I visit your patients now? They will laugh at me
and say I am not fit to be in their presence!’

‘They will not,’ said Bartholomew firmly. He took a phial from his bag that contained medicine for Isnard. It had to be delivered
daily, because the bargeman had already tried to swallow a month’s worth in the mistaken belief that a larger dose would speed
his recovery. ‘Take this to Isnard and ensure he takes it. Then check his pulse and ask him how he feels. If you conduct his
daily examination, then I will not need to visit him today.’

Quenhyth’s eyes shone with sudden pride. ‘You trust
me
to see him? Alone?’

‘You have watched me for a week now, and you know what to do. Hurry. He will be waiting.’

‘Thank you,’ said Quenhyth, scrubbing his wet face with his sleeve. He gave a venomous glower in Rougham’s direction. ‘I look
forward to the day when I qualify.
Then
we shall see who knows more about Galen and blackcurrants!’

Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse, where he spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon discussing Euclid’s
Elementa
with a class that was not nearly as enthusiastic about geometry as its teacher. Redmeadow made a nuisance of himself by insisting
that God could make exceptions to any universal laws of physics, and then demanded to know whether the Holy Trinity added
up to
180 degrees, like one of Euclid’s triangles. Bartholomew became exasperated by the interruptions, and longed to order him
to leave God out of the debate. But Father William was listening, and he knew what would happen if the fanatical Franciscan
heard him make such a remark.

Bartholomew left the hall feeling drained, and walked to the fallen apple tree in the orchard, thinking that a few moments
with Bacon’s
De erroribus medicorum
might restore his equilibrium. However, when he arrived, the gate was open, and he saw through the trees that Wynewyk was
already there, also seeking some peace after three hours of teaching in a hall crammed with noisy, querulous undergraduates.
Since he did not want to intrude on another’s solitude, Bartholomew walked farther into the orchard and found a sheltered
spot among some bare-twigged plum trees.

He had not been reading for long when he heard the gate rattle. Assuming Wynewyk was leaving, and not comfortable under the
plum tree anyway, Bartholomew decided to reclaim the apple trunk. He closed his book and strolled through the orchard, relishing
the scent of early blossoms and the hum of a bee as it sailed haphazardly towards the hives at the bottom of the garden.