The Hand of Justice (31 page)

‘I am doing what I think is ethical,’ declared William hotly. ‘The Chest is in
my
care, and
I
shall decide how to deal with its contents. I will not have
you
telling me what I can and cannot do.’

Michael continued to glare. ‘Actually, you have no choice. I created the post of Keeper, and I can just as easily dispense
with it. If you want to stay in power, then you will do as I say. You must devise a way to stop people coming to view the
Hand without it resulting in ill feelings – or worse.’

‘But I—’ objected William.

Michael overrode him. ‘This is not something for debate.
The Hand is dangerous, so you must ensure it is quietly forgotten. You have a week to devise a plan – or you will be Keeper
no more.’

‘Do not talk while we are processing to the sacred mass,’ snapped William, unable to think of anything else to say. ‘It creates
a bad impression on the students.’

‘Unless he puts an end to his little enterprise, creating bad impressions will be the least of our worries,’ muttered Michael
behind the friar’s stiff, unbending back as they entered the church.

When the mass was over, Bartholomew went with his students to see Isnard. Unfortunately, the bargeman had appended his new
wooden leg to the stump that was still healing, apparently anticipating that once he had made one or two trial circuits around
his house, he would resume his previous life as though nothing had happened. He had not expected the pain of a reopened wound,
nor had he known that walking with a false limb required more practise than twice around the hearth.

‘I do not understand,’ he cried when he saw Bartholomew. ‘The bleeding had stopped, and you said it was better. I thought
I would be back on my feet – my foot – in a few days.’

‘I told you it would take longer,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You cannot bind a wooden leg to a raw wound and expect it not
to chafe.’

‘What do
you
two want?’ demanded Isnard, as Quenhyth and Redmeadow sidled into the chamber with Deynman. ‘You are not giving me another
of them clysters. It did not ease my headache as you promised, and I do not like other men shoving pipes in my bowels. Well,
who does?’

‘Chancellor Tynkell enjoys—’ began Deynman brightly.

Bartholomew cut him off, regarding the other two students uneasily. ‘What did you do?’

‘Isnard was unwell when we came to deliver his medicine last night.’ Redmeadow’s tone was defensive. ‘So we persuaded him
that a clyster would help. Quenhyth said—’

‘How many times must we go over this?’ asked Bartholomew quietly, fighting to control his anger. ‘You must
not
prescribe medicines or treatments without my permission.’

‘But we
did
have your permission,’ objected Quenhyth, while Redmeadow hung his head. ‘You said yesterday – after that nasty business
with Rougham – that I was to examine him. I was acting on your orders.’

‘But I did not tell you to start giving clysters,’ said Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Bowels are delicate, and you need to be
taught how to insert clyster pipes, so you do not rip them. You can cause a lot of harm if you do it badly.’

‘It was not pleasant,’ agreed Isnard. ‘And I have never seen so much lard smothered on an implement in my life. I am sure
half of it is still inside me.’

‘We will talk about this later,’ said Bartholomew, swallowing his ire and supposing that lard in the quantities Isnard described
might have protected the unsuspecting bargeman to some extent. Perhaps his instructions had led Quenhyth to assume a freer
hand than he had intended, but all the students knew the rules about what could and could not be done to patients unsupervised.
There were no excuses for what they had done.

‘You should not have removed the limb in the first place,’ said Isnard to Bartholomew, rubbing the stump resentfully. ‘It
might have healed.’

‘It would not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You saw for yourself that it was smashed beyond repair. If we had left it, then you would
be dead by now.’

‘Perhaps that would have been a blessing,’ said Isnard quietly. ‘How can I work if I cannot walk? Now Bottisham
is dead I am running out of funds. I cannot stay here for ever, begging from friends.’

‘I could ask Thomas Mortimer to give you some money,’ offered Deynman. ‘After all, it was
his
carelessness that brought you to this. He should be the one to support you.’

Isnard grimaced. ‘I have already sent a message to Mortimer demanding funds, and he refused to acknowledge me. Redmeadow made
his best writing, too.’

‘I used large letters that are easy to decipher,’ said Redmeadow proudly. ‘Of course, Edward could have read it to his uncle,
but I do not know how well they like each other these days.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Edward and Thomas work together at the mill, so they cannot dislike each other too
much.’

‘I heard them arguing when I went to deliver Isnard’s note,’ said Redmeadow. ‘Edward called his uncle a drunken sot, not fit
to have the care of a whipping top, let alone a mill. And Thomas called his nephew a cold-hearted killer, and said he would
rot in Hell.’

‘It is common knowledge that the Mortimer clan is fragmenting,’ said Quenhyth, not to be outdone in gossip. ‘And it is all
Edward’s doing. They no longer cleave together like treacle and feathers.’

‘After Edward had finished yelling at his uncle, everyone else joined in,’ continued Redmeadow. ‘Cousins, uncles, aunts and
brothers – all taking sides and squabbling. Constantine sat in the middle with his head in his hands, and said he wished he
had never bribed the King’s officials. Edward took his knife from its scabbard and looked at him. I saw it, quite clearly,
through the window.’

‘Edward threatened his father with a dagger?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He removed the weapon and fingered it, eyeing his father with this strange expression. It was not brazenly
threatening, but it was a warning nonetheless. Constantine went white and left shortly afterwards. I caught him on his way
out, and asked him to go back and deliver Isnard’s message. He obliged – he feels bad about you, Isnard, even if his brother
does not – and I watched him pass it to Thomas. Thomas read it, but then he threw it away.’

‘You see?’ said Isnard, disgusted. ‘He did not even bother to reply.’

‘You live dangerously,’ said Bartholomew to Redmeadow, thinking the student should have knocked on the door with his missive,
as most folk would have done. ‘What would have happened if the Mortimers had caught you spying on them through their windows?’

‘They would have slaughtered him,’ said Quenhyth salaciously. ‘Most folk believe the Mortimers killed Bosel the beggar, and
they would have killed Redmeadow, too.’

‘Quite,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, I want you two to stay away from them from now on. You, too, Isnard. I had fourpence for examining
a Peterhouse student who died from eating bad fish yesterday. You can have half.’ He put the coins into Isnard’s callused
hand. ‘That should keep you in bread for a day or two, and when it is gone we shall think of something else.’

Isnard’s eyes filled with grateful tears. ‘There is something else you can do for me, too. The fleas in my clothes are driving
me to distraction, and I cannot rid myself of them lying here. You gave Una the whore a potion for her lice last year. Can
I have something, too? They will kill me sooner than any rubbed stump!’

Since Isnard’s clumsy attempts to attach his new leg had chafed the wound, Bartholomew decided he had better visit the apothecary,
to purchase the ingredients he would need to make a healing poultice – along with the remedy for fleas. The students looked
pleased: they were always
willing to visit Isobel and be on the receiving end of her alluring glances. They set off, aiming for Milne Street, where
Lavenham’s shop was located. At the door they met Paxtone. The King’s Hall physician waved a phial at Bartholomew, and said
he was going to conduct experiments on the efficacy of pear juice on a spotty complexion. He promised to share the results,
since there were many adolescents in the Colleges and hostels who were in need of such a remedy. As he left he patted Quenhyth’s
shoulder.

‘Do not let Rougham distress you with his insults.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘No one should take any notice of a man who
does not know his blackberries from his blackcurrants.’

Quenhyth grinned at him, and Bartholomew opened the door to enter Lavenham’s house. It was a sturdy affair with thick, oaken
window shutters and an immense door that protected the dangerous and valuable substances stored inside. It had two rooms on
the ground floor – the shop, which was open to customers, and the apprentices’ working area, which was not – and a larger
chamber above that served as hall and sleeping quarters for the Lavenhams and their household.

The shop had a stone floor that could be easily cleaned. There was a bench along one wall, where clients waited for their
orders to be assembled, while the other walls were filled with shelves holding bottles, boxes and casks. A long counter in
the middle of the room served as a workbench for making up innocuous concoctions; stronger ones were mixed in the privacy
(and safety) of the apprentices’ area next door. Bartholomew loved the building’s smell, which was rich with the scent of
the herbs drying in the rafters, exotic powders known to have therapeutic values, and the honey and sugar used to make syrups.

Isobel was sitting behind the counter sewing, while her husband haggled with Robert Thorpe, the Master of
Valence Marie. Thorpe was a tall, slender man with a neat cap of silver hair. He looked tired, and Bartholomew wondered whether
he lost sleep worrying about his son, or whether Warde’s irritating cough still kept his colleagues from their rest.

‘Why, hello,’ said Isobel, standing to greet Bartholomew. She leaned across the counter in a way that was sure to reveal that
her kirtle was unusually low cut. He heard a strangled gasp from Redmeadow, and was aware of the three students jostling for
space behind him. Isobel rewarded them with one of her sultry looks, all fluttering lashes and smouldering eyes. She indicated
the garment she had been making, and turned her gaze on Bartholomew. ‘I have been sewing a tunic for Chancellor Tynkell and
it is almost finished. Perhaps you could ask him to collect it, when you see him.’

‘I seldom meet him,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘But one of my students—’

‘I will take a message,’ said Deynman, pushing forward, eager to offer his assistance.

‘No, me,’ said Redmeadow. Quenhyth looked as though he would dearly like to compete, too, but he preferred to retain a dignified
aloofness in front of Isobel. He stood quietly as his classmates vied for her attention.

‘You can both go,’ said Isobel, favouring them with a wink that promised all sorts of favours when they returned. They darted
from the shop to do her bidding, while Bartholomew glanced uneasily at her husband, hoping he had not noticed. He did not
want it said that Michaelhouse students tried to ravish the wives of wealthy merchants, regardless of who had been seducing
whom. But Lavenham’s attention was on his customer, and Isobel was free to do as she pleased.

‘It is an odd shape,’ he said, nodding to the linen item Isobel shook out to fold.

‘So is Tynkell,’ she replied. ‘But you probably have not noticed it under his academic robes. He says it is difficult to find
clothes he likes, and regards me as something of a treasure, because I do not mind how he wants his undergarments sewn.’

‘Have you seen him without them on?’ Bartholomew asked, medical curiosity making him forget that it was an inappropriate question
to ask a lady while her husband was in the room.

Even Isobel seemed taken aback by his candour. ‘I have not!’ she said, half shocked and half amused. ‘He is a very private
man, and disapproves of physical flaunting. That is what he told me. I do not know of anyone who has seen him
dishabille
.’

As she leaned across the counter, her bosom straining at its confines, Bartholomew knew exactly why the Chancellor had raised
such a subject. Of all members of the University he was the one who could least afford to be seen breaking the rules regarding
women, and the physician supposed Tynkell had been warning Isobel to keep her cleavage to herself. He wondered whether Tynkell’s
penchant for peculiarly moulded undergarments was evidence of the condition Deynman had ascribed to him, but knew it was equally
likely that he was just a man who liked his clothes made in a certain way. Bartholomew empathised, since he preferred unfashionably
loose leggings to the modern trend for tight hose.

‘I need some
Pastilli Adronis
,’ he said, changing the subject before they embarrassed each other further. ‘I ordered it last week.’

‘Here,’ said Isobel, reaching for a package on a high shelf, careful to reveal a goodly portion of leg as she did so. ‘It
has been ready since yesterday, and I was beginning to think you did not want it.’ She waggled her hips to indicate that he
should have fetched it sooner.

‘And resin of henbane,’ added Bartholomew, tearing his eyes away. ‘For Isnard’s fleas.’

‘An excellent solution,’ said Isobel, disappearing into the back room. There was a jangle of keys and the sound of a cupboard
being opened and closed. ‘Fleas can drive men mad when they are confined to their beds. But henbane is a dangerous substance
– especially ours, which is highly concentrated. You must tell him not to ingest it.’

‘I will make a decoction for soaking his clothes. It will smell too bad for him to drink.’

‘Isnard will drink anything,’ said Isobel, truthfully enough. Bartholomew realised he might have to add something even more
rankly aromatic to prevent the bargeman from testing whether the flea-killer had pleasant intoxicating effects.

‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ called Lavenham, spotting him and taking the trouble to court a man who, as a physician, was obliged
to do a good deal of business with him. ‘I hope you are well.’ He looked pleased with himself and Bartholomew supposed he
had been practising his English, since it was the first grammatically correct sentence he had heard the man utter.