The Hand of Justice (36 page)

‘There is strife among the Mortimer clan,’ said Yolande, shifting the brimming pails in her strong hands. ‘A few weeks ago,
you would never have seen one argue with another, but they fight all the time now. And Edward fans their disputes to make
them burn more fiercely. But mention the Devil and he will appear.’ She gestured down the High Street with her head. ‘Edward
and his rotten friend are coming this way, and I do not want to be anywhere near
them
, thank you very much!’

She hurried away, water slopping from her buckets as she went. Bartholomew was surprised at her reaction. Yolande was a hard,
unbending woman whose dealings with some of the wealthiest and most influential men in the town meant she was normally afraid
or in awe of no one. But she seemed afraid of Mortimer and Thorpe.

The two ruffians strutted confidently along the centre of the High Street, where the rubbish and ordure was piled less deep,
and Bartholomew noticed that Yolande was not the only one who was reluctant to meet them. He saw the Lavenhams dive down a
dirty alleyway they would not normally deign to use, and even the swaggering Morice shot back inside the tavern he had just
vacated when he saw them coming.

‘You have no right to keep the Hand of Justice in that tower,’ said Thorpe to Michael as they approached. ‘It does not belong
to you.’

‘The “Hand of Justice”?’ echoed Michael in rank disdain. ‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘You know what it is,’ said Thorpe. ‘Some call it the Hand of Valence Marie, but we prefer the title “Hand of Justice”, because
of what it represents.’

‘What does it represent?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘It represents justice,’ replied Thorpe. He continued to speak before Bartholomew could point out that he had not really answered
the monk’s question. ‘It does not
belong to the University, to be shut away where honest folk cannot get at it.’

‘I wish to God it belonged to no one,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I should have hurled it in the marshes when I had the chance.’

‘Throwing it away would have been a terrible sin,’ said Mortimer softly. ‘Did you know that the Hand of Justice belonged to
a great prophet, who came to Earth in the guise of a simpleton? He imparted much wisdom before he died, but folk did not listen.
They are listening now.’

‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, unable to help himself. ‘Peterkin Starre was no prophet – anyone who remembers him will
tell you that.’

‘Folk are reassessing their memories,’ said Thorpe, nodding at the pilgrims who knelt outside the tower. There was also a
queue by the south door, and Bartholomew could see Father William bustling about importantly. He supposed the friar had chosen
to disregard Michael’s orders, and was still showing the Hand to people who asked. Or perhaps he was just not up to the task
of solving the problem, so was simply continuing what he did well – making money for the University.

‘Then they are wrong,’ declared Michael, as dogmatic in his refusal to believe as others were in their desperation to accept.
‘Who came up with this ridiculous title – the Hand of Justice – anyway?’

‘We did,’ said Mortimer coldly. ‘It is amazing how quickly these things catch on once you mention them in one or two pertinent
places. The Hand did right by us. We prayed to it after we were exiled – that justice would be done – and it did not let us
down.’

‘Then let us tell people that,’ encouraged Michael innocently. ‘They will see it as another miracle.’

‘Later,’ said Mortimer, seeing the implications of Michael’s suggestion immediately. He was not stupid, and
guessed few would thank the Hand for arranging that sort of ‘justice’.

Thorpe looked around him in disdain. ‘I do not like this town. I have no desire to endure hostile glares and snide comments
in voices that are only just audible. But needs must.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘My original plan was to ask the King if Valence Marie could have the Hand of Justice back,’ said Thorpe. ‘They were its first
owners – because my father was the man who fished it out of the King’s Ditch – and I feel it should reside with Valence Marie,
not in the University Church. But my father says he does not want it. He is a fool, and I am disappointed in him.’

‘Not nearly as disappointed as he is in you,’ said Michael, intending to wound.

It worked, and Thorpe’s eyes flashed with rage, although it was quickly suppressed. ‘However, my colleagues at Gonville Hall
are interested in having it instead. Rougham visits it regularly, and Ufford is devoted to it. Even Thompson, Pulham and Despenser
have been to see it – although they claim they are not believers. Gonville can capitalise on the financial rewards it will
bring, if Valence Marie is stupid enough to decline. Look at how many pilgrims are here already, and then imagine what it
will be like when the Hand’s fame has spread.’

‘I see,’ said Michael wearily. ‘You intend to set College against College, and town against University by taking the Hand
from one institution and passing it to another. That is why you came back. Really, boys! I expected something a little more
imaginative from you when you staged your revenge.’

Thorpe shrugged, to indicate he did not care what the monk thought. ‘All we want is for the Hand of Justice to be where it
will do some good. The revenues raised from
pilgrims will pay for Gonville’s new chapel – and what better way to pay for a church than with money raised from a holy relic?
Bishop Bateman would approve.’

Bartholomew watched them stride away, scattering folk before them as if they were feared invaders from a hostile land. He
saw Sergeant Orwelle step to one side to avoid them, and was appalled to think that even the forces of law and order seemed
to be intimidated.

‘At least we now know what they plan to do,’ said Michael. ‘I should have guessed they had this sort of thing in mind. But
I expected them to come up with something more original.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘William may be a fool, but he is honest, and it would be very difficult for anyone to make off
the Hand as long as it is in his care. However, it will be a lot easier to steal it from Gonville.
They
have no experience of looking after valuable and popular relics.’

‘Especially if Thorpe is a member there,’ mused Michael. ‘With his own key. And, if the thing disappears, there will be a
riot for certain – with the town furious at the University’s incompetence.’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are right about one thing, though. It will not be long before an attractive name like the “Hand
of Justice” catches on – and then the damned thing will become more popular than ever.’

Later, Bartholomew visited Mistress Lenne, who lay wretchedly miserable as she awaited the arrival of her son from Thetford.
Michael declined to enter the house with him, and slouched outside, his green eyes bleak and angry. When he emerged and saw
the dangerous expression on the monk’s face, Bartholomew tried to think of something that would take his friend’s mind off
the elderly woman’s suffering.

‘You said you were going to look at Deschalers’s will. To see if he planned to change it.’

Michael nodded. ‘I want to know if he threatened to disinherit Julianna. I doubt she has the intelligence to stage the cunning
murder of an uncle, but her new husband certainly does.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘
Planned
to change his will. Father William said he heard something about a “plan” when Deschalers made his confession to the Hand.
Do you think that is what Deschalers was talking about?’

Michael shrugged; even the prospect of solving a little part of the mystery did not take his mind off Mistress Lenne. ‘It
is possible, I suppose, although I would not class making a will as a “plan”. However, Deschalers might have done, and we
should bear it in mind. We should go and ask Julianna about it now.’

Bartholomew was unenthusiastic about the prospect of another encounter with Julianna, but since he had made the suggestion,
he felt obliged to accompany the monk to Deschalers’s house. They knocked on the door, and were shown into the ground-floor
parlour by the elderly servant, who muttered something about fried cat before going to tell Julianna she had guests. While
they waited for her to come, Michael sullenly devoured those dried fruits he had missed on the previous occasion.

The house was filled with voices, although none were lowered as a mark of respect to the recently dead. They did not seem
to be especially friendly, either, and it sounded as though an argument was in progress. Bartholomew could hear Thomas, Constantine
and Edward Mortimer among the clamour; Edward’s tones were low and measured, in stark contrast to the bickering, savage tenor
of his uncle and father.

‘What are they saying?’ whispered Michael, straining his ears.

‘Something about who has the right to live where,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘This is a nice house, and I think Edward wants to
stay here with Julianna, but Constantine has other ideas. It would be convenient for him: he lives next door, and could combine
the two premises into an impressive mansion.’

‘And something about death duties,’ said Michael, cocking his head. ‘Wills.’

‘The King usually claims part of any large inheritance.’ Bartholomew’s hearing was sharper than Michael’s. ‘I think they are
debating how much they should give him.’

‘I cannot make out their words,’ said Michael in frustration. He pressed his ear against the wall, but had not been in position
for long when he became aware that someone was watching from the door.

‘Brother Michael?’ asked Julianna coolly. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Worms,’ said Michael unabashed, although Bartholomew cringed with embarrassment on his behalf. ‘I can hear them, chewing.
You do not want those in your timbers, madam. I have seen houses collapse from the labours of their teeth.’

‘Worms do not have teeth,’ said Bartholomew, before he could stop himself.

‘No,’ agreed Edward, entering the chamber behind his wife, ‘and neither do beetles, which is the nature of the creature that
destroys wood.’ The expression on his face was unreadable. ‘We meet again, gentlemen. You seem to be everywhere today.’

Bartholomew glanced at the door, and saw that Edward and Julianna were not the only ones who had left the family squabble
to see to their guests. Behind Edward, short and stocky in scarlet cote-hardie and matching hose, was Constantine. His face
was flushed and he seemed out of sorts. Thomas was next to him, a goblet clasped in his
hand. His red-rimmed eyes possessed a glazed, dull sheen that indicated he had been drinking most of the day. Bartholomew
scowled at him: he had not forgotten what the man had done to Isnard. Raised voices continued to echo from the adjoining chamber,
where uncles, aunts and cousins declined to allow the unannounced arrival of visitors to prevent them from finishing their
quarrel.

‘Quite a gathering,’ said Michael. ‘Are they here to see what Edward has inherited?’

‘We have come to offer our condolences to Julianna,’ said Constantine. ‘And I have no need to assess Deschalers’s property.
We were neighbours for decades, and I know exactly what he owned.’

‘Then who will inherit?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘How many people will benefit from his will?’

‘Two,’ said Edward. ‘He left a chest to his scribe, but, other than that, Julianna has everything – this house, two properties
on Bridge Street, a shop near Holy Trinity, his business and all his money.’

‘Of which there is a great deal,’ slurred Thomas, leering at Julianna. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ lied Michael. ‘What is the name of this scribe? And why was he singled out for such a lordly prize, when none
of the apprentices were remembered?’

‘A box is scarcely a “lordly prize”, Brother,’ said Julianna. She looked the monk up and down. ‘Well, it might be for someone
like you, I suppose.’

‘I could say that how Deschalers chose to dispose of his worldly goods is none of your affair,’ said Edward, cutting across
Michael’s indignant response. ‘And I would be within my rights to do so. However, we have nothing to hide, so we will answer
you. Deschalers did not like his apprentices. He considered them lazy.’

‘Then why did he keep them on?’ asked Michael, glaring at Julianna. He was the son of a minor Norfolk nobleman,
and considered himself a cut above merchants, so found her comments highly insulting. ‘There are plenty of honest, hard-working
lads who would relish an opportunity to train as grocers.’

‘He did not want the bother of educating more,’ said Constantine. ‘And it has
not
been easy to find good workmen since the Death. They either died or became too expensive.’

‘I own the business now,’ said Edward, oblivious to the furious glance shot in his direction by Julianna. She clearly disagreed
with the law that a wife’s inheritance became the property of her husband. ‘And Deschalers was right: they are lazy. I have
dismissed most of them.’

‘This scribe?’ pressed Michael. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘Not one I remember,’ said Julianna. She frowned. ‘It is odd, actually, because Uncle did not like him any more than he did
his apprentices, and I do not know why he was singled out for reward. Perhaps it was because he always came the moment he
was summoned.’

‘So Deschalers left this lucky man a chest,’ said Michael. ‘A chest of what?’

‘Just a chest,’ replied Julianna. She gestured to a substantial wooden affair under the window. ‘There it is – just a piece
of furniture. Uncle said he wanted the scribe to have it, so the fellow could lock away his possessions when he finally earns
some.’

Bartholomew inspected the box without much interest. Plain and functional, it was not an attractive piece. The only noteworthy
thing about it was its sturdy – and extremely greasy – lock, which comprised a complex system of iron rods. Julianna raised
the lid, to show them it was empty. It went through Bartholomew’s mind that selecting the clerk to be the recipient of such
a reward might be Deschalers’s way of insulting him.