The Hand of Justice (45 page)

William sighed in gusty exasperation. ‘Where Rougham accused you of killing Warde with angelica, but then was caught delivering
noxious potions himself. Rougham was taken to the Castle this afternoon, to answer questions about his Water of Snails.’

Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Tulyet cannot do that. Rougham is a scholar, and is bound by the canon law of the Church. The
University will riot for certain if it thinks the town is interrogating its clerks.’

‘It was Rougham’s own fault. He refused to acknowledge Brother Michael’s authority. He said Michael is your friend,
and is therefore biased. Michael called his bluff, and turned the matter over to Tulyet. But Tulyet could not prove Rougham
murdered Warde.’

‘I am not surprised. There is no evidence to suggest Warde was poisoned.’ But even as he spoke, he knew the doubt showed in
his face.

‘Are you sure about that?’ demanded William, noticing it. ‘Did you assess the
exact
nature of the substance in Rougham’s so-called Water of Snails?’

‘No, but—’

‘The whole incident is highly suspicious,’ William went on. ‘You have a man with a minor ailment, who becomes disheartened
when his own physician is unable to make him well. So, he hires a second physician. Meanwhile, the first physician sends him
a potion, which the patient takes and promptly expires. The first physician denies sending the potion, and accuses the second
physician of the crime
he
committed.’

‘I am not sure it happened quite like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was—’

‘Most folk believe Rougham murdered Warde,’ said Quenhyth confidently. ‘He
is
the kind of fellow to kill, then watch an innocent colleague hanged for his crime.’

‘I agree,’ said William. He nodded towards Mistress Lenne. ‘But you have work to do, Matthew. We can discuss this later, over
a cup of mulled ale in the conclave.’

Bartholomew returned to the sickbed and put his head to his patient’s chest to listen to her heartbeat. It was slow and weak,
and he knew it would stop altogether in a matter of moments.

‘Say your farewells,’ he said softly to Lenne. ‘She may still be able to hear you.’

‘Now?’ asked Lenne fearfully.

Bartholomew nodded, and moved away to give him some privacy. Quenhyth rubbed a sleeve across his eyes and sniffed
as Lenne began to tell his mother that he loved her.

‘I do not know how you do this,’ Redmeadow whispered to Bartholomew in a strangled voice. ‘How can you hear these things day
after day, and still want to be a physician?’

‘Being at a deathbed is part of the service you must provide for a patient. You need to ensure she is not in pain, and that
she is comfortable. And then you must tell her kinsmen when she is finally dead, so they can prepare her for the grave. It
is not unknown for them to start the process while she is still alive, unless a physician is on hand.’

‘This is not right,’ whispered Quenhyth unsteadily, as Lenne began to tell his mother in a broken voice how much he would
miss her, and that his world would be a sad place without her smile. ‘She should not be dying. This is Thomas Mortimer’s fault,
because of what he did to her husband.’

‘Not now, Quenhyth,’ said Bartholomew softly. ‘And not here, either. I think she has gone. Go to her, and put this piece of
polished pewter near her mouth. If she is breathing, it will mist over. Then listen to her chest, and see whether you can
hear her heart beating.’

‘Me?’ asked Quenhyth in horror.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You will have to do it sooner or later, and this is as good a time as any. It is quiet, and you will
find it easy to test for the signs of life.’

‘No,’ said Quenhyth, backing away. He swallowed hard. ‘Redmeadow can do it, and I will take the next case.’

‘All right,’ agreed Redmeadow shakily. His face was white and, when he raised one trembling hand to smooth down his ginger
hair in preparation for what he was about to do, Bartholomew noticed that the sleeve of his tunic was still peppered with
the pale substance he had noticed before, and that Matilde had remarked upon.

Bartholomew took Lenne’s arm and sat him at the table,
offering him a cup of strong wine in a vain attempt to calm some of his distraught sobs. Meanwhile, Redmeadow held the pewter
at Mistress Lenne’s mouth for so long that Bartholomew began to wonder whether he had forgotten what to do next, but eventually
the student placed his tousled head against her chest and listened as hard as he could, eyes screwed tightly closed as he
concentrated.

‘She has gone,’ he said, wincing when Lenne began to weep afresh. He tucked the blankets around the old lady’s shoulders,
as though she was being put to bed, then stood with his hands dangling helplessly at his side. ‘We cannot do any more for
her.’

Both Redmeadow and Quenhyth were unusually silent when they left the Lenne house a little later. Neighbours had come to help
with the grim ritual of preparing the body for burial, and Bartholomew saw the distressed Lenne was in kind and competent
hands. Redmeadow was generally full of chatter and questions after they had visited patients, sometimes to the point of aggravation,
but he said nothing at all as they walked back to Michaelhouse. Quenhyth excused himself and virtually fled, tears pooling
in his eyes. He made no attempt to disguise the fact that he intended to head straight for a tavern for a fortifying drink.
Since he never broke the University’s rules, Bartholomew saw the experience had shaken him badly.

Unfortunately, just as Bartholomew and Redmeadow were passing the Brazen George – both turning a blind eye as Quenhyth aimed
for a discreet back entrance – Thomas Mortimer emerged through the front door. The miller was not drunk, but he was not sober,
either, and had reached a point between the two states that rendered him dangerous, moody and unpredictable. Redmeadow stopped
dead in his tracks and regarded him with considerable
venom. Bartholomew grabbed his arm and tried to drag him on, not wanting a confrontation that might end in violence.

‘No!’ shouted Redmeadow, pulling away from his teacher. When he pointed at Mortimer, his finger shook with rage, and Bartholomew
was reminded that the lad possessed a fiery temper to go with his flaming red hair. ‘That man is a killer. He murdered Mistress
Lenne.’

‘I do not know the woman,’ said Mortimer, beginning to walk away. It was the wrong thing to say.

‘That is because you are a monster!’ yelled Redmeadow, pushing Bartholomew away a second time. ‘You are a devil, who kills
the innocent and leaves behind him a trail of misery and sorrow. You are like the Death – and just as welcome.’

Mortimer took a threatening step towards him, but the student held his ground. Bartholomew saw that Redmeadow’s face glistened
wet with tears. Behind Mortimer, the inn door opened again and Edward stepped out with a couple of his cousins. He saw his
uncle engaged in an altercation with a student, and his face broke into an amused grin.

‘Come home,’ said Bartholomew softly to Redmeadow. ‘We cannot win this fight. Take your complaint to Sheriff Tulyet in the
morning, and let him see justice done.’

‘Justice!’ sneered Redmeadow contemptuously. ‘What do we know of justice in Cambridge?’

‘
I
know about it,’ said Thomas Mortimer, deliberately inflammatory. ‘I prayed to the Hand that I would be free of accusations
from the likes of Mistress Lenne, and look what has happened. Her malicious tongue saw her sicken – and I am told she will
die.’

‘She
is
dead,’ said Redmeadow hotly. ‘A short time ago, and
you
are responsible.’

‘She brought it on herself,’ said Mortimer. ‘It was not
my fault her husband wandered under my wheels, and I was more than patient with her wicked allegations. But the saints in
Heaven have taken pity on me. Mistress Lenne is dead, and will not sully my good name again.’

‘You have no good name,’ shouted Redmeadow furiously. ‘None of your miserable family do. Edward was the first to bring you
disgrace, but evil will out, and the rest of you are following him down the road of infamy and wickedness. It is—’

‘You insolent dog!’ snarled Mortimer, advancing on Redmeadow with fury etched on his purple-veined face. Bartholomew stepped
forward to reason with him, but was almost knocked from his feet as Edward launched an attack of his own. Before the physician
could say or do anything to prevent it, he was embroiled in a brawl – he and Redmeadow pitched against four Mortimers.

He saw the glint of steel in the fading light. Edward had drawn a dagger. Hastily he groped in his bag for one of his surgical
knives, but Edward knew what he was doing and darted forward with the weapon flashing. Bartholomew only just managed to raise
the bag in time to prevent himself from being run through. Edward tore it from his hands and tossed it away, advancing relentlessly
with the encouraging howls of his cousins ringing in his ears. Bartholomew recalled what both Redmeadow and Ufford had said
about Edward: that during his exile he had learned fighting skills that made him a formidable opponent. And Bartholomew had
allowed himself to be manoeuvred into a position where he was facing him alone, without so much as a stick to defend himself.

‘It is just you and me, physician,’ taunted Edward, beckoning him forward with one hand while he waved the dagger with the
other. Bartholomew cursed Redmeadow for his hot temper. ‘You have insulted and denigrated me ever since I returned, and it
is time you paid for your insolence.’

He leapt forward again, and Bartholomew managed to grab his wrist, trying to shake the weapon from his grasp. Edward used
his free hand to seize the physician by the throat. As the younger man’s fingers started to tighten, Bartholomew used his
greater size and strength to force him back against the wall. They crashed against it hard enough to make Edward grunt in
pain. But it did not stop him for long – he tipped back his head, then brought it forward sharply, intending to break Bartholomew’s
nose with his forehead. Unfortunately for Edward, Bartholomew had seen this particular move before. He twisted away, turning
Edward as he did so, and heard the man’s head crack against the wall with considerable force. While Edward staggered, dazed,
Bartholomew knocked the dagger from his hand.

But the Mortimer cousins were not willing to stand by and see one of their own defeated. They moved in quickly and Bartholomew
saw they both carried knives. He wondered how many moments he would have on Earth before one of them speared him.

‘If you kill him, you will have to kill me, too,’ came a calm voice from the other side of the street. ‘I will be a witness
to your crime, and I will certainly testify against you. I will see you hang.’ It was Master Thorpe of Valence Marie, who
had been attending a mass in nearby St Mary the Great.

‘You!’ sneered Edward, turning on him with an eagerness that was frightening. Master Thorpe did not flinch. ‘I will happily
kill you as well, you traitorous pig!’

‘But then you will have to kill me,’ said Thomas Bingham, stepping out of the shadows and standing shoulder to shoulder with
the Master of his College.

‘And me,’ said Pulham of Gonville Hall, swallowing hard. He lacked the calm courage of the Valence Marie men, and his eyes
showed that he was terrified, but he
stood firm nonetheless.

‘And then you can
try
to kill me, but I run fast and will reach Michaelhouse and tell the Senior Proctor what you have done long before you complete
your slaughter,’ added Ufford, joining them. He still limped from his last encounter with Edward, so Bartholomew doubted he
was telling the truth about his speed.

Other scholars began to move forward, too, none armed and all senior members of the University. There was Tynkell – standing
apart, because even in a tense situation, no one wanted to be too close to him – and Paxtone from King’s Hall. Michaelhouse
was also represented, and Wynewyk, Kenyngham and Clippesby hurried to wait at Bartholomew’s side. Bartholomew felt a sudden
guilt for his suspicious thoughts about Wynewyk and Paxtone, who were prepared to risk their lives to save him.

There was a slight flicker in the shadows nearby. Bartholomew spotted Dame Pelagia, watching the scene with her bright, thoughtful
eyes. He saw something glint in her hand, and supposed she held one of her famous throwing knives, ready to hurl it with deadly
precision should the incident not end as she wanted. He sincerely hoped she was not a secret supporter of the Mortimer clan.

‘Put up your weapons and go home before anyone is hurt,’ said Kenyngham, ever the peace-maker. ‘All of you.’

The Mortimers knew they were beaten. Rubbing his wrist and looking more dangerous than Bartholomew had ever seen him, Edward
stalked away. Nervously, as though anticipating a sly attack from behind, his cousins followed. Thomas hurried after them,
flinging Redmeadow away from him as he went. The student scrambled to his feet, and Clippesby was obliged to grab his arm
to prevent him from running after the miller to fight him again. Kenyngham murmured softly in his ear until the lad’s rage
began to subside. When Bartholomew glanced into the
shadows again, Dame Pelagia was nowhere to be seen.

‘You are lucky we happened to pass when we did,’ said Wynewyk, looking Bartholomew up and down to ensure he was unhurt. ‘Master
Thorpe heard the commotion, and suggested we investigate.’

Master Thorpe was white-faced, his bravado turning to shock now the danger had passed. ‘You must not fight the Mortimers or
my son, Bartholomew. You will not win against them.’

‘But I did win,’ objected Bartholomew, thinking he had comported himself rather well against a man whom everyone seemed to
hold in such fear. ‘But then his cousins joined in.’

‘The Mortimers always fight as a pack,’ said Bingham. ‘Our students often complain about it.’

Tynkell fixed the physician with a stern stare. ‘Cambridge teeters on the brink of serious civil unrest, and I had hoped my
senior masters would know better than to add to the turmoil by brawling in a public place like the High Street.’