The Hand Of Justice

Book 10: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In Cambridge, 1355, the colleges of the fledgling university are as much at odds with each other as they are with the ordinary townfolk.

This tension has recently been heightened by the return of two well-born murderers after receiving the King's pardon, showing no remorse but ready to confront those who helped convict them. And in the midst of this, Bartholomew the physician is called to the local mill to examine two corpses. It is almost a relief to be able to turn his back on the fractious town, but as always in Cambridge nothing is disconnected.

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 544

Sample

Cambridge, mid-February 1355

The bones were stored in a sumptuous wooden casket, which was studded with semiprecious stones and inlaid with gold. With
great care, Father William of Michaelhouse opened the lid and took out the satin-clad parcel that lay inside. He even removed
his gloves for the task, as a sign of his respect – no small sacrifice in the frigid winter weather, when the cold bit deep
and hard, even inside a fine building like the Church of St Mary the Great. He laid the bundle on the table and, with infinite
reverence, began to lift away the folds of cloth to reveal the object inside. His lips moved as he worked, offering silent
prayers to the relic that was said to be imbued with such great power. He stood back when he had finished, so the man who
had paid handsomely for the privilege could appreciate its full glory.


‘Is that it?’ asked Thomas Deschalers the grocer, acutely disappointed. ‘It looks … ordinary. And a bit dirty, if the
truth be known.’


‘It is the Hand of Valence Marie,’ pronounced William grandly. He was a grimy person himself, and did not care that the object
in his keeping failed to meet the merchant’s more exacting standards. ‘Named for the College near which it was found. And
I have been entrusted by no less a person than the University’s Chancellor himself to be its guardian. The Hand is sacred,
and therefore it is only right that it should be in the care of a Franciscan friar. Me.’


‘I see,’ said Deschalers noncommittally, declining to enter a debate about which of the many religious Orders in Cambridge
should be entrusted with the task of looking after what was becoming an increasingly popular relic – among townspeople and
University scholars alike. He stared down at the collection of bones that lay exposed in front of him.


They comprised what had once been a living human hand. The bleached finger bones were held together by sinews, giving them
the appearance of a claw rather than something that had once been warm with life. On the little finger was a blue-green ring,
which Deschalers’s skilled eye told him was not valuable, although it was pretty enough. He moved to one side, and examined
the rough striations that criss-crossed the wrist, where a saw had been used to remove it from the rest of the body.


The grocer laid his own hand next to it. His palm was soft and his fingers free from the calluses of manual labour: wealthy
merchants did not toil with sacks and casks when they had plenty of apprentices at their beck and call. Then he looked at
the skeletal claw. By comparison, it was huge – and Deschalers was above average size himself.


‘Are you sure this belongs to the martyr?’ he asked doubtfully, wondering whether he had wasted a gold quarter-noble on the
private viewing. ‘I do not recall him owning limbs as massive as this.’


William was immediately defensive – and a little furtive. ‘Who else’s would it be?’

‘When it was first discovered, there were rumours that it was hacked from the corpse of a simpleton,’ said Deschalers, watching
him carefully. ‘Not the martyr. The tale was all over the town, and I am not sure what to think.’


‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew – both Fellows of my own College – were responsible for circulating those particular
claims,’ replied William, tight-lipped with disapproval. ‘But you can see they were wrong. Of course the Hand is holy: why else would it be housed in such a splendid
box and shrouded in the finest satin money can buy?’


Deschalers regarded him warily, not sure whether the friar was attempting to be droll: even his newest apprentice knew that
a tavern’s most handsome jug did not necessarily contain its best wine. But then he saw William’s face, which was lit with
savage, unshakeable fanaticism, and realised the friar was quite serious. Deschalers knew it would be a waste of time to point
out that there were objects all over the country languishing in satin and surrounded by jewels, purporting to be something
they were not.


‘There was some suggestion that the martyr arranged for this “relic” to be discovered himself, while he was alive and still
in possession of both his hands,’ he went on cautiously.


‘Details,’ said William evasively. ‘The Hand is sacred, no matter who it came from.’

‘How can that be?’ asked Deschalers uncertainly. ‘It either belongs to the martyr or it does not – which therefore means it
is either holy or it is not.’


‘It is sacred, but it did not belong to the martyr,’ admitted William. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, and leaned close to
Deschalers, treating the grocer to a waft of breath that indicated he had recently eaten onions. ‘It belonged to another saint,
but not many folk know about this.’


‘Which one?’ asked Deschalers, beginning to think he had indeed wasted his quarter-noble. He shivered, and wished he had not
ventured out on such an inane escapade when the weather was so bitter. He wanted to be home, huddled next to a fire, and with
a goblet of hot spiced ale at his side.


‘A man named Peterkin Starre,’ declared William with some triumph. He raised an admonishing finger when Deschalers released
a derisive snort of laughter. ‘You knew him as a simpleton giant. He drooled like a baby and took delight in childish matters. But he was more than that. God is mysterious,
and chooses unusual vessels for His divine purposes.’


‘Very unusual,’ agreed Deschalers dryly. ‘Are you telling me Peterkin Starre was a saint, and that the bones sawed from his
poor corpse are imbued with heavenly power?’ He wondered whether William would return his money willingly, or whether he would
have to approach the Chancellor about the matter. He hated the thought of being cheated.


‘I am,’ said William firmly. ‘That is the thing with saints: you do not know they are holy until they die and start to produce
miracles. Look at Thomas à Becket, who was just a quarrelsome archbishop until he was struck down by four knights in his own
cathedral. Now the spot where he died attracts pilgrims from all across the civilised world.’


‘You consider Peterkin Starre akin to St Thomas of Canterbury?’ asked Deschalers, startled.

‘I do,’ replied William with such conviction that Deschalers felt his disbelieving sneer begin to slip. ‘But do not take my
word for it: ask those whose prayers to the Hand have been heard and answered. They will tell you it is holy, and that it does not matter whose body it came from.’


‘I see,’ said Deschalers, regarding the bones doubtfully, and not sure what to think.

William was becoming impatient. Other people were waiting to view the relic, and he did not want to waste his time arguing
about its validity with sceptical merchants – especially when so many folk were prepared to make generous donations just to
be in the same room with it. He knew Deschalers was ill – he could see the lines of pain etched into the grocer’s face, and
the sallow skin with its sickly yellow sheen – but there was a limit to his tolerance, even for those who would soon be meeting
their Maker and would need the intercessions of the saints. Deschalers’s life had not been blameless, and William thought he was wise to prime Higher Beings to be ready to speak on his behalf. But
he wished the man would hurry up about it.


‘Do you want to pray or not?’ he asked, a little sharply. ‘If you do not believe in the Hand’s sacred powers, then I should
put it away and save it for those who do.’


‘No,’ said Deschalers, reaching out to stop him from replacing the bones in the reliquary. ‘I was just curious, that is all.
Perhaps you could let me have a few moments alone? My prayers are of a personal nature, and I do not want them overheard.’


William drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at the grocer. ‘I am a friar, bound by the seal of confession,’
he said indignantly. ‘You can pray for whatever you like, safe in the knowledge that your words with God and His angels will
never be repeated by me. Besides, I cannot leave pilgrims alone with the Hand of Valence Marie. They may become over-excited
and try to make off with it – and then what would I tell the Chancellor?’


‘Very well,’ said Deschalers tiredly. He lowered himself to his knees, each movement painful and laboured. He hoped his plan
would work – that his petition would be heard and his request granted – because everything else he had tried had failed. This
was his last chance, and he knew that if the Hand of Valence Marie did not intercede on his behalf, then all was lost. He
put his hands together, closed his eyes and began to pray.


Cambridge, late February 1355

When he first saw the well-dressed young man sitting on the lively grey horse, Matthew Bartholomew thought his eyes were playing
tricks on him. He blinked hard and looked a second time. But there was no mistake. The rider, whose elegant clothes were styled
in the very latest courtly fashion, was indeed Rob Thorpe, who had been convicted of murder two years before. Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks
and gazed in disbelief.


A cart hauled by heavy horses thundered towards him, loaded with wool for the fulling mill, and his colleague, John Wynewyk,
seized his arm to tug him out of its way. It was never wise to allow attention to wander while navigating the treacherous
surfaces of the town’s main thoroughfares, but it was even more foolish when ice lay in a slick sheet across them, and a chill
wind encouraged carters to make their deliveries as hastily as possible so they could go home.


‘This cannot be right,’ said Bartholomew in an appalled whisper, oblivious to the fact that Wynewyk had just saved his life.
‘Thorpe was banished from England for murder. He would not dare risk summary execution by showing his face here again – not
ever. I must be seeing things.’


‘You will not see anything if you dither in the middle of this road,’ lectured Wynewyk, watching the cart lurch away. ‘Thomas
Mortimer was driving that thing. Did you not hear what he did to Bernarde the miller last week? Knocked him clean off his
feet – and right up on top of that massive snowdrift outside Bene’t College.’


Bartholomew grudgingly turned his mind to Wynewyk’s story. Mortimer’s driving had become increasingly dangerous over the past
few weeks, and he wondered whether it was accident or design that it had been Bernarde who had almost come to grief under
his wheels – both men were millers, and they were rivals of the most bitter kind. Bartholomew supposed he should speak to
the town’s burgesses about the problem, because it was only a matter of time before Mortimer killed someone.


‘Here comes Langelee,’ said Wynewyk, pointing to where the Master of their College strode towards them. ‘What is the matter
with him? He looks furious.’


‘Have you heard the news?’ demanded Langelee as he drew level with his Fellows. ‘The King’s Bench has granted pardons to Rob Thorpe and Edward Mortimer.’


Bartholomew regarded him in horror, although Wynewyk shrugged to indicate he did not know what the fuss was about. ‘Who are
these men? Should I have heard of them?’


Langelee explained. ‘They earned their notoriety before you came to study here. Rob Thorpe killed several innocent people,
and Edward Mortimer was involved in a smuggling enterprise that ended in death and violence.’


‘Edward Mortimer?’ queried Wynewyk. ‘Is he any relation to him?’ He nodded to where Thomas Mortimer’s cart had collided with a hay wagon,
causing damage to both vehicles. The hay-wainer was not amused, and his angry curses could be heard all up the High Street.


‘His nephew,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘But the return of that pair bodes ill, for scholars and townsfolk alike.’

‘So, it was Thorpe I saw just now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But how did this come about? I thought they had been banished from England for
the rest of their lives.’


‘I thought they had been hanged for their crimes,’ replied Langelee grimly. ‘Not merely ordered to abjure the realm. But, from France, they managed to convince
the King’s Bench clerks that their sentence was overly harsh.’


‘Perhaps they are reformed,’ suggested Wynewyk. ‘It is not unknown for folk to repent of their misdeeds after they are sent
away in disgrace. You may be worrying over nothing.’


‘We are not,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘They were dangerous two years ago, and they are dangerous now. I am on my way to discuss
the matter with the Chancellor and the Sheriff, to see what – if anything – might be done to prevent them from settling here.’
He strode away purposefully.


‘He is exaggerating the seriousness of these fellows’ return,’ said Wynewyk, watching Langelee shoulder his way through the
boisterous, cheering crowd that had gathered to watch the fist-fight between the miller and the hay-wainer. He glanced sidelong at Bartholomew. ‘Is he not?’


‘I do not think so,’ replied Bartholomew soberly. ‘I cannot imagine what Thorpe and Mortimer did to secure their pardons,
but the fact that they are back means only one thing: trouble.’


That February saw the end of the worst winter anyone in Cambridge could remember. Screaming northerly winds had turned the
river into an iron highway, and had deposited hundreds of tons of snow on to the little Fen-edge town, threatening to bury
it completely. When milder weather eventually came, the drifts that choked streets and yards were so deep that it took many
weeks for the largest ones to melt. The biggest of them all was the mammoth pile outside Bene’t College on the High Street.
This had turned to ice as hard as stone, and attacking it with spades proved to be futile work, so the citizens of Cambridge
were obliged to let it disappear in its own time. It did so gradually, and people commented on its slowly diminishing size
as they passed. Children played on it, using its slick sides for games, while some artistic soul caused a good deal of merriment
by carving faces into it.


Weeks passed, until the drift dwindled to the point where people barely noticed it was there. Then, one morning, only the
very base remained. It was old Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse who discovered its grisly secret. He was walking to his friary
for morning prayers, when he saw a dead, white arm protruding from it. He knelt, to whisper prayers for the soul of a man
who had lain unmissed and undiscovered for so long. There was a piece of parchment clutched in the corpse’s hand, so Kenyngham
removed it from the decaying fingers, and read the message.


It was a note from a London merchant to his Cambridge kinsman, informing him of an imminent visit and detailing a plan to relieve a mutual enemy of some money. Kenyngham folded the parchment and put it in his scrip, intending to hand
it to the Senior Proctor later. But first, there was a man’s soul to pray for, and Kenyngham soon lost himself as he appealed
to Heaven on behalf of a man he had never met.


Two weeks later, Kenyngham met Bosel the beggar, who made his customary plea for spare coins. The elderly friar emptied his
scrip in search of farthings, and did not notice the forgotten parchment flutter to the ground. Bosel saw it, however, and
snatched it up as soon as Kenyngham had gone. He peered at it this way and that, but since he could not read, the obscure
squiggles and lines meant nothing to him. He sold it to the town’s surgeon, Robin of Grantchester, for a penny.


Robin suffered from poor eyesight, and in dim light could not make out the words, either. He did not care what it said anyway,
because parchment was parchment, and too valuable not to be reused. He scraped it clean with his knife, then rubbed it with
chalk, and sold it for three pennies to Godric, the young Franciscan Principal of Ovyng Hostel. Robin went to spend his windfall
on spiced ale at the King’s Head; Godric walked home and spent the afternoon composing a moving and eloquent prayer, which
he wrote carefully on the parchment.


Shortly before midnight, Godric rose and rang a small handbell to wake his students, then led them in a solemn, shivering
procession through the streets to St Michael’s Church, where he recited matins and lauds. When the office had been completed,
he went to the mound in the churchyard that marked the place where his predecessor had been laid to rest a few weeks before.
He scraped a shallow hole and laid the prayer inside, before bowing his head and walking away.


Bosel watched intently from the shadows thrown by a buttress. When Godric had gone, he moved forward, alert to the fact that Cambridge was a dangerous place at night and that beggars were not the only ones who lurked unseen in the
darkness. He reached the grave and crouched next to it, hoping the Franciscan had buried something valuable – something that
could be sold to raise a few coins for ale or a good meal. He was disappointed to discover parchment, and swore softly as
he reburied it. He considered taking it to Robin, but only briefly. For all Bosel knew, the jumble of letters might comprise
a curse, and only the foolish meddled with those sorts of things. He patted the earth back into place and wondered where he
might find richer pickings that night.


As he pondered, he became aware that he was not the only one in the churchyard. He could hear voices as two people argued
with each other. Knowing that conversations held among graves at the witching hour were unlikely to be innocent, and that
witnesses might well be dispatched, Bosel shot back into the shadows, hoping he had not been seen. He waited, his body held
so tensely that every muscle ached with the effort. When no cries of pursuit followed, he began to relax. Then he grew curious,
wanting to know what business pulled folk from warm beds on such a damp and chilly night. He eased around the buttress carefully
and silently, until he could see them.


He recognised both immediately. One was Thomas Deschalers the grocer, who was the wealthiest merchant in the town. He was
also the meanest, although in the last couple of weeks he had deigned to toss Bosel a few coins, and had even taken to having
bread and old clothes dispensed from his back door of a morning. The other was a popular Carmelite scholar called Nicholas
Bottisham. Bosel liked Bottisham: he was generous, and never too busy to bless beggars if they called out to him. Bosel could
not help but wonder what the gentle friar and the arrogant merchant could have to say to each other.


‘I do not know about this,’ Bottisham was saying uneasily. ‘Even you must appreciate that it is an odd thing to ask me to
do.’


‘I know.’ Deschalers sounded tired. ‘But I thought—’

He stopped speaking abruptly when the night’s stillness was broken by the sound of marching feet, the clink of armour and
the creak of old leather.


‘It is the night watch!’ exclaimed Bottisham in an alarmed whisper. ‘I do not want them to find me here with you, when I should
be at my prayers inside. The answer to your question is no.’


Deschalers released what sounded like a groan. ‘But I assure you, with all my heart—’

Bottisham cut across his entreaties. ‘No – and that is the end of the matter. But I must go, or my colleagues will wonder
what I have been doing.’


And then he was gone, leaving the grocer standing alone with his shoulders slumped in an attitude of defeat. Bosel pushed
himself deeper into the shadows as Deschalers trudged past, sensing that this would not be a good time to make an appeal for
spare change. The conversation was exactly the kind folk usually wanted to keep to themselves, and Bosel knew better than
to reveal himself. He shuddered, supposing it was something involving money or power, neither of which Bosel knew much about.
He decided to forget what he had seen. It was safer that way.


Cambridge, March 1355

Thomas Mortimer the miller was drunk again. He had managed to climb on to his cart and take the reins, but only because his
horses were used to his frequent visits to the town’s taverns, and knew to wait until he was safely slumped in the driver’s
seat before making their way home. His fellow drinkers at the Lilypot Inn raised dull, bloodshot eyes from their cups to watch,
but these were men for whom ale was a serious business, and the spectacle of an inebriated miller struggling into his cart
did not keep their attention for long.


It claimed someone’s, however. Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and Benedictine agent for the Bishop of Ely,
who taught theology at Michaelhouse when his other duties allowed, fixed the miller with a disapproving glare.


‘If Mortimer were a scholar, I would have him off that cart and imprisoned for driving dangerously, not to mention public
drunkenness,’ he declared angrily. ‘But he is a townsman, and therefore outside my jurisdiction. The Sheriff and the burgesses
will have to deal with him.’


‘They have done nothing so far,’ said Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at Michaelhouse, who strode at Michael’s side.
‘He knocked his rival miller across that snowdrift outside Bene’t College two weeks ago, and he will kill someone if he continues
to drive when he can barely stand upright. The burgesses listened politely to my complaints about him, but said they do not want to offend the Mortimer clan by ordering Thomas off his cart.’


Michael shook his head in disgust. ‘They are afraid that if they do, then the Mortimers will refuse to donate money for repairing
the Great Bridge.’


The two scholars had just left Merton Hall, where they had taken part in a lively debate on the neglect of mathematics in
academic studies, and were on their way to Gonville Hall. They had been invited to dine there by William Rougham, one of Bartholomew’s
medical colleagues. Bartholomew did not like Rougham, whom he found narrow-minded and dogmatic, but he felt obliged to suppress
his feelings as well as he could, given that he and Rougham comprised exactly half of the total complement of physicians in
Cambridge. So many medics had died during the plague that they were still in short supply, despite the best attempts of the
University to train more.


It was a pleasant early spring day, with the sun dipping in and out of gauzy white clouds and trees beginning to turn green
with buds and new leaves. A crisp breeze blew from the east, bringing with it the scent of freshly tilled soil from the surrounding
fields. Bartholomew inhaled deeply, savouring the sweetness of the air at the northern outskirts of the town. A few steps
ahead lay the Great Bridge, a teetering structure of stone and wood, and beyond this the air was far less fragrant. Fires
from houses, Colleges, hostels and businesses encased Cambridge in a pall of smoke, almost, but not quite, strong enough to
mask the stench of human sewage, animal manure and rotting rubbish that lay across the streets in a thick, fetid, greasy brown-black
blanket.


The Great Bridge was heavily congested that morning. It was a Wednesday, and traders from the surrounding villages streamed
towards the Market Square to sell their wares – sacks of grain and flour, noisy livestock, brown eggs wrapped in straw, winter vegetables past their best, and rough baskets and mats woven from Fenland reeds. Agitated whinnies,
baleful lows and furious honks and hisses expressed what the animals thought of the tightly packed, heaving throng that jostled
and shoved to cross the river.


It was not just farmers in homespun browns or brightly clad merchants who wanted access to the town that day. The sober hues
of academic tabards and monastic habits – the blacks, browns and whites of Dominicans, Carmelites, Franciscans and the occasional
Benedictine – were present, too. Scholars from Michaelhouse, Valence Marie, Bene’t College and countless other institutions
were pouring out of Merton Hall to join the press, all anxious to be home in time for their midday meal.


As people pushed in their haste to be across the bridge, the crush intensified. A pair of tinkers with handcarts became jammed
at the narrow entrance, and their irritable altercation was soon joined by others, who just wanted them to shut up and move
on. Bartholomew watched the unfolding scene uneasily. The Great Bridge was not the most stable structure in the town, and
collapses were not unknown. It was in desperate need of renovation, and he wished the burgesses would stop discussing how
expensive it would be and just mend the thing.


‘We will be late,’ said Michael loudly, annoyed by the delay. ‘And Gonville Hall might start eating without us.’

‘The bridge should not be subjected to this level of strain,’ said Bartholomew. His attention was fixed on the central arch,
which he was certain was bowing under the weight of a brewer’s dray and its heavy barrels of ale. ‘It is not strong enough.’


‘Rougham told me that the meal at Gonville today will cost a whole groat for each person,’ fretted Michael, thinking about what he stood to lose if they took much longer to cross. ‘He says
there is a side of beef to be shared between just ten of us, not to mention roast duck, fat bacon and half a dozen chickens. And there will be Lombard slices to finish.’


‘Did you see that?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pointing in alarm. ‘A spar just dropped from the left-hand arch and fell into the
water!’


‘One of the carts knocked it off,’ said Michael dismissively. He reconsidered uneasily. ‘However, if it is going to tumble
down, I hope it does not do so until we are over. I do not want to walk all the way around to the Small Bridges in order to
reach Gonville. There will be nothing left to eat by the time we get there.’


Bartholomew regarded his friend askance, amazed that the monk could think about his stomach when they might be about to witness
a disaster. Michael had always been big – tall, as well as fat – but his girth had expanded considerably over the last five
years. Satisfaction with his lot as Senior Proctor – he was, by virtue of his own machinations, one of the most powerful men
in the University – had occasioned a good deal of contented feeding. This meant that the tassels on the girdle around his
waist hung a good deal shorter than they should have done, owing to the ever-expanding circumference they were obliged to
encompass.


Michael had been to some trouble with his appearance that day, in honour of the debate and the meal that was to follow. His
dark Benedictine habit was immaculate, and he wore a silver cross around his neck, in place of the wooden one he usually favoured.
His plump fingers were adorned with jewelled rings, and his lank brown hair had been carefully brushed around his perfectly
round tonsure.


By contrast, Bartholomew’s black curls had recently been shorn to an uncompromising shortness by an overenthusiastic barber,
so he looked like one of the many mercenaries – relics of the King’s endless wars with France – who plagued Cambridge in search
of work. His clothes were patched and frayed, but of reasonable quality, thanks to the generosity of a doting older sister. His hands were clean,
his fingernails trimmed, and frequent College feasts had not yet provided him with a paunch like the ones sported by so many
of his colleagues. His profession as a physician saw to that, giving him plenty of exercise as he hurried around the town
to visit patients.


‘Here we are,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm as their part of the crowd suddenly surged forward, much to the chagrin
of people who were waiting on the other side. There were indignant yells and a considerable a