The Hand of Justice

‘Give Rougham my apologies,’ Bartholomew said to Michael as he prepared to follow. ‘He will understand why I cannot dine with him at Gonville today. You should consider yourself fortunate, Brother: you can now eat two groats’ worth of meat instead of one.’

‘What of Isnard?’ asked Michael, ignoring his friend’s attempt at levity. He was fond of the gruff bargeman who had served in his choir for so many years.

Bartholomew lowered his voice so Isnard would not hear. While he believed in honesty where patients were concerned, and rarely flinched from telling them the truth, he saw no advantage in frightening folk into losing hope just before painful and traumatic surgery. ‘He will lose his leg, and possibly his life.’

The stricken expression in Michael’s eyes turned to something harder and more dangerous. ‘Damn Mortimer! I will see he pays for this! I will bring the full force of the law down upon him.’

‘You can try,’ said Tulyet, overhearing. ‘But you will not succeed. No one has admitted to seeing what happened — Bosel does not count — and Mortimer claims that Isnard and Lenne ran under his wheels. We will never prove who was at fault here, because we have no independent witnesses.’

‘Someone must have seen something,’ said Bartholomew. He gestured around him. ‘The street was full of people.’

‘Perhaps so, but no townsman will denounce a Mortimer — not if he values his business.’

‘But Mortimer was drunk!’ objected Bartholomew, indignant that the miller was about to evade justice on the grounds that his family intimidated people. ‘He should not have been driving a cart, and it is his fault that Lenne is dead and Isnard may follow.’

‘I know,’ said Tulyet softly. ‘And justice dictates that he should pay for it. But we have no case in law. I doubt whether Mortimer will be punished for this.’

‘Then the law is wrong,’ declared Bartholomew hotly.

‘Yes, often,’ agreed Tulyet sombrely. ‘But it is all we have between us and chaos, so do not dismiss it too harshly.’

‘And do not confuse it with justice, either,’ added Michael acidly. ‘They are not the same.’

‘No, they are not,’ said Bartholomew angrily. He turned and hurried to his patient’s side as the first real cries of agony began to issue from the injured bargeman.

‘You look tired, Matt,’ said Michael the following day. It was dawn, and they had just celebrated prime in St Michael’s Church. Their colleague Father William had conducted the ceremony, gabbling the words so fast that it was over almost before it had started. William was not popular with the students, because he was fanatical and petty, but they all admired his speedy masses.

Bartholomew and Michael took their places in the sedate procession of scholars that moved quietly through the gradually lightening streets, heading towards a breakfast of baked oatmeal and salted fish. They crossed the High Street and turned down St Michael’s Lane, passing Gonville Hall as they went. Part of Gonville’s protective wall had recently been demolished, because its Fellows intended to build a chapel in its place. A plot had already been measured out, marked with ropes and stakes, and foundation stones were laid in a long, even line. Judging by its dimensions, the church would be an impressive edifice once completed.

‘Will Isnard live?’ asked Michael quietly, when his friend did not reply.

‘It is too soon to say,’ replied Bartholomew, stifling a yawn. He had spent most of the previous night at the bargeman’s house and had not managed more than an hour of sleep. ‘His leg was so badly crushed that I was obliged to remove it below the knee. But it will be some days before we know whether he will survive the fever that often follows such treatment.’

‘You amputated his leg?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘God’s teeth, you play with fire! You are not a surgeon, and Robin of Grantchester has already made several official complaints about you poaching his trade. You also seem to forget that cautery is not a skill held in great esteem by your fellow physicians; they claim you bring them into disrepute when you employ knives and forceps, instead of calendars and astronomical charts.’

‘Isnard would be dead for certain if I had allowed Robin at him,’ said Bartholomew, too weary to feel indignation that his three fellow physicians — Rougham of Gonville, Lynton of Peterhouse and Paxtone of King’s Hall — should presume to tell him how to practise medicine.

‘I know that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I was not thinking of Isnard — there is no question that you have done him a favour by dispensing with the unsavoury Robin — I was considering you. It was different when only you and Lynton were in Cambridge, and people could not afford to be particular. But now there are four of you, you must be more careful. Several of your most affluent patients have already left you.’