The Hand of Justice

‘Did he, by God?’ said Cheney, pursing his lips in disapproval. ‘I might have known scholars would support the wrong side. After all, the Mortimers did choose Gonville Hall to present their case at the formal hearing, and University men always stick together.’

‘They cleaves with each other,’ agreed Lavenham angrily. ‘Like with Hand of Injustice, which belong to town. School-men claim belong to University.’

‘The Hand of Justice, Lavenham,’ corrected Bernarde. ‘It does not do to confuse them.’

‘Why not?’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Everyone else does, including the King.’ Michael gave him a hard elbow-jab that hurt enough to make him think twice about saying anything else.

‘If the University is forced to help pay this compensation, they will definitely keep the Hand of Justice for themselves,’ said Cheney angrily. ‘They will continue to lock it in St Mary the Great, and it will cost us townsfolk dear each time we want to petition it.’

‘But Father William has been charging scholars and townsfolk the same amount,’ said Tulyet reasonably. ‘There was a nasty argument this morning, because he refused Langelee a free viewing. They almost came to blows, and only the intervention of Dame Pelagia prevented a brawl.’

‘That Hand will cause trouble wherever it goes,’ said Michael. ‘Young Thorpe has asked the King if Gonville can have it. But other Colleges are sure to be jealous. As far as I am concerned, the town can have the thing, and good riddance.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Tulyet hastily. ‘I do not want to deal with the strife it will cause, either.’

‘Warde’s will is going to be read tomorrow morning,’ said Stanmore, changing the subject to one all merchants loved: money. ‘He was a wealthy man by University standards. I wonder what he will leave his College.’

‘Books, I imagine,’ said Cheney distastefully. ‘It is what they all like. Did you hear about Deschalers’s will? Julianna inherited the lot.’

‘Except for a wooden chest,’ said Stanmore. ‘That went to some clerk, although I understand it is a paltry thing. The clerk admired it — he was probably being polite — and Deschalers took him at his word. I suspect the fellow is now wishing he had praised something a little more expensive.’

‘I would be,’ said Bernarde wistfully. ‘A box is useful, but virtually worthless. Deschalers did not leave his apprentices a penny, you know. He was wrong to be so miserly. They served him for many years, and they deserved better.’

‘And then Edward dismissed most of them,’ added Cheney. ‘It is almost as if he wants his business to fail. How will he run it without men who know what they are doing? He has neither the experience nor the knowledge to become a grocer.’

‘I do not think he intends to stay long,’ said Stanmore. ‘A man intent on making a venture profitable does not rid himself of those who can help him. I suspect he intends to reap what funds there are — from Julianna’s inheritance and this wretched compensation — and then leave.’

‘I hope so,’ said Tulyet. ‘He has done nothing criminal yet, but he has come close. He pesters the Frail Sisters, too. I doubt Julianna would approve, if she knew. Perhaps I should drop her a few hints. That would put an end to his philandering.’

‘Be direct,’ advised Stanmore. ‘She is not a woman who understands hints.’

Tulyet balked. ‘That would be a gentlemanly thing to do.’

Bartholomew listened to them with half an ear. He was looking towards the well in the Jewry, where the object of their discussion was lounging against a wall. Edward Mortimer, with Thorpe at his side, was watching the young women lining up to draw water. The girls soon became uneasy under their lecherous scrutiny. Mortimer moved close to one of the prettiest and whispered something in her ear, pushing himself against her. She dropped her bucket and fled, tears starting from her eyes, while the others edged closer together, their faces rigidly hostile.

Mortimer was unperturbed by their animosity. He merely selected another victim, and began to look her up and down as a housewife might examine a carcass at the butchers’ stalls. Bartholomew took several steps towards him, intending to intervene if he made a nuisance of himself: he had meant what he had said to Thorpe on the river bank the previous day and, as far as he was concerned, the threat applied to Mortimer, too. He was just close enough to hear what was being said, when a familiar figure sidled up to the miscreants and the women used the distraction to scatter.

‘I have been hoping to meet you, sir,’ said Quenhyth with one of his ingratiating smiles.

‘I have already told you that I do not want your services,’ snapped Mortimer, angry to have lost his prey. ‘I can write as well as, or better than, you, and I do not require a scribe.’