The Hand of Justice

‘But I need the money,’ objected Quenhyth in a whine. ‘How can I buy medicines for the patients I will soon have, if I have no funds? Every other student in the University makes ends meet by scribing for wealthy merchants, and I am the only one without a patron. Even Deynman writes for Stanmore on occasion.’

‘Clear off!’ growled Thorpe.

‘But I have tried everyone else,’ persisted Quenhyth. ‘Redmeadow works for Cheney, and Ulfrid and Zebedee, the Franciscans, scribe for Bernarde and Lavenham. You are my last hope.’

‘You are not the sort any decent man would hire,’ said Thorpe nastily. ‘You are opinionated and judgmental, and no one likes you.’

Bartholomew saw Quenhyth blanch, and felt sorry for him. He had forgotten Quenhyth was short of funds, and felt he must be desperate indeed if he was obliged to beg for work from Mortimer.

‘I am liked,’ said Quenhyth in a strangled voice. ‘Deynman and Redmeadow are fond of me.’

‘Deynman tolerates you,’ said Mortimer unpleasantly. ‘But Redmeadow loathes you. I heard him telling Cheney so the other day, when he was scribing for him in St Clement’s Church. He says you spy on him all the time, so he cannot do what he wants.’

Bartholomew wondered what Redmeadow had meant, but then reflected that Quenhyth was a sanctimonious lad, who made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of rule-breaking. Redmeadow had probably learned that he could not drink in taverns, gamble, or flirt with the town’s women as long as Quenhyth shared his room.

‘We are busy,’ snarled Mortimer at the hapless student. ‘Do not bother us again.’

He strutted away, heading towards a tinker, who was flouting Sunday laws by sitting with his wares laid out on a dirty rug. The tinker reached out to attract his attention, and Bartholomew was astonished to see Mortimer kick him. The tinker reeled, but recovered to screech curses after the swaggering men. When they reached the edge of the Jewry, Mortimer turned and made an obscene gesture, which resulted in even more frenzied oaths. Thorpe immediately retraced his steps. Bartholomew could not hear what was said, but the tinker fell silent. He bowed his head as the two felons left.

Bartholomew watched with distaste. Folk who were obliged to peddle their wares from rugs on the ground were the poorest of traders, and could not be blamed if the occasional hand reached out to a potential customer. Bartholomew disliked being grabbed himself, but it was easy enough to pull away. Mortimer’s kick had been vicious and unnecessary. Not for the first time the physician wondered what kind of men the King’s clerks had set free with their casually granted pardons.

Michael was happy to continue gossiping with the merchants, but the incident with the tinker had unsettled Bartholomew. He followed Thorpe and Mortimer at a discreet distance until they entered a tavern on the High Street, open despite Sabbath restrictions. He peered through a window shutter and heard them demanding ale from a pot-boy. He supposed that as long as they were in an inn, the town’s women would be safe enough — until the two men emerged fuelled for more mischief. He moved away as the first heavy drops of a spring shower started to fall, turning his thoughts back to whatever it was that Redmeadow wanted to do that Quenhyth’s presence at Michaelhouse made difficult. Was it more than a mere flouting of the University’s rules? Had Cheney asked his scribe to do something to further the mill dispute, something Redmeadow was finding difficult because of his roommate’s nosy presence?

Bartholomew retraced his steps up the High Street, passing the row of hovels opposite the Hospital of St John. The shacks had been an eyesore for years. Their roofs sagged, wall plaster dropped to the ground in clumps when it was too wet or too dry, and they stank of mould and decay. During the previous winter, snow had caused roofs to collapse, and some major restoration had been necessary — a task undertaken by the carpenter Robert de Blaston, on the understanding that one house would be his when it was completed. Matilde was looking forward to the day when the carpenter, his wife and their children moved into their own home, and so was Bartholomew. He longed to have her to himself again.

Since he was close, he walked to her house, and knocked on the door. The metal hinges gleamed like gold, and the wood had been polished so that he could all but see his face in it. He smiled. Blaston’s brood were not taking Matilde for granted, and were doing small tasks to repay her for her hospitality.