The Hand of Justice

But Michael still refused to act, and even claimed that a member of his own College and a respected medicus would never engage in anything overtly untoward, and that although their behaviour was suspicious and odd, there was probably nothing illegal going on. Bartholomew gaped at him, knowing from experience that decent-seeming men often indulged themselves in all manner of heinous deeds, but he saw the monk would not be convinced otherwise, and there was no point in pressing the matter further. Unhappily, he tried to put it from his mind.

A while later, when the light of late afternoon began to fade into the gentler hues of early evening, he heard raised voices coming from the College’s main gate. He abandoned his reading and went to look through the window to see what was happening. His students were in the room with him, but Redmeadow and Quenhyth were studying, and neither so much as glanced up at the commotion. Deynman, however, readily abandoned his Dioscorides and came to stand next to him.

Walter was hurrying across the yard towards them, his cockerel tucked under his arm. It did not look pleased when the porter broke into a trot and it found itself vigorously jarred, and Bartholomew did not think he had ever seen a more outraged expression on the face of a bird. Walter burst into the hallway and hammered on Bartholomew’s door.

‘Lenne’s son has just been,’ he said, clutching his pet firmly. ‘He wants you to visit his mother’s house. He says there is something seriously amiss, and asks if you will go at once. No, Bird!’

The chicken had wriggled out of his grasp and shot into Bartholomew’s chamber. It fluttered straight under the bed, where it knew it would be difficult to oust. Bartholomew snatched up his medicine bag and headed for the door, content to let his students deal with the feathered intruder. Deynman had already grabbed a sword to encourage it out, and Walter was screeching his horror that a sharp implement might hurt it.

‘I hope so,’ muttered Deynman, poking furiously. ‘It does not deserve to be in a College like Michaelhouse, with its dirty manners and unwelcome visitations. It should be at Valence Marie, where no one cares whether it wipes its teeth on the tablecloth.’

‘Hens do not have teeth,’ said Redmeadow, jumping forward to prevent the agitated Walter from hurling himself on to Deynman’s back.

‘Do not let it near my books,’ warned Bartholomew as he left. He started to run across the yard, not surprised when he heard footsteps behind him and saw Quenhyth following. Redmeadow was not far behind, more than happy to let Deynman manage Bird and its angry owner alone.

‘You might need us,’ said Redmeadow breathlessly, trying to keep up with the rapid pace Bartholomew was setting. ‘And I have been reading about diseases of the lungs all afternoon.’

They dashed up St Michael’s Lane, then along the High Street and left into Shoemaker Row, where the cobblers were beginning to close their shops for the night. Awnings were lowered, windows shuttered, wares carried inside, and the familiar tap of hammers on leather was stilled.

The door was opened immediately and they were ushered inside. As usual, the room was hazy with smoke, and the remains of a simple meal — weak broth and a crust of bread — sat on a stone by the hearth. Mistress Lenne lay on her bed, the covers folded carefully around her. The room had been swept and dusted, and her few belongings arranged neatly on the shelves. Her son had not been idle, and had ensured she would not die in a house that was dirty or untidy.

‘She is not breathing as she should,’ said Lenne, gesturing to the pale, sunken-eyed figure. There was panic in his eyes. ‘I do not know what to do.’

‘You can summon a priest,’ said Bartholomew, crouching next to the old woman and taking one of her bony wrists to feel a weak, thready pulse that beat erratically. ‘You have made her comfortable and she is not in pain. There is no more either of us can do now.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Lenne, aghast. ‘So soon?’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, standing. ‘It will not be long now.’

‘This is my fault,’ whispered Lenne, stricken. ‘I should not have done what she asked.’

‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping he was not about to be burdened with the confession that Lenne had given her some potion prescribed by Rougham — or by Paxtone, for that matter.

‘She asked me to carry her to St Mary the Great,’ said Lenne tearfully. ‘She wanted to visit the Hand of Justice. I told her I did not want to take her, but she begged me so pitifully.’

‘You did the right thing,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Perhaps the journey did hasten her end, but I doubt she would have lived beyond tomorrow anyway. You did what she asked, and I am sure she appreciates that.’

‘I thought the Hand might save her,’ whispered Lenne. ‘I thought it might be moved by her suffering, and reach out to cure her. But I was wrong.’