The Hand of Justice

He saw the glint of steel in the fading light. Edward had drawn a dagger. Hastily he groped in his bag for one of his surgical knives, but Edward knew what he was doing and darted forward with the weapon flashing. Bartholomew only just managed to raise the bag in time to prevent himself from being run through. Edward tore it from his hands and tossed it away, advancing relentlessly with the encouraging howls of his cousins ringing in his ears. Bartholomew recalled what both Redmeadow and Ufford had said about Edward: that during his exile he had learned fighting skills that made him a formidable opponent. And Bartholomew had allowed himself to be manoeuvred into a position where he was facing him alone, without so much as a stick to defend himself.

‘It is just you and me, physician,’ taunted Edward, beckoning him forward with one hand while he waved the dagger with the other. Bartholomew cursed Redmeadow for his hot temper. ‘You have insulted and denigrated me ever since I returned, and it is time you paid for your insolence.’

He leapt forward again, and Bartholomew managed to grab his wrist, trying to shake the weapon from his grasp. Edward used his free hand to seize the physician by the throat. As the younger man’s fingers started to tighten, Bartholomew used his greater size and strength to force him back against the wall. They crashed against it hard enough to make Edward grunt in pain. But it did not stop him for long — he tipped back his head, then brought it forward sharply, intending to break Bartholomew’s nose with his forehead. Unfortunately for Edward, Bartholomew had seen this particular move before. He twisted away, turning Edward as he did so, and heard the man’s head crack against the wall with considerable force. While Edward staggered, dazed, Bartholomew knocked the dagger from his hand.

But the Mortimer cousins were not willing to stand by and see one of their own defeated. They moved in quickly and Bartholomew saw they both carried knives. He wondered how many moments he would have on Earth before one of them speared him.

‘If you kill him, you will have to kill me, too,’ came a calm voice from the other side of the street. ‘I will be a witness to your crime, and I will certainly testify against you. I will see you hang.’ It was Master Thorpe of Valence Marie, who had been attending a mass in nearby St Mary the Great.

‘You!’ sneered Edward, turning on him with an eagerness that was frightening. Master Thorpe did not flinch. ‘I will happily kill you as well, you traitorous pig!’

‘But then you will have to kill me,’ said Thomas Bingham, stepping out of the shadows and standing shoulder to shoulder with the Master of his College.

‘And me,’ said Pulham of Gonville Hall, swallowing hard. He lacked the calm courage of the Valence Marie men, and his eyes showed that he was terrified, but he stood firm nonetheless.

‘And then you can try to kill me, but I run fast and will reach Michaelhouse and tell the Senior Proctor what you have done long before you complete your slaughter,’ added Ufford, joining them. He still limped from his last encounter with Edward, so Bartholomew doubted he was telling the truth about his speed.

Other scholars began to move forward, too, none armed and all senior members of the University. There was Tynkell — standing apart, because even in a tense situation, no one wanted to be too close to him — and Paxtone from King’s Hall. Michaelhouse was also represented, and Wynewyk, Kenyngham and Clippesby hurried to wait at Bartholomew’s side. Bartholomew felt a sudden guilt for his suspicious thoughts about Wynewyk and Paxtone, who were prepared to risk their lives to save him.

There was a slight flicker in the shadows nearby. Bartholomew spotted Dame Pelagia, watching the scene with her bright, thoughtful eyes. He saw something glint in her hand, and supposed she held one of her famous throwing knives, ready to hurl it with deadly precision should the incident not end as she wanted. He sincerely hoped she was not a secret supporter of the Mortimer clan.

‘Put up your weapons and go home before anyone is hurt,’ said Kenyngham, ever the peace-maker. ‘All of you.’

The Mortimers knew they were beaten. Rubbing his wrist and looking more dangerous than Bartholomew had ever seen him, Edward stalked away. Nervously, as though anticipating a sly attack from behind, his cousins followed. Thomas hurried after them, flinging Redmeadow away from him as he went. The student scrambled to his feet, and Clippesby was obliged to grab his arm to prevent him from running after the miller to fight him again. Kenyngham murmured softly in his ear until the lad’s rage began to subside. When Bartholomew glanced into the shadows again, Dame Pelagia was nowhere to be seen.

‘You are lucky we happened to pass when we did,’ said Wynewyk, looking Bartholomew up and down to ensure he was unhurt. ‘Master Thorpe heard the commotion, and suggested we investigate.’