The Hand of Justice

‘I cannot believe this,’ said Michael, as they passed the outskirts of the Jewry. A miasma of rosewater still encased him, and Bartholomew tried to keep his distance. ‘If the Mortimers gain a single penny over Thomas’s death I shall join those restless peasants who are urging rebellion, and overthrow the King myself.’

‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, glancing around him uneasily. The monk’s voice had been loud, and there were plenty of people close enough to have heard. ‘You are always warning me about making treasonous remarks, but I have never made that sort of proclamation on the High Street.’

‘Well, I am angry,’ pouted Michael. ‘And disillusioned. I have been upholding University laws for five years now, and I thought right was on my side. But, in the last two weeks I have seen murderers pardoned; I have seen them awarded money for their “suffering”; I have seen a drunken merchant crush folk under his cart with no reprisals; I have seen Deschalers, Warde and Bottisham dead by foul means and I do not know why; and I have seen Bosel callously dispatched to protect Thomas’s precious reputation. And now Edward plans to sue the destitute Lavenham.’

‘We do not know Lavenham is destitute,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He may have a fortune secreted away — he certainly still has his share of the King’s Mill. And he may be dead and therefore beyond the Mortimers’ clutches. We do not know Bosel was killed to protect Thomas, either. Constantine says not. And finally you know as well as I do that “right” and “justice” have nothing to do with the law, so you cannot be disillusioned.’

At Tulyet’s house, Michael rapped on the door, becoming impatient when it was not answered immediately. He had missed a number of snacks that day, so was hungry and wanted to get at Mistress Tulyet’s lamb and Lombard slices as soon as possible.

‘Summer must be closer than I thought,’ said Tulyet, ushering them inside. ‘I can smell blossom. Rather strongly, actually. Or perhaps one of the Frail Sisters passed this way, and her scent lingers.’

‘Weeds,’ said Tulyet’s wife, coming to greet them and also detecting something aromatic. ‘Like lily of the valley or some such plant. No. It is less pleasant than that. Henbane. I believe that reeks at this time of year.’ She inspected the bushes that grew along the front of her house.

‘Henbane killed Warde,’ said Michael, making his way to Tulyet’s solar and oblivious to the mortified expression on the faces of his hosts as they identified the origin of the stench. ‘It is not hard to believe that something so foul-smelling contains such a virulent poison.’

‘And Bess,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting her to be forgotten. He entered the solar behind Michael and was surprised to see Stanmore there, sipping warmed wine by the hearth. The clothier winked at Bartholomew and told him that it was more pleasant to inveigle invitations from friends than to dine alone while his wife was away.

‘God’s angels!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. ‘What is that?’

He pointed to an object that lay on its side in one corner of the room, all wooden legs and frayed fur, like a Trojan horse that had seen some terrible wars. Its face was unscathed, however, and Bartholomew immediately recognised the beady, malevolent eyes and grinning, tooth-filled mouth of the toy Quenhyth had crafted.

‘We have young Quenhyth to thank for that,’ said Tulyet with a fond smile. ‘He gave it to Dickon when he hurt himself, and it has become his favourite toy. I offered to return it, since it was originally intended for Quenhyth’s brother, but the kind lad said we could keep it.’

Bartholomew imagined that Quenhyth’s generosity had nothing to do with kindness. He knew he was likely to be asked to help tend Dickon in the future so would not want to accept the toy back and run the risk of being speared by Dickon’s wooden sword when their paths next crossed.

‘What is it?’ asked Michael dubiously, picking up the object by one of its legs. It had suffered during its few days in the Tulyet house. One of its feet had broken, there were bald patches where its fur had come off, and it was missing its tail.

‘It is a rat,’ came the piping, childish voice of Dickon from behind them, where he had been eating the sugared cherries off the tops of all the Lombard slices. ‘You stink! I am a Saracen!’

With a wild whoop and little warning, Dickon produced the dreaded sword and rushed at Michael, brandishing it to show he meant serious harm. Bartholomew had never seen the monk move so fast, and Dickon’s weapon succeeded only in cleaving thin air. Aggrieved to be deprived of his target, the brat looked around furiously, and drew breath for another attack.

‘Dickon!’ shouted Tulyet. ‘What have I told you about assaulting guests?’