The Hand of Justice

‘Have some claret,’ said Pulham, ignoring Rougham’s angry sigh. ‘Bishop Bateman brought it the last time he visited. We shall miss him in more ways than you can imagine.’

‘What do you two want here?’ demanded Rougham. ‘I have already said you are not welcome.’

‘You have questions to answer,’ said Bartholomew sharply, not liking his tone.

‘I do not answer questions put by you,’ retorted Rougham, his voice dripping with contempt.

Bartholomew’s patience finally broke. ‘What is the matter with you? Why are you acting in this way? What have I done to offend you?’

Rougham looked as though he would not deign to reply, but Pulham joined the affray. ‘He is right, Rougham. Your manners are worse than those of a ploughboy when he appears. It is unlike you to be discourteous.’

‘What would you have me do?’ Rougham shouted, appealing to his colleague. ‘The man is healing patients under false pretences, and using his successes to belittle me.’

Bartholomew was astounded by the charge. ‘What do you think I have done?’

‘The secretum secretorum,’ hissed Rougham angrily. ‘The thing Bacon described, which turns lead to gold, and an old person to youth again. You have one.’ He glared at Bartholomew.

Bartholomew stared back, wondering whether the man had lost his wits. ‘But it does not exist.’

‘You have made one,’ said Rougham accusingly. ‘That is why you read so many foreign books, and why you were so determined to buy our Bacon. I would never have sold it, had I known it was going to you. You outwitted me shamelessly by asking the Chancellor to purchase it on your behalf.’

‘I did not-’ objected Bartholomew.

But Rougham was in his stride now. ‘You scoured Arab texts for the secret, and you learned it. That is why you have no need to petition the Hand of Justice for cures, like the rest of us.’

‘And how did you reach this conclusion?’ asked Bartholomew, more convinced than ever that the man’s mind had become impaired. He recalled the argument they had had about Bacon earlier, when Rougham had professed himself to be a believer in the secretum secretorum.

‘Redmeadow told me. He said you can heal all ailments, and that you will teach him how to do the same. He confessed to it when I berated him over that confusion between catmint and calamint.’

‘You drove him to anger when you embarrassed him, and he spoke out of spite,’ said Bartholomew. He could see that Pulham and Michael also thought Rougham was addled. ‘Redmeadow has a fiery temper and is always blurting things he does not mean in the heat of the moment.’

‘Then why do your patients live when you conduct surgery? And how do you heal old women and peasants, who are in poor health to start with?’

‘By using all the means at my disposal — the techniques my Arab master taught me, as well as those learned from books. There is no magic.’

‘Then what about Bishop Bateman?’ demanded Rougham, still on the offensive. ‘The Chancellor said you poisoned him.’

‘What?’ gasped Michael, astonished. ‘But Matt was not in Avignon when Bateman died.’

Bartholomew thought back to the discussion in St Mary the Great on the day of the Disputatio de quodlibet, when Tynkell had asked odd questions about poisons and Rougham had been present. He recalled the shocked expression on Rougham’s face and cursed the Chancellor for his insensitivity.

‘You do not need to be with your victim when he dies of poison,’ said Rougham sulkily.

‘Tynkell does not think Matt killed Bishop Bateman,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I have never heard a more ludicrous suggestion. The Chancellor has griping stomach pains — you tend them yourself on occasion — and it crossed his mind that poison might be the cause. But it was not.’

‘No one would bother to poison Tynkell,’ said Pulham to Rougham with calm reason. ‘It would be a waste of time, because he has so little real authority. And, although there are rumours that Bateman died from foul means, there is no proof of that, either. These tales are inevitable when important men die in foreign places. You are wrong to accuse Bartholomew.’

‘And this is why you have been so hostile lately?’ asked Bartholomew, unsure whether to be angry or amused. ‘You believe I dabble in sorcery, and think I am capable of poisoning bishops hundreds of miles distant?’

‘You did nothing to dissuade me from my beliefs,’ said Rougham coldly. ‘It is your fault our rivalry grew so bitter.’

Bartholomew did not bother to point out that he could hardly correct Rougham’s misapprehensions when he did not know what they were. He only wanted to ask his questions about the murders and leave, hoping that the next time they met, Rougham would at least be civil to him.