The Hand of Justice

Later that night, the Fellows of Michaelhouse sat quietly in the conclave. Bartholomew was reading Ibrahim’s book, completely absorbed, and Wynewyk watched, smiling at his friend’s pleasure. Langelee was telling Suttone how annoyed he was over the loss of Quenhyth’s fees, while William wrote a letter to the Chancellor, resigning as Keeper of the University Chest. When he passed the document to Michael, to check for errors in the grammar, the monk tore it up and threw it in the fire. He gave the friar a conspiratorial wink, and William grinned back in startled delight.

‘I do not want him reclaiming his post as Junior Proctor,’ Michael muttered to Bartholomew, as the Franciscan went to celebrate his unexpected reprieve by fetching wine from the kitchen. ‘I know he caused havoc as Keeper, but I think he has learned his lesson. He is safer where he is.’

‘What is that?’ demanded Langelee, looking out of the window at the reflected light dancing on the College’s pale walls. ‘And listen!’

He flung open the window shutter and the Fellows exchanged horrified glances when they detected the unmistakable sounds of riot — people shouting, dogs barking, the frightened whinnying of horses and an occasional scream. Feet hammered on the ground as folk ran here and there, and torches sent eerie flickers into the darkness.

‘Stay here,’ ordered Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘All of you, except Matt, who may be needed professionally. Bar the gate and be ready to douse fires. I do not like the look of this.’

In St Michael’s Lane, apprentices were everywhere. Scholars were out too, wearing the uniforms of their hostels and Colleges, and Bartholomew saw students from Gonville nudge each other and edge closer to Stanmore’s lads. He did not think they were about to exchange pleasantries about the cloth business, and ordered his brother-in-law’s boys home. They grumbled and kicked at the ground in frustration, but did as they were told. Michael did the same with the scholars, threatening them with a night in his cells, if they did not obey.

‘Will this town never be still?’ demanded Michael, as he turned into the High Street and saw that he and Bartholomew had only scratched the surface of the problem. People were massing, running down the High Street in the direction of the Trumpington Gate. He snatched the arm of someone who darted in the opposite direction. It was Ufford from Gonville Hall.

‘This chaos is Rougham’s fault,’ said Ufford in disgust. ‘He went to pray to the Hand of Justice, to ask for absolution for selling rat poison to Deschalers, but Father William would not let him near it. They began to argue, and William ended up confessing that the Hand has been stolen. Unfortunately, they were overheard.’

‘By whom?’ asked Michael.

‘By Mayor Morice. He has been telling everyone — and the townsfolk want it back.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew guiltily.

‘But why is everyone storming around?’ asked Michael. ‘It was stolen, but that is no reason for all this mayhem. Rioting will not reveal what happened to it.’

‘Because Morice says Mortimer and Thorpe have it,’ said Ufford, glancing around uneasily. No ambitious courtier with good family connections wanted to be caught up in anything as unseemly as a brawl, and he was anxious to be away. ‘He says they came to Cambridge with the sole purpose of reclaiming the Hand, and it is in their possession. Thank God we did not let Thorpe bring it to Gonville, or we would now be under siege instead of Mortimer’s Mill.’

‘The mill is being attacked?’ asked Michael. But Ufford was gone, making his way to the quiet end of town, where he would secure a room in a respectable tavern and emerge only when the fighting was over.

Bells were sounding the alarm, and soldiers on horses thundered along, all heading for Mortimer’s Mill. The roads and lanes were full of shouting, clanging and general alarum. As the noise levels increased, more folk spilled into the streets to join the throng, or to cover their windows with planks of wood to protect them from looters. Furious hammering joined the cacophony.

‘Look!’ cried Bartholomew, pointing into the night sky. It was stained orange, indicating that a steady blaze was burning somewhere. He and Michael joined the stream of people flooding down the High Street, through the Trumpington Gate and along the side of Peterhouse to the river.

‘We do not know who fired Mortimer’s Mill,’ panted Sergeant Orwelle, who trotted along next to them. ‘There are rumours that it was scholars — because Edward Mortimer and Thorpe stole the Hand of Justice from St Mary the Great. Both felons are now hiding in the mill. But there are also rumours that the fire was set by townsmen — because of what happened to Lenne and Isnard.’