The Hand of Justice

‘Which one?’ asked Deschalers, beginning to think he had indeed wasted his quarter-noble. He shivered, and wished he had not ventured out on such an inane escapade when the weather was so bitter. He wanted to be home, huddled next to a fire, and with a goblet of hot spiced ale at his side.

‘A man named Peterkin Starre,’ declared William with some triumph. He raised an admonishing finger when Deschalers released a derisive snort of laughter. ‘You knew him as a simpleton giant. He drooled like a baby and took delight in childish matters. But he was more than that. God is mysterious, and chooses unusual vessels for His divine purposes.’

‘Very unusual,’ agreed Deschalers dryly. ‘Are you telling me Peterkin Starre was a saint, and that the bones sawed from his poor corpse are imbued with heavenly power?’ He wondered whether William would return his money willingly, or whether he would have to approach the Chancellor about the matter. He hated the thought of being cheated.

‘I am,’ said William firmly. ‘That is the thing with saints: you do not know they are holy until they die and start to produce miracles. Look at Thomas à Becket, who was just a quarrelsome archbishop until he was struck down by four knights in his own cathedral. Now the spot where he died attracts pilgrims from all across the civilised world.’

‘You consider Peterkin Starre akin to St Thomas of Canterbury?’ asked Deschalers, startled.

‘I do,’ replied William with such conviction that Deschalers felt his disbelieving sneer begin to slip. ‘But do not take my word for it: ask those whose prayers to the Hand have been heard and answered. They will tell you it is holy, and that it does not matter whose body it came from.’

‘I see,’ said Deschalers, regarding the bones doubtfully, and not sure what to think.

William was becoming impatient. Other people were waiting to view the relic, and he did not want to waste his time arguing about its validity with sceptical merchants — especially when so many folk were prepared to make generous donations just to be in the same room with it. He knew Deschalers was ill — he could see the lines of pain etched into the grocer’s face, and the sallow skin with its sickly yellow sheen — but there was a limit to his tolerance, even for those who would soon be meeting their Maker and would need the intercessions of the saints. Deschalers’s life had not been blameless, and William thought he was wise to prime Higher Beings to be ready to speak on his behalf. But he wished the man would hurry up about it.

‘Do you want to pray or not?’ he asked, a little sharply. ‘If you do not believe in the Hand’s sacred powers, then I should put it away and save it for those who do.’

‘No,’ said Deschalers, reaching out to stop him from replacing the bones in the reliquary. ‘I was just curious, that is all. Perhaps you could let me have a few moments alone? My prayers are of a personal nature, and I do not want them overheard.’

William drew himself up to his full height and looked down his nose at the grocer. ‘I am a friar, bound by the seal of confession,’ he said indignantly. ‘You can pray for whatever you like, safe in the knowledge that your words with God and His angels will never be repeated by me. Besides, I cannot leave pilgrims alone with the Hand of Valence Marie. They may become over-excited and try to make off with it — and then what would I tell the Chancellor?’

‘Very well,’ said Deschalers tiredly. He lowered himself to his knees, each movement painful and laboured. He hoped his plan would work — that his petition would be heard and his request granted — because everything else he had tried had failed. This was his last chance, and he knew that if the Hand of Valence Marie did not intercede on his behalf, then all was lost. He put his hands together, closed his eyes and began to pray.

Cambridge, late February 1355

When he first saw the well-dressed young man sitting on the lively grey horse, Matthew Bartholomew thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He blinked hard and looked a second time. But there was no mistake. The rider, whose elegant clothes were styled in the very latest courtly fashion, was indeed Rob Thorpe, who had been convicted of murder two years before. Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks and gazed in disbelief.

A cart hauled by heavy horses thundered towards him, loaded with wool for the fulling mill, and his colleague, John Wynewyk, seized his arm to tug him out of its way. It was never wise to allow attention to wander while navigating the treacherous surfaces of the town’s main thoroughfares, but it was even more foolish when ice lay in a slick sheet across them, and a chill wind encouraged carters to make their deliveries as hastily as possible so they could go home.