The Hand of Justice

‘There is Thomas Mortimer again,’ he said, as the miller’s cart clattered towards them at a speed that was far from safe. He leapt back as it passed uncomfortably close before lurching towards the High Street. ‘It is not yet noon. I know the Lilypot is popular with men who love their ale, but even they tend not to be drunk this early.’

‘It is because the Mortimer family is so prosperous at the moment,’ said Michael, aiming for Gonville Hall with single-minded purpose. ‘Thomas owns the only fulling mill this side of Ely and his brother runs the town’s biggest bakery. They are making a fortune, and Thomas has good cause to celebrate. Still, their success will cause trouble eventually: the other burgesses will resent their riches and there will be all manner of jealous rivalries. I am just glad it is not I who will be called upon to sort them out. I have my hands full with the upcoming debate.’

‘The one on Saturday?’ asked Bartholomew, increasing his pace to keep up with him. The monk did not usually walk fast, but was evidently prepared to make an exception when good food was waiting. ‘When Michaelhouse will compete with Gonville Hall in the end-of-term debate — the Disputatio de quodlibet? Why should that take your time?’

‘Because any large gathering of scholars means trouble for a proctor, as you well know. Even a serious academic occasion, like the Disputatio, may give rise to rioting or just plain bad behaviour.’ Michael grinned, pushing his concerns aside for a moment as he considered another aspect of the occasion. ‘Michaelhouse has not been invited to take part in a quodlibetical debate of this magnitude since the Death, and defeating Gonville will give me a good deal of pleasure. They are excellent scholars, and I shall enjoy pitting my wits against equal minds.’

‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, ignoring the monk’s arrogant confidence. ‘Mortimer has just driven into Master Warde from the Hall of Valence Marie. He cannot control his cart in that state. You must say something before he kills someone, Brother — regardless of jurisdiction.’

‘It is my jurisdiction now a scholar is involved,’ declared Michael grimly, hurrying towards Mortimer’s horses, which had been startled by the sudden and unexpected presence of a scholar under their feet, and were rearing and bucking.

Bartholomew hauled Warde away from the flailing hoofs, while Michael snatched the reins from Mortimer’s inept hands and attempted to calm the horses.

‘Watch where you are going!’ Warde shouted furiously, fright making him uncharacteristically aggressive. He leaned close to the miller, taking in the bloodshot eyes and glazed expression, before pointing an accusing finger. ‘You are drunk!’

‘I am not,’ slurred Mortimer. All three scholars were treated to a waft of breath thick with the fruity scent of ale as he spoke. ‘I have only rinsed the dust from my throat. Ferrying bales of cloth from the quays to my fulling mill is thirsty work.’

Michael was unimpressed. ‘Then rinse it with weaker ale,’ he snapped. ‘You cannot careen all across the street as if you are the only man using it.’

Infuriated by the reprimand, Mortimer snatched the reins from the monk and flicked them sharply so that the leather cracked across the horses’ flanks. One reared again, then both took off at a rapid canter. Bartholomew watched them go, then turned to Warde. The Valence Marie Fellow was a tall man with yellow-grey hair that he kept well oiled with goose fat. He had a reputation for brilliant scholarship and boundless patience with his students, and the physician both liked and admired him.

‘I have had a tickling throat for the past week,’ said Warde with a rueful smile. ‘But the shock of near-death under Mortimer’s wheels has quite put it from my mind: I no longer feel the urge to cough. Perhaps he has cured me. Or perhaps the prayers I have offered to sacred relics for my recovery have finally been answered. However, I can assure you that my relief has nothing to do with the potions Rougham prescribed for me. I should never have engaged him over you, Bartholomew.’

‘Then why did you?’ asked Michael bluntly. ‘Matt is a much better physician.’

‘Because Rougham was present when the malady first afflicted me,’ said Warde apologetically. ‘He offered me his services and that was that. I was stuck with him.’

Warde chatted about how he was looking forward to the forthcoming Disputatio for a few moments, then headed for St Clement’s Church, where he said a special mass was being held to honour a much-loved saint. Bartholomew wanted to know which saint could attract the enormous congregation that was gathering, but Michael was impatient for food, and pulled him down the High Street towards Gonville Hall, where his whole groat’s worth of meat was waiting. They had not gone far when there was a scream and a sudden commotion. Voices were raised and people began to run, converging on bodies that lay scattered in the road.