The Hand of Justice

The first thing Bartholomew saw was Thomas Mortimer, sitting on the ground with his legs splayed in front of him and a startled expression on his face. Of the horses and cart there was no sign, and the physician assumed they had galloped off on their own. The second thing he spotted was the crumpled form of an old man with a broken neck. And the final thing was a fellow named Isnard, who lay in a spreading pool of blood.

‘God damn you to Hell, Thomas Mortimer!’ Isnard roared, trying to reach the bewildered miller and give him a pummelling with his fists. His face registered bemused shock when he found he could not stand, and he grabbed his bleeding leg with both hands. ‘Look what you have done!’

Bartholomew knelt next to the old man, sorry to recognise him as the barber who had shorn him of hair just the previous day. The merest glance told him there was nothing he could do, so Michael eased him out of the way to begin his own ministrations, muttering a final absolution and anointing the body with the phial of chrism he kept for such occasions. Although Michael was a monk, rather than a priest, he had been granted special dispensation to offer last rites during the plague, and had continued the practice since.

Bartholomew turned his attention to Isnard, an uncouth bargeman who sang in Michaelhouse’s choir. He was as tall as the physician but almost as broad as Michael, which made him a formidable opponent in the many brawls he enjoyed in the town’s various taverns. He earned his living on the river, using his massive strength to service the boats that travelled through the Fens to supply Cambridge with grain, stone, wool and other goods. His thin hair was plastered in greasy strands across the top of his head, but this was more than compensated for by the luxuriant brown beard that hung almost to his belt.

‘What happened?’ Bartholomew asked, pushing away Isnard’s hands so he could inspect the wound in his leg. It was a serious one, with splinters of bone protruding through the calf in a mess of gore and torn muscle. Bartholomew knew it could not be mended.

‘I was talking to old Master Lenne when that drunken sot trampled us both into the ground,’ yelled Isnard, outraged. He was not feeling pain, because the shock of the injury was still too recent. But he would, Bartholomew knew, and then the agony would be almost unbearable. One of Bartholomew’s students, a lad called Martyn Quenhyth, was in the crowd that had gathered to watch, so he sent him to fetch a stretcher. Isnard should be carried home before his anguish made him difficult to control.

‘I did not,’ said Mortimer, sobering up quickly as the seriousness of his situation penetrated his pickled wits. ‘I was just moving along and they ran in front of me.’

‘Lies!’ bellowed Isnard. ‘How could Lenne “run” anywhere? He is an old man!’

‘Did anyone actually see what happened?’ asked Michael, watching Bartholomew tie a tight bandage below the bargeman’s knee to stem the bleeding.

‘I did,’ said Bosel the beggar, whose hand had been severed by the King’s justices for persistent stealing, although he claimed its loss was from fighting in the French wars. He was unusually well dressed that morning, because some kind soul had given him new clothes. ‘I saw Thomas Mortimer deliberately aim at Isnard and Lenne and ride them down.’

Bartholomew was sceptical. Bosel was not noted for his devotion to the truth, and might well stand as a witness against one of the wealthy Mortimer clan, just so he could later retract his statement — for a price. He had done as much before.

‘Anyone else?’ asked Michael, looking around at the crowd and apparently thinking along the same lines. Bosel would not make a credible witness.

There were shaken heads all around. ‘But Mortimer is drunk,’ added the taverner of the Brazen George. ‘I know a man out of his senses from ale when I see one.’

‘Not me,’ persisted Mortimer, white-faced and uneasy. ‘There was nothing I could do to avoid them. They just raced in front of my cart.’

‘We did not!’ objected Isnard hotly, wincing when Bartholomew tightened the bandage. ‘See to Lenne, will you, Doctor? I saw the cart hit him, and he needs your help more than I do. I know he gave you that fierce haircut, but you should not hold it against him. He no longer sees very well.’

Bartholomew said nothing, and concentrated on covering Isnard’s exposed leg bones with a piece of clean linen in an attempt to protect the injury from the filth of the street. It was Michael who leaned down and put a comforting hand on the bargeman’s shoulder.

Isnard’s jaw dropped in horror when he understood what their silence meant. ‘Lenne is dead?’ he gasped in disbelief. ‘Mortimer has killed him?’

‘I have killed no one,’ said Mortimer, coming slowly and unsteadily to his feet. No one made any attempt to help him. ‘I am going to be sick.’