Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Read online

  Susanna Gregory is the pseudonym of a Cambridge academic. Before gaining her Ph.D. and becoming a Research Fellow, she was a police officer in Yorkshire. She has written a number of non-fiction books on architecture and travel as well as nine previous chronicles of the mediaeval physician-cum-sleuth, Matthew Bartholomew.

  Visit the author’s website on

  www.matthewbartholomew.co.uk

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES

  AN UNHOLY ALLIANCE

  A BONE OF CONTENTION

  A DEADLY BREW

  A WICKED DEED

  A MASTERLY MURDER

  AN ORDER FOR DEATH

  A SUMMER OF DISCONTENT

  A KILLER IN WINTER

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 978-0-748-12446-6

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 Susanna Gregory

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk.

  Contents

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  EPILOGUE

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  For Pam Davis

  PROLOGUE

  Cambridge, mid-February 1355

  The bones were stored in a sumptuous wooden casket, which was studded with semiprecious stones and inlaid with gold. With great care, Father William of Michaelhouse opened the lid and took out the satin-clad parcel that lay inside. He even removed his gloves for the task, as a sign of his respect – no small sacrifice in the frigid winter weather, when the cold bit deep and hard, even inside a fine building like the Church of St Mary the Great. He laid the bundle on the table and, with infinite reverence, began to lift away the folds of cloth to reveal the object inside. His lips moved as he worked, offering silent prayers to the relic that was said to be imbued with such great power. He stood back when he had finished, so the man who had paid handsomely for the privilege could appreciate its full glory.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Thomas Deschalers the grocer, acutely disappointed. ‘It looks … ordinary. And a bit dirty, if the truth be known.’

  ‘It is the Hand of Valence Marie,’ pronounced William grandly. He was a grimy person himself, and did not care that the object in his keeping failed to meet the merchant’s more exacting standards. ‘Named for the College near which it was found. And I have been entrusted by no less a person than the University’s Chancellor himself to be its guardian. The Hand is sacred, and therefore it is only right that it should be in the care of a Franciscan friar. Me.’

  ‘I see,’ said Deschalers noncommittally, declining to enter a debate about which of the many religious Orders in Cambridge should be entrusted with the task of looking after what was becoming an increasingly popular relic – among townspeople and University scholars alike. He stared down at the collection of bones that lay exposed in front of him.

  They comprised what had once been a living human hand. The bleached finger bones were held together by sinews, giving them the appearance of a claw rather than something that had once been warm with life. On the little finger was a blue-green ring, which Deschalers’s skilled eye told him was not valuable, although it was pretty enough. He moved to one side, and examined the rough striations that criss-crossed the wrist, where a saw had been used to remove it from the rest of the body.

  The grocer laid his own hand next to it. His palm was soft and his fingers free from the calluses of manual labour: wealthy merchants did not toil with sacks and casks when they had plenty of apprentices at their beck and call. Then he looked at the skeletal claw. By comparison, it was huge – and Deschalers was above average size himself.

  ‘Are you sure this belongs to the martyr?’ he asked doubtfully, wondering whether he had wasted a gold quarter-noble on the private viewing. ‘I do not recall him owning limbs as massive as this.’

  William was immediately defensive – and a little furtive. ‘Who else’s would it be?’

  ‘When it was first discovered, there were rumours that it was hacked from the corpse of a simpleton,’ said Deschalers, watching him carefully. ‘Not the martyr. The tale was all over the town, and I am not sure what to think.’

  ‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew – both Fellows of my own College – were responsible for circulating those particular claims,’ replied William, tight-lipped with disapproval. ‘But you can see they were wrong. Of course the Hand is holy: why else would it be housed in such a splendid box and shrouded in the finest satin money can buy?’

  Deschalers regarded him warily, not sure whether the friar was attempting to be droll: even his newest apprentice knew that a tavern’s most handsome jug did not necessarily contain its best wine. But then he saw William’s face, which was lit with savage, unshakeable fanaticism, and realised the friar was quite serious. Deschalers knew it would be a waste of time to point out that there were objects all over the country languishing in satin and surrounded by jewels, purporting to be something they were not.

  ‘There was some suggestion that the martyr arranged for this “relic” to be discovered himself, while he was alive and still in possession of both his hands,’ he went on cautiously.

  ‘Details,’ said William evasively. ‘The Hand is sacred, no matter who it came from.’

  ‘How can that be?’ asked Deschalers uncertainly. ‘It either belongs to the martyr or it does not – which therefore means it is either holy or it is not.’

  ‘It is sacred, but it did not belong to the martyr,’ admitted William. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, and leaned close to Deschalers, treating the grocer to a waft of breath that indicated he had recently eaten onions. ‘It belonged to another saint, but not many folk know about this.’

  ‘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 dow
n 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.

  ‘This cannot be right,’ said Bartholomew in an appalled whisper, oblivious to the fact that Wynewyk had just saved his life. ‘Thorpe was banished from England for murder. He would not dare risk summary execution by showing his face here again – not ever. I must be seeing things.’

  ‘You will not see anything if you dither in the middle of this road,’ lectured Wynewyk, watching the cart lurch away. ‘Thomas Mortimer was driving that thing. Did you not hear what he did to Bernarde the miller last week? Knocked him clean off his feet – and right up on top of that massive snowdrift outside Bene’t College.’

  Bartholomew grudgingly turned his mind to Wynewyk’s story. Mortimer’s driving had become increasingly dangerous over the past few weeks, and he wondered whether it was accident or design that it had been Bernarde who had almost come to grief under his wheels – both men were millers, and they were rivals of the most bitter kind. Bartholomew supposed he should speak to the town’s burgesses about the problem, because it was only a matter of time before Mortimer killed someone.

  ‘Here comes Langelee,’ said Wynewyk, pointing to where the Master of their College strode towards them. ‘What is the matter with him? He looks furious.’

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ demanded Langelee as he drew level with his Fellows. ‘The King’s Bench has granted pardons to Rob Thorpe and Edward Mortimer.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in horror, although Wynewyk shrugged to indicate he did not know what the fuss was about. ‘Who are these men? Should I have heard of them?’

  Langelee explained. ‘They earned their notoriety before you came to study here. Rob Thorpe killed several innocent people, and Edward Mortimer was involved in a smuggling enterprise that ended in death and violence.’

  ‘Edward Mortimer?’ queried Wynewyk. ‘Is he any relation to him?’ He nodded to where Thomas Mortimer’s cart had collided with a hay wagon, causing damage to both vehicles. The hay-wainer was not amused, and his angry curses could be heard all up the High Street.

  ‘His nephew,’ said Langelee shortly. ‘But the return of that pair bodes ill, for scholars and townsfolk alike.’

  ‘So, it was Thorpe I saw just now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But how did this come about? I thought they had been banished from England for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘I thought they had been hanged for their crimes,’ replied Langelee grimly. ‘Not merely ordered to abjure the realm. But, from France, they managed to convince the King’s Bench clerks that their sentence was overly harsh.’

  ‘Perhaps they are reformed,’ suggested Wynewyk. ‘It is not unknown for folk to repent of their misdeeds after they are sent away in disgrace. You may be worrying over nothing.’

  ‘We are not,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘They were dangerous two years ago, and they are dangerous now. I am on my way to discuss the matter with the Chancellor and the Sheriff, to see what – if anything – might be done to prevent them from settling here.’ He strode away purposefully.

  ‘He is exaggerating the seriousness of these fellows’ return,’ said Wynewyk, watching Langelee shoulder his way through the boisterous, cheering crowd that had gathered to watch the fist-fight between the miller and the hay-wainer. He glanced sidelong at Bartholomew. ‘Is he not?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ replied Bartholomew soberly. ‘I cannot imagine what Thorpe and Mortimer did to secure their pardons, but the fact that they are back means only one thing: trouble.’

  That February saw the end of the worst winter anyone in Cambridge could remember. Screaming northerly winds had turned the river into an iron highway, and had deposited hundreds of tons of snow on to the little Fen-edge town, threatening to bury it completely. When milder weather eventually came, the drifts that choked streets and yards were so deep that it took many weeks for the largest ones to melt. The biggest of them all was the mammoth pile outside Bene’t College on the High Street. This had turned to ice as hard as stone, and attacking it with spades proved to be futile work, so the citizens of Cambridge were obliged to let it disappear in its own time. It did so gradually, and people commented on its slowly diminishing size as they passed. Children played on it, using its slick sides for games, while some artistic soul caused a good deal of merriment by carving faces into it.

  Weeks passed, until the drift dwindled to the point where people barely noticed it was there. Then, one morning, only the very base remained. It was old Master Kenyngham of Michaelhouse who discovered its grisly secret. He was walking to his friary for morning prayers, when he saw a dead, white arm protruding from it. He knelt, to whisper prayers for th
e soul of a man who had lain unmissed and undiscovered for so long. There was a piece of parchment clutched in the corpse’s hand, so Kenyngham removed it from the decaying fingers, and read the message.

  It was a note from a London merchant to his Cambridge kinsman, informing him of an imminent visit and detailing a plan to relieve a mutual enemy of some money. Kenyngham folded the parchment and put it in his scrip, intending to hand it to the Senior Proctor later. But first, there was a man’s soul to pray for, and Kenyngham soon lost himself as he appealed to Heaven on behalf of a man he had never met.

  Two weeks later, Kenyngham met Bosel the beggar, who made his customary plea for spare coins. The elderly friar emptied his scrip in search of farthings, and did not notice the forgotten parchment flutter to the ground. Bosel saw it, however, and snatched it up as soon as Kenyngham had gone. He peered at it this way and that, but since he could not read, the obscure squiggles and lines meant nothing to him. He sold it to the town’s surgeon, Robin of Grantchester, for a penny.

  Robin suffered from poor eyesight, and in dim light could not make out the words, either. He did not care what it said anyway, because parchment was parchment, and too valuable not to be reused. He scraped it clean with his knife, then rubbed it with chalk, and sold it for three pennies to Godric, the young Franciscan Principal of Ovyng Hostel. Robin went to spend his windfall on spiced ale at the King’s Head; Godric walked home and spent the afternoon composing a moving and eloquent prayer, which he wrote carefully on the parchment.

  Shortly before midnight, Godric rose and rang a small handbell to wake his students, then led them in a solemn, shivering procession through the streets to St Michael’s Church, where he recited matins and lauds. When the office had been completed, he went to the mound in the churchyard that marked the place where his predecessor had been laid to rest a few weeks before. He scraped a shallow hole and laid the prayer inside, before bowing his head and walking away.