The Hand of Justice

CHAPTER 1

Cambridge, March 1355

Thomas Mortimer the miller was drunk again. He had managed to climb on to his cart and take the reins, but only because his horses were used to his frequent visits to the town’s taverns, and knew to wait until he was safely slumped in the driver’s seat before making their way home. His fellow drinkers at the Lilypot Inn raised dull, bloodshot eyes from their cups to watch, but these were men for whom ale was a serious business, and the spectacle of an inebriated miller struggling into his cart did not keep their attention for long.

It claimed someone’s, however. Brother Michael, the University’s Senior Proctor and Benedictine agent for the Bishop of Ely, who taught theology at Michaelhouse when his other duties allowed, fixed the miller with a disapproving glare.

‘If Mortimer were a scholar, I would have him off that cart and imprisoned for driving dangerously, not to mention public drunkenness,’ he declared angrily. ‘But he is a townsman, and therefore outside my jurisdiction. The Sheriff and the burgesses will have to deal with him.’

‘They have done nothing so far,’ said Matthew Bartholomew, Master of Medicine at Michaelhouse, who strode at Michael’s side. ‘He knocked his rival miller across that snowdrift outside Bene’t College two weeks ago, and he will kill someone if he continues to drive when he can barely stand upright. The burgesses listened politely to my complaints about him, but said they do not want to offend the Mortimer clan by ordering Thomas off his cart.’

Michael shook his head in disgust. ‘They are afraid that if they do, then the Mortimers will refuse to donate money for repairing the Great Bridge.’

The two scholars had just left Merton Hall, where they had taken part in a lively debate on the neglect of mathematics in academic studies, and were on their way to Gonville Hall. They had been invited to dine there by William Rougham, one of Bartholomew’s medical colleagues. Bartholomew did not like Rougham, whom he found narrow-minded and dogmatic, but he felt obliged to suppress his feelings as well as he could, given that he and Rougham comprised exactly half of the total complement of physicians in Cambridge. So many medics had died during the plague that they were still in short supply, despite the best attempts of the University to train more.

It was a pleasant early spring day, with the sun dipping in and out of gauzy white clouds and trees beginning to turn green with buds and new leaves. A crisp breeze blew from the east, bringing with it the scent of freshly tilled soil from the surrounding fields. Bartholomew inhaled deeply, savouring the sweetness of the air at the northern outskirts of the town. A few steps ahead lay the Great Bridge, a teetering structure of stone and wood, and beyond this the air was far less fragrant. Fires from houses, Colleges, hostels and businesses encased Cambridge in a pall of smoke, almost, but not quite, strong enough to mask the stench of human sewage, animal manure and rotting rubbish that lay across the streets in a thick, fetid, greasy brown-black blanket.

The Great Bridge was heavily congested that morning. It was a Wednesday, and traders from the surrounding villages streamed towards the Market Square to sell their wares – sacks of grain and flour, noisy livestock, brown eggs wrapped in straw, winter vegetables past their best, and rough baskets and mats woven from Fenland reeds. Agitated whinnies, baleful lows and furious honks and hisses expressed what the animals thought of the tightly packed, heaving throng that jostled and shoved to cross the river.

It was not just farmers in homespun browns or brightly clad merchants who wanted access to the town that day. The sober hues of academic tabards and monastic habits – the blacks, browns and whites of Dominicans, Carmelites, Franciscans and the occasional Benedictine – were present, too. Scholars from Michaelhouse, Valence Marie, Bene’t College and countless other institutions were pouring out of Merton Hall to join the press, all anxious to be home in time for their midday meal.

As people pushed in their haste to be across the bridge, the crush intensified. A pair of tinkers with handcarts became jammed at the narrow entrance, and their irritable altercation was soon joined by others, who just wanted them to shut up and move on. Bartholomew watched the unfolding scene uneasily. The Great Bridge was not the most stable structure in the town, and collapses were not unknown. It was in desperate need of renovation, and he wished the burgesses would stop discussing how expensive it would be and just mend the thing.

‘We will be late,’ said Michael loudly, annoyed by the delay. ‘And Gonville Hall might start eating without us.’

‘The bridge should not be subjected to this level of strain,’ said Bartholomew. His attention was fixed on the central arch, which he was certain was bowing under the weight of a brewer’s dray and its heavy barrels of ale. ‘It is not strong enough.’

‘Rougham told me that the meal at Gonville today will cost a whole groat for each person,’ fretted Michael, thinking about what he stood to lose if they took much longer to cross. ‘He says there is a side of beef to be shared between just ten of us, not to mention roast duck, fat bacon and half a dozen chickens. And there will be Lombard slices to finish.’

‘Did you see that?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pointing in alarm. ‘A spar just dropped from the left-hand arch and fell into the water!’

‘One of the carts knocked it off,’ said Michael dismissively. He reconsidered uneasily. ‘However, if it is going to tumble down, I hope it does not do so until we are over. I do not want to walk all the way around to the Small Bridges in order to reach Gonville. There will be nothing left to eat by the time we get there.’

Bartholomew regarded his friend askance, amazed that the monk could think about his stomach when they might be about to witness a disaster. Michael had always been big – tall, as well as fat – but his girth had expanded considerably over the last five years. Satisfaction with his lot as Senior Proctor – he was, by virtue of his own machinations, one of the most powerful men in the University – had occasioned a good deal of contented feeding. This meant that the tassels on the girdle around his waist hung a good deal shorter than they should have done, owing to the ever-expanding circumference they were obliged to encompass.

Michael had been to some trouble with his appearance that day, in honour of the debate and the meal that was to follow. His dark Benedictine habit was immaculate, and he wore a silver cross around his neck, in place of the wooden one he usually favoured. His plump fingers were adorned with jewelled rings, and his lank brown hair had been carefully brushed around his perfectly round tonsure.

By contrast, Bartholomew’s black curls had recently been shorn to an uncompromising shortness by an overenthusiastic barber, so he looked like one of the many mercenaries – relics of the King’s endless wars with France – who plagued Cambridge in search of work. His clothes were patched and frayed, but of reasonable quality, thanks to the generosity of a doting older sister. His hands were clean, his fingernails trimmed, and frequent College feasts had not yet provided him with a paunch like the ones sported by so many of his colleagues. His profession as a physician saw to that, giving him plenty of exercise as he hurried around the town to visit patients.

‘Here we are,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s arm as their part of the crowd suddenly surged forward, much to the chagrin of people who were waiting on the other side. There were indignant yells and a considerable amount of vicious shoving that saw more than one bloodied nose. The monk thrust the toll-fee into the hand of a grubby soldier without breaking his stride.

‘Walk near the edge, Brother,’ advised the soldier, assessing the monk’s bulk with a critical eye. ‘You are less likely to drop through there, than in the middle.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking the unnatural rocking motion under his feet as they began their traverse. ‘We should have hired a boat.’

‘They are all engaged,’ replied Michael, nodding to where the rivermen were running a brisk trade below. Even boys with home-made skiffs were busy, ferrying small animals and light packs across the green, filthy water.

The Great Bridge was not very big, despite its grand name, and it did not take long to cross it, as they were forced to move quickly by the press from behind. Once on the other side, most people continued straight down Bridge Street, aiming for the Market Square, although some went to homes in the maze of alleys and streets that radiated out from the town’s main thoroughfares. Bartholomew glanced behind him, still half expecting to see the bridge crumble beneath the mass of humanity. He noticed some folk entering the nearby Church of St Clement, and wondered whether they were going to offer thanks for a safe crossing.

‘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.

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.’

The spectators watched in distaste as the miller deposited his ale into the brimming gutters that ran down the High Street. Bending close to the drains’ noxious fumes and unsavoury contents made him more ill than ever, and it was some time before he was able to stand, ashen-faced and trembling. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth, and eyed his audience defiantly.

‘I am not drunk,’ he persisted sullenly. ‘I had an ale or two in the Lilypot, but I am not drunk.’

‘Perhaps not now he has donated half a brewery to the gutter,’ muttered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But I will swear in any court of law that he was unfit to drive a cart, and so will you.’

But all Bartholomew’s attention was focused on Isnard, whose outrage had dissipated when his body had finally registered that it had suffered a grievous insult, leaving him cold, clammy and breathless. Bartholomew had seen men die from the shock of serious injuries, and he did not want Isnard to expire in the grime of the High Street. He glanced up briefly, silently willing Quenhyth to hurry with the stretcher.

The next person to arrive, however, was Sheriff Tulyet, a small, neat man with tawny hair and an elfin face that seemed inappropriate on the person who embodied the strong arm of secular law in the town. Many folk were deceived by Tulyet’s youthful looks, but few remained so for long. He was an energetic and just Sheriff, and the fact that he was popular with everyone except criminals and malcontents said a good deal about the tenor of his reign.

‘Who saw what happened?’ he asked, taking in the scene at a glance: Lenne’s body covered by the cloak of a kindly onlooker, Isnard writhing in his pool of gore, and Mortimer grim-faced and defiant. ‘Who witnessed this accident?’

‘It was no accident,’ said Isnard between gritted teeth. ‘He tried to kill us.’

‘I saw,’ piped up Bosel, enjoying himself. ‘Thomas Mortimer is a murderer.’

‘They ran under my wheels,’ declared Mortimer. He glared around, challenging anyone to say otherwise. Bartholomew saw some folk look away, reluctant to engage in open conflict with a member of the influential Mortimer clan. The family could destroy smaller businesses simply by whispering a few carefully phrased sentences in the relevant places, and few townsmen were prepared to make an enemy of the likes of Thomas.

‘Michael?’ asked Tulyet hopefully. ‘Matt? Did you see?’

He was disappointed when they shook their heads. Two men, braver or more foolish than the rest, stepped forward and began to clamour that the miller was drunk. One had seen the cart – sans driver – pelt down the High Street immediately afterward, but only Bosel claimed to have seen the accident itself. Bartholomew was inclined to accept Isnard’s account – that he and Lenne had been talking at the side of the road when the cart had ploughed into them – but saw that Tulyet would be hard pressed to prove either side of the story. Tulyet questioned Mortimer carefully, but the man was determined not to bear the blame for the incident, and was sullen and uncommunicative. All he did was reiterate that the fault lay with Lenne and Isnard.

Eventually, Quenhyth arrived with the stretcher and three students to help carry it, and Bartholomew prepared to accompany the bargeman home. Isnard was beginning to shiver, so he removed his own cloak to cover him. He was pleased when Quenhyth and his cronies did the same without being asked.

‘How much?’ the student asked in a whisper. He began to gnaw at his nails, an unpleasant habit he had acquired as his studies at Michaelhouse became more onerous. Bartholomew gazed at him blankly, and Quenhyth stifled a sigh of exasperation. ‘How much can you charge Isnard for our services? He will need a surgeon, so you can hire Robin of Grantchester and add that to the fee, too. Plus a little extra for your use of us as stretcher-bearers.’

Bartholomew gaped at him, scarcely believing his ears. ‘This man sings in our College choir. And we do not haggle over fees with seriously injured people in the street anyway. It is not seemly.’

‘Seemly!’ sighed Quenhyth despairingly. ‘I suppose this means you will pay for his salves and horoscopes, but we will not see a penny in return. Michaelhouse will never raise enough money to buy that book by Roger Bacon if you do not charge your patients properly.’

Bartholomew had had this particular discussion with Quenhyth before. The lad was not one of Michaelhouse’s wealthier scholars, and regarded his teacher’s casual attitude to fee collection as a personal affront. But it was neither the time nor the place for a debate about finances, and Bartholomew decided not to respond to his comments. Instead, he indicated that the students were to lift the stretcher. They staggered as they began the journey to the river: the bargeman was heavy.

‘Give Rougham my apologies,’ Bartholomew said to Michael as he prepared to follow. ‘He will understand why I cannot dine with him at Gonville today. You should consider yourself fortunate, Brother: you can now eat two groats’ worth of meat instead of one.’

‘What of Isnard?’ asked Michael, ignoring his friend’s attempt at levity. He was fond of the gruff bargeman who had served in his choir for so many years.

Bartholomew lowered his voice so Isnard would not hear. While he believed in honesty where patients were concerned, and rarely flinched from telling them the truth, he saw no advantage in frightening folk into losing hope just before painful and traumatic surgery. ‘He will lose his leg, and possibly his life.’

The stricken expression in Michael’s eyes turned to something harder and more dangerous. ‘Damn Mortimer! I will see he pays for this! I will bring the full force of the law down upon him.’

‘You can try,’ said Tulyet, overhearing. ‘But you will not succeed. No one has admitted to seeing what happened – Bosel does not count – and Mortimer claims that Isnard and Lenne ran under his wheels. We will never prove who was at fault here, because we have no independent witnesses.’

‘Someone must have seen something,’ said Bartholomew. He gestured around him. ‘The street was full of people.’

‘Perhaps so, but no townsman will denounce a Mortimer – not if he values his business.’

‘But Mortimer was drunk!’ objected Bartholomew, indignant that the miller was about to evade justice on the grounds that his family intimidated people. ‘He should not have been driving a cart, and it is his fault that Lenne is dead and Isnard may follow.’

‘I know,’ said Tulyet softly. ‘And justice dictates that he should pay for it. But we have no case in law. I doubt whether Mortimer will be punished for this.’

‘Then the law is wrong,’ declared Bartholomew hotly.

‘Yes, often,’ agreed Tulyet sombrely. ‘But it is all we have between us and chaos, so do not dismiss it too harshly.’

‘And do not confuse it with justice, either,’ added Michael acidly. ‘They are not the same.’

‘No, they are not,’ said Bartholomew angrily. He turned and hurried to his patient’s side as the first real cries of agony began to issue from the injured bargeman.

‘You look tired, Matt,’ said Michael the following day. It was dawn, and they had just celebrated prime in St Michael’s Church. Their colleague Father William had conducted the ceremony, gabbling the words so fast that it was over almost before it had started. William was not popular with the students, because he was fanatical and petty, but they all admired his speedy masses.

Bartholomew and Michael took their places in the sedate procession of scholars that moved quietly through the gradually lightening streets, heading towards a breakfast of baked oatmeal and salted fish. They crossed the High Street and turned down St Michael’s Lane, passing Gonville Hall as they went. Part of Gonville’s protective wall had recently been demolished, because its Fellows intended to build a chapel in its place. A plot had already been measured out, marked with ropes and stakes, and foundation stones were laid in a long, even line. Judging by its dimensions, the church would be an impressive edifice once completed.

‘Will Isnard live?’ asked Michael quietly, when his friend did not reply.

‘It is too soon to say,’ replied Bartholomew, stifling a yawn. He had spent most of the previous night at the bargeman’s house and had not managed more than an hour of sleep. ‘His leg was so badly crushed that I was obliged to remove it below the knee. But it will be some days before we know whether he will survive the fever that often follows such treatment.’

‘You amputated his leg?’ asked Michael uneasily. ‘God’s teeth, you play with fire! You are not a surgeon, and Robin of Grantchester has already made several official complaints about you poaching his trade. You also seem to forget that cautery is not a skill held in great esteem by your fellow physicians; they claim you bring them into disrepute when you employ knives and forceps, instead of calendars and astronomical charts.’

‘Isnard would be dead for certain if I had allowed Robin at him,’ said Bartholomew, too weary to feel indignation that his three fellow physicians – Rougham of Gonville, Lynton of Peterhouse and Paxtone of King’s Hall – should presume to tell him how to practise medicine.

‘I know that,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘I was not thinking of Isnard – there is no question that you have done him a favour by dispensing with the unsavoury Robin – I was considering you. It was different when only you and Lynton were in Cambridge, and people could not afford to be particular. But now there are four of you, you must be more careful. Several of your most affluent patients have already left you.’

‘I was relieved to see them go – it means I can give the remaining ones more time and attention. The rich are better off with Paxtone or Rougham anyway. They are good at calculating horoscopes while I am happier with people who have a genuine need.’

‘Like Isnard,’ said Michael, his thoughts returning to the stricken singer. ‘He is one of my most loyal basses. Can I do anything to help?’

Bartholomew refrained from suggesting that he could ensure the choir – infamous for its paucity of musical talent – should practise well out of the ailing man’s hearing, and shook his head. ‘Say masses for him. You might try reciting one for Thomas Mortimer, too, and ask for him to be touched with some compassion. He is a wealthy man, and could have offered a little money to see Isnard through the first stages of his illness.’

‘But that might be construed as the act of a guilty man,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And Mortimer maintains the accident was not his fault. Did I tell you that I went to see Lenne’s wife – widow – last night?’

‘She has a sickness of the lungs,’ said Bartholomew, recalling her soggy, laboured breathing from when her husband had shorn him of hair two days before. ‘Who will care for her now he is gone? Widows sometimes take over their husbands’ businesses, but she is too ill. Lenne was a barber, anyway, and shaving scholars and trimming tonsures is scarcely something she can do in his stead. The University would not permit it.’

‘And neither would I!’ exclaimed Michael in horror. ‘God’s blood, man! Women barbers would slit our throats because their attention is taken with the latest style in goffered veils or the price of ribbon. Barbers have always been men, and they should always remain men.’

‘Barbers must be male. Surgeons must conduct cautery,’ remarked Bartholomew dryly. ‘I had no idea you were so rigidly traditional, Brother. How will we make progress if we remain so inflexible? Many of our greatest thinkers have been deemed heretics merely because they dare to look beyond that which is ordained and accepted, but they are nearly always proven right in the end. Take Roger Bacon, the Oxford Franciscan, who was persecuted for “suspected novelties” and his works censored some fifty years ago. These days everyone acknowledges the validity of his ideas.’

‘Not everyone,’ argued Michael, thinking about Bartholomew’s medical colleague Rougham, who made no secret of his contempt for Bacon’s theories. ‘He is still regarded as anathema to many, although I noticed you reading his De erroribus medicorum the other day.’

‘Paxtone of King’s Hall lent it to me.’ Bartholomew became animated, his tiredness forgotten at the prospect of discussing an exciting text with a sharp-minded man like Michael. ‘Bacon relies heavily on Arabic sources, especially Avicenna’s Canon, which, as you know, I regard as a highly underrated work. Regarding rhubarb, Bacon contends that–’

‘You have never hidden your esteem for Arabic physicians,’ interrupted Michael. ‘And I know the one you admire over all others is your own master, Ibn Ibrahim. But not everyone believes foreign thinkers are as good as our own, and you should be more cautious with whom you discuss them.’ He hesitated and shot his friend an uncertain glance. ‘Did you mention rhubarb?’

‘This is a University and we are scholars,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Why should I suppress my ideas just because ignorant, narrow-minded men might not like them? It does not matter whether we agree, only that we discuss our theories so we can explore their strengths and weaknesses.’

‘Matt!’ exclaimed Michael in exasperation. ‘That will be no defence when Rougham accuses you of heresy. I thought you had learned this, but now you insist on flying in the face of convention again. Rougham is jealous of your success: do not provide him with an easy means to destroy you.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in surprise. ‘He is not jealous of me.’

‘He does not like you, despite the superficial friendship you both struggle to maintain. He will make a poisonous enemy, and you should take care not to provoke him. Damn! That unbearable student of yours is waiting for us.’

The ‘unbearable student’ was Martyn Quenhyth. Quenhyth was a gangly lad of about twenty-two years, with a thatch of thick brown hair that he kept painfully short. He had a long, thin nose that dripped when it was cold, and sharp blue eyes. His hands were bony and always splattered in ink, and his nails were bitten to the quick. He was fervently devoted to his studies, and there was scarcely a moment when he was not reading some tome or other. This made him joyless, pedantic and dull, and Bartholomew’s feelings toward him were ambiguous. On the one hand he admired the lad’s determination to pass his disputations and become a qualified physician, but on the other it was difficult to find much to like in his humourless personality.

‘He accused his room-mate of stealing again yesterday,’ muttered Michael as they approached the student. ‘Does he have a case? Is Redmeadow a thief?’

‘If so, then he confines his light fingers to Quenhyth’s belongings,’ said Bartholomew, who was obliged to share a room with them both, since student numbers in the College had finally started to rise again after the plague. He liked Redmeadow, who was an open, friendly sort of lad with a shock of ginger hair, although he had a fiery temper to go with it. ‘He has taken nothing of mine.’

‘Isnard wants you again,’ said Quenhyth, when Bartholomew reached him. ‘I was about to go to him myself, but now you are here, I shall have my breakfast instead.’

‘You can come with me,’ said Bartholomew, deciding that if he was to forgo a meal, then Quenhyth could do so, too. He was not overly dismayed by the prospect of sacrificing breakfast. Michaelhouse fare had seen something of a downward turn in quality over the past ten days or so, and he knew he was not going to miss much. ‘And Redmeadow, too. We are going to discuss fevers this week, and this will give you some practical experience. Roger Bacon asserts the superiority of experience over authority and speculation, after all.’

He shot a combative glance in Michael’s direction and the monk sighed, but declined to argue. If his friend wanted to play with the fires of heresy, and would not listen to advice about how not to burn himself, then Michael could do no more to help him. While Quenhyth sped across the yard to fetch his fellow student, Bartholomew leaned against the gate and surveyed the College that was his home.

The centrepiece was Michaelhouse’s fine hall-house. It boasted a lavish entrance with the founder’s coat of arms emblazoned above it, which opened to a wide spiral staircase that led to the hall and conclave above. Below were the kitchens and various storerooms and pantries. At right angles to the hall were a pair of accommodation wings, both two storeys tall and with sloping, red-tiled roofs. A wall opposite the hall made an enclosed rectangle of the buildings, and its sturdy oaken gate meant that the College was well able to protect itself, should it ever come under attack. There was a second courtyard beyond the first, but this comprised mostly stables, storerooms and lean-to sheds, where the servants lived and worked. Past that was a long strip of land that extended to the river.

Michael also decided to accompany Bartholomew, content to miss a Michaelhouse breakfast on the understanding that they ate a better one in a tavern later. He was just asking for more details about Isnard’s health when there was a sudden commotion in the kitchens. First came a screech of rage from Agatha the laundress – Agatha was the College’s only female servant, and she ran Michaelhouse’s domestic affairs with ruthless efficiency – and then a cockerel crowed. Within moments, the bird came hurtling out of Agatha’s domain in a flurry of feathers and flapping wings, followed by the laundress herself, who was brandishing a long carving knife. Agatha was an intimidating sight at any time, but being armed and angry made her especially terrifying.

‘I will chop off your head next time, you filthy beast!’ she bellowed, waving the weapon menacingly but declining to enjoin an undignified chase that the bird would win. It fluttered to a safe distance, fluffed up its feathers, then crowed as loudly as it could. Agatha started towards it, furious at being issued with what was clearly a challenge.

‘Leave him alone!’

Walter the porter, who owned the cockerel, was out of the gatehouse and steaming across the yard, intent on rescuing his pet from the enraged laundress. He was a morose man, who seldom smiled and who cared for nothing and no one – except the annoying bird that had made an enemy of almost everyone who lived in the College. It crowed all night, keeping scholars from their sleep; it slipped into their rooms when they were out and left unwelcome deposits on their belongings; and it terrorised the cat, which people liked because it was friendly and purred a lot. The cockerel was not friendly, and did nothing as remotely endearing as purring.

‘Keep that thing away from the hens I am preparing for dinner,’ Agatha yelled at Walter. ‘It is a vile, perverted fiend, and if I catch it I shall serve it to you stuffed with eel heads and rhubarb leaves.’

Michael turned to Bartholomew in alarm. ‘Should we allow her control of our kitchens if she has the ability to devise dishes like that?’

‘You would not dare to stuff Bird!’ howled Walter in fury. ‘I will kill you first!’

‘You could try,’ snarled Agatha, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. She still waved the knife and was clearly ready to inflict serious damage with it, preferably on something avian.

Bartholomew stepped forward quickly. ‘Agatha, please. No harm has been done, and Walter will try to keep his bird out of your way in future.’

‘He had better do more than try, if he does not want me to wring its neck,’ she hissed, before turning on her heel and stalking back inside. The cockerel watched her with its pale, beady eyes and released a triumphant cackle. Fortunately for all concerned, the sound of smashing pottery came from the scullery at that point, and Agatha was more interested in what had been broken than in prolonging the duel with her feathered opponent.

‘Bird knows how to look after himself,’ said Walter to Bartholomew with considerable pride. ‘She will never catch him, no matter what she says.’

‘She might,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘I have seen her move like lightning in the past, and Bird is becoming overconfident. You should lock him away if you do not want him cooked.’

Walter strode to the tatty creature and scooped it under his arm. If anyone else had tried to do the same, there would have been a frenzy of flailing claws and snapping beaks, and Bartholomew marvelled that Walter had made a connection with such a surly beast. He supposed that each of them must have recognised a kindred spirit.

‘There now, Bird,’ Walter crooned, kissing the top of its feathered head with great tenderness. ‘You are safe now. I will not let anyone stuff you – and especially not with eels and rhubarb.’

‘I do not blame Agatha for wanting to dispense with Bird,’ said Michael, as the porter entered his gatehouse and slammed the door behind him. ‘It ate a page from the Insolubilia I am writing the other day – the part where I expand on dialectic being the only science to prove the existence of God. All that brilliance, and it ended up in the gullet of that foul creature.’

Bartholomew was not amused when Quenhyth arrived not only with Redmeadow, but with Rob Deynman, too. Deynman was a student tolerated at Michaelhouse because his father paid extra fees, but he was becoming an embarrassment, because he was the oldest undergraduate in the University and would never pass his disputations. Bartholomew had also learned from bitter experience that the lad could not be allowed near patients, either. That morning, however, he did not have the energy to send him on a different mission, so Deynman formed part of the small procession that hurried along Milne Street on its way to Isnard’s house.

‘There is that strange woman again,’ said Deynman, pointing towards the churchyard of St John Zachary. ‘She arrived here two or three weeks ago, and does not know who she is. People say she is looking for a lover who died in the French wars.’

Bartholomew followed the direction of his finger and saw a dirty, huddled figure sitting atop one of the tombs, rocking herself back and forth. She was so encased in layers of rags that it was impossible to tell what she looked like, but he could see long, brown hair that had probably once been a luxurious mane, although it was now matted with filth, and a white, pinched face that had a half-starved look about it. She was singing, and her haunting melody cut through the noise of the street, its notes sad and sweet above the clatter of hoofs and the slap of footsteps in mud.

‘Then she will not find him here,’ said Quenhyth unsympathetically. ‘She should visit Paris or Calais instead. We should hurry, Doctor. Isnard’s summons sounded urgent.’

‘She looks familiar,’ said Bartholomew, pausing to look at her and ignoring Quenhyth’s impatience at the delay. The student was hoping they would tend Isnard and still be back at Michaelhouse in time for breakfast; being impecunious, he tended to be less fussy about what he ate, especially when it was free. ‘But I cannot place her face.’

‘You cannot know her,’ said Deynman. ‘She is a stranger here.’

‘She should go to the Canons at St John’s Hospital,’ suggested Redmeadow, ready to foist the problem on to someone else. The kindly Canons often found a bed and a meal for those who were out of their wits, and all budding physicians knew they provided a quick and easy solution for some of their more inconvenient cases.

‘I took her there last week,’ said Quenhyth, grabbing Bartholomew’s sleeve in an attempt to drag him away. ‘She was in the Market Square talking to some onions, and it occurred to me that there might be something amiss with her wits.’

‘Such an incisive diagnosis,’ muttered Redmeadow. ‘She talks to onions, and it crosses his mind that she might be addled.’

Quenhyth did not dignify the comment with a reply, and continued to address Bartholomew. ‘I escorted her to the Canons, but she ran away from them the next day. They told me she will leave Cambridge when she realises that whatever she is looking for is not here, and will head off to haunt some other town. They say they have seen many such cases since the plague.’

Bartholomew pulled away from Quenhyth, not liking the way his student had taken to manhandling him on occasions. He rummaged in his scrip and found some farthings. ‘Give her these,’ he said to Deynman. ‘Or better still, go with her to Constantine Mortimer’s shop, and ensure she buys bread – not ribbons or some such thing.’

‘But by that time you will have finished Isnard’s treatment,’ cried Deynman in dismay. ‘And I will not have seen what you did.’

‘Go and help her, Deynman,’ said Bartholomew softly, moved by the sight of the pitiful creature who rocked and sang to herself. ‘She needs you.’

Reluctantly, Deynman did as he was told. Bartholomew saw him bend to speak to her, then politely offer his arm, as he might to any lady in his rich father’s house. Physician Deynman would never be, but he had better manners and a kinder heart than his classmates. Bartholomew was about to resume his journey to Isnard when Deynman issued a shriek of horror.

Bartholomew’s blood ran cold. The woman had seemed more pathetic than violent, and he had thought she was not the kind to harm anyone who might try to help her. But he could have been wrong – and if he were, then he had forced Deynman to pay the price for his misjudgement. He stumbled across the ancient graves towards them, fearing the worst. But it was not Deynman who had come to grief; it was Bosel the beggar. The alms-hunter lay curled on his side in the long grass of the churchyard, his skin waxy with the touch of death.

‘Poisoned?’ asked Michael in surprise. He watched Bartholomew examine the beggar’s corpse as they waited for the Sheriff to arrive. ‘Are you sure? Who would poison Bosel? He is harmless.’

‘You would not think that if you were one of the people he had burgled,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or if you were Thomas Mortimer, and had him claiming you deliberately ran over Lenne and Isnard.’

‘You think Mortimer killed Bosel?’ asked Michael. He rubbed his chin, nodding to himself. ‘Ridding yourself of an inconvenient witness is a powerful motive for murder.’

‘I thought he had more sense, though,’ said Bartholomew, prising open Bosel’s mouth to show Michael the discoloured tongue and bloodied gums. ‘He must have known he would be the obvious suspect.’

‘Desperate men are not always rational,’ replied Michael, looking away quickly before he lost the illicit early breakfast he had eaten in his room before mass that morning. Bosel’s mouth was not a pretty sight. ‘But Thomas is constantly drunk these days. I am surprised he could carry out a murder using as discreet a means as poison.’

‘His family, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His brother Constantine and all those nephews and cousins. Still, I am surprised. Poisoning Bosel is an utterly stupid thing to do.’

Michael agreed. ‘Poor Bosel. I shall miss his insolent demands for spare change on the High Street. What killed him?’

‘He ate or drank something caustic that burned his mouth and innards,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would not have been an easy death.’

‘She might have killed him,’ suggested Quenhyth, nodding to where Deynman was sitting on a tomb with his arm around the shoulders of the madwoman. It was not quite clear who was comforting whom, and Deynman seemed to be deriving as much relief from the warm, close presence of another living person as was the woman herself. ‘She was discovered next to his corpse, after all.’

‘She does not have the wits,’ said Michael, although Bartholomew remained sceptical. His alarm when he had thought she might have harmed Deynman was still bright in his mind.

‘She says she was keeping his body company,’ said Redmeadow, eyeing her uneasily, as if he did not know what to believe. ‘She claims she found him at dawn this morning, and did not want him to be alone. She was waiting for a priest to come and relieve her of her vigil. She told me Deschalers the grocer gave Bosel his new clothes, though. Perhaps that is significant.’

Bartholomew did not see why it should be. ‘Bosel was a beggar, and people were always giving him things. It is how he made his living.’

‘I do not see Deschalers poisoning him to get them back, either,’ said Michael, surveying what had once probably been some decent garments, but that had become soiled and ragged in Bosel’s possession. He glanced up and saw the Sheriff striding towards him. ‘But this is his problem, not mine. The victim here is a townsman.’

Tulyet listened in silence to Bartholomew’s opinion that Bosel had died from ingesting something highly caustic. The physician pointed out an empty wineskin and a pool of vomit near the body, which he thought indicative that Bosel had died fairly soon after swallowing the substance. He did not possess the skill claimed by some of his medical colleagues to determine an exact time of death, but a lump of bread in Bosel’s scrip was unmistakably the kind handed out by the Canons of St John’s Hospital at seven o’clock each evening. Therefore Bosel had died later than seven. The body was icy cold, suggesting it had been dead several hours. Tulyet bullied and cajoled Bartholomew until he had the physician’s best guess: Bosel had probably died late the previous evening, most likely before midnight.

Tulyet frowned. ‘Did he do this to himself? Is he a suicide?’

‘I do not see why,’ said Bartholomew. ‘First, he had no funds to buy poison. And secondly, I imagine he was going to demand money from the Mortimers – by offering to retract his story about the incident with Lenne and Isnard. His future was looking rosy.’

‘It was,’ agreed Tulyet thoughtfully. ‘The obvious conclusion is that Thomas Mortimer did this: mixed poison with wine and gave it to Bosel to drink. However, if Bosel was murdered between seven and midnight, then Mortimer is innocent. He was at a meeting of the town burgesses during those hours, discussing repairs to the Great Bridge. I know, because I was there.’

‘One of his family, then,’ said Michael. ‘God knows, there are enough of them. And do not forget that they now include his nephew, Edward, whom we know is a killer.’

‘Edward was at this meeting, too,’ said Tulyet. He grimaced. ‘And so was young Rob Thorpe.’

‘Thorpe and Edward,’ mused Quenhyth, who was listening uninvited to their discussion. ‘The two felons who were found guilty by the King’s Bench but who then secured themselves pardons.’

‘Quite,’ said Tulyet bitterly. ‘Two ruthless criminals given the liberty to roam free in my town. I have enough to worry about, without watching them day and night.’

‘You should not have recommended them for a King’s Pardon, then,’ said Michael tartly. ‘I made some enquiries about that, and learned it was a letter from the Sheriff of Cambridgeshire that tipped the balance in their favour. Without that letter, they would still be in France.’

Tulyet shot him a withering look. ‘That may well be true, but I was not Sheriff when their case came under review. Stephen Morice was. He was the one who claimed the town had no objection to their release, not me.’

‘Do you think Thorpe and Edward killed Bosel?’ asked Michael of Bartholomew, ignoring the Sheriff’s ire that he should be blamed for something his predecessor had done.

Tulyet raised his eyebrows and spoke before the physician could reply. ‘I have just told you they were both in a meeting last night. How can they be responsible?’

‘Because you do not need to be present when your victim dies of poison,’ Michael pointed out. ‘They could have given Bosel the doctored wine hours before they went to this meeting.’

Tulyet considered, then nodded towards the madwoman. ‘In my experience the person who finds a murdered corpse is often its killer, and she seems to have no rational reason for being with Bosel. Do I know her? She looks familiar.’

‘Where would she find the money to buy wine and poison?’ asked Michael. ‘And why kill Bosel when she is a stranger in Cambridge, with no reason to harm any of its inhabitants?’

‘How do you know she had no reason to harm Bosel?’ asked Bartholomew reasonably. ‘We know nothing about her, not even her name. And she is out of her wits, so is not rational. She may have killed him because she thought he was someone else.’

‘Shall I arrest her, then?’ asked Tulyet. ‘I will, if you think she is guilty.’

‘I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to condemn anyone to the Castle prison. It was a foul place, full of rats and dripping slime. ‘She might be telling the truth – that she found the body and did not like to leave it alone until a priest came.’

‘Perhaps she stole the wine,’ suggested Tulyet, reluctant to dismiss a potential culprit too readily. ‘Or Bosel did – and got more than he bargained for. Unfortunately, I am too busy to look into this myself. Repairs to the Great Bridge begin today, and I must be there to supervise.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘That is the burgesses’ responsibility, not yours.’

Tulyet’s face was angry. ‘Because the burgesses, in an attempt to cut costs, want to use the cheapest labour available: the prisoners in my Castle. That is why we had that meeting last night. I objected very strongly, but I was outvoted on all sides, so debtors, thieves and violent robbers will be set free to work on the bridge this very afternoon. I need to make sure they do not try to escape – or that my soldiers will know how to stop them, if they do.’

‘When they do,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘It is about time the bridge was mended,’ said Michael. ‘It almost collapsed when I last used it.’

‘It has been subjected to some very heavy loads recently,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But, besides watching forty able-bodied villains, I am also obliged to keep a close watch on Thorpe and Edward. I am sure they came here intending mischief. I shall have to delegate Bosel’s murder investigation to Sergeant Orwelle.’

‘Orwelle is a good man,’ said Bartholomew, although he thought it a pity that Bosel was to be deprived of the superior talents of the Sheriff. ‘He will do his best to solve this crime.’

‘And he has a limited number of suspects,’ added Michael. ‘Thomas Mortimer and his clan are the only ones with a known motive.’

‘Well, there is her,’ said Tulyet, pointing at the woman. ‘However, I have a feeling you are right: Bosel’s death probably does have something to do with the Mortimers. Bosel’s evidence was not worth much, but without it I have nothing.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the Sheriff, and resumed their walk to Isnard’s house with Quenhyth and Redmeadow trailing behind them; Deynman had been charged with taking the woman to St John’s Hospital. They passed through the Trumpington Gate, then cut down the narrow lane opposite the Hall of Valence Marie, which was rutted with water-filled potholes deep enough to drown a sheep. Isnard’s home was on the river bank, overlooking the Mill Pool.

The bargeman’s residence was not in a good location. It was near both the Cam and the King’s Ditch, both of which were stinking open sewers that contained all manner of filth. Being by the Mill Pool did not help either, since the current slowed there, causing the foulness to linger rather than being carried away. The pool was fringed with reeds and, in the spring and summer, Bartholomew imagined the bargeman would be plagued with swarms of insects. The house was near the town’s two largest watermills, too, and, although Bartholomew supposed their neighbours would grow used to the rhythmic clank and rumble of their mighty wheels, he did not think he would ever do so. As he picked his way along the muddy path to Isnard’s home, he studied them.

The King’s Mill was a hall-house located a few paces upstream from the Mill Pool. It spanned an arm of water that had been artificially narrowed to make it run faster and stronger. Its vertical wheel was of the undershot style, designed so that water struck its lower blades to set it in motion. The power generated was transferred to the mill itself by means of an ‘axle tree’ – a shaft connected to a series of cogs and wheels. It was not just the swishing, clunking sound of the wheel as it turned that was so noisy, but the rattle of the machinery, too.

Standing a short distance from the King’s Mill was Mortimer’s Mill, owned and run by the man who had injured Isnard. It was smaller than its competitor but just as noisy, and a good deal more filthy. The King’s Mill ground grain for flour, but Mortimer’s Mill had recently been converted for fulling cloth, a process that entailed the use of a lot of very smelly substances, all of which ended up in the river. The bargeman would be able to see Mortimer’s enterprise from his sickbed, and Bartholomew wondered what he thought as he lay maimed and fevered, while the author of his troubles continued with the work that was making him a very wealthy man.

As Bartholomew listened to the repetitive rattle coming from the King’s Mill, he became aware that it was slowing down. There was not as much water in each of the wheel’s scoops, and the busy sound of its workings faltered, as though it had run out of energy. By contrast, Mortimer’s Mill was operating at a cracking pace, and, if anything, was going even faster. He saw people hurry from the King’s Mill and start to inspect their wheel, as if they could not understand why it had lost power. He watched their puzzled musings for a moment, then turned to enter his patient’s home.

The house was poor and mean. Its thatched roof was in need of repair, and plaster was peeling from its walls, exposing the wattle and daub underneath. A chamber on the ground floor held a table, a bench, a hearth and a shelf for pots; an attic, reached by a ladder, was where Isnard usually slept. Since the bargeman’s injury meant he could not climb the steps, Bartholomew had carried his bedding downstairs the previous day.

The physician was fully expecting him to develop a fever that might kill him, and was surprised, but pleased, to discover that the burly bargeman had not succumbed. He was even more surprised to find him sitting up and talking to a visitor – a man named Nicholas Bottisham, who was Gonville Hall’s Master of Civil and Canon Law. Bottisham was regarded as one of the finest scholars in the University, possessing a mind that retained facts and references and made him a superb disputant. He had recently taken major orders with the Carmelites, and his new habit was still pristine. His complexion was florid and uneven, as a result of a disfiguring pox contracted in childhood, and his hair was cut high above his ears in a way indicating that Barber Lenne had been at it. He stood when Bartholomew, Michael and the two students entered.

‘You are a popular man, Isnard,’ said Bottisham, picking up his cloak from the table. ‘I shall leave you, before you have so many guests that your walls burst and your house tumbles about your ears.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Isnard, reaching out to take the man’s hand. ‘It was kind.’

‘I will come again tomorrow,’ promised Bottisham. ‘And I shall visit old Mistress Lenne. I will see she is looked after until her son arrives from Thetford, just as you ask.’

‘And what about Thomas Mortimer?’ asked Isnard, his voice angry. ‘Will you detain him in a dark alley and chop off his legs with an axe? I asked you to do that, too.’

Bottisham smiled indulgently. ‘You can do that yourself, when you are better.’

Isnard grinned without humour. ‘It will give me something to look forward to. I will teach him that he cannot drive when he is full of ale, and kill honest old men as they stand chatting in the streets. Thank God Bosel is prepared to stand up and tell the truth.’

Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a glance. Isnard did not notice, but Bottisham was an observant man and immediately sensed something amiss.

‘Has Bosel retracted his statement already?’ he asked in dismay. ‘I did not think Mortimer would act quite so soon. I assumed he would wait to see what kind of case the Sheriff put together before spending money on bribes that might not be necessary.’

‘Bosel will not be bribed by Mortimer,’ predicted Isnard confidently. ‘He will tell the truth. I have already made sure of that by offering three groats more than Mortimer’s highest price.’ He smiled in satisfaction at his foresight.

‘Bosel is dead,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘He will not be telling the “truth” for anyone.’

‘Mortimer murdered Bosel, so he cannot speak for me?’ asked Isnard, aghast.

‘The Sheriff says Mortimer was at a meeting all last night, so cannot be responsible,’ said Michael. ‘He will have to make his case without Bosel.’ He did not add that Tulyet considered this impossible.

‘I will dispense a little justice of my own, then,’ said Isnard, wringing his bed-covers furiously. ‘I will not lie here with Lenne and Bosel slain, and let Mortimer get away with it.’

‘Not yet,’ said Bartholomew, concerned that Isnard might persuade some crony to help him leave his sickbed too soon, resulting in a third death.

Isnard shook his head, already spent and too unwell to sustain his temper for long. ‘I am full of words, and not the type to stalk merchants and take axes to them.’ Bartholomew said nothing, knowing he was exactly that kind of man – or had been, when in possession of all his limbs. ‘But I mean what I say about justice. I will see Mortimer punished for what he did, even if it means visiting the King himself to put my case.’

‘I will tell you how to go about it,’ offered Bottisham generously. ‘The law is complex, and there are certain procedures you must follow. But your physician is waiting to tend you, and I should not linger here and make a nuisance of myself. Rest, Isnard. I will pray for you.’

He patted the bargeman’s shoulder, nodded a friendly farewell to Bartholomew and Michael, and squeezed past Quenhyth and Redmeadow to reach the door.

‘I am delighted to see you looking so well,’ said Michael, plumping himself down on Isnard’s single bench with such force that Bartholomew thought it might break. ‘When I heard you had summoned Matt this morning, I assumed you had taken a turn for the worse.’

‘I need something for the itching, Doctor,’ said Isnard sheepishly. ‘I am sorry to drag you from your breakfast, but it could not wait. It is driving me to distraction.’

‘Itching?’ asked Bartholomew, assuming that now Isnard was confined to his bed, he was unable to escape the fleas that flourished in his filthy blankets. Cleansing the house of all the small creatures that bit and sucked blood would be an imposing task, and Bartholomew was not sure it could be done.

‘My foot,’ whispered Isnard hoarsely. ‘It itches something fierce.’

‘Scratch it, then,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. He flexed one of his hands, revealing some lengthy nails. ‘I will do it for you, if you like.’

‘No, the other one,’ said Isnard, still in a whisper, as though he considered it unlucky or dangerous to speak in a normal voice about a limb that was no longer attached.

‘You mean the one that is gone?’ asked Michael warily. ‘How do you know it is itching? I doubt Matt told you what he did with it. He usually declines to share such ghoulish information.’

‘It itches,’ persisted Isnard stubbornly. ‘And I do not mean from the river, or wherever he disposed of it. I mean it itches at the bottom of my leg, where it used to live.’

‘I have heard such complaints before,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Michael was looking around for evidence that Isnard had been drinking. He recalled an archer in France telling him the same thing about an amputated arm. ‘It is not unusual to imagine a limb is still there for some time after it has been removed. And I did not throw it in the river, by the way. People drink from that.’

‘But what can I do about it?’ asked Isnard, distressed. ‘I cannot think about anything other than this itch, and yet I cannot put an end to it. Will it last for the rest of my life? If so, I do not think I can stand it.’ His voice was unsteady.

‘I can dig it up and give it a good scratch, if you like,’ offered Redmeadow, trying hard to be useful. ‘That might cure you.’

‘He needs a purge,’ countered Quenhyth with great conviction. ‘A tincture of linseed fried in fat should put an end to his miseries. Or perhaps mallow leaves stewed in old ale.’

‘It might put an end to him, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want his humours unbalanced by purges. He needs to gain strength from his food, not lose it by vomiting.’

‘A clyster, then,’ said Quenhyth with unseemly relish. ‘I can prepare a potion of green camomile, salt, honey and lard, and you can squirt it into his anus and cleanse his bowels.’

‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Isnard uneasily. ‘My bowels are my own affair, and not for others to explore as they please.’

‘I quite agree,’ interposed Michael, the expression on his face indicating that he found the discussion distasteful. He changed the subject. ‘Why was Bottisham visiting you, Isnard? I did not know the two of you were acquainted.’

‘I regularly haul barges for his College – Gonville,’ replied Isnard. ‘And Master Bottisham has always been kind to me. He came to ask if there was anything I need, but, apart from strong ale, which Doctor Bartholomew says I cannot have, I am well looked after by my neighbours.’

‘I prescribed a clyster for Master Bernarde the miller when he had an aching elbow,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘It worked very well.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did what?’

‘You were out inspecting corpses with Brother Michael,’ said Quenhyth, becoming defensive when he saw his teacher was shocked. ‘What am I supposed to do when a patient comes wanting help? Send him away empty handed?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘And then tell me, so I can visit him myself. You must not dispense medicines to my patients. You are not qualified, and you do not have enough experience to start giving out remedies of your own.’

‘I have been watching you for six months,’ objected Quenhyth, making it sound like a decade. ‘And I am a quick learner. I know more than you give me credit for.’

‘But still not enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will not argue with you. Either you do as I say or you can find yourself another teacher.’

‘I will obey you,’ said Quenhyth in the kind of voice that indicated he considered it an immense favour. ‘But I was only trying to help.’

‘Then go back to Michaelhouse,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘And do not “help” without my permission again.’

‘I do not want him tampering with my personal places, thank you very much,’ said Isnard after Quenhyth had gone. ‘He can take his green camomile and lard and shove them up his own arse.’

‘I am sorry, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I cannot help with your itch, either. I do not know what can be done to alleviate it.’

Isnard sat back with a grimace and folded his arms. ‘Do not worry about that, Doctor. I am already cured. The notion of that boy loose on my bowels has quite put the itch out of my mind.’