‘That makes it all right, then,’ said Michael caustically. ‘It is perfectly natural for a man to imbibe so much wine that he is still drunk after a night in his bed. Still, at least he has the sense not to do his shopping in a cart.’
‘Lenne was an accident,’ said Constantine wearily, as though tired of repeating himself. ‘Everyone makes it sound as though Thomas did it on purpose. He cannot help it if careless peasants stray across the streets without warning.’
‘And if people do not shut up about it, then the town can look elsewhere for money to repair the Great Bridge,’ slurred Mortimer nastily. ‘I am not giving good silver to help a gaggle of ingrates!’
Bartholomew saw that a number of Mortimer apprentices, all wearing distinctive mustard-yellow livery, were gathering. He tugged on Michael’s arm, to pull him away. He disliked brawling and, although he was angry enough with Thomas and he would enjoy punching the man, he had no intention of being drawn into a fight in which he was so heavily outnumbered. Michael shook him off.
‘Did you see this “accident” yourself?’ the monk asked archly. Constantine shook his head. ‘Then how do you know what happened? Thomas certainly did not, and he was driving!’
‘We have business at Gonville, Brother,’ Bartholomew whispered urgently, trying again to pull the monk away. ‘We need to exonerate Bottisham from these accusations before there is trouble.’
‘Then tell me why you arranged for Edward to be pardoned,’ ordered Michael, when neither Mortimer responded to his question. He freed his arm firmly enough to make Bartholomew stagger. ‘Why did you want him back, after all he did?’
Constantine flushed and looked down at his feet. ‘Partly because my son’s conviction was a slur on the Mortimer name. And partly because it was my fault that he turned to evil ways – I drove him to crime with my temper. I thought I could make amends by bringing him home.’
‘And that has not happened?’ asked Michael. He grimaced in disgust when Thomas toppled backwards and would have fallen, if his apprentices had not darted forward and caught him.
Constantine shook his head. ‘Edward refuses to live with me. Nor will he resume his baker’s training. His mother would not have been pleased.’
‘She is here, you know,’ said Thomas, his arrogance suddenly replaced by fear. ‘I saw Katherine near the Great Bridge, and she looked at me. She is back from her grave to haunt us. I had to visit the Hand of Valence Marie, and pay a shilling to ask for its protection from her troubled spirit.’
‘He saw Bess,’ explained Constantine, when he saw Michael assume it was the wine speaking. ‘That madwoman who is here to look for her husband. She gave me a turn when I first saw her, too. The likeness between her and my wife is uncanny – even Deschalers commented on it, and he never spoke to me about Katherine. He was always too ashamed for making me a cuckold.’
‘Did Katherine have a younger sister?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Deschalers had not been the kind of man to feel shame for enjoying himself with another man’s wife. It seemed more likely that the grocer had never mentioned Katherine because the memory had been too painful for him.
‘Katherine was an only child,’ replied Constantine. ‘She hailed from the Fens, whereas Bess comes from London. Their similarity is coincidence, nothing more. They are not related.’
‘Edward will become a miller, like me,’ rambled Thomas; he had already forgotten the scare ‘Katherine’ had given him. He cast a triumphant look in his brother’s direction, so Bartholomew surmised it was a source of discord between them. ‘And together we shall siphon water away from the King’s Mill until it is dry.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘There is enough to run both.’
‘There was enough for both, when Thomas was grinding corn,’ explained Constantine. ‘But fulling needs far more water.’
‘So the Millers’ Society can go and hang themselves,’ declared Thomas thickly, trying to fix the physician in his sights. He blinked hard and stood swaying, while his apprentices tensed, ready to catch him again. ‘The scholars of Gonville Hall will see them off. Lawyers are cunning and scholars are cunning. So a scholar-lawyer will be very cunning.’
‘Is that why you hired Gonville?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Because you think them more sly than the town lawyers?’
‘Well, it is true,’ said Constantine. ‘We cannot lose this case, because the forfeits would be fierce – loss of our mill, heavy fines, legal costs. It does not bear thinking about.’
‘Do you know why one of your Gonville lawyers – Bottisham – should have been with Deschalers at the King’s Mill on Sunday night?’ asked Michael, seizing the opportunity to advance his investigation a little. ‘You heard what happened?’
‘Stabbed, then thrown on to the millstones,’ said Constantine. He shuddered. ‘I have seen mills working, and that would not be a pleasant way to die. But if Bottisham was meeting Deschalers on our behalf, then he said nothing of his plans to us. You must ask Bernarde and his cronies about it. After all, it was in their mill that this tragedy occurred.’
‘What are we going to do about Edward?’ asked Bartholomew when he saw the Mortimers knew – or would reveal – nothing about Bottisham’s death. ‘Even you have no control over your son, and the whole town is waiting for him to do something terrible. We must act before someone is hurt.’
‘But I do not know what to do!’ cried Constantine. His sudden wail startled physician, monk and miller alike. ‘God forgive me! I thought I was doing the right thing when I bought their pardons – Edward asked me to help Thorpe, too, because his father had disowned him. But I did not know how much they had both changed.’
‘He is no longer the malleable boy you knew?’ asked Michael.
‘He is not, and I do not like what he has become. He unnerves me with his vengeful glowers and spiteful comments. If I could go to the King and tell him I had made a mistake, I would. But Edward said he would kill me if I did that.’
‘Did he now?’ asked Michael thoughtfully, wondering whether threats of murder might be sufficient to see the pardons withdrawn.
‘More than once.’ Constantine lowered his voice so his brother would not hear, although Thomas was leaning so heavily against a staggering apprentice that Bartholomew thought he might have passed out. ‘The combination of Thomas’s drinking and Edward’s resentful fury is not a good one. I am afraid: for me, for my bakery, for my brother and for his mill. I shall have to go to the Hand of Valence Marie, and pray for its help.’
‘I doubt that will do any good,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘The best way to ensure no one is hurt is to prevent trouble in the first place. Do you have any idea what Edward and Thorpe might be plotting? If you do, then we may be able to thwart it, and we can rectify this miscarriage of justice that you have brought about.’
‘The Hand will answer our prayers,’ slurred Thomas, struggling over his words as though his tongue belonged to someone else. ‘Young Hufford of Honville Gall has been praying for days for a cure. And he has one.’
‘A cure for what?’ asked Bartholomew warily. He hoped rumours were not about to circulate that the Hand had healing powers, because then the spread of the cult would be unstoppable.
‘For a sore on his mouth,’ explained Constantine.
‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘It healed naturally – the Hand had nothing to do with it.’
‘Never mind this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What about Edward’s plans?’
‘Edward barely speaks to me,’ said Constantine bitterly. ‘And he is destroying our family by making us take sides against each other – brother against brother, cousin against cousin. We were solidly loyal before he arrived, but now we argue all the time. We will lose all our power and influence in the town if we allow our clan to fragment – and then where will we be?’