‘They cleaves with each other,’ agreed Lavenham angrily. ‘Like with Hand of Injustice, which belong to town. School-men claim belong to University.’
‘The Hand of Justice, Lavenham,’ corrected Bernarde. ‘It does not do to confuse them.’
‘Why not?’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Everyone else does, including the King.’ Michael gave him a hard elbow-jab that hurt enough to make him think twice about saying anything else.
‘If the University is forced to help pay this compensation, they will definitely keep the Hand of Justice for themselves,’ said Cheney angrily. ‘They will continue to lock it in St Mary the Great, and it will cost us townsfolk dear each time we want to petition it.’
‘But Father William has been charging scholars and townsfolk the same amount,’ said Tulyet reasonably. ‘There was a nasty argument this morning, because he refused Langelee a free viewing. They almost came to blows, and only the intervention of Dame Pelagia prevented a brawl.’
‘That Hand will cause trouble wherever it goes,’ said Michael. ‘Young Thorpe has asked the King if Gonville can have it. But other Colleges are sure to be jealous. As far as I am concerned, the town can have the thing, and good riddance.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Tulyet hastily. ‘I do not want to deal with the strife it will cause, either.’
‘Warde’s will is going to be read tomorrow morning,’ said Stanmore, changing the subject to one all merchants loved: money. ‘He was a wealthy man by University standards. I wonder what he will leave his College.’
‘Books, I imagine,’ said Cheney distastefully. ‘It is what they all like. Did you hear about Deschalers’s will? Julianna inherited the lot.’
‘Except for a wooden chest,’ said Stanmore. ‘That went to some clerk, although I understand it is a paltry thing. The clerk admired it – he was probably being polite – and Deschalers took him at his word. I suspect the fellow is now wishing he had praised something a little more expensive.’
‘I would be,’ said Bernarde wistfully. ‘A box is useful, but virtually worthless. Deschalers did not leave his apprentices a penny, you know. He was wrong to be so miserly. They served him for many years, and they deserved better.’
‘And then Edward dismissed most of them,’ added Cheney. ‘It is almost as if he wants his business to fail. How will he run it without men who know what they are doing? He has neither the experience nor the knowledge to become a grocer.’
‘I do not think he intends to stay long,’ said Stanmore. ‘A man intent on making a venture profitable does not rid himself of those who can help him. I suspect he intends to reap what funds there are – from Julianna’s inheritance and this wretched compensation – and then leave.’
‘I hope so,’ said Tulyet. ‘He has done nothing criminal yet, but he has come close. He pesters the Frail Sisters, too. I doubt Julianna would approve, if she knew. Perhaps I should drop her a few hints. That would put an end to his philandering.’
‘Be direct,’ advised Stanmore. ‘She is not a woman who understands hints.’
Tulyet balked. ‘That would be a gentlemanly thing to do.’
Bartholomew listened to them with half an ear. He was looking towards the well in the Jewry, where the object of their discussion was lounging against a wall. Edward Mortimer, with Thorpe at his side, was watching the young women lining up to draw water. The girls soon became uneasy under their lecherous scrutiny. Mortimer moved close to one of the prettiest and whispered something in her ear, pushing himself against her. She dropped her bucket and fled, tears starting from her eyes, while the others edged closer together, their faces rigidly hostile.
Mortimer was unperturbed by their animosity. He merely selected another victim, and began to look her up and down as a housewife might examine a carcass at the butchers’ stalls. Bartholomew took several steps towards him, intending to intervene if he made a nuisance of himself: he had meant what he had said to Thorpe on the river bank the previous day and, as far as he was concerned, the threat applied to Mortimer, too. He was just close enough to hear what was being said, when a familiar figure sidled up to the miscreants and the women used the distraction to scatter.
‘I have been hoping to meet you, sir,’ said Quenhyth with one of his ingratiating smiles.
‘I have already told you that I do not want your services,’ snapped Mortimer, angry to have lost his prey. ‘I can write as well as, or better than, you, and I do not require a scribe.’
‘But I need the money,’ objected Quenhyth in a whine. ‘How can I buy medicines for the patients I will soon have, if I have no funds? Every other student in the University makes ends meet by scribing for wealthy merchants, and I am the only one without a patron. Even Deynman writes for Stanmore on occasion.’
‘Clear off!’ growled Thorpe.
‘But I have tried everyone else,’ persisted Quenhyth. ‘Redmeadow works for Cheney, and Ulfrid and Zebedee, the Franciscans, scribe for Bernarde and Lavenham. You are my last hope.’
‘You are not the sort any decent man would hire,’ said Thorpe nastily. ‘You are opinionated and judgmental, and no one likes you.’
Bartholomew saw Quenhyth blanch, and felt sorry for him. He had forgotten Quenhyth was short of funds, and felt he must be desperate indeed if he was obliged to beg for work from Mortimer.
‘I am liked,’ said Quenhyth in a strangled voice. ‘Deynman and Redmeadow are fond of me.’
‘Deynman tolerates you,’ said Mortimer unpleasantly. ‘But Redmeadow loathes you. I heard him telling Cheney so the other day, when he was scribing for him in St Clement’s Church. He says you spy on him all the time, so he cannot do what he wants.’
Bartholomew wondered what Redmeadow had meant, but then reflected that Quenhyth was a sanctimonious lad, who made no secret of the fact that he disapproved of rule-breaking. Redmeadow had probably learned that he could not drink in taverns, gamble, or flirt with the town’s women as long as Quenhyth shared his room.
‘We are busy,’ snarled Mortimer at the hapless student. ‘Do not bother us again.’
He strutted away, heading towards a tinker, who was flouting Sunday laws by sitting with his wares laid out on a dirty rug. The tinker reached out to attract his attention, and Bartholomew was astonished to see Mortimer kick him. The tinker reeled, but recovered to screech curses after the swaggering men. When they reached the edge of the Jewry, Mortimer turned and made an obscene gesture, which resulted in even more frenzied oaths. Thorpe immediately retraced his steps. Bartholomew could not hear what was said, but the tinker fell silent. He bowed his head as the two felons left.
Bartholomew watched with distaste. Folk who were obliged to peddle their wares from rugs on the ground were the poorest of traders, and could not be blamed if the occasional hand reached out to a potential customer. Bartholomew disliked being grabbed himself, but it was easy enough to pull away. Mortimer’s kick had been vicious and unnecessary. Not for the first time the physician wondered what kind of men the King’s clerks had set free with their casually granted pardons.
Michael was happy to continue gossiping with the merchants, but the incident with the tinker had unsettled Bartholomew. He followed Thorpe and Mortimer at a discreet distance until they entered a tavern on the High Street, open despite Sabbath restrictions. He peered through a window shutter and heard them demanding ale from a pot-boy. He supposed that as long as they were in an inn, the town’s women would be safe enough – until the two men emerged fuelled for more mischief. He moved away as the first heavy drops of a spring shower started to fall, turning his thoughts back to whatever it was that Redmeadow wanted to do that Quenhyth’s presence at Michaelhouse made difficult. Was it more than a mere flouting of the University’s rules? Had Cheney asked his scribe to do something to further the mill dispute, something Redmeadow was finding difficult because of his roommate’s nosy presence?