Susanna GREGORY - The Hand of Justice

‘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.’