Susanna GREGORY - The Hand of Justice

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.