Susanna GREGORY - The Hand of Justice

Cambridge, mid-February 1355

The bones were stored in a sumptuous wooden casket, which was studded with semiprecious stones and inlaid with gold. With great care, Father William of Michaelhouse opened the lid and took out the satin-clad parcel that lay inside. He even removed his gloves for the task, as a sign of his respect – no small sacrifice in the frigid winter weather, when the cold bit deep and hard, even inside a fine building like the Church of St Mary the Great. He laid the bundle on the table and, with infinite reverence, began to lift away the folds of cloth to reveal the object inside. His lips moved as he worked, offering silent prayers to the relic that was said to be imbued with such great power. He stood back when he had finished, so the man who had paid handsomely for the privilege could appreciate its full glory.

‘Is that it?’ asked Thomas Deschalers the grocer, acutely disappointed. ‘It looks … ordinary. And a bit dirty, if the truth be known.’

‘It is the Hand of Valence Marie,’ pronounced William grandly. He was a grimy person himself, and did not care that the object in his keeping failed to meet the merchant’s more exacting standards. ‘Named for the College near which it was found. And I have been entrusted by no less a person than the University’s Chancellor himself to be its guardian. The Hand is sacred, and therefore it is only right that it should be in the care of a Franciscan friar. Me.’

‘I see,’ said Deschalers noncommittally, declining to enter a debate about which of the many religious Orders in Cambridge should be entrusted with the task of looking after what was becoming an increasingly popular relic – among townspeople and University scholars alike. He stared down at the collection of bones that lay exposed in front of him.

They comprised what had once been a living human hand. The bleached finger bones were held together by sinews, giving them the appearance of a claw rather than something that had once been warm with life. On the little finger was a blue-green ring, which Deschalers’s skilled eye told him was not valuable, although it was pretty enough. He moved to one side, and examined the rough striations that criss-crossed the wrist, where a saw had been used to remove it from the rest of the body.

The grocer laid his own hand next to it. His palm was soft and his fingers free from the calluses of manual labour: wealthy merchants did not toil with sacks and casks when they had plenty of apprentices at their beck and call. Then he looked at the skeletal claw. By comparison, it was huge – and Deschalers was above average size himself.

‘Are you sure this belongs to the martyr?’ he asked doubtfully, wondering whether he had wasted a gold quarter-noble on the private viewing. ‘I do not recall him owning limbs as massive as this.’

William was immediately defensive – and a little furtive. ‘Who else’s would it be?’

‘When it was first discovered, there were rumours that it was hacked from the corpse of a simpleton,’ said Deschalers, watching him carefully. ‘Not the martyr. The tale was all over the town, and I am not sure what to think.’

‘Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew – both Fellows of my own College – were responsible for circulating those particular claims,’ replied William, tight-lipped with disapproval. ‘But you can see they were wrong. Of course the Hand is holy: why else would it be housed in such a splendid box and shrouded in the finest satin money can buy?’

Deschalers regarded him warily, not sure whether the friar was attempting to be droll: even his newest apprentice knew that a tavern’s most handsome jug did not necessarily contain its best wine. But then he saw William’s face, which was lit with savage, unshakeable fanaticism, and realised the friar was quite serious. Deschalers knew it would be a waste of time to point out that there were objects all over the country languishing in satin and surrounded by jewels, purporting to be something they were not.

‘There was some suggestion that the martyr arranged for this “relic” to be discovered himself, while he was alive and still in possession of both his hands,’ he went on cautiously.

‘Details,’ said William evasively. ‘The Hand is sacred, no matter who it came from.’

‘How can that be?’ asked Deschalers uncertainly. ‘It either belongs to the martyr or it does not – which therefore means it is either holy or it is not.’

‘It is sacred, but it did not belong to the martyr,’ admitted William. He lowered his voice conspiratorially, and leaned close to Deschalers, treating the grocer to a waft of breath that indicated he had recently eaten onions. ‘It belonged to another saint, but not many folk know about this.’

‘Which one?’ asked Deschalers, beginning to think he had indeed wasted his quarter-noble. He shivered, and wished he had not ventured out on such an inane escapade when the weather was so bitter. He wanted to be home, huddled next to a fire, and with a goblet of hot spiced ale at his side.

‘A man named Peterkin Starre,’ declared William with some triumph. He raised an admonishing finger when Deschalers released a derisive snort of laughter. ‘You knew him as a simpleton giant. He drooled like a baby and took delight in childish matters. But he was more than that. God is mysterious, and chooses unusual vessels for His divine purposes.’

‘Very unusual,’ agreed Deschalers dryly. ‘Are you telling me Peterkin Starre was a saint, and that the bones sawed from his poor corpse are imbued with heavenly power?’ He wondered whether William would return his money willingly, or whether he would have to approach the Chancellor about the matter. He hated the thought of being cheated.

‘I am,’ said William firmly. ‘That is the thing with saints: you do not know they are holy until they die and start to produce miracles. Look at Thomas à Becket, who was just a quarrelsome archbishop until he was struck down by four knights in his own cathedral. Now the spot where he died attracts pilgrims from all across the civilised world.’

‘You consider Peterkin Starre akin to St Thomas of Canterbury?’ asked Deschalers, startled.

‘I do,’ replied William with such conviction that Deschalers felt his disbelieving sneer begin to slip. ‘But do not take my word for it: ask those whose prayers to the Hand have been heard and answered. They will tell you it is holy, and that it does not matter whose body it came from.’

‘I see,’ said Deschalers, regarding the bones doubtfully, and not sure what to think.

William was becoming impatient. Other people were waiting to view the relic, and he did not want to waste his time arguing about its validity with sceptical merchants – especially when so many folk were prepared to make generous donations just to be in the same room with it. He knew Deschalers was ill – he could see the lines of pain etched into the grocer’s face, and the sallow skin with its sickly yellow sheen – but there was a limit to his tolerance, even for those who would soon be meeting their Maker and would need the intercessions of the saints. Deschalers’s life had not been blameless, and William thought he was wise to prime Higher Beings to be ready to speak on his behalf. But he wished the man would hurry up about it.

‘Do you want to pray or not?’ he asked, a little sharply. ‘If you do not believe in the Hand’s sacred powers, then I should put it away and save it for those who do.’