‘What happened to Thomas?’ asked Michael, looking down at the shrouded figure.
Edward stepped forward and whisked the sheet away so that Bartholomew and Michael could see the extent of the injuries Thomas had suffered before his death. His clothes were drenched in blood, his face was crushed almost beyond recognition, and his limbs and chest were unnatural shapes where bones had broken. But if Edward had wanted to shock the scholars, he was disappointed. Bartholomew had an academic interest in such matters, while Michael, although he disliked the more grisly aspects of his post, had sufficient self-control not to flinch. Even William had seen enough violent death to be dispassionate.
‘A horse bolted from Lavenham’s stables during the fire,’ said Constantine, sounding as if he was going to cry again. ‘It collided with Thomas, and he was trampled.’
‘He was drunk when the fire raged,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how the miller had reeled and slobbered from his wineskin just before the inferno had started. He edged past Michael to inspect the body properly, and frowned. The injuries did not fit with the story he had been told. ‘But there are no hoof marks here. Just signs that he was crushed.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Edward. ‘There are hoof marks everywhere and we shall use them as proof.’
‘Proof of what?’
‘Proof that will allow us to sue Lavenham,’ said Edward, casually inspecting his fingernails. ‘He was negligent in the way he stabled his nags. If he had tethered them properly, they would not have escaped and Thomas would still be alive.’ He exchanged a grin with Thorpe.
Bartholomew gazed at him, uncertain whether he was making a jest in poor taste, but he seemed perfectly serious. Julianna saw the physician’s bemusement.
‘He means it,’ she said. ‘He really does intend to make Lavenham pay for the death of Thomas.’
‘After what you have just said?’ asked Michael, astounded. ‘That Thomas killed Lenne and injured Isnard because he fell asleep at the reins? Does it not occur to you that suing Lavenham would be a gross injustice?’
Thorpe did his best to be nonchalant, but he was enjoying himself too much to succeed. His smile was triumphant when he saw the scholars’ shock. ‘We know our rights. The town did not care about justice when Edward and I were ordered to abjure the realm, so why should we care about it now?’
‘Well, you might take a lesson from Thomas,’ suggested Michael. ‘He thought he could evade punishment for his sins, and look what happened to him.’
Thorpe had the grace to look uneasy, but Edward did not react. ‘That is different,’ he said.
‘Why?’ asked William.
‘Because we have not been cursed by Mistress Lenne.’
‘No,’ agreed Thorpe, regaining his confidence. ‘Nor did we crush any old men with carts. The folk we killed two years ago deserved to die.’
Some of Edward’s family looked distinctly uncomfortable with this claim, and one of them collected his wife and aimed for the door. Two or three others followed, and Bartholomew saw there were fractures in the clan that had not been there before. A month ago, they would have stuck together no matter what, but Edward’s outrageous behaviour seemed too much, even for them. Constantine watched the dissenters leave with a troubled expression.
‘The Hand of Justice will never allow mischief to befall us,’ Thorpe continued, ignoring the small exodus. ‘It knows how we have suffered – exiled to places like Albi and Calais.’
‘But even if Lavenham survived the fire, he will be penniless,’ reasoned Michael. ‘The fire deprived him of all he owns. He will not be able to pay you anything – negligently tethered horses or no.’
‘That is not our problem,’ said Thorpe loftily. ‘The town will pay – as it will pay the compensation owed to me and Edward for our unjust banishment. After all, it is only fair.’
Neither Bartholomew nor Michael could think of much to say as they walked to Tulyet’s house on Bridge Street that evening. They were appalled by Edward’s plan to sue Lavenham and, while they hoped the law would be sufficiently sane to see the claim for the outrage it was, their recent experience with England’s eccentric legal system and its dishonest clerks did not fill them with confidence.
‘I cannot believe this,’ said Michael, as they passed the outskirts of the Jewry. A miasma of rosewater still encased him, and Bartholomew tried to keep his distance. ‘If the Mortimers gain a single penny over Thomas’s death I shall join those restless peasants who are urging rebellion, and overthrow the King myself.’
‘Michael!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, glancing around him uneasily. The monk’s voice had been loud, and there were plenty of people close enough to have heard. ‘You are always warning me about making treasonous remarks, but I have never made that sort of proclamation on the High Street.’
‘Well, I am angry,’ pouted Michael. ‘And disillusioned. I have been upholding University laws for five years now, and I thought right was on my side. But, in the last two weeks I have seen murderers pardoned; I have seen them awarded money for their “suffering”; I have seen a drunken merchant crush folk under his cart with no reprisals; I have seen Deschalers, Warde and Bottisham dead by foul means and I do not know why; and I have seen Bosel callously dispatched to protect Thomas’s precious reputation. And now Edward plans to sue the destitute Lavenham.’
‘We do not know Lavenham is destitute,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He may have a fortune secreted away – he certainly still has his share of the King’s Mill. And he may be dead and therefore beyond the Mortimers’ clutches. We do not know Bosel was killed to protect Thomas, either. Constantine says not. And finally you know as well as I do that “right” and “justice” have nothing to do with the law, so you cannot be disillusioned.’
At Tulyet’s house, Michael rapped on the door, becoming impatient when it was not answered immediately. He had missed a number of snacks that day, so was hungry and wanted to get at Mistress Tulyet’s lamb and Lombard slices as soon as possible.
‘Summer must be closer than I thought,’ said Tulyet, ushering them inside. ‘I can smell blossom. Rather strongly, actually. Or perhaps one of the Frail Sisters passed this way, and her scent lingers.’
‘Weeds,’ said Tulyet’s wife, coming to greet them and also detecting something aromatic. ‘Like lily of the valley or some such plant. No. It is less pleasant than that. Henbane. I believe that reeks at this time of year.’ She inspected the bushes that grew along the front of her house.
‘Henbane killed Warde,’ said Michael, making his way to Tulyet’s solar and oblivious to the mortified expression on the faces of his hosts as they identified the origin of the stench. ‘It is not hard to believe that something so foul-smelling contains such a virulent poison.’
‘And Bess,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting her to be forgotten. He entered the solar behind Michael and was surprised to see Stanmore there, sipping warmed wine by the hearth. The clothier winked at Bartholomew and told him that it was more pleasant to inveigle invitations from friends than to dine alone while his wife was away.
‘God’s angels!’ exclaimed Michael suddenly. ‘What is that?’
He pointed to an object that lay on its side in one corner of the room, all wooden legs and frayed fur, like a Trojan horse that had seen some terrible wars. Its face was unscathed, however, and Bartholomew immediately recognised the beady, malevolent eyes and grinning, tooth-filled mouth of the toy Quenhyth had crafted.
‘We have young Quenhyth to thank for that,’ said Tulyet with a fond smile. ‘He gave it to Dickon when he hurt himself, and it has become his favourite toy. I offered to return it, since it was originally intended for Quenhyth’s brother, but the kind lad said we could keep it.’
Bartholomew imagined that Quenhyth’s generosity had nothing to do with kindness. He knew he was likely to be asked to help tend Dickon in the future so would not want to accept the toy back and run the risk of being speared by Dickon’s wooden sword when their paths next crossed.
‘What is it?’ asked Michael dubiously, picking up the object by one of its legs. It had suffered during its few days in the Tulyet house. One of its feet had broken, there were bald patches where its fur had come off, and it was missing its tail.
‘It is a rat,’ came the piping, childish voice of Dickon from behind them, where he had been eating the sugared cherries off the tops of all the Lombard slices. ‘You stink! I am a Saracen!’
With a wild whoop and little warning, Dickon produced the dreaded sword and rushed at Michael, brandishing it to show he meant serious harm. Bartholomew had never seen the monk move so fast, and Dickon’s weapon succeeded only in cleaving thin air. Aggrieved to be deprived of his target, the brat looked around furiously, and drew breath for another attack.
‘Dickon!’ shouted Tulyet. ‘What have I told you about assaulting guests?’
Dickon’s dark eyes settled rebelliously on his father, and then with calm deliberation he issued another ear-piercing war-shriek and aimed for Michael a second time. This time the monk was ready. He gripped the rat in both hands and used it to block the sword’s hacking blow. The toy disintegrated in his hands, the head skittering off to land in the fire and the body falling in two unequal pieces to the floor. Michael was left holding a hind leg that ended in some vicious-looking splinters. Dickon gaped at the shattered ruins in disbelief, and his little sword dangled at his side.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Now look what you have done.’
Slowly it dawned on Dickon that his rat was irreparably damaged. He opened his mouth and roared his fury at the world – and at Michael in particular – with all the power his lungs could muster. Bartholomew winced, certain it was not normal for a small child to generate such volume.
‘You will hurt your throat,’ he warned, although whether Dickon heard him was a matter of conjecture. He considered repeating the message, then decided that a sore throat might actually benefit Dickon’s parents. He should not deprive them of a quiet week by attempting to soothe the brat.
‘I will take him to the garden,’ shouted his mother. ‘You said you wanted to talk, and you will not be able to do so with him here. Do not forget to bar the door. He will not stay outside for long.’
‘Do hurry back,’ said Michael to Dickon, with what Bartholomew thought was raw menace. ‘I would like to play with you again.’
Dickon’s howls stopped, and he regarded Michael with a coolly assessing eye. Bartholomew watched him reach the understanding that Michael was not someone who would be easily bested. Dickon was the first to look away. He continued his bawling, although not quite as loudly, as his mother led him away by the hand.
‘Are you sure he is yours, Dick?’ asked Michael, following Tulyet into the chamber he used as an office and watching him secure the door in a way that would have probably deterred several real Saracens. ‘Only I have heard that the Devil occasionally sires a child.’
Tulyet was not amused. ‘Matt says he will grow out of his tantrums soon. We probably should not indulge him so, but my wife still has not forgotten the time when ruthless men stole him from us.’
‘I would like to see them try now,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that anyone who deliberately sought out the company of Dickon deserved everything he got. Stanmore added a nod of heartfelt agreement.
‘He is a dear child,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I can barely remember what it is like to have a peaceful home. Still, he will soon be old enough to play with other children, and that may calm him.’
‘Julianna’s daughter?’ suggested Stanmore. ‘She is a brat who knows her own mind. You should betroth them. It would be an excellent marriage for both children.’
‘An excellent marriage for their parents, perhaps,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But they would probably kill each other on their wedding night.’ He thought he heard Stanmore mutter ‘quite’.
Tulyet poked the fire in the hearth until there was a merry blaze. Shadows flickered across the walls, making the murals seem alive, with leaves moving in a breeze and strange beasts lurking among the foliage. Tulyet gave a hearty sigh when Dickon gave his most almighty screech yet, and made a comment about how difficult it was going to be to get him to sleep that night, after the excitement of the day.
‘He shouted “fire”,’ said Bartholomew, going to the window and throwing the shutter open. So far, Dickon’s parents had kept him away from flames, but the physician knew it was only a matter of time before the hellion learned it was a usefully destructive force. He did not want to be sipping wine in Tulyet’s sealed office while the house burned, and end up like Bernarde.
‘He saw the blaze this afternoon,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is just playing.’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew, leaning out of the window. ‘There is a fire. I can smell it.’
He followed Tulyet out of the office and along a corridor to the pantries. A pile of kindling stood in the middle of the floor, and the room was full of thick, white smoke. Bartholomew snatched up a pan of water and dashed it over the flames, while Tulyet, Stanmore and Michael kicked the thing apart and stamped out the cinders. There was a rich stench of burning fat, and Bartholomew realised someone had added fuel to the sticks, to ensure the fire would catch.
‘How odd,’ said Stanmore, regarding it with a puzzled expression. ‘Which of your servants would light a fire on the floor, when there is a perfectly good hearth for that kind of thing?’
‘This is not the work of a servant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone lit it with the express purpose of burning Dick’s house to the ground. The oil was added to make it burn more quickly. Besides, no retainer is foolish enough to set a blaze in the middle of a room, then leave it unattended.’
‘You mean someone wanted Dick to go the same way as Bernarde?’ asked Stanmore, aghast.
‘Bang!’ came Dickon’s strident voice from the garden. ‘Pow!’
‘Is anyone with him?’ asked Tulyet, watching as his wife and most of their household crowded into the pantry to inspect the mess. ‘It is getting dark, and I do not want him to let the chickens out.’
‘I will go,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the smoke, because his throat was still raw from inhaling so much of it earlier that day. He entered the cool garden and took a deep breath of spring-scented air before beginning to look for Dickon. It was not difficult to locate him. He was screaming happily as he whirled his wooden sword around his head.
‘Yah!’ he screeched, stabbing some bushes. Suddenly, there was a rustle and someone broke free and raced across the garden towards a wall at the rear. Dickon was after him in a trice, whooping his delight at the prospect of live quarry. His victim reached the wall and began to scale it, driven to a new level of acrobatic achievement by the sword. Dickon jabbed hard at the leg that dangled so tantalisingly in front of him, and there was a shriek of agony. The boy’s face creased into a satisfied grin, and the intruder disappeared over the top. There was a thud, a grunt of pain and then uneven footsteps as the would-be arsonist limped away.
‘Pow,’ said Dickon, pleased with himself. ‘He dead.’