‘It is by Ibn Ibrahim!’ he exclaimed. ‘My Arab teacher. I knew he had written a tome containing his various theories, but I did not think I would ever see a copy. But why did Lavenham have it? And why did he give it to me?’
‘You have good friends to thank for that,’ said William. ‘Paxtone saw it in their shop, and he knew this Ibrahim was your teacher. He and Wynewyk have been negotiating to purchase it for you for the past month or so. They never succeeded – Lavenham did not want to part with it because it came from his father. But yesterday he decided he needed the money, so I arranged the sale.’ He turned and gestured to someone who was standing a short distance away, smiling shyly. It was Wynewyk.
Bartholomew was seized with abject guilt. ‘Is that why they have been acting so strangely of late?’
‘They did not want you to know what they were doing,’ explained William. ‘They suspected Lavenham would not sell it, and did not want you to be disappointed when they failed. They met in the orchard, because Wynewyk said no one ever uses it except him. I should have mentioned your penchant for that old apple trunk, I suppose. He said they were discussing Rougham’s accusations against you once, and were appalled to imagine the conclusions you must have drawn.’
Bartholomew was surprised to feel the prick of tears behind his eyes, and supposed he must be more tired than he had thought.
‘Thank you,’ he said as Wynewyk came to stand next to him.
‘You almost caught me with it once,’ said Wynewyk, smiling at the memory. ‘Lavenham lent it to me for a day, and I brought it here to show Paxtone. I fell asleep waiting for him, and the next thing I knew was Michael trying to grab it from my lap.’
‘I remember,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I saw something hidden under Gratian’s Decretia.’
‘Rougham was a wretched nuisance,’ Wynewyk went on. ‘He somehow guessed what we were trying to do, and went to extraordinary lengths to thwart us. He claimed he did not want your mind sullied further with heathen texts, and did all he could to persuade the Lavenhams not to sell it to us.’
‘He foiled you at every turn,’ mused Bartholomew, recalling what he had overheard. He was ashamed now of what he had thought.
Wynewyk did not seem to notice his chagrin. ‘Then we were afraid it had gone up in smoke, along with Lavenham’s house. Paxtone had a good look for it in the rubble – you doubtless wondered why he was covered in soot – but it was nowhere to be found. But then we discovered it in the most unlikely of places.’ He gestured for William to continue.
‘I was called to give Thomas Mortimer last rites,’ said William. ‘Property he had looted from the Lavenhams was spilling from his clothes, so Wynewyk and I gathered it up to return it to them. The book was one of the items.’
‘It was Quenhyth who tried to steal the Dumbleton from the hall, you know,’ said Wynewyk, when Bartholomew seemed unable to speak. ‘Not Thorpe, as we assumed. After I repaired the chain, I caught him at it again. The chest made him greedy, because it was somewhere private to store stolen goods. But I must tell Paxtone that all our plotting paid off. He will be delighted.’
‘Wait for me by the gate,’ Bartholomew called after him. ‘I would like to go with you.’
Bartholomew handed the book to William while he raked out the fire, keen now to finish with Quenhyth’s business, and spend some time with two men who had been to such lengths on his behalf.
‘My God!’ breathed William suddenly. ‘I hope that is not what I think it is.’
Bartholomew looked to where the friar pointed. His mouth went dry when he saw that some of the charred embers were hand shaped. He poked them with the stick, revealing large blackened finger bones and the remains of a blue-green ring. He exchanged an uneasy glance with the friar.
‘So, Quenhyth stole the Hand of Justice,’ he said. ‘We thought he might have done, and I should have guessed where he had put it. Still, at least we know the thing was not holy, or it would not have been eaten by flames.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said William nervously. ‘This is all rather embarrassing.’
‘Only if people find out about it,’ said Bartholomew, raking vigorously, so the bones broke up and became indistinguishable among the charred remains of the chest. He scooped up the ashes and wrapped them in the material that had held the book. William followed him out of the garden and watched while he flung the parcel into the river. It sank slowly from sight.
‘Find out about what?’ asked William.
Later that night, the Fellows of Michaelhouse sat quietly in the conclave. Bartholomew was reading Ibrahim’s book, completely absorbed, and Wynewyk watched, smiling at his friend’s pleasure. Langelee was telling Suttone how annoyed he was over the loss of Quenhyth’s fees, while William wrote a letter to the Chancellor, resigning as Keeper of the University Chest. When he passed the document to Michael, to check for errors in the grammar, the monk tore it up and threw it in the fire. He gave the friar a conspiratorial wink, and William grinned back in startled delight.
‘I do not want him reclaiming his post as Junior Proctor,’ Michael muttered to Bartholomew, as the Franciscan went to celebrate his unexpected reprieve by fetching wine from the kitchen. ‘I know he caused havoc as Keeper, but I think he has learned his lesson. He is safer where he is.’
‘What is that?’ demanded Langelee, looking out of the window at the reflected light dancing on the College’s pale walls. ‘And listen!’
He flung open the window shutter and the Fellows exchanged horrified glances when they detected the unmistakable sounds of riot – people shouting, dogs barking, the frightened whinnying of horses and an occasional scream. Feet hammered on the ground as folk ran here and there, and torches sent eerie flickers into the darkness.
‘Stay here,’ ordered Michael, reaching for his cloak. ‘All of you, except Matt, who may be needed professionally. Bar the gate and be ready to douse fires. I do not like the look of this.’
In St Michael’s Lane, apprentices were everywhere. Scholars were out too, wearing the uniforms of their hostels and Colleges, and Bartholomew saw students from Gonville nudge each other and edge closer to Stanmore’s lads. He did not think they were about to exchange pleasantries about the cloth business, and ordered his brother-in-law’s boys home. They grumbled and kicked at the ground in frustration, but did as they were told. Michael did the same with the scholars, threatening them with a night in his cells, if they did not obey.
‘Will this town never be still?’ demanded Michael, as he turned into the High Street and saw that he and Bartholomew had only scratched the surface of the problem. People were massing, running down the High Street in the direction of the Trumpington Gate. He snatched the arm of someone who darted in the opposite direction. It was Ufford from Gonville Hall.
‘This chaos is Rougham’s fault,’ said Ufford in disgust. ‘He went to pray to the Hand of Justice, to ask for absolution for selling rat poison to Deschalers, but Father William would not let him near it. They began to argue, and William ended up confessing that the Hand has been stolen. Unfortunately, they were overheard.’
‘By whom?’ asked Michael.
‘By Mayor Morice. He has been telling everyone – and the townsfolk want it back.’
‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew guiltily.
‘But why is everyone storming around?’ asked Michael. ‘It was stolen, but that is no reason for all this mayhem. Rioting will not reveal what happened to it.’
‘Because Morice says Mortimer and Thorpe have it,’ said Ufford, glancing around uneasily. No ambitious courtier with good family connections wanted to be caught up in anything as unseemly as a brawl, and he was anxious to be away. ‘He says they came to Cambridge with the sole purpose of reclaiming the Hand, and it is in their possession. Thank God we did not let Thorpe bring it to Gonville, or we would now be under siege instead of Mortimer’s Mill.’