‘Has everyone heard the news about the town’s mills?’ asked Michael that evening, after Langelee had produced a cask of wine as an unexpected Sunday treat, and the Fellows were in a more mellow frame of mind as they relaxed in the conclave. Bartholomew’s knives were back in his bag, and he was scanning a tract on the Book of Job by the famous scholar Robert Grosseteste – which was sufficiently uncontroversial to offend no one.
‘What about them?’ asked William drowsily. He had drunk twice as much as everyone else, and it had had a soporific effect on him. This suited his colleagues very well.
‘There is a dispute brewing between them over water,’ said Michael. ‘I detect Edward Mortimer’s hand in it personally, because his uncle’s fulling mill and the King’s Mill worked perfectly harmoniously together until he came back.’
‘Edward Mortimer and that Thorpe are always together,’ said Clippesby, who had a sleepy grass-snake in his lap. ‘A ram at the Market Square said they are lovers, although I do not know whether to believe him. However, the Gonville cat, who gets around at night, informed me that Master Thorpe of Valence Marie will not have his son in his College. Young Thorpe is living with the Mortimers.’
‘Is he now?’ mused Michael. Clippesby was often in possession of valuable information, although the sources he claimed for it were invariably improbable. Most of his conversations sounded like the ramblings of a deranged mind, but experience had taught the monk that Clippesby was often well informed, so he usually made some effort to distil the truth from the wild fantasies that encased it.
‘Master Thorpe told me he was appalled when his son appeared at Valence Marie and demanded to be welcomed home,’ said William, not to be outdone with the gossip. ‘He had no hand in obtaining the King’s Pardon, and he wants no part of his boy.’
‘I visited Master Thorpe yesterday,’ said Langelee, joining in the competition to see who had the most news. ‘He said the Mortimers had told him they planned to get a King’s Pardon for his son and Edward, but he did nothing about it, because he sincerely believed that the King had no reason to grant one – their guilt was too clear. But he underestimated the power of bribery.’
‘The Mortimers did bribe the King’s Bench clerks,’ said Clippesby. ‘One of the swans – who flies near Westminster at this time of year – told me he saw gold changing hands.’
‘Poor Master Thorpe,’ said William. ‘His son is a dangerous man, and it took real courage for the father to disown him. I would not want someone like young Thorpe angry with me.’
Michael nodded, a little impatiently. ‘He is brave. But none of this has any relevance to what I am trying to tell you about the mills. We all know that the King owns the King’s Mill, and that a profit-making guild called the Millers’ Society leases it from him.’
‘The Millers’ Society comprises the apothecary Lavenham and his hussy wife Isobel, Cheney the spice merchant, Deschalers the grocer and Bernarde the miller – miserable sinners, every one,’ said Suttone, who enjoyed listing people who would die when the plague next came. ‘And Mayor Morice.’
‘Mayor Morice!’ spat Langelee in disgust. ‘I could not believe it when that dishonest scoundrel was elected. Look what happened when he was Sheriff! He was so brazen with his corruption that it took my breath away.’
‘It is his fault that Thorpe and Edward are back,’ agreed William. ‘He accepted gold from the Mortimers, in return for a letter saying our town had no objection to the pardons being issued.’
Michael gave an irritable sigh, to indicate that their interruptions were interfering with his tale. He spoke loudly. ‘So, we have the King’s Mill, leased from the King by the Millers’ Society. And Mortimer’s Mill – owned by Thomas Mortimer – is upstream from it. And we all know that Mortimer’s Mill was recently converted from grinding grain to fulling cloth.’ He gazed around, pursing his lips, as if he imagined he had made a significant point.
‘So?’ asked William eventually. ‘What of it?’
Michael grimaced at his slow wits. ‘Fulling needs more water than grinding corn – or so I am told – and the Mortimers keep diverting water for the process, so the King’s Mill cannot operate. They refuse to settle the matter amicably, so it has gone before the King’s Bench for a decision.’
‘Then doubtless there will be more bribery taking place as we speak,’ said Langelee acidly. ‘It seems to me that the King’s clerks will make any decision you like, as long as you have the funds to pay for it. I knew they were corrupt, but–’
‘What did you think of my sermon this morning?’ interrupted William. They had discussed the subject of corruption among the King’s officers at length that afternoon, and he was bored with it. However, he was proud of his work in the church earlier that day, and clearly felt that some compliments were in order.
‘It did not dwell sufficiently on the Death,’ replied Suttone immediately. ‘It is our duty to point out that it will return, and that we will all die unless we repent of our sins.’
‘I repent every day,’ said William, the tone of his voice indicating he did not think he had much to confess. ‘And folk are growing tired of hearing about the Death each Sunday. They want something more inspiring, and my oration today was just that. They need to hear about the fire and brimstone of Hell.’ William knew far more about Hell than Bartholomew felt he should have done.
‘It was about how God killed a man called Uzzah for daring to touch the Ark of the Covenant,’ said Clippesby. ‘I was listening to you, William. The oxen carrying the Ark stumbled, and Uzzah tried to stop it from falling to the ground. He was struck dead for his audacity, but the oxen survived, so it was a tale with a happy ending.’
‘I do not think the cattle are relevant to the story,’ said William stiffly. ‘My point was that anyone who does not treat sacred objects with respect and reverence will be similarly struck down. They will end up roasting in the Devil’s cauldrons, surrounded by screaming demons with–’
‘You were referring to the Hand of Valence Marie,’ interrupted Michael distastefully. ‘Your message was quite clear: anyone who disbelieves in the Hand’s power is ripe for holy vengeance.’
‘Precisely,’ said William comfortably. ‘I would not like my colleagues to vanish in a column of fire for treating holy relics with disrespect.’ He shot a meaningful look in Bartholomew’s direction.
‘I have every respect for holy relics,’ replied Bartholomew, tired of being the one always accused of heresy and irreverence. ‘I would never dare touch a real one. But the Hand is not a real one – it belonged to Peterkin Starre. You were using your sermon as an opportunity to tout for business: you want folk to visit the relic, so you can charge them to see it.’
‘Yes,’ agreed William, pleased with himself. ‘Many folk flock to it with their prayers and petitions, and I am keen to give others the opportunity to–’
There was a knock at the door, and Quenhyth entered. The student marched across the conclave, heading for Bartholomew. There was a book under his arm that he made sure everyone noticed, so they would know that while the other students were chatting or playing games in the hall, he had devoted himself to more serious pursuits.
‘The reading of academic texts on a Sunday is forbidden,’ snapped William when he saw it. ‘You will be bound for Hell if you disregard the proscriptions for this most holy of days.’
‘It is a theological text,’ replied Quenhyth virtuously. With one hand he proffered it for the Franciscan to inspect, while the other went to his mouth for the nails to be gnawed. ‘It is an analysis of the Question: Let us debate whether the Body of Christ became different after His soul separated from it.’