‘My apprentices too busy for woods,’ replied Lavenham. ‘It must await my intentions.’ He watched her flounce out again.
‘Had you heard news? I have been wrote by King himself. He give me a tusk.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncomprehendingly. ‘Ivory?’ he asked eventually, not sure what else to say, and feeling obliged to make some comment, since the apothecary was obviously expecting one. ‘From the sea elephants of the north?’
It was Lavenham’s turn to look blank. ‘I refer to a great tusk set for me by King. He want me to examine matter of Mortimer’s Mill.’ He stood taller, clearly proud of himself.
‘It is true,’ said Master Thorpe. ‘We heard this morning that the King has appointed four commissioners to examine the complaints about Mortimer diverting water from the King’s Mill.’
‘And I am first,’ said Lavenham grandly. ‘He want good and loyal Englishmen to do his work. He choose me, because he hear I am fine servant to His Royal Majesty.’
‘Warde is another, and Miller Bernarde is the third,’ added Master Thorpe.
‘But Bernarde is the one who made the complaint,’ said Bartholomew, startled. He looked at Lavenham. ‘And you are in the Millers’ Society. It is an odd choice for an unbiased decision.’
‘That is why it good I King’s commissioner,’ declared Lavenham. ‘I will see justice done right, by destroy Mortimer.’
‘See what I mean?’ said Bartholomew to Master Thorpe.
He nodded. ‘But Warde is a fair-minded man, and so, I hope, am I.’
‘You are the fourth commissioner?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was not a task he would have accepted for a kingdom. There were far too many ways to offend people and cause strife and, no matter what decision was made, it would make someone unhappy and resentful.
‘I would not have chosen to do it,’ confided Master Thorpe. ‘But I am indebted to the King for reinstating me as Master of Valence Marie after my spell in York, and I am not in a position to refuse. But Warde is a fair man, as I said. Hopefully we shall reach a compromise that satisfies all parties. We intend to discuss it together this afternoon.’
‘We soon have this mess resolve,’ boasted Lavenham. ‘We finish by dusk, and then we all go to King’s Head for celebration ales.’
‘We shall not,’ said Master Thorpe firmly, accepting a pot of angelica root and handing some coins to Isobel. ‘It is only a preliminary meeting, and we cannot hope to forge a solution so quickly. I anticipate we will be working on this for some time to come – hearing witnesses and the arguments of lawyers for both sides.’
‘We see,’ said Lavenham smugly.
The physician nodded his thanks to Lavenham, ignored the wink thrown in his direction by Isobel, and followed Master Thorpe outside. He was immediately aware of how the shuttered windows banished sounds, for it was noisy in the street. Carts clattered as their wooden wheels snapped across a section of the road that had recently been cobbled, and a cacophony of animal sounds emanated from the Market Square. A cow lowed, probably being led to Slaughterhouse Lane, and a group of pigs squealed in voices that were eerily human. People hollered back and forth, while a mangy yellow dog yapped at a group of boys who were pelting it with mud.
‘I am sorry my son is here,’ said Master Thorpe quietly, as they walked to the High Street with Quenhyth trailing behind them. Like Constantine Mortimer, the Master of Valence Marie had changed since his son’s trial. He had lost his arrogance, and seemed kinder and more humble. ‘I tried to persuade him to leave again, but he is no longer a boy, and he listens to nothing I say.’
‘I doubt he listens to anyone,’ said Bartholomew, sensing the man’s distress. ‘It is not your fault he turned bad.’
Thorpe swallowed hard. ‘I hear Brother Michael is investigating the odd case of Deschalers and Bottisham in the King’s Mill. My son is a … I am afraid …’
Bartholomew understood what he was trying to say. ‘There is no evidence that your son had anything to do with it,’ he said, but suspected he did not sound very convincing. ‘Bernarde the miller would have seen him running away, had he been responsible.’
Thorpe was not so easily convinced. ‘He is a cunning lad, Bartholomew, and fooling a miller would be no great challenge for him. He has killed before, and the murders of Deschalers and Bottisham have already set town and University against each other. Perhaps that is why he came back: to start a riot that will damage us all. He has always been spiteful, and his exile has made him worse.’
Bartholomew suspected that nothing he could say would allay Master Thorpe’s fears. They ran deep, and there might even be something in them. Bartholomew had always thought it an odd coincidence that two dreadful murders should have occurred just after Thorpe and Mortimer had reappeared. But could Bernarde’s testimony be overlooked? And would the two young men really be so stupid as to kill as soon as they had been granted their royal pardons? He did not know the answers, but he did know that such a solution would exonerate Bottisham from the accusations that were beginning to circulate around the town. It was therefore an appealing one.
Master Thorpe said no more, and he, Bartholomew and Quenhyth walked in silence until they reached St Mary the Great. A small knot of people knelt outside the tower, eyes raised devoutly towards the chamber where the University Chest and its dubious contents were housed.
‘I wish you had never found that Hand,’ Bartholomew said fervently to Thorpe. ‘Even though we proved it was not a real relic, there are still folk who insist on its authenticity.’
‘I explained that phenomenon to you years ago,’ said Master Thorpe, a little condescendingly. ‘It does not matter whether it is authentic or not; what matters is what people believe. And people believe in the Hand. But you should not condemn folk for visiting it. Where lies the harm in giving them hope for hopeless causes?’
‘Because it is not real,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many times he would need to say it. ‘It is not the hand of a saint or a martyr. It is Peterkin Starre’s.’
Master Thorpe sighed. ‘You are still missing my point. Its authenticity does not matter! Do you really believe that the blood of Thomas à Becket can cure the blind? Or that St Etheldreda at Ely lies uncorrupted in her shrine? Of course not! We are men of science, who naturally question such claims. But others believe. And it is they, not the doubters, who are important here.’
‘Are you saying the University should encourage people in this lie? Give them false hope?’
‘I am saying the University should not keep the Hand from folk who think they need its comfort. Michael should make it available to everyone. There will be “cures” and “miracles”, and the University should accept the gratitude of successful petitioners. And then there will be fewer prayers answered than requests made, and people will begin to lose faith. Gradually it will be forgotten, and then you can throw it in the river.’
‘You mean we may be strengthening the cult by restricting access to the Hand?’
‘Precisely. By keeping it secret, you merely tell people it is important. Once it is freely accessible, and people can see it, then it will lose its mysterious appeal. You should act on my advice, Doctor: it is the only way to deal with the Hand of Valence Marie.’
Bartholomew was on his way to take the poultice to Isnard when three familiar figures approached him. He was appalled when he saw that one was his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore. He had been under the impression that his family had intended to remain in Huntingdon for some weeks, and was horrified that they were home early now that young Thorpe was at large. Matilde was with Stanmore, on her way home from the Market Square, and two of Yolande de Blaston’s children staggered under the weight of her purchases. The third familiar figure was Michael, who was rummaging in her baskets and brazenly helping himself to whatever edibles he could find. The children were far too sensible to try to deter the monk, while Matilde was so deeply engrossed in her discussion with Stanmore that she had not noticed what Michael was doing.