He watched the river as he walked, seeing bubbles and eddies from the churning it had suffered at the King’s Mill waterwheel. He wondered what the river was like when both mills were running at the same time. Even as he looked, a subtle change took place in the water. It became rougher and murkier, and he became aware that the groaning of wooden joints and cogs was louder. He glanced upriver, and saw that whatever Bernarde had done to Mortimer’s Mill had not been too serious, because it was working again.
The water in the River Cam had never been clean, but Bartholomew saw a creeping stain float slowly but inexorably towards the town. It was a dirty, creamy-grey colour, residues from the ‘fuller’s earth’ that was used to remove the grease from raw cloth. The discoloration kept pace with them all the way to St Michael’s Lane, and Bartholomew was fascinated by the way it moved as it caught in tiny whirlpools. It reminded him of a thesis by Roger Bacon about the way liquids with different properties interacted with each other, and he forgot about the mill murders as he turned his mind to physics. However, his attention snapped back to more practical matters when he spotted Yolande de Blaston kneeling over one of the dilapidated piers with a pair of buckets in her hand.
‘What is she going to do with those?’ he wondered aloud. ‘If she is taking them to Matilde’s house, then I hope she does not plan on cooking with their contents. Not when the river is full of whatever Mortimer is pouring into it. Not to mention sewage and that dead duck.’
‘Ask her,’ suggested Michael wickedly, knowing the feisty Yolande would not appreciate such an enquiry.
‘Matilde will not let me cook with river water, thanks to you,’ replied Yolande, somewhat unpleasantly when the physician voiced his concerns. ‘She makes me collect clean stuff from the well these days. I use this for laundry.’ She drew herself up to her full height and spoke with pride. ‘Did you know I am laundress of Gonville now? Matilde arranged it.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Bartholomew, pleased for her, despite the fact that he thought washing the scholars’ clothes in river water would not render them much cleaner. ‘That is good news.’
‘It is,’ agreed Yolande. ‘Matilde says I should not ply my other trade now I am pregnant again, although being a laundress is far harder than life as a Frail Sister. However, I have kept one or two favourite clients, to make sure I do not lose my touch.’
‘Like Horwood, who was mayor last year?’ asked Michael nosily, always keen to hear gossip about prominent townsmen; such information sometimes came in useful.
‘Him, of course,’ said Yolande. ‘We have met every Friday night for years now. And I have kept Apothecary Lavenham, because he makes me laugh with his funny English.’
‘Lavenham hires you?’ asked Michael in surprise. ‘Does his wife not see to him?’
‘Isobel goes out a lot,’ replied Yolande ambiguously. ‘And I entertain Bernarde when I am short of flour, and dear Master Thorpe of Valence Marie, now he is back from York.’
‘Thorpe!’ said Michael, his eyes glinting with mischief. ‘I had no idea!’
‘Few do. He says his evenings with me give him a proper perspective on life, which I imagine is a good thing. But there are some customers I was only too pleased to drop – such as Mayor Morice. I do not like his glittery eyes and pawing hands. And I told Chancellor Tynkell I did not want him, either. I am sorry if I offend you, Brother, but he smells. His hands are always sticky, and I do not like seeing the same dirty marks for weeks on end.’
‘You have seen Tynkell undressed?’ asked Bartholomew keenly. Michael started to laugh, knowing exactly what had prompted the enquiry.
‘Not exactly,’ said Yolande. ‘He is one of those men who prefers to remain clothed. He usually wants the candles extinguished, too, so we cannot see what we are doing.’
‘What do you do?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
Yolande regarded him coolly. ‘I have heard about men like you, who like to hear about the antics of others. But what I do with the Chancellor is none of your affair – although I can tell you that it is easy money for me. He does not like being touched, you see.’
Bartholomew decided he had better change the subject, before Yolande reported his interest to Matilde – and he did not want her, of all women, to think badly of him. He would have to learn more about Tynkell’s intriguing physiology another way. ‘What about the Mortimers? Do you entertain any of them?’
‘I would not touch Edward,’ said Yolande firmly. ‘But I like Thomas, when he is sober. However, he is mostly drunk these days. It must be because he is frightened of his nephew.’
‘Thomas cannot be frightened of Edward,’ said Michael. ‘He would not let Edward work at his mill if he were.’
‘Edward said he would burn it to the ground if Thomas refused to employ him,’ replied Yolande. ‘And Thomas told me last night that he feared Edward might do it anyway, just for spite.’
‘But why would he do that?’ asked Michael. ‘Then he would have nowhere to work.’
‘He does not need it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His wife has just inherited Deschalers’s fortune.’
They had reached the end of St Michael’s Lane, where their ways parted. To the right, Bartholomew could see the ever-present crowd milling in front of St Mary the Great. Some people knelt, while others stood with their heads bowed. Not everyone was there to pray: he saw several known pickpockets moving among the throng. Meanwhile, some of Constantine Mortimer’s apprentices sold small, sweet loaves from trays balanced on their heads, while Cheney’s men hawked tiny packets of cinnamon and pepper. The Hand represented a business opportunity, as well as a place to ask for divine favours.
‘There is strife among the Mortimer clan,’ said Yolande, shifting the brimming pails in her strong hands. ‘A few weeks ago, you would never have seen one argue with another, but they fight all the time now. And Edward fans their disputes to make them burn more fiercely. But mention the Devil and he will appear.’ She gestured down the High Street with her head. ‘Edward and his rotten friend are coming this way, and I do not want to be anywhere near them, thank you very much!’
She hurried away, water slopping from her buckets as she went. Bartholomew was surprised at her reaction. Yolande was a hard, unbending woman whose dealings with some of the wealthiest and most influential men in the town meant she was normally afraid or in awe of no one. But she seemed afraid of Mortimer and Thorpe.
The two ruffians strutted confidently along the centre of the High Street, where the rubbish and ordure was piled less deep, and Bartholomew noticed that Yolande was not the only one who was reluctant to meet them. He saw the Lavenhams dive down a dirty alleyway they would not normally deign to use, and even the swaggering Morice shot back inside the tavern he had just vacated when he saw them coming.
‘You have no right to keep the Hand of Justice in that tower,’ said Thorpe to Michael as they approached. ‘It does not belong to you.’
‘The “Hand of Justice”?’ echoed Michael in rank disdain. ‘And what, pray, is that?’
‘You know what it is,’ said Thorpe. ‘Some call it the Hand of Valence Marie, but we prefer the title “Hand of Justice”, because of what it represents.’
‘What does it represent?’ asked Michael coolly.
‘It represents justice,’ replied Thorpe. He continued to speak before Bartholomew could point out that he had not really answered the monk’s question. ‘It does not belong to the University, to be shut away where honest folk cannot get at it.’
‘I wish to God it belonged to no one,’ said Michael fervently. ‘I should have hurled it in the marshes when I had the chance.’
‘Throwing it away would have been a terrible sin,’ said Mortimer softly. ‘Did you know that the Hand of Justice belonged to a great prophet, who came to Earth in the guise of a simpleton? He imparted much wisdom before he died, but folk did not listen. They are listening now.’