Free The Hand of Justice by Susanna Gregory Page A

Hand in the
     ditch outside his College. The King and the Bishop of Ely were so angry with him for starting what might have become a powerful
     cult that they forced him to leave Valence Marie and take a post at a grammar school in York.’
    ‘York,’ said Wynewyk with distaste. ‘I have heard it smells of lard. But Master Thorpe is not in York. He is here, in Cambridge.’
    ‘He was reinstated after a series of appeals to the King,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Apparently, his successor was not gentlemanly
     enough, and kept wiping his teeth on the tablecloth during meals.’
    ‘Nasty,’ said Wynewyk with a fastidious shudder. ‘The Bishop of Norwich does that, too.’
    ‘Since then, Master Thorpe has impressed everyone with his diligence and scholarship,’ continued Michael. ‘He is a changed
     man, but, unlike his son,
he
has changed for the better.’
    Wynewyk became aware of the passing time with sudden alarm. ‘We should not be reviewing ancient history now, my friends. We
     should be debating with the scholars of Gonville and, unless we hurry, they will assume we are too frightened to meet them.
     The honour of Michaelhouse is at stake – we must run.’
    * * *
    St Mary the Great was the town’s largest and most impressive church. Its chancel had recently been rebuilt, replacing the
     narrow pointed lancet holes of an earlier age with great windows full of delicate tracery. These fabulous arches, so vast
     and open that it seemed they would be incapable of supporting the weight of the roof above them, allowed sunlight to flood
     in and bathe the building with light and warmth. The coloured glass that had been used in places caught the sun’s brilliance
     and accentuated the scarlets, golds and emeralds of the wall paintings.
    Over the last few weeks Bartholomew had noticed more and more people praying outside the church, and there were often folk
     kneeling on the roughly paved ground by the tower. There were three there that morning, busily petitioning the Hand that languished
     in the University Chest just above their heads. One was John of Ufford, a son of the Earl of Suffolk, who was learning law
     so he could forge himself a career at Court. He was a pleasant enough fellow, with a perfectly straight fringe of dark hair
     over his eyes. He nodded a greeting as the Michaelhouse men passed, raising one hand to touch a sore on his mouth as he did
     so.
    ‘If you leave it alone, it will heal more quickly,’ said Bartholomew, unable to help himself. The lesion looked as though
     it was played with constantly, and he knew it would only disappear if it was granted a reprieve from the sufferer’s probing
     fingers.
    ‘I am praying to the Hand of Valence Marie,’ said Ufford. He looked frightened. ‘This sore might be the first sign of leprosy,
     and I need the intervention of a powerful saint to help me.’
    ‘It is not leprosy,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether Rougham had been talking to him. The Gonville physician had a nasty
     habit of diagnosing overly serious ailments in his patients so that he could charge them more for their ‘cures’.
    ‘No?’ asked Ufford with sudden hope. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘If you keep your fingers away from it, and do not smother it with salves, you will notice a difference in a week. It needs
     clean air and time to heal, nothing more.’
    He followed Michael and Wynewyk inside the church. It was packed to overflowing. Public debates were important occasions –
     particularly the end-of-term
Disputatio de quodlibet
– and representatives were present from every College and hostel, many wearing the uniform of their institutions. There was
     the black of Michaelhouse and the dark blue of Bene’t, mixed with paler blues and greens from places like King’s Hall, Valence
     Marie and Peterhouse. Among them were the blacks, browns, greys and whites of the religious Orders, and the whole church rang
     with the sound of voices – some arguing amiably, others more