The Hand of Justice Read Online Free PDF

seemly.’
    ‘Seemly!’ sighed Quenhyth despairingly. ‘I suppose this means
you
will pay for his salves and horoscopes, but we will not see a penny in return. Michaelhouse will never raise enough money
     to buy that book by Roger Bacon if you do not charge your patients properly.’
    Bartholomew had had this particular discussion with Quenhyth before. The lad was not one of Michaelhouse’s wealthier scholars,
     and regarded his teacher’s casual attitude to fee collection as a personal affront. But it was neither the time nor the place
     for a debate about finances, and Bartholomew decided not to respond to his comments. Instead, he indicated that the students
     were to lift the stretcher. They staggered as they began the journey to the river: the bargeman was heavy.
    ‘Give Rougham my apologies,’ Bartholomew said to Michael as he prepared to follow. ‘He will understand why I cannot dine with
     him at Gonville today. You should consider yourself fortunate, Brother: you can now eat two groats’ worth of meat instead
     of one.’
    ‘What of Isnard?’ asked Michael, ignoring his friend’s attempt at levity. He was fond of the gruff bargeman who had served
     in his choir for so many years.
    Bartholomew lowered his voice so Isnard would not hear. While he believed in honesty where patients were concerned, and rarely
     flinched from telling them the truth, he saw no advantage in frightening folk into losing hope just before painful and traumatic
     surgery. ‘He will lose his leg, and possibly his life.’
    The stricken expression in Michael’s eyes turned to something harder and more dangerous. ‘Damn Mortimer! I will see he pays
     for this! I will bring the full force of the law down upon him.’
    ‘You can try,’ said Tulyet, overhearing. ‘But you will not succeed. No one has admitted to
seeing
what happened – Bosel does not count – and Mortimer claims that Isnard and Lenne ran under his wheels. We will never prove
     who was at fault here, because we have no independent witnesses.’
    ‘Someone must have seen something,’ said Bartholomew. He gestured around him. ‘The street was full of people.’
    ‘Perhaps so, but no townsman will denounce a Mortimer – not if he values his business.’
    ‘But Mortimer was drunk!’ objected Bartholomew, indignant that the miller was about to evade justice on the grounds that his
     family intimidated people. ‘He should not have been driving a cart, and it
is
his fault that Lenne is dead and Isnard may follow.’
    ‘I know,’ said Tulyet softly. ‘And justice dictates that he should pay for it. But we have no case in law. I doubt whether
     Mortimer will be punished for this.’
    ‘Then the law is wrong,’ declared Bartholomew hotly.
    ‘Yes, often,’ agreed Tulyet sombrely. ‘But it is all we have between us and chaos, so do not dismiss it too harshly.’
    ‘And do not confuse it with justice, either,’ added Michael acidly. ‘They are not the same.’
    ‘No, they are not,’ said Bartholomew angrily. He turned and hurried to his patient’s side as the first real cries of agony
     began to issue from the injured bargeman.
    ‘You look tired, Matt,’ said Michael the following day. It was dawn, and they had just celebrated prime in St Michael’s Church.
     Their colleague Father William had conducted the ceremony, gabbling the words so fast that it was over almost before it had
     started. William was not popular with the students, because he was fanatical and petty, but they all admired his speedy masses.
    Bartholomew and Michael took their places in the sedate procession of scholars that moved quietly through the gradually lightening
     streets, heading towards a breakfast of baked oatmeal and salted fish. They crossed the High Street and turned down St Michael’s
     Lane, passing Gonville Hall as they went. Part of Gonville’s protective wall had recently been demolished, because its Fellows
     intended to build a chapel in its place. A plot had