The Hand of Justice by Susanna Gregory Page B

Cleansing the house of all the small creatures that bit and sucked blood would be an imposing task,
     and Bartholomew was not sure it could be done.
    ‘My foot,’ whispered Isnard hoarsely. ‘It itches something fierce.’
    ‘Scratch it, then,’ suggested Redmeadow helpfully. He flexed one of his hands, revealing some lengthy nails. ‘I will do it
     for you, if you like.’
    ‘No, the
other
one,’ said Isnard, still in a whisper, as though he considered it unlucky or dangerous to speak in a normal voice about a
     limb that was no longer attached.
    ‘You mean the one that is gone?’ asked Michael warily. ‘How do you know it is itching? I doubt Matt told you whathe did with it. He usually declines to share such ghoulish information.’
    ‘It itches,’ persisted Isnard stubbornly. ‘And I do not mean from the river, or wherever he disposed of it. I mean it itches
     at the bottom of my leg, where it used to live.’
    ‘I have heard such complaints before,’ said Bartholomew, aware that Michael was looking around for evidence that Isnard had
     been drinking. He recalled an archer in France telling him the same thing about an amputated arm. ‘It is not unusual to imagine
     a limb is still there for some time after it has been removed. And I did not throw it in the river, by the way. People drink
     from that.’
    ‘But what can I do about it?’ asked Isnard, distressed. ‘I cannot think about anything other than this itch, and yet I cannot
     put an end to it. Will it last for the rest of my life? If so, I do not think I can stand it.’ His voice was unsteady.
    ‘I can dig it up and give it a good scratch, if you like,’ offered Redmeadow, trying hard to be useful. ‘That might cure you.’
    ‘He needs a purge,’ countered Quenhyth with great conviction. ‘A tincture of linseed fried in fat should put an end to his
     miseries. Or perhaps mallow leaves stewed in old ale.’
    ‘It might put an end to him, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I do not want his humours unbalanced by purges. He needs to gain strength
     from his food, not lose it by vomiting.’
    ‘A clyster, then,’ said Quenhyth with unseemly relish. ‘I can prepare a potion of green camomile, salt, honey and lard, and
     you can squirt it into his anus and cleanse his bowels.’
    ‘I do not like the sound of this,’ said Isnard uneasily. ‘My bowels are my own affair, and not for others to explore as they
     please.’
    ‘I quite agree,’ interposed Michael, the expression on his face indicating that he found the discussion distasteful.He changed the subject. ‘Why was Bottisham visiting you, Isnard? I did not know the two of you were acquainted.’
    ‘I regularly haul barges for his College – Gonville,’ replied Isnard. ‘And Master Bottisham has always been kind to me. He
     came to ask if there was anything I need, but, apart from strong ale, which Doctor Bartholomew says I cannot have, I am well
     looked after by my neighbours.’
    ‘I prescribed a clyster for Master Bernarde the miller when he had an aching elbow,’ said Quenhyth sulkily. ‘It worked very
     well.’
    Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘You did what?’
    ‘You were out inspecting corpses with Brother Michael,’ said Quenhyth, becoming defensive when he saw his teacher was shocked.
     ‘What am I supposed to do when a patient comes wanting help? Send him away empty handed?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew in exasperation. ‘And then tell me, so I can visit him myself. You must
not
dispense medicines to my patients. You are not qualified, and you do not have enough experience to start giving out remedies
     of your own.’
    ‘I have been watching you for
six months
,’ objected Quenhyth, making it sound like a decade. ‘And I am a quick learner. I know more than you give me credit for.’
    ‘But still not enough,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But I will not argue with you. Either you do as I say or you can find yourself
     another teacher.’
    ‘I will obey you,’ said