Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew knew he should organise a chain of people with pails and other utensils, from the well in the Market Square to Lavenham’s house. He also knew there would be burns, or injuries caused when folk fell in their haste to escape. But Matilde was at home that day, and his first thoughts were for the safety of his friend. So like all the others, he ran to see to his own interests, rather than trying to control the flames while there was still a chance.

  Matilde was sitting quietly with Dame Pelagia when Bartholomew burst in on her. She listened to his garbled explanation, then climbed the steps to her bedroom to throw open the window shutters and see what was happening. Bartholomew followed, and saw that across the tiled and thatched rooftops smoke rose in a thick black pall, lit here and there by orange embers that zigzagged into the grey sky like wild spirits. He and Matilde watched as the reed roof of Trinity Hall began to smoulder. Scholars scrambled across it, flapping with blankets and rugs.

  ‘Young Alfred told me he saw Bess leaving Lavenham’s shop moments before she died,’ Matilde said quietly. ‘I was just telling Dame Pelagia about it. I blame Lavenham for Bess’s death. He sold her a dangerous potion knowing she was unstable in her mind. I think it was wrong of him.’

  ‘You do not know he sold her anything,’ said Bartholomew reasonably. ‘He may have refused her, and she found the phial somewhere else. Apothecaries are careful with dangerous potions for exactly this reason: it is easy to blame them for accidents. For all his faults, Lavenham is not a fool.’

  ‘But he is not careful, either. He will sell anyone anything, as long as they can pay. Alfred said Bess had something in her hand – probably the phial. But you should go, Matt. The wind is from the north, and the fire will not affect me. See what you can do to help others, while I round up Yolande’s children. She will be beside herself if she comes home and finds they are not all here.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘Be careful, and come back when this is over.’

  Bartholomew hurried down the stairs and raced through the parlour, noting it was already empty. Dame Pelagia had gone, but he was sure she did not intend to use her wiry strength for hauling buckets of water from the town’s wells – she was more likely to use the chaos as a diversion to carry out some mission of her own. He ran to Michaelhouse, where Langelee had students gathering every available utensil that could hold water. They had already saturated the stable roof; sodden thatch made for poor kindling. The Master had the situation well under control, so the physician went to Stanmore’s house on Milne Street, which was a good deal closer to Lavenham’s shop, to see whether his brother-in-law needed an extra pair of hands.

  The sheds on Stanmore’s premises contained large quantities of valuable cloth, and the merchant stood in the centre of his yard with his hands on his hips, bawling orders to an army of scurrying apprentices. Every surface was to be drenched. The ground was already flooded, and apprentices were still hauling water-filled containers from the clothier’s private well.

  ‘Put that sheet over there!’ he yelled. ‘We will go up like Lavenham otherwise. Hurry, lads!’

  The activity grew even more frenzied, and Bartholomew could hear leather buckets scraping against the well’s stone sides as they were hauled up and down. Feet slapped in puddles as apprentices tore here and there, and the swish and drip of cascading water soon added to the cacophony. Bartholomew coughed. Smoke was swirling in thick, gagging clouds, and the town reeked of the acrid stench of burning. He could taste it in his mouth, and it seared the back of his throat.

  He left the organised chaos of Stanmore’s yard and went to the very disorganised chaos of the area around Lavenham’s shop. The fire had taken hold completely and the roof was a sheet of blazing yellow that sent sparks far into the sky and released a column of thick, poisonous smoke. Paler billows poured through the windows, and the houses on either side were beginning to catch, despite desperate attempts by their owners to save them. Already they were a lost cause. Wynewyk and Paxtone were among the folk who gaped open-mouthed at the destruction. Paxtone was soot-stained, as if he had been closer to the blaze than was wise. They saw Bartholomew looking at them and immediately moved apart, as though trying to show that their proximity to each other was coincidence.

  But there were more pressing matters than Wynewyk and Paxtone. Across Milne Street was Trinity Hall, which Bartholomew could see was too close for comfort to the blaze, and Clare College was not much safer. Students were everywhere, struggling to lay heavy, sodden blankets across the roofs. On a darker note, apprentices of masters whose homes were not at risk began to mass, and Bartholomew thought some of them might decide it was a good time for a fight. He heard one or two mutter that the Hand of Justice did not belong in the University’s church.

  ‘I have just been to the Hand of Justice,’ said Morice, who was watching Lavenham’s house burn without making any effort to prevent it. Cheney was with him. ‘I asked it to make the wind blow a little more to the east, so that sparks do not come too close to my own property.’

  ‘Where is Lavenham?’ asked Bartholomew, looking at the apothecary’s house and sure no one inside it would still be alive. The building was a flame-engulfed shell, and loud pops from within indicated that potions and bottles were exploding in the intense heat.

  ‘I have not seen him,’ said Morice. ‘Nor Thorpe or Bernarde. Damn! It would be unfortunate to lose more Commissioners, after what happened to Warde. The King will wonder what we have been doing with them.’ His foxy face assumed an expression of alarm. ‘He might even raise our taxes, to warn us to be more careful in the future! That will not make me popular as Mayor.’

  ‘You will not have to worry about your popularity soon,’ said Bartholomew sharply. ‘Because you may not have a town to rule. You should organise people with buckets, so the fire does not spread.’

  ‘Mayors do not deal with buckets!’ said Morice haughtily. ‘And there is nothing I can do to prevent this disaster, so I may as well stand here and have a good view of it. At least I will be able to tell the deceased’s next-of-kin exactly what happened to their loved ones.’

  Bartholomew gaped, astounded that Morice was not prepared even to try to save the town that had elected him. He was relieved when he heard a clatter of hoofs and saw Sheriff Tulyet cantering towards them on his grey mare.

  ‘We will lose the whole town if we do not douse those flames,’ Tulyet shouted to Morice, flinging himself out of his saddle. He was sweaty and breathless, as though he had ridden hard. ‘I was returning from Trumpington when I saw the sparks. They knew the name of that man.’

  ‘What man?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused by the Sheriff’s disjointed babble.

  ‘Bess’s lover,’ said Tulyet impatiently. ‘The villagers remembered a London messenger passing through just as the snows started. His name was Josse. Poor Josse. He has been all but forgotten, because of Bottisham, Deschalers, Bosel, Lenne, Isnard and now Warde. God’s blood, Matt! This is a violent little town. Is Oxford as bad as this?’

  ‘Your list of deaths and injuries will be even longer if you do not bring this blaze under control.’

  Tulyet took a deep breath and turned to Morice. ‘Right. What has been done so far?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ demanded Morice, startled.

  Tulyet’s face was a mask of disbelief. ‘Because you are Mayor, man! It is your responsibility to take charge in situations like this.’

  ‘Brother Michael and his beadles are collecting vessels that hold water,’ said Cheney helpfully. ‘And the scholars of Trinity Hall are on their roofs, flapping out flames.’

  ‘Other than that, there is little we can do,’ finished Morice carelessly. ‘Fires are always devastating when they occur in confined areas. However, I asked the Hand of Justice to turn the wind away from my home. I once gave Peterkin Starre a penny, so his bones should remember me kindly.’

  Tulyet regarded him with furious disdain. ‘Sweet Jesus! You cannot stand here and chatter like an elderly widow while the town igni
tes around your ears! What is wrong with you?’

  ‘The wind is shifting to the east!’ cried Morice, unperturbed by the Sheriff’s reprimands. ‘My prayers to the Hand have been answered! My house is saved! It is a miracle!’

  ‘Not for the scholars of Gonville,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘They are now directly in the fire’s path. Their hall will start to smoulder in moments!’

  ‘Go and warn them,’ ordered Tulyet. He glared at Morice and Cheney, then leapt into his saddle, controlling the horse tightly when it pranced, frightened by the showers of sparks that rained around it and by the explosions still emanating from Lavenham’s shop. He cantered away in search of soldiers, while Bartholomew ran the short distance from Lavenham’s inferno to Gonville Hall.

  Everyone from Gonville, Fellows and students alike, had gathered in their yard, voices raised and expressions of anger and agitation creasing their faces. Bartholomew immediately sensed something was amiss that had nothing to do with the blaze. Three horses were tethered near the gate, laden down with saddlebags. Someone was leaving.

  Pulham walked up to Bartholomew when the physician arrived hot and breathless. ‘I know what you are thinking, and I am afraid you are wrong. It is not Thorpe who is going, more is the pity.’

  ‘The wind has shifted,’ said Bartholomew, thinking they could discuss Gonville’s changing membership later. ‘You need to take action now, or your roof will catch.’

  ‘Do not presume to direct us in our own College!’ snapped Rougham. ‘You, who cannot prescribe the correct potion for a man with a tickling cough.’

  ‘The fire is being blown in this direction,’ insisted Bartholomew, pointing to the smoke that was beginning to drift across the sky above their heads. ‘I am trying to help.’

  ‘We saw what your “help” did for Warde, and we want none of it here,’ said Rougham nastily. ‘We have enough problems without you interfering: Ufford, Despenser and Thompson are leaving.’

  Bartholomew looked behind him, and saw the three scholars bowing to their other colleagues as they made their farewells. They were dressed for riding, with thick cloaks and boots with spurs. They completed their leave-taking, and walked towards Pulham and Rougham.

  ‘We are sorry, Pulham,’ said Thompson. Bartholomew saw that his arm was bandaged, and recalled he had been stabbed during the fight Paxtone had talked about. ‘But we cannot stay here as long as Thorpe is a student.’

  ‘Or as long as you intend to have the Hand of Justice installed,’ added Despenser. ‘I want no part of any institution that houses that fraudulent thing.’

  ‘You will have nowhere to house anything if you do not act,’ said Bartholomew urgently.

  Rougham regarded him coldly. ‘Are you still here? I thought I told you to leave.’

  ‘I was mistaken when I prayed to it so fervently,’ said Ufford, ignoring Rougham and addressing Pulham. ‘I thought it was a holy relic, but now I see it is nothing of the kind. The sore on my mouth healed naturally, just as Bartholomew said it would.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Pulham curiously, blithely oblivious of the danger his College was in. ‘You, of all of us, were its most fervent adherent.’

  ‘Thorpe,’ said Ufford with a grimace. ‘The very fact that he has taken an interest in it is enough to make me doubt its authenticity. I was a fool, too eager to accept it without question. But I question it now, and Despenser is right: I want no part of Gonville as long as either Thorpe or the Hand is associated with it.’

  ‘But the Hand will allow us to build our chapel,’ Rougham protested. ‘You know we are short of funds – indeed, we are in debt already and have been obliged to sell our books – so you cannot blame us for seizing an opportunity like this.’

  Listening to them, Bartholomew suddenly understood exactly why Rougham had been so willing to spread the rumour that Isnard’s leg had regrown. If the Hand were to be housed in Gonville, then it made sense that he should want it connected to as many miracles as possible. It was not just blind stupidity that had made Rougham claim Isnard was cured, but greed, too.

  ‘We can and we do,’ said Despenser quietly. ‘That Hand will bring nothing but trouble. What do you imagine the other Colleges – or the town – will say when Thorpe asks the King to give it to Gonville? They will not sit back and allow it to happen, and I do not want to be part of the turmoil that will surely follow. I have my reputation to think about.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Ufford. ‘I intend to do well at Court, and the King will not promote me if I am implicated in a riot. Besides, I have had enough of Thorpe. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘Probably somewhere near the fire,’ said Despenser disapprovingly. ‘It was probably him who started it. Ufford is right: Gonville will soon fall from grace if he is allowed to stay here.’

  ‘The fire is spreading,’ said Bartholomew, glancing at the sky again, and wondering why they persisted in having their debate now, of all times. He jumped back as Rougham came at him with a murderous scowl, and for a moment thought he intended to use his fists. He tensed, but Rougham was not the kind of man to engage in brawls he could not win – and he was wise enough to recognise that Bartholomew was bigger, fitter, and likely to hit back. Meanwhile, the students saw the danger of fire, even if the Fellows did not, and were pointing at the smoke and muttering uneasily. One or two, with more sense than their colleagues, started to run for buckets.

  ‘But we cannot rid ourselves of Thorpe!’ said Pulham, appealing to his three departing Fellows. ‘He paid a term’s fees in advance and we have spent the money on building materials. Also, we need the Hand of Justice, and he is our only chance of gaining it. And what about the fine altar cloths he will sew for our chapel? Do we let those go, too?’

  ‘Have you seen him put a stitch to them?’ asked Ufford. He saw the expression on Pulham’s face. ‘No, I thought not. He attacked me without provocation, and now he has stabbed Thompson. We will not stay here while he murders us all.’

  ‘The fire!’ shouted Bartholomew again. ‘You must fetch water, or you will lose more than fees.’ More students began to rush away from the Fellows, to collect pails.

  ‘I told you to mind your own business,’ snarled Rougham furiously. ‘Get out! You are not welcome here.’

  Bartholomew considered doing as he suggested, but Michaelhouse was not far away, and his own College would be in danger if Gonville burned. He could not leave until something was done to prevent the inferno from spreading.

  ‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement that pleases us all,’ pleaded Pulham, sounding almost tearful as Ufford started towards his horse. He looked up at the sky, and Bartholomew saw he was torn between the need to prevent his three richest Fellows from leaving and the urgency posed by the flames. ‘Perhaps we should rid ourselves of Thorpe, and you may be right about the Hand.’

  Ufford paused with his foot in the stirrup. ‘If you mean what you say, then perhaps we can reconsider our position.’ His colleagues gave nods of agreement. ‘We shall reside in the Brazen George for the next few days, and discuss this further,’ he said, then swung himself into his saddle and was gone, the sound of hoofs on cobbles all but drowning out the snap of sparks.

  Rougham glared at Pulham. ‘What did you say that for? You know we cannot afford to lose either the Hand of Justice or Thorpe. We have been forced to sell our books, and soon we shall be obliged to cut back on our feasts, too. We cannot squander an opportunity to earn more money such as the Hand presents. To do so would be a dereliction of our duty as Fellows.’

  ‘They have a point,’ said Pulham stubbornly. ‘Thorpe is violent and unpleasant, and I do not blame them for not wanting him here. I do not enjoy his company myself. And they are also right about what will happen if the King gives us the Hand of Justice. There is no point building a fine chapel if it is to be burned to the ground in the next riot by irate townsmen.’

  ‘You do not have to wait for the next riot,’ said Bartholomew, breaking into their discuss
ion and pointing to their roof. ‘Your College is ablaze now!’

  CHAPTER 11

  For a moment, no one did anything, and then pandemonium erupted. A spark had fallen on to one of the College’s roofs, and had quietly smouldered while the scholars had argued. It burst into flames with a low roar, and greedily consumed the rotten reeds and straw that comprised the thatch. White smoke swirled this way and that, as the flames were fanned by the wind.

  ‘We are doomed!’ cried Pulham, raising his hands in despair. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Fetch ladders, buckets and water,’ ordered Bartholomew. He saw the scholars look at Rougham to see if they should do as his rival had ordered, and lost his temper with them. ‘Hurry!’

  ‘No! Rescue the silver and the hutches containing our money,’ shouted Rougham, setting no store by Bartholomew’s fire-fighting skills. ‘And then see what furniture you can salvage. We shall lose the buildings for certain, so do not waste time on them.’

  ‘Do you need help, Matt?’ called Michael breathlessly, charging through the gate. His beadles were behind him, smoke-stained and dishevelled. Bartholomew nodded in relief, having anticipated that the scholars of Gonville planned to let him combat the fire alone.

  While the scholars hauled their belongings to the yard – where they posed a formidable obstacle to those trying to contain the blaze – Bartholomew, Michael and the beadles set about attempting to rescue the buildings. Bartholomew climbed a ladder and laid wet blankets across the smouldering thatch, while Beadle Meadowman climbed to its apex and poured bucket after bucket of water on to it. The damp straw hissed, spat and smoked horribly, stinging Bartholomew’s eyes, but at last water won the contest with flames. Just as Rougham had supervised the evacuation of Gonville’s last bench, Bartholomew announced that the fire was out and that the roof was too soggy for it to rekindle.