The Hand of Justice (55 page)

‘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 ignites 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 discussion and pointing to their roof.
‘Your College is ablaze now!’

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.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Pulham. Exhausted, he flopped into a handsome wooden chair. ‘We have saved our College?’

‘
We
have saved your College,’ corrected Michael crisply. ‘Matt, my beadles and I.
You
spent your time uselessly ferrying objects here and there. Well, you can carry it all back inside again now.’

‘The fire is truly out?’ asked Rougham, staring at the building as though he hoped it was not, just so he would not be proven
wrong.

‘It is,’ said Michael. ‘You will have to abandon your chapel in order to repair your roof, but you are lucky you still have
walls. You were foolish not to have listened to Matt.’

‘But I was right,’ objected Rougham. ‘Our first duty was to save what we could from indoors—’

‘You were wrong,’ interrupted Pulham angrily. It appeared he had had enough of Rougham and his opinions. ‘You were wrong about
that, and you are wrong about Thorpe and the Hand of Justice, too. I would rather have Thompson, Ufford and Despenser, than
Thorpe and a false relic.’

‘Now, you listen to me—’ began Rougham sternly.

‘No,
you
listen to
me
!’ shouted Pulham. ‘I am Acting Master here, and it is for me to decide what to do. So, Thorpe will leave, and I shall write
to Colton in Avignon and see what
he
wants to do about the Hand.’

‘Very well,’ said Rougham stiffly. He gave Bartholomew
a hostile glower, and ordered the students to carry the furniture inside again. They groaned and complained bitterly, but
the first splatters of a spring shower began to fall, and Michael called gleefully that they would have to look lively if
they did not want their fine wood spotted with raindrops. They began to hurry, and had soon forgotten about Bartholomew, Michael
and the beadles.

Bartholomew slumped against a wall, exhausted by the physical effort of scaling ladders and struggling with blankets made
heavy with water. He flexed his shoulders, knowing they were going to be stiff the next morning, and took a deep breath of
smoke-tainted air. Gonville might be safe, but there were other buildings still battling with flames.

‘They did not even have the courtesy to offer us a drink to slake our thirst,’ said Michael, aggrieved. His face was black
with soot, and his normally immaculate gown was filthy with burned thatching. His hair was lank and oily, and sweat had given
him a streaked appearance, like tigers and other mythical beasts Bartholomew had read about in the writings from the East.
He suspected he did not look much different himself.

‘You must forgive our manners,’ said Pulham, emerging on cue with two goblets of claret. ‘In all the confusion, we did not
thank you.’

‘Rougham never will,’ said Bartholomew, drinking some, then pointedly passing the cup to Beadle Meadowman, who had worked
as hard as anyone.

Pulham pulled a disagreeable face as he watched his best silver goblets pass between the rough hands of the University’s beadles.
‘Rougham means no harm. It is just his way.’

‘He
does
mean harm,’ said Michael, trying not to laugh as his beadles amused themselves by aping manners they thought might be employed
by scholars at the high table
– cocked fingers and grotesquely puckered lips – as they sipped from vessels that would cost them a year’s pay. ‘He has accused
Matt of killing Warde, when it was the medicine
he
prescribed that did the harm.’