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 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.