‘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!’
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.
‘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.