The Hand of Justice

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.’