‘In other words, Mildenale wanted them first – to read them or make copies. But Mildenale is a fanatic who claims to despise everything to do with heresy. Why would he bother to replicate such tomes?’
‘For the same reason he collected those, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a shelf on which sat an assortment of dried frogs, black candles and glass pots.
Podiolo went to inspect them. ‘I have been an alchemist long enough to recognise satanic regalia when I see it. These are items used to summon the Devil.’
‘Mildenale is a witch?’ Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But he is the Church’s most vocal supporter!’
‘He certainly gives that impression,’ said Podiolo soberly. ‘But the contents of his lair suggest otherwise.’
Bartholomew’s mind reeled. ‘I still do not understand what—’
Podiolo grabbed his arm. ‘Neither do I, but we must tell Michael as soon as possible.’
Chapter 12
The streets were almost completely dark as Bartholomew and Podiolo left Mildenale’s lair, and people were out with torches. There was an atmosphere of expectation and excitement that reminded Bartholomew more of Christmas than of violence to come. It was eerie, and he was not sure what it meant, which was disturbing in itself. He met his brother-in-law, who was standing outside his house with his apprentices.
‘We are waiting for the Sorcerer to make himself known,’ Stanmore explained when Bartholomew shot him a questioning glance. ‘Midnight cannot be more than three hours away, and we are all keen to see who he is. Langelee tells me it is the Chancellor, but I disagree. I suspect Tulyet.’
‘Dick?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief.
Stanmore nodded. ‘He commands authority, and the Sorcerer will not be a weakling. Are you all right, Matt? You look exhausted.’
‘I need to find Michael.’
‘I saw him waddling towards St Mary the Great a few moments ago. Did you see that smoke in the north earlier? That was Mother Valeria’s house going up in flames. Isnard says she was in it at the time, and that she died screaming some dreadful curses.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in shock, but before he could express his revulsion at such a vile, cowardly act, there was a sudden flicker of lightning that had the apprentices cooing in wonder.
‘Here it comes,’ said one, barely containing his glee. ‘The Sorcerer is readying himself for his performance, and I do not think we will be disappointed.’
‘Lightning is a natural phenomenon,’ said Bartholomew, knowing he was wasting his time but unable to stop himself. ‘It happens when there is a storm brewing.’
‘The Sorcerer said he was going to end the heatwave,’ said Stanmore. ‘Thank God he has made good on his promise. The only person who likes it is Heltisle of Bene’t College, but he has always been a little odd. However, he does have a commanding presence. Perhaps he is the Sorcerer.’
The apprentices cheered when there was a second flash of lightning, and the novices from the nearby Carmelite priory joined in. The Carmelites were known for brawling with townsmen, and Bartholomew braced himself for trouble. But there was some good-natured back-slapping, a few jockeying comments, and the friars went on their way. Once again, the physician was confused by the allegiances that seemed to be forming between groups that were usually sworn enemies.
‘This promises to be an interesting night,’ said Stanmore, rubbing his hands together with a grin. ‘Although we shall go indoors if the clerics make trouble.’
‘The senior clerics,’ corrected one of his boys. ‘The junior ones are all right – it is only old bigots like William and Mildenalus Sanctus who are making a fuss. They were preaching against the Sorcerer earlier, and some folk foolishly believed what they were saying.’
‘Mildenale has been preaching today?’ demanded Bartholomew, rounding on him. ‘Where?’
The boy took a step back, startled by the urgency in his voice. ‘I saw him this morning.’
‘Have any of you seen him tonight?’ pressed Podiolo. ‘This is important.’
As one, the apprentices shook their heads.
‘I have not seen him for hours, which is surprising,’ mused Stanmore. ‘I would have thought this would be a good time for him to spout. Of course, once he starts, the inclination of any decent man is to believe the exact opposite of what he says. He does the Church more damage than good.’
‘The same goes for Father William,’ said the boy. ‘I saw him at St Bene’t’s, about an hour ago. He was harping on about fire and brimstone, which has always been his favourite subject.’
‘I saw him, too,’ said Stanmore, ‘although I thought he spoke with less vigour than usual. He is—’
But Podiolo had grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and was tugging him towards the High Street. They kept to the shadows, so as not to be waylaid by any of the little huddles of people who were out. Most were quiet and kept to themselves, and the only loud ones tended to be led by priests. These brayed about sin and wickedness, and their followers were dour and unsmiling.
When they reached St Bene’t’s, the churchyard was full of people. A fire was burning near the still-open pit of Goldynham’s grave, and folk were singing a psalm. Bartholomew did not find the familiar words comforting, because there was something threatening about the way they were being chanted.
‘I hope they have not taken to cremation,’ said Podiolo uneasily. ‘They may believe the rumour that Goldynham wanders at night, and decide that reducing him to ashes is the best way to stop him.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘They are burning books.’
He pulled away from Podiolo and marched towards William, who was at the centre of the commotion. The friar was holding scrolls in his hands, brandishing them in the air. Others were yelling encouragement. Bartholomew recognised a few Franciscans from the friary and half a dozen Fellows from Bene’t, although Heltisle was not among them, and neither was Eyton.
‘The flames are the best place for these ideas,’ William bellowed. ‘This one says the Blood Relic at Walsingham is sacred and should be revered. Such theology is filth!’
His supporters stopped cheering and exchanged puzzled glances. ‘Actually, Father, the shrine at Walsingham belongs to our Order,’ said one. ‘So the Blood Relic there should be revered.’
‘Oh,’ said William, blinking his surprise. He stuffed the scroll in his scrip. ‘Perhaps we had better save that one, then.’
Bartholomew tugged him to one side. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered fiercely.
‘Burning books for Mildenale,’ replied William, freeing his arm imperiously. ‘I have always wanted to do it, but Michaelhouse would never let me. But why are you here? Mildenale told me you would be up at All Saints, preparing to step into power as the Sorcerer. Of course, I would not be surprised to learn he is wrong. You have never really seemed the type to—’
‘Where is Mildenale now?’ demanded Bartholomew.
‘I have no idea. He told me to carry on here, and show folk that the Church is a force to be reckoned with. He ordered me to burn all these books, but I decided I had better look at them first. Unfortunately, I keep finding ones that should not be here. Such as this scroll.’
‘And this?’ demanded Bartholomew, snatching a tome from the friar’s left hand. ‘Aristotle? How can you say that is heresy? You have been using it to teach your first-years for decades.’
William grimaced, then lowered his voice. ‘Actually, I am coming to the conclusion that Mildenale is a bit of a fanatic, and I question my wisdom in following him. And, between the two of us, I find my delight at book-burning is not as great as I thought it would be. Some of these texts are rather lovely.’
‘Go home, Father,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You do not belong here.’
There was more lightning as Bartholomew ran to St Mary the Great, Podiolo still at his side. He head a low growl of thunder, too, still in the distance, but closer than it had been. The storm was rolling neare
r, and Bartholomew thought he could smell rain in the air. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking.
‘I cannot get the town’s measure tonight,’ said Podiolo. ‘It does not feel dangerous, exactly, but there is something amiss. The atmosphere is brittle. Do you know what I mean?’
Bartholomew knew all too well. People nodded at him as he passed, some appreciatively, and he hoped they did not hold him responsible for the impending change in the weather. Others scowled. He did not like either, and was relieved when he met Suttone, who neither grinned nor glared. The Carmelite was wearing his best habit, and his hair had been slicked down neatly with water.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised to see him looking so debonair.
‘To treat the Guild of Corpus Christi to a sermon about the plague,’ replied Suttone. ‘Surely you cannot have forgotten? I have been talking about it all week.’
‘At this time of night?’ asked Podiolo. ‘And you are going in the wrong direction. Guild meetings take place in Bene’t College. I know, because I have been to celebrations there in the past.’
‘I commented on the late hour, too,’ said Suttone. ‘But I am to speak after a conclave, and these affairs can go on for some time, apparently. They changed the venue, too. It is to be held in All Saints-next-the-Castle.’
‘I thought that was where the Sorcerer’s coven was supposed to be meeting,’ said Podiolo in surprise. ‘Are you set to address a horde of witches, then? If so, then the plague is a suitable topic – just as long as you do not plan on telling them how to bring it back.’
Suttone pursed his lips. ‘I am reliably informed that no witches will be there. Their messenger was Mildenale, and he told me All Saints was chosen because it has no roof, and so will be cooler.’
‘And you believed him?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘A fanatic, whose sole aim these last few days has been to make trouble?’
Suttone was offended. ‘He told me that there have been misunderstandings, but that he and Michael had spoken, and all has been resolved.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Although asking me to orate in All Saints is an odd thing to do, given that it feels like rain. We shall be drenched, and this is my best habit. Perhaps I should say an indisposition prevents me from attending. What do you think?’
Bartholomew tried to see how the situation could be turned to their advantage. ‘I think you should go, but ensure you say nothing that smacks of the kind of bigotry favoured by Mildenale. He has made people think badly of the Church, and you have an opportunity to rectify that. Can you do it?’
Suttone smiled. ‘Of course. I shall use the plague to demonstrate my points.’
He set off up the High Street. Bartholomew watched him go and wondered how much of his carefully prepared lecture would ever be heard.
‘Mildenale,’ he said softly. ‘He is the Sorcerer.’
Podiolo’s expression was sombre. ‘Yes, I rather think he is. He has deceived us all by pretending to be so avidly on the side of the Church. Of course, it was his very fervour that drove folk towards the Sorcerer. And he clearly lied to Suttone about All Saints.’
‘Then we must hurry,’ said Bartholomew, as he began to race towards St Mary the Great. ‘I sense time is running out fast.’
The physician was relieved when he and Podiolo reached the church unscathed. The monk was in the nave, issuing urgent orders to the beadles who dashed in and out with messages. Cynric was with him, his dark face alight with excitement.
‘I still have not found Mildenalus Sanctus,’ said the monk when he saw Bartholomew. ‘And nor have I learned the Sorcerer’s identity. But you were a long time. What happened?’
Bartholomew leaned against a pillar while Podiolo gave a precise and almost accurate account of all that had transpired. The physician was exhausted, and the atmosphere of electric anticipation was doing more to drain his flagging reserves of energy than shore them up. His head ached, and he could not remember a time when he had been more weary.
‘So the killer of Carton, Spynk and Fencotes is no longer at large,’ said the monk in relief. ‘Thank God! That is one less thing to worry about.’
‘There are a number of things you no longer need to worry about,’ said Cynric, to be encouraging. ‘You solved the mystery of Bene’t’s missing goats, and you know Mother Valeria was responsible for the blood in the font and stealing Danyell’s dead hand. All you have to do now is defeat the Sorcerer and discover why Margery, Thomas and Goldynham were excavated.’
‘I know the answer to the last question,’ said Bartholomew, forcing himself to stand upright. ‘Danyell hid the treasure he stole from the Bishop on the night before Ascension Day.’
‘We know that,’ said Michael impatiently, when he paused. ‘What is your point?’
‘That all three exhumations were of people who were buried on Ascension Day. We suspected from the start that it was not the work of witches, because there were no signs of ritual, mutilation of corpses, or theft of grave-clothes. I think Brownsley and Osbern are the culprits, because they thought Danyell might have hidden the treasure in one of those graves.’
‘That is one of the least convincing theories I have ever heard you devise,’ said Michael scathingly.
‘Then think about it logically, Brother. Brownsley and Osbern had a discussion – a confrontation, if you prefer – with Danyell before he died. Arblaster overheard it. He said Danyell mentioned digging holes. The Bishop’s men later did dig holes in Margery’s garden, but they hedged their bets and searched other holes, too – graves.’
‘He is right,’ said Cynric, when the monk continued to look dubious. ‘All three of those graves were dug before Ascension, and were left open overnight. It is entirely possible that Danyell might have put his treasure in one – and what a perfect hiding place! No one would ever think of looking there.’
‘Osbern and Brownsley did,’ remarked Podiolo dryly.
Michael was thoughtful. ‘The bodies were pulled clean out, as though someone was making sure there was nothing underneath them.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘So, now you have solved that case, too, Brother. You can tell your Bishop to deal with Brownsley and Osbern, because I am sure he will not want their antics made public, not with so many other accusations dangling over him.’
But Michael shook his head. ‘The Sheriff can arrest them, and de Lisle can take his chances in the lawcourts. I am tired of defending a man who is transpiring to be such a rogue.’
‘Very wise,’ said Podiolo. Bartholomew could not tell if he was being sarcastic or approving.
‘Brother!’ called a beadle urgently, hurrying down the aisle towards them. ‘People are beginning to flock towards All Saints-next-the-Castle.’
‘Of course they are,’ said Bartholomew, bemused. ‘That is where the Sorcerer’s coven meets. Bowls and potions have been prepared, and his disciples were working hard there yesterday.’
‘But my intelligence indicates the Sorcerer will appear here, at St Mary the Great,’ argued Michael. ‘Cambridge’s biggest and most important church. All Saints was a ruse, designed to keep me up the hill when the real action will be in the town. Why do you think I am here?’
‘Intelligence from whom?’ demanded Bartholomew.
Michael paled suddenly. ‘Oh, Lord! It was from Heltisle – but he had it from Mildenale.’
‘Yet more evidence to suggest Mildenalus Sanctus is not as holy as you thought,’ said Podiolo crisply. ‘He has been fooling you for months – and fooling Carton, too.’
‘But not Father Thomas,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was a nosy, inquisitive sort of man, as we saw over Carton’s ordination. I suspect he discovered something about Mildenale, too – or perhaps he just started asking questions. Either way, Mildenale decided to silence him. He lobbed a stone at Thomas in the High Street, and when that did not kill him, he broke his neck as he lay on his sickbed.’
‘And let you bear the blame for his death,’ said Cynric angrily. ‘You gave Thomas
a sedative, which probably was the right medicine in the circumstances, but he let you think you had killed him. He is a ruthless fellow, and I shall not mind plunging my sword into his gizzard tonight.’
Another beadle tore into the church, bringing news that supporters of the Church had set some of the market stalls on fire. As he spoke, a flash of lightning blazed through the church, before plunging it into darkness again. Several beadles crossed themselves. Podiolo touched something that hung around his neck, then began to press the messenger for details about the chaos in the Market Square. While he did so, Michael grabbed the physician’s arm and hauled him to one side.
‘Your Florentine friend seems very eager for me to think Mildenale is the Sorcerer,’ he said in a fierce whisper. ‘Why is that?’
‘We have more than enough evidence to prove it,’ said Bartholomew, although he understood the monk’s reservations about Podiolo – the canon had outlined their findings in a strangely gleeful manner. ‘Mildenale has been clever – using William, Thomas and Carton to turn folk against the Church, deliberately encouraging them to preach unpopular messages. And he certainly has an interest in the occult. You only need to glance inside his lair to see that.’
Michael’s expression was grim. ‘Well, we shall have answers tonight one way or the other, because something is about to happen. I do not want Podiolo with me, though. He can stay here with Meadowman.’
‘I would rather lend my sword to defeating Mildenale,’ objected the Florentine, when Michael began to issue orders.
‘I need someone to guard this church,’ said Michael, in a tone that indicated it would be futile to argue. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘We must stop at Dick Tulyet’s house on our way to All Saints. I heard he has abandoned his robber-hunt for the night, and I need to know what he plans to do – it would be a pity if we got in each other’s way.’
‘I would be careful of the Sheriff if I were you,’ said Podiolo sulkily. ‘Do not forget his father was a diabolist. Tulyet may not be the Sorcerer, but there is nothing to say he is not a servant. After all, he has done very little to stop Mildenale, has he? He has spent most of this week away from the town, on the pretext of chasing highwaymen.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 39