With the Florentine’s warning ringing in his ears, Bartholomew forced himself to follow the monk out on to the High Street.
Michael set an unusually brisk pace to Tulyet’s house and Bartholomew struggled to keep up with him. The lightning was coming more regularly now, and the accompanying growl of thunder seemed almost continuous. The gathering storm lent more urgency to a situation that already felt desperate, and Michael was virtually running by the time they reached Bridge Street. When he knocked on Tulyet’s door, both he and Bartholomew were hot, red-faced and panting.
‘You look terrible,’ said Tulyet, looking from one to the other. So did he. Lines of exhaustion were etched deeply into his face and his clothes were thick with dust.
‘Well?’ demanded Michael. ‘What is going on?’
‘A contingent of fanatics from Holy Trinity – led by Mildenale – hanged one of the Market Square crones earlier. He told me it was his duty to God, and was wholly beyond reason.’
‘Did you arrest him?’ asked Michael, appalled.
‘I intended to, but he disappeared while I was battling with his followers. I do not care if he is a priest – and a man from your own College. I shall see him at the end of a rope for this.’
‘I will not stand in your way.’ Quickly, Michael told him all they had learned.
Tulyet’s eyes were wide with shock by the time he had finished. ‘So all that remains is to prevent Mildenale from seizing power as the Sorcerer – ostensibly a benign healer of warts and an attractive alternative to the Church, but in reality something quite different.’
‘And you can arrest Brownsley and Osbern for digging up graves, too,’ said Michael.
Tulyet gave a tight smile. ‘I caught them breaking into Sewale Cottage earlier, and they are both in the castle gaol. They confessed to losing the Bishop’s treasure in London, and tracking it here. They fully expect to be released with no more questions asked, but de Lisle no longer holds that sort of authority with me. They will answer for their crimes before the King.’
‘Brother Michael!’ came an urgent voice from along the hall. It was Tulyet’s wife. ‘Come quickly. Dickon has something to tell you.’
‘Later, madam,’ snapped Michael, uncharacteristically rude. ‘There is no time for trifles.’
But Mistress Tulyet was insistent. ‘Please. You will want to hear what he has to say.’
She beckoned them into the kitchen, a massive stone room with a gigantic fireplace. Dickon sat at the table reading a book by lamplight. Bartholomew glanced at it. It was the Book of Consecrations.
‘Are you sure he should have that?’ he asked uneasily. ‘A book of curses is hardly suitable material for a boy like him … I mean a boy so young.’
‘It is a book on religion,’ protested Tulyet, startled. ‘It has a religious title.’
‘What did you want to tell me, Dickon?’ demanded Michael, unwilling to waste time on Dickon’s education when he had a villain to unmask. ‘Hurry! There is not a moment to lose.’
‘Tell him what you told me, Dickon,’ coaxed Mistress Tulyet, while Tulyet examined the book with growing horror. ‘About Margery Sewale – what you saw when you happened to glance through her back window.’
She had chosen her words with care, but it was clear Dickon had been spying. He had done it to other neighbours in the past, so the revelation came as no surprise. ‘I saw her saying spells with her two friends,’ Dickon replied. ‘The man with the roses and the Saint from Michaelhouse.’
‘You mean Mildenale?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure whether to believe that the gentle Margery would spend time with an unpleasant man like the friar, whether he was the Sorcerer or not.
‘The three of them,’ said Dickon, watching his father put the tome on the highest shelf in the kitchen, well out of his reach. ‘They are the Sorcerer.’
‘He is making no sense,’ said Michael, heading for the door. ‘And I need to catch Mildenale before anyone else dies. We will talk to Dickon tomorrow.’
‘Wait!’ shouted Dickon, eyes dark with anger that someone should dare treat him dismissively. ‘The Sorcerer is three people – Mistress Sewale, the Saint and the Rose-Man. They worked together to make their spells. I heard them lots of times.’
Michael turned to face him. ‘Three people,’ he repeated.
‘Three people,’ repeated Dickon. He pointed at the Book of Consecrations with a grubby finger. ‘Three is a special number for witches. I just read about it. Of course, they are only two now Mistress Sewale is dead. They made her die quicker than she should have done.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping he was not about to learn that Mildenale had laid murderous hands on a sick woman, as well as on Thomas.
‘Because you ordered her to sleep,’ replied Dickon. ‘But the Saint and the Rose-Man made her get up to help them with their spells. Towards the end, she told them they were taking things too far, and was sad. She said she felt guilty, which is why she left all her things to Michaelhouse – she thought your prayers would keep her out of Hell. I heard her telling her priest that, before she died.’
Mistress Tulyet was shocked. ‘You eavesdropped on a confession?’
Dickon grinned, unrepentant. ‘It was her fault for leaving the window open. And a bit later, I heard the Saint tell Mistress Sewale that he was not sorry they had a dalliance all those years ago. What is a dalliance?’
‘Lord!’ breathed Michael. ‘Margery and Mildenale were lovers? Who would have thought it? I suppose it must have happened thirty years ago, when Mildenale was here to help establish Michaelhouse, and Margery would have been a young woman. Still, it explains why a benevolent witch and a fervent friar should have sought out each other’s company.’
‘My father told me about Margery’s skill with spells,’ said Tulyet. ‘I was under the impression she did not practise much any more, though. Mildenale must have encouraged her to take it up again.’
‘She was angry about it,’ said Dickon, struggling to follow what they were saying. ‘She did not like dark magic, and kept telling the Saint and the Rose-Man it was wrong. Maybe that is why they made her work when she should have been in bed. They wanted her dead.’ His eyes gleamed at the notion of such wickedness, and Bartholomew watched his reaction uneasily.
‘Who is the Rose-Man?’ asked Tulyet. ‘This is important, Dickon. We must know his name.’
‘If I tell you the answer, can I have the book back?’ asked Dickon slyly.
‘Give it to him,’ ordered Michael. ‘Just keep him away from bats, frogs and black cats for the rest of his life.’
Reluctantly, Tulyet retrieved the tome and handed it over.
‘I do not know Rose-Man’s name,’ said Dickon, snatching the book and darting to the other side of the table. His plump face was the picture of innocence. ‘You said you wanted an answer, and that is it: I do not know. He always kept himself covered.’
Tulyet went with Bartholomew and Michael when they left his house. The lightning was flashing every few moments now, and the thunder was a constant growl. Bartholomew could smell sulphur in the air, and wondered whether it was from the brewing storm or the Sorcerer mixing potions. They joined the stream of folk who were heading for the dark, massy block of the castle and the little church that huddled in its shadow. As in the town centre, there was an atmosphere of excited anticipation.
‘Mildenale and this Rose-Man have been cunning,’ said Tulyet. ‘Our soldiers and beadles are scattered all over the town trying to quell little riots, and we do not have the troops to storm All Saints and bring the festivities to a standstill.’
‘But we must do something,’ cried Michael, appalled to think they were helpless. ‘A lot of people see the Sorcerer as some genial fairy who cures warts. However, Mildenale has killed to achieve his objective, and God only knows what this damned Rose-Man has done. These hapless fools think they are going to see some pretty display of sparks and a bit of coloured smoke, but I have a feeling something infinitely mor
e sinister is in the offing.’
‘But why would Mildenale and the Rose-Man harm anyone?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘These people have done nothing to warrant their violence. On the contrary, they are ready to serve—’
‘You are missing the point,’ interrupted Tulyet curtly. ‘Folk will be more afraid of “the Sorcerer” if they know he has the power to kill and maim. And fear is a potent weapon – this pair do not intend to hold Cambridge in their sway for a night, but for a good deal longer.’
‘Then we cannot let them succeed,’ said Michael firmly.
‘No,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But we should stay hidden, and away from trouble, until we have assessed what we are dealing with. Follow me.’
He led them at a rapid clip along the wide lane that led to Chesterton village, and then doubled back, to approach All Saints from the east. Everyone else was coming from the west, so they were able to reach the graveyard without being detected. The excursion sapped more of Bartholomew’s energy, and the storm was not helping. The air was so hot and still that he could not seem to draw enough breath into his lungs; Michael and Tulyet were also wheezing and sweaty by the time they reached their objective. Together, they crept past the charnel house, and reached the great window of the chancel. A single voice could be heard within, and it was familiar.
‘Suttone!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, startled. ‘He is giving his speech after all.’
‘Mildenale is using him to entertain the crowd until he is ready,’ surmised Michael. ‘I suspect he would have preferred the incisive wit of Peterhouse’s Suttone, because I doubt our Suttone will keep this rabble amused for long. They are already murmuring their impatience.’
‘The place is overflowing,’ whispered Tulyet, peering around a buttress. ‘There have not been this many people in it since it was built.’
‘And aggressive men like Refham have been stationed outside,’ added Michael. ‘They have almost certainly been ordered to exclude anyone who might cause problems – such as us. I doubt we could get inside, even if we wanted to.’
Bartholomew climbed on a tombstone to look through the window. The chancel, lit by dozens of lanterns, had been decked in greenery, and a score of minions were making last-minute adjustments to the décor. He was startled to see Eyton among them. A number of amulets hung around the priest’s neck; an acolyte of the Sorcerer he might be, but he was still taking no chances.
Bartholomew was amazed to recognise some of the faces in the nave – the Chancellor, Paxtone, Isnard, friends from other Colleges and hostels. He saw that Michael was right about Suttone: the Carmelite’s lecture was not what folk had been expecting, and they were growing restless. Even Paxtone looked bored, and as a physician, he was usually fascinated by anything to do with the plague.
‘Perhaps Mildenale is not coming,’ said Tulyet hopefully.
‘He will come,’ said Michael. He winced when an especially vivid streak of lightning bathed the church in an eerie, dazzling light. ‘How could any magician refuse such an evening for his début? It will rain soon, and he will bask in the credit for having caused it.’
‘He must be getting ready somewhere,’ said Bartholomew, climbing down. ‘Dressing up, or whatever these people do when they make their grand entrances. Is there a crypt?’
‘It collapsed last year,’ said Tulyet. ‘They will not be down there. However, they might be in the charnel house.’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Michael, whipping around to look at it. ‘Thick walls, no windows, a decent roof. Someone anticipated that it would come in useful and has taken care to maintain it.’
‘Who is the Rose-Man?’ mused Tulyet, as they made their way through the long grass. ‘We know it is not the Chancellor, because I just saw him standing in the nave. The same is true of the Mayor, too.’
‘I think we may be about to find out,’ whispered Michael. ‘Someone is in the charnel house. I am surprised we did not notice sooner.’
A low, sinister chanting emanated from within. Tulyet glanced at Michael and Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows to ask if they were ready. They nodded, so he drew his sword, then dealt the door an almighty kick. It flew open and cracked against the wall. Giving the occupants no time to think, he was inside like an avenging angel, sword at the ready. Michael followed more sedately, but Bartholomew hesitated, although he could not have said why. He remained outside.
‘Mildenale,’ said the monk pleasantly. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
Bartholomew shifted his position so he could see inside the charnel house, but still made no move to enter. Mildenale was wearing a dark gown with five-sided stars painted on it; it looked cheap and garish, like something a travelling player might use. It had a hood, which shielded his face, but the physician could see his gleaming eyes and a strand of lank black hair. He wore his attire with a confidence that suggested it was not the first time he had donned it.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded, more annoyed than alarmed at the interruption. ‘I am busy.’
Michael moved deeper into the hut, while Tulyet sheathed his sword. ‘I have come to tell you that there will be no grand ceremony tonight,’ said the monk. ‘You are under arrest, for the murder of Father Thomas.’
Mildenale’s smile was lazy and insolent. ‘That was Bartholomew’s fault. And if you accuse me, everyone will think you are just trying to exonerate your friend. No one will believe you.’
Michael declined to let the man’s arrogance rile him, and began to prowl, looking in bowls and prodding pipes and mirrors with a chubby forefinger. ‘We know exactly what you have been doing. Carton was employed to watch you, because the Dominicans saw you as a serious danger.’
Mildenale’s expression was arch. ‘Me? All I have done is tell folk to be wary of evil.’
‘In such a way that you drove them straight into the Sorcerer’s arms,’ said Tulyet. He became businesslike, wanting the affair done with as soon as possible. ‘We know about Margery – an old lover whom you used for your own ends, hastening her death as you did so – but who is the third member of your unholy triumvirate? You may as well tell us, because we will find out anyway.’
But there was something about Mildenale’s smug carelessness that made alarm bells jangle in Bartholomew’s mind, and he began to have grave misgivings about the wisdom of assaulting the charnel house. Mildenale had set guards on the church, so surely he would not have left himself open to attack? The physician eased to one side, and tried to see whether anyone else was inside the building – someone who might even now be preparing to launch an ambush of his own. And with Senior Proctor and Sheriff out of the way, the town was infinitely more vulnerable. He could see no one, even when lightning flooded the hut with a blinding brightness. The thunder that accompanied it this time was so loud it hurt his ears. From the church, several cries of alarm interrupted Suttone’s monologue.
‘I shall not betray the only friend I have here,’ said Mildenale evenly, clasping his hands together. He did not look heavenward, though: his eyes were fixed firmly on Michael and Tulyet. ‘How did you know about Margery? Did Dickon tell you? The little brat was always spying on her. I wanted to cast a spell on him, but she would not let me. I was fond of her, but she was too weak for what I have in mind, so it is just as well she died when she did.’
‘Then tell me why you betrayed your Church,’ said Michael coldly. He gestured at the friar’s exotic garb. ‘This is not right.’
The whole situation was not right, thought Bartholomew, becoming increasingly convinced that something was about to go horribly wrong. Instinctively, he backed away from the door, still trying to work out what it could be. Alarm and exhaustion had transformed his wits to mud, and he could not think clearly. As he moved, his foot plunged into a rabbit hole, and he lost his balance. He fell backwards, landing neatly between two graves with enough of a thump to drive the breath from his body. For a moment his senses reeled, and all he could do was stare up at the sky. A distant part of his mind noted that there were no stars,
and he supposed thunderclouds had rolled in. Almost immediately, another long flicker of lightning illuminated them, dark and heavy-bellied with rain. He thought he saw something else, too: a pale face not far from the charnel house. But then it went dark again and he was no longer certain.
By the time he had eased himself up on to one elbow, Mildenale had crossed his arms and was leaning against the wall, gloating. ‘No one listened to me as a Franciscan, so perhaps they will listen now,’ he was saying. ‘We took the idea from the Hardys and old man Tulyet.’
‘My father?’ asked Tulyet, startled. He had been advancing on Mildenale, but mention of his kinsman made him falter. ‘What does he have to do with this?’
‘He made a potion to help him predict the future, but he was not as good a diabolist as he thought, and managed to poison himself. John Hardy and his wife met a similar fate when they tried it, too.’
‘And you are better, I suppose?’ Michael made no effort to disguise his contempt.
‘I am. People have too much freedom, and it has led them down a dark path. I intend to terrify every man, woman and child in this miserable town, and force them to live their lives as I see fit. If they refuse, they can expect “the Sorcerer” to come and punish them. It is for their own good.’
He began to pace restlessly, moving closer to the door. There was another shimmer of light from the sky, and this time Bartholomew was certain a second person was watching from the shadows – someone dressed in the same kind of cloak as Mildenale. Bartholomew could only suppose it was the Rose-Man. He strained his eyes in the ensuing darkness, trying to see whether the fellow had a weapon.
‘You criticise people for following evil ways, and yet you are a magician,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘I think there is a hiccup in your logic here, Mildenale.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 40