The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 11

It was still light when Bartholomew went to bed that night, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and was difficult to rouse two hours later when Cynric came to inform him that he was needed at the castle; Tulyet had engaged in a furious skirmish with the Huntingdon Way robbers, and two of his men had been hurt. Still not fully awake, the physician traipsed to the great fortress in the north of the town. Darkness had fallen at last, although there was still a hint of colour in the western sky, and bats were out in force, feasting on the insects that had proliferated in the unseasonable heat.

‘We got one,’ said Tulyet, watching him suture a wound in a soldier’s abdomen that would almost certainly prove fatal. Mercifully, the man was unconscious, and knew nothing of what was happening or the physician would not have attempted it.

‘One what?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention more on his work than the restlessly pacing Sheriff. Tulyet walked stiffly, suggesting he had not escaped the encounter unscathed, but he had brushed aside concerned questions.

‘One of the robbers,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘What else have we been talking about since you arrived? They swooped down on us at Girton, not a mile from the castle, if you can believe their audacity! They were there before we could muster our defences, and then they were gone, leaving these two injured and Ned Archer dead. They were so fast – I have never seen anything like it.’

‘This is the first time you have fought them?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on his patient and Tulyet at the same time. They were alone in the room, and he sensed his friend’s need to share his frustration and shock – and the importance of not doing it in front of the men who were waiting for him to lead them out again as soon as the horses were ready.

Tulyet nodded. ‘Until now, I have only seen the aftermath of their attacks, because they are gone long before my patrols arrive. But this was a carefully planned ambush, and we were found lacking.’

‘When you say you “got” one of the robbers, what do you mean exactly? Is he dead? Does he need medical attention?’

‘He is sitting in my prison with a smug smile on his face, assuring his guards that he will be free within a week. He says he has powerful friends who will not let him rot in gaol.’

‘I do not suppose he has a bushy beard, does he? Or is abnormally large?’

‘No – he is a grey-headed fellow of average height. He is well-dressed, though, and asked for a psalter to pass the hours. However, I did spot a bearded man during the ambush, and I saw one who was unusually large, too. The thought crossed my mind that they might be the pair you say have been renting Refham’s forge. The attack was not far from the place, after all.’

‘Brownsley and Osbern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Bishop’s bailiff and hawker, respectively.’

‘De Lisle is behind all this mayhem?’ Tulyet stopped pacing to gape at him.

‘He is in Avignon,’ said Bartholomew evasively, loath to accuse a high-ranking churchman of heinous crimes to a royally appointed official. ‘How can he know what his retinue does in his absence? However, Brownsley told Michael he is on his way to Ely, to raise money for the Bishop’s living expenses. Perhaps this is an easier way of doing it than collecting taxes.’

Tulyet stared at him. ‘A man called Osbern le Hawker was responsible for theft and damage that cost Spynk a thousand pounds, while one named Brownsley terrorised Danyell. And this is the pair you say you fought – twice in the house I want for Dickon, and once when they attacked Refham?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Michael identified them when they came to order us not to sell Sewale Cottage. Now you know why they are so formidable. They are no mere louts – they are men who have engaged in criminal activities for years. But I cannot imagine de Lisle ordering them to do it.’

‘No, but he might have told them he was in desperate need of money.’ Tulyet’s face was grim. ‘This helps, Matt. Now I know what I am up against, I shall adapt my plans accordingly. Michael can come to the castle later, to see if he can identify the grinning villain who sits reading his psalms.’

‘I cannot see how this connects to the Sorcerer,’ said Bartholomew. He was about to rub his eyes when he remembered his hands were covered in blood. ‘Brownsley and Osbern want something from Margery’s house – and I suspect Michael is right to think it will be money, given what they have been doing on the Huntingdon Way.’

Tulyet began to re-buckle the armour he had loosened. ‘If de Lisle was at Ely, I would have no hesitation in suggesting he is the Sorcerer. But even he cannot manage that sort of thing from Avignon, so I predict you are looking for someone else. I doubt it is any of his henchmen, though, not if they are concentrating on terrorising the highways.’

‘You are going out again already?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him pick up his sword.

‘Fresh horses should be saddled up by now. How is my soldier? Will he live? He has been with me for years and I do not want to lose him.’

‘We will know in the morning,’ replied Bartholomew, reluctant to tell the truth when his friend was about to do battle with some very dangerous opponents. He did not want him distracted by grief.

Tulyet nodded. ‘I will try to be back in time to help you with the Sorcerer, but I cannot make any promises – I must catch these robbers before they murder any more innocent travellers. I am afraid you may have to tackle this warlock on your own.’

Unsettled and unhappy, Bartholomew left the castle. As he passed All Saints, he saw shadows flitting in the churchyard. It was not the same sort of gathering he had witnessed the previous night, and there was no laughter and song. Instead, people seemed to be moving with grim purpose. The tower door stood open, and two men were struggling to manhandle something through it. Others carried bowls or sacks. Bartholomew watched for a moment, and decided these were the Sorcerer’s more dedicated disciples, busily making preparations for his début. His unease intensified when he realised it was now Saturday morning, and that whatever the Sorcerer planned was going to take place that night.

When he reached Michaelhouse, it was time for morning mass. Michael was missing, and Cynric said he had been patrolling the Market Square for much of the night. Apparently, Mildenale and William had assembled a group of devoted Church followers there, and their frenzied sermons had resulted in Clare College being attacked. Bartholomew was not the only one who had noticed Spaldynge’s declining mental state, and William claimed it was because Spaldynge was the Sorcerer.

‘Then Brother Michael sent beadles to All Saints, with orders to break up the coven,’ added Cynric. ‘But most folk like the All Saints witches – a lot more than they like Mildenale and William – so the beadles did nothing when they arrived. They just told the participants to be discreet.’

‘Were you there, too?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting Michael would have sent someone he trusted. Unfortunately for the monk, Cynric was not wholeheartedly on the Church’s side.

The book-bearer looked furtive. ‘I might have been. But then I was seized by a sudden notion that those two villains might be in Sewale Cottage again, so I went to find out.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew was too tired to remonstrate with him for failing to follow Michael’s orders. The near-sleepless night was already taking its toll, and he hoped he would have the strength to face whatever was coming that day.

Clippesby took the morning mass, and his presence was a bright flame in an otherwise cheerless occasion. William and Mildenale were notable by their absence, and Langelee said neither had been home all night. Bartholomew looked around and tried to remember when St Michael’s had last seen such a small gathering; even during the plague they had mustered a bigger turnout. Clippesby performed for just Bartholomew, Langelee, Suttone, Wynewyk and Deynman.

As soon as the service was over, Cynric was waiting to say the physician was needed at the castle again. Inexplicably, the soldier with the lesser wound was dying, while the other had woken up and asked for something to eat. It was mid-afternoon before Bartholomew was able to return to the College. As he had missed breakfast and the midday meal, he was very hungry. He went to the kitchens in the hope that Agatha would take pity on him. He was not surprised to find Michael there, complaining that pea soup was hardly the kind of fare that would give a man the strength needed to fight a powerful villain like the Sorcerer.

‘How do you know he is a villain?’ asked Agatha, standing with her hands on her hips and declining to let the monk into the pantries. ‘You do not know who he is, so he might be a saint.’

‘He is a witch,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘He exhumes corpses, and is responsible for all the trouble that is currently affecting the town.’

‘No, he is not,’ argued Agatha. ‘The Church is doing that. They are the ones making the fuss – men like Mildenalus Sanctus and William. And Thomas, when he was alive. And even Eyton, selling his protective charms and scoffing honey as if there is no tomorrow. The Sorcerer is not the villain here.’

Michael regarded her reproachfully. ‘Witchcraft is not a bit of fun, Agatha. It is dark, dangerous and offensive to God. I do not mean the kind that Margery practised – the healing kind. I mean the sort that involves goats, blood and corpses. The Sorcerer may seem like a friendly alternative to orthodox religion, but I suspect people might discover tonight that he is something else altogether.’

A cold chill passed down Bartholomew’s spine. Agatha regarded Michael in silence for a moment, then stood aside to let him pass. He had unsettled her, too.

‘Do not eat the pork,’ she called after him. ‘It was covered in maggots this morning, and I have not had the chance to rinse it off yet. It will be all right when I disguise the flavour with a few onions.’

Bartholomew felt queasy just thinking about it, and had to force himself to swallow some bread and cheese. The cheese was rancid, and made him gag. Michael did not seem to care, and crammed his mouth so full that his cheeks bulged.

‘Is there honey in that pot?’ he asked, almost indecipherably, although that did not stop him from adding yet more to his maw. ‘It is one of Barnwell’s receptacles.’

The honey was much nicer than the cheese, and Bartholomew smeared it liberally on his bread, hoping it would mask the taste of mould. And perhaps it would shield him from evil, too, as Eyton claimed. Deciding he needed all the protection he could get, he ate more.

‘Did you talk to Mildenale last night?’ he asked eventually, sitting back and watching Michael scrape the jar with a spoon. ‘Cynric said you were obliged to stop him and William from preaching.’

‘They had gone by the time I arrived,’ replied Michael. ‘But not before their sermon caused a mob to descend on Clare and smash its windows. Ironically, fanatical Franciscans are the most powerful weapon the Sorcerer owns at the moment – their sermons are driving people right into his arms. I spent all morning hunting for them, but they are probably resting somewhere, sleeping off their busy night.’

‘Clippesby was right to report Mildenale to his Prior-General; as usual, he showed more foresight than any of us. We have only just realised how dangerous Mildenale is, but he saw it months ago.’

‘When the mob failed to find Spaldynge, they set their sights on Mother Valeria. There is a rumour that they will catch and hang her today.’

‘She has left the town,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘She packed all her belongings, and–’

‘Unfortunately, that is untrue. She was seen only this morning. Foolish woman!’ Michael sounded as exhausted and dispirited as Bartholomew felt.

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the physician, determined to prevent the Sorcerer from turning his town into a battlefield. ‘I am at your disposal – unless I am needed by a patient.’

‘All our investigations have condensed into two simple issues: the Sorcerer and his plans, and the odd business at Sewale Cottage. Everything else – the murders of Carton, Thomas and Spynk, the exhumations and so on – relates to them.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘We thought Bene’t’s missing goats were connected to the Sorcerer, but they were just a case of theft. Perhaps–’

‘There is no time for debate, Matt. I will continue my hunt for the Sorcerer, while you take Sewale Cottage. I want you to go to Barnwell and demand to know why the canons are prepared to pay such a handsome price for it. Do not let them fob you off with claims that it would make a good granary, because we know that is a lie. You must learn what they want from it.’

It was a tall order, given that they had met with scant success so far. ‘Can we not leave this until tomorrow? The Sorcerer is the more important of these two enquiries, because of what he plans to do tonight. It would be better if I helped you here, and we go to Barnwell in the morning–’

‘We think the two issues are separate,’ snapped Michael. ‘But we cannot be sure – one of the people who wants the house may be the Sorcerer, do not forget. And there is the fact that it was the home of a witch. You must come back with answers. I cannot overemphasise how important this is.’

Bartholomew was daunted by the task he had been set. ‘The canons have not been very forthcoming so far–’

‘Then talk to Arblaster first. Tell him what we already know, and demand the truth from him.’

‘If we are right about Sewale Cottage housing some kind of secret, then it is possible that Spynk was killed by one of the other bidders – namely the canons or Arblaster. Or by the Bishop’s men.’

Michael nodded soberly. ‘So you will have to be careful. Take Cynric with you.’

Cynric was nowhere to be found, and there was no time to hunt for him. In an effort to do as Michael ordered, Bartholomew even allowed Langelee to saddle him one of the College nags, knowing it would be quicker than travelling on foot. He climbed inelegantly on its back, and set off at a lively trot, faster than was safe in a town where the streets were full of carts, pedestrians and other riders.

He sensed a familiar tension in the air, and noted the way people gathered in small knots. He had seen it before, and recognised the scent of trouble. Churches had either closed their doors, or they had opened them for the faithful to be regaled with speeches condemning witchcraft. As he passed one chapel he heard someone shouting about burning Mother Valeria’s hut. He reined in and listened for a moment, but it was not Mildenale’s voice that was ranting, nor William’s. It was some other fanatic in a habit, and he was disconcerted to see the place was bursting at the seams. The Church was tired of being the underdog and was beginning to fight back. In the distance, he thought he saw a flash, and wondered if it was lightning.

People regarded him oddly as he rode by. Some crossed themselves and looked away, as if afraid to catch his eye, while others winked and wished him luck. When Isnard did it, Bartholomew jerked his horse to a standstill.

‘Luck for what?’ he demanded sharply.

‘For tonight,’ replied Isnard. ‘You will make your grand appearance. Are you saying it is not you, then? I confess I was sceptical when Mildenale told me it was, because you have never seemed that well organised to me. And not that interested in accruing power, either.’

‘Mildenale is telling people I am the Sorcerer?’ Bartholomew was appalled.

‘William keeps saying it is unlikely, but Mildenale ignores him. Personally, my money is on Spaldynge. Well, it is on him literally, if you must know, because Eyton is running a sweepstake. I had to choose between you, Spaldynge and Canon Podiolo. It was not an easy decision, I can tell you.’

Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He jabbed his heels into his pony’s sides and urged it into a trot. When he approached the ramshackle bridge that spanned the King’s Ditch, he saw a crowd had gathered, and could tell by the way they looked at him that Mildenale’s rumour had reached their ears. Spaldynge was among them, and yelled something hostile. Bartholomew coaxed his horse into a gallop. Scholars, soldiers and traders scattered in all directions as he bore down on them. Several howled curses, but then he was across the Ditch and on to the Causeway. He kicked the horse into a full-out run, risking life and limb as it pounded along the hard-baked track. The beast stumbled once and he almost fell, saving himself only by grabbing its mane. It snickered in terror, but he spurred it on again. It still seemed a long time before the roofs of Barnwell Priory came into sight.

He decided to follow Michael’s advice and tackle Arblaster first. The dung-merchant was one man, whereas the canons were rather more numerous, and questioning them would put Bartholomew inside an enclosure from which escape would be difficult. He would visit the convent only if Arblaster could not – or would not – provide the answers he had been charged to find.

The stench of manure was hot and strong in the dry, still air, and he coughed as he slid off the horse. He hammered on Arblaster’s door, and saw, as he waited for a reply, that the dung-master’s goats had white feet. He wondered why he had not noticed before that they could not be Bene’t’s animals. The door was opened by Arblaster himself, but there was no welcoming smile this time. He stood aside for the physician to enter.

‘Twenty marks,’ he said flatly. ‘But that is as high as I can go, because it is all I have left.’

‘What is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, taking in the man’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.

Arblaster slumped against the wall. ‘Michaelhouse has given its latrines to Isnard, and I think the canons are going to offer twenty-one marks for Sewale Cottage. Damn them! It was my last hope, but they will get it, and I shall be ruined. Jodoca has gone to talk to them. She says she has every hope of success, but Mother Valeria has cast a spell to bring me bad luck, so I am not confident.’

Bartholomew was confused. ‘You only own twenty marks? But I thought you were rich.’

‘I was rich – until the heatwave struck. But I need rain and warm weather for composting, and this unseasonable furnace has damaged my wares.’

‘Why does Sewale Cottage represent your last hope?’ asked Bartholomew. He saw Arblaster’s head snap up sharply; the man realised he had said something he probably should not have done. ‘We know something is secreted there, something a number of people want. What is it?’

Arblaster gave a bitter laugh. ‘If I told you, Michaelhouse would refuse to sell it, and then even that frail hope would be gone.’

‘We are not going to sell it anyway,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘So you may as well tell me.’

Arblaster eyed him searchingly, then drew a dagger from his belt. ‘You are the Fellow who is not in step with the others – the one who has different views about what is going on. Perhaps you have worked out that there is more to Sewale Cottage than meets the eye, but your colleagues will not have done, and you have probably not remembered to tell them. If I kill you, I may yet be saved.’

Startled by the sudden change in the man, Bartholomew took a step away, but Arblaster moved faster, and the physician found himself hurled against the wall. The knife was in the dung-master’s right hand, and Bartholomew used both his to try to keep it away from his throat. Unfortunately, a life of hauling manure had rendered Arblaster hard and muscular, and the blade began to descend.

‘All the Fellows know something is hidden,’ Bartholomew blurted, hoping he did not sound as desperate as he felt. ‘They are searching for it as I speak.’

‘You are lying,’ said Arblaster contemptuously, as the knife moved inexorably towards the physician’s neck. ‘And you are not even very good at it.’

‘What will they find?’ gasped Bartholomew, resisting with all his might. It was not enough. ‘Money? Jewels? Books?’

‘Something that was brought here.’ Arblaster braced himself for the fatal stroke as the blade touched bare skin. ‘You will die not knowing, I suppose.’

Bartholomew knew he was not strong enough to prevent Arblaster from gashing him, and he also knew he was wasting valuable energy by trying. He forced himself to release the dung-merchant’s dagger hand, and drove his fist into the man’s stomach instead. It earned him a cut neck, but it also caused his opponent to drop the knife in shock. Unfortunately, the advantage was only momentary, and Arblaster managed to snag the physician’s tabard as he started to run away. Both men fell crashing to the ground. Bartholomew fought valiantly, but it was not long before Arblaster had him pinned down. The dung-master glanced behind him, looking for the weapon, but Bartholomew managed to kick it away with his foot. And then they were at a stalemate: Arblaster could not kill Bartholomew without his blade, but the only way to reach it was by letting the physician go.

‘Cynric will be here soon,’ gasped Bartholomew, aware that it was hopeless to struggle, but unable to stop himself. ‘You may as well let me up.’

‘As I said, you are a dismal liar.’ Arblaster leaned all his weight on the physician in an effort to subdue him. It worked; Bartholomew could barely breathe. ‘But Jodoca will come, and then I shall kill you. Damn this sun! If it had not been so hot, I would never have tried to get Danyell’s …’

‘Danyell?’ gasped Bartholomew. Despite his predicament, answers started to come to him in a series of blinding flashes, so clear that he wondered why he had not seen them before. Was it really necessary to be engaged in a death struggle before his wits were sharp enough to work properly?

Arblaster watched him, a half-smile on his face. He eased himself into a more comfortable position, one that was not crushing the life out of his captive. The physician still could not move, but at least he could breathe. ‘You do not need me to explain – you have worked it out for yourself at last.’

‘On the night of his death, Danyell went out,’ said Bartholomew, hoping an analysis might distract Arblaster into letting down his guard. ‘He carried something with him, which Spynk thought was a stone – a sample to show a potential client. But it has always seemed odd to me that he should have been considering business when he probably felt very ill. I think he had what everyone is looking for. He hid it in Sewale Cottage, and intended to see Mother Valeria as soon as he had finished, to buy a cure from her. He died before that could happen.’

‘I saw him.’ Arblaster’s expression was distant as he remembered. ‘I was coming home from buying a spell from Valeria myself, and I spotted movement in the shadows. I did not want to be seen in that part of the town at such an hour, so I hid. Danyell entered the house with a box – which may have looked like a brick from a distance – and he left without it some time later. And then I heard a conversation between him and those two men.’

‘What two men? Brownsley and Osbern – one huge and the other bearded?’

‘The Bishop’s louts,’ agreed Arblaster, glancing towards the door. Bartholomew suddenly realised that while he was talking in an effort to distract Arblaster, so Arblaster was encouraging the discussion to occupy his captive until Jodoca could hand him his dagger. ‘And we all know that anything involving de Lisle is going to be shady. So, I listened and I learned.’

‘Learned what?’

‘Despite Danyell’s obvious terror – he was on his knees, gasping for breath before they even started questioning him – he was defying them. I could not hear everything, but I caught mention of digging holes. But then Danyell clutched his chest, and that was that – he was dead. The Bishop’s men were furious. They dumped his body on the open ground opposite, then they broke into Margery’s house.’

Bartholomew thought about it. Danyell had been terrorised by Brownsley in Norfolk, and meeting his tormentor in a dark street must have been more than his failing heart could stand. Brownsley’s anger suggested Danyell had died without telling him what he wanted to know. He had, however, surmised that the box had been hidden inside Sewale Cottage, which explained why he and Osbern had expended so much energy searching it.

‘What is in the box?’ asked Bartholomew. Arblaster glanced at the door a second time. When Jodoca did appear, what would she do? Help her husband commit murder? Or talk sense into him?

The dung-master looked as though he was not going to answer, but shrugged when he saw it was a way to prolong the discussion. ‘Treasure. What else can lead men to such lengths?’

‘So, you knew about it because you overheard this discussion, while Spynk would have known because Danyell confided in him – or in Cecily, his lover. But what about the canons? How do they come to be in on the secret?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Arblaster. ‘And I do not care.’

The fact that he had some answers filled Bartholomew with hope, and he knew he needed to brief Michael as soon as possible. He pretended to sag in defeat, encouraging Arblaster to relax his grip. The dung-merchant fell for the ploy – it was hard work pinning a man to the ground, and he was grateful for a respite. As soon as the weight eased slightly, Bartholomew mustered every ounce of his strength and brought his knee up sharply between his captor’s legs, following it with a punch to the side of the head. Arblaster slumped to the ground, and Bartholomew rolled away, staggering to his feet as fast as he could. He ran to the kitchen for rope, and quickly bound Arblaster’s hands and feet, not liking the notion of the man regaining his senses and trying to finish what he had started. He had just tightened the last knot when Arblaster opened his eyes.

‘Jodoca!’ he screamed, flailing furiously. ‘Help me! He is getting away!’

Suddenly, Bartholomew recalled what Arblaster had said about his wife earlier – that she had gone to ‘talk’ to the canons at Barnwell. ‘What is she doing?’ he asked uneasily.

Arblaster struggled harder. ‘She should have persuaded the canons to withdraw their offer by now. She is rather good at it, as Spynk can attest. She is more determined than me. I was ready to give up, but she told me to have faith. She will see us through this.’

‘Jodoca killed Spynk?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘I do not believe you.’

‘She will get you, too,’ vowed Arblaster, writhing violently, although it was clear he was not going to escape. ‘She will not appreciate what you have done to me. Jodoca!’

Bartholomew raced outside, climbed on the horse again and spurred it towards the convent. He realised he should have seen days ago what had happened, because all the clues had been there. Of course Danyell had been inside Sewale Cottage – his body had been found near it, and the cottage had been broken into that night, first by Danyell himself, and then by Brownsley and Osbern. Danyell must have chosen the place because he had been told that its sole occupant was recently dead, and he had assumed he would be able to conceal his box without being disturbed. He was a mason, so rearranging stones would have been a simple matter for him.

But why had he decided to hide his treasure, when most men would have taken it home with them? The answer to that was clear, too: Danyell had seen the Bishop’s men lurking around – or perhaps he had heard talk about the robberies on the Huntingdon Way – and knew it would not be safe in his possession. No doubt he had also heard that Michaelhouse planned to sell the house, and his ultimate intention was to purchase it himself – or perhaps do it with the help of Spynk and Cecily.

Bartholomew frowned as he rode. Had Jodoca really killed Spynk? He supposed she might have been in Sewale Cottage’s garden that night. The third shadow had not been with Osbern and Brownsley, so it was possible that Spynk had been lured there with promises of gold and found himself with a blade in his back instead. It was certainly one way of ensuring he did not make Michaelhouse another competitive offer. He frowned more deeply. Except, of course, that Cecily was probably the driving force behind the purchase, in which case Jodoca had taken the wrong life.

He reached the priory and flung himself out of the saddle to pound on the gate. He glanced up at the sky. It was an odd colour – a sickly yellow-blue he had never seen before, and the marshes were eerily quiet. There was no answer from the canons, so he hammered again, then jumped in alarm when the gate was suddenly hauled open by Podiolo. The infirmarian was carrying a broadsword, and Bartholomew leapt away, unused to seeing clerics wield such enormous weapons.

‘We have suffered a murderous assault,’ Podiolo shouted angrily. His amber eyes looked sinister in the evening sunlight. ‘But like Fencotes, I was not always a monastic, and I learned swordplay when I was a goldsmith in Florence – I am ready to defend myself and my brethren, so be warned.’

‘Jodoca attacked you?’ asked Bartholomew, edging back further when Podiolo waved the weapon closer than was comfortable. He had never seen the man so agitated.

‘Jodoca?’ echoed Podiolo, gaping at him. Then he frowned. ‘Yes, of course it was – someone small and agile, but strong, and too short to have been a man. Jodoca! Who would have thought it?’

‘What did she do?’

‘She went after Fencotes with a dagger. Prior Norton fended her off, but she is still at large. I cannot imagine what Fencotes has done to annoy her.’

Bartholomew followed him to the infirmary, where the canons formed a protective phalanx around their fallen comrade. Lay-brothers clustered at the door, and Bartholomew thought that if any robber should want to attack another part of the convent and make off with the silver, now was a perfect time. Even as the thought came into his head, he wondered whether that was Jodoca’s intention. Arblaster said they had lost everything. Did she intend to recoup their losses? Start a new life in another town, funded by monastic treasure, since Danyell’s property was unavailable?

‘It was Jodoca,’ Podiolo announced, as Norton came to greet them. ‘Bartholomew identified her.’

Norton’s eyes bulged in horror. ‘But she is a woman! And she was intent on murder – I could see it in her every move. She might have killed me, too if I had not screeched for help.’

‘She was loath to tackle twenty of us, so she ran off,’ explained another canon. ‘We have no idea where she went, which is why we are here, all crowded together. There is safety in numbers.’

‘How is Fencotes?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping towards the bed. ‘Did she harm him?’

‘He is more alarmed than hurt,’ said Norton. ‘But I am glad you are here. Podiolo is no physician.’

‘No, he is not,’ agreed Bartholomew, knowing from Fencotes’s grey, sweaty face that there was more wrong than just fright. It should have been obvious, even to the most inexperienced practitioner, that Jodoca’s blade had struck home, and that the old man had received a wound that was likely to be mortal. ‘Where are you hurt, Fencotes?’

The elderly canon gave Bartholomew a weak smile, but did not answer.

‘Be careful what you say,’ whispered Podiolo. ‘It took us a long time to calm him after the attack. The only way we managed in the end was by promising to buy Sewale Cottage. At any cost.’

‘He believes Sewale Cottage will be a good investment for our future,’ added Norton. ‘And that we will benefit in the long term, even if we pay over the odds now. Personally, I disagree, but we shall do what he says, to make him happy.’

‘Arblaster told me what is hidden in Sewale Cottage,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling by the bed and addressing the patient. The old man was icy cold, even more chilled than his usual grave-like temperature. ‘I know why you are so determined to have it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Norton. ‘It is just a house. Tell him, Fencotes.’

‘The physician is right,’ whispered the old man. He looked strangely at peace. ‘There is a great box of treasure buried there – enough to swell our coffers for years to come. Or perhaps you will use it to help the poor. It does not matter, only that Barnwell has it.’

Norton was appalled. ‘But great boxes of treasure do not fall from Heaven, and they are nearly always tainted. I am not sure whether we should take it.’

‘It will be yours if you buy the house,’ whispered Fencotes weakly. ‘And you will buy the house, because you have promised. You swore on the Bible.’

‘I did,’ said Norton, his eyes so wide that Bartholomew wondered whether he would ever be able to close them again. ‘But you should have told me the truth. I do not like being tricked.’

Gently, Bartholomew turned the old man over; blood had pooled on the mattress beneath him. Like Carton and Spynk, Fencotes had been stabbed in the back. Norton and the others gasped their horror, and the Prior looked accusingly at Podiolo.

‘How could I see that when he was lying on it?’ objected Podiolo defensively. ‘Besides, you told me Jodoca had been repelled before she could inflict any damage.’

‘Heal him, Bartholomew,’ cried Norton, distraught. ‘He is my oldest friend!’

‘I cannot.’ There was no cure for a wound in such a place, and to attempt one would cause the patient needless pain. It was kinder to let him die in peace.

‘Stabbed in the back,’ mused Podiolo. He still held his sword, and seemed less shocked by Fencotes’s condition than his colleagues. Was it because he was an infirmarian, and so inured to such sights? Somehow, Bartholomew did not think so, and he edged away from him, unnerved by his proximity. ‘Like Carton. Does that mean Jodoca murdered him, too?’

‘I think so,’ replied Bartholomew, relaxing a little when Norton indicated with a wave of his hand that Podiolo was to put his weapon away. ‘I know she killed Spynk, because her husband just told me.’ He turned back to Fencotes, but the old man was fading fast, and Bartholomew did not want to hasten his end by demanding what might be a lengthy explanation. ‘If I describe what I think happened to Carton, will you nod, to tell me if I am right? You do not need to speak.’

Fencotes inclined his head, so Bartholomew began.

‘Carton was a Dominican, ordered to disguise himself as a Franciscan by his Prior-General, and sent to watch a dangerous fanatic. An unexpected promotion meant he began to lose control of Mildenale, which, being a conscientious man, distressed him deeply. When he was left alone in your chapel, he was seized by the urge to pray.’

‘That amulet was his,’ interrupted Podiolo. ‘I have thought about it, and I remember seeing it around his neck. It is a powerful one, and should have protected him from evil.’

‘But Carton’s feelings about such items were ambiguous,’ Bartholomew went on. He gestured to the one that was just visible around Norton’s throat, and several other canons furtively hastened to conceal theirs. ‘Just like many men, I imagine.’

‘I always remove mine before I pray,’ said Norton sheepishly. ‘I only wear it when I am outside the sacred confines of our chapels.’

‘Which is exactly what Carton did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He took it off, then lay on the floor in the pose of a penitent, with his arms out to either side. Fencotes found the charm later, between two flagstones. And what happened next is partly my fault. Cynric and I told Jodoca what Carton had come to do here. So, she and her husband engineered an excuse for her to leave their house, and she hurried to see what could be done to prevent the negotiations.’

‘She stabbed him where he lay?’ breathed Norton, appalled.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I thought he might have been killed by a tall man, because the wound was high. But the wound was high because she inflicted it when he was on the ground. I made an erroneous assumption, and it left Jodoca free to kill again.’

Fencotes opened his eyes. ‘You cannot blame yourself for what Jodoca did,’ he whispered. ‘And you cannot blame yourself for Thomas’s death, either. Carton knew it was suspicious, and tried to tell you several times that your medicine was not to blame. He even gave you a packet of powder, in the hope that you would think poison had killed him. He did not want you agonising.’

‘I do not understand.’ Bartholomew experienced a lurch of misgiving. ‘Carton did not confess to killing Thomas, did he? Because Thomas was on the verge of exposing him as an impostor?’

‘No,’ said Fencotes firmly. ‘I knew Carton was a Dominican – he confided in me because he needed a confessor, and felt he could not go anywhere else. He spent a lot of time here, unburdening himself and praying with me.’

Bartholomew recalled having been told that before, and had been surprised. Yet it made sense: Carton could not have visited the Dominicans for solace, because that would have endangered his mission, and he could hardly go to the Franciscans. But Barnwell was well outside the town, and Carton could have talked to Fencotes without fear of being seen or overheard.

‘Carton thought Mildenale murdered Thomas,’ Fencotes was saying, ‘because Thomas kept asking awkward questions. He had no real evidence, but he knew Thomas’s death was not your fault.’

‘But why did Jodoca kill Carton?’ asked Podiolo. ‘Spynk and Fencotes, I understand, because they were competing for the house, driving up the cost between them. But Carton was not going to buy it.’

‘No, but he took messages back and forth,’ replied Fencotes. His voice was weaker now. ‘And he wanted it to go to a convent, not a layman. He was going to persuade Langelee to sell it to us.’

Norton looked at the old man. ‘Now there is only one question left. How did you know about Danyell’s treasure? Did he confide in you, too?’

Fencotes sighed, a whisper deep in his chest. He did not have many moments left, so Bartholomew answered for him. ‘Fencotes came late to the monastic life, and before taking his vows, he lived in Norfolk. Danyell came from Norfolk, too.’

‘He was kin,’ breathed Fencotes, barely audible. ‘He came to me when he thought the Bishop’s men might steal his treasure. I told him Margery Sewale’s house was empty.’

‘He hid it well,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Osbern and Brownsley have been hunting for days with no success, and he has even foiled Cynric.’

Fencotes gave the ghost of a smile. ‘That is why we must buy the house, because it may take weeks to find. Masons know how to build decent hiding places.’

‘You looked, though,’ said Bartholomew, thinking of another small fact that had not made sense at the time. ‘I treated you for injuries that were inconsistent with the fall you claimed to have had. You went to Sewale Cottage, to see if you could uncover it for yourself.’

‘You are a clever lad,’ breathed Fencotes, closing his eyes. ‘I felt the hoard was slipping away, and wanted to see if I could find what others could not. But Danyell was too good, even for his old uncle.’

Bartholomew left the canons to give Fencotes last rites, and went outside. There was a breeze for the first time in weeks, but it was hot and stale, like something blown in from a desert. It made everything feel old and dry, and in the distance he thought he heard thunder. Was a storm on the way? Would it break the heatwave and usher in cooler weather? It was not long before Norton and Podiolo came to join him. The Florentine had drawn his sword again, and did not seem inclined to give it up.

‘Will you tell Langelee our offer for Sewale Cottage is now twenty marks?’ asked Norton. ‘I know Arblaster offered twenty, too, but you will not want his money, not after what Jodoca did to Carton.’

‘He probably does not have it, anyway,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not if he is ruined.’

‘He has it,’ said Podiolo. ‘I saw him counting it last night when I went for a walk. But that is the full extent of it. I heard him say so to Jodoca.’

Peering through other people’s windows in the dark was odd behaviour for a monastic, but Bartholomew was too tired to think about it. He collected his horse and started to ride home. He was vaguely aware of someone on the Causeway ahead of him, but the sun was in his eyes and he could not see clearly. By the time he realised it was Jodoca, it was too late to do anything about it. She was on a sturdy white pony, and there were saddlebags behind her.

‘There you are,’ she said, reining in. ‘I understand you had a talk with my husband.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to ride away from her as fast as his horse would carry him, attempt to make her his prisoner, or simply talk. He decided he should arrest her, but was obliged to revise his plans when he realised he had lost his dagger – he supposed he had dropped it during the scuffle with Arblaster. Jodoca, however, did have a knife, and she looked as though she was ready to lob it. And at such short range, she could not miss. Even so, he started to rummage in his bag for one of the several surgical implements that could double as a weapon.

‘Raise your hands where I can see them,’ she ordered immediately, seeing what he was doing. Her pretty face was cool and determined, and he reminded himself that here was a woman who had already taken three lives. ‘Make no mistake, Doctor, I will kill you if you do not obey me.’

Reluctantly, he did as he was told. She edged her pony closer to him, cutting off his chances of escape with every step. The Causeway was too narrow for him to pass her, and the time it would take to turn his horse around would see a blade in his back for certain. He wished he had paid attention to the road, instead of reviewing the mysteries he had just solved.

‘I want the answer to one question,’ said Jodoca, when she was sure she had him in a position where he posed no danger. ‘Tell me the truth, and I will let you go.’

He did not believe her. ‘You want to know if you succeeded in killing Fencotes?’

She grimaced. ‘What I actually wanted to know was whether the canons had recognised me – whether it is really necessary to leave Cambridge. Your reply implies that they did, and that it is.’

‘They know you murdered Spynk and Carton, too. Stabbing me will not make your secret safe.’

‘So my best option remains flight. Still, I managed to remove a few items of value from the canons’ chapels when they were preoccupied with Fencotes. Those silly men are easily diverted.’

Bartholomew regarded her askance, amazed she should be so casual. ‘Does it mean nothing that you have murdered three men?’

She gave the question some serious consideration. ‘I just wish I had done it sooner, before Spynk and Fencotes started to drive up the price of Sewale Cottage. If I had, it would have been mine by now. I thought Michaelhouse would refuse to treat with Barnwell after one of your scholars was killed in its grounds, but I underestimated the power of greed.’

‘You think Michaelhouse is greedy?’ Bartholomew was astounded by her hypocrisy.

‘Your colleagues have no scruples whatsoever.’ She grinned suddenly, the beaming, sweet smile that had seen her voted the most attractive lady in Cambridge by his students. It was difficult to view her as a cold killer who stabbed men in the back. ‘You think I should feel remorse for taking a life in a House of God. How naïve! I am a coven member, and such places hold no meaning for me.’

‘Not all coven members feel the same way – your husband among them. Many still pray on Sundays, because they are confused by what they are being told – pulled by the Church one way and the Sorcerer the other.’

‘Weaklings,’ she said in disgust. ‘I suffer from no such indecision. When you and your book-bearer told me what Carton had come to do, I decided to put an end to it.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The convent was virtually deserted, with most of the canons in their dormitory, and you guessed Norton would take Carton to the chapel, because it is cool. When you arrived, you saw Carton lying on the floor, praying, while Norton fetched him wine.’

Jodoca’s expression was a little distant. ‘It was all so easy. And then I went home and nursed my poor husband back to health.’

‘And Spynk? I suppose you asked him to meet you in Sewale Cottage at midnight, perhaps with promises of recovering the box together.’

She smirked at him. ‘That is exactly what I did, although I had no intention of sharing, of course. Unfortunately, the Bishop’s henchmen arrived, too, and I realised my plan was not going to work. But then you appeared, and considerately created a diversion for me. While Spynk gaped at the spectacle, I stabbed him and escaped. Do you know where Danyell’s hoard came from? Originally?’

‘He brought it from London. Perhaps it came from work he had done–’

She laughed derisively. ‘How could such a massive sum belong to a mason? It is the Bishop’s money, extorted from some hapless victim, no doubt. His retainers were taking it to Avignon, but–’

‘But Brownsley and Osbern were in London at the same time as Danyell, and Danyell stole it from them.’ Bartholomew was beginning to see a lot of answers now. ‘He and Spynk fled north, and the Bishop’s men tracked them. Brownsley said they had come to raise more funds …’

‘But what he really meant was that he was in the process of retrieving what he had lost to Danyell’s sticky fingers. So, now you know why Brownsley and Osbern have been searching so assiduously. They are afraid of getting on the wrong side of that dangerous Bishop. You have been very slow in reasoning all this out, whereas I put the clues together almost immediately.’

‘Yes, but you had the benefit of knowing what Danyell said to the Bishop’s henchmen. I did not.’

Jodoca grinned at him. ‘Ride on, Doctor. We shall not meet again.’

Bartholomew declined. ‘You will not kill me as long as I am facing you. You only stab in the back.’

She tightened her grip on the knife with a careless shrug. ‘Only because it seems more humane, but we can go for a frontal shot, if that is what you prefer.’

Bartholomew braced himself. Was this where his life would end? On a dusty causeway in the marshes, stabbed by a ruthless killer? He glanced up at the sky, and wondered who would look after his patients. Somewhere off in the distance came another low growl. There would almost certainly be a storm later, and he was sorry he would not live to see cooling rain refresh the parched earth at last.

‘Praying?’ asked Jodoca. Her smile was mocking. ‘Why? Your God cannot help you now. Close your eyes – you will find it easier.’

‘There will be no more killing,’ said Podiolo, stepping out from the bushes at the side of the road and brandishing his sword. There were four lay-brothers at his heels, all armed with bows. ‘Put up your weapon, madam. Defy me and we will shoot you.’

‘You followed me?’ asked Bartholomew, as he rode back to Cambridge with Podiolo sitting behind him. The horse was not pleased by the additional weight, but the physician was grateful for the canon’s reassuring presence – and his sword. Jodoca might not be at large to harm anyone else, but he had not forgotten the mood of the town when he had left it, or the fact that people probably resented the way he had thundered across the bridge. Podiolo’s weapon might make them think twice about delaying him with remonstrations when he returned. And he was sure Podiolo could be trusted now: if the Florentine had wanted him dead, he would not have stopped Jodoca from lobbing her dagger. Or would he? Uneasily, Bartholomew began to reconsider.

‘Yes,’ replied Podiolo oblivious to the conflict about him that was raging in the physician’s mind. ‘After you had gone, it occurred to me that she might want to know whether she had been identified as Fencotes’s assailant. So I assembled a posse.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Prior Norton should have her husband in custody by now, too,’ added Podiolo. ‘Brother Michael can collect them tomorrow, after he has quelled this brewing battle between Church and Sorcerer. Do you mind going a little faster? I do not want to miss anything.’

‘You want to take part?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering which side Podiolo was going to choose. He might be a monk, but he was also an alchemist with a dubious reputation, and might go either way.

Podiolo laughed. ‘Life can be dull in a convent, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy a skirmish. I shall represent the Augustinian Order in this fight against evil.’

‘And what is evil?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘The Sorcerer with his cures for warts, or the fanaticism of men like Mildenalus Sanctus and William?’

But Podiolo only laughed a second time. Bartholomew tried to twist around to look at him, but could not see his face. He remembered what Isnard had said: that Podiolo was one of the men most strongly suspected of being the Sorcerer. Could it be true, and Bartholomew was about to aid his rise to power by giving him a ride into town? He was not sure what to think, and wished he was not so tired.

‘The weather is breaking at last,’ said Podiolo, when there was a flicker of lightning. It was bright in the dusky sky, and made Bartholomew wince. ‘Just in time for the Sorcerer’s midnight ceremony.’

Bartholomew tried to analyse his words, but could not decide whether he applauded the magician’s ability to control the climate, or whether he hoped it would rain on the fellow’s ceremonies.

‘We should hurry,’ he said, trying to make the reluctant nag move more quickly. It galloped a few steps, then settled back into the ambling pace it preferred. ‘I have been away too long already.’

‘That is what I have been trying to tell you,’ said Podiolo. ‘At this rate we will get there next week.’

When the horse stopped to eat some grass, Bartholomew slid off, grabbed its reins and hauled it towards the King’s Ditch bridge. At last, it seemed to sense the urgency of the situation and launched into an ungainly trot that forced him to run to keep up with it. Podiolo bounced inelegantly on its back, and the physician saw there was someone in Cambridge who was a worse rider than he.

‘Who is the Sorcerer?’ asked Podiolo. His words came in breathless bursts as he tried to keep his balance. ‘I have asked around, but he has kept his identity very quiet.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What about you?’

‘No, it is not me,’ said Podiolo, misunderstanding. ‘Although I understand people have been saying it is, because of my interest in alchemy. Personally, I suspect someone like Heltisle, who is strong and arrogant. Or perhaps Chancellor Tynkell, because he is tired of standing in Michael’s shadow.’

They were silent for a while, Bartholomew panting hard as he tried to find his stride. He forced everything from his mind, concentrating only on reaching the town as quickly as possible.

‘God and all his saints preserve us!’ exclaimed Podiolo suddenly, grabbing the reins and hauling on them for all he was worth. The horse came to an abrupt stop, and he struggled not to fall off. Bartholomew, who had been lagging behind, collided heavily with it, making it snicker nastily. The bridge was deserted – the soldiers had apparently abandoned their duties, and were nowhere to be seen. It meant one of two things: that Tulyet had called them away because he needed them for something else, or they had gone to take part in the mischief that was unfolding. Neither possibility boded well.

‘What?’ Bartholomew asked testily, wishing he had remained on the horse and let Podiolo go on foot. The run had sapped his energy and he was not sure he had the strength to go much further.

‘Is that Goldynham?’ Podiolo leaned forward in the saddle, peering into the gathering gloom. ‘I heard his body has been wandering around the town at night.’

Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, and saw the prankster’s pale cloak and fluffy hair. ‘Not again,’ he groaned. ‘I do not have time for this now.’

Podiolo did not seem as discomfited by the notion of a walking corpse as Bartholomew felt he should have been. ‘What shall we do?’ the canon asked. ‘There is no point in killing him with my sword, because he is dead already. Perhaps we should pretend we have not noticed him – although he does seem to be looking at you rather intently.’

Bartholomew stepped out from behind the horse and saw that Podiolo was right. It was dusk, but the light was better than it had been on previous occasions, and he was able to see a pair of very wild eyes beneath the halo of white curls. And then he knew exactly who was responsible for the prank.

‘Do not play games, Spaldynge,’ he called, alarmed that the Clare man should be losing his sanity in so disturbing a manner. ‘Not tonight. Someone might decide mobile cadavers are unwelcome in Cambridge – you could be harmed.’

‘Spaldynge?’ echoed Podiolo in astonishment. He narrowed his eyes. ‘So it is!’

But Spaldynge was not ready to concede defeat. He ducked into the undergrowth, so he was less visible, and began his peculiar hissing. ‘You let me die, physician. Your medicine failed to save me.’

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘Goldynham was not my patient – he was Rougham’s. I never went anywhere near him during his final illness, so you have picked the wrong corpse to imitate. You should have chosen Margery or Thomas.’

Podiolo dismounted, and moved towards the bushes, sword at the ready. ‘What a fraud! He is wearing unspun wool for hair, and his cloak is not gold, but old yellow linen.’

Spaldynge tried to run away, but Bartholomew moved to intercept him. With a grimace, Spaldynge ripped off the wig. ‘How did you know?’ He sounded more disgusted with the physician for seeing through his disguise than ashamed of himself for playing such a trick.

‘It was obvious,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘Each of your previous appearances occurred shortly after I had met you, or when you might have seen me pass your College. You went home, collected cloak and hair, and waited for me to come back.’

‘You have never made a secret of your dislike for medici, either,’ added Podiolo. ‘And this is the act of a bitter, spiteful man. Even so, I am surprised you would sink so low.’

‘You run an infirmary, Podiolo,’ sneered Spaldynge. ‘So of course you will take Bartholomew’s side. You are as bad as each other.’

‘Actually, I know very little about medicine,’ said Podiolo, revealing lupine fangs in a cheerful grin that caused Spaldynge to back away uneasily. ‘I am much more interested in alchemy.’

‘You are the man who whispered at me in the churchyard, too,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Doubtless that was your original plan, but then you thought Goldynham offered better potential.’

Spaldynge laughed unpleasantly. ‘And it worked. I would have sent you mad eventually.’

‘In this climate of superstition and witchery?’ asked Podiolo, before Bartholomew could tell Spaldynge he had never been fooled by the disguise. ‘Do not be an ass! People have been reporting all manner of unearthly happenings for weeks. Look at Eyton. He saw Goldynham coming out of the ground, and it did not render him insane. Besides, you are the one who is losing his mind. Just look at yourself!’

Spaldynge regarded him with a burning dislike, and Bartholomew suspected the canon might have placed himself in line for some unpleasant remarks in the future. ‘Just stay away from me,’ the Clare man snarled, starting to move away. ‘Both of you.’

‘I am going to inform your Master about you,’ Podiolo called after him. ‘Bartholomew may be too gentlemanly to tell tales, but I am a Florentine. You will be sent away in disgrace.’

‘You would not dare,’ sneered Spaldynge, but when he glanced back at the Augustinian there was real unease in his eyes.

‘I would,’ said Podiolo. ‘However, I might keep silent if you tell us the identity of the Sorcerer.’

Spaldynge swallowed hard. ‘But I do not know it.’

Podiolo shrugged. ‘Then your Master is going to hear some interesting–’

‘No!’ cried Spaldynge, realising the canon was serious. ‘I am telling the truth. I have no idea who the Sorcerer might be – I swear it on my plague-dead kin.’

Podiolo grimaced. ‘Then we shall have to find something else for you to bribe me with. How about telling us where Mildenale is? He is missing, and Brother Michael wants a word with him.’

Spaldynge licked dry lips and looked positively furtive. ‘What makes you think I would know?’

‘Because his speeches led defenders of the Church to attack your College last night, and I doubt you were willing to overlook such an affront. You will have hunted him down, ready to exact revenge. Tell me where he is hiding, and I will keep your unsavoury piece of playacting to myself. However, if you lie, I will see you banished from Cambridge for ever.’

Spaldynge swallowed; Podiolo clearly meant what he said. ‘He is in the shops owned by Mistress Refham,’ he whispered, looking at his feet. ‘The buildings Michaelhouse wants to buy, and that have been promised to Mildenalus Sanctus as a hostel.’

The streets were busier than usual, considering it was growing dark, and Bartholomew supposed those people not waiting for the Sorcerer to make his appearance could sense the brewing change in the weather; it made them restless. As before, they gathered in knots, although they were bigger than when he had left, more like gangs. It was unusual to see scholars and townsmen in the same clusters, and he found it disconcerting. It was like a civil war, where it was not clear who was the enemy. Prior Pechem was with a group of butchers, telling them the Devil planned evil work that night, while Eyton was selling charms and gobbling honey as if there were no tomorrow. Perhaps, Bartholomew thought grimly, for some folk, there would not be. He saw Meadowman, and asked whether Michael had had any luck in uncovering the identity of the Sorcerer. The beadle’s expression was grim.

‘Not as of a few moments ago, and he is getting desperate. He has not managed to track down Mildenale, either, although the man has certainly set his fires burning.’

Podiolo sniffed the air. ‘I smell no fires.’

‘I mean the fires of heresy,’ explained Meadowman impatiently. ‘Small pockets of fanatics, all yelling that everyone will be damned unless they go to church. Father William was leading one in St Michael’s churchyard, and his followers threw stones at me when I tried to break it up.’

‘William threw stones at a beadle?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. It did not sound like the kind of thing the friar would do, even in his more rabid moments.

‘Not him – his disciples. He tried to make them stop, but they called him a witch-lover. There are dozens of these little demonstrations, and Brother Michael thinks they might be more dangerous than whatever the Sorcerer is planning. We are trying to break them up, but as soon as we put down one, another springs up somewhere else.’

‘They are centred around churches?’ asked Bartholomew.

Meadowman nodded. ‘And chapels and shrines. We do not have enough men to cover them all, but he says we must try. Can I borrow your horse? It might lend me more authority.’

His face was pale with worry as he rode towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where shouting could be heard. Someone was bawling the words of a mass, although it did not sound like a very holy occasion. It was accompanied by defiant cheers and whoops.

‘Shall we tackle Mildenale ourselves?’ asked Podiolo. ‘Or find Brother Michael?’

‘Find Michael. What is Mildenale thinking, to set the town afire like this? He will drive people into the Sorcerer’s arms, not encourage them into the churches.’

‘He has encouraged enough into churches,’ said Podiolo soberly, nodding towards All Saints-in-the-Jewry as they hurried past. Lights burned within, and someone in a pulpit was wagging a finger at a far larger congregation than ever assembled on a Sunday.

Bartholomew asked passers-by for the monk’s whereabouts, but received so many different answers that it was clear Michael was dashing all over the place in his attempt to gain control of the situation.

‘We will never find him,’ he groaned, after scouring the High Street for the third time.

‘Then we must look in these shops for Mildenale ourselves,’ determined Podiolo. ‘It will save time, which is of the essence, as I am sure you will agree.’

Wearily, Bartholomew followed him back along the High Street, but skidded to a stop when someone lobbed a stone at him. It struck his medical bag, where it clanged against the childbirth forceps inside. The muted ringing was peculiar enough to make his would-be attacker turn tail and flee, screeching something about satanic regalia.

The Refham houses were dark and quiet when they arrived in St Michael’s Lane. The shutters were closed on the windows, and the doors were locked.

‘Mildenale is not here,’ said Podiolo, disgusted. ‘We have wasted yet more time.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think clearly. ‘We should look inside, to see if he really has been using one of these shops as a hideout. Or perhaps he left something here that may tell us where he has gone.’

‘Shall I kick down the door?’ asked Podiolo, brightening at the prospect of action.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the Florentine was a little less bellicose. ‘One of the back windows has a broken shutter.’

He led the way along an alley that was so narrow he was obliged to walk sideways. It led into a dirty yard, which had three windows. He stepped up to the nearest, grabbed the wood and pulled as hard as he could. It dropped off its rusty hinges and crashed to the ground. Podiolo laughed his delight.

‘This is fun! I must keep company with you more often – I have not committed burglary in years.’

Bartholomew climbed through the window, and when he paused halfway to catch his breath, Podiolo gave him a shove that sent him sprawling, then scrambled in after him. There was a lamp on a shelf, which the Florentine lit while the physician took in the chaos of scrolls, parchments and books that lay around them. There was a makeshift table and two stools, and everything suggested someone had been busy there. Bartholomew picked up one of the texts. And then another.

‘I doubt these belong to Mildenale,’ he said in confusion. ‘They are all about the occult.’

‘So they are.’ Podiolo frowned. ‘However, Carton told me he was gathering heretical texts to burn. Is this Carton’s collection, do you think?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘These are different.’

‘Here is a handbook for witches,’ said Podiolo, picking up a black tome that was wrapped in cloth and leafing through it. ‘How strange it should be here, in a place where Mildenale clearly likes to work.’

Bartholomew sat on a stool and tried to organise his tumbling thoughts. ‘That particular book was in Carton’s collection, although it went missing recently. Does that mean Mildenale took it? Or are we basing too much on Spaldynge’s intelligence? There is nothing to prove Mildenale was here.’

‘I disagree,’ said Podiolo, squinting at the manual in the dim light. ‘Here are marginal notes written in Mildenale’s hand – I would recognise that scrawl anywhere. However, it looks as though he has been studying it, not merely reading it. Furthermore, the ink has faded on some of his annotations, which suggests this book has been in his possession for a considerable length of time.’

Bartholomew picked up a text that was lying open on the table. It was entitled The Book of Secrets, and was adorned with a black pentagram. ‘Mildenale was carrying this the other day,’ he said. ‘He claimed he was going to burn it, although he was also carrying books he said he was going to put in his new hostel’s library.’

‘I think he lied to you about that,’ said Podiolo. ‘It looks to me as though he has been reading it.’

‘I do not understand any of this,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to be overwhelmed.

‘I do,’ said Podiolo grimly. He held the witches’ handbook aloft. ‘This manual belonged to Mildenale, and Carton stole it from him. And do you know why? Because Carton had a mortal terror of heretical texts, and must have thought it too dangerous a thing to leave in Mildenale’s hands.’ He grabbed another book. ‘And here is a copy of a treatise by Trotula, a woman healer Carton abhorred. It is in Mildenale’s writing.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand what the evidence was telling him. ‘Deynman heard Mildenale arguing with Carton – Carton wanted to burn these books, but was waiting until he had enough for a good blaze, while Mildenale wanted them destroyed immediately … no! Mildenale said he would destroy them immediately, and demanded that Carton hand them over. Carton refused.’

‘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.’