The Devil's Disciples

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 nearer, 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.’

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 more 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.’

‘I am different,’ said the friar. ‘I am not bound by the same constraints as others, because I know how to control dark forces. I have been reading about them for years. And yes, Brother, I did kill Thomas when he tried to stop me. Like William and Carton, he was supposed to support my work, not hinder it. He was a casualty of war – regrettable, but necessary. The same goes for you, I am afraid.’

‘Is that so,’ said Michael coldly. ‘What do you plan to do? Turn us into toads?’

Mildenale reached the door. ‘You will find out later. I cannot be bothered with you now.’

Suddenly, he was out in the churchyard, and the Rose-Man darted forward to slam the door closed behind him. Then both leaned against a nearby tombstone. The monument had not been there on Bartholomew’s previous visits, and he realised it must have been moved recently. It fell with a crash against the door, blocking it far more effectively than any key.

‘There,’ said Mildenale, regarding it with satisfaction. ‘That should keep them quiet until we have finished. And then we shall set the place alight, so they will never tell anyone what they have reasoned. I told you my plan would work.’

‘Where is the physician?’ demanded the Rose-Man. ‘He was with them earlier.’

Bartholomew held his breath when they began to hunt for him, daggers drawn, and only the fact that he had fallen between two graves saved him from discovery. Fortunately, it was not long before Mildenale informed his accomplice that their quarry must have gone inside the church, and that they should not waste any more time on him.

‘There will be plenty of opportunity to dispatch him later,’ he added as they walked away. His last words were drowned by the loudest thunderclap Bartholomew had ever heard, and the flickering light from above made the pair look as though they were walking in jerks, like puppets.

As soon as they had gone, Bartholomew hauled himself upright and hurried towards the charnel house. Michael and Tulyet were yelling and hammering furiously, but thick wood and thunder muffled the racket they were making. He heaved with all his might, but the stone did not budge and he knew he would never be able to move it without help. It needed a team of men, preferably ones armed with levers.

‘Matt?’ came Tulyet’s voice. ‘Is that you out there? Fetch soldiers from the castle. Hurry!’

Bartholomew set off along the path that led to the gate. He started to run, but the path was treacherously uneven and he had not taken many steps before he went sprawling. His timing was perfect, because the lightning suddenly turned night into day for several long moments and the uncut grass concealed him as Mildenale and the Rose-Man paused by the tower door to give the cemetery a long, sweeping look. Had he been standing, they would certainly have seen him.

He raised his head and watched them. They leaned close together, and there was a brief flash of light as Mildenale lit a lamp. Bartholomew tried to think clearly. Why were they using the tower door, rather than the main entrance at the end of the nave? It occurred to him that they might be about to set the whole thing alight, with their followers inside it, but dismissed the notion as insane. Why should they want their disciples incinerated? Gradually, it dawned on him that it might be intended as a demonstration of the Sorcerer’s strength. As Tulyet said, fear was a powerful weapon – and people would certainly be frightened if they knew the Sorcerer was willing to perpetrate such dreadful atrocities.

His suspicions were confirmed when Mildenale nodded to Refham, who closed the great west door then disappeared into the darkness: the blacksmith’s duties were done, and he was no longer needed. And the people inside the church were trapped.

There was no time to fetch soldiers to release Michael and Tulyet. Limping now, Bartholomew stumbled towards the tower door, intending to do all he could to prevent them from carrying out their horrible work. He paused for breath at the bottom of the stairs, then gasped in alarm at the sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder.

‘Easy!’ whispered Isnard. ‘It is only me.’

Bartholomew sagged in relief. Isnard would help him tackle Mildenale and the Rose-Man. Then he realised that the bargeman would not be very good at climbing spiral stairs on crutches, and that the noise he made would warn the villains of their approach. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair when he saw he was still alone.

Isnard jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the main body of the church. ‘Master Suttone is giving all sorts of touching examples about the sacrifices made by friars during the plague. I did not want anyone to see me weep, so I slipped outside to compose myself. But they seem to have locked the doors, and I cannot get back in–’

‘Michael and the Sheriff are trapped in the charnel house,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Go to the castle and fetch soldiers to free them. Hurry! The lives of a great many people depend on you.’

Without waiting to see whether the bargeman would do as he was told, Bartholomew began to climb the stairs. They were uneven, and the stairwell was pitch dark. He ascended slowly, wincing each time his shoes crunched on a twig, or his groping hands caused the friable masonry to crumble. After what seemed like an age, he reached the top, trying not to breathe too hard and alert them to his presence. Mildenale and the Rose-Man were standing by the window that looked into the nave; the physician recalled how he had used it to spy himself. He could hear Suttone, still preaching the sermon he had told the Carmelite to give. A cold dread gripped him when he realised that if anything happened to Suttone, then it would be his fault.

The chamber had changed since Bartholomew had last been there. More scaffolding and winches had been erected near the window, and bowls were brimming with liquids and powders. Mildenale was busily setting some alight, while the Rose-Man stood near the ropes and pulleys, ready to lower them into the church.

‘Venite Satanus!’ Mildenale bawled, startling Suttone into silence. Immediately, acolytes in the nave doused the lanterns, and the church was plunged into total darkness. There was a gasp of awe from the congregation. ‘Come, Satan! I conjure you, Lucifer!’

As he yelled, Mildenale touched his lamp to more of the bowls, and the Rose-Man sent them swinging into the nave on the rope pulleys. Smoke belched, black and reeking. People began to cough. One of the bowls fizzed with an orange light and released a spray of sparks on to the heads of those below. Someone screamed. Lightning jagged, illuminating a nave that was full of eerily shifting mist, and the accompanying thunderclap seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.

‘Diabolo diaboliczo Satana shaniczo!’ yelled Mildenale. ‘Venite Paymon, Egim and Simiel–’

‘That is enough summoning,’ murmured the Rose-Man. ‘We do not want the entire population of Hell to arrive – we might not have room to accommodate them all.’

In the nave, the onlookers were suddenly not quite so happy to be watching the Sorcerer’s arrival. There were cries that they could not breathe, and Bartholomew could hear them thumping on the door, clamouring to be let out. It would not be many moments before panic set in, and then there would be a stampede. People would be crushed as they tried to reach an exit or clamber through the windows.

Mildenale looked disappointed to be cut short. ‘Are you ready, then?’ he asked.

The Rose-Man nodded, and stepped towards a long piece of cloth that dangled from the roof. At first, Bartholomew did not understand what it was for, but then he saw it had been treated with some substance, probably a compound that would make it burn. He followed its route with his eyes, and saw it snaked towards the dead ivy that formed the roof. The dry leaves would go up like kindling, and then what remained of the rafters would follow. It was time to act. He grabbed a piece of broken wood from the floor, then burst into the chamber with no more thought than that he had to prevent the Rose-Man from touching the cloth with his flame.

‘Stop!’ he yelled.

The Rose-Man whipped around at the sudden intrusion, and Bartholomew saw his face for the first time, stark and bright in another blaze of lightning. He was the handsome fellow who had loitered on the edge of the crowds that had gathered to watch the antics of Cambridge’s various fanatics – the man who wore a rose in his hat. Yet there was something about him that scratched another part of Bartholomew’s memory, something about the eyes …

But Mildenale did not give him time to think about it. He lunged at the physician with a dagger, then fell back with a bruised arm when the physician scored a lucky jab with his length of timber.

‘Kill him!’ screamed the Rose-Man. ‘Do not dance with him!’

Hissing with pain, Mildenale advanced again. Bartholomew swung the wood a second time; it was rotten and flew into pieces on impact. But it was enough to make Mildenale jerk away, and as he did so, his foot shot through a hole in the floor. He fell awkwardly and began to shriek in agony, causing more alarm to the people milling in the nave. Then his cries were drowned out by the most violent thunderclap yet, and the lightning flickered like a spluttering lantern, almost continuous. The storm was directly overhead now.

With a sigh of exasperation, the Rose-Man drew a knife from his belt and advanced on the physician. And it was then that Bartholomew recognised the glittering eyes.

‘Mother Valeria!’

Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the shock of recognising the witch that drove him to his knees, or the fact that an explosion suddenly rocked the building. He saw surprise flash across Valeria’s face – it was not something she had planned. In the brief silence that followed, he heard people screaming that a churchyard tree had been struck by lightning; then the resulting blaze began to shed its own unsteady glow through the nave windows. Panic seized the Devil’s disciples – there were more howls of terror, and a concerted rush for the door that saw some of them trampled underfoot. Bartholomew turned his gaze back to the woman who stood in front of him.

‘Of course it is me!’ sneered Valeria, regarding him with rank disdain. ‘I am the most powerful witch in Cambridge, so who else did you imagine the Sorcerer to be? Fool!’

Bartholomew jerked away from her blade, managing not to be run through only because Valeria was forced to tread warily on the crumbling floor. He tried to rally his reeling senses. ‘You are a man?’

She looked startled, then rolled her eyes. ‘You saw me out in the town. I forgot. No, I am not a man, although I am tall enough to pass for one. No one knows that, though, because my clients only ever see me sitting, hunched over my cauldron with my false nose and false chin. Just as they expect me to be.’

‘You kept your leg covered when I wanted to examine it,’ said Bartholomew, automatically focusing on a medical matter. ‘And you always wear gloves. You are no more than thirty summers …’

‘My skin would have betrayed me as somewhat younger than the hundred years I claimed, and I could not be bothered to apply pastes and powders every time I needed a remedy from you.’ Valeria smiled, and there was pure malice in the expression.

‘There were rumours that you were growing weak–’

‘Do I look weak to you?’ she demanded.

Bartholomew glanced at Mildenale; the friar had extricated himself from the hole, and was gripping his ankle, face contorted with pain. But it would not be long before he pulled himself together and rejoined the affray. Bartholomew knew he should be concentrating on disarming Valeria before he was outnumbered, but he could not stop himself from asking questions.

‘Why are you doing this? What have these people done to you?’

‘It is time for me to ascend to another level.’ Valeria seemed oblivious to the mounting chaos in the nave below, and to the storm raging outside. ‘No one can make curses like me, but people are stupid. They come to whine about unfaithful lovers and demand charms for making money, but they do not give me their respect. Well, they will give it to me now.’

‘Warts,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The Sorcerer is said to be good with warts. So are you.’

She smiled her malevolent smile. ‘I am better with other things – such as summoning demons to let these ridiculous people know who is in charge. But why did you become involved? I told you to stay away from me – from the Sorcerer. Why did you not listen? I would have spared you. Now I cannot. Deal with him, Mildenale. I have other business to attend.’

Without waiting for her accomplice to reply, she turned back towards the cloth and her lantern. Bartholomew hurled himself across the chamber, aiming a kick at Mildenale as he went, and wrenched her away. She yelped as she twisted her bad knee, and then they were rolling across the floor, clawing and scrabbling at each other like wildcats. She was strong, and he struggled to keep her hands away from his eyes. He discovered that her long fingernails were one thing that had been real – and that they were determined to do him harm. Then more lightning forked, so close he thought he could hear it tearing it way towards the ground, and the air was full of the stench of smoke and sulphur.

He was vaguely aware of Mildenale crawling towards the cloth, and knew he would not be able to stop him as long as he was fighting Valeria. He tried to throw her off, but she was a resourceful opponent. First she flicked powder in his face that burned his eyes and made him choke, and then she stabbed his arm with a fragment of wood. He was losing the battle, and Mildenale had almost reached the cloth. Below, the terrified screams from the nave were growing louder and Bartholomew could hear Valeria laughing at him through the thunder. She thought she had won.

Then came the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, and he heard Michael’s distinctive pant. The monk burst into the chamber, Tulyet and Isnard behind him.

‘Enough,’ roared Michael, striding forward to haul Valeria away from the physician. ‘It is over now. Desist!’

But Valeria was not so easily dissuaded. A slash of her claws forced Michael to release her, and she raced towards the window, grabbing the lamp at the same time.

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, as she reached for the cloth.

Michael stormed towards her, but the floor was unequal to such a load. It began to disintegrate. The monk gritted his teeth and forced himself on and, just when the flame was a finger’s breadth from the cloth, he managed to seize Valeria and fling her backwards. But he was in trouble. Planks were crumbling beneath his feet, and in desperation he clutched at the tangle of cords. Bartholomew darted forward to save him, but it was too late. With a howl of alarm, the monk toppled out of the window and was left dangling high above the nave.

Jerking the ropes had set off a chain reaction. Sparks flew, and there was a burst of dazzling green light that made the people in the nave look up and howl their terror. The flames illuminated the black smoke Valeria had released earlier, and it illuminated the monk hanging above them.

‘No!’ shrieked Valeria, crawling towards the window. Her voice was all but drowned by the next thunderclap. ‘He has ruined everything! I am supposed to descend in a flurry of sights and sounds, not him!’

‘You were going to set the church on fire,’ yelled Bartholomew, desperately trying to work out which of the ropes would allow him to haul Michael to safety. ‘And incinerate–’

Valeria rounded on him with such violence that he recoiled. ‘Of course I am not going to burn the place!’ she screeched. ‘Why would I do that? I want people in awe of me, not dead.’

‘You have locked the doors,’ Bartholomew began. ‘And–’

‘So no one will be able to leave before the grand finale,’ she screamed, exasperated. ‘I have been a witch long enough to know folk are easily panicked, and I did not go to all this trouble to have them scurry out like frightened rabbits before they have seen the best parts.’

‘It was all her idea,’ said Mildenale, stabbing a finger at his accomplice. He winced when lightning lanced into his eyes. ‘I tried to stop her–’

‘Liar,’ Valeria snarled. ‘You are the one who has goaded the town into this frenzy, not me.’

‘I have seen something like this before,’ said Isnard, ignoring them both as he inspected the ropes. And before Bartholomew could stop him, he had set the lamp to the cloth. A wheel began to turn.

‘No!’ howled Valeria a second time, hurling herself at the bargeman. Tulyet intercepted her and held her in so tight a grip that she was unable to move.

Fascinated, Bartholomew watched machinery grind into action, and saw the swinging monk lowered gently to the nave floor in a fabulous display of smoke, sparks and fumes. Michael staggered slightly when he landed, then hurled the ropes away, as if he imagined he might be hauled back up again if they remained anywhere near him. And then it began to rain. First, there were just a few drops, which made small dark circles on the stone floor. Then there were more.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Suttone from the chancel, maintaining an admirable calm. ‘There you are. I was just telling everyone how you worked so tirelessly to give last rites during the Great Death.’

‘Is he the Sorcerer, then?’ asked Eyton. He looked disappointed. ‘I thought it was going to be the Sheriff.’

‘There is no Sorcerer,’ said Michael tiredly, glancing up as the rain intensified. ‘There is nothing but tricks and superstition. Go to the tower and look for yourselves. You will see the bowls and powders that were used to create this nasty little display.’

Then the heavens opened. Slowly, fear and confusion gave way to delight, as folk raised their hands to catch the precious drops, turning their faces skywards to let them be bathed in clean, cooling rain. The Chancellor and Heltisle performed a jigging dance together, and Suttone dropped to his knees to say a heartfelt prayer. Cynric did the same, although he did so while clutching one of his amulets.

‘It is true,’ said Eyton, returning a few moments later. Tulyet was with him, holding Valeria firmly by the arms, while Isnard had subdued Mildenale with the help of the Sheriff’s sword. ‘It was all a trick, said to have been put in motion by this lady, who claims to be Mother Valeria.’

‘That is not Mother Valeria,’ said Cynric with great conviction, eyeing the young woman with open disdain. ‘Mother Valeria is a real witch.’