The Devil's Disciples (51 page)

‘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.