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.’
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.’