‘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.