Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘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.