Susanna GREGORY: The Devil's Disciples

‘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.