Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘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.’