‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘Goldynham was not my patient – he was Rougham’s. I never went anywhere near him during his final illness, so you have picked the wrong corpse to imitate. You should have chosen Margery or Thomas.’
Podiolo dismounted, and moved towards the bushes, sword at the ready. ‘What a fraud! He is wearing unspun wool for hair, and his cloak is not gold, but old yellow linen.’
Spaldynge tried to run away, but Bartholomew moved to intercept him. With a grimace, Spaldynge ripped off the wig. ‘How did you know?’ He sounded more disgusted with the physician for seeing through his disguise than ashamed of himself for playing such a trick.
‘It was obvious,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘Each of your previous appearances occurred shortly after I had met you, or when you might have seen me pass your College. You went home, collected cloak and hair, and waited for me to come back.’
‘You have never made a secret of your dislike for medici, either,’ added Podiolo. ‘And this is the act of a bitter, spiteful man. Even so, I am surprised you would sink so low.’
‘You run an infirmary, Podiolo,’ sneered Spaldynge. ‘So of course you will take Bartholomew’s side. You are as bad as each other.’
‘Actually, I know very little about medicine,’ said Podiolo, revealing lupine fangs in a cheerful grin that caused Spaldynge to back away uneasily. ‘I am much more interested in alchemy.’
‘You are the man who whispered at me in the churchyard, too,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Doubtless that was your original plan, but then you thought Goldynham offered better potential.’
Spaldynge laughed unpleasantly. ‘And it worked. I would have sent you mad eventually.’
‘In this climate of superstition and witchery?’ asked Podiolo, before Bartholomew could tell Spaldynge he had never been fooled by the disguise. ‘Do not be an ass! People have been reporting all manner of unearthly happenings for weeks. Look at Eyton. He saw Goldynham coming out of the ground, and it did not render him insane. Besides, you are the one who is losing his mind. Just look at yourself!’
Spaldynge regarded him with a burning dislike, and Bartholomew suspected the canon might have placed himself in line for some unpleasant remarks in the future. ‘Just stay away from me,’ the Clare man snarled, starting to move away. ‘Both of you.’
‘I am going to inform your Master about you,’ Podiolo called after him. ‘Bartholomew may be too gentlemanly to tell tales, but I am a Florentine. You will be sent away in disgrace.’
‘You would not dare,’ sneered Spaldynge, but when he glanced back at the Augustinian there was real unease in his eyes.
‘I would,’ said Podiolo. ‘However, I might keep silent if you tell us the identity of the Sorcerer.’
Spaldynge swallowed hard. ‘But I do not know it.’
Podiolo shrugged. ‘Then your Master is going to hear some interesting–’
‘No!’ cried Spaldynge, realising the canon was serious. ‘I am telling the truth. I have no idea who the Sorcerer might be – I swear it on my plague-dead kin.’
Podiolo grimaced. ‘Then we shall have to find something else for you to bribe me with. How about telling us where Mildenale is? He is missing, and Brother Michael wants a word with him.’
Spaldynge licked dry lips and looked positively furtive. ‘What makes you think I would know?’
‘Because his speeches led defenders of the Church to attack your College last night, and I doubt you were willing to overlook such an affront. You will have hunted him down, ready to exact revenge. Tell me where he is hiding, and I will keep your unsavoury piece of playacting to myself. However, if you lie, I will see you banished from Cambridge for ever.’
Spaldynge swallowed; Podiolo clearly meant what he said. ‘He is in the shops owned by Mistress Refham,’ he whispered, looking at his feet. ‘The buildings Michaelhouse wants to buy, and that have been promised to Mildenalus Sanctus as a hostel.’
The streets were busier than usual, considering it was growing dark, and Bartholomew supposed those people not waiting for the Sorcerer to make his appearance could sense the brewing change in the weather; it made them restless. As before, they gathered in knots, although they were bigger than when he had left, more like gangs. It was unusual to see scholars and townsmen in the same clusters, and he found it disconcerting. It was like a civil war, where it was not clear who was the enemy. Prior Pechem was with a group of butchers, telling them the Devil planned evil work that night, while Eyton was selling charms and gobbling honey as if there were no tomorrow. Perhaps, Bartholomew thought grimly, for some folk, there would not be. He saw Meadowman, and asked whether Michael had had any luck in uncovering the identity of the Sorcerer. The beadle’s expression was grim.
‘Not as of a few moments ago, and he is getting desperate. He has not managed to track down Mildenale, either, although the man has certainly set his fires burning.’
Podiolo sniffed the air. ‘I smell no fires.’
‘I mean the fires of heresy,’ explained Meadowman impatiently. ‘Small pockets of fanatics, all yelling that everyone will be damned unless they go to church. Father William was leading one in St Michael’s churchyard, and his followers threw stones at me when I tried to break it up.’
‘William threw stones at a beadle?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. It did not sound like the kind of thing the friar would do, even in his more rabid moments.
‘Not him – his disciples. He tried to make them stop, but they called him a witch-lover. There are dozens of these little demonstrations, and Brother Michael thinks they might be more dangerous than whatever the Sorcerer is planning. We are trying to break them up, but as soon as we put down one, another springs up somewhere else.’
‘They are centred around churches?’ asked Bartholomew.
Meadowman nodded. ‘And chapels and shrines. We do not have enough men to cover them all, but he says we must try. Can I borrow your horse? It might lend me more authority.’
His face was pale with worry as he rode towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where shouting could be heard. Someone was bawling the words of a mass, although it did not sound like a very holy occasion. It was accompanied by defiant cheers and whoops.
‘Shall we tackle Mildenale ourselves?’ asked Podiolo. ‘Or find Brother Michael?’
‘Find Michael. What is Mildenale thinking, to set the town afire like this? He will drive people into the Sorcerer’s arms, not encourage them into the churches.’
‘He has encouraged enough into churches,’ said Podiolo soberly, nodding towards All Saints-in-the-Jewry as they hurried past. Lights burned within, and someone in a pulpit was wagging a finger at a far larger congregation than ever assembled on a Sunday.
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.