The Refham houses were dark and quiet when they arrived in St Michael’s Lane. The shutters were closed on the windows, and the doors were locked.
‘Mildenale is not here,’ said Podiolo, disgusted. ‘We have wasted yet more time.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think clearly. ‘We should look inside, to see if he really has been using one of these shops as a hideout. Or perhaps he left something here that may tell us where he has gone.’
‘Shall I kick down the door?’ asked Podiolo, brightening at the prospect of action.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the Florentine was a little less bellicose. ‘One of the back windows has a broken shutter.’
He led the way along an alley that was so narrow he was obliged to walk sideways. It led into a dirty yard, which had three windows. He stepped up to the nearest, grabbed the wood and pulled as hard as he could. It dropped off its rusty hinges and crashed to the ground. Podiolo laughed his delight.
‘This is fun! I must keep company with you more often – I have not committed burglary in years.’
Bartholomew climbed through the window, and when he paused halfway to catch his breath, Podiolo gave him a shove that sent him sprawling, then scrambled in after him. There was a lamp on a shelf, which the Florentine lit while the physician took in the chaos of scrolls, parchments and books that lay around them. There was a makeshift table and two stools, and everything suggested someone had been busy there. Bartholomew picked up one of the texts. And then another.
‘I doubt these belong to Mildenale,’ he said in confusion. ‘They are all about the occult.’
‘So they are.’ Podiolo frowned. ‘However, Carton told me he was gathering heretical texts to burn. Is this Carton’s collection, do you think?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘These are different.’
‘Here is a handbook for witches,’ said Podiolo, picking up a black tome that was wrapped in cloth and leafing through it. ‘How strange it should be here, in a place where Mildenale clearly likes to work.’
Bartholomew sat on a stool and tried to organise his tumbling thoughts. ‘That particular book was in Carton’s collection, although it went missing recently. Does that mean Mildenale took it? Or are we basing too much on Spaldynge’s intelligence? There is nothing to prove Mildenale was here.’
‘I disagree,’ said Podiolo, squinting at the manual in the dim light. ‘Here are marginal notes written in Mildenale’s hand – I would recognise that scrawl anywhere. However, it looks as though he has been studying it, not merely reading it. Furthermore, the ink has faded on some of his annotations, which suggests this book has been in his possession for a considerable length of time.’
Bartholomew picked up a text that was lying open on the table. It was entitled The Book of Secrets, and was adorned with a black pentagram. ‘Mildenale was carrying this the other day,’ he said. ‘He claimed he was going to burn it, although he was also carrying books he said he was going to put in his new hostel’s library.’
‘I think he lied to you about that,’ said Podiolo. ‘It looks to me as though he has been reading it.’
‘I do not understand any of this,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to be overwhelmed.
‘I do,’ said Podiolo grimly. He held the witches’ handbook aloft. ‘This manual belonged to Mildenale, and Carton stole it from him. And do you know why? Because Carton had a mortal terror of heretical texts, and must have thought it too dangerous a thing to leave in Mildenale’s hands.’ He grabbed another book. ‘And here is a copy of a treatise by Trotula, a woman healer Carton abhorred. It is in Mildenale’s writing.’
Bartholomew struggled to understand what the evidence was telling him. ‘Deynman heard Mildenale arguing with Carton – Carton wanted to burn these books, but was waiting until he had enough for a good blaze, while Mildenale wanted them destroyed immediately … no! Mildenale said he would destroy them immediately, and demanded that Carton hand them over. Carton refused.’
‘In other words, Mildenale wanted them first – to read them or make copies. But Mildenale is a fanatic who claims to despise everything to do with heresy. Why would he bother to replicate such tomes?’
‘For the same reason he collected those, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a shelf on which sat an assortment of dried frogs, black candles and glass pots.
Podiolo went to inspect them. ‘I have been an alchemist long enough to recognise satanic regalia when I see it. These are items used to summon the Devil.’
‘Mildenale is a witch?’ Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But he is the Church’s most vocal supporter!’
‘He certainly gives that impression,’ said Podiolo soberly. ‘But the contents of his lair suggest otherwise.’
Bartholomew’s mind reeled. ‘I still do not understand what–’
Podiolo grabbed his arm. ‘Neither do I, but we must tell Michael as soon as possible.’
Chapter 12
The streets were almost completely dark as Bartholomew and Podiolo left Mildenale’s lair, and people were out with torches. There was an atmosphere of expectation and excitement that reminded Bartholomew more of Christmas than of violence to come. It was eerie, and he was not sure what it meant, which was disturbing in itself. He met his brother-in-law, who was standing outside his house with his apprentices.
‘We are waiting for the Sorcerer to make himself known,’ Stanmore explained when Bartholomew shot him a questioning glance. ‘Midnight cannot be more than three hours away, and we are all keen to see who he is. Langelee tells me it is the Chancellor, but I disagree. I suspect Tulyet.’
‘Dick?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief.
Stanmore nodded. ‘He commands authority, and the Sorcerer will not be a weakling. Are you all right, Matt? You look exhausted.’
‘I need to find Michael.’
‘I saw him waddling towards St Mary the Great a few moments ago. Did you see that smoke in the north earlier? That was Mother Valeria’s house going up in flames. Isnard says she was in it at the time, and that she died screaming some dreadful curses.’
Bartholomew gazed at him in shock, but before he could express his revulsion at such a vile, cowardly act, there was a sudden flicker of lightning that had the apprentices cooing in wonder.
‘Here it comes,’ said one, barely containing his glee. ‘The Sorcerer is readying himself for his performance, and I do not think we will be disappointed.’
‘Lightning is a natural phenomenon,’ said Bartholomew, knowing he was wasting his time but unable to stop himself. ‘It happens when there is a storm brewing.’
‘The Sorcerer said he was going to end the heatwave,’ said Stanmore. ‘Thank God he has made good on his promise. The only person who likes it is Heltisle of Bene’t College, but he has always been a little odd. However, he does have a commanding presence. Perhaps he is the Sorcerer.’
The apprentices cheered when there was a second flash of lightning, and the novices from the nearby Carmelite priory joined in. The Carmelites were known for brawling with townsmen, and Bartholomew braced himself for trouble. But there was some good-natured back-slapping, a few jockeying comments, and the friars went on their way. Once again, the physician was confused by the allegiances that seemed to be forming between groups that were usually sworn enemies.
‘This promises to be an interesting night,’ said Stanmore, rubbing his hands together with a grin. ‘Although we shall go indoors if the clerics make trouble.’
‘The senior clerics,’ corrected one of his boys. ‘The junior ones are all right – it is only old bigots like William and Mildenalus Sanctus who are making a fuss. They were preaching against the Sorcerer earlier, and some folk foolishly believed what they were saying.’