‘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.
‘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–’