‘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.’
But there was something about Mildenale’s smug carelessness that made alarm bells jangle in Bartholomew’s mind, and he began to have grave misgivings about the wisdom of assaulting the charnel house. Mildenale had set guards on the church, so surely he would not have left himself open to attack? The physician eased to one side, and tried to see whether anyone else was inside the building – someone who might even now be preparing to launch an ambush of his own. And with Senior Proctor and Sheriff out of the way, the town was infinitely more vulnerable. He could see no one, even when lightning flooded the hut with a blinding brightness. The thunder that accompanied it this time was so loud it hurt his ears. From the church, several cries of alarm interrupted Suttone’s monologue.
‘I shall not betray the only friend I have here,’ said Mildenale evenly, clasping his hands together. He did not look heavenward, though: his eyes were fixed firmly on Michael and Tulyet. ‘How did you know about Margery? Did Dickon tell you? The little brat was always spying on her. I wanted to cast a spell on him, but she would not let me. I was fond of her, but she was too weak for what I have in mind, so it is just as well she died when she did.’
‘Then tell me why you betrayed your Church,’ said Michael coldly. He gestured at the friar’s exotic garb. ‘This is not right.’
The whole situation was not right, thought Bartholomew, becoming increasingly convinced that something was about to go horribly wrong. Instinctively, he backed away from the door, still trying to work out what it could be. Alarm and exhaustion had transformed his wits to mud, and he could not think clearly. As he moved, his foot plunged into a rabbit hole, and he lost his balance. He fell backwards, landing neatly between two graves with enough of a thump to drive the breath from his body. For a moment his senses reeled, and all he could do was stare up at the sky. A distant part of his mind noted that there were no stars, and he supposed thunderclouds had rolled in. Almost immediately, another long flicker of lightning illuminated them, dark and heavy-bellied with rain. He thought he saw something else, too: a pale face not far from the charnel house. But then it went dark again and he was no longer certain.