By the time he had eased himself up on to one elbow, Mildenale had crossed his arms and was leaning against the wall, gloating. ‘No one listened to me as a Franciscan, so perhaps they will listen now,’ he was saying. ‘We took the idea from the Hardys and old man Tulyet.’
‘My father?’ asked Tulyet, startled. He had been advancing on Mildenale, but mention of his kinsman made him falter. ‘What does he have to do with this?’
‘He made a potion to help him predict the future, but he was not as good a diabolist as he thought, and managed to poison himself. John Hardy and his wife met a similar fate when they tried it, too.’
‘And you are better, I suppose?’ Michael made no effort to disguise his contempt.
‘I am. People have too much freedom, and it has led them down a dark path. I intend to terrify every man, woman and child in this miserable town, and force them to live their lives as I see fit. If they refuse, they can expect “the Sorcerer” to come and punish them. It is for their own good.’
He began to pace restlessly, moving closer to the door. There was another shimmer of light from the sky, and this time Bartholomew was certain a second person was watching from the shadows – someone dressed in the same kind of cloak as Mildenale. Bartholomew could only suppose it was the Rose-Man. He strained his eyes in the ensuing darkness, trying to see whether the fellow had a weapon.
‘You criticise people for following evil ways, and yet you are a magician,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘I think there is a hiccup in your logic here, Mildenale.’
‘I am different,’ said the friar. ‘I am not bound by the same constraints as others, because I know how to control dark forces. I have been reading about them for years. And yes, Brother, I did kill Thomas when he tried to stop me. Like William and Carton, he was supposed to support my work, not hinder it. He was a casualty of war – regrettable, but necessary. The same goes for you, I am afraid.’
‘Is that so,’ said Michael coldly. ‘What do you plan to do? Turn us into toads?’
Mildenale reached the door. ‘You will find out later. I cannot be bothered with you now.’
Suddenly, he was out in the churchyard, and the Rose-Man darted forward to slam the door closed behind him. Then both leaned against a nearby tombstone. The monument had not been there on Bartholomew’s previous visits, and he realised it must have been moved recently. It fell with a crash against the door, blocking it far more effectively than any key.
‘There,’ said Mildenale, regarding it with satisfaction. ‘That should keep them quiet until we have finished. And then we shall set the place alight, so they will never tell anyone what they have reasoned. I told you my plan would work.’
‘Where is the physician?’ demanded the Rose-Man. ‘He was with them earlier.’
Bartholomew held his breath when they began to hunt for him, daggers drawn, and only the fact that he had fallen between two graves saved him from discovery. Fortunately, it was not long before Mildenale informed his accomplice that their quarry must have gone inside the church, and that they should not waste any more time on him.
‘There will be plenty of opportunity to dispatch him later,’ he added as they walked away. His last words were drowned by the loudest thunderclap Bartholomew had ever heard, and the flickering light from above made the pair look as though they were walking in jerks, like puppets.
As soon as they had gone, Bartholomew hauled himself upright and hurried towards the charnel house. Michael and Tulyet were yelling and hammering furiously, but thick wood and thunder muffled the racket they were making. He heaved with all his might, but the stone did not budge and he knew he would never be able to move it without help. It needed a team of men, preferably ones armed with levers.
‘Matt?’ came Tulyet’s voice. ‘Is that you out there? Fetch soldiers from the castle. Hurry!’
Bartholomew set off along the path that led to the gate. He started to run, but the path was treacherously uneven and he had not taken many steps before he went sprawling. His timing was perfect, because the lightning suddenly turned night into day for several long moments and the uncut grass concealed him as Mildenale and the Rose-Man paused by the tower door to give the cemetery a long, sweeping look. Had he been standing, they would certainly have seen him.
He raised his head and watched them. They leaned close together, and there was a brief flash of light as Mildenale lit a lamp. Bartholomew tried to think clearly. Why were they using the tower door, rather than the main entrance at the end of the nave? It occurred to him that they might be about to set the whole thing alight, with their followers inside it, but dismissed the notion as insane. Why should they want their disciples incinerated? Gradually, it dawned on him that it might be intended as a demonstration of the Sorcerer’s strength. As Tulyet said, fear was a powerful weapon – and people would certainly be frightened if they knew the Sorcerer was willing to perpetrate such dreadful atrocities.
His suspicions were confirmed when Mildenale nodded to Refham, who closed the great west door then disappeared into the darkness: the blacksmith’s duties were done, and he was no longer needed. And the people inside the church were trapped.
There was no time to fetch soldiers to release Michael and Tulyet. Limping now, Bartholomew stumbled towards the tower door, intending to do all he could to prevent them from carrying out their horrible work. He paused for breath at the bottom of the stairs, then gasped in alarm at the sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder.
‘Easy!’ whispered Isnard. ‘It is only me.’
Bartholomew sagged in relief. Isnard would help him tackle Mildenale and the Rose-Man. Then he realised that the bargeman would not be very good at climbing spiral stairs on crutches, and that the noise he made would warn the villains of their approach. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair when he saw he was still alone.
Isnard jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the main body of the church. ‘Master Suttone is giving all sorts of touching examples about the sacrifices made by friars during the plague. I did not want anyone to see me weep, so I slipped outside to compose myself. But they seem to have locked the doors, and I cannot get back in–’
‘Michael and the Sheriff are trapped in the charnel house,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Go to the castle and fetch soldiers to free them. Hurry! The lives of a great many people depend on you.’
Without waiting to see whether the bargeman would do as he was told, Bartholomew began to climb the stairs. They were uneven, and the stairwell was pitch dark. He ascended slowly, wincing each time his shoes crunched on a twig, or his groping hands caused the friable masonry to crumble. After what seemed like an age, he reached the top, trying not to breathe too hard and alert them to his presence. Mildenale and the Rose-Man were standing by the window that looked into the nave; the physician recalled how he had used it to spy himself. He could hear Suttone, still preaching the sermon he had told the Carmelite to give. A cold dread gripped him when he realised that if anything happened to Suttone, then it would be his fault.
The chamber had changed since Bartholomew had last been there. More scaffolding and winches had been erected near the window, and bowls were brimming with liquids and powders. Mildenale was busily setting some alight, while the Rose-Man stood near the ropes and pulleys, ready to lower them into the church.