Love Hate & Betrayal Read online

  The Apothecary Series

  Book one

  Love, Hate & Betrayal

  Linda Sole

  Copyright 2011 Linda Sole

  Ilustrators

  Background Tempora Nig

  Cover design Regina Paul

  Note from the author

  This book was published briefly in kindle previously but when I downloaded I found a couple of faults so I have revised it heavily and it is now republished, hopefully free of faults.

  This is a big medieval and the first of at least two books in the series. I have cut the length of the book I originally published by transferring some of it to the second, because I think it makes it easier for the reader to follow this way.

  Look out for The Sorcerer’s Revenge, which is the second book. If my readers enjoy these books and buy them I shall write further books in the series.

  I hope you enjoy the book.

  Best wishes, Linda Sole

  PROLOGUE

  Italy, In the year of our Lord 1251

  The crowded waterfront stank that night after one of the hottest days that summer, a slight breeze carrying the stench of the river into homes and shops, making the air unfit to breathe. The filthy water of the Tiber was often the recipient of dead children and beasts; their unwanted corpses tossed carelessly away, to be eaten by the rats, which lived in holes on the banks of the river. Legend had it that long ago, King Tiberius Silvus drowned in the River Albua, which was renamed in his honour. Jupiter had made him the guardian of its waters and some considered the water had magical powers. In these murky depths Romulus and Remus were thrown to die but were rescued by a she-wolf and founded the great empire of Rome. Yet here there was no glory or magic: sickness was rife amongst the hovels inhabited by the dregs of humanity forced to exist in this disease-ridden place.

  In the shadows the man was hardly noticeable, wrapped in the dark cloak, which concealed the long gown of a nobleman, his head covered by a hood that was meant to hide his face. He walked purposefully, a sack over his shoulder containing the potions he intended to use that night in an attempt to heal several members of the same family, who had fallen sick. The disease they carried was unnamed but recognised by the rash and scarlet patches on the skin all over their body, also the terrible fever that sent many victims near mad, and was feared by rich and poor alike. Where the dread sickness visited few were left to tell the tale. Perhaps alone in the sleeping city this one man was unafraid of the contagious disease, which could, if it caught hold, sweep through the population scything down young and old.

  Most physicians would refuse to set foot in this hellhole, but this man visited regularly at the dark of night, his business secret and dangerous. A man of wealth and position, he yet feared the religious bigots who would condemn him as a heretic and a sorcerer for daring to think he might cure a plague that they believed was sent from God as a punishment for Man’s eternal sin.

  Reaching the hovel he sought, the apothecary tapped at the door and it opened immediately. A man came to greet him. He bowed humbly, attempting to take and kiss the hand that offered him food and drink, though this show of gratitude was not allowed him. The visitor demanded one thing only in return for his help. No member of the family must leave the house even to purchase food or drink until the contagion was at an end.

  ‘How is the boy and Talia?’ the apothecary asked. ‘Has the medicine I left yesterday eased their symptoms?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the man replied. ‘They have less fever and I believe Talia’s rash has almost gone. Unhappily, my father is failing. He could not even swallow water this afternoon and I think his life is almost done.’

  ‘Your father is old, Antonius,’ the apothecary said gently. ‘A virulent disease such as this is harder to fight when you are old, though it also takes the young – and sometimes strong men fall first.’

  ‘I should have died had you not tended me when I lay in my fever. You came to tend my mother, God rest her soul, when she lay dying of the wasting sickness, and saw that I had a dread disease. Since then my wife and children have all taken it, though my precious Elena has recovered her health and only the scars on her face remain. What ails us, my lord?’

  ‘You have no need to know. For your own sake and mine keep what takes place here secret. There are those who would not hesitate to destroy me if they could.’

  ‘You have an enemy, my lord. Count Santos hates you. He sent men to ask questions but none of us would answer.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘He asked if you used sorcery in your healing, my lord. He wanted to know if you made signs and incantations over the sick or called on the Devil to aid you. I told the man who came here that I had seen so sign of the black arts, merely a good man who tries to help the sick and starving.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The apothecary smiled. He had a thin face, his skin sallow and his nose a little proud making him resemble a bird of prey at times. No one would call him handsome, except perhaps his mother when he was a child. She, like his father, had died long since, leaving the apothecary to make his own way in the world. He was entitled to use a proud title but here everyone spoke of him as the Apothecary. ‘I fear you waste your breath in praising me. The voices that speak against me are louder and more powerful. The time may come when you will see me no more.’

  ‘That will be a sad day for my family and for others in these parts.’ Antonius said. ‘I shall pray to the Gods to keep you safe, my lord.’

  ‘Be careful what you say. You speak of the old gods and you must know that your words could be taken as blasphemy.’

  ‘I meant no harm, my lord.’

  ‘I know that, my friend, but take care none the less. We are none of us safe from the religious zealots that rule our churches. They would see our bodies waste with disease while they pray for our souls. We are encouraged to believe that sickness and pain are sent to teach us to accept the will of God and to reach a higher state of Grace. It is my opinion that God would not demand such suffering but this also is seen as blasphemy and a crime against their laws – laws made for their benefit I believe, rather than God’s. They fear knowledge lest it prove their downfall and we reject their teachings.’

  Antonius looked frightened for such words were dangerous and he did not understand their meaning. ‘Come, my lord. Talia still suffers the most. Perhaps you will see her first?’

  ‘You are wise. We should both watch what we say for walls may sometimes conceal ears.’ The apothecary smiled. In this house he did not fear betrayal but he knew that his time was limited. For his own safety he should perhaps have moved on before this night.

  *

  The first rays of the sun had touched the sky when the apothecary left the settlement by the river. While he was treating the family of Antonius a knock at the door had brought news that the disease was in other houses. Going from hovel to hovel, the apothecary had done what he could. His medicines contained many things; some of the ingredients like Hycoscyamus niger or henne-belle would ease pain and give the patient rest, but taken in large doses could be fatal. He tried to impress on the people he treated that they must use only the amounts he prescribed, but he was not sure they had listened. Because each patient needed careful attention, he had stayed longer than was safe. It could be dangerous if he were seen leaving the village, because he might be reported to those who served his enemy. He knew that he was watched. His enemies sought to bring him down and would use anything they could to incriminate him.

  It was as he was he reached the brow of the hill where his villa was situated, that he gazed back at the settlement and saw a strange glow lighting the sky. That red glow was not the sun’s first gentle rays but a different source of heat and light. When the thic
k smoke began to rise into the sky, forming a black choking cloud that hovered and floated overhead like a great dragon, the apothecary knew that something he had long feared had happened. In their terror of the dread disease that had begun in the hovels by the river, the townspeople had decided to burn it out.

  Now the apothecary could hear screaming and yelling as people abandoned their homes and ran for their lives. His first thought was to return and help where he could but he was only one man. Whoever had taken the decision to destroy the settlement would have sent a force of armed men. He was neither a soldier nor a match for one. His medicines and skill might help to heal those injured in the fire. Once the survivors had escaped they would need money, food and clothing for everything they possessed would have been lost.

  They all knew where he lived, though most pretended not to know his name. Yet when they needed help they would come to the apothecary. Sickened by the brutality and hatred that had prompted the ruthless destruction of people’s home and lives, he turned towards his home. The thought of bathing in the pool within his gardens, clean clothes and food were appealing after his night’s work, which was as good as lost after what had just happened.

  As he walked through the gardens towards his home, enjoying the scent of roses, oleanders and jasmine, he felt a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck. The apothecary was not surprised when he saw several armed soldiers and a man wearing the robes of a priest waiting for him on the steps leading up to his beautiful villa.

  ‘You are Count Niccolai Malvolia?’

  Niccolai raised his head and looked the priest in the eyes. The man was stout, his head shaven in a tonsure. He had a sour unclean smell about him that turned Niccolai’s stomach.

  ‘Do you deny that you are a sorcerer and that you use the black arts to usurp the powers that rightly belong to God?’

  ‘I do deny the charge of sorcery,’ Niccolai replied. ‘I use what little skill I have to relieve the suffering of those I can help. I claim no power. I am but a man and I do what I can to help my brothers.’

  ‘You make your experiments on the scum that live by the river,’ the priest said, his eyes cold and deadly like the gaze of a poisonous snake. ‘You bring the foul disease that ferments in the filth of those wretched hovels and spread it amongst the rest of us. You deny God and the church. You are a blasphemer and a sorcerer and you will face the charges against you this day at an ecclesiastical court convened for your trial.’

  ‘You mean I am to be tortured, beaten and then burned to satisfy the vanity of your superiors. My only crime it to try and defeat the cruel diseases that take so many lives. I do not deny God – only your vision of God. My God would not think it a sin to save life…’

  ‘You are a blasphemer condemned out of your own mouth. We have proof of your evil dabbling in the black arts. You may save your soul if you confess your sin.’

  A smile touched Niccolai’s mouth. ‘My body is finished whatever I do. There will be little worth saving when your torturers have done with me.’

  ‘Take him! Take the blasphemer.’

  Niccolai did not struggle as the soldiers moved to lay hands on him. There were too many for him to fight and he would not give the priest the satisfaction of seeing him struggle.

  ‘I am a man of peace and healing, perhaps not unlike the prophet Christ,’ he said and saw the horror in the priest’s face. ‘Arrest me if you must for I shall not beg for mercy.’

  ‘Oh, you will beg,’ the priest said, his eyes narrowed and glittering with malice. ‘Believe me, Malvolia. You will scream for mercy in the end – they all do…’

  ONE

  Yorkshire, in the year of Our Lord 1254

  The great hall, so recently the scene of fierce fighting, echoed to the sound of laughter and stamping feet. Splashes of blood stained the grey stone walls and made the rushes sticky beneath the boots of those assembled to celebrate the great victory that had been won this day. Above their heads, the vaulted ceilings were painted with the arms of the proud family that had owned the castle for more than a hundred years. Cherubs and dragons, gleaming with gold leaf and untouched by the scene below, smiled down benevolently. The men were noisy, shouting and raising their wine cups to the lord who had led them so fearlessly, elated by their triumph. Then, quite suddenly, a hushed silence fell on the assembled company as the woman walked towards the high table. Astonishment was on every face.

  How dare she come here? They had believed she had fled with all her women, but it seemed that she would dare anything. Men-at-arms, who did not flinch from death by the sword, looked at each other, fear and superstition in their eyes. Some muttered a prayer they hoped would keep them safe for it was whispered that she had the evil eye.

  Beautiful, her long red hair windblown and tangled, with high cheekbones and a wide sensual mouth and slanted eyes, she had a presence that commanded attention. There was not one of those present that did not know her: until this day she had been chatelaine of this castle, wife to its rightful lord. Dressed from head to toe in an enveloping black cloak, which hid her body from curious eyes, her face was as cold and white as the snow falling over the Yorkshire moors. Her eyes were wild, blazing with an anger so terrible that it struck fear into the hearts of barons who would not fear death in battle. One or two crossed themselves, others reached for their swords, yet none moved against her – even when she raised her arm and pointed at the man who sat in the place of honour.

  ‘I curse you, Montroy,’ she cried in a loud voice that carried to every corner of the hall. ‘For what you have done this day, I curse all those who serve you. You have murdered my brother and you will live to regret every drop of the precious blood you spilled so wantonly. When my husband returns to England, you will die, as you deserve.’

  ‘Daubeney deserved his fate.’ The Earl of Montroy leaped to his feet. A large man with black hair and beard, he was a fearsome sight for he had not bothered to put off his battle dress or wash the stains of blood from his hands and clothes. ‘Your husband murdered my brother and I vowed revenge. Now it is taken.’

  ‘You are a liar,’ the woman cried. ‘My husband killed your brother in fair fight by the laws of combat. You were not in England. You did not know that your brother was convicted of treason. He was given the choice to die at the block or prove his innocence in a fight to the death. My husband was the King’s champion, appointed by Prince Edward in King Henry’s absence, and my brother his squire. Now my brother is dead at your hands. I curse you and all your descendants. You murdered him and many of my people lie dead this day. The blood of innocents stains your hands. May your sins find you out and may you die in agony of body and mind…’

  ‘Damn you! Be quiet woman.’ the earl thundered down at her. ‘I gave orders to let you live for you are but a woman and with child but if you continue to plague me with your curses I shall have you hung – as the sorceress some claim you are.’

  ‘Do as you will with me, but my curse is on you – and my husband will avenge me when he returns.’

  ‘The Earl Devereaux does not frighten me; my brother was but a youth not much older than yours. I took a life for a life,’ Montroy snarled. He turned to his men-at-arms, who stood poised and waiting. ‘Cast her out of the castle and if she returns you have my permission to put her to the sword.’ There was a murmur of dissent from some of the company, and men looked at one another, shame and fear in their eyes. ‘Do as I say, damn you.’ he growled.

  ‘She has powers of witchcraft, my lord,’ one man spoke up at last. ‘None here dare kill her.’

  ‘Fools! Every last one of you. She is but a woman. Give me my sword and I will do it myself.’ He grasped the heavy broadsword that he had earlier used to kill the young knight left in charge of Devereaux Castle in the earl’s absence. The blade was still stained with the blood of the youth’s followers as he raised it high above his head, towering over her. Yet when the woman looked up, something held his arm. Suddenly, his sword was so heavy he could not move it and he
felt as if he had been paralysed.

  ‘I shall leave this accursed place. There is nothing here for me now,’ she said, her voice softer now, dangerous, filled with hatred. ‘Think of me when you lie sleepless, Montroy, and remember. My husband will avenge my brother and me…’

  At that moment a dog howled mournfully, the sound strangely eerie and foreboding, sending shivers down the spines of those watching.

  The countess turned and left Montroy standing there with his arms raised above his head. He was unable to move until she had left the hall, and then the sword fell from his hands and he felt the crippling pain curl up his left arm. He bent double as the pain seemed to crush his chest; his eyes rolled, he fell to the ground and lay kicking and foaming at the mouth.

  Cries of alarm came from all sides as men and women crowded round him, and there were murmurs of witchcraft and the black arts. One woman, older than the rest, her face lined with care, her finger nails bent over into talons like a bird of prey, pushed her way through the stunned assembly and knelt at the earl’s side.

  ‘It be not witchcraft but a seizure,’ she cried after she had looked at him. ‘My father died of a fit such as this and so do others. He is not bewitched but overcome by weariness from battle. Carry your lord to his chamber and put him to bed. Let the physicians tend him and if the Lord wills it he may recover…’

  *

  Melloria had been walking for what seemed like hours. She was alone for she had sent her women on to the Abbey earlier, telling them that she had something to do before she followed. Alicia, the youngest and sweetest of her ladies, had wept and begged to be allowed to stay with her, but she pushed her away and bid her do as she was told. The others had held her arm, dragging her with them as they obeyed their mistress.

  Melloria had known that she risked death by returning to curse Montroy but her heart was filled with bitterness towards the man who had killed her young brother and many others of her household. Peter Daubeney was scarcely fifteen; a tall, beautiful, long-limbed youth who loved music, dancing and poetry. He had been dutiful in all his lessons and he had fought bravely to defend the castle and his sister, but he was unequal to the task.