The Sorceror's Revenge Page 11

  It was Joanne’s task to care for the children but sometimes she was careless and lazy. Melloria did not wish to challenge the woman for she suspected that Joanne might be otherwise occupied. Instead, she beckoned to one of the housecarls and asked him to watch over the children for her.

  Alone in her room, Melloria looked through her collection of books. Amongst others, she had a copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, penned a century before, also the popular romances, King Horn and Floris and Blaunchefleur. She picked up a book of fables that Nicholas had once given her. It was a story of knights and ladies and bold deeds that might amuse her children. When she lived with Nicholas, Melloria had sung lullabies to her daughter at night. Nicholas had told the child stories. He had often read to Melloria from the story of Tristan and Iseult, also other favourites like the Song of Roland and tales of long ago. His reading voice was soft and deep and he had never failed to hold her.

  Robert scarcely looked at a book and he would never think of reading to his children, but perhaps it was time that Melloria began to teach them a love of such things.

  She took the book back into the hall and found that they had already begun to fall out once more. However, when she called them to her and opened the book they quietened.

  ‘Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a King of England called Harold,’ she began. ‘He was a good king and ruled his kingdom well, but over the sea in Normandy there was a duke called William, and he believed that the kingdom of England belonged to him. One day he began to assemble a great army. He gathered ships and men and horses and he set sail across the sea to the island where King Harold ruled.’

  ‘Father says we hold the castle for the King, because his family fought for Duke William.’

  Harry looked pleased with himself for knowing that and Iolanthe scowled, because she thought him a baby and because he knew more than she of the family history.

  ‘Yes, that is right, Harry,’ Melloria said. ‘Have you heard about the tapestry the ladies of Normandy embroidered to commemorate that great victory?’

  Harry shook his head, crestfallen when Iolanthe said, ‘It was the Bayeaux tapestry, Mama. You told me about it when we were sewing together.’

  ‘Yes, that is right, Iolanthe. The duke killed King Harold and became King of England and your father’s family were given lands here. Your father’s great, great grandfather was the first earl…’

  ‘My lady…’ Joanne came belatedly to the hall. ‘Forgive me for neglecting my duty. I was otherwise engaged.’

  There was such a sly, triumphant look in the woman’s eyes that Melloria had difficulty in holding her temper. She was almost certain that she knew what had delayed Joanne. There was a flushed look about her and her hair was untidy, as if she had just risen from her bed.

  ‘I was reading to the children,’ Melloria said. ‘But now you are here you may play with them. I have some sewing to do.’

  ‘May I come with you, Mama?’ Iolanthe asked.

  ‘Not this time. Perhaps later.’

  Returning to her chamber, Melloria sat on a stool before the fire. Her embroidery was beside her in a basket but she made no attempt to pick it up, merely staring into the flames. She was angry and humiliated because she suspected that Joanne had been with Robert, but she had no one but herself to blame. He would come to her bed rather than the serving woman’s if she would accept him.

  It was not just because of her vow that Melloria would not welcome Robert to her bed, though perhaps if he had found her missing daughter she might have yielded to him. Her heart belonged to Nicholas and she thought it always would. Wrong as it was, she could never accept Robert as her husband, and that meant he would take other women to his bed. She was as much to blame as he and she must accept it. Yet sometimes her life in the castle became almost unbearable.

  Her mind returned to the time when she had been called Anne and believed herself the wife of Nicholas Malvern, who was also Count Niccolai Malvolia. She let herself drift into a dream. She was lying by his side and they had just made love. Her body felt blissfully light, as if she could float away, dissolve into the man she loved so much that she was a part of him.

  ‘Nicholas,’ she murmured softly. ‘Where are you, my love?’ A tear trickled down her cheek but she brushed it away. She would not indulge in self-pity. She stiffened as the door was flung open and her husband walked in.

  ‘I am thinking of visiting my lands in the north soon. Will you come with me?’

  ‘You know that I cannot bear to visit the castle there,’ Melloria said, her face white with remembered grief. ‘After what happened there…how could you ask it of me, Robert?’

  ‘Surely enough time has passed? We were happy there once. When we were first married…’

  ‘Please do not ask it of me. I would prefer to stay here.’

  ‘You never miss a chance to thwart me, do you?’ Robert said bitterly. ‘Very well, Melloria. Forget I asked. ‘I shall leave you to your prayers and your tears. Whatever happens now is your fault – the consequence of your stubborn pride.’

  What pray did he mean by that? She wondered and then put it from her mind. What did it matter? Nothing he could do could touch her.

  She looked at the door as he went out and slammed it behind him. Once again she had angered Robert, but he must have known how she felt about his castle on the Yorkshire Moors. The day the castle was taken, her young brother slain and she cast out into a snowy night, would be etched into her mind forever.

  Her heart ached and she was filled with a lonely need that could not be filled.

  ‘Nicholas my love. I need you so…’

  * * *

  Niccolai sat at his board writing in his journal. He had been tending a woman with a painful illness and he wanted to enter all the details so that he could be certain he was giving his patient the best treatment possible.

  Suddenly, he felt such a violent pain in his chest that for a moment he thought he was ill, but then he heard her voice and knew that it was Melloria’s pain he was feeling. She was in distress, and as so often in the past he felt it with her. Closing his eyes, he concentrated the power of his mind on her and gradually the picture became clear. She was not ill. Her distress was of the heart and mind.

  ‘Be strong, my love,’ he said softly. ‘I promise that it will not be long now. For the moment I can only come to you in spirit but soon now I shall be with you in the flesh, and then you will be with me for the rest of our lives. I shall have your daughters and you will never be hurt or sad again. Remember I love you.’

  Getting to his feet, Nicholas went to the fire and looked down at the flames. He took some powder into his hand from a pot on the mantle and cast it into the heart of the flames. The fire flared and glowed red and gold, and in the flames he saw the man on whom he had vowed vengeance.

  ‘For every hurt you cause her, you shall suffer twice as much. May your soul be damned to Hell, fiend. Go where you belong.’

  Returning to his board, Nicholas massaged his temples. He banished the pain, taking up his pen and beginning to write once more.

  22

  Marta sat on the grass at the side of the road and looked at her swollen feet. She could walk no further that day. She had been in pain for most of the past week and now she could hardly put her right foot to the ground. Turning it over to investigate, she saw that the pad was badly blistered and some of the blisters had broken. Tears sprang to her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Why did everything seem to go wrong for her? Was it because of her terrible sin?

  She had thought for a while that things were beginning to get better again. Will had done well with his leather goods at the fair at Rouen, for he had lost none of his skill at making fine belts and boots so soft that they felt like air on your feet. People liked him and remembered him, coming to him for their goods time after time.

  He was a fine big man with long fair hair and blue eyes that lit from within when he smiled. Marta thought that he
could charm the birds from the air if he chose, and when he smiled women flocked to buy his wares. She herself had been charmed by him when he arrived at her brother’s house that day, but the scales had fallen from her eyes and she knew his faults now. He was charming and generous, but he was also careless and she knew that he lied to her.

  At the moment he was in a good mood, money burning in his pocket. Perhaps now was the time to speak to him about buying another horse and cart. She could not continue with this restless life unless they had a wagon for her to ride on. Will and Mary seemed to have boundless energy but she was not as well as she might be. She had walked all the way from the Yorkshire moors to Winchester once, a journey of hundreds of miles, which had taken her many months, but that had been when Mary was a baby. The years of wandering from one place to another had taken their toll of her and of late she had been feeling very tired. Sometimes she felt a pain in her chest and once or twice she had coughed up spots of blood. She tried not to think about it, but a part of her wondered if she would see another winter out.

  Marta knew that Will had not earned enough money to purchase the horse and cart, but she still had the gold coins she had taken from her brother Todd’s hiding place under the kitchen floor, at his house in Winchester. She had never told anyone of the gold in her money pouch and she had no idea what the coins were worth. How many of them would be needed to buy a horse and cart? She took three coins from her purse, leaving three for emergencies. Would it be enough? She could only hope so for otherwise the money would be spent on drink and gambling, amongst other things. Marta was certain that Will had not been faithful to her all these years, but he kept his dalliance private and never spoke of a parting. She had been grateful for his company, and a warm body by her side when she lay down at night, and so she accepted his straying and the gambling. However, she would keep some money in reserve just in case.

  Will had noticed that she was not with them. He looked over his shoulder and saw her sitting by the side of the road. At once he turned back and came to her, looking down at her in concern.

  ‘What troubles you, Marta?’

  ‘I cannot walk much further today,’ she told him. ‘My feet are painful and I cannot keep up with you.’

  Will knelt down and looked at the swelling. His hands were gentle and careful as he examined her feet. She winced as he touched the pad of her right foot. ‘That looks bad, Marta. How long have you been like this?’

  ‘They have been getting worse for the past week. I’m sorry, Will, but I must rest for a few days. Perhaps this will help…’ She held out her hand, opening it so that he could see the gold coins lying on her palm. ‘I found these lying in the road a while back. Is it enough to buy us a horse and cart? I do not know what they are – do you?’

  Will picked up one of the coins, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘They are gold Bezants, foreign coins, Marta. I am not sure where they were minted but they are worth at least two or three English silver pounds each, perhaps more. I’ve never had one before so I’m not certain of their value but they should certainly buy us a horse and cart.’ His blue eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘Sit here with Mary, and I’ll walk on to the inn. It cannot be more than another league or so. I’ll fetch a wagon for you and you’ll walk no more until those feet are better.’ He took a flask from his pack. ‘Bathe your feet with water and bind them with this.’ He pulled a linen shirt from the pack. ‘Tear it into strips and by the time you’ve finished I’ll be back with the cart.’

  ‘This is your second best shirt, Will,’ she objected. ‘I can’t tear it up for bandages. I’ve an old shift that will do. Keep your shirt.’

  ‘As long as you bind them,’ Will said and stuffed his shirt back into his pack. He called to Mary and she came running. ‘Stay with your mother and help her. I shall not be long.’

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘Take her with you,’ Marta said. ‘She’s more trouble to me than help.’

  Will looked at her, disapproval in his eyes. ‘You shouldn’t speak of the child that way, Marta. It isn’t her fault if things go wrong for you. You may come with me, Mary. Your mother will look after herself, as usual.’

  Marta watched as the pair walked off together. Will so strong and carefree, the child skipping happily at his side to keep up with his long strides. She wondered if he would have come back if she hadn’t sent the child with him. One of these days he would leave her and Mary. She knew it, as she had known it all these years, but she tried to tell herself that it would not be yet. Her looks had long gone. She had suffered too much hardship. Life was taking a heavy toll of her and she was not sure how much longer she could continue in this way. One day soon she would find a place that suited her and then she would tell Will to go on without her. She was not sure if he would take the child.

  As she bent to tend her feet she became aware that someone was watching her. A man dressed in the clothes of a pilgrim had stopped to see what was wrong. His long gown was stained from the dust of the road and his head was bare, his hood thrown back. He had a gentle face but something about the way he looked at her sent a shiver down her spine.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked harshly. ‘I’ve no money to give you. Be off with you! My man has just gone to fetch a wagon. He will hear me if I cry out.’

  ‘I mean you no harm, mistress,’ the stranger said. ‘Your feet look painful. Perhaps I may help you?’ He came to Marta and knelt in the dirt beside her. Taking the flask from her hand, he bathed her stinging flesh with water and then produced linen cloth from the pack he carried on his back. He dried her feet and then dipped into his pack once more, withdrawing a small pot. He scooped some of the soft balm from inside it, smeared it over her feet and then bound them with strips of linen. ‘I believe you will find that better, mistress. Please keep the balm. It may ease you in the future’

  ‘Who are you?’ Marta asked, looking into his face. He was not an ill-favoured man, of six and twenty years perhaps, with soft brown eyes. ‘Why did you help me?’

  ‘I am merely a travelling man, much like you,’ he said. ‘You should take more care in future, mistress. If your feet are sore after a day’s hard walking bathe them in salt and water.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Marta’s spine was tingling.

  ‘A good man who once saved my life.’ The stranger stood up and smiled at her. ‘You will feel better soon – do not forget my advice.’

  Marta watched as he walked off down the road. She was certain that she had never seen him before, and yet his words had struck a chord in her mind. She had forgotten it until he reminded her, but someone else had once told her that it would help to soak her feet in brine after a hard day’s walking. And that someone was an apothecary by the name of Nicholas Malvern. It was from his home that she had stolen Mary and taken her to Todd’s house. The thought that he might one day call her to account had haunted her from that day to this, for if there was anyone she truly feared it was Nicholas Malvern. She had seen what he kept in his private rooms at Malvern, and she thought he was the Devil in human form. For who else but the Devil’s disciple would keep the organs of dead people in jars?

  Marta felt chilled. She looked up at the sky and saw that the sun had vanished behind dark clouds and the wind had got up suddenly. She thought there might be a storm before morning.

  The man who had bound her feet, which were already feeling much better, was not Nicholas Malvern, of that she was certain, but she sensed something about him. Who was he and why was he travelling this road – why had he bothered to stop and help her?

  23

  Beatrice, Mother Abbess of the convent dedicated to Saint Innocent, had been praying for more than an hour. She felt her sins deeply, for her mind strayed too often to worldly things, things she would do better to forget. She rose unsteadily, feeling the persistent aching that tormented her more often of late. Sometimes the pain was so bad that her limbs burned as if they were on fire, but she accepted the punishment and asked for no all
eviation of her suffering. Her cell was bitterly cold. The window was small and even in the summer let in hardly any sunshine. Although there was a grate for a fire none had been lit; it was the price she must pay for her sins. The abbey was not richly endowed like some; there were no treasures or precious jewels, no relics that could be used to bring in donations from those wishing to pray to the saint. Sometimes, despite their labours in the gardens, there was scarcely enough money to feed and house the sisters and she would take nothing for herself that her sisters might not share.

  Blowing on her hands to instil some warmth into her fingers, she sat down at her board and dipped a quill into the ink. For a moment she stared into space. Since her birth sister’s husband had finished repairing the castle of Devereaux, he had withheld some of the rights that he had once given to the abbey in Melloria’s name. He blamed Beatrice for hiding Melloria from him and giving her sanctuary, and he had taken away the farms that had brought in some fifty silver pounds a year for the abbey, also the right to take fish from the stewponds at Devereaux. The loss of such huge privileges was a blow and meant that once more Beatrice must petition the Bishops for funds. It was a chore that she hated for the Church was less generous to its daughters than its sons and she hated having to beg. And it was her own fault, because she had angered the earl by denying him his wife. She did not mind the deprivation for herself, but she feared for her sisters.

  A knock at her door brought her head up. ‘Enter…’

  A nun came softly into the room; small and grey like a mouse, she looked timid and as cold as Beatrice felt. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Mother, but there is someone to see you.’

  ‘I cannot see visitors today…’ Beatrice said and then changed her mind. ‘Stay, a moment, who wishes to see me?’