The Sorceror's Revenge Page 12

  ‘’Tis Prior Peter, Mother.’

  ‘Why did you not say at once?’ Beatrice stood up. ‘I shall come immediately. Prior Peter must always be welcome here.’

  Prior Peter was one of those churchmen who considered himself a statesman and stood high with leading members of the nobility and the King. Women might rise to become an Abbess and discharge their duty well, but they could go no further for politics were left to men. It irked Beatrice that she could have no say in the momentous events that were shaping the country, for she knew the times were perilous. Yet she accepted her calling was here, amongst the sisters who needed her. Some came from families who could not afford to keep them, others had arrived footsore and near to starving at her door. The convent was a sanctuary for women who were not wealthy enough or beautiful enough to attract a husband.

  Noticing the damp sheen of stone walls that dripped with moisture, Beatrice knew that unless she could persuade the Bishop to grant her more money, many of her sisters would fall ill and die now the weather was colder. Anger burned in her like a cold pure flame. Robert Devereaux had no right to take back that which he had given, but there was no one to deny him.

  Walking as swiftly as her aching limbs would let her, she wondered what had brought the prior to the abbey. The last time he visited he had called on Nicholas Malvern, but Beatrice believed the apothecary her sister had called a good gentle man, had died the day Robert Devereaux claimed back his wife.

  Beatrice’s soft shoes made no sound on the stone flags. The prior was standing in front of the fire and did not hear her enter. He had his back to her, his hands to the flames, warming them and rubbing hard to keep out the cold, for it had suddenly turned bitter overnight as autumn slipped into winter and the days shortened. Soon now they would have snow, which could lie thick and deep on the Yorkshire moors for days or weeks at a time.

  ‘Prior Peter, it is good of you to call on us,’ she said. ‘I fear the weather may hamper your travelling for we may have snow before long.’

  He turned to face her with a start. ‘I trust it will not come too soon. I must return to London when my business here is done.’ The prior’s eyes went over her, and she saw that he had noticed her stiffness. ‘Why do you not come to the fire? I think you are suffering, sister?’

  ‘It is naught but the agues,’ she replied. ‘It is better not to stand too close to the fire for I shall suffer later. Have you been offered food and drink? We can still offer you hospitality, though our revenues have been severely depleted.’

  ‘Your letter telling of us of your problem reached someone who feels for your predicament, someone who is grateful to you for the shelter you gave to a woman he cares for.’

  Beatrice was puzzled. ‘We shelter many women here, brother. It is the reason for our existence. I do not know of whom you speak?’

  ‘It is not necessary for you to know all,’ Prior Peter told her. ‘Enough that he has discovered what you did and is grateful. I am instructed to tell you that the Abbey of Saint Innocent will be granted sixty silver pounds now and fifty silver pounds or the equivalent in goods each year, for as long as you live.’

  Sixty silver pounds would make all the difference to their lives, but could she trust his word?

  ‘I was made promises once before but they were broken.’ She could not quite keep the bitterness from her voice.

  ‘The money has already been lodged with goldsmiths and I can vouch for it that you will receive the gift for as long as you live. Afterwards, the gift may continue but that is for the future.’

  ‘Sixty pounds of silver…’ Beatrice felt the life coming back to her frozen fingers and toes. She moved towards the fire, enjoying its warmth. Perhaps she need not endure her self-imposed penance any longer. ‘I am very grateful to our benefactor, brother. Will you thank him for me please?’

  ‘You may do that yourself if you wish.’ Prior Peter took a small sealed packet from inside his habit and offered it to her. ‘He asks that you will send this to your sister, the lady Melloria Devereaux.’

  ‘Melloria…’ Beatrice hesitated and then took the packet, turning it in her hand. It felt as if there was something enclosed, something soft. ‘I am not sure I understand…unless…?’ She stared at him, eyes widening with shock as the thought came to her. ‘Nicholas Malvern is alive? Melloria told me that she thought he might somehow have come back from the dead…’

  Prior Peter laughed, his huge belly shaking with laughter. He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes with his podgy fingers. ‘Forgive me, Mother. I did not mean to mock you, but you should not let superstition rule your mind. It is impossible for the dead to rise, except at the Day of Judgement – or by God’s wish. Malvern was not dead, merely out of his senses. He came to himself but was still dazed and wandered off hardly knowing what he did. It was some weeks before he ordered his thoughts sufficiently to know who he was or what had happened. He has long wanted to contact the countess for he has news for her – news that he believes she will be happy to hear.’

  Beatrice stared at him for a moment as she tried to take in what he was saying. ‘News of her firstborn child?’ She crossed herself swiftly. ‘Can this be true? God have mercy! I thought the child gone forever.’

  ‘I cannot tell you what the letter contains,’ the prior said. ‘I am merely the count’s messenger.’

  ‘He is a nobleman?’

  ‘Of Italy. Count Niccolai Malvolia, though known to many here as Nicholas Malvern.’

  ‘If this packet contains the news I pray it does, it will bring my sister much joy – but why does your friend wish me to send it to her? Could he not send it himself?’

  ‘Because if it came from him she might never receive it. My friend wished to make certain that it was safely delivered to her hand. Can you arrange that, sister?’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Her husband is a jealous man and would seek to use this to his own advantage. He allows her to write to me and to receive my letters, and much of the time he is from home. I shall wait until I hear that he has returned to court.’

  ‘Then I shall leave the matter in your hands.’

  ‘I will make certain she receives the letter, brother. Will you stay and eat with us?’

  ‘I must continue my journey before the weather closes in. I have other business to attend before I leave Yorkshire. I wish you well and pray your suffering will ease, Mother Abbess.’

  ‘Thank you. The money you promised?’

  ‘Ah yes…’ Prior Peter smiled. ‘I have the first instalment with me on the pack horse. I shall leave it with you before I go.’

  ‘May God be with you.’

  Beatrice felt a cold shiver down her spine as he left the room. She was glad of the money Prior Peter had brought her, but she was not certain how she felt about what she had learned. What would the knowledge that Nicholas Malvern was alive do to her sister? Melloria was bound to Robert Devereaux and he would never release her. Might it not do more harm than good to pass on Nicholas Malvern’s message?

  Yet if the child were found it would mean so much to her sister. It was a dilemma and one that would need careful consideration. She must pray for guidance. However, she was grateful for the count’s gift, which would make such a difference to all their lives.

  Beatrice was prepared to accept suffering and hard times for herself, but not for her sisters. The Franciscans had lived frugally when the order was begun, following the life of Christ as closely as they could, but these days the regime at many abbeys and monasteries was lax and the monks lived well. Beatrice had resented the need to petition the Bishop for enough fuel to keep the fires burning. Perhaps she thought too much of things of this world. Yet the money the prior had brought would keep her sisters from going hungry and cold this winter – and she would be able to help others again. The sisters had little enough but there were peasant families living in such poverty that many would die of starvation in the worst of the winter. It was surely her duty to help them.

  Besides, what harm
could it do to pass on a letter that contained good news?

  24

  Niccolai was mixing the herbs needed for the preparation he was making for an illness he had treated many times before. He added a few drops of precious oil of eucalyptus, which he had recently purchased. If the oil had the desired effect it would ease the pain of a putrid throat and chest much sooner than the simple herbs he had used in the past. He looked up as someone knocked at his door.

  ‘Enter, Cedric.’

  His manservant pushed the door back slowly and entered, a slightly apprehensive expression on his face, as if he feared to see his master cutting up one of the cadavers that were sometimes delivered to the house at night. Amused, but restraining a smile, Nicholas raised his dark eyebrows.

  ‘You have a message for me?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. It has but this moment come.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Niccolai held out his hand and took the folded parchment, breaking the seal. He frowned over it for a moment, then nodded to his servant. ‘Does the messenger wait?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘There is no reply for the moment.’

  Cedric inclined his head and went out.

  Niccolai returned to his work. The news was what he had been expecting. The unrest in England was growing and there had been riots in some of the shires. The barons had believed they were demanding justice when they set up their new laws, but they were untried and often resented. People resisted changes they did not understand or like, and the English were rebellious by nature. The King was angry but often in France rather than his kingdom and dissent had spread in his absence. If the Pope granted King Henry’s request to be absolved of the oath forced on him by the barons, it would come to anarchy and war. The nobility would be split and the common-folk would bear the brunt of what came after, as always.

  Niccolai had waited patiently for his moment. He believed that it would soon be here. His interest in the politics of England was slight, but the unrest would lead to frayed tempers. When Robert Devereaux’s fall from grace came it must be sharp and swift. Only a severe loss of favour would rock the foundations of the earl’s power. Whilst he remained the King’s Champion and a favourite at court little could be done to bring him down. A knife in the back would kill him if the assassin could get close enough, but murder was not Niccolai’s way. He was not interested in personal revenge. Only one thing mattered and that was the woman he loved.

  Putting thoughts of his enemy from his mind, Niccolai turned back to the task in hand. The winter had brought its usual fevers and a sweating sickness similar to that the nuns had suffered at the Abbey of Saint Innocent many years ago. Niccolai had given the Abbess a mixture to help her sisters and he believed it had worked efficaciously. His recent gift to the Abbey might help if he needed Beatrice’s support in the future for he knew that Devereaux had reneged on his promises. Niccolai had placed the gift with the money lenders and she should have had the first two instalments by now.

  His forehead creased as he spooned the mixture into containers. He had many patients to treat, for the sickness was rife, but as soon as he could he meant to visit the child Mary.

  The last report he had received from the man who followed her relentlessly was that the woman had sore feet and needed to rest.

  ‘I believe she is sickening,’ the man had sent word by the go-between they used. ‘She looks tired and I have seen her coughing. Her feet were raw and bleeding. I do not think she can continue this restless life much longer.’

  Was Marta truly ill? Nicholas considered. She was not a young woman, but neither was she old. It might simply be that she had led a hard life these last years.

  Niccolai could have brought her in these past six months or more, since he discovered the family at a fair, but he had hesitated. He did not want to distress Mary by tearing her from the woman she believed to be her mother. Instead, he had chosen to let her become accustomed to him gradually, following her himself when he had time and making friends with her. Marta had run from him that snowy night seven years ago, because she feared him, though he had never harmed her. Now that she was weary and ill, would she accept his help?

  Will Hern was a strong man and ready to fight. If Niccolai took them too soon, Will might try to fight him. The man had done him no harm and he had been good to Mary. It would be unnecessary and cruel to punish him. From what had been reported, Will liked to gamble and flirt with the tavern wenches. Perhaps he would decide to go off alone and leave his responsibilities behind. It would be much easier then to take the child and Marta.

  Niccolai finished his preparations and began to pack the jars and vials into the satchel he carried over his back. He would visit the houses of patients who had sent for him and were of his own class first, and then he would go to the village where the disease was at its worst. For the moment he had work to occupy him. His enemy could wait until the time was right. If the ancient magic he had used had done its work, Robert Devereaux was suffering the torments of the damned – as he well deserved.

  Everything took time. Nicholas studied the ancient writings of the Greeks as well as well as the Egyptians, and various works by physicians from the Arab world. The sum of knowledge he was accumulating was vast but it would take him a lifetime to translate all that he needed to learn. It was fortunate that he was a patient man. As long as Devereaux did not harm her, he would allow him time to change his ways. He might come to see that it was useless to keep her a prisoner and set her free – and then he too would be free to live as he pleased. Devereaux’s destiny was in his own hands.

  25

  Robert stood at a window in the great hall and looked down at the inner courtyard. He could hear the laughter from here, and his ear picked out Melloria’s musical trill. He scowled. Why did she never smile or laugh for him?

  She and her ladies had been out gathering berries and nuts from the woods, together with herbs that she would use in her stillroom. She liked to keep it well stocked with simple herbs for use in her cures. Angelica was useful for the relief of flatulence if the leaves were chewed. Lavender, coriander, balm, sweet basil, marjoram, thyme and mint were amongst those she grew in her herb garden but she needed rarer plants to help with the healing of fevers and wounds. Melloria made many cures for the people of the village and the castle, and he knew that she was well loved. She seemed to care about everyone but him.

  Damn it! Why could she not love him? He would be good to her if only she would welcome his kiss.

  He wanted Melloria in his bed. He wanted her beneath him and on him, her moistness surrounding him. He wanted to hear her soft mewing cries as she came for him. If she would yield to him he would forget the bride and take his pleasure with his beautiful wife and then perhaps he could sleep. His nights were haunted with terrible dreams. When he slept he saw demons and the fires of Hell, felt the flames scorch his flesh and the demons tear at him with their claws. It was best not to sleep. Yet his eyes were sore for lack of it and his temper grew worse as the days passed.

  Hearing Melloria’s voice as she and some of the other ladies entered the hall, he turned to look at her, noting the fresh colour in her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. His stomach churned and he felt desire spasm deep in his abdomen. He wanted her so badly that he was almost sick with need.

  Suddenly, Melloria saw him. The laughter vanished from her face and her eyes clouded. She spoke quietly to her ladies, giving them the basket of berries she carried. Walking towards her chamber, she would have passed him without a word, but he caught her arm, forcing her to look at him.

  ‘Did you enjoy your foraging?’

  ‘It was pleasant. The wind is cool but when the sun broke through the clouds it was warmer. We have been fortunate for we have gathered berries and mushrooms, chestnuts, hazelnuts, also edible fungi and herbs to make a tasty garnish for our meal.’

  ‘I am glad you enjoyed yourself. Melloria…’ there was pleading in his voice. ‘Will you let me come to you tonight, please? All I ask
is that you show me a little kindness. You can be kind to others, why not to me?’

  Melloria’s face told the story. He disgusted her. She was revolted by the thought of lying with him. His hand slid from her arm and a wave of bitterness ran through him.

  ‘Damn you,’ he muttered. ‘What happens now will be your fault, Melloria. Remember that…’

  * * *

  Melloria turned her head to watch as Robert strode from the room. She was sickened, her stomach churning with fear. It was the second time he had made that threat to her of late. What did he mean?

  ‘Mama…’ Iolanthe’s cry banished the dark thoughts as she came skipping towards her. ‘Shall we have sweetmeats for supper?’

  ‘Yes, my love. I am going to make a rose hip syrup and you shall have sweetmeats and tarts with nuts and honey.’ She held out her hand to her beloved daughter. ‘I must put off my cloak and boots and then I shall go to my stillroom. Would you like to come with me and see how I make the syrup?’

  ‘Yes.’ Iolanthe took her hand and looked up at her happily. ‘I should like that of all things.’

  ‘That is good, my darling. It is time that you began to learn these things. One day you may be the chatelaine of a great house, and you will need to know everything I can teach you. It is a lady’s duty to care for those who serve her as well as her family.’

  Melloria forgot Robert’s warning as she talked to her daughter. Why should his threats mean anything? He was always angry but so far he had not harmed her.

  26

  Mary wandered out into the inn courtyard. White doves were flying in and out of the dovecote over the gates, and the sound of their cooing was pleasant. Above her head, the sky was a pale blue dotted with tiny clouds, for though it was winter it was still mild here in the South of France.

  Mary did not know what to do with herself. Her mother was sick and lying on the bed in the chamber they all shared upstairs. Marta had told Mary to go away and find something useful to do, but she did not know what that meant. Sometimes if they found work in the fields she would help her mother pick up stones, pull fruit or tread the grapes, but Marta did not make rush baskets to sell at the fairs as some women did. She had never passed on any kind of skill to Mary, except that of gathering wood for a fire. She cooked for them when they camped by the side of the road but most of the time she grumbled. She grumbled at Mary when she was in a bad mood, and she grumbled at Will all the time.