The Sorceror's Revenge Read online

‘What makes you think there were two children?’

  ‘Melloria grew very big in the last months of her time. She believed she was so big because she carried a son. However, it could mean that she was carrying two babes in her womb – and both of them daughters.’

  ‘You must investigate Mother Abbess’s claims, Robert. Do you wish me to go in your stead and make inquiries?’

  ‘No,’ Robert reflected for a moment. ‘Had I not been struck down by a fever I should have left before you returned, but I was uneasy at leaving Rhoda and the boy alone. It will ease my mind to know that you are here to protect them. You must know that there is no one in the world I trust as I trust you, Jonathan?’

  ‘Yes…’ Jonathan could not meet his eyes. It sat ill with his conscience to speak like this with the man he called his blood brother and not confess that he loved Rhoda and meant to take her from Robert if he could. ‘You may trust me to defend her and your son with my life.’

  ‘Yes, I know that…’ Robert was silent for some moments, then, in a tone heavy with meaning, ‘We must talk about many things, Jonathan, but not until my return. I know something needs to change…’

  ‘You are not thinking of making the journey yourself yet?’

  ‘I shall go in a day or so,’ Robert said. ‘The balm Rhoda made for my shoulder seems to have worked better than anything else I used. I may have misjudged her for I did not think she was interested in such things.’ ‘I believe she is capable of much that you might not expect, Robert.’

  ‘Yes, I know you love her well.’ A wry smile touched his mouth, as Jonathan looked uncomfortable. ‘If it were any other man I would think the worst – but we must speak of these things another time. I need to rest if I am to leave for the north in a few days…’

  2

  ‘I think that I should like to watch you as you work,’ Anne said as Nicholas rose from the table after eating the food she had prepared that morning. ‘I have said nothing before this, because your knowledge greatly surpasses mine, but I believe I may have some knowledge of these things. I know how to make cures and how to treat various illnesses. I should like to help you in your work, if I could?’

  ‘Yes, I thought you might,’ Nicholas replied, his expression thoughtful as he looked at the woman who believed herself his wife. She was his wife in every way that mattered! Had he husband cared for her he would never have abandoned her, and yet guilt struck deep into Nicholas’s heart every time he looked into her trusting eyes. ‘I have sensed that you were remembering more of late, Anne. Is there anything you wish to tell me?’

  ‘No. I regret that I still cannot remember our past life together, Nicholas. Perhaps you will tell me how we met one day? It might help me to piece the puzzle together. I believe I remember something of my childhood. I had a sister called Beatrice and I think she became a nun. I seem to remember that my mother wept when my father took her to the convent. She felt that her eldest daughter was lost to her.’

  Nicholas held his breath, and heard the faint echoes of laughter. He banished them, as he had learned to do, and, since the book of the black arts was burned the laughter troubled him less and less. He felt more himself again, and his only fears were for Anne and the constant worry that he might lose her.

  ‘Do you remember your sister, Anne?’

  ‘Vaguely. I remember running in a sunlit meadow with a girl I believe was my sister. If she left to live in a convent when I was young, I would not have seen her often after that day.’

  ‘And yet you still remember nothing more of your life before…you came here?’

  ‘Nothing. I remember that I like to embroider and I am skilful at it. I know that I can preserve fruit and salt meat, and I know about herbs. I have seen many herbs in your study and I know the uses of most, though not all for some are strange to me. I read and understand Latin and French and I have studied mathematics and sciences I think, though it is unusual for a woman to know these things, and perhaps I only think it because I recognise signs and scientific instruments in your chambers. I should like to read your journals, if you will permit me?’

  ‘There are some things I would not have you read, Anne. However, there is no reason why you should not read most of them. I shall bring you one or two to look through – and you may join me this afternoon. I am preparing a mixture that should be applied to the skin and may help those suffering from scrofula and terrible skin rashes.’

  ‘Scrofula is said to be cured by the King’s touch. I think you offer your medicine to sufferers at some risk, Nicholas, for you put yourself as high as a king.’

  ‘Or higher,’ he replied with an amused look. ‘Some would say that I try to work miracles that belong to God – that I am a blasphemer and a wicked sorcerer. Have you not heard that I consort with demons and lie with the dead?’

  ‘I have told you before that I do not believe such tales, Nicholas.’ Anne shook her head at him. ‘Be careful when you mock these things for many will condemn you. Yet I sometimes think that God must have sent me to you for you are exactly the husband I need. You do not frown on my thirst for knowledge nor do you scorn my ability to read and write Latin. I know well that most men think it unwomanly to value these things – but my father believed that I should be taught because I had an inquiring mind.’

  ‘You remember your father?’ Anne nodded. ‘Is there anyone else you remember but cannot name – someone important to you?’

  ‘No. Should there be?’ She wrinkled her smooth brow, her eyes narrowed. ‘Sometimes I think you are hiding something from me, Nicholas. Are you afraid to tell me about the past? Do you believe that I should hate you if I knew?’

  ‘Perhaps…’ He hesitated, then, ‘I have thought you might hate me if you remembered the pain you suffered giving birth.’

  ‘You were not to blame for that…’ Anne looked at him. He was hiding something and he was afraid to tell her, though the feeling of impending doom that she had sensed a while back seemed to have faded. She knew so much of herself now, but there was still something hidden in her mind and she wondered why she could not recall it. Was there some dark thing that threatened her? Had she forgotten it because she could not bear to remember? She felt that she had been very angry once but she did not know who had aroused her anger. It could not be Nicholas. From him she had received only kindness and love. Her love for him was deeply sensual and warm. In his arms she found a joy that she could not know without him. ‘There is something you will not tell me, something you fear to reveal. I shall not plague you to reveal it, Nicholas. You will tell me when you are ready. Now tell me more of the cure you mean to work on this day and the ingredients we must use…’

  * * *

  Nicholas had been tempted to admit the truth when Anne questioned him about the past. It was wrong to deceive her and lay heavy on his conscience. She deserved to know who and what she was. Yet he was certain she would leave him if he told her that she was not his wife. The Earl Devereaux did not love her. He did not deserve her.

  Nicholas was conscious of Anne’s eyes watching him as he worked, measuring the powdered bark, herbs, minerals and semi-precious stones he had ground to a fine grit to make his pills and medicines. The amethyst had long been held to have healing powers for the wearer, and he had been experimenting with its use in his medicines; it was expensive but if it worked with scrofula it might also work with terrible illnesses for which as yet there was no name.

  Some contagious diseases could kill the entire inhabitants of a village if they took hold and were much feared. As yet Nicholas had found nothing that would prevent infections from spreading. There was one virulent disease that brought out red patches and a rash on the skin. The rash turned to scabs after a while, covering the face and body. It was painful and itched terribly, but if scratched could leave scars. Some thought it the same as the French disease, for it could leave deep pockmarks in the flesh, but Nicholas believed they were wrong though the symptoms were similar. Women who contracted the French disease often died slowly,
their bodies eaten away from inside by the dread illness, and by the time the scabs appeared it was often too late to save them – as it had been in the woman for whose sake he had been tempted to use the book of secrets. She had not returned to him and he hoped she would not for there was nothing he could do for her but give her poppy juice to ease the pain. In men the symptoms manifested themselves quickly and were more evident; the other disease was swifter and either killed quickly or left fearful scarring but some recovered.

  The French disease appeared more often in whores, whereas the more contagious disease might attack anyone who came in contact with a carrier. He had written of the diseases in his journals, naming the French disease as the great pox and the swifter of the two as the small pox, but he was uncertain whether there was another milder disease from which victims recovered more readily. As yet he believed he was the only one to have made assumptions about the disease and its variants. It might be that they were not connected but sometimes showed the same symptoms. Now that he no longer had the book of secrets to tempt him, he was determined to find a cure if he could – a cure that did not involve sorcery.

  Marta, the woman who had run off with Anne’s firstborn, had been one who had nursed a sufferer of the small pox but remained immune. At least, she had claimed it once when she spoke of her life leading up to the wretched state, which had brought her to his door. However, he had noticed some scars on her hands and thought she might have had one of the milder diseases without knowing it. He had always intended to learn more of her survival but he had neglected to question her and then she had run off with Anne’s child.

  His mind returned to what Anne had been saying to him earlier Should he tell her that there were two children?

  Nicholas wondered if she could accept the knowledge that she had given birth to two daughters some minutes apart. She doted on Iolanthe, but would she pine for the babe she had lost? If he could have discovered the first babe he would have had her brought here and confessed that part of the truth but as yet he had had no luck in tracing Marta or the child. He cursed the ill fortune that had made him trust the woman. Nothing had warned him that she would steal the babe.

  ‘What is that purplish powder you are using, Nicholas?’

  Anne’s words brought his thoughts back to the present.

  ‘Amethyst ground to a fine grit.’

  ‘I have never used such ingredients. Will it help?’

  ‘As yet I do not know. I experiment with many different types of minerals, herbs and barks. Some seem to relieve symptoms others do no good at all. I have used gold and iron in my remedies, also copper, quicksilver and the berries of nightshade and belladonna.’

  ‘The juice of those berries can kill if given in large doses.’ Anne looked at him anxiously. ‘You take risks, Nicholas. If your medicines kill rather than cure you could be arrested and tried for murder or as a sorcerer.’

  ‘Are you shocked by what I do, Melloria? Is it any more dangerous that the physicians who let blood when their patient is already weak from the loss of blood? Is it wrong to try new ideas? I do not apply hot coals to the skin of my patients or advise that it be done, but I know of physicians who think it efficacious in curing certain diseases.’

  ‘I think they kill more than they cure. I have no time for quacks and fakery.’ Anne thought for a moment, then, ‘I believe some feared me because I dismissed physicians and used my own cures with some success.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps they did…’ Nicholas saw the questions in her eyes. She was beginning to remember more and more. How long would it be before she remembered that he was not her husband?

  * * *

  After Anne had gone to find Iolanthe and see that the servants were preparing supper, Nicholas went to his board and sat down to write. He had been working for almost half an hour when he thought of something he had written earlier in one of his previous journals. He got up and went to open his coffer. It was not locked for he had no reason to keep it safe now that the book of secrets had gone. Reaching down to claim the journal he needed, he lifted it and then felt his spine tingle. The shock made him go cold all over for lying there, where it had always been, was the book he had cast into the fire.

  He picked it up, his mouth dry with fear as he saw that it was untouched by scorch marks. Opening the covers, he saw that all the pages were as before. He dropped it as he felt a burning sensation in his arm, staring at the book in horror.

  How could the book still exist when he had destroyed it? Nicholas made the sign of the cross over his breast. He was not a superstitious man but he felt the need of protection now, for he was surely in the presence of evil.

  He had believed the book destroyed, all temptation gone, but it was still here, untouched by fire and mocking him. The laughter was so close that he whirled around, looking for the source. Once again there was nothing to see, just the smell that he associated with the caverns of Hell.

  ‘You are not real,’ he muttered. ‘You do not exist – and neither does that infernal book.’

  Looking again, he saw that the book had disappeared. His breathing returned to normal. It was gone. He had burned it, watched it turn to ash. The book he had just seen was an illusion, just as the pictures the churchmen painted of a creature with horns and a forked tale.

  ‘Just in my mind…’ he muttered. ‘I must rest more, as Anne is forever telling me. I have been working too hard.’

  3

  ‘You look ill,’ Beatrice exclaimed as she saw Robert. She had come hurrying to the Abbey’s guestroom as soon as she heard he had asked for her. ‘Should you be here?’

  ‘Your letter was urgent. I came as soon as I could, though I was delayed for a week or more by a fever that laid me low. I would hear more of this child. You say her name is Iolanthe and she resembles Melloria?’

  ‘She is the image of my sister as a small child. You know that we seldom saw one another after I became a bride of Christ?’ Robert nodded. ‘All I had of my sister was the memory of childhood. Melloria was dear to me. Even though we could not often meet, she loved me and she helped the convent. When she inherited wealth from our parents she gave a portion to the convent in my name. I have been haunted by the thought that she may still live…’

  ‘You have felt it too?’ She saw the anguish in his face and her mood softened towards him.

  ‘I have prayed long and hard for guidance. Is there any reason why my sister would hide from you? Have you caused her harm or made her angry?’

  ‘She did not wish me to leave her for the prince’s wedding. Yet I do not think she would conceal the fact that she survived or the birth of her child – or children. Melloria always spoke her mind to me. She never feared me and I would not harm her.’

  ‘You think there may be two children?’

  ‘The Bishop of Winchester sent word that the woman Marta had a child but there was no record of her having married or of having born a living child in Malham, where she claimed she had lived. She may be connected with the murder of a man believed to be her brother. It is possible that she stole the child for some reason.’

  ‘Yes, it has happened before – particularly if the mother is believed dead.’

  ‘Do you believe that Melloria may still be alive?’

  ‘I think it possible.’ Beatrice looked at him with accusing eyes. ‘Why did you marry again so soon? I know that you needed an heir but had you cared for my sister you would have waited at least another year.’

  ‘My inquiries had led nowhere. I believed she was dead for why else would she remain hidden?’ An angry look came to his face. ‘Unless she is his prisoner…’

  ‘You think that Malvern holds both her and the child prisoner?’ Beatrice was silent for a moment, then inclined her head. ‘It is possible. There are many that think him a sorcerer. He may have bound her by powers of which we can have no knowledge.’

  ‘I have no patience with such superstition. If Melloria is his prisoner I shall discover it and I shall bring her back.’
/>   ‘Supposing she does not want to come?’

  ‘She is my wife and the child is my blood. She will come whether she wishes it or not.’

  Beatrice was silent as he went from the room. Had she done the right thing in sending for him? She felt uneasy because he was a powerful man and could be ruthless. Supposing the child was truly Malvern’s – or that Melloria had chosen to remain where she was? Perhaps she ought to have asked to see the woman and speak to her before sending to Robert?

  Beatrice made the sign of the cross over her breast. She was beginning to feel cold all over and her stomach tightened with nerves. Robert Devereaux was angry and she was afraid that something terrible was about to happen.

  She knelt in front of the wooden crucifix that hung on the wall of her cell, bending her head in prayer. What should she be asking? Fearful of what she had set in motion, she could only pray for guidance and the forgiveness of her sins.

  * * *

  ‘There is a peddler come, Anne,’ She was in the kitchen with the servants, helping to prepare the midday meal when Nicholas entered. He was wearing a long black gown as was his habit, his soft indoor shoes slightly pointed and fastened about the ankle. He had the appearance of a scholar, though she knew him to be of noble birth.

  ‘What of the child?’ she asked. Iolanthe was playing with a puppy he had brought home for her a few days earlier. ‘I think she might like to see a peddler. She is old enough now to enjoy such a treat.’

  ‘Bring the child for he has toys and trinkets that you may care to buy.’ Nicholas smiled indulgently. ‘You must both have something pretty.’

  Anne wiped her hands on the cloth she had been using. She looked at him with pleasure, because a visit from a peddler was something they all looked forward to.

  ‘Watch the pot, Griszelda,’ she said and took Iolanthe by the hand. ‘Is there anything you wish me to purchase for you from the peddler?’