The Sorceror's Revenge Page 9

  ‘You must do as you wish,’ she replied, her manner distant. ‘I ask nothing of you but that you keep your promise.’

  ‘I will send out more messengers to look for the child but I think she must be dead or I should have found her by now.’

  ‘She lives. I know she lives.’ Tears filled Melloria’s eyes. ‘Bring her back to me, Robert, and I shall be the wife to you that I was when you wed me.’

  ‘It would serve you well if I took you at your word and put you from me,’ Robert retorted and brushed past her as he left the room.

  Melloria sank down on the edge of the bed. She covered her face with her hands as the tears flowed. Once again she had defied her husband, and once again he had raged at her and pleaded with her. In her heart she knew that one day he would simply take his will of her. If he chose to force her she would not be able to stop him. He might have done it before now. She knew he had come close to losing his control several times, and yet something held him back.

  She suspected that when he left her he went to the serving woman Joanne. The woman had given her sly looks when she thought herself safe. She was Harry’s nurse and her pride made her careless and insolent at times. The way she smiled told Melloria that she believed her lover’s wife was jealous, but she was far from the truth.

  Some of the rage and hatred inside Melloria had softened since the day that she had seen Nicholas Malvern struck down in front of her. At that time she had believed she was Nicholas’s wife – as she still was in her heart. At the convent her memory had finally returned to her. Her true husband was Robert, Earl Devereaux, and when she wed him she had loved him in her way. Yet she had learned to love someone else and that man was Nicholas Malvern, the gentle, loving apothecary who had saved her life and that of her children.

  She might have died alone in the snow the night the castle of Devereaux had been taken by Robert’s enemy. Nicholas had taken her in, cared for her, given her a life of ease and content, and she had loved him. She thought that she would always love him, though she was not certain if he were dead or alive. She had seen him struck down in front of her, but when she returned to Malvern to collect his journals and her own possessions, she had been certain that he was still alive.

  For many months she had hoped that he would come for her, that somehow he would find her firstborn child and then take her, their son and Iolanthe with him…to wherever he was now. However, as the years passed and she heard nothing from him, she had come to believe that he must be dead, despite the story that Griszelda had told her about his body having disappeared in the night. Anything could have happened to his body. Perhaps one of the servants had buried it secretly or…perhaps the old woman was right and he had somehow come back from the dead.

  Griszelda herself was dead now. Melloria’s sister, the Abbess of Saint Innocent, had occasionally visited Malvern to see the old woman and take her food. She had found her dead one winter day and the servants of the convent had buried her.

  So there was no one left who might know the truth. No one unless Nicholas himself was living somewhere, but if he were alive why had he never tried to contact Melloria?

  Did he believe that she had returned to her husband of her own free choice? Did he think that she had forgotten him?

  ‘Nicholas…my love…’ she whispered and the tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘I felt you with me when our son was born but since then you have deserted me. I need you so.’

  For a moment she felt the warmth of his love surround her. She remembered the scents of his body as they had lain together at night and she had touched him, traced the scars on his back and his cheek, where the Church Inquisitors had tortured him. As she remembered, she knew again the pleasure that only he had given her. Never once as Robert’s wife had she experienced such content and happiness, as when Nicholas held her.

  Melloria’s heart ached as she thought of the child she had born in secret – a child that Robert must never know existed. She sensed he suspected that she had lain with Nicholas but he had never spoken the words aloud. It was as if he did not wish to know. If he ever discovered there was a child he would kill both her and the boy.

  Melloria wept bitter tears for the loss of her son, whom she could never see, Nicholas, whom she had never ceased to love, and her poor stolen child.

  Where was the babe she had brought forth in pain and suffering? The belief that she lived and was unhappy haunted Melloria day and night.

  She would never be at peace until she knew whether the child lived and held her in her arms. Nicholas might be lost to her forever, but if she could have her poor stolen child perhaps she could accept her duty as Robert’s wife.

  17

  The heat of the sun was relentless and Marta felt weary, almost too tired to continue their journey towards Rouen, where there was to be a great fair on the morrow. This constant moving from one place to another was all very well while they had the horse and cart to carry them and their belongings. Will had lost it months ago in a game of dice, leaving them with nothing but the few gold coins that remained in her pouch, of which she had never told him for fear he would gamble them away. The coins might buy them another cart but Will was careless with his money, generous when he had it – and not just to her and the child. He could not pass a beggar without taking a coin from his money pouch and he was, she had learned to her cost, a gambler when the mood was on him.

  ‘I’m hungry, Marta. When can we stop and rest?’

  Marta looked sourly at the child who pulled at her skirts. At least Mary was sturdy enough to walk these days and not continually begging to be carried. When they had left England in fear of their lives more than three years gone, the child had been forever weeping and asking for food. Here in France they had found food and work for them all and the child had filled out as she grew. Mary was seven on her last birthday. She was a striking child who drew curious eyes wherever they went. Marta knew that people looked at her and wondered how she could ever have given birth to such a beautiful daughter. Her guilt pricked at her constantly, for, though she had not known the name of the child’s mother the night she stole the babe, she believed Mary to be the daughter of the Earl Devereaux. He had sent messengers to look for her all over England, and it was partly because of this that they had fled to France. Their other reason was the murder of Marta’s brother Todd Carpenter.

  Marta’s mind blocked the memory of that night. The sight of Todd’s brains spilling out of his head was too horrible to be born and she had done her best to forget it, though sometimes the memory haunted her and she would wake in the middle of the night, sweating and terrified. If their crime were ever proved both she and Will Hern would hang. It was the reason they could not return to England, because Will might be accused of the murder and she of being his accomplice, even though he had been protecting her. Todd had been desperate for money and angry because she had taken the gold chain he had hidden under the floor of the shop where he had done his work as a master carpenter.

  ‘Marta…why is that man following us?’

  ‘Who – what man?’ Her wandering thoughts recalled, Marta glanced over her shoulder fearfully as the child spoke. It was not the first time of late that she had sensed they were being followed. She had believed it was her imagination, the consequence of the guilt that never left her, but this time Mary had noticed. ‘Where is he? I can see no one…’

  ‘He comes and goes but I have seen him lots of times,’ Mary said. ‘He is there wherever we go. He was at the last fair and now he is following us again.’

  Marta strained to see back down the dusty road. There were woods to either side of them but she could see no sign of a traveller on the road. Yet she too had a feeling that someone was watching them.

  ‘You imagined it,’ she grunted and pulled a dry crust from the food pouch she carried. ‘Chew on this until we can buy more bread. You must be hungry and your mind plays tricks on you.’

  ‘But I’ve seen him before. He smiled at me and once he asked me my name
.’

  Marta shuddered, a ripple of fear slithering through her. Why would anyone ask Mary’s name – unless Marta’s crimes were about to be exposed? Angry and guilty, she reached out and slapped the child’s face. Tears sprang to Mary’s eyes but she did not cry out.

  ‘You will not speak to strange men. I have told you to be careful. There are bad men and they do terrible things to little girls.’

  ‘He is not a bad man,’ Mary said but she whispered it so that Marta would not hear.

  Her cheek was stinging where her mother had hit her but she was used to it. Marta did not beat her with a stick but she was free with her hand and Mary often received a sharp slap. More than that was the hurt her mother’s neglect inflicted. Marta could be kind when she felt like it but she never took Mary in her arms and held her when she cried. Even when she fell and hurt herself, it was Will who picked her up and comforted her.

  Mary liked Will but she liked the man who was following them more. He was nice, even nicer than Will Hern, who was not her father but sometimes gave her sweetmeats if he had money in his pocket. However, she had more sense than to tell her mother that the man who was following them had given her sweetmeats and a little toy. If her mother knew about the pretty trinket she had hidden inside the bodice of her gown she would take it from her and sell it.

  It was her secret and if she talked to her nice man again, she would be careful not to let her mother guess that she had seen him. She glanced over her shoulder and saw his hooded figure. She knew he had a scar on his left cheek and she wondered if he wore the hood so that people should not notice it. He was also wearing a long black cloak that hid most of the gown underneath it. Mary thought it was the gown a nobleman might wear, for she had seen the rich nobles with their ladies at the fair, buying silks and spices.

  The man smiled at her and she smiled back. It was exciting to have a secret from her mother. And it was not the only one, for Mary knew that there was more than one man following them, but she would not tell her mother. If she saw her nice man at the fair again he might give her a sweetmeat.

  18

  ‘Are you having a new gown made, Melloria?’

  ‘Iolanthe is the one who needs new clothes. She is shooting up. I think she will be tall like her father.’

  Robert’s gaze fell on his daughter. She was very beautiful. One day she would no doubt break hearts, but she was afraid of him. He knew that it was his fault. She had been terrified when he had snatched her from the people who were caring for her while Melloria was in the hermitage. She had screamed for hours and even when he handed her over to the woman Joanne, she had sobbed as if her heart would break. Melloria had comforted her when she returned from her period of fasting and prayer, and the child had become calmer, but even now Iolanthe would not accept him as her father. Whenever he told her she was his daughter she shook her head and backed away from him, running to her mother or her nurse. He tried not to be angry for he wanted to love her but her behaviour wounded him and sometimes he let his frustration show.

  ‘Yes, I can see how fast she is growing. She will be tall like me. She is your image, Melloria – but she will be taller I think.’

  ‘Perhaps…’ Melloria’s eyes were cold. ‘Is there something you need, Robert?’

  ‘If there is I shall not get it from you.’

  He turned on his heel and left the room, smarting and seething with temper. She looked at him as if he was something to be scraped off her shoe and he was tired of her coldness. For a moment he remembered his wife, Rhoda Morgan. She had always been eager to share his bed, and he had been harsh with her because he wondered if she was chaste – and he loved Melloria. Sometimes now he thought it might have been better to find a way of separating from the cold woman who refused to lie with him and making Rhoda his true wife.

  He needed a woman in his bed. Robert had always had a strong physical appetite and he needed to satisfy the carnal urges that were sometimes so strong they became a physical pain. He could go to Joanne. She was honoured to be his mistress and would spread her legs for him whenever he snapped his fingers, but she bored him. She lay in his bed like a lump of clay to be moulded as he pleased. Robert needed more – a woman of spirit. He had not bothered to visit her since his return, because she did not stir him. He wanted Melloria but she was stubborn. She would not yield even though he had done his best to find the missing child. It was his opinion that the girl was dead but he must try again for it seemed it was the only way he could force his wife to do her duty. If he found the child, Melloria would have no valid excuse not to lie with him.

  He was still brooding on his wrongs when a page approached him, handing him a sealed message. He took it, broke the seal and then dismissed the lad.

  ‘There is no reply.’

  Leaving the hall, he called for his horse to be saddled. What he needed was a good gallop in the fresh air.

   * *

  Alfreda Carter was gathering herbs and roots in the woods. Her mother was a good cook and her stews always tasted delicious, because of all the herbs and roots she used. Alfreda’s father was not a rich man but he was better off than many in their village, because he had his own cart and made money working for anyone who would employ him. Unlike most of the villagers, Jack Archer was a freeman and owed no allegiance to the lord of the manor, other than that of a tenant living on the lord’s land. He paid in coin for his land and had built his own house on common land, according to the law.

  Alfreda was acknowledged as a pretty girl by all. She had long red hair that curled about her face, even though she wound it in tight plaits like a coronet about her head. Her dress was plain and simple, very like that of every other village girl, in shades of russet or brown, though her father had recently bought her a length of green cloth, which she was making into a tunic for her wedding day.

  Alfreda was betrothed to Rhys Archer. At the moment he was serving with the king and had been from home for some months, but they had been betrothed for years and Alfreda knew that he would wed her on his return. Secure in that knowledge, she worked diligently for her mother and father, sometimes accompanying her father on his trips to the market, but more often assisting her mother with the chores of caring for their pigs, chickens, goats and ducks.

  There had been a storm the night before and there were several new fungi pushing their way through the debris on the floor of the forest. Busy at her work, Alfreda did not hear the sounds of a man’s footsteps until she heard a twig crack. Startled, she looked up to see a man she had previously seen only as he rode through the village. Her heart beat wildly and she stared at him in fright. The earl was a powerful man. He owned the forest and anyone caught taking game from his woods could be severely punished. Most overlords allowed their people to take fungi, firewood and roots – but of late the earl had been stricter than he was used to be and she held her breath as he approached her.

  ‘What do you here, mistress?’

  ‘I am gathering herbs and fungi,’ Alfreda said in a breathy voice. Her heart banged against her ribs as he approached. He looked down her, his eyes seeming to scorch her as they went over her. She felt as if he stripped her naked with his eyes and wanted to escape but her feet were rooted to the ground.

  ‘Do you not know these woods belong to me?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ Alfreda waited, fearing the worst.

  ‘You must pay a forfeit,’ Robert said and reached out. Before she knew what he would do, he had her clasped against him, his mouth fastening greedily on hers. Alfreda fought him desperately but his tongue pushed at her mouth until she opened it, allowing him access and his hand moved between her legs, clamping on her sex and holding her as she wriggled and tried to free herself.

  As he released her mouth, Alfreda cried out for pity. He laughed and then let her go, a mocking smile in his eyes.

  ‘A small price to pay for such delicious food,’ he murmured. ‘I would be willing to pay more for other pleasures. Tell me, mistress, are you virgin?’

&
nbsp; ‘Yes, my lord.’ She raised her head proudly. ‘I am to be married.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Robert stared at her for a moment longer. ‘Continue with your work, mistress. I shall not disturb you again.’

  ‘I have collected enough,’ Alfreda said. She picked up her basket and walked away, her shoulders back and head in the air, but once she was certain he could no longer see her, she took to her heels and ran, her heart racing.

  She did not stop until she reached the village. Breathless and shocked she went straight to her father’s cottage and put her basket on the kitchen table. Her mother was out and Alfreda was glad of a moment to recover her senses.

  She’d been kissed by the earl! At the time she’d been so shocked that she had struggled to escape, frightened of what he might do, but when he’d smiled at her she’d realised how handsome he was – far more handsome than Rhys.

  A feeling of shame crept over her as she realised that she’d enjoyed the kiss. Indeed, had she not been so frightened, she might have kissed him back.

  What a wanton girl she was! If Rhys knew he would disown her and she would be sent to a convent.

  As her mother entered, she turned away to start tying the herbs into bunches for drying. She must get rid of those wicked thoughts and she must be very careful when she visited the woods again.

  19

  The room above the tavern was crowded with men, all of them nobles summoned here to this secret meeting by their leader. At the table where he sat, candles flared, but much of the room was in shadow for it was late at night.

  ‘Somehow, Henry must be brought to an understanding that he cannot simply dismiss the promise he made.’ Simon de Montfort said to the men who sat round the table with him. ‘The King is not above the law and a vow is sacred.’

  ‘Not if the Pope grants absolution by a papal bull.’ A man standing in the shadows spoke out. ‘I have information that Henry has made such representation and that the Pope may be moved to grant his wish, though not immediately. You still have time to act, if you are of the same mind?’