The Sorceror's Revenge

by Linda Sole

  ‘I think I like Peter better than Harry. He shared his sweetmeats with me. Harry never will.’

  ‘Peter is a good boy, though sometimes careless of what he says. Go and play with them Iolanthe. I must gather some herbs.’

  ‘I could help you.’

  ‘You do not know which ones and I do not want to mix them up or they might react badly in a cure.’

  Melloria watched as her daughter ran off to join the others. As she looked down the hill, she saw that the village men had returned from Winchester with their carts laden with goods. She was pleased that their people prospered. In most things Robert was a good master, allowing the common-folk the privileges of forage and gleaning that should be theirs by right, and the villagers here fared better than many.

  Wandering along the hedgerow, Melloria picked herbs and some violets, which she would add to boiling sugar to make sweetmeats. She was intent on her work, lingering until the sun began to move westward and the sky was turned to orange as the sun set. Calling to the children, she smiled at her children and ladies as they walked back to the castle. Her home had seemed less of a prison since her friend came, but how long would it be before Robert returned?

  * * *

  ‘I have had a letter from the earl,’ Master Steward said to Melloria that evening at supper. ‘His Majesty has issued a proclamation to the shires against his detractors. He has sent a detailed statement to the leading barons concerning his objections to the laws and conditions they imposed and demands his freedom to act and rule alone. He has spoken of complaints of mismanagement in the shires. Too many men unfitted for high duties were appointed to positions they abuse or neglect. It has caused much unrest amongst the people.’

  ‘Yes, you have spoken of these things yourself,’ Melloria said looking grave. ‘What does it mean? Will there be more trouble?’

  ‘You know that armed bands have been roving in the area?’ She nodded, because it had caused some concern, though the village and the castle had not so far been attacked.

  ‘Unless the King acts decisively to control the unrest there may be trouble for the villagers. I heard this morning of a village not twenty miles from here that was attacked. The villagers fled but six cottages were burned to the ground. Crops were spoiled and pigs were stolen. It is only because we patrol the boundary of the hundreds that the earl’s land stays safe in these troubled times.’

  ‘We must pray that it does not happen here,’ Melloria said. ‘I shall give instructions that in case of attack everyone from the village may find shelter here.’

  ‘That is all very well, Melloria, but unless they bring their livestock into the castle we could not feed them for long. I know the sheep are plentiful but the chances are they will be out on the Downs and we shall have no chance to bring them in. Our stores of grain are depleted after the winter and we shall not build them up again until the crops are in.’

  ‘Lives are more important,’ Melloria said with a lift of her head. ‘In the event of an attack, our people must be allowed to come in if they wish.’

  34

  Will Hern had done well at the fair that day. He had sold most of what he had made while they stopped at the inn to allow Marta’s feet to recover. Several good quality belts, a jerkin of the finest leather, and a pair of boots that would ease the ache from any man’s feet had brought him a purse full of silver coin. Will was pleased with his profits, because he had more than seventy silver coins in his pouch. The money felt heavy as it clinked against his thigh. He was walking back to the cottage he had found for them, because he had sent Marta and the child home early on the cart. Marta had looked so pale and tired and he felt guilty. Perhaps if he had been a better provider and not gambled his money away, she would not have become so ill.

  Will sighed as he stopped by the side of the road to urinate. He owed Marta nothing, but he always felt a sense of guilt because he had killed her brother. Todd had been attacking her and it had been dark. Will had struck him a savage blow over the head to save her, but he wasn’t sure she had ever forgiven him for killing her brother. He had not expected the man to die, he had just wanted to save Marta from a vicious attack. They had fled Winchester that very night and taken the first ship for France, but his guilt remained at the back of his mind.

  Adjusting his leggings, Will bent to pick up his pack. Hearing a sound behind him, he swung round, putting up his fists to defend himself, but it was too late. Briefly, he saw the faces of the three men and knew them, but before he could do anything, the long knife slid into his side. Another of the rogues stabbed him in the chest and he fell to his knees, clutching at his wounds. It was then that the third men plunged a dagger in his back and twisted.

  Will fell forward to his knees, his face in the dirt. He knew nothing as the robbers slit the ties that held his money pouch and made off into the gathering gloom.

  * * *

  Marta looked out of the window. It was getting dark and Will was not back. She had expected him long before this, because he had already sold most of his goods before he told her to take Mary home. Where was he – was he coming back to them, or had his concern been a ruse to get rid of them?

  Marta’s fear of being left alone with the child returned to haunt her. She wished that she had not trusted Will. If she had not given him all their money she would have had enough left to last for a few months, and by then it would no longer be a problem for her.

  ‘What will the child do?’ she spoke softly, but Mary’s head turned towards her inquiringly.

  ‘Do you need something, Mother? Can I fetch you a drink of water? I could warm some ale for you if you wish?’

  ‘No, child, I want nothing,’ Marta said. She looked at Mary and a wave of remorse and regret swept over her. What had she done to the child? She had stolen her, because she believed the child’s mother was dead, and she had wanted to protect her from Nicholas Malvern. Yet when the Earl of Devereaux had sent messengers to look for his lost daughter, who might well be Mary, she had done nothing. She could have thrown herself on the earl’s mercy and given Mary up. It would have been kinder rather than exposing the girl to the hard life on the roads. She had fled to France in fear of what she and Will had done, and because she had cared for the child – but she knew that she had not treated Mary well. Life had been too hard and too many harsh words and sharp slaps had gone Mary’s way.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said suddenly. ‘I have not been fair to you – and when I die you will be alone.’

  ‘You won’t die,’ Mary said, feeling frightened by the odd look on Marta’s face. ‘Besides, Will Hern will look after me.’

  ‘Will has gone,’ Marta said and turned away from the window to sit by the fire. ‘He is not coming back. I feel it inside.’

  ‘Will wouldn’t leave us,’ Mary said. ‘He has just stopped to have a drink. You know how he is, Marta.’

  ‘No…’ Marta shook her head. ‘This time he has left us. He knows I am ill and he does not want the burden of looking after us.’

  ‘I don’t believe he would just leave us,’ Mary objected. ‘If he does not come back tonight I shall go and look for him in the morning.’

  ‘You will waste your time,’ Marta said and slumped on the bench. ‘Find something to eat for yourself, Mary. I am too tired to look after you.’

  ‘I shall look after you,’ Mary promised. ‘I am sure he will come back by morning, but if he doesn’t I shall take care of us both.’

  Marta made no answer.

  * * *

  Mary felt the sting of tears as she set out the next morning to look for Will. She could not believe that he would simply go and leave them but he had not come back during the night. Marta was sitting by the fire and would not move from it. Mary had warmed ale for them both and soaked a dry crust in her own to make it acceptable. There was nothing else in the cottage and she knew that they had no money. They did have the horse and cart, which Marta had driven home from the fair, but Mary wasn’t sure whether she should try and sell it.<
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  For the moment she wanted to look for Will, because her heart was telling her that he would not just go and leave them with nothing. Yet the nice man who had told her a story had promised he would take her to his home. Weeks and weeks had passed and she had not seen him again, though the other man with the soft brown eyes was still following them.

  Mary wondered if he would send a message to the man who had claimed to be her father, telling him that they were in trouble. Perhaps he had just made the promise to please her, the way Will often did when Marta nagged him. Or perhaps he had just forgotten. Will Hern did that too.

  She had been walking for a while when she saw some people gathered about something by the side of the road. She ran towards them intent on asking if anyone had seen Will. The men looked serious and, as she looked down she saw something covered on the ground. There were dark stains on the grass that looked like blood, and as she hesitated, she saw the pack lying a short distance away.

  ‘That is Will’s pack,’ she cried, and the people turned to look at her with pity in their eyes. ‘Will is my friend…what happened to him? Let me see. Let me see Will…’

  One of the men caught her about the waist and held her back as she tried to reach that hump beneath the dirty old cloth.

  ‘Best you don’t see what they’ve done to him, child,’ one of the men said. ‘He didn’t have a chance to my way of thinking. There must have been at least three of them attacked him.’

  ‘Will…’ Mary’s voice caught on a sob for he had been good to her and she was fond of him. ‘What happened to Will – is he dead?’

  ‘Aye, he is dead, little mistress,’ the man who had been holding her set her down on her feet. ‘Take his pack and go back to your mother. It looks as if they robbed him, but his tools should be worth something. You might get a few coins for them.’

  Mary stared at the shape under the cloth, then took the pack, slinging it over her back. It was very heavy for her, but she struggled on with it, because it was Will’s and Marta would need the money. She was weeping as she walked back to the cottage. Marta was right. This time Will wasn’t coming back to them because he was dead.

  * * *

  ‘Dead?’ Marta sent out a wail of grief that made Mary cover her ears and weep. She had never seen Marta like this, moaning and screaming in her pain. ‘I thought he had left us, but you say he is dead? He won’t come back, because he can’t come back…he is dead.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have left us…’ Mary stood watching Marta as the frenzy of grief overtook her. She was clutching herself, rocking backwards and forwards and wailing in despair. ‘Don’t cry, Marta. We can sell the tools and the horse. We can stay here until…’ Mary sniffled, because she didn’t know what would happen to them. Marta seemed out of her mind with grief and fear, and Mary did not know what to do for the best. Should she stay to look after her or try to find help?

  Marta hardly seemed to know she was there. She was lost in her own misery, muttering and weeping, locked in grief.

  ‘Marta…’ she said and put out a hand to touch her. Marta screamed at her not to touch her and then stood up. Her eyes were wild and she seemed not to know what she was doing as she tore at her hair and pulled out a clump. Then she mumbled something and took a step towards Mary, giving an odd cry as she pitched forward and fell to the ground. ‘Marta?’ Mary knelt down by her side. ‘Marta…don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead, Marta.’

  Marta did not answer and Mary felt the scream building inside her. What should she do? She didn’t know who to ask for help. She shook Marta’s shoulder.

  ‘Please don’t be dead…’ she wept.

  Mary was so distressed that at first she did not notice the door opening. Then she felt a breeze and looked up to see the man in the doorway. She sat back on her heels, looking at him helplessly, the tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Will is dead. I think Marta is dead too…’

  ‘Let me see,’ Niccolai said and went to kneel by her side. His hands moved over Marta, his fingers pressing against her throat for a moment or two, then he smiled at Mary. ‘She is unconscious but still alive. I shall take you both to my home and Marta will be cared for. I am not yet sure what ails her, but it is possible that I may help her.’

  ‘Are you a physician?’ Mary asked, looking at him trustingly. Everything would be all right now that her father had come for her, as he had promised. ‘I thought you had forgotten me.’

  ‘I could never forget you,’ he said and smiled. ‘Yes, I am a physician, Mary. A lot of people have been very ill of a terrible fever, and I was needed to help them, but my friend watched over you for me. I could not come for you before this, but I am here now that you need me. You are quite safe, Mary. You will live with me in the future at my home. I am your father and I shall take care of you always.’

  ‘And will my mother be there?’ Mary asked. ‘The mother you told me of? I know Marta has been my mother and I love her – but you said there was a mother who loved me?’

  ‘Yes, your true mother loves you very much. She thought you lost for a long time, but she knows that you are found. Very soon I hope she will come and live with us.’

  ‘Why does she not live with you now?’

  ‘Someone made her a prisoner,’ Niccolai said and his eyes looked strange, the pupils black and silver at the centre. ‘Soon now she will be free and she will come back to us.’ He stood up and clapped his hands. Two men Mary had never seen before entered the cottage and looked at him, waiting for orders. ‘Take the woman on the cart and bring anything that belongs to her. I shall take my daughter with me.’ He held his hand out to Mary and she took it. Come little one, it is time. You belong with me now.’

  ‘Will…’ Mary looked at him uncertainly. ‘He should be buried properly for he was good to me.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Niccolai said. ‘It is already being attended to – and the rogues who murdered him will be caught and punished. I promise you that there is nothing for you to worry about ever again, Mary. I have you now and you are safe.’

  He was tall and strong and his manner was gentle. He might have been handsome if his face did not bear that terrible scar. Mary did not mind the scar. He was her father and he loved her. It was all she had ever wanted, to be loved and safe.

  ‘I feel safe with you,’ Mary said. ‘I have been waiting and hoping you would come, but I thought you might change your mind. Will always broke his promises.’

  Niccolai looked down at her, his expression tender and kind. ‘I do not break my promises,’ he said. ‘Sometimes, it takes longer than I had hoped to do all that I would wish, but in the end I keep my word. Your mother will be with us soon – and all those who have hurt us will be punished…’

  35

  Melloria awoke in the dark shivering. For a few minutes she lay looking at the window, through which no light penetrated. It was pitch black and she was afraid. In her dream the child had been terrified and weeping, screaming for help but then something had happened. Gradually, a sense of peace came to Melloria and she seemed to hear a voice in her head.

  ‘Do not fear, my love. I have our Mary safe. She is with me and she longs to see you. Soon you will be free. Soon you will come to us; you and Iolanthe will be with us. We shall be together – all of us.’

  ‘Nicholas…’ the tears were on her face as the first rays of dawn began to creep through the window. She rose and pulled on a warm robe over her nightrail, for it was always cold in the castle even when spring came. Had she imagined those comforting words? Surely it was not possible for Nicholas to reach her like that? Yet she knew that he had been with her in spirit when she gave birth to their son. So many times when she needed him he seemed to come to her and give her comfort. ‘My love…my husband.’

  He was the husband of her heart, the man she would spend her life with if she could. If only she were free…

  Did Nicholas know he had a son? Could he possibly have known when the babe was born? Beatrice had told her she must give
up the child as soon as he was born for if Robert had discovered it he would have killed her and the child. Melloria had never ceased to grieve for the child she had scarcely seen, but she had been given no choice. Beatrice had steadfastly refused to tell her where the boy was, though she knew he was alive, and well cared for, according to her sister.

  Had she imagined the voice at her son’s birth, as now? Nicholas had written to tell her that he had found Mary and would take her to his home, and in her heart Melloria believed that he had kept his promise.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks as she went to the window and looked out. The castle seemed more of a prison than ever, because she longed to be free. Nicholas was alive and he still cared for her, and she loved him with all her heart.

  If only she could live as she chose. Yet her freedom must come at a price, because it would take Robert’s death to make her truly free. While he drew breath she would live in fear of his revenge if she should leave him.

  * * *

  Marta opened her eyes and looked at the man bending over her. She shrank back, fear coursing through her as she made the sign of the cross over her breast.

  ‘You…’ she whispered in horror. ‘Where am I? What were you doing to me?’

  ‘I but looked at you to see if you had woken from your fit. Will Hern is dead and buried, but you are safe, Marta. You need not fear me. Mary cares for you and therefore I shall do all I can to make you well.’

  ‘Even you cannot cure what ails me. I am dying.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Marta? I know you have been ill but I do not think you are going to die – unless you wish it?’

  ‘I do not understand you. Why should I wish to die?’ She looked at him fearfully.

  ‘You have suffered much, Marta. You left your home to follow the roads with the man you loved. When he died you buried him in the woods and carried on, but you could not find work and you were near starving most of the time. Your child was stillborn and you buried its tiny body in the woods. The grief broke your spirit. When you came to my gates you were almost dead. After you left me the night you stole Mary, you went to your brother’s house in Winchester – but your brother became a murderer, and then he attacked you. Will hit him on the head to save you and he died. Since then you have been tramping the roads of Spain and France – and you have not always been kind to the child you stole from me.’