by Linda Sole
He knelt beside her on the road. ‘Be at peace, mistress, and let me tend your feet. I shall not harm you. Do you not remember me?’
Rosalie glanced at him again and recognition came.
‘Tom Thatcher,’ she cried. ‘I thought you had gone to the Holy Land? Your mother said you had a vision and went off to take the cross.’
‘Alas some are called in one way, some another,’ he said, a gentle smile on his face. ‘I was taken ill of a fever when I reached France. I should have died had it not been for a good man who saved me. After that I worked for him. He asked me to help him find his daughter. For months I followed a child and the woman who had stolen her from him when she was a babe. As I walked the roads I helped those I could.’
‘That is a strange tale,’ Rosalie said looking at him in wonder. ‘What happened to the child?’
He was bathing her feet with cool water from a flask he carried. After he had bathed them, he dried each one and applied soothing balm, then bound them in clean linen he took from the bag he carried over his shoulder.
‘My master has taken the child and the woman to live with him in his house in France. He sent me here to England for he had more work for me – and now my task is to help you reach your home.’
Rosalie looked at him curiously. He was the man she remembered from childhood but he seemed different. There was a serenity about him, a goodness that set him apart from other men. She thought that perhaps his calling had been genuine and not a whim as his mother had believed.
‘My master told me. He is a wise and good man and there is little he does not know. He told me to follow this road and said I would know the woman I was to help.’
Rosalie shivered, because something about him reminded her of Iolanthe when she spoke of her Papa. This man was kind and gentle but she felt that he was bound to his master…that his master had some kind of thrall over him. There was a strangeness about this meeting that worried her. How could Tom’s master know which way she was headed? Why should he send someone to help her?
She had wondered if Iolanthe were possessed and now suspected there was some unnatural power at work. How could a man she had never met know she would be on this road and needing help?
It was beyond her understanding. She was a little nervous, afraid of what she did not understand. Yet grateful too. Tom helped her onto the driving box beside him. He smiled and her fear subsided.
‘I dare say you are hungry?’
‘I have eaten only bread for two days.’
‘I am sorry you have suffered. My master was delayed in his return to England. Had he not been ill himself you would not have had to walk so far, mistress.’ He took a parcel of linen from his satchel and handed it to her. Opening it, Rosalie found cheese and an apple. She bit into it and found it sweet.
‘This is good. I thank you.’
‘You are welcome. The food came from France with my master. He has given me leave to settle my affairs here. I would see my family and make my peace with her before I return to my work.’
* * *
The woman wandered the streets of London. Her head still ached and she did not know who she was or where she belonged. She had woken in the crypt of a church, feeling cold and ill. The dark and the smell of death frightened her and she’d got to her feet, feeling her way until she found a door. Little steps led up into a church. Here candles burned and people were praying. No one turned to look at her as she left the church and went out into the streets.
She shivered in the chill of a wet night, not knowing where to go. For three days she had walked from place to place, hoping to remember where she was and what had happened to her. Why had she been put in the crypt and why could she not recall her name?
As the days passed she became hungry and filthy. People stared at her but none would give her food or shelter. They simple turned their heads away. Her dress was that of a lady, but the green velvet gown was filthy and stained. She had no money to buy food and nothing of value to sell- except her body.
Some men looked at her with lust in their eyes but she ran from them. She had no voice and there were dark marks on her throat; it hurt to swallow water but water was all she had, taken from the troughs for the horses because if she approached a well she was driven off with filth plucked from the gutters.
If no one would help her she must sell herself or die. Tears filled her eyes. She did not wish to become a whore but what else could she do?
48
Melloria glanced round at the trunks that had been delivered to her. It seemed that Robert had decided to let her have her possessions, though as yet he had not sent her any money. In truth she had little use for money at the abbey but she would have liked to send Rosalie something as a dowry for her marriage. Looking through the clothes that had been sent from Craigmoor, she noticed that one of her favourite green gowns was missing as well as various trinkets. Rosalie had told her that Robert’s new lover had been wearing her things. How could Robert have let another woman use her things? He spoke of loving her but his actions showed that he cared little for her feelings.
Melloria took several of her plainer gowns from the trunks and put them to one side. The others were of little use to her and most had been given her by Robert, reflecting his taste rather than hers. She gathered everything she no longer needed, including jewels of small value, into one trunk. It seemed that her husband had not seen fit to restore the more valuable of her jewels. No matter, she would not have worn them, but she could have sold them and used the money to live independently, which was of course why he had not sent them.
When the nuns next sent goods to market, they could take the things she did not require and sell them. Some of the money could be sent to the steward at Craigmoor. Karl was a good man and could be trusted to see that Rosalie received her gift. The rest of the money would go to swell the abbey’s coffers.
‘At least you have your own things,’ Beatrice remarked as she entered the tiny cell later that day. ‘Your own gowns will be more comfortable for you than anything we have to offer.’
‘He sent something that I should like to give you,’ Melloria said, handing her sister a Bible covered in the finest leather. ‘It is beautifully inscribed and illustrated. Robert gave me it as a wedding gift and told me it took the monks more than a year to copy it.’
Beatrice took the gift with reverence. ‘This is a treasure for the abbey. We have nothing of this value. I thank you for your generosity, sister. Are you sure you can part with it?’
‘Yes, of course. Many of the gowns Robert sent are of no further use to me,’ Melloria said. ‘When Sister Celine and Brother Joseph next go to market they can take the things in the smaller trunk and sell them. I shall send Rosalie money for her dowry – and the rest you shall have for candles and kindling for the abbey, sister.’
‘You should keep something for yourself,’ Beatrice told her. ‘Since our benefactor began to send us money once a month we have managed very well. The latest instalment is due this month and once we have it Sister Celine will go to market to purchase things we need.’
‘I am glad your benefactor has been so kind. Yet I would like to make recompense for all you have done for me, Beatrice,’ Melloria said. ‘Robert has relented and given me my personal things, but he did not send money. I think he will hold my lands and revenues from me unless I return to him, which, as my husband, he is entitled to do- though our marriage settlement gave the income to me.’
‘Robert may be finding money difficult at the moment. The rents from his farms at Devereaux are small and he has lost Craigmoor, which was his richest holding. He will have crops in the autumn but little coin.’
‘You are right.’ Melloria looked thoughtful. ‘I dare say he may need the revenue from my lands – yet he might spare a little for his wife.’
‘You might apply to the King, but Robert does have the right to demand that you return to him.’ Beatrice met her eyes. ‘You have not changed your mind?’
‘No…�
�� A shudder went through Melloria. ‘He is a stranger to me. The man I married is no more. I can never live with Robert again.’
‘In time you will have to leave the convent or take your vows. Because you are my sister I have bent the rules, Melloria, but I cannot give you a home forever – unless you take the veil. It would be different if you had brought a dower to the abbey, of course.’
‘I need a little more time to decide,’ Melloria was pensive. ‘I am sure Nicholas will come to visit me soon.’
‘And will you go to him?’
‘I am not certain. Robert threatened to kill us all if I did – but I know that Nicholas will help me somehow.’
‘Well, there is time enough yet. I am prepared to keep you here until you decide, sister.’
‘Thank you. I am grateful to you, and I want nothing for myself from the things I have discarded.’
‘Then I thank you for your gift,’ Beatrice hesitated, then, ‘This has been a special time for me, sister. I shall miss you when you leave.’
‘As I shall miss you, Beatrice. I have always loved you dearly, and I shall never forget what you have done for me.’
* * *
Kerrin watched the cart as it wound along the narrow track between thick woods on either side. The driver was wearing the clothes of a Cistercian monk, but Kerrin was not fooled. He had done his research well and he knew that the cart was carrying the money Niccolai Malvolia sent to the Abbey of Saint Innocent once a month. He was not certain how much it was, but he guessed it would be substantial.
He would have taken their money before this had he thought he could do so with impunity, but at the back of his mind the thought that Malvolia might discover what he had done had held him back. At that time he had still hoped he might find some profit in keeping the count sweet, but now he no longer cared. He was very close to achieving his goal. For several days he had been keeping watch at the castle and knew that sometimes Robert Devereaux rode out alone. All Kerrin had to do was wait for the right moment and then one bolt from his crossbow and the earl would be dead.
The money Kerrin took from the monk would help him when he left England. He must search for work in Italy or the Low Countries, for it might be dangerous to stay here. Malvolia would suspect who was behind Robert Devereaux’s death. Would he denounce him or hold his tongue?
Kerrin thought himself a good judge of character but he had never been able to read Malvolia. Was he the good dedicated man, always striving to help others that some believed – or was there something more sinister about him? When he had asked Kerrin to deliver that book to his cousin, he had been certain that the count wanted his enemy dealt with once and for all – yet Malvolia denied it.
Kerrin felt cold suddenly. He shook off the feeling of impending doom. Malvolia could not know where he was or what he intended, and if he left England as soon as he had killed the earl, he would be safe. If he made his plans carefully no one would know for certain who had murdered Robert Devereaux.
The monk was within firing distance now. Kerrin could see his face clearly. He loaded his bolt, took aim and fired. The arrow pierced the monk through the forehead. He screamed once then fell from the driving box of the cart into the dirt. The old horse stopped immediately, waiting for the order to move on.
Kerrin sprinted to where the monk lay face down in the dirt of the dusty road. He turned him over with the toe of his boot, grunting with satisfaction as he saw how true his aim was still. Robert Devereaux would die as easily as this monk.
Clambering on to the cart, he made a search of the contents and discovered the bags of coin hidden beneath a sack of flour and another of meal. He picked them up and weighed them in his hands. About ten pounds if he judged right. Opening the top of one bag he tipped some coins into his hand, annoyed when he saw that it contained silver pence and not the gold he had hoped for.
Hearing the sounds of a horse approaching, Kerrin hid the money under a bush and marked the site then rode off as quickly as he could. He could return for his ill-gotten gains later and no one would know who had killed the monk.
49
Robert woke with a curse on his lips. He had drunk too much strong wine the previous night and, as a result, had slept too deeply. The day was well advanced and as the light struck his eyes, he was aware of a thumping headache. He threw back the covers and put his feet to the floor. It was time to pay a visit to his wife. This time he would compel her to listen to him. If she would not come willingly, he would bring her back to the castle by force.
‘My lord, there is a messenger come,’ his steward said as he finished dressing and went through to the great hall. ‘Will you see him now?’
‘Later.’ Robert waved him away, impatient to be gone. He was on fire to see Melloria and make her listen to him. He had been weak the last time they met, allowing her to dismiss his claims, but she would not escape so easily again. She was his wife and he intended that she should do her duty. ’Do not bother me with trivial things…’
‘But the messenger comes from…’ the steward stared after him as he strode away. ‘…the King…’
Had Robert heard his last words everything might have been different, but he was wrapped up in his thoughts and so plunged on toward his destiny.
* * *
The assassin lay in wait, knowing that the earl was bound to ride this way soon enough. It was mid-morning when he saw the lone rider and knew that his wait had come to an end. The Earl of Devereaux had ventured out alone, without his normal escort of soldiers. It was a mistake for he had put himself into the assassin’s hands. The man took his bow from his shoulder and loaded it with a bolt. He took aim and fired, but as he did so his hand trembled and the bolt struck his shoulder rather than his head.
As he fell to the ground and was dragged by his horse, the man felt a cold sweat break out over his body. He had been angry because the earl was a murderer. He had killed Alfreda and for that Rhys had been determined he should die – but at the last moment his courage had failed him.
‘May God forgive me,’ he said and crossed himself, then mounted his horse and rode away, not looking back.
He must return to his work as an archer in the King’s forces, but before that he would find the place where Alfreda’s body lay and place flowers on her grave.
* * *
‘Who did this to you, my lord?’ his steward asked. ‘Did you see the assassin?’
‘No. I saw nothing.’
Robert swore and looked at the bolt that was still buried in the fleshy part of his upper arm. His horse had dragged him along the ground for a time but he’d managed to pull his foot clear and then, after the horse had settled, he’d caught it and mounted again. The wound was glancing but not fatal and he had ridden home in pain but in possession of his senses.
He took hold of the shaft and pulled it out. It did not come cleanly, the shaft breaking off in his hand just above the metal tip.
‘Damn it!’ he said. ‘Don’t just stare at me, man. It will have to be cut out. Fetch a surgeon to me.’
‘The nearest is at York, my lord. All we can do is bind it and wait until he can be fetched.’
‘Then send for my wife at the Abbey of Saint Innocent,’Robert muttered, clenching his teeth against the pain. ‘Tell her I am wounded and need her help. Ask her to come to me here.’
‘Will she come, my lord?’
‘Tell her she is free to leave whenever she chooses –but for pity’s sake I need her skill as a healer.’
‘Yes, my lord. I shall send someone at once.’
* * *
‘Melloria, there is a messenger come from your husband. He is wounded in the shoulder and begs you will go to him at once.’
‘Robert wounded?’ Melloria looked up from her sewing. ‘Do you think the messenger is telling the truth?’
‘He says that the earl gives you safe passage. You will be free to leave whenever you wish.’
Melloria’s heart thudded, her mouth dry with fright. She saw the dou
bts in her sister’s face and knew that Beatrice thought as she did.
‘Can I trust him? Even if he is ill he may change his mind and forbid me to leave as soon as I have tended his injury.’
‘Let me go in your stead, sister. I have some knowledge of herbs.’
Melloria stared at her in silence. Her instincts were against giving into Robert’s request for help, and yet her conscience was telling her that she owed him this at least.
‘I shall go to him, but I will not stay a moment longer than I need. If I do not return within a few days send someone to Devereaux to ask for me. Should I be kept there against my will you must get a message to Nicholas.’
‘The monk that brings out money each month was waylaid as he journeyed here. I must write to our benefactor and suggest that he sends goods rather than silver in future. I will send my letter and – if you should be detained against your will, I shall apply to the Bishop for help. Yet perhaps Robert will keep his word this time, sister.’
‘Perhaps…’ Melloria frowned. ‘Please ask the messenger to wait for me. I must consult in Nicholas’s journals for the treatment of wounds and prepare something that will ease the pain.’
‘I do not like the thought of you at the castle,’ Beatrice said. ‘Yet I know that you feel it your duty to do what you can to ease him – and perhaps it is right that you should go. If you do not return within four days I shall come myself and ask for you.’
‘Thank you.’ Melloria embraced her. ‘God blessed me when he gave me you as my sister, Beatrice. I do not know what I should have done without you these past weeks.’