The Sorceror's Revenge

by Linda Sole

  ‘We are here to protect our son and daughters,’ Anne said. ‘He is but a child of eleven, Nicholas – what harm can a child of that age do to our family?’

  ‘Perhaps much, perhaps none.’ Nicholas smiled and took her in his arms once more. ‘We shall go to bed, my love. In the morning things will seem clearer and then I shall know what must be done with my cousin’s son.’

  * * *

  Michael Angelo Santos stood looking out of the window. In the morning he was to be sent to the Abbey of Saint Peter to be educated by the monks. When he was fifteen he would either be permitted to leave or chose to take his vows.

  His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as he counted to ten and tried to control his temper. Signor Fedora had written to his father’s Cousin Count Niccolai Malvolia to ask what must be done with him, and this was his reply. He had proved too much for the tutors at the academy for the sons of noblemen and now he was to be sent to the monks. They wanted him shut away from the world so that he could cause no further trouble. The bitterness churned inside him and he felt his anger grow to the point where it was almost beyond his control.

  He knew why he was being sent to a monastery to live with the monks. It was so that he could be silenced…so that he could tell no one what he knew.

  Reaching inside his jerkin, he took out the small crumpled piece of parchment that had come to him the day he went on a rampage and smashed the furniture at his last school. Opening the letter, he read the brief inscription once more.

  Your father was murdered in the catacombs in Rome. I know, because I killed him. I was paid to kill him by Count Niccolai Malvolia. If you have received this letter I am dead. I swear to you on the Holy Book of the Bible that what I write here is the truth. Signed, Kerrin of Shrewsbury.

  Signor Fedora had told Michael that Count Malvolia was his father’s cousin. His father’s estate had gone to him but he had paid for Michael’s schooling. He would pay for his board and lodging at the monastery.

  Michael had wanted the letter to be a lie. If Count Malvolia had sent for him to live with his family, he would have torn it up and forgotten it. This harsh decision was proof of the count’s guilt. He had paid to have Michael’s father murdered and now he was paying to have his son shut away from the world to keep him silent.

  Inside Michael’s brain the chant was growing louder. Murder…murder…murder. His head felt as if it would burst and he could not contain his anger. Suddenly he started to shake. He was frothing at the mouth and his limbs had begun to spasm. He fell to the floor kicking and shaking as the fit took hold of him.

  ‘Michael, you poor child.’ Signor Fedora was there beside him. He pushed a silver disc between Michael’s teeth. ‘Bite on that, Michael. ‘Tis but a fit and will pass in time.’

  Michael could no longer hear him. The fit had him in his grip and he could not stop shaking. He bit on the silver disc and gradually the symptoms became less severe, leaving him with a terrible headache. As Signor Fedora helped him to rise he tried to speak but it was some moments before the words would come.

  ‘What…is…wrong…with me?’

  ‘I do not know for certain,’ Signor Fedora said. ‘Some call it the falling sickness, but no one knows what causes the fits. It is a terrible affliction and I am sorry you should suffer it, Michael. I shall write again to your father’s cousin and tell him what ails you.’

  ‘No, do not trouble yourself,’ Michael said harshly. ‘I should be a burden to him and his family. Let me go to the monks, perhaps their prayers will cure what ails me.’

  ‘Your father’s cousin is a fine apothecary, Michael. If he knew how you suffer I am sure he would wish to help you.’

  ‘I do not wish him to know,’ Michael said. ‘Excuse me, I must lie down. I have a terrible headache and I need to sleep.’

  ‘Go then, child, and may God protect you.’

  Michael left him. It was his anger that had brought on the fit. He must learn how to control it, how to channel it into something that would make him stronger.

  His father had died because Count Malvolia had commanded it. One day Michael would take revenge for his father, but first he must learn to control the sickness that was his weakness.

  * * *

  Carmelita looked into her mirror and saw the face of an old hag. She flung it away from her in disgust. The enchantment she had woven had worn off and she was not sure she had the power to work her magic again as powerfully as before.

  She needed the Book of Secrets to keep her image young and beautiful for she was too old to recall her age. She had helped the sorcerer though he knew it not and one day soon she would go to him and demand her just payment.

  Afterword

  Nicholas was tired. He had been up for most of the night with an elderly patient who was dying. The man had been in great pain but would not allow him to administer the sleeping juice until he had confessed his sins, which were many and varied but of no great magnitude. Nicholas smiled wryly as he wondered whether the priest would give him absolution if he asked for it on his deathbed or run shrieking from the bedchamber calling on his god to save him.

  He massaged his temples with his fingers. Earlier he had thought the pain might strike but it had eased of its own accord. He had felt it less and less since Anne’s return, perhaps because he no longer tormented himself with thoughts of her suffering. He had occasionally told patients that much of their pain came from inside their own consciousness, advising them to seek their healing from within. They looked at him as if he were mad, but he firmly believed that the mind played a large part in some illnesses. Yet even he had not always been able to control his headaches by will alone.

  ‘Physician heal thyself,’ he murmured, amused by his own fallibility. He was only a weak human and not the demigod some thought him. Nicholas did not doubt that there were strange powers that went beyond mere human understanding. He had harnessed some of them to help him in his work when the need arose, but whether that power came from the gods, demons or the Devil he did not know.

  His mind searched for the truth in all things and sometimes he thought he saw a glimmer, a moment of light in the darkness that was Man’s lot. His belief fell short of Christianity, though he doubted not that Jesus had been a great healer. He had examined other faiths, including the pagan gods of old and the book of the Muslims; he had even studied astrology in his search for the truth, but none of these doctrines seemed to hold the answer for him.

  Perhaps a man made his own destiny, drawing on the power within him. If a man sought long and hard enough he might find that through the strength of his own will he could bring about a cure for many of the terrible ills that plagued humankind. Was there a man strong enough to seek the truth, to follow the path of light to its core? If so, that man was not him. He had a weakness that prevented him taking his search to the limit, a line beyond which he would not step.

  Love was the fine cord that held him from stepping over that line. Love for Anne, his children, and his love for the weak and poor who needed his help. All he had done was done for love.

  He sighed heavily, for he knew that he could never achieve all he desired in one short lifetime without delving further and further into what most would call the black arts. His instincts told him that to travel too far down that path might lead to madness, to be consumed by something so strong and powerful that he would not be able to stand against it. His eyes fixed on the letter that was troubling him. It came from his friend and agent Signor Fedora and was a request he was loath to grant and yet could not refuse.

  I know that you thought the boy would be better with the monks for you believed they might have a calming influence on him, but the idea upset him greatly. He suffers from the falling sickness, and I believe this is the cause of his rages. His school thought him mad, as I told you before, but he is a clever lad, Nicholas. He plays the harp and sings like an angel, an unlikely talent for the son of Rinaldo Santos. His songs are strange and pull the heart from a man’s body
. I imagine the gift comes from his mother, who was one of the ancient travelling people, and some say an Egyptian princess.

  Since he had the fit, Michael Angelo has tried very hard to control his temper. I have gained his confidence and he responds to me. I have no son to leave the small estate I have to when I die, and I have grown fond of Michael. I would like to keep him with me, but I shall not go against your wishes. Please tell me whether it would be acceptable to you should I adopt the boy and care for him myself.

  Your ever loyal friend and servant, Fedora.

  Nicholas picked up his pen and began to write. Perhaps he had wronged the boy when he refused to have him here, but he had wanted to keep his family safe. Memories of his cousin’s bullying had made him reluctant to expose his children to Michael’s influence. Yet he could not help but sympathise with the boy’s situation. If he were truly a victim of the falling sickness he would be mocked and despised, even feared throughout his life. The ignorant would say he was possessed by devils.

  Nicholas had only ever treated one patient for the illness and he had been able to offer nothing but a potion for the headache that occurred after a fit, and suggest taking a cure that might calm his humours. Most physicians believed that for good health the four humours must be balanced. Nicholas did not in general agree, but in this patient’s case it had seemed to lessen the degree of the fits, though they were still sudden and unpredictable.

  He would research the affliction and see what could be done to help his cousin’s bastard. In the meantime he could do no less than agree to Signor Fedora’s request.

  Sealing his letter with wax and his signet ring, Nicholas had a feeling that he would regret this moment of weakness one day. Yet there was little else he could do. It might have been better to have Michael here where he could watch over and influence him, but he had let the chance go and now he must repay the many favours his friend had done for him in the past.

  There was always a price to pay. Nicholas had known it but he had not guessed what form it would take.

  ‘I hope the boy appreciates what you do,’ he murmured. ‘I pray that one day he will not betray the love you have given him.’

  Nicholas had known since the day his cousin’s body was discovered murdered in the catacombs that there would be a reckoning one day.

  ‘When the time comes I shall pay,’ he murmured. ‘But the time is not yet.’

  He felt a cold shiver take him and something told him to throw his letter into the fire but he fought the fear. He had not ordered his cousin’s death, but it was because of the decision he had taken, the trick he had played on Santos that the assassin had killed him.

  ‘Please not yet,’ he murmured and rose to his feet. The letter would be sent in the morning. Even if he tore it up it would not change what must happen. The chain of events was already in progress, had been for years. ‘I am not yet ready to pay.’

  Nicholas dismissed the premonition of his own death. The time was not yet. He would go now to his beloved wife, take her in his arms and love her and forget all the darkness that was in his soul.

  Anne was his light and his love, his reason for living. He would live every day as if it were his last.

  Linda Sole also writes as Anne Herries and Anne Ireland. She writes many kinds of books, which is one reason she uses different names. She hopes you have enjoyed this second book of the Apothecary series. There may be a third but with her busy schedule it will be a while coming. When and if she manages to find the time it will be called The Apothecary’s Daughters. The first book in the series was called Love Hate and Betrayal and reached number 2 in occult in USA when it was on free download.

  www.lindasole.co.uk