The Sorceror's Revenge (22 page)

             
Niccolai had known the blackness at his heart when he sent him to Rome. Perhaps he should have expected what had happened.  Yet he could not be certain whether the man was evil or simply too zealous.

             
‘Sir Kerrin,’ he said, giving nothing of his thoughts away in his expression or manner.  ‘This is an unexpected surprise.  When we parted I thought we should not speak again.’

             
‘I did you a service.’

             
‘And were paid for it,’ Niccolai said.  ‘I do not pay twice and you would be unwise to try blackmail.’

             
‘I have not come to ask for money, unless it is earned.  I believe we want the same thing.  You need Robert Earl Devereaux, dead, and so do I.  We might help each other.’

             
‘What makes you think I wish Devereaux harm?’ Niccolai’s gaze narrowed for he had believed his secrets were secure.

             
‘He almost killed you and he took the woman you thought of as your wife. You have bided your time for reasons known best to you but you will strike soon.’

             
‘Who told you this?’

             
‘You are not the only one with eyes to see and ears to hear,’ Kerrin answered sourly.  ‘When I want to know about someone I make it my business to discover the facts…’ His mouth smiled thinly but no warmth reached his eyes.  ‘Did you know that the lady retired to a hermitage to fast and pray but her husband took the child Iolanthe and forced her to return to him?’

             
‘Yes, I am aware of what was done,’ Niccolai replied.  ‘I have made my own plans.  What makes you think you could help me?’

             
‘You do not like to get your hands dirty.  You sent me to your cousin for that reason.’

             
‘I sent you to deliver a warning in a certain way at a certain time, but you exceeded your mission.  I did not tell you to murder my cousin.  I merely wanted him to fear what might happen if he interfered in my life again.  Santos was a superstitious coward despite his physical strength. The warning, delivered as I directed, should have been sufficient without taking his life.’

             
‘You said you wanted to make sure he would not trouble you again.  I do not think he has troubled you since that night.’

             
‘Did you think I would not know what you had done?  Did you think I would not send men to investigate?  My cousin’s body had been preserved by the dry atmosphere of the sealed cavern in the catacombs, and has now been given a Christian burial.’ Niccolai’s eyes were dark as granite.  ‘You murdered my cousin…as you murdered Sir Jonathan Searles and the lady Rhoda Morgan.’

             
A look of fear passed across Kerrin’s face. His startled gaze flew to Niccolai.  ‘You could not know – no one knew…’ He was stunned, his mind working furiously as he sought an explanation.  ‘In my fever…you tended me…’

             
‘You were troubled in your mind,’ Niccolai said.  ‘I should have been warned that you were capable of violence, but I was not thinking as clearly as I might have at that time.  I wanted my cousin frightened and chastened but I am not a murderer.  You exceeded your commission and I have no more use for you.’

             
‘If you knew, why did you not have me arrested and hung for murder?’

             
‘It is not my place to punish.  In life there is always a price to pay.  When the time comes you will know what the price is and the choice will be yours.’

             
Kerrin shivered as he looked into the cold eyes.  Nothing frightened him for he lived in a place he called Hell, but he sensed concealed danger beneath the silken mask. ‘People say you consort with the Devil.  You wanted to be sure your cousin caused you no more trouble.  I made sure he could not – and after what he did to you he deserved his death. Why do you care what was done to him? Most men would have exacted vengeance long before you did.’

             
‘Perhaps.’ Niccolai’s face was devoid of emotion.  ‘Yet I am not God.  I do not decide who lives and who dies. I am an apothecary and I try to ease suffering. If you want Robert Devereaux dead, you must kill him yourself.  My plans are not for his death, but I would have him disgraced – the rest is by God’s will not mine.’

             
‘You would have him disgraced – no longer a favourite of the King?’ Kerrin was alert, like a fox after its prey.  ‘Devereaux is a proud man.  I do not think it would suit him to lose his position as the King’s champion.’

             
‘I imagine not,’ Niccolai said, his tone unaltered.  ‘If you are determined that only his death will satisfy you, there will come a time when he is weaker than he is now.  While his power is at its height, neither of us could touch him and live. When he falls, you must make your choice, but do not forget that there will be a reckoning one day.’

             
‘I would not have thought you a religious man?’

             
‘No?  How little we know of each other in this world.  I shall bid you farewell, sir. I think we have nothing more to say to one another.’

             
Kerrin stared at him resentfully. Niccolai Malvolia had paid well for the service he had rendered before and he had hoped to be paid for a task that would give him great satisfaction.

             
‘You may regret that you rejected my offer.’

             
‘Perhaps. We none of us know what is to come.  Please do not approach me again.  Our business is at an end.’

             
‘I did you a favour by killing Santos. You may be too squeamish to admit it, but you know it in your heart.  If your plans go awry I will make sure Devereaux does not bother you again – for a price.’

             
‘If I have need of your service I shall let you know.’

             
Kerrin glared at him, turned and walked away. He wondered if it were true that Nicholas Malvern – or Niccolai Malvolia, who were one and the same man – truly had the secret of turning base metal to gold.  Malvolia was certainly a wealthy man.  Where did his wealth come from? If Kerrin only had that secret, how much better his life might be!  He had never been lucky enough to earn his fortune.  He had offered his sword wherever it was needed, earning enough to pay for his pleasures in life, but he had not become rich.

             
He harboured a grudge towards rich men who could live as they pleased and never have to seek employment.  Malvolia lived in a house the size of a palace and was clearly wealthy beyond most men’s dreams. The Church preached charity and said that if a man was wealthy and gave not of his wealth he would go to Hell.  Kerrin would gladly have exchanged riches on this earth for the promise of glory. If he had been rich perhaps Rhoda’s father would have allowed her to marry him and she might not have betrayed him.

             
Kerrin saw again the look in her eyes as she realised she was going to die.  He saw it every night before he slept, and often he did not sleep.  He had killed her with his bare hands, strangling her, breaking the delicate bones in her neck.  She had died much easier than Count Santos. Kerrin had enjoyed
his
death, because of the struggle he put up.  Murder was something that came easier the more you killed, but the pleasure was fleeting.  To repeat it one needed to kill again and again.  Since the first time, when he had killed the Earl of Montroy for Rhoda – the faithless slut! - he had become more skilled at his trade. He was known to many as the Avenger – a man who would kill anyone for money.

             
Yet still he was not rich enough.  He wanted land and houses, enough gold to be safe.  Kerrin was not sure how much would make him safe, but he did not have it yet.

             
He knew that Robert Devereaux had made a search for him before he left England.  He may have suspected that Kerrin had murdered Rhoda and Sir Jonathan Searles, but he could not prove it.

             
If Devereaux were dead he might be safe.  Kerrin was thoughtful as he left Malvolia’s house and the gates were locked behind him.  Malvolia refused to admit that he had wanted his rival dead, but there were others who might pay him to perform the service.  If Robert Devereaux were in his grave his young son would be earl.  That would leave John of Hopton as his guardian, and if the child died…Hopton would be his heir.

             
In the meantime unrest was growing in England. The barons squabbled and fought each other and the townspeople barricaded themselves in their shops, fearful of riots. There was certain to be open civil war before long.  Kerrin would offer his sword to one side or the other – but to get close to an enemy it was better to be his friend.

             
He would pay a visit to the earl’s estate at Craigmoor and see how the land lay, and then he would offer his sword to either the King or his rebellious barons.

             
One way or the other he would see Robert Devereaux dead before many months had passed..

30

Melloria heard the shouting in the solar and went to investigate.  Harry was fighting with a boy who was a head taller and stronger, but his temper was carrying him on. He was the steward’s nephew and had been given permission to study with them.

‘You are a liar and I shall not believe a word you say!’  Harry Devereaux looked at the boy in anger.
             

‘What I say is true,’ Peter Finch replied stubbornly.  He was a sturdy fair-haired boy and taller than Harry by a head.  ‘Countess Devereaux is not your mother.  Your mother was a whore and she was murdered.’

             
‘You are a bastard,’ Iolanthe cried in glee, clearly delighted by this news.  ‘You will not be the heir to the castle.  Father will make me his heir.’

             
‘He will not!’ Harry flew at her in a rage and pulled her hair.  Iolanthe reacted, scratching his face.  He gave a yell and started to cry noisily.  ‘It isn’t true…’ Seeing Melloria, he ran to her, clutching at her velvet gown in his distress.  ‘Tell them it is a lie,’ he sobbed.  ‘You are my mother and I am the heir.’

             
‘Yes, Harry, you are the earl’s heir,’ Melloria said.  She looked at Peter and saw the flush in his face.  ‘What would your uncle say if he knew what you had said, Peter?’

             
The boy hung his head, looking shamed.  ‘He would thrash me…’

             
‘Please say sorry to Harry.’

             
‘But it isn’t a lie.  I heard my father say it – and he doesn’t lie.’

             
‘Whatever you heard you father say you should not repeat it,’ Melloria said sternly.  ‘I shall not tell your uncle, Peter, but please remember what I have said.  Harry, come with me please.  As for you, Iolanthe, you will go without your supper tonight.  You started the quarrel and I will not have this constant bickering.  If you cannot behave in a proper manner, none of you will go to the fair next week.  Come, Harry.  I have something to say to you.’

             
Melloria took his hand and led him into her chamber, closing the door behind them.  She sat down, pulling Harry close to her.  The scratch on his cheek had drawn blood but it was not serious.  She spat on a kerchief and wiped it off for spittle would take away the sting.

             
‘You must not mind what they say, Harry.  You are my son in all but one way, and I love you dearly.’

             
‘Peter said my mother was a whore…’ He looked at her, his eyes brimmed with tears.

             
‘Your mother was married to your father for a little while.  I was ill and your father thought me dead so he took another wife, but then he discovered that I still lived.  Your mother went away and…she died.  Your father gave you to me to be my son and I have loved you ever since.’

             
‘You are not my true mother.  Is that why you love Iolanthe best?'

             
‘Oh, Harry.’ Melloria reached out to touch his cheek.  ‘I love you both equally.  You
are
my son in all but blood and you are certainly your father’s heir.  He thinks the world of you and he would never disown you.’

             
Harry rubbed a fist over his eyes.  ‘You don’t love me.’

             
‘Yes, I do,’ Melloria said, her heart catching because there was some truth in his words. Yet she felt love for him at this moment and she wanted to comfort him.  ‘What would you like for your gift at Christ’s Mass, Harry?’

             
‘I should like a bow and arrows,’ he said and tipped his head to one side.  ‘Will you give me more money to spend at the fair than Iolanthe?  I should have more because I am the heir.’