The Sorceror's Revenge (36 page)

             
Her feet were so sore.  Sitting down at the side of the road on earth that had been dry for several days now, Rosalie took off the boots she had been wearing the day she took shelter at the castle.  There were holes appearing in the soles of both.

             
Hot tears scalded her cheeks as she thought of her predicament.  Despite the map the Abbess had given her, she had no idea where she was.  For all she knew, she might be going round in a circle.  She was supposed to follow the shrines and abbeys, heading always south, but she might be going north for all she knew.

             
Her feet were swollen and there was a blister under her right big toe.  She touched it carefully, wincing with pain.  What ought she to do now?  Her water supply was low and she dare not use it to bathe her feet, but they felt so hot and tender that all she wanted to do was sit here and weep.

             
Hearing the sound of wheels on the dusty road, Rosalie looked up.  Hours had passed since she had seen anyone and she was beginning to think she was alone in all the world.  The driver had seen her.  He was stopping his cart, getting down to come to her.  Her heart thudded.  She was a woman and defenceless.  If he tried to attack her there was little she could do.  She stood nervously, looking at him as he approached her.

             
‘Are you in trouble, mistress?’ he asked.  He had a gentle voice and his clothes were similar to those adopted by the pilgrims she had seen just after she left Lincoln.  They had been travelling north, but had pointed her in the direction she must follow; somehow she had lost her way missing the turning that would have taken her to an abbey.  ‘Your feet are swollen.  Let me bathe them for you, and then you must ride with me.’

             
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.