by Linda Sole
‘We shall leave tomorrow,’ Will told her. ‘We shall travel as man and wife and the babe is our child. Few would question a man and woman together with a child. If it has taken more than two years for them to think of coming here it is unlikely that we shall ever be traced. We can go abroad. Now that we have money we can go anywhere.’ He warmed to his idea. ‘If I keep the chain safe for now we can take passage on a ship to France. We will buy our horse and cart there and travel the roads down through France to the Iberian peninsular. The sun shines all the time there, Marta. Life on the road will be easier for us there than here.’
‘Yes…’ Marta was glad that she had given him the chain. She had never been sure that he had given her fair money for Todd’s chest and the bench Father Andrew had given her, but now she had no choice but to trust him. ‘Yes, we shall go together tomorrow and travel the roads -wherever they take us.’
THIRTY SIX
Robert groaned and put his left hand to his right shoulder, massaging the ache to ease it. He had been injured in a battle a week earlier and although it was but a flesh wound he was feeling the pain. At first he had imagined that he would be able to carry on as usual once his shoulder was tended and bound, but it had broken open again and he knew that it was impossible for him to fight. He could not lift his sword let alone use it forcefully.
The prince had urged him to go home after the news of his son’s birth had come from Jonathan. Robert had been reluctant, even though a son was what he had longed for so passionately.
He had wanted Melloria’s child to be a son. The fact that Rhoda had given him the male child he needed as his heir had not given him the surge of joy he had expected.
The truth was that thoughts of Melloria haunted him by day and by night. Forced to idleness by the injury that had seemed slight at first and was now causing him considerable pain, Robert had too much time to think. He regretted giving into the lust that had driven him to make Rhoda his wife. In the heat of the moment he had imagined that a son would make up for all he had lost, but now he knew that there was an empty aching inside him that nothing but the truth would ease. He should never have abandoned his search for Melloria and her child. Even if his wife had died his child might be alive. Should that child be a son he would be Robert’s heir not Rhoda’s child – and if the child were a girl, she would be something to remind him of his dead wife.
His thoughts returned to Simon Malham. The monk had been so sure he knew where to find the child. His murder might have been connected to the missing child. Perhaps someone had been prepared to do murder to keep the child hidden.
‘Damn it!’ Robert swore as the pain nagged at him. He was of no use here in this condition. Andrew of Exeter could take his place. Robert’s men would follow him. He would take a handful he trusted and return to Craigmoor to rest. When he was well again he would begin a new search for his child and the woman who had passed by the convent two days after Devereaux was attacked. ‘I leave in the morning…’
Having made up his mind to leave, Robert settled as best he could on a blanket near the fire. Sleep was impossible. Either the pain or his thoughts would keep him awake for most of the night, but he would take what rest he could find and leave at first light.
*
Rhoda glanced out of the window of her bedchamber. The men were training in the inner bailey. Sometimes now she watched them from her window, because she liked to see Jonathan at swordplay. She did not know if he was aware of her watching him, but it gave her pleasure to know that he was often the victor in the mock tournaments they held to amuse themselves. She was becoming more and more attracted to him and the game she liked to play was one of pretence.
If Robert were never to come home she would be free to choose what she did with the rest of her life. Sometimes, as she watched Jonathan she felt that she would be happy as his wife. He was so gentle and kind to her, and yet he was a skilled knight.
Sighing, Rhoda turned away from the window as the child cried. Joanne insisted on bringing him to her each day for a few hours, though he was being fed by a wet-nurse. She bent over the cot, reaching down to take the child in her arms. He was a handsome child very like his father. Perhaps that was why she sometimes felt that she could not love him. Yet he was of her flesh and when he cried a part of her responded, almost against her will.
It was her husband she resented, not the child.
Rhoda’s lovely face grew sullen as she imagined her husband’s returned. Would he insist on coming to her bed every night until she was with child and then abandoning her as he had in Wales. She did not care to be treated in such scurvy fashion, and she suspected that he still loved his wife despite his desire for her.
He was a man with lusty passions. A little voice in her head told her that Robert would always need a woman in his bed, and she was little more to him than any obliging whore.
The thought rankled and she gave a cry of frustration. ‘Why must I stay married to you?’ she asked without realising she spoke aloud. ‘Why can I not be free to follow my heart?’
Hearing the sound of laughter, Rhoda turned but there was no one there – no one but Robert’s child and the shadow of her own dissatisfaction.
THIRTY SEVEN
‘Please, you must help me,’ the woman sobbed. ‘Take away this cruel affliction. I know you have the power. The priests say that it is punishment for my sins, but you do not follow the ways of the church – you have no master but the Devil.’
‘Who told you that?’ Nicholas’s gaze narrowed in suspicion. ‘Who sent you to me? It is well known that there is no cure for the disease you have. In men the symptoms present early and I can sometimes help them, but in women it is hidden and destroys the body from the inside. When the scabs and sores begin to eat your flesh, it is too late.’
‘I beg you to use your arts to save me. Is there nothing that will rid me of this evil pestilence?’ She reached inside her gown and brought out a bracelet of flat square silver links, which had been enamelled and engraved to depict the Virgin Mary. ‘This is all I have of worth but it is yours if you will help me.’
‘I require no payment. If I could cure you I would. I am sorry, mistress, but I know of nothing that will help you or restore you to what you once were. I might give you something to ease the pain and stop you scratching your sores, but I cannot cure you.’
Nicholas turned away but the woman grabbed at his tunic. He turned to look at her as she sank to her knees and wept. At first he thought that an enemy might have sent her to him, to test him, but now he pitied her. The church condemned whores and considered the diseases they suffered as just reward for a life of sin. There was no pity for women who plied the oldest profession known to man, yet on occasion these same men used the whores for gratification of their own needs. He had treated more than one pious priest, who claimed to have caught the dread disease by giving alms to the poor and touching the hand of an infected whore.
Nicholas wondered which of them had sinned the most, the pious priest of the woman who served his lusts.
‘I beg you, help me…’ the woman prostrated herself on the floor, weeping. ‘If you turn me away I am doomed to the fires of hell. The Devil waits for me…’
Nicholas hesitated, then inclined his head. ‘I will see if there is something that may help you…’ Her head came up, her eyes bright with hope. ‘If I do treat you and it should help you, you must give me your promise that you will never speak of it to anyone.’
‘I swear it on my soul’s ease,’ she vowed. ‘Only take this evil from me and I will do anything you ask.’
‘I make no promises,’ Nicholas said for he was beginning to regret his rash words. ‘Come to me again in one month and if I can I will help you.’
‘May God protect and keep you.’ She flung herself on his feet and kissed them. ‘You will be my saviour.’
‘No! You will not worship me,’ Nicholas drew back revolted. ‘Go now and leave me to my work.’
For a while after the woman h
ad gone, Nicholas sat at his board and thought. In the book he dreaded there was written a cure for what ailed the woman. He had not read it but he knew it was there. His own research had as yet not discovered a cure for what he had named in his own mind the Great pox. It was a fearful disease and afflicted many, and though it was possible to treat the men for their symptoms, some were driven mad by the effects it had on their brain.
It should not be wrong to use any means to cure a woman so afflicted. Nicholas was conscious of a sweeping anger against those who condemned science and the search for knowledge. If sorcery could bring an end to suffering, who was he to deny its use?
Getting up from his chair, he went to the chest where the book of secrets was kept under lock and key. He had put it away securely, the key always on his person. Anne had picked it up in her innocence and others might do the same. He did not want its evil to contaminate others.
The book was lying where he had put it so many months before. He had not looked at it or touched it since that day. Yet now he was tempted to pick it up. He knew an overwhelming desire to open it and learn its secrets. Who knew what else he might discover? Perhaps a cure for so many of the diseases that caused suffering and pain…
His hand was reaching for the book when the door opened behind him. Nicholas did not need to turn his head to know that it was Anne. Her perfume was like a breath of fresh air, light and purity. A shock of horror and disgust went through him as he realised what he had been about to do – what he might lose. He slammed the coffer shut, locked it and turned to feast his eyes on her loveliness.
Anne looked at him curiously. ‘Have I disturbed you, Nicholas? I know you had someone with you earlier, but I thought your visitor had gone. Was she a patient?’
‘She might have been had she been suffering from something I could cure, but I fear there is nothing known that will help her. She is in the last stages of what the French call the whore’s disease.’
Anne crossed herself. ‘The poor woman. Is there nothing you can do for her?’
‘I may give her a potion to ease her suffering but I cannot restore her life or the beauty she once had.’
‘That is so sad.’ Anne moved towards him, gazing up into his face intently, searching. ‘Is that what tortures you, husband? I have seen…sensed something of late. What shadow hangs over you?’
‘None that seeing you will not cure.’ Nicholas shook his head. ‘I shall not touch you yet. I must wash and cleanse myself of any infection before I come to you-but you came to me. Is there something you need?’
‘I came only to tell you that supper will be ready very soon. Do not get lost in your work and forget.’
‘No, I shall not,’ he promised. ‘Is all well with you and Iolanthe?’
‘We are well, as always.’ Anne looked into his face. ‘I love you, Nicholas. Whatever you have done – whatever you fear, I am here to share it with you.’
Nicholas watched as she left the room, then returned to the coffer. He unlocked it and took out the book, staring at it for some minutes; then, on a fit of impulse, he began tearing the pages and tossing them into the open fireplace. This was what he should have done long ago. While the book remained in his possession it would tempt him.
He tore the last page across and threw it into the hearth, then he struck a tinder and lit a candle. He bent to touch it to the paper. For a moment he hesitated and then thrust the candle into the heart of the paper.
‘Be gone, imp of Satan,’ he said. ‘Leave me. I shall not serve you.’
‘Too late,’ a voice spoke close to his ear. ‘You sold your soul to me and I keep what I have.’
Glancing round, Nicholas could see nothing, but the stench of sulphur was strong and he could hear laughter as the flames took the pages, consuming them so that they crackled and turned brown.
‘You will always wonder,’ the voice said. ‘You will always wish that you had looked.’
Nicholas watched as the last pages turned to ash. The voice was in his head, as it had always been. He had resisted temptation. He had redeemed himself. He would not be tortured by thoughts of what he might have learned.
‘Be gone,’ he said again. ‘You are but a thought in my mind.’
‘Then why do you fear me?’
Nicholas shut the voice out resolutely. He was only a man not God and he could not cure all those who came to him. It was his own personal cross to bear.
THIRTY EIGHT
Marta woke with a start. For a moment she lay in the darkness listening. Something had woken her…there it was again. A scraping sound somewhere in the house. Her spine crawled with icy fingers and she sat up, throwing back the cover. Will was still asleep, his gentle snores telling her that the noise had not disturbed his rest. Perhaps she would not have heard the sounds if she had not been worrying about the future. She had never been on a ship and the idea frightened her but not as much as the thought of being hung.
Should she wake Will? Marta hesitated but then decided not to disturb him. It might only be a rat gnawing at the wainscot or something blowing in the wind. She got to her feet and stole softly to the door of the tiny cell they used for sleeping. Placing her ear against the door, she could hear nothing. Then, as she strained to listen, she heard the scraping sound again. It was coming from the workshop. Someone was in there.
The door to the street was bolted so whoever it was must have come from the back yard into the kitchen and then through to the shop. Who could it be? Marta opened the door leading through to the kitchen and went in. Light from the moon shone through the opened shutters that led from the yard. She was right. Someone had broken in and was moving things in the shop. Returning to Will, she shook his shoulder. He woke with a start.
‘What?’
‘Shush,’ she whispered. ‘There is an intruder in the shop.’
‘Nonsense. I bolted the door myself.’
‘He got in through the window at the back. The shutters are open.’
‘He must have come over the roof,’ Will said and threw the covers back. ‘Stay here while I sort it out.’
‘No, I’ll come with you. Two of us are better than one.’
Marta went back to the kitchen door. She glanced into the room and saw that it was empty. Picking up an iron skillet, she gripped it determinedly and went softly to the door leading into the shop, opening it carefully. Will had stopped for a moment to find a weapon.
The shop was shuttered and dark. Marta could not see anything as she moved carefully into the room. The sounds had stopped now but her nerves were prickling and she was certain someone was here. Suddenly, she was grabbed from behind, and then, as she struggled to face her attacker, she felt someone’s hands about her throat.
‘Cheating bitch…’
The words shocked Marta. She could just make out the dark shape of a man as she fought desperately to throw off his hands but she had no idea who he was and, in the shock of being attacked, could not imagine why he should speak to her in such a way.
She screamed once but the hands were strong and the pressure on her throat was choking her, cutting off her supply of air. Her struggles were feeble and she knew she was going to die. Then another dark shape appeared and rushed at the man trying to strangle her. He raised his arm, hitting the assassin over the head with an iron bar with such force that he grunted, his hands slipping away from Marta’s throat. He slumped to the floor at her feet and lay still. She put her hand to her throat, feeling faint and sore, knowing that she had been moments away from death.
‘Has he hurt you?’ Will asked.
Marta shook her head but could not speak. She felt Will’s hand on her arm, steadying her. ‘Go and sit down,’ he urged. ‘I’ll see to this…’
Marta stumbled into the kitchen. She lit a taper from the fire and applied it to a candle, then sat down on the stool as the strength went from her legs. Will followed her into the kitchen. He took the candlestick and lit another tallow, then took it through to the shop. His startled exclamation ma
de Marta get up and follow him.
‘He is dead,’ Will said. ‘I hit him too hard, poor Devil. His brains have spilled out…’
Marta felt sick. She moved nearer, bending down so that she could see the man’s face. A little cry of fear escaped her. Jerking back, she looked at Will in horror.
‘It’s my brother…’ she rasped, her voice not much above a whisper. ‘Todd must have come back to look for the chain…’
They both looked and saw that the flagstone had been lifted. Todd must have been looking for the treasure he had hidden there. Not finding it, he had blamed his sister and when she came to look had tried to strangle her.
‘I killed him.’ Will stared at her, his face pale in the candlelight. ‘If anyone discovers what we’ve done I could hang.’
‘You saved my life…’ Marta whispered, feeling the sting of her throat. ‘He tried to kill me.’
‘That wouldn’t save me.’ Will’s mouth drew into a thin line. ‘We can’t wait for morning, Marta. We have to leave now. You packed your things and the child’s last night. We’ll put them in the old handcart in the yard and leave Winchester before cockcrow. Fetch the child down while I pack everything into the cart.’
Marta stared at him then nodded. She was feeling sick and shivery. Seeing Todd like that with his brains spilling out on the shop floor was so horrible that her mind was in a daze. If Will hadn’t been here, Todd would have killed her. He had called her a cheating bitch because she had taken the gold that belonged to him. It wasn’t hers to take. She had thought only of the difference it could make to her life, but her brother had needed it too. He had come back because he needed money to live on. It must be hard to live in fear of the hangman, always hiding, moving from place to place, afraid of stopping anywhere lest he was recognised and denounced as a murderer. She had resented the fact that her brother had taken his moneybag, never giving a thought to his fear and the kind of life that he must have lived since that night.
