The Sorceror's Revenge

by Linda Sole

  Mary looked for Will. Perhaps he would tell her what she ought to do that would be useful. She saw him with a group of men seated on bales of straw to one side of the yard. He was laughing and the men were sharing ale from a large brown earthenware jug that the tavern wench had brought them. All the men seemed in a good mood, perhaps because Will had paid for the ale, as he usually did when he had money. Mary was afraid that he might spend all the money and then her mother would be cross again. As Mary watched, Will reached out and pulled the tavern girl down to him. He slipped his hand inside her gown, which was cut low over her full breasts, and was, Mary knew, because her mother had told her, indecent.

  She thought the girl must be a whore for Will to treat her that way. She was not quite sure what that meant, except that she had heard Marta accuse Will of liking whores more than he liked her as they lay in bed at night. Will always denied her and laughed at her, and afterwards, in the darkness the bed would move violently as her mother and Will did whatever they did beneath the covers.

  She was not certain what they did for she lay on a rug on the floor beside the bed, but she knew the bed moved and thumped and Will grunted a lot and her mother cried out. In the mornings, after a night like that, Marta seemed in a better humour but it did not last for long. It seemed to Mary that her mother had been cross for as long as she could remember. Perhaps there was a time when she had been kinder, when they lived in a house, but that was too long ago to remember.

  Mary was seven now and most of the past few years had been spent tramping the roads, sometimes in France, and sometimes in the north of Spain. In Spain, Marta had bound her legs in filthy rags and given her a wooden crutch. She had made Mary limp as though she were crippled and beg for coins, and because the pilgrims were kind she had often earned enough to pay for their supper.

  Mary could never remember a time when she was not hungry. There were days when Will had earned money and for a while food was plentiful, but those times came and went and then they would go hungry again. They had never starved for if Will could not sell his goods he would think of some other way to earn money, and sometimes she and Marta took work in the fields.

  Those were the times that Mary liked best. Especially at the harvesting of the grapes. It was a happy thing to tread the grapes in the large wooden vats for they sang and laughed, and seemed like one big family.

  Afterwards, the farmers would usually feed them and there were other children – children she played with when the work was done and Marta sat drinking ale with Will outside the farmhouse. Mary missed the children when they moved on. Will was kind to her when he thought about it, but her mother seldom gave her a kind word these days, and she was lonely.

  Unnoticed by Will, Mary left the inn yard and went into the fields behind it. She could hear a bird singing sweetly in the trees and there were some flowers growing wild. She bent to pick them. One had thorns and it pricked her fingers. She gave a little cry and sat on the ground, tears trickling down her face as she sucked the blood.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself, little mistress?’

  Mary turned her head as the man came up to her. She smiled at him, because it was her nice man and she knew he meant her no harm despite what her mother had told her. He squatted down beside her on the earth and took her hand, looking at it for a moment, then he bent his head and kissed the spot that hurt.

  ‘That will kiss it better,’ he said. ‘Does your mother kiss you better when you hurt, Mary?’

  ‘Marta never kisses me,’ she said. ‘Will picks me up and carries me sometimes – or he used to before I was seven. Now my mother tells him to leave me alone.’ She brushed the tears from her face. ‘Marta is always cross.’

  ‘Do you know why she is cross?’ Mary shook her head, looking at him inquiringly. ‘I think she is ill. Perhaps that is why she does not kiss you.’

  ‘She has always been cross, even before she was ill.’ Mary sighed. ‘Will is kind sometimes but I think he does not want to stay with us. My mother told him he would leave her soon.’

  ‘Mothers should not be cross,’ the man said. ‘Perhaps you are like the little girl in the story.’

  ‘What is a story?’

  ‘Has Marta never told you a story?’

  ‘No. She just tells me to go away and do something useful. I do not know what that means either.’

  ‘Well, a story is hearing about other people’s life. Would you like me to tell you a story about a girl just like you?’

  Mary nodded, fascinated by his soft deep voice that sent little tingles down her spine. ‘Yes, please. Does she look like me?’

  ‘Yes, she has hair just your colour.’ He reached out and touched it. ‘You gave me a little piece of your hair once, when I gave you the trinket. It was our secret, do you remember?’ Mary nodded. ‘Well, this girl who has hair like yours and looks just like you, lived with her mother and father in a large house with her sister.’

  Mary looked wistful. ‘Did she have a sister? I wish I had a sister or brother to play with and love.’

  The man took her hand in his. His fingers were long and slender and soft, as if he had never done hard work. She looked at his face. One side of it was scarred. He was not as handsome as Will but she did not mind. He made her feel warm inside and she wanted to be near him. She moved closer, liking the fresh clean scent of him. Marta smelled like that on the rare occasions she washed their clothes and herself.

  ‘Yes, she had a sister. There was just the little girl and her sister and her mother and father. Her mother and father loved her very much and they were all happy – but then someone stole the little girl and took her away. Her mother wept and her father was sad. He went to look for the little girl and he promised her mother he would find her.’

  ‘Did he find her?’

  The man’s smile was sweet and it made Mary’s throat catch. She laid her head against his arm, feeling safer than ever before in her whole life.

  ‘Yes, he found her eventually. After years of searching and feeling very sad, he saw her one day at a fair. He saw her and he knew her and he loved her.’

  Mary’s eyes widened. She felt a strange sort of tingling all over. She reached out to touch the man’s hand for she thought he was sad.

  ‘Did he take her home to her mother?’

  ‘Not at first, because there were other things he had to do, but he followed her, and when he could not follow her himself he asked another man he trusted to follow her so that he did not lose her again. Sometimes he talked to the little girl and she began to trust him. You see he did not want to upset her by snatching her away from the people who cared for her. She might have been frightened and screamed or cried. He had to make sure that when he took her to his home everything was as it should be.’

  Mary’s eyes widened and her heart beat faster. She stared at him in silence for a moment. Then, hearing Will’s voice calling to her, she scrambled to her feet.

  ‘Will the little girl’s father take her home soon?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘Yes, very soon now,’ the man said and stood up. ‘You had better go, Mary. Will is searching for you.’

  Mary hesitated, hardly daring to hope. Her eyes were on him, filled with unconscious appeal. ‘Am I that little girl?’

  ‘Yes, you are my daughter. I shall come for you soon now, my sweeting.’

  ‘Will you take Marta with us?’

  ‘Would you like me to?’

  ‘She is sick. I do not think she can look after herself if I leave her.’

  ‘You are a good girl, Mary. Go to Will now but tell him nothing. This is our secret, just as before.’

  Mary nodded. ‘I am glad you are my father,’ she said and then turned and ran towards the inn yard, just as Will came out to look for her.

  ‘Who was that man you were talking to?’ Will asked as she went to him. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He asked me the way to Rouen,’ Mary said and crossed her fingers behind her back. She did not like to lie to Will, because h
e was her friend. She liked him but he was not her father. Her father would come to take her home soon but she must keep it a secret or it might not happen. ‘Marta told me to make myself useful but I did not know what she meant.’

  She did not mean anything,’ Will said and caught hold of her hand. ‘It is time for our meal now. You can carry some soup up to your mother. That is useful enough for one day. If your mother is better tomorrow we shall move on.’

  ‘Shall we go on the cart?’

  Will shook his head. ‘Say nothing to Marta, but I lost it in a game of dice. I must try to win it back tonight or she will be angry.’

  Mary did not answer him. She looked back towards the meadow but the man had gone. She felt hollow inside, because she was not sure he would keep his word. Will always broke his promises, but perhaps her father would be different.

  She hoped very much that he would come for her soon, because Marta was very sick and she was not sure she could take care of her if Will left them. She wanted to meet the mother who had wept for her and the sister she had never known.

  27

  ‘I hate you, Harry!’ Iolanthe cried and stamped her foot as her brother took the wooden doll her mother had given her. It had a painted face and a cloth body with wooden legs and arms, but its clothes matched what Iolanthe was wearing. She and her mother had sewn them together out of some left over material. ‘She is mine and I want her back. Now!’

  ‘Well, you can’t have her. I’ve got her and I’m keeping her,’ Harry taunted. He was two years younger than Iolanthe, but sturdy and well able to stand up to her. ‘I am the heir and I can have what I want. Joanne says so.’

  ‘Joanne is only a servant,’ Iolanthe cried and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I want my doll.’

  She lunged at him but Harry was waiting for her. He threw the doll away from him and went for his sister. In another moment they were rolling on the floor struggling, kicking and punching. Harry pulled her hair and she scratched his face and bit his ear hard. He bled and she could taste the blood on her tongue but she kept biting. It was as if she could not let go even if she wanted. Harry started to scream and yell.

  The door opened and Joanne came rushing in. She pulled Iolanthe off her brother and slapped her hard on the part of her leg that showed beneath her short tunic. Seeing the blood about Iolanthe’s mouth she was horrified.

  ‘What have you done to your brother, you wicked girl! Let me see, Harry.’ She pulled his hand away because he was holding his ear and sobbing. His hand was covered with blood and his ear lobe was almost bitten through. ‘You deserve to be whipped!’ She rounded on Iolanthe, slapping her across the face. ‘You have almost bitten Harry’s earlobe off.’

  ‘What is going on here?’

  Melloria came out of her chamber into the hall. Both children quietened as she moved towards them. Iolanthe’s face was very white, except for the red mark where Joanne had slapped her. Melloria took hold of Harry’s arm, giving Joanne a look that quelled her.

  ‘Let me see, Harry. Yes, that must hurt a lot. Come with me. I shall bathe and tend you.’ Her eyes went to Iolanthe and they were very green. ‘Why did you do such a terrible thing, Iolanthe? Your brother’s ear may be infected and he could be ill because of this bite.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ Iolanthe said, tears trickling down her face. She looked the picture of innocence as she wiped her eyes. ‘Harry started it, Mama. He took my doll and he hit me hard. I bit him to stop him.’

  ‘Well, you should have come to me instead of fighting. I am not pleased with either of you – and if I tell the earl he may punish you both…’ Melloria saw the look of fear in her daughter’s eyes, though Harry just grinned, as if he did not believe his father would punish him. ‘I shall deal with you myself later, Iolanthe,’ she said and took hold of Harry’s arm. ‘I must tend your ear, Harry, and it will hurt very much. Do not look so pleased with yourself, because you were wrong to take Iolanthe’s doll. You would not like it if she took your wooden sword – nor would you like it if I said you could not go riding with your father this afternoon, would you?’

  Harry stared at her and tears sprang to his eyes. Melloria felt a pang of guilt. No matter how hard she tried to be a good mother to him she could not love him as she loved her daughter, though she had tried to be fair to him. It was not his fault that his father had taken a second wife when his first still lived.

  ‘I shall not punish you if you promise me not to take the doll again.’

  ‘I promise,’ Harry said but his right hand was behind his back and his fingers were crossed.

  Melloria sighed. She knew it would happen again. The two were like cat and dog, always quarrelling and fighting, but this was the first time a fight had been serious. She was not certain who was right, though Joanne clearly thought her darling Harry was the victim. Joanne had considered herself his mother until Melloria returned from the convent, and she resented that Melloria had precedence over her. She had been particularly surly of late and Melloria had no idea why.

  Taking Harry into her chamber, Melloria went to the oak coffer she used as her medicine chest and took out the things she would need to repair and cleanse the boy’s badly bitten ear. She was not certain the wound would heal and tried to think if there was anything in Nicholas’s journals that dealt with an injury of this kind. Over the years she had found his cures useful, and it was a joy to her to read the clear hand that had written out the recipes for cures and balms. She wished she had the skill to treat some of the illnesses that Nicholas had treated successfully, but her own skill was limited. She would do what she could for Harry and look in the journals later. Robert might visit her when he learned of the fight, and she had to be careful that he did not see her reading the journals. If he knew they were hidden in her coffer, he might force her to destroy them. They had belonged to the man he hated and he would not allow her to keep them if he knew of their existence.

  ‘This is going to hurt a little, Harry, but you must be brave like your father.’

  ‘Hate Lanthe,’ he muttered. ‘Make her sorry.’

  ‘Harry, please do not say such things. She is your sister and you should love her.’

  ‘No, won’t love her, hate her,’ he muttered stubbornly, looking so much like his father that she sighed.

  Melloria bathed Harry’s ear first with a lotion that she kept for treating wounds. It stung and Harry screamed, tears running down his face. Melloria did her work thoroughly for if the ear became infected, Harry might die. When she was satisfied, she placed a pad of linen soaked in a healing balm over the bite mark and wound a bandage over and across his head to hold it in place. He stared at her in miserable silence when she informed him it was finished.

  ‘You will not be punished further,’ she told him when she had done. ‘You have suffered enough. You should go to your room and rest, but if you wish to ride with your father this afternoon you may.’

  Harry looked at her sullenly. She reached forward to kiss him, but he moved away. Melloria’s heart ached for him. He must sense that she did not love him as she loved Iolanthe and that was unfair. Robert had allowed him to believe he was her son, and it must seem that she favoured her daughter, though she tried not to show her feelings.

  ‘Tell Iolanthe to come to me. I shall punish her for what she did was unforgivable.’

  A gleam of triumph came to his eyes and he ran off, eager to tell his sister she was to be punished.

  Melloria’s heart was heavy for she loved her daughter and feared that it was what had happened when she was forced to retire to the hermitage to have Nicholas’s child in secret that had made Iolanthe sly and spiteful. She had resented being taken from her mother and was terrified both when she was snatched from Malvern and again when Robert carried her off to his home.

  Melloria looked at her daughter as she entered the room and saw the resentment in her eyes. Her heart caught with pain and she knew that she could not beat her. Iolanthe had her doll by the leg and was pale and fearful.<
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  ‘Give me the doll,’ Melloria said. She looked at it as Iolanthe hesitated and saw that the head had cracked right across the painted face. ‘What happened to this?’

  ‘Harry threw it across the room and it broke. He deserved what I did to him.’

  ‘What you did was not worthy of you, Iolanthe. Harry is younger even if he is tall and strong for his age. Give me the doll.’

  Iolanthe stared resentfully, then held the doll out to her. Melloria took it and threw it into the fire. Iolanthe’s face went white as the flames took hold and it began to burn.

  ‘She was mine not Harry’s.’

  ‘When you behave in the way I expect my daughter to behave you may have a new doll.’

  ‘Yes, Mama. I am sorry,’ Iolanthe said in a small voice.

  ‘Come here, my love.’ Melloria opened her arms and Iolanthe went to her. She hugged her daughter and the child wept against her breast. ‘There, there, it is not so very bad. The doll was spoiled. Harry will be with his tutors every day soon and he will have no time for dolls or fighting. I shall buy you a new doll next time the peddler calls and you will be good and not make me punish you again.’

  ‘Yes, Mama…’ Iolanthe hugged her mother and smiled into her breast. Her old doll was broken and she had done it herself in temper. Now her mother thought it was Harry’s fault and she would buy her a new one – and all she had to do was say she was sorry and smile as if she meant it.