The Sorceror's Revenge

by Linda Sole

  ‘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.’

  ‘Yes, that is fair,’ Melloria said, though her heart cried out against it. ‘You are your father’s heir, Harry. One day the castle will belong to you. All the land and wealth that is your father’s will be yours.’

  ‘I shall be the lord here and I will have Peter Fineden whipped for being horrible to me.’

  ‘Harry…’ she chided. ‘You cannot have people whipped just because they do something you don’t like. It would not be fair or right.’

  ‘When I am the earl I can do anything I want,’ Harry said, his mouth pulled into a hard line. ‘And I shall punish Peter and Iolanthe for what they said to me.’

  ‘Harry…’ She reached out for him but he broke away from her, running from the room.

  Melloria sighed. It would have been better if Robert had told his son the truth long ago, instead of trying to pretend that he was her son. Harry was hurting and there was little she could do to ease his wounds.

  * * *

  ‘It is an age since I bothered to go to the fair,’ Melloria said and smiled at her waiting woman. Maria looked pretty in her blue gown despite her plumpness. ‘I shall enjoy the treat.’

  ‘I want to buy something for my mother,’ Maria said smiling confidently. ‘I think she might like a length of cloth or some leather slippers for her gift.’

  ‘That sounds an excellent idea,’ Melloria said. ‘I shall take Alfreda and you of course – and Rosalie. Now will you have your wages in silver pennies o a gold coin?’

  ‘I will have silver, my lady. Not many merchants like the gold coins the King issued – they do not trust them for if the weight is not right they lose money.’

  �
��Robert naturally took all his revenues from the King in gold pennies. However, I have a purse full of sterlings,’ Melloria said. ‘Master Steward has more and he will accompany us and convey our purchases home in the wagon. The children and Alfreda can travel on the wagon, but we shall go on horseback with one guard. I do not think we need a guard but Master Steward was insistent, and I thought to please him.’

  ‘You cannot be too careful with the earl away.’

  ‘Yes…’ Melloria looked thoughtful, remembering the day Robert had come to Malvern in disguise. ‘Peddlers are not always what they seem.’

  Robert had used the ruse to get into Malvern and discover that she and Iolanthe were living there. She had not known him at once for her memory had not returned sufficiently at that time, but she had sensed something about him – something that told her he was not truly a peddler.

  ‘Have you everything you need?’ she asked, as they went out to the inner bailey, where the horses and grooms were waiting.

  The small party set out for the common ground where the annual fair was held. The countess and her ladies on their palfreys, the grooms and an armed man on horseback to guard them, followed by the wagon, in which sat two excited children and their nurse.

  For once Alfreda’s task was easy. Harry and Iolanthe were too nervous that their mother might change her mind, and too excited by the prospect of actually visiting the fair they had only heard of from servants before this day, to quarrel. They sat looking at each other, and Harry reached for Iolanthe’s hand and held it. She was his sister and he loved her even though they fought. He had decided that he hated Peter Finch, and one day he would have him thrashed, even though his stepmother had told him it was wrong.

  His ear still throbbed sometimes, but he had been told it was healing, and his stepmother had been very kind to him of late, putting him before Iolanthe. She said that she loved him as much as his sister, but the truth of his birth had wounded Harry deeply. It injured his pride because he had been born a bastard, though he did not truly understand what that meant. For the moment, he was disposed to be kind to Iolanthe, especially since Rosalie had whispered to him that twelve of the silver pennies in her purse were for him, while Iolanthe had merely eight, because she was just a girl.

  * * *

  Alfreda wandered about the marketplace, looking at the array of goods on display. The children were munching sweetmeats they’d bought with their money, Harry gloating because as his father’s heir he had more to spend than his sister, while Peter Finch, who had come to the fair with his father had none.

  Alfreda did not truly like the earl’s children. She’d come to the castle because the earl wanted her there and she’d been given a chamber of her own and some good cloth to make herself some decent gowns. The earl had visited her once and she’d discovered the pleasures of making love in a feather bed. However, the next day he’d left to visit his lands in the north and she’d been left to tend his children.

  It was not an easy task, for they quarrelled all the time and both had terrible tempers. She did her best to settle their quarrels but the only person they would attend was the countess.

  Alfreda had felt embarrassed the first time she met the lady Melloria but though she had not accused her of being wanton, she’d been reserved and did not smile in Alfreda’s company. The only reason she was being allowed the treat of the fair was because the countess did not want the bother of looking after her own children.

  Seeing some pretty bead earrings, she inquired the price and was told they were three silver pennies.

  ‘I have but two pennies,’ Alfreda said. She fingered the pink bead earrings. She would dearly love to have them but the merchant was shaking his head.

  ‘I will sell them for three.’

  ‘I have only two.’ She sighed and turned away but the frame of a large man blocked her path.

  ‘Give them to the lady and I will give you the other penny.’

  Alfreda looked at the man who had spoken. He was tall and strong, with large hands and light blue eyes. His face was deeply tanned, as though he had travelled in foreign lands, and he was very handsome. She felt a spasm of something like desire or fear in her stomach and caught her breath.

  ‘You are very kind, sir.’ Her eyes were on his face and her heart raced as he gave the merchant the extra coin, then offered her the earrings. ‘I do not know why you should do that for me?’

  ‘You are very pretty, Mistress Carter.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘I make it my business to discover things,’ he said. ‘When I see a lovely woman in distress I am honoured to assist.’

  ‘You are a stranger here, sir. May I know your name?’

  ‘It is Kerrin. Master Shrewsbury,’ he said. ‘I have but now returned from the Holy Land, where I was on pilgrimage. I have a little money to spare – enough to help a lady buy some earrings.’

  ‘Why are you here? Did you come for the fair or do you plan to settle here?’

  ‘I came on business, but I have heard that the earl is from home – is that right?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so. Thank you for the earrings. I must go or my mistress will look for me.’

  She walked quickly away, the crystal earrings gripped tightly in her hand. Her heart was beating fast. She was not sure why but the man had frightened her. At first he had seemed pleasant, generous – but then, when he began to talk about the earl, something had happened in his eyes. She almost wished she had not let him buy her the earrings, but as she caught up with the others the fear faded. He was merely passing through the area. It was unlikely she would see him again.

  31

  Will was growing restless. They had had stayed too long in one place, because Marta’s feet had taken several days to heal and she had kept to her bed for more than a week. Even now that she was able to get up and walk about she seemed reluctant to move on. He knew that she was waiting for him to buy the horse and cart, and he had lost the money she had given him playing dice with men he had met at the inn.

  He was torn by regret and remorse. Gambling was a curse and led men to unwise actions. Sometimes Will could stay away from the dice for months on end, as he had in Winchester, when he lived under Marta’s roof, but on the road it was harder. When they stayed at the inns that were their usual stopping place, there were always men, travellers like him, who offered a game and tempted him. It would begin innocently with a drink or two of strong ale and a kiss from the pretty tavern wench, and then he would wake in the morning with only a hazy idea of what had happened the night before.

  His head was aching that morning, and he could just about recall that he had lost the last of his money and…he seemed to remember falling into bed with a pretty young girl. Will could not remember her name or how he had come to be with her. He did not think she was one of the tavern wenches, who were always willing to share his bed, sometimes for a coin or two and sometimes simply for pleasure.

  What had happened the previous night? He scratched himself as he went out into the yard and put his head under the pump. He had started the evening with a hundred and fifty silver pennies in his pouch, enough to buy a cart and a nag of sorts so that they could continue their journey. Nothing was left; his purse was empty, leaving him not even one single penny to his name. He could not remember when he had been without a few pence in his pouch. It had not been his intention to drink or gamble, but then three men and…a pretty young woman had come into the inn. He had got talking and the inevitable dice were produced…

  Will could not remember much more. It was unusual for him to drink so much that his mind went blank like this. If he had pleasured the wench he had no memory of it. Even after he straightened up from dousing himself with cold water, he still could not recall exactly what had happened. Had his ale been drugged?

  ‘There he is!’ The shout brought Will’s head round, because the venom in it sent chills down his spine. ‘There’s the bastard that raped my daughter.’

  Will stared
as the three men came charging at him, yelling and brandishing sticks and cudgels. What were they talking about? He had never raped a woman in his life, and by the feel of his mouth and head he had been too drunk to do anything last night.

  ‘Stop,’ he said as they circled him. ‘What are you talking about? I have raped no one. I have never needed to take a woman by force.’

  ‘You forced my daughter last night,’ a man with a long greying beard leered at him evilly. ‘She was a virgin and worth money to me. You’ll pay for the privilege or you will be sorry.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ Will said, his head beginning to clear. ‘You are after money. I am sorry, rogue, I’ve none to give you. Nor would I if I had. Last night you put something in my ale and robbed me of all I had. I’ve nothing but the clothes on my back.’

  ‘You are a leather worker by trade. Your tools must be worth something. We’ll take them if you have no money.’

  ‘That you will not do,’ Will said and squared his shoulders. He brought his fists up in front of him. ‘I’ll fight you if you force me, but there’s no need for this. The girl came willingly and I was too drunk or drugged to touch her, as well you know.’

  ‘Then if you will not give, we’ll take,’ the man said. ‘Teach him a lesson, my sons. Take vengeance for your sister.’

  Will looked warily from one to the other. There were three of them but he would still have fancied his chances if he had a weapon to hand. They were armed with sticks and cudgels, but he had nothing. His gaze moved round the yard. Seeing a two-pronged fork that the yard boy had left stuck in the dung heap, Will yelled and made a lunge at the nearest man. Taken by surprise the man was off balance and went down on his knees. Will raced to the dung heap and pulled the fork out, brandishing it in front of him as the three rogues came at him.

  They hesitated as they saw the sharp prongs, circling him warily, trying to find some advantage. Will made no attempt to fight them, just holding the fork in front of him as a warning. Then the larger man rushed at him with his cudgel, slashing it at his head. Will parried and caught the stout stick between the prongs, twisting it easily from the rogue’s grasp and sending it skittering across the yard. The man yelled his frustration and ran after it. His father and brother closed in on Will, both of them rushing at him together. He jabbed the prongs into the arm of one and turned on the other.