The Sorceror's Revenge (16 page)

21

Hearing the angry words, Melloria opened the door of her chamber and looked at the scene in the family hall. The chimney-breast at the far end of the roam was painted a dark blue and scattered with gold crescent moons and silver stars. Its painted surface had grown dull with the smoke of several winters and she had ordered it scrubbed recently so that now it was restored to its former glory. Sitting on the carpet before the fire, Harry’s hound lay with its muzzle resting on its paws, and the children sprawled carelessly close by.

             
At first glance it was a charming scene.  They were both dressed in the earl’s favourite colours of blue and silver, the boy as fair as his father with the same blue eyes, the girl a miniature of her red-haired mother. Some folk feared a red-haired woman, for it was said to be the sign of a witch.

As Melloria watched, Harry tugged viciously at Iolanthe’s hair and she screamed and punched him in the arm. Harry yelled and threw himself at her, treading on the hound his father had given him for his birthday and sending the poor creature yelping into retreat.

‘Children, children,’ Melloria chided as she saw her daughter and Robert’s son fighting.  ‘This is not seemly. Why do you always quarrel?’

             
‘Harry says that he is the heir and more important than me,’ Iolanthe said with a sulky look at her mother.  ‘He is hateful and cruel and I don’t want to be his sister.’

             
Melloria had no doubt that it was his nurse Joanne, who had put that thought into Harry’s mind.  Iolanthe was merely Harry’s half-sister but she would not tell her that until she was older.  Robert insisted that Harry should believe he was her child and in this at least she could obey him, though she wondered what might happen when the boy grew old enough to know the truth.  It was certain that he could not remain in ignorance forever.

             
‘Harry is the heir to the earldom. You must accept this, Iolanthe, but one day you will marry a rich man and be a countess or a lady so you are just as important in your way.  Now play together and be happy.  If you are good I will ask Cook to make some sweetmeats for you.’

             
‘For both of us?’ Harry asked and looked at her as if he thought she would favour Iolanthe.  Melloria smiled at him, because she felt guilt in her heart.  It was not possible to love him as much as she loved Iolanthe, and sometimes she thought he knew that she favoured her daughter.

             
Iolanthe was so precious to her.  Whenever she looked at her daughter she could not help remembering the happy times she had known after her birth.  Nicholas had been so kind to her.  She had felt loved and had loved in return.  Nicholas had spoiled Iolanthe, taking her everywhere with him and giving into her slightest whim.  Indeed, he had played his part in spoiling her and forming her character. It was hardly surprising that she still remembered and pined for him, that she would not accept Robert as her father.

             
Melloria knew that Robert was angered by his daughter’s fear of him, but there was nothing she could do.  Iolanthe stubbornly refused to go to him and if he tried to touch her, she ran to her mother in tears.  Naturally enough, Robert favoured his son, who loved nothing more than to be taken up on his father’s horse and had a sturdy pony of his own. As yet Iolanthe had only been allowed to ride pillion behind one of the grooms, which was not fair, because she was the elder.

             
‘Yes, for both of you, Harry.  You will both have sweetmeats if you are good.’

             
Harry turned to his sister and grinned. He had his father’s smile and would one day charm the ladies as easily as Robert always had when he chose.  Melloria had been charmed by his smile until she learned that behind the smile and the easy manner was an arrogant and selfish nature.

             
‘Harry want Lanthe stay here and marry him,’ he said suddenly all smiles and charm.

             
‘I’m your sister, silly,’ Iolanthe retorted.  ‘You cannot marry your sister, can you, Mama?’

             
‘No, that is against the law.  ‘It was a kind thought, Iolanthe.  You should be grateful that your brother thinks of you with fondness.  Now be good and you shall both have a treat.’

             
‘Yes, Mother.’

             
They looked like little angels, so innocent and beautiful, sitting together on the carpet in front of the fire in the hall.  Melloria wondered how long the good intentions would last once she left them to amuse themselves.

             
It was Joanne’s task to care for the children but sometimes she was careless and lazy.  Melloria did not wish to challenge the woman for she suspected that Joanne might be otherwise occupied. Instead, she beckoned to one of the housecarls and asked him to watch over the children for her.

             
Alone in her room, Melloria looked through her collection of books. Amongst others, she had a copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s
History of the Kings of Britain,
penned a century before
,
also the popular romances,
King Horn and Floris
and
Blaunchefleur. 
She picked up a book
of fables that Nicholas had once given her.  It was a story of knights and ladies and bold deeds that might amuse her children.  When she lived with Nicholas, Melloria had sung lullabies to her daughter at night.  Nicholas had told the child stories.  He had often read to Melloria from the story of Tristan and Iseult, also other favourites like the Song of Roland and tales of long ago.  His reading voice was soft and deep and he had never failed to hold her.

             
Robert scarcely looked at a book and he would never think of reading to his children, but perhaps it was time that Melloria began to teach them a love of such things.

             
She took the book back into the hall and found that they had already begun to fall out once more.  However, when she called them to her and opened the book they quietened.

             
‘Once upon a time, long, long ago, there was a King of England called Harold,’ she began.  ‘He was a good king and ruled his kingdom well, but over the sea in Normandy there was a duke called William, and he believed that the kingdom of England belonged to him.  One day he began to assemble a great army.  He gathered ships and men and horses and he set sail across the sea to the island where King Harold ruled.’

             
‘Father says we hold the castle for the King, because his family fought for Duke William.’ 

             
Harry looked pleased with himself for knowing that and Iolanthe scowled, because she thought him a baby and because he knew more than she of the family history.

             
‘Yes, that is right, Harry,’ Melloria said.  ‘Have you heard about the tapestry the ladies of Normandy embroidered to commemorate that great victory?’

             
Harry shook his head, crestfallen when Iolanthe said, ‘It was the Bayeaux tapestry, Mama.  You told me about it when we were sewing together.’

             
‘Yes, that is right, Iolanthe.  The duke killed King Harold and became King of England and your father’s family were given lands here.  Your father’s great, great grandfather was the first earl…’

             
‘My lady…’ Joanne came belatedly to the hall.  ‘Forgive me for neglecting my duty.  I was otherwise engaged.’

             
There was such a sly, triumphant look in the woman’s eyes that Melloria had difficulty in holding her temper.  She was almost certain that she knew what had delayed Joanne. There was a flushed look about her and her hair was untidy, as if she had just risen from her bed.

             
‘I was reading to the children,’ Melloria said.  ‘But now you are here you may play with them.  I have some sewing to do.’

             
‘May I come with you, Mama?’ Iolanthe asked.

             
‘Not this time.  Perhaps later.’

             
Returning to her chamber, Melloria sat on a stool before the fire.  Her embroidery was beside her in a basket but she made no attempt to pick it up, merely staring into the flames.  She was angry and humiliated because she suspected that Joanne had been with Robert, but she had no one but herself to blame.  He would come to her bed rather than the serving woman’s if she would accept him.

             
It was not just because of her vow that Melloria would not welcome Robert to her bed, though perhaps if he had found her missing daughter she might have yielded to him.  Her heart belonged to Nicholas and she thought it always would.  Wrong as it was, she could never accept Robert as her husband, and that meant he would take other women to his bed.  She was as much to blame as he and she must accept it. Yet sometimes her life in the castle became almost unbearable.

             
Her mind returned to the time when she had been called Anne and believed herself the wife of Nicholas Malvern, who was also Count Niccolai Malvolia.  She let herself drift into a dream.  She was lying by his side and they had just made love.  Her body felt blissfully light, as if she could float away, dissolve into the man she loved so much that she was a part of him.

             
‘Nicholas,’ she murmured softly.  ‘Where are you, my love?’  A tear trickled down her cheek but she brushed it away.  She would not indulge in self-pity.  She stiffened as the door was flung open and her husband walked in.

             
‘I am thinking of visiting my lands in the north soon.  Will you come with me?’

             
‘You know that I cannot bear to visit the castle there,’ Melloria said, her face white with remembered grief.  ‘After what happened there…how could you ask it of me, Robert?’

             
‘Surely enough time has passed?  We were happy there once. When we were first married…’

             
‘Please do not ask it of me.  I would prefer to stay here.’

             
‘You never miss a chance to thwart me, do you?’ Robert said bitterly.  ‘Very well, Melloria.  Forget I asked.  ‘I shall leave you to your prayers and your tears. Whatever happens now is your fault – the consequence of your stubborn pride.’

             
What pray did he mean by that? She wondered and then put it from her mind. What did it matter? Nothing he could do could touch her.

             
She looked at the door as he went out and slammed it behind him.  Once again she had angered Robert, but he must have known how she felt about his castle on the Yorkshire Moors. The day the castle was taken, her young brother slain and she cast out into a snowy night, would be etched into her mind forever.

             
Her heart ached and she was filled with a lonely need that could not be filled.

             
‘Nicholas my love. I need you so…’

* * *

Niccolai sat at his board writing in his journal.  He had been tending a woman with a painful illness and he wanted to enter all the details so that he could be certain he was giving his patient the best treatment possible.

             
Suddenly, he felt such a violent pain in his chest that for a moment he thought he was ill, but then he heard
her
voice and knew that it was Melloria’s pain he was feeling.  She was in distress, and as so often in the past he felt it with her.  Closing his eyes, he concentrated the power of his mind on her and gradually the picture became clear.  She was not ill.  Her distress was of the heart and mind.

             
‘
Be strong, my love,
’ he said softly. ‘
I promise that it will not be long now.  For the moment I can only come to you in spirit but soon now I shall be with you in the flesh, and then you will be with me for the rest of our lives.  I shall have your daughters and you will never be hurt or sad again. Remember I love you.
’

             
Getting to his feet, Nicholas went to the fire and looked down at the flames.  He took some powder into his hand from a pot on the mantle and cast it into the heart of the flames. The fire flared and glowed red and gold, and in the flames he saw the man on whom he had vowed vengeance.

             
‘For every hurt you cause her, you shall suffer twice as much. May your soul be damned to Hell, fiend.  Go where you belong.’

             
Returning to his board, Nicholas massaged his temples.  He banished the pain, taking up his pen and beginning to write once more.