The Sorceror's Revenge (26 page)

             
‘Forgive me,’ she said suddenly.  ‘I have not been fair to you – and when I die you will be alone.’

             
‘You won’t die,’ Mary said, feeling frightened by the odd look on Marta’s face.  ‘Besides, Will Hern will look after me.’

             
‘Will has gone,’ Marta said and turned away from the window to sit by the fire.  ‘He is not coming back.  I feel it inside.’

             
‘Will wouldn’t leave us,’ Mary said.  ‘He has just stopped to have a drink.  You know how he is, Marta.’

             
‘No…’ Marta shook her head.  ‘This time he has left us.  He knows I am ill and he does not want the burden of looking after us.’

             
‘I don’t believe he would just leave us,’ Mary objected.  ‘If he does not come back tonight I shall go and look for him in the morning.’
             

             
‘You will waste your time,’ Marta said and slumped on the bench.  ‘Find something to eat for yourself, Mary.  I am too tired to look after you.’

             
‘I shall look after you,’ Mary promised.  ‘I am sure he will come back by morning, but if he doesn’t I shall take care of us both.’

             
Marta made no answer.

* * *

Mary felt the sting of tears as she set out the next morning to look for Will.  She could not believe that he would simply go and leave them but he had not come back during the night.  Marta was sitting by the fire and would not move from it.  Mary had warmed ale for them both and soaked a dry crust in her own to make it acceptable.  There was nothing else in the cottage and she knew that they had no money.  They did have the horse and cart, which Marta had driven home from the fair,  but Mary wasn’t sure whether she should try and sell it.

             
For the moment she wanted to look for Will, because her heart was telling her that he would not just go and leave them with nothing.  Yet the nice man who had told her a story had promised he would take her to his home.  Weeks and weeks had passed and she had not seen him again, though the other man with the soft brown eyes was still following them.

             
Mary wondered if he would send a message to the man who had claimed to be her father, telling him that they were in trouble.  Perhaps he had just made the promise to please her, the way Will often did when Marta nagged him.  Or perhaps he had just forgotten.  Will Hern did that too.

             
She had been walking for a while when she saw some people gathered about something by the side of the road.  She ran towards them intent on asking if anyone had seen Will.  The men looked serious and, as she looked down she saw something covered on the ground.  There were dark stains on the grass that looked like blood, and as she hesitated, she saw the pack lying a short distance away.

             
‘That is Will’s pack,’ she cried, and the people turned to look at her with pity in their eyes.  ‘Will is my friend…what happened to him?  Let me see. Let me see Will…’

             
One of the men caught her about the waist and held her back as she tried to reach that hump beneath the dirty old cloth.

             
‘Best you don’t see what they’ve done to him, child,’ one of the men said.  ‘He didn’t have a chance to my way of thinking.  There must have been at least three of them attacked him.’

             
‘Will…’ Mary’s voice caught on a sob for he had been good to her and she was fond of him.  ‘What happened to Will – is he dead?’

             
‘Aye, he is dead, little mistress,’ the man who had been holding her set her down on her feet.  ‘Take his pack and go back to your mother.  It looks as if they robbed him, but his tools should be worth something.  You might get a few coins for them.’

             
Mary stared at the shape under the cloth, then took the pack, slinging it over her back.  It was very heavy for her, but she struggled on with it, because it was Will’s and Marta would need the money. She was weeping as she walked back to the cottage.  Marta was right.  This time Will wasn’t coming back to them because he was dead.

* * *

‘Dead?’ Marta sent out a wail of grief that made Mary cover her ears and weep.  She had never seen Marta like this, moaning and screaming in her pain.  ‘I thought he had left us, but you say he is dead?  He won’t come back, because he can’t come back…he is dead.’

             
‘He wouldn’t have left us…’ Mary stood watching Marta as the frenzy of grief overtook her.  She was clutching herself, rocking backwards and forwards and wailing in despair.  ‘Don’t cry, Marta.  We can sell the tools and the horse.  We can stay here until…’  Mary sniffled, because she didn’t know what would happen to them.  Marta seemed out of her mind with grief and fear, and Mary did not know what to do for the best.  Should she stay to look after her or try to find help?

             
Marta hardly seemed to know she was there.  She was lost in her own misery, muttering and weeping, locked in grief.

             
‘Marta…’ she said and put out a hand to touch her.  Marta screamed at her not to touch her and then stood up.  Her eyes were wild and she seemed not to know what she was doing as she tore at her hair and pulled out a clump.  Then she mumbled something and took a step towards Mary, giving an odd cry as she pitched forward and fell to the ground.  ‘Marta?’  Mary knelt down by her side.  ‘Marta…don’t be dead.  Please don’t be dead, Marta.’

             
Marta did not answer and Mary felt the scream building inside her.  What should she do?  She didn’t know who to ask for help.  She shook Marta’s shoulder.

             
‘Please don’t be dead…’ she wept.

             
Mary was so distressed that at first she did not notice the door opening.  Then she felt a breeze and looked up to see the man in the doorway.  She sat back on her heels, looking at him helplessly, the tears streaming down her face.

             
‘Will is dead.  I think Marta is dead too…’

             
‘Let me see,’ Niccolai said and went to kneel by her side.  His hands moved over Marta, his fingers pressing against her throat for a moment or two, then he smiled at Mary.  ‘She is unconscious but still alive.  I shall take you both to my home and Marta will be cared for.  I am not yet sure what ails her, but it is possible that I may help her.’

             
‘Are you a physician?’ Mary asked, looking at him trustingly.  Everything would be all right now that her father had come for her, as he had promised. ‘I thought you had forgotten me.’

             
‘I could never forget you,’ he said and smiled.  ‘Yes, I am a physician, Mary.  A lot of people have been very ill of a terrible fever, and I was needed to help them, but my friend watched over you for me.  I could not come for you before this, but I am here now that you need me.  You are quite safe, Mary.  You will live with me in the future at my home.  I am your father and I shall take care of you always.’

             
‘And will my mother be there?’ Mary asked.  ‘The mother you told me of?  I know Marta has been my mother and I love her – but you said there was a mother who loved me?’

             
‘Yes, your true mother loves you very much.  She thought you lost for a long time, but she knows that you are found.  Very soon I hope she will come and live with us.’

             
‘Why does she not live with you now?’

             
‘Someone made her a prisoner,’ Niccolai said and his eyes looked strange, the pupils black and silver at the centre.  ‘Soon now she will be free and she will come back to us.’ He stood up and clapped his hands.  Two men Mary had never seen before entered the cottage and looked at him, waiting for orders.  ‘Take the woman on the cart and bring anything that belongs to her.  I shall take my daughter with me.’  He held his hand out to Mary and she took it.  Come little one, it is time.  You belong with me now.’

             
‘Will…’ Mary looked at him uncertainly.  ‘He should be buried properly for he was good to me.’

             
‘Yes, I know,’ Niccolai said.  ‘It is already being attended to – and the rogues who murdered him will be caught and punished.  I promise you that there is nothing for you to worry about ever again, Mary.  I have you now and you are safe.’

             
He was tall and strong and his manner was gentle.  He might have been handsome if his face did not bear that terrible scar.  Mary did not mind the scar.  He was her father and he loved her.  It was all she had ever wanted, to be loved and safe.

             
‘I feel safe with you,’ Mary said.  ‘I have been waiting and hoping you would come, but I thought you might change your mind.  Will always broke his promises.’

             
Niccolai looked down at her, his expression tender and kind.  ‘I do not break my promises,’ he said.  ‘Sometimes, it takes longer than I had hoped to do all that I would wish, but in the end I keep my word.  Your mother will be with us soon – and all those who have hurt us will be punished…’

35

Melloria awoke in the dark shivering.  For a few minutes she lay looking at the window, through which no light penetrated.  It was pitch black and she was afraid.  In her dream the child had been terrified and weeping, screaming for help but then something had happened.  Gradually, a sense of peace came to Melloria and she seemed to hear a voice in her head.

             
‘
Do not fear, my love.  I have our Mary safe.  She is with me and she longs to see you.  Soon you will be free.  Soon you will come to us; you and Iolanthe will be with us.  We shall be together – all of us.
’

             
‘Nicholas…’ the tears were on her face as the first rays of dawn began to creep through the window.  She rose and pulled on a warm robe over her nightrail, for it was always cold in the castle even when spring came.  Had she imagined those comforting words?  Surely it was not possible for Nicholas to reach her like that?  Yet she knew that he had been with her in spirit when she gave birth to their son.  So many times when she needed him he seemed to come to her and give her comfort.  ‘My love…my husband.’

             
He was the husband of her heart, the man she would spend her life with if she could.  If only she were free…

             
Did Nicholas know he had a son?  Could he possibly have known when the babe was born?  Beatrice had told her she must give up the child as soon as he was born for if Robert had discovered it he would have killed her and the child.  Melloria had never ceased to grieve for the child she had scarcely seen, but she had been given no choice.  Beatrice had steadfastly refused to tell her where the boy was, though she knew he was alive, and well cared for, according to her sister.

             
Had she imagined the voice at her son’s birth, as now?  Nicholas had written to tell her that he had found Mary and would take her to his home, and in her heart Melloria believed that he had kept his promise.

             
Tears trickled down her cheeks as she went to the window and looked out.  The castle seemed more of a prison than ever, because she longed to be free.  Nicholas was alive and he still cared for her, and she loved him with all her heart.

             
If only she could live as she chose. Yet her freedom must come at a price, because it would take Robert’s death to make her truly free.  While he drew breath she would live in fear of his revenge if she should leave him.

* * *

Marta opened her eyes and looked at the man bending over her.  She shrank back, fear coursing through her as she made the sign of the cross over her breast.

             
‘You…’ she whispered in horror.  ‘Where am I?  What were you doing to me?’

             
‘I but looked at you to see if you had woken from your fit. Will Hern is dead and buried, but you are safe, Marta.  You need not fear me.  Mary cares for you and therefore I shall do all I can to make you well.’

             
‘Even you cannot cure what ails me.  I am dying.’

             
‘What makes you say that, Marta?  I know you have been ill but I do not think you are going to die – unless you wish it?’

             
‘I do not understand you.  Why should I wish to die?’  She looked at him fearfully. 

             
‘You have suffered much, Marta.  You left your home to follow the roads with the man you loved.  When he died you buried him in the woods and carried on, but you could not find work and you were near starving most of the time.  Your child was stillborn and you buried its tiny body in the woods.  The grief broke your spirit. When you came to my gates you were almost dead.  After you left me the night you stole Mary, you went to your brother’s house in Winchester – but your brother became a murderer, and then he attacked you.  Will hit him on the head to save you and he died.  Since then you have been tramping the roads of Spain and France – and you have not always been kind to the child you stole from me.’