The Sorceror's Revenge (12 page)

             
If at the deep of night, you visit the crypt where the grave of Saint Cecilia lies, you will discover that which you most desire.

             
The message had been unsigned but it had sent a tingle down Santos’ spine, for it could only mean that he would find the book that contained the secret of alchemy.  Santos licked his lips at the thought of the power and wealth the ability to turn base metal into gold would bring him.  For years he had been convinced that his cousin Niccolai Malvolia had this secret, as well as many others, perhaps even the power to raise the dead.

             
Years earlier, Santos had betrayed his cousin to the Church Inquisition as a sorcerer and a blasphemer.  Niccolai had been arrested and tortured but somehow he had escaped, vanishing, it seemed, into thin air; perhaps by use of the black arts.  Some people believed he was in league with the Devil, that he was a demon in human form. Santos did not truly believe the tales but he had used them for his own gains.  He had imagined that he would find the secret book he sought at his cousin’s home, but despite exhaustive searching he had been unable to discover its hiding place. However, his spies had told him that his cousin had found sanctuary in England. He had changed his name to Nicholas Malvern and had a wife and child, but before Santos could put that knowledge to good use, Niccolai had disappeared again and the book with him.  Now Santos believed he might be on the verge of gaining that which he most craved.

             
He had of course considered that the message might be a trap but his greed drove him on through the night.  He was armed and wary, alert to danger, and thus far he had not been followed.  Besides, Niccolai’s strength lay in his cleverness.  Santos had always been the stronger when it came to a test of physical prowess; he could run faster, throw a javelin further and jump higher than his cousin.  Niccolai had never shown a love for either combat or killing.

             
Stopping to glance over his shoulder once more, Santos shivered.  Somewhere a dog howled, the sound eerie and chilling.  Niccolai could not take the shape of a dog, could he?  If he had truly sold his soul to the Devil anything might be possible.

             
No, he would not let his imagination conjure up shadows where none existed.  He did not fear Niccolai, though he feared the Devil.  As a child Santos had feared the catacombs and suffered nightmares after visiting them, but he was a man now.

             
Most people had forgotten the location of the entrance to the catacombs but Niccolai and Santos had played there as children.  Niccolai had liked the ancient frescos that depicted saints and scenes of Heaven or the underworld.  He spent hours looking at tombs, exploring the various crypts, and trying to decipher the inscriptions.  Santos had gone with him because in those days he had worshipped his elder cousin and to refuse would have brought a look of scorn to that thin clever face. They had been so different, the one thoughtful, slight, quiet; the other bold, sturdy and yet always in the shadow of his cousin.

             
Niccolai had always preferred the most ancient areas of the catacombs, where many martyrs and pontiffs lay buried. Santos knew his cousin believed that there might be other far older graves here, buried many layers below the surface, for the catacombs went deep into the bowels of the earth.  It seemed perfectly logical to Santos that if his cousin had decided to call a truce between them and give him the book of secrets, he would force him to visit the catacombs.  There was always a price to be paid, Niccolai had told him that long ago. This was a test of his strength of purpose, the kind of game Niccolai had enjoyed.

             
For several years Santos had lived with the fear that his cousin would seek revenge for what had been done to him, but now he was convinced that Niccolai intended to return to his home and live in peace. His cousin was in truth a peaceful man, who wanted only to be allowed to practise as a physician and an apothecary. Through his agent, Signor Fedora, Niccolai had purchased a pardon from Pope Alexander 1V and he would buy his safety with the secret that Santos had craved for so long.

             
Glancing over his shoulder once more before entering the ancient maze of arcades and crypts, Santos made the sign of the cross over his breast.  He did not fear physical attack for he was skilled in the art of combat but he was afraid of the dark and the unknown; he was afraid of demons that ate the flesh of humans and tore at them with their claws. The priests preached damnation and the torment of souls in Hell and Santos knew that when he died he would not see the gates of Heaven open for him.

             
Inside the dark cavern, which smelled musty and foul, a torch was flaring, its light and comfort proof that someone was already here, waiting for him.  A surge of elation ran through him. He had been right.  Niccolai had chosen this place for their meeting as the price Santos must pay for his betrayal, yet knowing his cousin’s fear of the dark he had left him a torch. It was what Niccolai would do and the sign strengthened Santos’s belief that his cousin had sent the message.

             
Taking the torch in his left hand, his right hovering over his sword hilt, Santos moved forward cautiously.

             
‘Niccolai…’ he called.  ‘I know you are here somewhere.  There is no need for us to be enemies.  I know you want to return to Rome.  I have heard that the Pope has pardoned you.  I am ready to make peace between us.  We can be friends again, as we once were.  We might always have been friends if you had shared your secrets…’

             
The cavern yawned ahead of him, dark and echoing, empty save for the spirits of the long dead. Yet Santos had a sense that there was evil here, hovering in the shadows. His skin prickled and he felt sweat trickle down his spine.  He licked his lips nervously, summoning all his courage.

             
‘We should not quarrel, cousin.  I never wished to harm you.  All I desire is to share your secrets…’

             
‘Secrets…secrets…secrets…’

             
The word seemed to echo about him, coming back to him louder than his own voice, as if it were rolling thunder.  He swallowed hard. His throat was dry, coldness at the nape of his neck.  Had he been foolish to come here?  He had thought only of what he might gain, his greed making him dismiss what he knew in his heart.  Niccolai must hate him.  He must desire revenge.  Santos should go now while he could…

Then, even as he hesitated, ahead of him, he saw the shrine.  Beneath one of the beautiful frescos that Niccolai had so admired an altar of light had been built. Candles and torches made such a brilliant glow in the darkness that Santos was for a moment almost blinded.  Suddenly, he saw the iron chest around which the light had been focused and a thrill of excitement coursed through him.  He had not been mistaken.  Nicholas had staged this scene to test him, but he was ready to give him the secret.

             
Rushing forward, Santos thrust his torch into a crevice and knelt to lift the lid of the chest. He saw at once that there was a book lying inside.  The covers were made of leather studded with silver and gold and he was certain it must be the book of secrets he craved. Snatching it up, he opened the pages, flicking through them in frustration.

             
Nothing.  Every page was blank.  Disappointment slammed through him.  He had been tricked. Lured here on a false promise.  Why?  Even as his mind began to search for answers, he heard a sound behind him and then a shadow loomed.  Before he could react, the thin cord was round his throat.  Large hands pulled tight.  Santos choked, tugging at the cord, his eyes bulging as the noose tightened.  He was a powerful man, built like an ox, but the hands that held the cord were stronger.  He could feel the cord biting deep into his flesh, cutting off his supply of air, and strangling him.  As the light began to fade and all became darkness, he thought he could see the shape of a demon; a creature with horns, a forked tail and cloven feet and its face…its face was that of Niccolai.  Santos tried to cry out, to beg for his life, but it was too late.

             
Death came swiftly. Within a few minutes Santos ceased to struggle but still the powerful hands twisted and held.  Only when Santos’ limbs no longer twitched did the assassin relax his grip.  He bent over the slumped body and turned it over to make quite certain his work was done.

             
For a moment the man with hatred in his heart stared down at his victim and there was no pity and no remorse.  A smile touched his mouth as he straightened up.

             
‘Justice is done,’ he murmured.  ‘May his black soul rot in hell.’

             
He plucked the torch Santos had used from the crevice and turned away. He had one more task, and that was to seal the tomb.  Once the stone was in place this crypt would be lost. Hardly anyone came here these days.  It was unlikely that the body or the remains of the shrine would ever be found.

16

Castle Craigmoor, Hampshire, in the year of Our Lord 1261

The wind had risen and was beginning to howl outside the castle walls, and rain lashed against the small, paned-glass windows of the woman’s solar.  A beautiful woman with glorious red hair, she was pale and tense, her head held proudly as she faced the man.

             
‘You have not welcomed me home, wife.  Is a man not entitled to a kiss and a smile when he has been away these many months?’

             
‘Your return gives me little to smile about,’ she replied.  ‘For how long may we expect the honour of your presence this time – a day, a week or perhaps two?’

             
‘There is no need to mock me, Melloria.  You know well enough that the King hath much need of me, and has done these past several years.  You are aware that more than two years since the barons forced Henry to agree to their outrageous terms, and they used the prince against him.’

Robert Earl Devereaux paced the room in frustration, then swung round to face her.

‘These men will stop at nothing. They took Edward as their hostage and made him join with them in a seige against Winchester Castle to expel his uncles, the Lusignans. For a time Henry believed that Edward had turned against him and would not see him.  The prince begged me to mediate with his father, and, with the help of the King’s brother, Richard of Cornwall, they were reconciled. Edward has never forgiven those men for what they did.’

‘This you have told me before, husband.  You forget that you visited us three times last year.’

‘You chide me for it, wife, but what can I do? Henry is tired of the committee, who seek to rule in his stead, for they are never satisfied.  He is seeking advice from the Pope on the vow he was forced to take and needs to know which of his barons stand with him if he should break the vow. It was for that reason amongst others I was called to court once more.’

             
‘I have heard the prince makes unwise friends amongst the Marcher lords, but must assume all is well for you would not have left had the prince had further need of you.’ Her bitterness flayed him like a whip on the raw.

             
‘I must do my duty. Edward thanked me for my help.  There is still friction between him and the Queen in particular. I needed to assure the King of my allegiance. Henry knows that if he chooses war I shall be with him.’ Robert looked uncertain.  ‘I thought you might be pleased to see me this time.’

             
For a moment hope flared in her eyes. She took a step towards him, her hand outstretched. ‘You have news for me?’

             
‘If you mean the child…’ His mood hardened. ‘Always it is of the child you think – have you no thought for me at all, no kindness in your heart for the man you married?’

             
‘Should I have?’

             
‘You are my wife…’ He moved towards her, as though he would take her in his arms, but she raised one hand and he stood as if turned to stone by her coldness. He did not know why she had such power over him, but it had always been thus.

‘You stole my daughter, Iolanthe, forcing me to return to you,’ Melloria said as the wind howled eerily about the castle tower. Its sound sent chills down the man’s spine, for it made him think of the caverns of Hell, where tortured souls screamed and moaned. Robert had feared Hell all his life. ‘You promised to give me the time I needed to heal and find comfort in prayer, but you broke your word to me.  You have not found Iolanthe’s twin sister.  Nor have you brought her home to me, as you swore you would – and until you do I shall not lie with you.’

             
‘By Heaven, you would try the patience of a saint,’ Robert growled. His hands clenched, as he was tempted to strike her.  ‘As my wife you owe me a marriage debt.  I could drag you before the Church courts and have you punished for your defiance, wife.’

             
‘Yet still I would not lie with you willingly. You may force me and I cannot stop you, but it would not satisfy your needs. You made me a vow, Robert.  Had you not stolen Iolanthe from the woman who cared for her while I meditated and asked forgiveness for my sins – which I do not deny – I should have stayed at the convent until you brought Iolanthe’s twin to me.’