Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (13 page)

For a time, nobody spoke, glancing one to the other as if to figure what he might be up to. Then, from the back wall, where men were placed to die, a stout man raised his hand. “Arthur Mason,” he said gruffly, his look daring any to object, “I can do it.”

Looking him over, Elisha realized his right leg was missing from the hip. He glanced briefly around the room, then nodded. “Right, Arthur. Ruari, give me a hand. Maeve, fetch us a chair from the kitchen.”

Together, Elisha and Ruari made a seat of their arms and carried the
mason over beneath the window where a space had been cleared. Curious eyes watched the process, while some of the men continued to moan. Maeve set down the chair, and they placed Arthur on top.

Tapping a stone below the window, about at the height of Arthur’s shoulder, Elisha said, “I need a hole through here. I think this mortar is—”

“I know my trade,” the mason snapped, glaring from beneath wiry eyebrows.

Noting the breadth of the man’s shoulders and the swell of muscle in his arms, Elisha did not doubt it. “Go to. Let Lisbet know if you need some other tools.”

Arthur made a show of examining the chisel, hefting the hammer, and said, “She’ll do.” Cautiously at first, he started tapping around the chosen block. Then, finding a section of loose mortar, he set on it with vigor.

Miraculously—unless something went wrong with one of his patients—Elisha had done all he could until the next hold. Satisfied, Elisha took up his pick. He had time for a project of his own. “I’ll be in the courtyard if I’m needed. Oh—Maeve? Is it possible to get some eggs?”

“Ha!” she snorted. “Eggs? Had we chickens, then mayhap. As it is, we’re boiling the townsfolks’ stewbones, and them not too pleased for it.”

Shouldering his pick, Elisha crossed to the far end, taking the door into the stairwell. To the right at the bottom of the stairs, another doorway opened onto the broad inner courtyard. A cloister followed one side, connecting the church with a dormitory. At the opposite corner, by the ruin of the main gate, stood a tall bell tower with a small cluster of men at the top, watching the progress of the distant battle. In its shadow Elisha saw a small cottage, well-maintained. As he studied the place, the physician emerged, stretching as if he’d only just gotten up. Simmering, Elisha turned away, toward the cistern at the center of the tiled court. Grass and weeds thrust up between the stones and rimmed the pool as well as the channel he had noticed the day before. As he suspected, this channel diverted water from the nearby river by way of a low arch at the main gate.

Leaning the pick against the cistern wall, he stripped off his apron and shirt and studied his course. He dragged the point of the pick to mark a line across the tiles from the nearest edge of the culvert to the spot beneath the window where Arthur Mason worked on the inside.

Arthur struck his chisel with evident enjoyment, while a few other men who were able clustered about, muttering and peering out the windows. With a nod to them, Elisha set about his own labor, prying up the stones in the path he had laid out. Lounging in the shadow of the tower, Lucius regarded him with a vague smile, as if puzzling over the activity.

Every so often, Elisha took a break and splashed water over his face and back. Though it was only April, the sun grew steadily hotter, and he was down to the hard labor, hacking through the roots and dirt, carving a path for the water to follow.

When he’d gotten into the rhythm of the work, he started to sing one of the ballads his mother had favored.

With an irritated exhalation, Lucius abandoned his place and stalked away.

It was the first song that came to mind—and the last song his brother sang, at least in his hearing. He might have broken off when he remembered, but inside the hospital a few voices joined his own. He was not here for his grief but for his service, even if that service was a song. By the time they’d done a few verses, even those not familiar with the song had picked up the refrain. From the officer’s infirmary, the pretty whore stuck her head through the window.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

Elisha rested on his pick and turned. “Aye, madam?”

Peevishly, she tossed her head. “Some of the lords want it quiet.”

Another of the bombards shook the ground, and Elisha sighed. “Tell it to the enemy.”

The whore disappeared, and a well-trimmed gray head replaced her. “What are you about, man? This is a churchyard!”

“I’m cutting through a channel to get us all some water without having to fetch it in buckets, my lord.” He wiped his brow.

“Then there’s no need for your caterwauling, is there?” the man barked in a voice accustomed to command.

“Oh, let be, my lord,” a new voice purred, and a lady came through into the yard. She curtseyed low to the man in the window and smiled. “Surely the trouble saved will be worth a few songs?”

Blinking at the newcomer, the captain barked, “And who might you be?”

“My name’s Brigit, my lord. My father holds the village yonder. I came down to see if I might offer assistance to His Majesty’s doctors.” Again, she smiled.

This time, the captain stuck up his chin, taking her in, and nodded once. “Carry on, then.” He vanished inside.

Lady Brigit closed the distance between herself and Elisha in graceful strides almost like dancing, her figure as fair as any whore back home in London, and fairer than many of the ladies. She wore well-made garments carefully embroidered—a task for those with few cares beyond the uniformity of their stitches. The sun warmed her creamy, indoor complexion and struck sparks from her long red-blonde hair, though her head seemed lop-sided somehow. Elisha squinted, then smiled in recognition. The hair on one side of her head was chopped just past her shoulder, raggedly cut off where it had been singed by the fire of two nights before. He bowed and straightened as she came before him, then his smile fell away as his mouth dropped open. He must look an idiot, he realized, but there was nothing to be done for it.

Elisha’s hand flew to his cheek, feeling again the stroke of an angel’s wing. The breath had left him, and he felt suddenly light-headed though the sun might have stopped shining for all he knew. Those luminous eyes, shot with gold as if lit from within—or reflecting a fire, or meeting his own from the embrace of magnificent wings.

“It’s you,” he breathed.

Her hands leapt to her chest and Brigit started back with a quick intake of breath, the whites showing at her pale green eyes.

“The fire,” he whispered.

After a moment, the animation returned to Brigit’s face. Laughing too sharply, she smiled, pulling her hands away to smooth her fine skirt. “Of course, the fire. You must have seen me then.”

Tilting his head to one side, Elisha frowned. “Aye, that I did, but I meant…”
But what
had
he meant? That this woman was the image of a witch, burned at the stake twenty years ago? Shivering, he shook his head, feeling the brush of long hair against his bare skin. That brought another shiver, and he forced his eyes to look away. “Sorry.” He caught a shaky breath and let it out slow before taking another not quite so ragged as the first.

“Yes, well, it’s about that that I came.”

“To see me?” he asked, a giddy hope taking the place of his astonishment.

With a negligent flip of her hair, Brigit said, “No, the physician, the man I spoke with afterward.”

Elisha’s hope withered. “The physician. Of course.” It had been dark that night, and between that and her terror, no doubt she hadn’t got a good look at him. He pointed across the court. “He’s taken the cottage, though I think he’s gone out.”

“Thanks,” she replied brightly, her expression still vague as if she had not quite recovered from whatever impact his words had brought upon her. “I’ll leave a note for him, then. Thanks,” she said over her shoulder as she left.

Watching the gentle sway of her hips as she went, Elisha sighed, wiping a hand across his sweaty brow. She probably thought him a workman, out in the sun at such a time, laboring on behalf of the army. She rapped sharply on the cottage door, waited, and rapped again. As if summoned, the physician emerged from the base of the tower, noticed Brigit at the door of his cottage, and came forward, his imperious bearing falling away. With a hand draped casually upon her shoulder, he guided Brigit inside his cottage, and the door shut behind them.

Elisha grumbled to himself. So she wasn’t all the proper woman she seemed, if she was willing to enter the man’s house alone and unaccompanied. Other men, like the assistant surgeon Matthew, looked up to Lucius for his long and distant education, but could his schooling draw on even a woman like that? Laughing at his own folly, Elisha hefted the pick again in both hands. Perhaps letters had some value after all.

Before long, he started up a new song, and the soldiers joined in. Still, he had not made much progress when he became aware of Lisbet, standing nearby, gazing at him.

Straightening, Elisha tipped his head to her, then realized it was about time for a break and crossed to the water, took a long draught, and splashed some over his head and shoulders. He shook back his hair, smoothing down
the wild dark waves which had sprung loose from their bounds. Coming back from the cistern, he pulled the ribbon free so the mass of his hair fell all around him, then he gathered it all into one hand to bind it up again. To his surprise, Lisbet was still there. “Did you come to see me?”

A flush coming to her cheeks, Lisbet said, “Oh, aye. I’ve found a barrel, as you asked.” Then she looked crestfallen as she said, “But it’s got a hole in the bottom as big as my hand. It’s the best I could find, though. Most others’re already in use.”

With the briefest glance toward the physician’s cottage, Elisha said, “Show me. Maybe it can be repaired.”

Bobbing a needless curtsey, Lisbet led the way into the dormitory and down a flight of stairs to a windowless basement.

“You came down here?” Elisha peered into the darkness.

With a giggle, Lisbet took up a candle from someplace. “I knew you needed it, so I looked everyplace I could go.”

Casting her a look, Elisha nodded slowly. He would need to dissuade her of her interest in him more directly—if her brother the gunner didn’t appear from nowhere and take care of it himself. “Thank you. I’m sure all the men will appreciate your effort.”

Her shoulders slumped a bit, but she brought him resolutely onward, then held up her light with a triumphant gesture. “There it is. Will it do?”

Hunkering down, Elisha examined the barrel. Once, it had held wine but had clearly been put to many uses since. The hole gaped open just as Lisbet had told him, but he thought there must be some way to repair it. “It’s excellent, just the right size. Thank you.” Bending down, he took it in both arms, and followed her back to the surface. Lugging the musty thing into the hospital, he plopped it on the floor by Arthur’s chair.

The mason, who had been resting from his exertions, lifted his chisel again and started pounding as if his life depended on it. Already, he’d demolished a good two inches of mortar all the way around.

Elisha slapped his shoulder. “Excellent! Keep it up—within reason, of course.”

“I’ll do that,” Arthur replied, then, under his breath, he said, “Teach them to put me by the yard—not yet a deadman.”

“I need someone to put a patch to this hole,” Elisha called out. This
time, there was no hesitation before two men volunteered and set to bickering over who could do it. One had a pierced chest, and wheezed out his protests, while the other shook a fist at him with half the fingers gone.

“Either one, or both. Lisbet can help you get what you need.”

The girl glowed at the mention of her name, and the hand he might have set on her shoulder hovered then slipped back to his side.

“Back to work,” he mumbled, retreating into the sun.

Once out the doors, he froze, his feet rooted to the spot.

Up in the courtyard, Brigit paced near the cistern, drumming her fingers on it, then turning a circle as if looking for something. When her gaze fixed on him, her face lit up, and she came forward to meet him.

Somehow, Elisha got his feet moving again, though he stumbled on the uneven stones. Too quickly, he grabbed the handle of the pick. “So you found him, then.”

“I did, yes, and thank you again.” She tipped her head, her pale hands gripping each other in consternation. “You must think me completely daft. The fire.” She tossed her head. “It was you put your cloak over me.”

“Aye, that it was.” He studied the ground as if he might count the weeds remaining between where he’d left off and the culvert.

Soft fingers rested upon his forearm, and he looked up into the brilliance of her smile. “For that also, I owe you thanks. I was lucky not to be badly burned.”

“You seem—that is, you look—fine.” Elisha shook his head, chuckling. “That’s not what I mean at all, as no doubt you are aware.”

Her laughter rang like the absent bells of the broken church and lifted his heart and his eyes back to her face. “Elisha Barber, is it? I had no idea a barber could be so silver-tongued.”

Giddiness welling up in him, he muttered, “Tongue-tied, more like.”

From the windows behind them, a chorus of rude noises and lewd offers echoed into the court.

Elisha flushed, turning to focus an angry stare at his patients. “Enough! Be off with you, or I’ll discharge the lot of you!”

“Besides,” Brigit called out, “you should know I’m spoken for.”

The disappointed moans of the soldiers covered for Elisha’s own moment of loss, or so he hoped, before he faced her again.

Her smile now seemed wistful. “Anyhow, I should be off myself.”

“Aye, lady. I’m glad you’re well.”

Nodding, Brigit turned away, picking her steps carefully across the court.

Watching her go, Elisha’s heart made a lurch like none he’d ever felt. She was the image of the angel of his childhood—he could not simply let her leave. Before he could stop himself, he called after her, “My lady!”