The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (10 page)

“What in God’s name…?” he recoiled.

“It will keep the wound from festering, my lord.” Nadira tilted the bowl so he could see its contents.

He grimaced. “That smells like the Devil’s own privy.”

“I’m sorry it offends you, my lord, but these herbs are the only ones I found in the garden for wounds.”

“No, no. I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” he said. The tone of his voice implied the opposite. He turned his face away from her again.

I wouldn’t want to watch either
. Nadira hesitated. She picked up the soft cloth to clean the edges of the long cut.

“You will have to move your arm, my lord,” she murmured. When it appeared he could not lift it high enough, she helped position his arm over her shoulder. It was heavy and hung down over her back as she bent to her work.

She picked up the threaded needle, willing her fingers to cease their shaking. Another deep breath. With one hand, she held the edges of the wound; with the other, she inserted the gleaming silver through the pink flesh. Montrose flinched with each stitch, but did not otherwise move nor did he make a sound until she pushed her needle through the lowest part of the wound, where the cut was deepest over the bone of his hip. There, when she reached for the edges he moved his arm and squeezed her shoulder until it hurt enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Wait,” he whispered hoarsely. She stopped, both of them breathing hard. It was the only sound in the room.

Nadira put down the needle and waited for him. After a long moment, the hand on her shoulder relaxed. She picked up the needle and went back to her work. Montrose now groaned softly with each breath.

“Are you finished?” He mumbled through clenched teeth, but she understood him to mean,
you’d better be finished
.

“Almost,” she answered tightly. “I will apply the poultice and wrap it, then you may rest.” She lined an empty bowl with a square of linen and carefully poured the warm green boneset tea into it. She lifted the four corners slowly to allow the infusion to drain into the bowl and collect the sodden leaves, then rolled the square into a tube and laid along the deeper part of the wound. Nadira took the long strips of linen Beniste had sent with Sarah and wrapped them around Montrose’s broad chest. She tied the last strip and smoothed the linen with her palms.

“I am finished now, my lord.”

He blew his breath out like he had been holding it a long time.

She helped him lie down on his left side and he was snoring beside Marcus before she was finished cleaning up. She gathered up the soiled linens to take down to the laundry on the first floor.

Alisdair met her on the stairs. Nadira suspected he had been waiting there the whole time. “Well?”

Nadira nodded. “Yes, he will heal. He sleeps.” There was nothing else to say.

He leaned against the wall, squinting as he looked up the stair to the room. “I’ll just be checkin’.” He let her go and continued up the stairs. She heard the door open and close behind him.

Nadira took the linens to the laundry in the stable yard. She spent a few moments in the fresh air. The autumn chill was refreshing now that she was coming from a warm room and her clothes were dry. She did not look forward to resuming their journey, whenever that would be. In Barcelona, Sofir’s guests rarely stayed an entire week, but sometimes his trading partners might stay the winter when the storms were bad and they were kept from sailing.

She wondered how long they would be welcome in Beniste’s house. She remembered that her master Sofir’s guests were very generous in return for their lodging. Montrose had plenty of money. She could not help but notice the size of his purse. It was not full of copper, either. She had seen him pull it from behind his belt and search around for the right coin when they stopped to pay a toll.

She looked around. Beniste had large storerooms, a fine stable with every stall filled, a pen full of fowl and rabbits. His granary was full for the winter and the servants were healthy looking. She wondered what Montrose’s own estates were like. Then she wondered where his lands were.

Nadira lingered over her tasks longer than necessary, reluctant to return to the upstairs room. She washed her face and her hair, was offered some food and enjoyed listening to the cook tell stories as he kneaded the bread. She went to the laundry and helped fold the clean bedding, and then spent an hour combing her black hair with a wooden comb borrowed from Sarah, and braiding it into a long plait. Finally she could no longer stay away without appearing to be shirking. Servants nodded politely to her as she returned to the hall and slipped upstairs again. Montrose was no longer sleeping. His eyes touched hers in wordless greeting as she closed the door behind her. Garreth sat beside him on the stool. Alisdair must have gone out again.

“You should be sleeping, my lord,” she said.

“I should but I cannot.” He rubbed his face. “Perhaps I could get more wine later.”

Garreth stood up and grunted. “No, Garreth,” Montrose said, “be seated. I don’t want it right now. Later. Alisdair has gone to see about Richard’s letters.”

Nadira sat on the edge of the bed by Montrose’s feet. The door opened and Alisdair entered with a package in one hand. He closed the door and slipped the bolt.

“What is it?” Montrose struggled to sit up, his hand over the fresh bandages.

“Got ‘em all. Richard’s been havin’ the Venetian stuff sent here. He even sent summat to himself.” He took out a bulky packet, turned it in the light. “This seal is his.”

He handed the parchment to Montrose who examined the red wax stamped on one side.

“Aye. That is his seal.” Montrose repositioned himself against the wall before using both hands to break the seal and unfold the stiff parchment.

Alisdair looked pointedly at Nadira. “Give it to the lass, Rob.”

“Let me see if it is his hand,” Montrose snapped.

“’Tis. You can see it on the outside. Give it to the lass.”

“One moment. Give me a moment.”

Nadira held out her hand for the parchment, but he moved it out of reach. She could see that his eyes were barely focused. She doubted he could even see the handwriting. They all waited silently while he stared at the document, his teeth clenched hard enough to make the muscles of his jaw bulge. After a long pause he released it. She took the thick sheet from him and leaned into the light from the window.

“My lord,” Nadira turned the document one way, then another, letting the light shine from behind the vellum. “My lord, I think this letter is in code.”

Alisdair snatched it from her before Montrose could put his hand on it. He stared hard at the writing as though he could read it. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I think it is.” Nadira insisted. “Most of the letters are Latin, but the language is not. Nor is it any that I know. And see here,” Nadira indicated a passage with her finger,” there are numbers here interspersed with the letters, and there are also Hebrew letters mixed with the Latin. Here there is Greek mixed with Moorish script. Together they are not a language, not even sounded out will they make sense.”

The two men exchanged dark looks. Nadira took the document from Alisdair’s hands. ”But there is one line in Latin at the end. It says, ‘Robin. You must track our quarry. The white hart bends her head and yields to your bow. Give her to Malcolm.” She bent over to show Montrose the word “Robin” with her finger.
Maybe he can read his name.

“Malcolm.” Montrose frowned.

“Yes, my lord. It says ‘Malcolm’ here.” She moved her finger along the line.

Montrose lowered the parchment away from his face so he could see Alisdair. “And you wanted to go home.”

“Godswounds. What was he up to?”

“The white hart. He doesn’t want me to destroy it.” Montrose’s face twisted and darkened.

Nadira felt it might be better to sit on her pallet and avoid the storm. She got up from the edge of the bed and sat on the straw by the wall while Alisdair and Montrose leaned together and conversed in low angry voices, Garreth turned his head side to side as he followed the exchange.

When they were finished, all three men turned to her.

Montrose spoke. “I need you to read my letters to us. But I require an oath from you that this one may remain secret.”

“It cannot be a great secret if you want me to read it to you.” Nadira spoke too quickly.

“Saucy wench,” Alisdair growled.

Montrose pointed a finger at him. “You want Beniste to read it for us?” He asked the Scot. Nadira had never heard him sound so vicious.

Alisdair raised both hands. “Nay. God love him, but nay.”

“There is no helping this.” To Alisdair he asked, “Do you agree?” to Nadira, “Do you swear?” Everyone nodded, even Garreth.

Montrose leaned back and closed his eyes wearily. “There is a book the brothers brought back from the Holy Land some years back. It is an Hermetica,” he began, “but this one is different from others. This one is said to have been compiled from scrolls that came from the Temple of Isis, stolen as Pope Theophilus destroyed the temples in Alexandria more than a thousand years ago. They held it for themselves for a century, but it was stolen again. It was then stolen from the thieves and repeatedly so until no one knows where it is now. The Borgia pope has charged his men with securing it for him, along with other books and scrolls. The librarians at Toledo are wary of his agents and advised us to be careful. Several documents have been stolen this summer. My brother discovered this from a priest and was warned to intercept it before it made its way to Rome.”

Nadira interrupted, “Why would he not want it to get to the pope?”

Montrose winced and spread his hand over his ribs. “Richard wanted it for himself. He said it would teach him the powers of the magi of Babylon and the magic of the priests of Osiris. What I have been told is that the pope intends to use this knowledge against his enemies in the name of Christ.”

“He considers the enemies of Christ to be the Jews and Mohammedans,” she frowned, thinking of home.

“Among others. I believe he would use the forces of hell to subjugate all to his will. I daresay Christ would fall far from his thoughts.”

Nadira was silent, then asked, “Who told you this?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does,” she answered boldly. She had shared the threat of death with him. He could share this secret. “My whole life I have heard men talk as if they had the answers to all the world’s problems. There is nothing like tables laden with food and wine to get men talking. I have filled many cups, my lord, and heard many stories. I do not believe all I hear. I would know where this story comes from.”

“I have the word of my brother, and he was a great scholar.” Nadira watched his cheek twitch as he said the word “brother”. “Richard saw the book, held it in his hands and read parts of it. He told me that it must not ever reach a cleric’s eyes. I would go to my grave on his words alone.”

“Your brother had this book in his hands and lost it?” Nadira was aghast.

Montrose sat up carefully, holding his side, and tried to find a more comfortable position so he could look her in the eyes. “He was in a room full of men who brought him in to read it to them. When he had finished, he was sent away. Some of the men wanted it copied entirely in Latin; others argued that none should be able to read it easily, especially not the clerics. It would be difficult for them to find another who can read both the Hebrew and the Arab tongue.” He looked at her pointedly

“I am no Mohammedan, nor a Jew. I am nothing.”

“So you have no allegiance to any doctrine?” His voice echoed his disbelief.

Nadira answered, “I was a servant to a spice merchant in Barcelona. My opinions have never been any man’s concern. If I read and write and keep the cups filled I am spared much notice by anyone.”

“And yet Sofir seemed over-fond of you. He did not require you to worship his god?”

Nadira hardened her eyes, remembering. “I believe he loved my mother,” she answered. “I was not mistreated, but neither was I exalted above my station. My mother rejected her god when my father was murdered, and my master saw little to gain in training me to a religion he abandoned himself.” She shrugged, “I lived, that is all. My godlessness was of no concern to anyone.” Nadira wanted these uncomfortable questions to end.

“And your mother taught you to read?”

His persistence was maddening, but she had promised to obey. She answered with a patience she did not feel, “My mother was a clever woman, my lord, and had been the honored wife of an emir. She could see it was preferable to read and write and do figures than to work in Sofir’s kitchen or the laundry. She had a beautiful hand in three languages.” Nadira could not help but add bitterly, “She did not eagerly embrace her new role as slave.”

Montrose nodded as if he understood, but Nadira knew he could not possibly comprehend her mother’s motives.
What does he know of servitude?

“And she wanted the same for her daughter. I see.”

Nadira answered carefully, “I was taught to read and write because my mother told me that in this world the only things that cannot be stolen from me are my thoughts. She was very bitter, my lord. She had been a princess, yet through the rash and thoughtless acts of men, she became a slave and a whore. She had no expectations that my life would be better than hers. She was determined that no matter how miserable I might find my body, my mind would be free.”