The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (15 page)

“What sort of words?” Montrose prompted.

Henry studied his face. “Words like ‘Only the eye fears darkness; the ear, silence.’”

“What does that mean?” Montrose asked him.

Brother Henry just shook his head as he looked down at Nadira. “Who are you?” He reached out and pulled her hood to her shoulders. Her head remained bowed; she hugged herself to hide her breasts.

Montrose’s arm moved out deliberately, pulled the hood back over her head, and let it fall forward to conceal her. “She is my reader, Henry. As you know, I can merely sign my name and badly at that. Maybe I can make out a few words, some names, but you know very well my father forbid me to study. You were there, Henry. Do you remember?” Henry stared at him.

“She can read Latin? Hebrew? Aramaic? Moorish? Greek?”

“Not Aramaic,” Nadira said from under the cloak.

“Not Aramaic.” Montrose repeated. “Nevertheless, she can read what you cannot, for she knows the Saracen tongue and are there not long passages in that language? Richard told me so.”

Henry did not speak but continued to stare at Nadira on the floor. He pushed her hood back again and leaned down to raise her chin in his hand. Nadira did not resist, instead she allowed herself to look back at him. She searched his face to see what the book had done to him. He said he was mad. Was he? Would this happen to her? It did not show in his eyes.

“What a lovely girl, Montrose. Who is she?”

Nadira cleared her throat to answer, but Montrose cut her off. “She is mine. I bought her off a spice merchant in Barcelona.”

Henry released her chin and threw his head back to laugh, “You liar! It’s a sin to lie to a priest, don’t you know?” He chuckled, looking at Nadira. She smiled weakly. “You didn’t buy her off a merchant in Barcelona. You stole her.” He rubbed her head. “This is remarkable.” Nadira felt a trembling warmth from the priest’s hand when he touched her. “Where did you learn to read, child?”

Nadira swallowed, “My mother taught me my own language. My master taught me Castilian, English, Hebrew, Greek and Latin.”

“Are you fluent, then?”

“Only in Castilian and Moorish, Brother Henry. I am merely competent in the others.”

“Why would your master teach you to read and write so many languages?”

“I kept his accounts. He wanted me to read the bills and manifests and post the shipments.” Henry seemed impressed. “So you really haven’t read many books.”

“No, but a great many accounts.”

Henry laughed again. “What a clever master. I imagine in all those years you did not cheat him once.”

Nadira gasped. “Of course not!” She thought back on those long hours bent over books, turning pages with ink-stained fingers, happy that she was not stirring boiling laundry. Henry was staring at her.

“I see you were motivated,” he said kindly. She looked up, startled. “Yes, as daunting as Hebrew may seem to you, boiling laundry is many times worse. Very well, then. What a crew you have assembled for this task, Robin.”

Henry reached out. When his warm fingers touched her chin, she felt a shock. Shivers moved up and down the back of her neck.

“When was the last time you had the book, Henry?” Montrose prodded gently.

“It’s been some months, Robin. I am sorry. Father Valentine from Toledo rode through with a writ from the pope. It required all manuscripts containing the Egyptian script to go to Rome. I tried to hide the book, but he knew I had it; so did Father Bertram. I did not mention the interesting endpapers. One day it was gone. I woke up, looked for it. It had disappeared.” Henry leaned back against the wall behind him. “It’s just as well. They will never understand what they read, and if they try the endpapers…well, let me just say that the world will never be the same.”

“It’s not so easy, my friend,” Montrose rubbed his face, the black stubble of his three days beard made a scratching sound. “I’ve heard that the pope intends to use the book and is collecting readers from all over the world. He may even get a pagan priest from Africa to read the bird script.”

“So? It will do him good.”

“What? I heard all who read it become...” Montrose paused. “I heard all who read it come to harm and he who wields its power deals harm to others.”

Henry regarded him with interest. “If that’s true, then the pope will be struck down with some affliction before he can wield its ‘power’.”

“Maybe. But not if he has made a pact with Satan.”

Henry chuckled again. “You have heard that one uses this book to summon demons.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, it summons demons, but not the ones you are thinking of.” Henry’s face twisted into an unpleasant smile. “I cannot explain it. I know that before it came to me, men were killed to acquire it. I know those trying to understand its secrets have done great evil. However, Robin, it is not this book that punishes or rewards evil. It is men who do so.”

“Why did Richard want it so badly?”

“Why does any man desire knowledge?”

“Someone wanted it badly enough to kill Richard. Someone believes it holds tremendous power. I was told it contains the secret to the Philosopher’s Stone…”

Henry laughed again. “I will tell you right now it does not contain the secret of turning lead into gold.”.

Montrose frowned. “Why in God’s name am I chasing this book?”

Henry touched his shoulder. “It is still a noble cause. Knowledge should not be locked away. This book should not belong to one man, but to all men. If someone tries to use it for evil they will find themselves in the very pit of hell. It might do the Borgia pope good to spend some time in hell before his soul spends eternity there. Perhaps he will repent.”

“How many will be injured before His Holiness makes that journey?” Montrose shot back angrily. “How many other men will lose their fathers? Their brothers?”

Henry’s eyes were sad. “Or their minds.”

Montrose paused, rubbing his face and pulling his hair.

Henry waved a pale hand. “Robin. Go to Rome. Father Valentine was traveling there to join with the Black Friars. I tell you it is not worth your efforts. The book takes care of itself. This I know firsthand. Chase it if you would, but you will not benefit from its wisdom, nor save anyone by destroying it.”

“Damn! Damn this whole task.” He jerked Nadira to her feet. “Richard told me that to allow the book to be used by others would be the downfall of all kingdoms. He told me life would become death and death would become life if this book was not found and returned to him. Henry, he made me swear on our mother’s grave on midsummer’s night.” Montrose punctuated each sentence with a jerk of her arm. Nadira’s hood fell back on the last yank.

The sight of her reminded Montrose of more unpleasantness. “I’ve stolen this girl from her home, Henry, I committed acts of treason, murder, betrayal. I’ve been busy with death since Richard was so foully murdered and you tell me not to worry about it any more.”

In disgust, he shoved her arm back and released her. Nadira quickly stepped to Garreth’s side, lest Montrose reach for her again. The big man put an arm around her protectively. Montrose had fire in his eyes and the red flush of its heat had spread over his face until it was terrible to look at. In his rage he reached for Henry’s habit.

As his hands closed on the rough fabric, Nadira felt a flash of heat. There was a snapping sound just before Montrose’s body flew backwards and impacted the hard stones full on. Nadira fell backwards into the hall. Immediately the two monks ceased their quiet conversation. They leaped to the cell and pulled Garreth and Montrose from the tiny room. Without a word they slammed the door shut and barred it with a timber plank.

“The visit is over,” one of them said.

Montrose and Garreth pulled themselves up from the floor timbers. Montrose paused, kneeling. Where Montrose’s face had been red, it was now pale. Garreth looked no better. Both men leaned on each other, panting. “What happened?” Montrose gasped.

“My lord, Brother Henry ended the meeting,” was the laconic answer from the taller monk.

“Rather abruptly, I may say,” answered the shorter one. “Perhaps you would like to retire to your sleeping quarters for the night.”

Montrose ignored them. He located Nadira behind Garreth, reached out and pulled her to him. “Are you hurt? Are you injured? Are you bleeding?” The rapid questions appeared rhetorical. His dark eyes darted over her body, his large hands swiftly feeling her shoulders and back through the heavy wool, knocking her about. She was glad she was not injured, as his exploration would have been exceedingly painful. Rough as it was, his searching hands revealed no broken bones or serious bruises. “Thank God,” he breathed. He kept her arm in an iron grip as he tried to rise to his feet.

“I must see Father Bertram immediately.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible, Lord Montrose. It is midnight. Father Bertram has retired for the evening. Please allow us to show you to your sleeping quarters.”

Montrose grimaced as he considered his options. He glanced at Garreth. The big man darted his eyes from the window opening to Nadira and back before staring meaningfully at Montrose. Nadira looked out of the window where the half moon dominated the view. She guessed that Garreth was referring to the lateness of the hour. She was exhausted from the day’s journey; she could not imagine how these two men could want to continue further into the night. Apparently Montrose understood his friend perfectly, for he nodded once. The two monks lit another torch and without further comment escorted them through a labyrinth of hallways and staircases to a small chamber.

There were three wooden benches against three walls, each covered with a straw-filled mattress and a wool blanket. Under one of them was a chamber pot. Moonlight and cold air drifted in from the window, which was merely a high opening in the wall. The monks left a candle with them for light, but withdrew with the brighter torches. As they moved down the darkened hallway, warmth and light departed with them.

Nadira stood in the cold darkness. Garreth moved to a bench and began to make his large frame as comfortable as possible on the narrow planks. Nadira felt a stab of pity for him; he probably never slept comfortably except perhaps in a haystack in a warm stable. She felt a slight push from behind as Montrose, gently this time, moved her wordlessly toward her bench under the window. She saw that he sat gingerly on the bench by the door. In the square of moonlight that fell on him from the high window, she saw him probing his ribs.

“My lord,” she whispered.

“Hum,” came the absent reply.

“My lord?” she kept her voice soft. Garreth was already snoring.

“Go to sleep, Nadira.”

“My lord, please. Is it the wound? Has the stitching…?” He did not answer, but she heard his heavy breathing between Garreth’s snorts and grunts. “Let me see, my lord.”

“You cannot see in this darkness, Nadira. Get some rest.” He sounded resigned.

Nadira moved quietly from her bench and went to him. She felt his thick arm under the wool cloak. He held his breath, moving his arm out of the way so her small hand could burrow into his tunic. She moved her hand under the linen of the garment until she reached the warm flesh. He caught his breath again at that moment and the muscles of his abdomen tensed.

She concentrated on the remembered map of his body.
Here are the bandages
. She loosened them, pushed them aside. Slowly her fingers probed the wound. He flinched as the searching fingers were moistened in his blood. The flesh over his ribs had pulled through the stitching, as she had thought, when his arms took the brunt of his fall. Che moved her hand above the injured side, seeking the extent of the damage. Nadira was alarmed at the amount of blood. Already her hand was wet with it. The candle sputtered out. She could do nothing in this darkness. The entire stretch of ripped flesh had come apart, the careful stitching a matted mess of thread. Montrose grunted.

“My lord,” she whispered, “your wound is larger now.”

He whispered back, “I know.”

“I can’t help you in the dark, we must call for the monks to return with light and cloth.”

“No.No. Did I not tell you to go to sleep?”

Nadira’s hand was sticky with blood. She pulled the bandages down over the open wound as lightly as possible, wiping her hand as she did so. When she pulled it out from his tunic, it was still sticky. She wiped it in the folds of her cloak.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“There’s naught to be done. Sleep.”

“If I had our baggage I could make you a draught.”

“If only, if only…” he said quietly. Another sigh told her how tired he was.

She felt helpless. The events of the day punctuated with this episode fell upon her like a crushing load. She took her arm and linked it in his, moving closer to him on the bench. He did not resist, nor did he repeat his admonition that she return to her bench. She felt tiny against him. She leaned against his good side, wrapping her cloak around them both and pulled her legs up under her. After a few minutes, she felt him move his arm under the wool and snake around her waist. He pulled her closer, but did not speak. As she warmed against him, she felt the long day fading from her mind.