The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (22 page)

“Ah!” The stone was not burning hot, but a comfortably warm like putting her hands around a warm cup of mulled wine. She held it in both hands and felt the delicious heat soothe the pain in her fingers.

“I have a flat one I use to keep the ink from freezing.” He pointed to the table where his inkbottle rested on a slab of rock.

“You are delightful, William. I suppose you have a hot rock for my freezing feet as well.” She smiled as he pulled a larger stone from under the blankets and placed it on the floor by her chair. She sat down and placed her feet around the stone. “Will monsieur be coming up today?” She asked.

“Absolutely. His guests have brought manuscripts and books. I do not know exactly what they have, but at the very least he will be bringing some up for me to copy while they are here. You can help. I have two sets of writing tools and I have noticed your fine hand, Nadira. Monsieur assures me he trusts your ability to write.” There was a whistle from outside. William moved to the window and leaned out. A moment later, he pulled the bucket up hand over hand. He brought it in and set it on the table. Inside were a covered crock and more stones. “Monsieur wants us to stay warm for him today,” he smiled as he unloaded the bucket and sent it back below. “I am eager to see the new manuscripts, are you not?

Nadira settled in her chair, but monsieur did not come up. After pacing about awhile under the excuse of waiting for better light as the sun rose higher, William sat down across from her and pushed a sheet of rough paper towards her. “Let’s at least get something done.” He showed her how to use a flat stick that had been planed smooth to guide her light graphite marks on the paper. He held her hand in his as he lightly scored the paper from one end to the other with the graphite, making guidelines for the ink lettering. Between the two of them, they prepared paper sheets until the sun was past meridian. Nadira adjusted the mirror again to direct the light to her page. As she bent over the paper to score another line, she heard a great disturbance below.

William stood so abruptly he toppled his bench behind him. “Sweet Jesus! What can that be?” He rushed to the trap and pulled it back with a bang. Nadira heard many footsteps quickly ascending the stone stairway. She put the cork in the ink and hurriedly stacked the precious paper away from the ink and the window where there was a greater possibility of accident.

Conti emerged from the floor followed by two smaller men in black and white vestments. One cleric was older than Conti, the other near his age. Both were well-fed and had pale faces from years in the scriptorium. Nadira tried not to show the fear she felt as she recognized the Dominican habit of snow-white robes and black cowls. All three were panting with a combination of excitement and exertion. Conti took the elbow of the small florid man and nearly dragged him to the table. Nadira rose quickly from her seat.

“Nadira, I am honored to introduce you to Father Septimus, and Father Matteo,” Conti said breathlessly. Nadira dipped low and averted her eyes in as modest a posture as possible. Her heart pounded in her chest so loudly it was difficult to hear. William was brought forward and bowed to each of the newcomers. “Please, gentlemen, please be seated.” Conti spread his hands and William lifted the fallen bench and positioned it for them. Father Septimus never took his eyes from Nadira and his gaze was so intense she felt her face flushing with embarrassment. Conti came to her aid.

“Nadira, please sit here.” He sat her back down on her bench and pulled his heavy chair to the end of the table. William remained standing in the rear. When the men were all seated, he spoke. “Nadira has come to me from Barcelona where she served as secretary to a spice merchant.” He paused as the two clerics murmured, heads touching. Father Matteo spoke.

“Is she a good daughter of Christ?” he asked seriously.

Nadira clutched the edge of the table. Her eyes darted to Conti and then to William.
This
could be the end
, she thought.
I should have never
been lulled into thinking I deserved my good fortune.

William paled, but his eyes bore steady courage into hers from where he was standing behind the guests.

Conti evaded the question. “I speak for her honesty. She has been a faithful and modest servant to me, gentlemen.” Septimus appeared deeply upset by this deflection but he held his tongue
. Something
greater must be at issue here
. Nadira looked to Conti for clues. He was showing some strain around the corners of his mouth and his eyes did not twinkle but were dark and serious. Under the table, his booted toe came down very slowly on her instep. She froze. She tried to look as faithful and modest as Conti had assured the Dominicans she was.

Septimus spoke. “She can read this document as you have said?” His eyes moved up and down Nadira’s body. “She is but a girl, Conti.” Doubt oozed from his voice.

“Please,” Conti spread his hands, “let us not delay. Lay out the document and we shall see.” Father Septimus stared at Conti a long moment before placing the parchment roll on the table. It was tied with a red ribbon. Nadira was too frightened to be curious. As the parchment unfolded, she prepared herself for failure.
Perhaps it will be something I cannot read.
Different languages often use the same alphabet. Her Greek was rather weak.
Perhaps they have a document from the Rus
. She trembled as she felt Conti’s boot press harder on her foot. Septimus slid the loop of ribbon from the document and with one confident movement flattened the page before her eyes. Father Matteo leaned forward to place his hands on the two sides to keep the roll from curling.

At first, the black markings on the parchment appeared to be scribbles, but as she focused her eyes on the emerging words, a new horror enveloped her. She was unaware of the absolute silence that gripped the room. Not a sound came to her ears but the rushing of her blood. She was staring at her own handwriting. Before her on the table was the copy she had made weeks before of a dead man’s back. Icy spears shot through her limbs and she feared she would faint. The pressure on her foot increased to painful levels. She swayed on the bench.

“What is it?” cried Father Matteo. “What is wrong with her?”

“It is a wicked writing, as I have told you,” came the ominous voice of Father Septimus. “Just looking at it has caused her to fall under the spell of the Evil One. Look at her face, it is as pale as death!”

William cried out, “Then roll it up again!” Father Matteo raised his hands in the air. The parchment immediately rolled itself back into a white tube.

“I will no longer touch the cursed thing!” Father Matteo crossed himself.

Septimus scooped up the document, glaring at all of them. “Fools,” he said, “If this is an evil document, how can we stop its influence without knowing what it says? This girl is no help. Anyone can see she is an idiot. Conti, I am displeased, greatly displeased that you have wasted our time with your imprudent claims to be able to decipher this.” Septimus waved the roll in the air over the table. Nadira clutched the table tightly, for the room was spinning and she did not want to fall. Where were Montrose and Alisdair and Garreth? She swallowed. How could these men have their baggage while they still lived? William came around the table, placed both hands on Nadira’s shoulders and squeezed.

Conti released her foot under the table. “My girl is no idiot. She is merely frightened by what she can see and you do not.” He stood and reached over their heads to retrieve the parchment roll from Septimus. The old man let it go, a wary eye on Conti. Conti laid the document on the table again and murmured to Nadira. “Courage, girl. Obviously, you recognize this manuscript. Tell us what is says.”

Nadira breathed in carefully. She did not want to read anymore. She raised stricken eyes to meet Conti’s. He smiled at her and pushed the parchment closer. Resigned, she licked her dry lips and began in a weak voice, “Knowledge comes not from words, seek ye the river’s edge for the key to understanding.”

“And the rest?” Septimus growled.

“None can read the bird script, my lord. The Hebrew says: “Knowledge comes not from words, seek ye the river’s edge for the key to Understanding.” The Latin says…”

“I can read Latin, you silly fool,” Septimus spat.

Conti rose to his feet, towering over the smaller priests with his height and presence. He glowered dangerously. “Guest or no, Inquisitor or no, I will not have me and mine derided in my own house.” He slammed the flat of his hand down on the table for emphasis. William dove for the inkwell. The priests pushed back the bench. The men faced each other across a table; a small piece of parchment lay limp between them.

Nadira slid lower on her chair. It did not appear that any of the men were armed, though she suspected Conti had a small blade under his jerkin. The atmosphere tingled with the strain. In a very small voice Nadira continued, hoping the words on the scroll would diffuse the hostility. “The Moorish says ‘The fruits of the garden are the key to understanding. What is in you is without you. The hungry man sees the world as the falcon sees the sparrow. Seek ye the Black Land. The daughter of Apollo shall be your midwife.” The men were watching her; the tension subsided. William spoke.

“Is that all, Nadira?”

She looked up at him, “As my lord says. He can read the Latin for himself. I have read the Hebrew and the Moorish as commanded.”

There was a long silence. Father Septimus reached over Father Matteo’s head and retrieved his document. “It does us little good to have this deciphered when it makes no sense whatsoever.”

Conti grit his teeth. He deliberately sat down slowly. “I think I know what it means.”

Septimus exchanged a glance with Matteo. “And?”

“I prefer not to speak until I am certain.”

“Do not toy with us, Conti. I have neither the time nor the temperament.”

Conti looked at Nadira when he said, “Allow me some time with the original owner of this parchment. I will find out for you what we wish to know.”

Nadira’s good sense did not desert her. She made no outward sign that these words drove a dagger through her heart. Her eyes began to burn. The room blurred about her.

Conti continued, “I think this has been enough of a shock to Nadira today.” He turned to William. “Take her to her quarters, son.” He stared long at William until the young friar gave a slight nod.

Every time Nadira opened her door, a different face turned to peer back at her from the stairwell. At first, she recognized the guard from the gate, but afterwards she saw a series of faces from the gardener to the man who emptied the chamber pots. None of the men who were sent to keep her in her room would speak to her. All afternoon she was isolated in the bedchamber.

No more beer was brought up as the sun began to glow red as it touched the top of the western mountains. No supper appeared after the servants slowly moved through the tower lighting the torches in their daily dance of light and warmth. Nadira splashed frigid water from her basin onto her face. Was Lord Montrose here, in the tower? If he was, then he was safe. But again, maybe he was not. She gripped her head between her hands in frustration.

The Dominicans frightened her. Without Conti as her host she would not be safe from them, yet she had often spoken of Lord Montrose. She found a fingernail that was not yet completely chewed and started work on it.
Am I
now a prisoner?
She wondered.

She leaned out of the window, which faced to the south. A half moon slowly rose above the treetops on her left. To the right the red glow streaked higher overhead as the sun disappeared. There was no sign in the dark yard that anything was different today than in the days before. The cattle were returning to the byre, ambling around the low building. The first night watch was in place. She could see their torches as they paced off their patrol.

The laundry flying on the lines had been brought in long ago. She closed the shutters tightly even though it purged the room of the last of the light. She sat on the bed in the dark, her fingers sore from twisting them. She placed them impatiently on her knees to keep them from each other. Footsteps passed by on their way up to the next floor. She tried the door again. Another face turned to greet her. This time it was the goatherd’s son.

“Michel?” she whispered.

“Yes, miss?” He was half grown, full of freckles and stiff brush-like fair hair. His oversized hands and feet promised he would eventually be a big man like his father. Now he appeared jumpy and uncertain. He would not meet her eyes directly, but glanced continually around and down the stairs as he spoke.

“Am I to stay inside here with no supper and no light?”

“ I don’t know, miss. I was told to stay here while father fetched our supper. He might bring yours as well.”

Nadira looked up and down the stairs. Torches burned bright in their sconces. It was noticeably warmer in the stairwell.

“Are you to keep me from coming out?”

“Yes, miss. I am to cry out if you try to go downstairs.”

“Downstairs?May I go upstairs?” Nadira asked sweetly.

The boy blushed.

“He…he didn’t say anything about going upstairs, mistress.”