The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (24 page)

“No, miss!” Maria pulled her back up and away with a strong grip on Nadira’s arm. “He is injured. I’ve been told not to touch him.” Nadira pulled her arm free.

“What exactly were you told to do, Maria,” she asked very quietly, keeping her voice steady.

“I’m to watch him. If he wakes or cries out I am to run and fetch monsieur.” Maria picked up her knitting. “I am glad you are here now; I have been cold and hungry since the sun went down.” Maria gave the man a look of pity. “He has not moved since noon.”

Nadira forced herself to wear a wan smile. “I’m here now, Maria. If you’d like to go to the kitchen and get a bite to eat you may.”

“Thank you, miss. Oh, and please, monsieur warned me to be careful of the candle.” She nodded to the thick pillar on a milking stool near the wall where the straw had been carefully swept aside.

Nadira waited until the door had closed behind the servant before she knelt again. Montrose was lying face down in the straw, his legs and arms splayed out and only the faint movement of his ribs assured her he was not dead. An inadequate blanket covered him from his shoulders to his thighs. Nadira reached out and lifted the lank and filthy hair that covered his face, laying the long strands gently across the back of his head. His face was covered with dense mottled beard, Nadira did not remember there being so many white hairs among the black the last time she had seen him. She stroked his cheek, combing the chaff from his beard with her fingers. His eyes remained closed, but his lips parted as he breathed in and out with slight breaths that merely made the straw tremble under his chin.

Small sores were peeling around his lips. Dried blood splotched his cheeks, though it was obviously days old. She touched his throat at the jaw, feeling his heartbeat, then lifted the blanket over his ribs. With her other hand she lifted the tattered fragment of his shirt. It was in frightful condition and he smelled as though he had not washed in all that time. Miraculously, his side was well healed. She saw the angry red scar that marked him from armpit to hip, but no sign of wound rot. The wound had healed, but in its place the surrounding skin was discolored with bruises in all stages of healing, from fresh red splotches to week-old greenish tinged rings. She did not wish to move him.

A more thorough examination would have to wait. She dropped the cloth, scanning the ground around him. There was no blood in the straw. He was not bleeding, at least not on the outside of his body. Nadira frowned as she plucked at the rags that covered him. These were the same tunic and leggings he wore to the fateful supper at the monastery. She blew her nose with the hem of her chemise and wiped her eyes. That tears had come did not surprise her, but the twisted feeling in her chest disturbed her. She told herself she would feel badly seeing any human being in such condition. She told herself she had sworn Lord Montrose her obedience and service. Nothing more. Here was her benefactor in need. It was her duty to help him, just as he would protect her should she be in danger or injured.

Nadira shook her head. She knew she was fooling herself. She was feeling true and honest grief. There could be no rationalizing this pain. She put a hand over her stomach where the pain was the greatest and wiped her nose with the other. A great wave of shame crested before the sobs broke. Shame that she had been safe and warm while he suffered so terribly. She could not stop the tears, though she struggled to keep the volume low. She had not wept like this in many years. Not since the night she watched the light fade from her mother’s eyes as the silent infant was wrapped up and whisked from the room. That painful memory only intensified the torrent. Nadira bent over double with the effort to remain silent, squeezing herself with both arms as if she could choke out the hurting.

Montrose’s lids fluttered, then opened slowly.

“Nadira! Jesu.” His voice was rough and hoarse and hardly more than a whisper. He blinked again, bringing his free hand up to rub his face as though he could not trust his eyes.

He reached up and touched her cheek. “You are real. Where are we?” he murmured, staring at her hard as though he believed she would vanish at any instant.

“My lord,” she blew her nose untidily into her hem, “Andorra.”

“I must look like hell if you are weeping so hard.” The blue eyes flickered in the candlelight. “Am I dying?” he asked calmly.

Nadira put up a hand to his lips to stop him from speaking until she had collected herself. When she felt confident that she could look at him without breaking, she answered with a steadiness she did not feel.

“I do not know, my lord.” She took a shuddering breath. “How…where…is the pain?”

“I am beyond pain.” He winced as if to prove it to her. “My body burns from head to foot. Am I bleeding anywhere?”

“No. Not that I can tell.” Nadira could not contain a sob.

“Then I am probably not dying. You do not need to weep for me.”

Nadira reached out and took Montrose’s big hand. It was heavy and rough like wood, but thankfully warm. She stroked the palm touching the calluses and raised scars with the smooth tips of her fingers. “You are speaking, and your hand is warm.” A big tear dripped down the curve of her cheek. She let it go.

He looked at her for a few moments before speaking. “You smell like lavender and are as soft and smooth as damask. I so worried that you had been ill-used.” The beard on his throat moved up and down.

“My lord,” Nadira put his hand between her small ones and raised it to her breast. “And you have been confined and mistreated this whole time.”

“You are well?” He demanded, squinting to see her. Nadira nodded. He continued, “…and Alisdair and Garreth?”

Nadira could not stop the tears. She squeezed his hand instead of trusting her voice to answer.

“You do not know.” Anguish in his voice.

Nadira wiped her face with the now soaking hem. “What shall I do?” She grieved. She realized she had not completed her plans, for even if her bold ideas bore fruit and she successfully freed Montrose from the wall, what then? Should they try to flee? It was early winter. The nights were bitter and the mountains no longer offered much but nuts and water. Montrose could not hunt in his condition and Nadira had never killed anything larger than a rat.

The nearest village was a mile away and firmly controlled by Conti. The villagers would not hide them. Any search would be in that direction and towards the valley below, yet there the weather was still mild. Olives and grapes had been harvested and stored away; the grain was threshed. Nadira’s throat tightened. Would they search with dogs? Stealing a horse was a capital crime. She would prefer not to intensify any search by piling more crimes upon her head. Hiding in the mountains with no food or shelter would be brutal. But it must be done.

“First I must free you….” Her words were interrupted by a smashing bang from the front of the barn. The two doors had been crashed open, and still swung uneasily on their hinges. Conti stood in the doorway flanked by William, the Dominicans and one of the soldiers.

“What in God’s name!” Father Septimus strode forward, whipping his cassock against the stanchions. He grabbed Nadira’s arm and yanked her to her feet. He then pressed her hard against the wall. Montrose’s hand was stripped from her grasp and fell back into the straw. He staggered to his feet faster than Nadira thought possible, dragging the manacle and heavy chain.

“Unhand her.” Montrose had not the strength to shout, but his voice was all the more dangerous for being jagged and low. He was answered with a backhand from the soldier that sent him spinning back to the ground, sending dust and straw into the air. Numbly, Nadira watched the golden straws float gently to rest upon his dark hair. A few weeks ago such a blow would not have even made his mouth twitch.

“Stop!” Conti stepped forward, pushed Septimus aside and grabbed Nadira’s arm from the priest’s grasp. She was pressed into his warm furs. The old priest was red with fury, panting and blowing like a bellows.

“Septimus, calm yourself.” He said. “You do injury in more ways than one.”

William’s soft eyes were on Nadira. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “No.” She rubbed her arm where the old man’s nails had pinched her.

“What are you doing in the byre, Nadira?” Conti asked slowly.

“You can see what she was doing!” Septimus growled, “She was trying to free my prisoner.” Septimus pointed at Montrose who was now sitting upright. Montrose did not look up at the word “prisoner”. He crouched with one knee under his chin and his free arm around his ribs. His hair fell over his face, covering his eyes. Nadira could not tell what he was thinking.

“Is this true, child?” Conti asked softly. Nadira was about to confess when she was interrupted.

“How could she free me?” Montrose murmured. He shook his wrist, clanking the links.

The heads turned from Nadira to Montrose. He leaned his shoulder against the stone and used it to leverage himself to his feet, his boots scraping the ground as he rose with difficulty. He looked even more terrible in the added torchlight. His beard was matted and uneven, the unkempt hair still striping his pale face with black bands. Even as he was diminished in vigor, he was a full head taller than all but Conti, and still formidable in size. Nadira noticed a subtle shuffling of position of the priests to distance themselves beyond his reach. He glowered at them from behind the hank of hair in his face.

“Your servant merely showed her compassion for an unfortunate,” he finished.

Nadira sobbed, “No, my lord.” She turned to Conti. “Monsieur, do you not know Lord Montrose? My companion and guardian?” Her eyes begged him. She had heard him with her own ears admit to it. Conti averted his gaze. Nadira turned to Septimus. “Did you not know the name and title of the man you held prisoner?”

“Be silent. I answer no questions from you,” Septimus snapped.

Nadira narrowed her eyes. An unaccustomed feeling was welling up inside of her. She wanted to lay hands on the old priest and twist his cassock into wads. This intense desire must have shown in her face, for Septimus turned his back on her and appealed to Conti. “Surely you stand with me in this matter.”

All eyes were on Conti as he pulled his beard. He did not look at Nadira, small beside him, nor at Lord Montrose sagging against the byre walls, but at William. After a long and uncomfortable pause he answered, “I suggest we discuss this inside by the warmth of my fire, Septimus, with some of my fine wine. Let us allow the girl to bring your prisoner back to some semblance of humanity.” Septimus stiffened. “And then,” he looked pointedly at the Dominicans, “perhaps some arrangements can be made which will be advantageous to all parties.”

Relief flooded though her body. Nadira knees went weak.

“Monsieur…” she exhaled.

“ No, Nadira. I will speak to you later. William, you help her with this task. Father Septimus,” he turned to the old man and held out his hand. “Give me the key to his shackles.”

Septimus scowled, but dug in his sleeve for an iron key and handed it to Conti. “It is only your long and trusted friendship which permits me to listen to your proposal,” he snarled.

William lifted the chain while Conti inserted the key and twisted it. The heavy iron ring fell to the straw, clanking the chain sharply as it went. William met no resistance as he pulled Montrose’s left arm over his shoulders. Nadira took his right side. She felt eyes boring into her back as they made their way slowly to the door, Montrose moved as though he had to think about each step before he took it. William did not hurry him. When they were halfway through the yard, William stopped. “Where do you want him, Nadira?” he asked. His eyes were bright with curiosity and adventure. Nadira felt a wave of affection for her friend.

“The laundry, William.” That is where they could have some privacy and still be near the hot water, linen and food located nearby in the kitchen and buttery. Nadira did not want an audience for what was to come next. She freed herself from under Montrose’s shoulder and made for the kitchen fires for a light. When she returned she found that William had set Montrose down beside the cauldron. William pulled her sleeve. “What now, Nadira? You seem to know just what you are doing,”

“Oh, William!” She put her hands to her cheeks. “We must get him some beer and some food. I want to put him in a bath. One of these tubs…” Nadira looked around the laundry, then indicated the wooden tub she wanted, a half hogshead stained purple inside that must have once been filled with grapes. William rolled it over to the cauldron by the fire. Nadira went to Montrose. He opened his eyes when she swept to her knees at his side. “My lord,” she called softly, brushing his hair from his face and exposing the broad brow.

“Nadira, “he sighed. “You must know,” he watched William stirring the coals and laying on more wood, “you may heal me only to make this last longer.”

“What more do they want from you?”

“What do you mean?” He looked at her strangely, exasperation evident in his voice. “They want the book.”

Nadira frowned. “My mind has been with you. I have completely forgotten that cursed thing.”

His mouth turned down at the edges. “I have not forgotten it. It has been the sole topic of conversation for some days now.” He winced as he shifted his weight on the flagstones, “Intense conversation.” He held up his right hand. His thumb was swollen and purple, the end crushed and misshapen.