The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (28 page)

“What is it?” she looked up alarmed. She had lost herself in the philosopher’s arguments, enjoying the dialogue between this man Socrates and his student Glaucon.

William wiped his eyes and closed the book.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, replacing the book on its stand.

“What’s wrong, William?”

“I’ve forgotten why we are up here, Nadira. Reading this book is for pleasure only. Look outside.” Nadira glanced up. The sun was nearing the western mountains. He was right. Normally this time of day they would have moved their work across the room to sit at the western side of the tower and use the light from the fading sun until the last beam disappeared behind the crest of the familiar peaks. William spread his hands. “We have spent the afternoon discussing philosophy instead of copying. Monsieur will be angry.”

Nadira tried to smile reassuringly. “Let us finish the Moorish medicine page. We are nearly done. When monsieur comes in, we can show him this work. Perhaps use the translations to prepare something in the kitchen. He will not even notice we have not produced as much as normal.”

William considered this and decided it might work. He helped Nadira carry their things to the other side of the tower room. Nadira picked up the Moorish scroll again. William smoothed out his paper and dipped his pen. She read in soft measured tones, allowing extra time between lines for William to catch up. Her ears monitored his progress by the sound of the scratch of the quill on paper. When the scratching stopped, she looked up to see him examining his right hand and the quill he held delicately in his fingers.

“What is it, William? Do you have a cramp?”

“No. I’m just thinking.”

Nadira laughed. “You are
always
thinking. You are the thinkingest man I have ever known. How do you sleep at night? You must drive your bedmate to violence.”

William spoke as if he did not hear her, his eyes fixed on his fingers. “I watched you change Lord Montrose’s dressing yesterday.” He glanced up at her. “Will his thumb heal, do you know?”

“I think it will. It looks better each day. The swelling has gone down. Why?”

“What would I do if I lost the use of my hand?” he wondered.

“Oh, William.”

“No. I mean, has Lord Montrose thought about it? Has he said anything to you about using his hand again?”

“Not really, I mean, he does use it. He did use it…” she trailed off remembering what he did to Septimus with his bare hands.

“I was just thinking that for a swordsman to lose his right hand would be like me going blind. I could not bear it.”

“You might be surprised what one can bear,” she answered bitterly, not liking where this was going.

“I would not. I have thought about it before.”

“You worry too much.”

“No. I once had a terrible headache that lasted hours. I could not see even a lighted candle put to my face. I was terrified.”

“But it went away.” Nadira snapped the manuscript impatiently, reminding William what he was supposed to be doing.

“Yes,” he ignored her. “When the headache was gone my vision returned, but I spent an afternoon in hell, Nadira. So now I am supposing: what is Lord Montrose thinking right now while we were here enjoying Plato.” His eyes were sad as he watched his fingers flex. Nadira sighed as she reached across the table and squeezed his hand gently.

“A moment ago you were afraid of monsieur’s wrath. You have your mind on everything except your task. Is this document so dull?” She rattled the paper in her other hand. “Soon it will be time for supper. My lord is well enough to join us this evening. Perhaps we can talk about his hand and put any fears he may have to rest.”

William proved to be prophetic. When Nadira went to fetch Montrose for supper in the hall, she found him sitting alone in the near darkness, examining his hand in the light of a single candle.

“My lord?” she asked him. “Are you in pain?”

He glanced up at her briefly. “Will this heal, Nadira? Do you know?”

His words were so like William’s that Nadira faltered. Alarm spread across Montrose’s face. “Tell me!” The chair scraped the floor as he got to his feet.

“No, yes, I mean, sit down. Let me look at it.” Obediently he sat and held the hand out for her to see. He had unwound the strips of linen and removed the splints; they lay in a heap on the table. She took his hand, careful of the thumb, and turned it in the candlelight. The thumb was still purple, but the swelling had reduced to merely a minor distortion of the digit. The remnant of the crushed nail had fallen off days ago. He winced as Nadira ran the tip of her finger lightly over the joint. She realized he was holding his breath. “My lord, there is no sign of poison, and the swelling is reduced considerably. These are the signs of a good heal.”

“But will it be useful again?”

“You are asking, ‘will I wield a sword in this hand with the same strength and skill I did previously?’” He nodded.

“That I cannot tell. I do not know everything. Give it time. Stop worrying,” she urged.

She saw his eyes narrow. His chest rose and fell several times before he began moving the fingers one by one. The fingers seemed to move fairly well. The thumb waggled a bit from the base joint. Montrose sucked in his breath and met her eyes, questioning.

“You are rushing things,” she said quickly. “Let me wrap it for you.” Nadira moved closer without waiting for permission. She picked up the pieces of the dressing he had discarded and began to carefully reassemble them on his hand. He did not protest, and she avoided looking at him while she wrapped. Tenderly she smoothed the linen strips in place, hoping her touch would comfort him, for his breathing was labored and told her much about his thoughts. She tried to think of the best way to speak to him on this matter, but was loathe to provoke him. She had not spoken of the torture since that first night in the byre.

He spoke to her softly, almost absently. “After the thumbscrew they hung me from the wall of a cistern. I do not know how long. I daresay I was not conscious of time. When the cistern began to fill with water from the storm, I was brought out to the byre.”

“How can this be?” Nadira shook her head as she finished the wrap. “These are men of God.” She despaired. “I was told God loved the world.”

Montrose murmured, “You told me you had no god.”

“I do not. Not anymore. But the Black Friars do, and it is of their beliefs that I speak. It is their own words that are twisted, not mine. I marvel only at the hypocrisy.”

“Marvel on, then, my little one. You have been fortunate to belong to an honest man. It is only because you did not see the wickedness around you that you marvel at all. I tell you now that there is more wickedness than good in this world.”

“If that is so, then surely the world will destroy itself,” she said.

“Some say it is happening now as we speak. Whole villages have been wiped clean by the Black Death. Lately an earthquake toppled a whole city south of Rome and I heard tell of a town in Bavaria swept away in a great flood.”

“Yes,” Nadira admitted. “These stories and more like them have been preached from the street corners for years.”

“And you do not fear the end of the world? Why are you not running to the priests for the safety of your soul?” He whispered into her hair as he pulled her into his lap.

“My lord, something tells me that there is more to the story of the world.”

“And you are here to read the rest of it, is that it?”

“I am, and I will.”

“Be sure to tell me when you do, for it has weighed heavily on my mind.”

“What has?”

He turned his face away from her. Nadira smoothed the lank hair from his face. Ever since the murder she had not resisted the urge to touch him whenever he was close. It comforted her, feeling his returning strength beneath her fingers. He no longer flinched at her caresses.

“I do not know what to do.” He actually sounded forlorn. Nadira sat back so she could see his face. The blue eyes were troubled.

“What do you mean ‘do’? Do what?” she asked, incredulous. “You are to stay here. Remember?”

He flicked a glance at her and then looked away. She sighed.

That evening for the first time since the visit from the Dominicans, the four of them sat around the large table in the solar. Montrose had put away as much food as Nadira permitted; even so, she had to push platters of beef away from his reaching knife.

“You will regret it later, my lord, if you eat any more than you have already,” she told him. Grimly he tore bread and sopped it in the juices. He glared at her between bites. She knew he was waiting for a time when she might be distracted by the conversation and he would be able to snag another joint from the platter in the center of the table.

In contrast, William had barely stopped talking to eat. His meal lay cold in front of him.

“My lord, Montrose, you have seen the great library at Toledo?”

Montrose nodded, chewing.

“Ah, what a glorious sight,” William sighed. “I have many times tried to persuade monsieur to allow me to return there and copy for him.”

Conti laughed lightly. “I would never see you again, my friend. Do I not have enough work for you here?”

William smiled. “Plenty of work, monsieur.”

“And what do you have planned for me, monsieur?” Montrose wiped his knife on the edge of the tablecloth before very deliberately setting it down in the center of the table. Conti’s eyes followed the glint of metal to its resting place.

“You are not free to go, of course.” Conti reached for the knife and placed it carefully next to his own.

“I plan to go as soon as I can. I will take Nadira with me. She is mine.”

“Lord Montrose. I find that highly extraordinary. Any claim you may have on her, no matter how sincere, has no legal binding. Not here, not anywhere.” It seemed as though the light from the lamps dimmed in the heavy atmosphere. Montrose scowled, his blue eyes darkening in the dim light. Nadira recognized that look and quickly attempted to disarm his gathering rage.

“Please, monsieur,” she interrupted. “I have sworn to serve you. Lord Montrose is understandably of two minds. I have urged him to be patient.”

Conti was as upset as Nadira had ever seen him. He stood and began pacing, his boots echoing in the empty hall. Montrose’s left arm moved to pull her toward him. Clearly, something of great consequence was churning monsieur’s mind. Puzzled, Nadira looked to William for an indication of what it was, but the young priest was watching his patron with stricken eyes. She felt a chill. This trouble was not about her legal status.

Conti stopped his long strides and leaned forward on the table addressing Montrose intently. “I will not allow her to leave. I understand your desire for her. You do not understand my need for her. We can come to an agreement, however.”

All eyes were on Montrose’s dark face. “You do not plan to take her by force, then,” he said flatly. “And I have been impressed with your ability to come to agreement. But in this case, I will not relinquish her. She is not for sale to you or to anyone. Not anymore.”

“She would be little use to me if I held her against her will.”

“What ‘use’ do you plan to make of her?” Montrose pulled Nadira closer. She was squeezed uncomfortably against his left side, but did not protest.

Conti paused, then straightened and continued his pacing without answering.

“Monsieur?” Montrose insisted.

William had been watching the conversation disintegrate with unusual self-control, but now he spoke up. “Monsieur, why do you not answer? Surely Nadira’s tasks here are no secret.” He turned to Montrose earnestly. “Believe me, my lord, Nadira has been well-treated and has been aiding me in copying the manuscripts monsieur procured over this spring and summer. There is no…”

“Be silent, William.” Conti returned to his seat on the bench across from Montrose and Nadira. He placed both hands palm up in front of Montrose. “William does not know what you and I know about this book, my friend.” He stared meaningfully into Montrose’s eyes, as he wiggled his right thumb. Nadira watched Montrose’s expression change. He seemed to turn inward, his eyes lowered to the table and the flush of anger that had settled on his face now faded to pallor. The arm around her waist tightened. Alarmed, she looked from man to man but there were no answers in either of the faces.

Without looking up from the table, Montrose intoned slowly. “Do you still have the book, monsieur?”

Conti pulled his hands back and placed them in his lap. He spoke so low Nadira had to strain to hear. “You might instead ask how I could have permitted Septimus to interview you knowing what I know.”

“Interview?” Montrose moved so swiftly his tunic generated a breeze that extinguished one of the candles on the table. He leaped up and had Conti by the throat with his good hand. Conti fell backwards onto the stones with a grunt, the bench falling to the floor with a solid thump. His cries were cut short when his air ran out. Montrose straddled him on the floor, his bandaged hand thrust into Conti’s face. “This was no ‘interview’ you son of a whore!”

Conti’s hands went to his throat, digging at Montrose’s grip. William and Nadira pulled them apart with difficulty. Montrose stood doubled over, panting with the effort as William pulled Conti to his feet. Nadira stood between them, one hand on each man’s chest.