The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (3 page)

“I am,” she whispered back. The blue eye moved up and down her body again. It disappeared for a moment and the door opened enough to invite her in. She squeezed through the vertical opening pulling the edges of the cloak closer to her body. Immediately the cook closed the door behind her.

When Nadira turned around, the eye now had a matching partner, both of them belonging to a tall soldier dressed in the Northern style. He was wearing a brown hauberk and appeared to be well armed. The leather straps and buckles across his broad chest and around his waist each served some martial purpose. His light helm was dented and rust tinged the rivets. Beneath the helm, rangy wisps of dark hair fringed his face and mingled seamlessly into his beard. He had a fine prominent nose and Nadira would have thought him handsome were it not for a long white scar that split his face in two parts from his forehead across the bridge of that fine nose and further across his cheek to the hinge of his jaw.

“You are Sofir’s servant girl?” The man asked in a low voice.

She felt a cold streak run up her spine. She tried to keep her voice firm when she answered, but failed.

“I…I am his servant,” she stammered.

“Remove your cloak,” he said shortly. Nadira instantly obeyed, dropping the cloak to her feet. The heavy cloth fell with a dull sound, and sent a cold draft around her bare ankles. The soldier poked the heap of cloth with his booted foot.

“Do you think a servant carries weapons?” Nadira was incredulous. The cook snorted.

The blue-eyed man glanced down at her, amused. “Many a man has gone to his grave with a servant’s knife in his back,” he said. He took Nadira’s elbow in his gloved hand and pulled her roughly to the cellar door. She shivered in her thin chemise.

“Can I not take the cloak?” she asked, puzzled.

“Take it,” he answered shortly as he opened the cellar panel and steadied her as her foot reached for the first step.

The enormous cellar was built to store more than just spices and wine. There was enough room for several dozen people and a ship’s worth of payload. She heard more low voices as she descended. As she emerged from the staircase, she was met by the familiar smell of spices and the sudden light from an oil lamp. She stopped at the bottom, hugging herself.

Sofir called to her. “Come here, Nadira,” he said, slowly reaching out his hand. She went to him obediently. Around him stood five bearded men, each fully armed wearing brigandines and thick leather boots and gloves like the guard above. Their swords hung heavily at their sides, their faces grim. They stared at her silently. Nadira sighed again with relief. Her fears of Black Friars and city aldermen were unfounded. These were just travelers, perhaps the vanguard of an important merchant. Now she regretted her curiosity and shifted her weight from foot to foot self-consciously.

In English, Sofir said, “Nadira, this is Robert Longmoor, Baron Montrose of England, and his men. Our injured visitor was his brother. My lord has come to claim the body. But more, he wants to know what this brother might have said to you before he died. It is very important to him.”

Nadira looked at the soldiers in the faint light. They were all very tall, standing head and shoulders above Sofir. The one with the most confident gaze was Lord Montrose, the dark one who had let her into the kitchen. None of the men spoke a greeting.

“Go ahead, girl,” Sofir prompted, waving a hand at her, “Speak English to them.”

Nadira tried to obey. Her throat closed up with the memory of the dead man’s mangled body. She rubbed the back of her neck. There was another problem. “I must have proof that this man is his brother,” she mumbled. “He told me not to tell.”

The dark one spoke calmly, “What?”

His blue eyes were darker than his brother’s, his hair very black instead of brown. She could not see the dead man in Lord Montrose’s features, no hint that they were brothers. But then his own mother would not have recognized the ruined body of her son. Robert Longmoor was taller than his brother, and heavier. He wore a short beard; the kind men wear when they would rather be clean-shaven but find themselves without a razor or opportunity. His dark hair emerged from his battered helm and lay on his shoulders, some of the strands curling up around the edges. All the men had the appearance of those who have been traveling for weeks, and taking sleep wherever possible.

Nadira had long ago learned not to assume that there is love between brothers. She could see that Lord Montrose’s face was composed, but drawn. Deep lines were etched in his forehead and his eyes were darkened with sadness.

Perhaps he was the brother.

She glanced at Sofir, and the older man smiled encouragingly. “Tell him, Nadira, they know enough already and we are in no danger.”

“And the proof?” Nadira tried to sound calm with false courage. She was one small girl among soldiers. The memory of the dead man’s defiance of his murderers gave her strength. He had trusted her with this deadly secret. She would not betray him.

Lord Montrose frowned as he considered her demand. After a pause he stripped his leather glove from his hand and pulled a ring from his smallest finger. He handed it to the soldier beside him. The soldier came forward and to her surprise, knelt before her, extending the ring for her inspection.

It was a gold ring, very small. Nadira easily recognized that it matched the one on the dead man’s hand. She swallowed hard. “Then you are Little Robin?”

The kneeling soldier closed the ring in his fist and brought it to his forehead. Lord Montrose looked stricken.

Only sincere grief could bring such a look to a man’s face. He must be the brother. She blinked back tears as she related her story. She told them of the meeting with Massey, the attempt in several languages to communicate, her administrations of various herbs and poultices. Finally, as she finished she said, “He was very brave, my lord. He did not tell them anything, though they savaged him terribly.”

Lord Montrose made an unintelligible sound in his throat and turned his head away. One of his men reached out and grasped his arm above the elbow, as if to hold him upright.

Nadira lowered her eyes courteously, “With his last breath he told me to tell his brother that Henry had the book.” She looked up again.

Lord Montrose’s eyes narrowed as he took in this news.

The man who had taken Montrose’s arm spoke to her in English. “Did he say nothin’ more, lass? Anythin’ about his companions?”

Nadira looked up again. The man who addressed her was curiously colored; his face marked all over with reddish spots like someone with a pox. His hair was a bright orange, very long and tied in several braids, his beard and eyelashes the same strange color. Nadira had not known men could come in this color. She answered him truthfully.

“He did not mention companions, my lord. He was brought to us alone and lived little more than a day. Again, I am sorry.”

Lord Montrose shook off his friend’s arm “Why was my brother brought here, to this house? Did they tell you?” His voice was soft.

Sofir answered for her. “Your brother was delirious and muttering unintelligibly. He was brought here because Massey knew my girl could interpret and write down what he said.”

A strange look passed over the nobleman’s face. “When my brother spoke to you, what language did you hear?”

“He spoke to me in Greek, sir, and in what you call Moorish.”

Montrose exchanged a glance with his friend. Then, “Do you read and write these languages as well?”

“Yes, my lord.” Nadira answered, puzzled.

“Do you read and write any others?”

“Latin and English. Some French. Hebrew.”

Montrose frowned at Sofir. “Where did you get this girl? Hebrew? Jews do not educate their women.”

The old man’s left eye twitched and Nadira felt him stiffen. “Surely you have made an error, my lord. I am a Christian. I attend mass twice a week. Ask my neighbors if you doubt me.” Sofir’s voice quavered. “And she is no Jew either. She was sold to me years ago with her mother, both of them Barbary moors.”

Montrose cocked his head, suspicion in his eyes. In two long strides he was upon her and had her right arm in a painful grip. Deftly he pulled her close to him, hard against his body. He twisted her wrist with one hand while opening her palm with the other. She barely heard Sofir’s feeble protests as a wave of fear deafened her. Montrose loomed over her, his chin inches from her eyes as he bent to examine her fingertips. He did not smell strongly like most men, but rather of wood fires and the slight fragrance of balsam as though he had been sleeping in a pine forest.

He lifted her fingers closer to his face, rubbing his gloved thumb over their black tips. Her fingers had been ink-stained for years; she could not remember a time when they were not. She did not try to draw her hand back, but allowed him to inspect it while she in turn examined him. His eyes were a dark blue and very expressive. To her great relief they did not seem cruel. His mouth was set in a firm line, the lips pale and chapped. He was not exactly hurting her, though the grip was uncomfortable.

Montrose released her hand, but shifted his grasp to her upper arm. “We want to take the girl with us.”

Nadira flashed a look of terror at her master. Sofir responded quickly. “My lord, that is regrettable.”

“She will not be misused. We will swear to that. I swear to return her safely to you.” When Sofir did not look convinced, Montrose continued, “I swear upon my honor and I will pay for her. Put her worth what you will. I pay very well.”

Sofir spread his hands before him, “Accidents befall even the most careful, my lord. You may protect her from the acts of men, but none can protect her from acts of God. She is safe enough in my house.”

“We need this girl to read for us, as none of us can make out more than his name. Clerics are not to be trusted in this matter.”

“You tell me that none can be trusted in this matter, yet you trust me not to talk? You trust my girl here? I have to admit, gentlemen, this is highly unusual and not to my liking.” His voice rose. Nadira pleaded with him silently.
Do not sell me, master
.

“I trust no one, Sofir, but I have reason to believe that you will not be eager to contact the bishop. I have eyes,” he gestured with his chin toward a darkened corner. “I see a rotulus there on the shelf behind the barrel of salted fish. You would do well to hide your valuables better, Sofir. The Black Friars will find it as well,” he said. Nadira watched her master blanch; his face tinged almost green at these words.

Lord Montrose continued, his voice calmer now, persuasive. “We are searched frequently. The Dominicans are looking for clerics and manuscripts, never for women. She is small and very young. They will not suspect that she is our reader. Give her to us.” He pulled her against his chest; it was like striking the trunk of a tree. “We will leave a gift demonstrating our gratitude for your generosity.”

Sofir took a step back; his eyes darted to the fish barrel. Nadira had never seen him so disturbed. He answered slowly, his voice very faint, “I cannot agree, Lord Montrose. Since the death of my wife, she has managed my house, kept my books and healed my sick. To lose her would cripple me more than you know.” Warmth and gratitude flooded Nadira as she heard her master’s praise. For a few anxious moments she had almost believed he would sell her.

Sofir continued, “Her clever mind has saved me a fortune, has protected me from the wiles of traders, and gotten the best of men who think I am a fool.” Sofir would not look at her as he finished. Instead he felt behind him until his hand touched a barrel of salt fish.

“Listen to me, Sofir,” he said. “If we do not find this book before it is found by others there is no telling the atrocities that will be unleashed against your people. Do it for them and for your children.”

“My people?” Sofir pretended not to understand, but Nadira saw him glance at the rotulus again. She could see him wavering and it broke her heart. “What evil could come from a book?” he wondered aloud.

Montrose dropped his voice and his men became still. “We are looking for a book so powerful many have died or gone mad from reading it.”

“And you want my girl to read these unholy words?”

“We will protect her.”

“Like you protected your brother?” It was not the most politic thing to say. All the men save Montrose drew their swords with a piercing metallic ring. The sound echoed against the cellar walls in the ensuing silence.

Nadira drew back, trying to break the big man’s grip on her arm. Montrose tightened his hold and pulled her against him again. The fair faces of the foreigners had gone red with fury. Sofir lowered his eyes. “I apologize. I misspoke myself. Please forgive me.”

The points of the swords dropped slightly, but they remained ready. Montrose raised his hand slowly. “These are not the best of circumstances, Sofir. I understand your reticence.” The sword points dropped even lower. “The events leading to my brother’s demise are unique. I daresay they cannot happen again. Your servant has the advantage of anonymity. My brother, on the other hand, was notorious. There were many who wanted him, who were hunting him.” Montrose lowered his hand, palm down, patting the air. All the swords sheathed in unison, noisily snapping steel against leather and wood.

Sofir swallowed. “And when this book is found and read?” he whispered.