The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (41 page)

He turned around to Nadira. “Will you read this again?” He emphasized the last word as he indicated the markings, punctuating his demand with a snap of the stiff velum.
The Marcus Parchment appears
again
. Nadira could not speak for her throat was clenched shut like a noose around her neck. She shook her head vigorously. Father Matteo saw her fear and lowered the paper slowly. He narrowed his eyes. Nadira began to sway, fearing she might faint. She kept her eyes on the parchment as it was placed deliberately on the table. Father Matteo ignored the men in the room, his intense focus was on Nadira now. He closed the gap between them with one step as he reached for her arm. He shook her slightly with an intended meaning that did not escape her. She drew back as he lowered his face within inches of hers. “Read it.”

Nadira opened her mouth, but could not get her tongue to move. The hand on her arm became a vice. She choked out a whispered denial and was shocked when the blow came. She fell to the floor, the dress in a heap beneath her again. Father Matteo had backhanded her with a strike so sudden she had not time to respond. One of his rings had cut her; she tasted the blood as it dripped onto her lip. The room spun and the bedlam in the room was like the roar of a great wind in the trees. A callused hand closed around her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. Another hand lifted the limp dress up to her shoulders and placed one of her hands over her breasts to hold it up.

She found she could breathe again, and slowly, as air filled her body the blackness that had surrounded her dissipated to reveal the same room, the same men, the same points of light from their candles and torches and lamps. What was not the same was the timbre of the situation. Any sympathy she may have cultivated was quite gone, reaped and consumed by the reappearance of the message on Marcus’ back. All eyes were upon her and each one filled with a varying amount of suspicion, but the distrust and speculation was there. Nadira tried to keep her face devoid of any more incriminating displays of emotion.

“Well then,” said the king in Latin. He addressed Father Matteo, “We are satisfied that even if this woman is no witch, neither is she innocent. It is my wish that she be properly questioned concerning this particular document. Afterwards she will be removed from any concern of yours. Since the document in question belongs to me, I claim the girl.”

Nadira understood enough of what he said to become truly afraid. Father Matteo did not like this French king. His eyes hardened for an appropriate reply. “Sire,” he began quietly, “Your claim on this woman’s person is a strong one. However, she still belongs to His Holiness. Until the Holy Father releases her, she cannot be surrendered to any man. Even to a king.”

“And your plans to execute her had the mark of Satan shown upon her body?”

“Explained away as death from the plague.”

“Then the plague has claimed another victim for I claim my rights to her now.” The king was a small man, but not intimidated by the cleric. Nadira wondered which man would be in her best interest. As it was, neither man seemed like a good choice. The king’s bodyguards came forward and took Nadira’s upper arms, one on each side. Father Matteo released her, frowning.

“Surely there should be some concession from you, sire,” Father Matteo said quietly. “After all, it was I who brought this parchment to you.”

“My army is outside Rome as we speak. Any concessions, I believe, should be made to me.” The king stood straighter.

“It would be a great sacrilege to steal what belongs to the pope,” countered Father Matteo.

“Yet you would have put her to death.”

“But only after determining that she was a tool of demons, in which case I would be preserving His Holiness from evil. Such a determination has not been made.”

“Do you have the authority from the Holy Father, himself, to negotiate this woman’s fate?”

“He has entrusted me with everything that pertains to this book. Obviously, he cannot be seen to value it.”

Nadira saw the king think about this, rubbing his chin. Doubt crept into his eyes. He turned and nodded to his minister who had remained seated during the tumult. The old man stood stiffly and came forward, pushing the onlookers aside. He looked from Matteo to the king before speaking. “I know, Father Matteo, that you have been promised a mitre for your efforts in this regard. I do know that the pope wants these secrets desperately, and with equal desperation wants them kept from his enemies.” He paused and glanced at his king. “It seems to me, sire, that perhaps the army might not sack the holy city in exchange for this girl. We are but passing through on our way to Naples, after all. I believe His Holiness may find this agreement acceptable. What say you to this, Father?”

Father Matteo did not like the turn of events. He did not try to shield the anger in his eyes. “If I refuse?”

“We take her anyway. Rome is sacked. You will be reported by witnesses as having lost her to the enemy. The responsibility for the destruction of the Holy City will be laid at your feet.”

“And if I cannot convince the pope to release her?”

“I believe there are quite a few valuable hostages here right now.”

The men in the room erupted, each reaching for some kind of weapon, moving quickly to the windows and the door. They were alarmed to discover the door barred. Outside, surrounding the little cottage, were at least fifty men-at-arms. Father Matteo’s face darkened with rage as he realized this little king had out maneuvered him. He swept the men from the window to get a better look. Nadira shrank inside her torn dress. Father Matteo strode back to the center of the room. He glared at the French king and his advisor, visibly shaking with rage.

“So be it. Take her. I will explain to His Holiness that she is quite dead. See that he doesn’t find her again.”

“He will not. She will not be making the trip to Naples. There is no chance that she will ever set foot in Rome again.” The king picked up his gloves and slid them on. His advisor lifted the cloak to his royal shoulders, and then picked up the Marcus Parchment from the table, rolling it and placing it carefully in his sleeve. Nadira saw his triumphant smile. So did Father Matteo. Without another word, Nadira was escorted through the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

S
HE
sat in the dark, a heavy blanket pulled over her shoulders. The tent was dry, and the canvas was of good quality to keep out the wind, but she was cold. She had no fire but a tiny oil lamp and when the sun went down the temperature became uncomfortable. She had been given a new dress, this one of wool instead of silk. Without a chemise the rough fabric scratched terribly, but she was grateful for the meager warmth. She was also given a pair of shoes. The shoes would help should she escape and need to run. She had not been disturbed since the clothing was delivered. Her third day inside the tent was the worst. She opened her eyes. Someone was coming. She lifted the flap of her tent to look outside.

The men moved slowly about, doing whatever soldiers did in the morning. There was a change of watch. Food was prepared and distributed. Her captors passed a wooden bowl to her through the door. Her breakfast was a piece of flat bread and some dried fruit. She sat at the door and ate it down to the last crumb, watching. At noon she was taken out and bound at the wrists. A wagon pulled by two horses creaked up to her tent. She was lifted and tossed in like the baggage already piled up the sides. The driver turned around as she settled herself on a bag of grain. A soldier climbed in beside her and stretched out between the casks. He picked up her tether and wrapped the end around his wrist several times, yanking her for effect.

“Yes,” she snapped at him in rudimentary French, “I know I’m not going anywhere.”

“But Madam,” he smiled wickedly, “you
are
going somewhere.”

The driver spun around, waving the whip in the air. “Jacques, you fool, you are forbidden to speak to her. Be silent.” Jacques made a rude gesture with his fist in the driver’s direction, but did not speak to Nadira again. He contented himself with merely leering at her and tugging at her tether to annoy her.

Nadira grit her teeth. The wagon moved off to the north, following the paved road. Three men rode strong chargers in the front, there were six armed men walking beside the wagon, three behind and another horseman in the rear. All the men were armored about the chest save three of the walking soldiers. The knights carried swords sheathed beside them. The footmen were armed with spears.

Nadira looked inside the wagon. Besides bags of grain and casks of some kind of liquid, the wagon held a small locked chest, banded with iron. The wagon guard kept his eyes on the chest, not on her. She figured she must be peripheral baggage, for at each stop the chest was inspected by the commander while he merely gave her a passing glance.

There were no outward clues as to how long this journey would be.
Surely they don’t intend to cross the mountains in
winter.
It did her no good to speculate, or even to ask. No one would speak to her. Riding in the wagon was tiring and painful. They switched her guard four times a day, but she still had to endure the jolting and knocking back and forth. Her back ached painfully when they finally stopped to make camp. Nadira was permitted to relieve herself at the end of the tether. Her guard politely looked the other way as she squatted in the brush, but tugged on her when he thought she was taking too long. Nadira sighed as she stood up again; brushing her skirt with her bound hands, ready to return to the center of the camp. She was led to the main fire pit and handed off to another soldier.

He sat down, rubbing his feet with his free hand. Nadira did not want to sit, but paced back and forth as far as he would allow.
Something
is wrong
. She sniffed the cool evening air. There had been no rain, but some fog. The chill was bearable as now there was no wind to bite through her woolen cloak. None of the soldiers seemed uneasy. In fact, they looked thoroughly bored. A few were doing camp chores as the commander supervised, but most, especial the footmen, were spread out on the ground. Nadira didn’t even try to guess how far they had come since noon. She shrugged. Being a captive was becoming second nature to her.

The guard holding her tether tossed a branch into the fire sending up sparks. One of them landed on her, singeing her shoulder. Nadira blew on the spark, glaring at her guard. He just yanked her tether again, grinning. She thrust her chin at him, and was gratified when he became angry.
What are you going to do about it?
She taunted him with a look. The next moment he dropped like a stone, but silently as a feather.

Nadira shook her head in amazement, looking down on his senseless body. She yanked her wrists up and away, freeing her tether from the fallen man’s hands. She looked around at the camp. Furtive movements in the shadows beyond the firelight caught her eye. The other soldiers had not yet noticed their fallen comrade. She sat down quickly next to him, placing herself between his body and the commander. It would only be a matter of time before the other men noticed that her keeper was unconscious. She kicked a branch out of the fire and touched her bindings to the coal end. A wisp of smoke and her hands were free.

She kept her head still, but her eyes flew about the camp. The glare from the fire kept her from seeing past its light. Men were moving about the camp as usual. Should she be here when they discovered her guard? They would definitely see her walking away. They would be on the horses in seconds and once past the blinding firelight she would be an easy mark in her white dress. She looked at her guard, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. She could see that he was not dead. She dare not touch him lest he recover too quickly.

A soft thud reached her ears, then another. She peered into the blackness beyond the fire. Behind her the commander slowly rose to his feet and drew his sword, eyes and ears alert. One by one the other men stood, their movements punctuated with the metallic
tsing
of drawn swords. The camp fell into an eerie silence. Nadira waited.

Another thud. The silence snapped in the next instant with the crashing and shouting of men climbing over the baggage and brandishing metal at the invisible foe.

The commander had the presence of mind to pick up her tether as he went by, not realizing she was no longer attached to the other end. He went for the wagon and its precious cargo, sword in one hand and empty tether in the other. Nadira did not stop to think, but took to her heels at right angles to the commotion. She got as far as the road before falling flat on her face, her feet snared by a rope. She kicked viciously, and connected with something soft and heard a grunt. A hand closed on her ankle. She kicked again and again until she freed her foot. Her attacker cursed. Immediately she felt her other ankle in his grip, but she ceased her struggle. The curse was in English. Nadira could not breathe. Behind her she heard the curses and shouts of her French guards. The hand on her ankle relaxed and a soft voice whispered, “Nadira.”

She could barely get a sound from her throat. Tears fell unbidden and she felt her heart would burst. A rough hand covered her mouth.

“They will find us very soon,” Montrose whispered. “We must fly. When I release you, lift your skirt and run as fast as you can straight down to the river. All the way to the water. I will come for you there.”