In it was one large rope bed with no headboard or curtains and three piles of straw on the floor. Montrose held the lamp and nodded toward the bed when the men paused. Garreth and Alisdair laid Marcus down carefully on the soft bedding and stepped back. Montrose hung the lamp on its chain. Behind him a woman entered with a bundle of linens, and a child behind her with a pitcher of hot water. She set them both on a low table near the wall. Nadira thanked her with her eyes and the woman nodded toward a folded dress on top of the linens as she left the room nudging the wide-eyed child before her.
“You men sleep now,” Montrose said. He did not have to say it twice. Garreth and Alisdair fell on the pallets of straw. With a large wooden spoon, Nadira dripped some of the herb infusion into Marcus’ mouth. Montrose hovered over her, getting in her light. She wiped the spilled drops from Marcus’ beard and tried again. On the third try, she saw his throat move as he swallowed.
“Oh, thank God,” Montrose cried. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, the palm of his hand on his forehead.
“He is swallowing,” Nadira said. “Perhaps there is hope, my lord.” She was shaking with the lie and hated herself for it. She steadied her hand and tipped a spoonful between Marcus’ lips. When she adjusted his head on the pillow she found he could swallow easier. Slowly and carefully, she gave him the infusion drop by drop. She set the cup on the sideboard against the wall, and pulled a blanket over Marcus. Montrose looked drained of life. He leaned heavily against the side of the bed, closed his eyes.
“My lord, you need some of this too,” she said softly.
“Tomorrow, maybe. Now I must sleep.” He then slid all the way to the floorboards. Nadira found another blanket for him.
The hot water and the clean dress beckoned to her. She reached for them.
CHAPTER SIX
IN the morning Nadira was stiff and sore, but before she went to the privy or washed her face she crawled up from her pallet to check on Marcus. She stretched her hand over the bed to touch his cheek. He lived, but barely.
Nadira pushed her hair from her face. Her braid had come undone in the night. She tilted her head back as she twisted the mass of it into a knot and was surprised to see a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, sitting on a stool beside the bed, absolutely silent. Her dark hair was tied up in a white kerchief, her hands busy with a drop spindle.
She smiled shyly at Nadira, her hands working without a pause. “Good morning, mistress.”
“Good morning to you. Have you been here all night?”
“No, miss. Master sent me in this morning after the guests went down to eat. He told me to stoke the fire and wait for you to awaken, and give you this.” The girl reached over the sideboard and pushed a heavy crockery bowl toward the bed. Nadira leaned over to find hot broth cooling inside. “It’s for the sick man here. And I brought you some breakfast,” she indicated a small bowl of bread and fruit, “and an apron to protect your dress.”
“Thank you. What shall I call you?”
“Sarah, miss.”
“I think I am going to need a great deal of hot water today, Sarah.” Nadira pulled the apron over her head and tied the strings about her waist.
“Yes, miss. It is laundry day, there is plenty.” Sarah nodded at the man in the bed. “Will he live, miss?”
“I hope so, he is a good man.” Nadira dipped the broth with a spoon from the bowl to his lips.
“But he looks dead now, how can he live?” Sarah asked, leaning over Marcus and touching his forehead.
Nadira smiled sadly as she took the cloth and wiped the final drops of broth from his beard. “He deserves a chance, and he is very strong.”
The door pushed open. Montrose entered, followed by Alisdair. Both men were clean and combed and Montrose had been shaved. They were wearing clean tunics and breeches as well. She glanced at the window. They must have let me sleep until noon.
Their host entered a moment later, smiling a greeting at Nadira. “Good, good, I see Sarah is helping as I instructed. Girl, go to the kitchen and bring back more hot water and fresh linen.” Sarah disappeared like a wraith.
“He is much the same, isn’t he,” Montrose said.
“Yes, but ‘the same’ means he is not dead,” Nadira insisted.
Montrose turned his head to eye her with skepticism.
Beniste interrupted. “Marcus is not the only one injured. I cannot help but see that you, too, are bleeding. There is blood on the floor and at my table.”
“It is true,” Nadira said. “He needs to have it tended.”
Montrose grimaced. “I wanted Marcus tended first, and my wound is small.”
“Not so small,” Beniste said, indicating the stains blooming beneath Montrose’s tunic. “And more is promised I see. Let the girl sew you up, my lord. That is damned hard on the linens.”
“Yes, yes, very well. It must be done.” Montrose grumbled.
Alisdair frowned slightly. “Shouldn’t we have the leech come up fer that?”
Beniste answered, “Is he better with a needle? Have you seen his hands?”
Alisdair gave a short laugh, “Mebbe not.” His smile faded as he clapped Montrose on the shoulder. “I dunno why you want her to do it, Rob. Just make sure she does it right. I’m to the stables to check on the boys and the horses.” Alisdair narrowed his eyes at Nadira before he left the room.
Beniste gave her a more encouraging look. “I have a messenger below from one of my contacts,” he said to Lord Montrose. “Please come find me in the hall when you are finished.” To Nadira he said, “I am sure you will do an excellent job. Take anything you need.” Then he was gone as well.
Sarah returned to the room carrying a heavy bucket of water in one hand and linens over her other arm. Nadira moved quickly to help her with the bucket.
“Sarah, here, bring the linens to the bed and light another lamp.” Sarah obeyed quickly, getting a straw from one of the pallets and using it to light one lamp from the other.
“I want the girl out,” Montrose said in a low voice. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Marcus.
Nadira turned to him in surprise. “You are in quite a temper, my lord. I can use her help…”
“Go,” he said to Sarah, then turned his face to the wall. Trembling, Sarah hung the second lamp near the foot of the bed and slipped out without a sound. Montrose spoke without turning his head.
“Did you get your needle?”
“No, and you sent Sarah away.” Nadira didn’t try to hide her annoyance.
He didn’t seem to notice. “Have you done this before?”
“Do you mean sew a man’s flesh like I’d darn a sock?”
Montrose glared at her. “Yes.”
“No.” Nadira said truthfully,“ I have not.” She felt her insides swirl at the look on his face. She finished feebly, “…but I have seen it done.” He turned away from her again with a deep sigh.
Nadira took that as resignation if not direct permission. “I’m going to look at it, now,” she warned him. She lifted his tunic and bent down. Her makeshift bandage had been removed when he washed. The wound lay opened now, gaping over his ribs but not bleeding heavily. The gash oozed from the bottom, and glistened pink and red in the lamplight. Part of a white rib showed through the flesh. Nadira swallowed; glad she had not yet touched her breakfast. “This must be very painful.” She murmured.
He lowered his eyes. “Just sew it.”
“It will need a poultice as well. I assume your friend Beniste has a garden?”
He shook his head slowly. “That I do not know. However, if you can, make sure to bring me a great deal of wine.”
Nadira peered closer to his side; she touched the lips of the wound to test their depth. Montrose sucked in his breath sharply.
She said, “I will go below to get the makings for the poultice and a needle and thread. Are you dear enough to your friend to get fine silk for this?”
He groaned. “Probably. Don’t forget the wine.”
The materials for the sick room were easily found. Beniste didhave a fine garden. Nadira picked what she could. There had not yet been a killing frost in the valley, so the plants were still tall and strong. Nadira inhaled their green scent, hoping for comfrey and boneset. Yes. She had what she needed.
A needle and silk were already in her pocket and she carried a tray of bowls and herbs as well as some soap wrapped in a coarse cloth which Sarah handed to her as she passed the kitchen. Nadira paused before the door, propping the tray on her hip. Perhaps I will surprise myself. She leaned her shoulder into the heavy door.
Montrose had removed his tunic and was sitting on the bed, hands on his knees. He was staring up at the low ceiling and did not meet her eyes as she placed the tray on the table. He reached for the leather wine jug with his left hand as soon as it touched the table.
“Don’t you want a cup?” She asked. Instead of answering, he lifted the jug to his mouth and drank deeply. He clearly intended to down the entire contents before she started. Nadira laid out her tools on the tray. When the jug was empty, Montrose leaned his left shoulder against the wall with another sigh.
In one bowl, Nadira stuffed the wide comfrey and the boneset leaves, pouring the hot water from the kettle over them and watching as they wilted. The acrid smell of the boneset rose with the steam. Montrose turned to her sharply.
“What in God’s name…?” he recoiled.
“It will keep the wound from festering, my lord.” Nadira tilted the bowl so he could see its contents.
He grimaced. “That smells like the Devil’s own privy.”
“I’m sorry it offends you, my lord, but these herbs are the only ones I found in the garden for wounds.”
“No, no. I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” he said. The tone of his voice implied the opposite. He turned his face away from her again.
I wouldn’t want to watch either. Nadira hesitated. She picked up the soft cloth to clean the edges of the long cut.
“You will have to move your arm, my lord,” she murmured. When it appeared he could not lift it high enough, she helped position his arm over her shoulder. It was heavy and hung down over her back as she bent to her work.
She picked up the threaded needle, willing her fingers to cease their shaking. Another deep breath. With one hand, she held the edges of the wound; with the other, she inserted the gleaming silver through the pink flesh. Montrose flinched with each stitch, but did not otherwise move nor did he make a sound until she pushed her needle through the lowest part of the wound, where the cut was deepest over the bone of his hip. There, when she reached for the edges he moved his arm and squeezed her shoulder until it hurt enough to bring tears to her eyes.
“Wait,” he whispered hoarsely. She stopped, both of them breathing hard. It was the only sound in the room.
Nadira put down the needle and waited for him. After a long moment, the hand on her shoulder relaxed. She picked up the needle and went back to her work. Montrose now groaned softly with each breath.
“Are you finished?” He mumbled through clenched teeth, but she understood him to mean, you’d better be finished.
“Almost,” she answered tightly. “I will apply the poultice and wrap it, then you may rest.” She lined an empty bowl with a square of linen and carefully poured the warm green boneset tea into it. She lifted the four corners slowly to allow the infusion to drain into the bowl and collect the sodden leaves, then rolled the square into a tube and laid along the deeper part of the wound. Nadira took the long strips of linen Beniste had sent with Sarah and wrapped them around Montrose’s broad chest. She tied the last strip and smoothed the linen with her palms.
“I am finished now, my lord.”
He blew his breath out like he had been holding it a long time.
She helped him lie down on his left side and he was snoring beside Marcus before she was finished cleaning up. She gathered up the soiled linens to take down to the laundry on the first floor.
Alisdair met her on the stairs. Nadira suspected he had been waiting there the whole time. “Well?”
Nadira nodded. “Yes, he will heal. He sleeps.” There was nothing else to say.
He leaned against the wall, squinting as he looked up the stair to the room. “I’ll just be checkin’.” He let her go and continued up the stairs. She heard the door open and close behind him.
Nadira took the linens to the laundry in the stable yard. She spent a few moments in the fresh air. The autumn chill was refreshing now that she was coming from a warm room and her clothes were dry. She did not look forward to resuming their journey, whenever that would be. In Barcelona, Sofir’s guests rarely stayed an entire week, but sometimes his trading partners might stay the winter when the storms were bad and they were kept from sailing.
She wondered how long they would be welcome in Beniste’s house. She remembered that her master Sofir’s guests were very generous in return for their lodging. Montrose had plenty of money. She could not help but notice the size of his purse. It was not full of copper, either. She had seen him pull it from behind his belt and search around for the right coin when they stopped to pay a toll.
She looked around. Beniste had large storerooms, a fine stable with every stall filled, a pen full of fowl and rabbits. His granary was full for the winter and the servants were healthy looking. She wondered what Montrose’s own estates were like. Then she wondered where his lands were.
Nadira lingered over her tasks longer than necessary, reluctant to return to the upstairs room. She washed her face and her hair, was offered some food and enjoyed listening to the cook tell stories as he kneaded the bread. She went to the laundry and helped fold the clean bedding, and then spent an hour combing her black hair with a wooden comb borrowed from Sarah, and braiding it into a long plait. Finally she could no longer stay away without appearing to be shirking. Servants nodded politely to her as she returned to the hall and slipped upstairs again. Montrose was no longer sleeping. His eyes touched hers in wordless greeting as she closed the door behind her. Garreth sat beside him on the stool. Alisdair must have gone out again.
“You should be sleeping, my lord,” she said.
“I should but I cannot.” He rubbed his face. “Perhaps I could get more wine later.”
Garreth stood up and grunted. “No, Garreth,” Montrose said, “be seated. I don’t want it right now. Later. Alisdair has gone to see about Richard’s letters.”
Nadira sat on the edge of the bed by Montrose’s feet. The door opened and Alisdair entered with a package in one hand. He closed the door and slipped the bolt.
“What is it?” Montrose struggled to sit up, his hand over the fresh bandages.
“Got ‘em all. Richard’s been havin’ the Venetian stuff sent here. He even sent summat to himself.” He took out a bulky packet, turned it in the light. “This seal is his.”
He handed the parchment to Montrose who examined the red wax stamped on one side.
“Aye. That is his seal.” Montrose repositioned himself against the wall before using both hands to break the seal and unfold the stiff parchment.
Alisdair looked pointedly at Nadira. “Give it to the lass, Rob.”
“Let me see if it is his hand,” Montrose snapped.
“’Tis. You can see it on the outside. Give it to the lass.”
“One moment. Give me a moment.”
Nadira held out her hand for the parchment, but he moved it out of reach. She could see that his eyes were barely focused. She doubted he could even see the handwriting. They all waited silently while he stared at the document, his teeth clenched hard enough to make the muscles of his jaw bulge. After a long pause he released it. She took the thick sheet from him and leaned into the light from the window.
“My lord,” Nadira turned the document one way, then another, letting the light shine from behind the vellum. “My lord, I think this letter is in code.”
Alisdair snatched it from her before Montrose could put his hand on it. He sta
red hard at the writing as though he could read it. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“I think it is.” Nadira insisted. “Most of the letters are Latin, but the language is not. Nor is it any that I know. And see here,” Nadira indicated a passage with her finger,” there are numbers here interspersed with the letters, and there are also Hebrew letters mixed with the Latin. Here there is Greek mixed with Moorish script. Together they are not a language, not even sounded out will they make sense.”
The two men exchanged dark looks. Nadira took the document from Alisdair’s hands. ”But there is one line in Latin at the end. It says, ‘Robin. You must track our quarry. The white hart bends her head and yields to your bow. Give her to Malcolm.” She bent over to show Montrose the word “Robin” with her finger. Maybe he can read his name.
“Malcolm.” Montrose frowned.
“Yes, my lord. It says ‘Malcolm’ here.” She moved her finger along the line.
Montrose lowered the parchment away from his face so he could see Alisdair. “And you wanted to go home.”
“Godswounds. What was he up to?”
“The white hart. He doesn’t want me to destroy it.” Montrose’s face twisted and darkened.
Nadira felt it might be better to sit on her pallet and avoid the storm. She got up from the edge of the bed and sat on the straw by the wall while Alisdair and Montrose leaned together and conversed in low angry voices, Garreth turned his head side to side as he followed the exchange.
When they were finished, all three men turned to her.
Montrose spoke. “I need you to read my letters to us. But I require an oath from you that this one may remain secret.”
“It cannot be a great secret if you want me to read it to you.” Nadira spoke too quickly.
“Saucy wench,” Alisdair growled.
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 7