The creak of leather never ceased and the clop clop of the horses remained steady as a heartbeat. They traveled east, passed through the city gates and then along a narrow track that served as a road for the farmers and tradesmen. The sky was clear and the few travelers they met were friendly. Nadira took a deep breath and sighed as quietly as possible. Still, Montrose’s head made that little sideways dip. He turned his head just enough for her to briefly see the outline of his jaw.
They took a long break when the sun was high to rest the horses and water them by a small stream that followed the narrow path. She sat in the long grass in the shade of a small tree and waited for instructions to mount her little mare. The road turned slightly to the north a short time after their noon meal and rose steadily upward toward the mountains in the near distance. By late afternoon Nadira saw their destination. Gray stones and empty windows. She sighed again.
At the portcullis a faceless gatekeeper called down from above.
“Who goes there?”
“It is I, Robert Longmoor, Baron Montrose, here to speak with Father Bertram. I am expected.” A long pause followed.
“Forgive the delay, my lord. I must call Father Bertram to the gate, as I have orders to allow none to pass.”
“Very well,” Montrose called up. He turned to face his companions. “I want silence from all of you. Speak only out of courtesy. No one is to know our business. Understand?” There were nods all around. “Very well, then. Be sharp.”
A hooded face appeared on the rampart of the watchtower. Montrose looked up, “Hail, Father Bertram. It is I, Robert Longmoor.”
The hooded figure stood for a few moments, and then disappeared. A minute later, the clanking of the portcullis broke the silence as the wooden bars rose on a heavy chain. Nadira followed it all the way up with her eyes.
The stone walls of the entry passed them with echoes of the closing portcullis. The mare’s hooves sounded unnatural on the paving stones. Eerie voices were raised in song and prayer as they neared the front door. Nadira pulled her hood forward to conceal her curious eyes; still, they missed nothing. Monks moved in rank and file about the courtyard. In the fading light she glimpsed the garden near the stables. Above, the three stories of the great hall stared back at her through black holes, hardly windows, merely shuttered eyes in a cold stone face. She shivered. I hope our business here is quickly done.
After the horses they had stabled the horses , Alisdair stayed with the animals and the baggage. The brothers promised them a warm meal. Montrose took Garreth and Nadira with him as he followed one of the brothers into the great hall. Nadira kept beside Montrose’s left arm, close enough to brush against him now and then. She did not want to be separated. Garreth brought up the rear, uncomfortable without his great axe. He clenched and unclenched his hands as they marched through the hall. The hall was drafty enough that she needed the protection of her cloak; staying disguised would be easy. They were led into a huge chamber with an high vaulted ceiling.
Nadira tried not to look too eager There were many fine things in Sofir’s house but nothing on this scale. The walls held niches to house the tall statues of disapproving saints. Cold eyes looked down on Nadira from every side. They came to the great fireplace where Father Bertram was waiting, seated in a chair large enough for two.
He was an old man, withered and wrinkled; his face long, his whiskers sparse and badly shaved. He had no need for a tonsure; he was completely bald, the hood of his monk’s robe hung down his back. His eyes were bright and rimmed with red.
Montrose knelt at his feet and crossed himself. Father Bertram laid a heavy, ringed hand on his forehead and mumbled a few words. Bertram glanced up at Nadira and Garreth. She quickly knelt and crossed herself as she had seen Montrose do. She felt movement behind her and knew Garreth had done the same. Under her cowl, she watched as Montrose raised himself with effort. Nadira wondered if his wound was bothering him; she had not looked at it since the day before they left Beniste’s house. Behind her Garreth did not move, so she did not either.
“Father, I have come with my companions, Garreth of Montrose and…my servant to discuss some important business of my brother’s.”
The old man peered intently at her and at Garreth. Nadira stiffened, but kept her eyes as low as possible while still taking in the scene around her. Father Bertram was satisfied, for he turned his rheumy gaze on Montrose. “Your brother…?”
“Yes, Father. He is with God, gone two weeks past, in Barcelona.”
The old priest blanched. His mouth trembled and his voice cracked with effort. “My sincere regret: I knew him as a fine man, and an extraordinary scholar.” His whole body began to shake as though he had the palsy.
Montrose bowed. “He is gone, but his urgent task remains undone. I mean to finish it. For his sake and for all of us.”
Nadira watched carefully as the old man’s eyes narrowed. The fuzzy white brows knit together beneath the baldpate. His jaw worked back and forth and Nadira heard his teeth grind. Father Bertram drew in a great breath that seemed to inflate him to twice his size before answering in a deep rumble. “That is impossible!”
“Father, do not stand before me in this matter. You know what is at stake.”
The old man rubbed his jowls, and closed his eyes. “I stand not before you, Montrose my son, but beside you. None but your brother can stave off this threat. I fear all is lost without him. We must prepare for the worst.” Color returned to his face as a bright red circle on each cheek.
Bertram stood suddenly, with no trace of infirmity and began pacing to and fro on the raised dais. “What shall we do?” he muttered. “And then? And then? I do not want the infernal thing here, in this house. Unless it can be rendered harmless, it is dangerous to acquire it. Without your brother to read it, I daresay it must be harmless before bringing it here. At least to us. It will only destroy those who fail in the attempt…maybe...” He sounded doubtful.
“So it is no longer here.” A look of pain crossed Montrose’s face. “Others may yet decipher its contents.”
“No. The book,” Father Bertram paused in his pacing, “must be destroyed, but do not bring it here. I’ve had enough of it,” he said.
“With all due respect, father, we cannot destroy it before reading it.”
The old man’s face erupted with fury. “You do not decide the fate of the world or this Church, little man! Do you know what it did to Brother Henry? It is not for you to say what is destroyed or saved!”
Montrose’s reply was no less heated. “I am to risk and perhaps lose all? Yet have no say in the matter?”
“Do you plan to use it? Have you acquired a reader?” Father Bertram looked suspiciously at Garreth and Nadira.
“No, father,” Montrose snapped, in order to return the old man’s attention to him, “I merely cringe to think of my brother’s quest as futile.”
“It was lost when he drew his last breath.” Father Bertram was nervously fingering his rosary.
The last sound of the word ‘breath’ echoed in the great hall. Neither man spoke. Nadira’s knee was beginning to ache from the hard stones. Behind her, she felt Garreth fidget uncomfortably. The old man and the younger man stared at each other for a long moment. Nadira dared not even breathe, lest the sound rupture the room.
“Go then. Find it but do not bring it here. You have my blessing. I assume you will need bursary?”
“No, father,” Montrose let his breath out. “We are adequately funded. However, I will need to speak with Brother Henry.”
Dark clouds filled the old man’s face again. He pulled on his chin with skeletal fingers. “Henry is in seclusion.”
“Yes, I know, father. I must speak to him about the book …” Montrose let the words drift.
“Henry has not made a coherent sound in some months, Montrose. I don’t know how he can help.”
“How can I continue without seeing the last man who has read it?”
The old man turned his back and aft
er a moment, waved his hand. As he made his way into an alcove, another brother stepped forward. This one was much younger, but still showed some gray in his tonsure. He smiled feebly at Montrose and beckoned. His hands were plump and pink inside his wide sleeves. Montrose motioned for Garreth and Nadira to follow. They did so as quietly as possible. The monk pulled a lit taper from a sconce and held it above his head as he led them through the archways out of the hall. Nadira glanced behind her, but Father Bertram had gone.
Montrose’s boots were loud on the stones, the brother’s footsteps silent. They passed through the vestibule and up a long staircase. Nadira glanced about, but in the fading light, she could see only directly in front of her where the brother’s candle illuminated the walls. She matched her footsteps with Montrose’s larger strides and kept herself at his arm with some trouble. She was close enough to feel his body’s heat on her face. Garreth brought up the rear with his reassuring heavy tread.
At length they reached a long hallway that seemed to stretch for a mile. Nadira was weary from the climb. Ahead of her lay an expanse of endless gray stone, pockmarked at regular intervals with the slanted pink light of a setting sun as it shone through the casement windows. Here there was no musty smell. They were high up in the third story where no water would stand. Instead, there was the dry, dusty smell of long stale straw and unwashed bodies.
She tucked her chin closer to her chest and inhaled the aroma of her cloak, still fresh from being outside and carrying faint whiffs of the pine forest. She thought she might faint before they finally stopped beside a cell. A narrow wooden door barred their entry. The monk handed the taper to Montrose while he fumbled on his belt for a heavy ring of keys. He held the ring up to the candle and squinted as he selected the correct one.
Nadira felt Garreth’s palm in the small of her back. She took his massive arm in the darkness of the twilight and leaned on him while the monk fumbled with the lock. There was a rasp and a click. The monk took the candle back and then gestured for Montrose to open the door. Montrose took hold of the handle with both hands and pushed. The door opened into a tiny cubicle, barely four feet wide and six feet deep, bare except for a wide bench.
On the bench lay a pile of rags. As the monk entered with the candle, the room was lit end to end. Dust filled the air as the pile of rags shifted. Something resembling a man cried out and put his hands over his face. The monk quickly lowered the candle and shielded it with his hand. The man in the cell began to sob, the rags shaking even more dust into the air. There was not room for all of them to stand together. Montrose took a long step forward, placing a hand on the monk’s chest to keep him and his candle out of the cell.
“Brother Henry?” he whispered.
Garreth pushed Nadira in front of him so she stood on the lintel. Behind her, the monk set the candle over her head in a waxy niche in the wall.
The rag man stopped shaking for a moment, and then began to cough. Montrose moved over and sat on the bench beside him. He pulled the rags from Brother Henry’s back revealing a worn and tired habit beneath. “Henry,” he murmured, “do you know me?” Brother Henry lowered his hands from his eyes for a moment, and then quickly replaced them, blocking Montrose from his view.
“Little Robin.” It was a toad’s croak, not a man’s voice.
The brother in the hall was impressed, however. He whispered “Mother of God” and crossed himself. Montrose looked up.
“Friend, brother,” he said to the monk in the hall. “We do not require your assistance any longer.”
“I am instructed to stay with Brother Henry during his audience with you, lest he injure himself or others.” He glanced meaningfully at Nadira’s small form. Obviously, Garreth was in no danger.
“And your devotion is exemplary. However, my man Garreth will easily protect us. Can you not see that Brother Henry recognizes me?”
“Brother, take my request to Father Bertram. Ask if I may seek counsel with my old friend privately.”
The brother nodded , unaware that leaving to ask permission was, in fact, giving it. He lit another candle stub from his taper and moved down the long hall. The sun had long since set behind the mountains. Only the faint glow from the candle could be seen moving down the narrow hallway. After a moment, the light disappeared down the stairway.
“Is he gone?” Montrose asked.
Garreth nodded. Montrose beckoned to Nadira to enter the room then gestured for her to sit on the floor. Brother Henry remained seated with hands over his face. From her position on the flagstones, Nadira could see that Brother Henry was very thin, and fragile. The cell smelled like a stable. Henry had been here a long time.
Montrose put his strong arm around Henry’s shoulders and squeezed him. “Henry, look at me.” He whispered. He gave the monk a shake. “Henry.” The monk brought his hands down slowly, revealing two teary eyes.
“Henry, I have to talk to you about Richard’s book.” Henry slapped his hands back to his face and let out a cry. He began to moan , the sound echoing from the cold stones. Nadira withstood an impulse to cover her ears.
“Richard is dead, Henry. I have brought another reader. I have to talk to you. You must talk to us. You must try to help. Soon the other monks will join us, and then you know we must hold our tongues. Please, Henry.” His face was lost in the dancing shadows of the faint candle that struggled to light the room. Nadira did not move.
The monk pulled his hands down again and wiped them on his knees. He sniffed loudly then glanced at the doorway. “It’s terrible,” he groaned. “I find I cannot speak of it.”
“You must. We have little time, as you know, my friend.” Montrose squeezed him tighter.
“Oh, aye, there is no time. All is gone. Nothing remains, nothing…” the monk began to sob, his open mouth ghastly in the weak light. Nadira shifted on the floor. The movement caught the monk’s attention. The bright eyes locked on to her.
“A woman! You brought a woman here…” his face twisted for a moment then he burst out laughing, a harsh and unpleasant sound. “How nice to see a woman again. It has been a long time.”
Nadira hunched deeper into her cloak. How could he tell she was a woman? It was very dark and her form was not more than a lump of wool. Montrose would be upset that their façade had not lasted a day. She glanced up to meet his gaze, but instead of the anger she feared, he was smiling at the older man.
“Henry, look at me.” Henry obeyed, turning his face from Nadira toward Montrose. “Henry, When did you last have the book?”
“Two months past, maybe more. It was hot summer. There was still light after vespers.” Henry turned to smile at Nadira.
“Tell us,” Montrose continued, “Who took it away from you?”
Henry’s face took on a lost look, as though everything surrounding him was fading away. In his dark eyes, Nadira saw him searching, searching. He did not answer directly, but spoke in a monotone, staring through Nadira into the wall behind her.
“I read the first page. It was easy, Aramaic. The book told me that everything would be revealed to me. But I had to consume the book first. In my eagerness, I read page after page, painstakingly deciphering each letter, each symbol, each mark. I copied countless possible translations. Some of the pages were in Latin, some in Hebrew, some in the Saracen tongue. Those words I could not read. There are other signs, pictures and symbols. Some are of birds and people. I could not read them either. I do not know anyone who can.
“Oh, there were profound thoughts, some mathematical figures, but nothing I had not seen or read about in other books. For days I pondered its mysteries. I burned so many candles into the night I was given penance for my extravagance. But still I could not release the book.” He paused, but his eyes remained unfocused. “I thought I had ‘consumed the book’. He laughed a short laugh, like a cough. “Then one night after praying for the answer for hours and hours, it hit my mind like a blow from a staff. I had to eat the book, consume it literally.”
“Maybe I wa
s going mad, but as I turned the leaves, I could see that the last page was not vellum like the others. The last page was brittle and yellow, perhaps made from flax, or some kind of reed, I do not know. I could see fibers pressed one way and then the other. It was translucent and devoid of any writing. I thought it was just the endpaper. It was spotted with black dots, like fly specks. I could see that hands before mine had torn bits out of this page. They were torn in half circles, squares, cut with knives and scissors. Fully a third of the page had been eaten away like that.”
Henry rubbed his face, making a scratching sound on his sparse beard. “I tore a huge piece out of the page. Not content with tiny bits as other readers had, I tore half the page away and swallowed it with the abbot’s finest red wine. Then I sat, saying my rosary for four bells, waiting. Like a fool.” He began trembling again.
They heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. More than one monk coming this time.
Henry looked to the door. “They will not understand,” he said sadly. “They do not see. They think I am mad. Perhaps I am. But they are the dead ones, not I.” He turned away.
The familiar monk returned with another brother and a torch. They seemed quite surprised to see Henry sitting docile on the bench. The flame was thrust into the room with a roar of spitting pitch lighting the tiny space with a violent red.
“Brother Henry?” The taller monk asked.
Henry smiled. “I am fine, my brother. Thank you for your concern. I am happy here, talking with my old friend Robin.” The two monks exchanged incredulous glances.
“We are all having a very pleasant conversation, honored brothers. Please allow us this small concession. Surely we do no harm.” Montrose said in his most courteous voice.
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 10