“No, put him down,” she said.
“I make the decisions here, not you.” Montrose said between clenched teeth. “Get me to the stable, Garreth, and then tell Alisdair to get the horses and baggage ready.”
Nadira opened the door into an empty hall. With a sigh, she strode across the hall and leaned out of the window. Below her lay the monastery’s quadrangle. The stone stable buildings were opposite her across the leaf-strewn yard. In the early morning chill, monks were traveling about in groups of three and four, huddled in their thick robes against the weather. From the tower she heard bells tolling; the echoes from the courtyard walls clashed discordant to her ears.
She looked back over her shoulder at the men. Garreth raised his chin, questioning her; his treelike legs planted to support Montrose, like a dead branch hanging by the bark. Nadira pressed her lips together.
“We need to go down two floors. The stable is across the way to the south,” she said.
She heard Garreth dragging Montrose behind her, their irregular footsteps echoing on the stone as they made their way to the staircase at end of the hall. She led the way down the steps, pausing to allow Garreth to find secure footing on the uneven stone.
Outside, the yard was deserted. The muffled sound of chanting told her where the monks had gone. She hurried through the dried leaves to the stable doors, anxious to get them open and a place prepared for Montrose. She might still convince him to rest. As she strained to open the heavy door Garreth came up behind her, carrying an unconscious Montrose across both arms. He set his back against the stubborn door, and with a heave shouldered the heavy timbers against the wall with an authoritative thud.
He marched past her and lay Montrose down in a pile of straw near the horses. Alisdair rose immediately from where he had been lounging. Garreth pushed him back when he reached for his friend and dragged Nadira up by her tunic instead. He set her down hard at Montrose’s side and pointed at the dripping wound.
“What do you need, lass?” Alisdair asked, his eyes wide at the sight. “I wondered what happened when you didn’t come back last night.”
Nadira looked about. It was rather dark inside the stable, but no lamp could be lit. “Someone open all the shutters. Would you remove his jerkin and shirt?” she asked Garreth.
Montrose was a big man. Taking off his heavy cloak and tunic would be nearly impossible without help. “I’ll need hot water. Bring me at least a kettle full, and some linen,” she ordered. “I have needle and thread. Bring some bread and broth and wine if you can get it.”
Nadira did not have to wait long. As soon as her tools were assembled she began. The water in the bowl had cooled; she selected a wad of linen and soaked it thoroughly. She set about wiping dirt and blood from Montrose’s body. Garreth had removed all of his clothes above the waist. His skin was white and taut beneath the grime, a marked contrast to his arms and neck where the sun had bronzed him. Old scars crisscrossed his chest, leaving white trails in the curly dark hair that covered him thickly from just below his neck to disappear into his breeches.
She worked quickly, changing the water in her cloth as necessary until the bowl was dark with blood. Garreth took the bowl from her. “Can you bring more?” she asked him. He reached for the kettle. Nadira felt each rib. She had to press hard to feel the bone beneath the solid muscles, watching Montrose’s face to see if he would revive. He didn’t even twitch.
The flesh over his ribs was darker with a developing bruise, and two of the bones moved unnaturally. She pressed the lips of the wound as close together as possible. The swollen skin resisted her and it felt too warm. The line she must sew seemed impossibly long. She sat cross-legged like a tailor and threaded her needle. With one hand she held the wound together at the top as the other hesitated with the needle. Trembling, she pushed the silver needle through the bruised flesh.
Immediately she found herself face down in the straw that covered the hard dirt floor. She clutched the needle lest she lose it as a heavy weight that felt like an elbow pressed her harder into the ground. Around her she heard shouts and felt the elbow disappear as hands pulled at her, setting her back up again. She shook her head. She guessed that Montrose had come alive and knocked her down. Now he lay on his back gasping with Alisdair holding his arms pinned to the ground.
“Are you hurt?” Alisdair puffed.
“No,” she lied, wincing as she pulled the needle out of her palm. “I’m not hurt.”
“He didn’t mean it, lass.”
Nadira leaned over Montrose, smoothing his long hair back up and over his forehead so she could see his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling, dazed. “My lord, you must be sewn up again,” she said.
“God,” he breathed, “Jesus Christ. Do it quickly then.”
Nadira slipped a leather strap between his teeth and Montrose squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
“Will it take you long?” Alisdair asked.
Nadira shook her head. “I don’t know. Hold him down.” Nadira poured wine over his ribs, soaking the straw beneath him then took up her needle. This time Montrose didn’t flinch as the needle pierced the purpled flesh: instead his whole body went hard like stone, the muscles under the pale skin bunching into knots. Nadira hurried.
Garreth moved out of the light so he wouldn’t have to watch. Alisdair held Montrose down with both hands on his shoulders as Nadira brought the lips of the wound together and ran the thread as quickly as she could, like she would hem her skirt. Montrose jerked as she pushed the needle through the last bit of skin. Alisdair shifted his weight in order to hold him firmly. She left the bottom of her seam open two fingerbreadths, to drain, and covered the long wound with wet linen.
“Lift him up, Alisdair.” She wrapped the bandages around his chest as quickly as possible, tying them as they played out. When she finished she sat back and wiped her sweating face with her sleeve.
“Good job, lassie.” Alisdair lay Montrose back into the straw, kicking more of the bedding under his shoulders so he might lay more comfortably. Even so, his lord’s face was tinged green beneath his eyes. Nadira tried to pull the leather strap from his mouth. She tugged at it, and when it did not budge, she resorted to sliding her finger between his lips like one does to remove the bit from a horse. Teeth marks evenly peppered the leather. In two places he had bitten clear through the thick strap.
“My lord,” she whispered. “It is over.”
His eyes were so dark the blue could scarce be seen. “This is not going well at all,” he murmured. Nadira touched his cheek with the back of her hand.
“What d’you think, lass?” Alisdair said in a low voice.
“The fever is to be expected. Three days.”
“Aye. Sometimes it’s not the wound that kills a man.”
“No, no,” Nadira said quickly,” He will live.”
Alisdair glanced at Garreth in the moonlight that sifted through the shutters. “Rob. Can you hear me, man?”
Montrose blinked. “Aye. I hear you killing me off,” he whispered.
“Nay, man. Just bein’ cautious. You remember Martin, poor lad.”
“Aye.” Montrose sighed.
“Carried off with a splinter in his heel. His own mum scarce finished wrappin’ it up when he stiffens and dies right there.” Garreth nodded in the darkness. “You remember that, Garreth? The poor woman was screamin’ like a banshee. I had a hell of a time getting Martin buried with her hangin’ on me. She doted on that boy.” He pointed at Montrose. “Just a splinter in his heel,” he repeated. The finger wagged at Nadira. ”Don’t you be tellin’ me not to worry about a fever.” Alisdair leaned closer and felt his friend’s forehead. “I could cook haggis on your head, Rob.”
“God, Alisdair, don’t talk about food.”
“You’ve said yourself haggis is hardly food.”
“Ah, ah,” Montrose gasped, wincing. “And don’t make me laugh.”
“I’m just checkin’ you to be sure you’re alive. I’ll let you sleep now.”
Alisdair leaned back against a stanchion. He and Garreth exchanged glances.
“Go to sleep,” she ordered softly.
“I can’t,” he whispered, though he closed his eyes obediently.
Nadira realized she would mourn him should he die. This was an uneasy feeling in more ways than one.
The morning bells awakened them just before the stable doors pushed open with a loud scrape. They all jumped to their feet, and even Montrose opened his eyes. A group of monks strode toward them; their leader spread his hands in a gesture of greeting. Alisdair came out from the stalls to meet them before they could get too close to Montrose and Nadira. Their leader looked at each one, raising his hand with a benediction before he spoke.
“You have not been properly placed in comfortable rooms here at Coix,” he said in a gentle voice. “I extend our sincerest apologies to you all. We plan to remedy this situation immediately. Proper rooms have been prepared and await you now. If you would accompany us, we will take you to them right away. Food and drink have been delivered there for you already this morning.”
“Aye, then thank you,” Alisdair answered warily.
The monk frowned at Nadira and she quickly pushed her hair back with a nervous hand, then crossed her arms over her chest in a futile attempt to cover her breasts. She felt her face flame.
The monk continued. “The delay concerned your woman servant. Henry’s caretakers relayed to Father Bertram that your boy is not what he seems and this has caused some trouble. However,” the monk bowed very slightly from the waist, “Father Bertram has seen fit to make an exception to the rule in this particular case. You all will be housed together and in a remote room usually reserved for foreign merchants.”
By foreign merchants Nadira suspected he meant non-Christians. She nodded politely.
Montrose struggled to sit up. Nadira pushed on his shoulders and held him upright. He addressed the monk. “We did not intend,” he said, “to stay,” he took a shallow breath, “even this long, friar.” Nadira moved behind him as he began to sag. “As you can see,” he took another breath, “my injury has delayed our departure.”
“Yes. Your condition has been relayed to Father Bertram. It was he who asked that you be given our highest courtesies regardless of your companion. If you make ready we can go now.” The monk made a courteous gesture. “Will my lord be able to walk, or will you need to be carried?”
“Ah,” Alisdair stepped up between Montrose and the monk. “He can walk, kind friar.” He answered, gesturing to Garreth to gather their things. Nadira helped Montrose to stand. He leaned on her until she felt her knees nearly collapsing from the weight. He swayed at first, but with her arm around his waist he was able to walk the several paces to the tallest building on the quadrangle. The monks showed them into a spacious room on the first floor that contained three large beds and a table and several chairs. Hooks on the wall took most of their belongings, and as promised, the table was laden with bread and fruit and bowls of steaming porridge. Nadira and Alisdair met at the window. He laughed tonelessly as he pushed the hinged shutters out and spread them wide to bring in light and air.
“You checkin’ out the escape route, too, lass?”
“No, I just wanted to see the view from here,” she lied.
Later that day they sent word that Montrose was ready for an audience. Nadira and Garreth changed him into another tunic, re-applied all his weapons and leather and unpacked his better cape from his baggage. Garreth had to put his lord’s boots on his feet for him.
“Shall I stay behind, my lord, or change into my gown?”
“You are not staying behind,” he winced, waving Garreth away. “I did not bring you here to stay behind.” He tried to tie the laces on his tunic, fumbling with the grommets. Nadira gently pushed his fingers away and threaded the leather thongs deftly. She felt his warm breath in her hair as she worked.
He spoke to her softly, “We have to be ready for anything. They had time to send messages. Stay alert.”
They were escorted to a small chamber with high ceilings and tapestries on the wall. In the center of the room, a table was spread with a fine white cloth and several drinking vessels.
Thick wax candles warmed the air with the scent of honey and made Nadira glad to have jettisoned the woolen cape. She examined the tapestries carefully as they waited for Father Bertram to arrive. One was a hunting scene with stiff dogs chasing a wild-eyed doe. Another was a garden in full bloom. Garreth stood nervously on first one leg and then another. Montrose leaned heavily against the third wall, the tapestry behind him now distorted into folds. Alisdair stood patiently by the table, trying to see what was in the pitcher without touching anything. The door opened and an initiate bowed Father Bertram into the room. The priest entered and strode directly to his chair in front of the window.
“Please,” he said, “have a seat.”
Long benches flanked the sides of the table. Nadira immediately sat herself on the far end from Father Bertram on the left side of the table. Montrose took the seat to Bertram’s right hand. Alisdair sat opposite Nadira and Garreth, opposite his master. The priest bowed his head and began a long prayer. Nadira watched the others over her clasped hands. Garreth was listening with eyes closed; Alisdair’s quick eyes darted back and forth from person to person. Montrose was watching her watch them.
“Amen.”
“Amen,” they echoed.
The amens signaled the beginning of the meal. Acolytes entered carrying platters of food and poured wine over their shoulders into their cups. Alisdair’s eager eyes made Nadira smile. She wore the brown gown and slippers Beniste had gifted her. Alisdair had used her scissors to trim the ends of her hair; now it hung just below her shoulders, no longer ragged. She had made a small veil out of leftover linen bandages, wrapping it at her crown with a bright blue silk handkerchief that Montrose had given her. It was strange to her to be sitting as a guest at such a table. She pulled her feet in under her and kept her hands in her lap. They all waited for Father Bertram to pick up his cup.
“A toast, Lord Montrose. May your trail bear fruit.”
“Bear fruit,” they echoed. The wine was warm and sweet. Nadira tried to take it in small sips, but the taste was so smooth and delightful it was gone in a moment. She set the cup down and it was immediately refilled. She glanced up in surprise at the young man who bent over her. He smiled but did not meet her eyes. The others were enjoying the wine as well, but Montrose still had most of his first cup. He passed the cup back and forth between his hands but did not drink more than the obligatory toast.
“My friends, I heard about your discussion with Brother Henry. I’m sorry you were injured, Lord Montrose.”
“Father, it is but a scratch,” Montrose dismissed the blood and broken bones with a tilt of his head. “We are practical men. Let us not quibble. I am interested to hear about what happened to Brother Henry after he read the book.” Father Bertram appeared not to be offended by Montrose’s sudden change of subject
Father Bertram laced his fingers. “Do you wish hear this strange tale? Then I will tell you.” He nodded to the two young men standing against the tapestries. They moved in tandem out the doors, closing them behind with a metallic click. Father Bertram looked at each one of them with grim interest before he began.
“Brother Henry brought me the book early this spring, showed me its beauty. It was bound in leather and wood, inlaid with lapis lazuli and gold. Inscriptions from many hands adorned the cover and it was clear the book had been carefully preserved for a great many years. I could only read the Latin, of course. It said, “‘Herein lies all knowledge of the world. Read with caution, for what you know you do not know and what you do not know, you know.’ I thought it was gibberish, and told him so. Nevertheless, Brother Henry was so eager I gave my permission for him to translate the book and keep me updated with his progress. He took the book to his cell along with a month’s worth of candles and a substantial amount of paper and ink.”
&
nbsp; Montrose interrupted, “Did Brother Henry keep you updated on his progress as he had promised?”
Fixing Nadira with a perplexed stare as though just now noticing her presence, Father Bertram continued, “Yes, yes, he did. He came to my chambers every Friday after vespers to read to me what he had found. I admit it was not something I looked forward to. Every Friday for about an hour I had to sit and listen to non-sequiturs in Henry’s excited reading voice. He read to me things like, ‘Tell me the sound that one hears when one hand applauds,’ and ‘Only the eye fears darkness.’ I felt he had forgotten the purpose of this project in favor of his own personal interests. I tried to end the assignment. I was astounded at the hysteria this caused.
“Brother Henry had stopped attending mass. He stopped coming down for meals or attending to his chores. He did not participate in prayers or meetings. He stayed in his cell day after day, night after night. I tried to take the book away, but he would not release it no matter my threats. I had five of my strongest brothers enter the cell one morning to hold him down and take the book. They came back to me with their heads and arms broken, faces pale, habits ripped. I saw the fear in their faces and realized something terrible had happened to Brother Henry’s mind.”
Father Bertram paused, waiting for the murmurs to die down. He waved at the laden table. “Please, eat, drink.”
The men reluctantly picked up bread and fruit from their plates, but only Garreth put food in his mouth. Nadira could see the bread in Montrose’s hand trembling. From weakness or excitement, she could not tell. His eyes were glassy but his jaw was firmly set. She lifted her glass and took a sip. Montrose tapped his bread on the table.
“Father. Brother Henry does not have the book. How did you get it from him?”
Father Bertram smiled. ”I had him drugged. Henry had stopped eating with us, but had bread and wine brought up to him. Some opium in his cup and an hour later he was asleep. The book was brought to me and Brother Henry was locked in his cell.”
“There must have been a scene when he awoke.”
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 12