The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series)

by Annmarie Banks

  “Michel?” she whispered.

  “Yes, miss?” He was half grown, full of freckles and stiff brush-like fair hair. His oversized hands and feet promised he would eventually be a big man like his father. Now he appeared jumpy and uncertain. He would not meet her eyes directly, but glanced continually around and down the stairs as he spoke.

  “Am I to stay inside here with no supper and no light?”

  “ I don’t know, miss. I was told to stay here while father fetched our supper. He might bring yours as well.”

  Nadira looked up and down the stairs. Torches burned bright in their sconces. It was noticeably warmer in the stairwell.

  “Are you to keep me from coming out?”

  “Yes, miss. I am to cry out if you try to go downstairs.”

  “Downstairs?May I go upstairs?” Nadira asked sweetly.

  The boy blushed.

  “He…he didn’t say anything about going upstairs, mistress.”

  “I am going to go upstairs now, Michel. Is that agreeable?”

  “I guess. I’ll tell father you have gone upstairs when he gets back.”

  Nadira took her bedside candle and lit it from the torches on the wall before taking the steps slowly upstairs. She did not want Michel to think she was running away. As she ascended the glow of the candle made sharp shadows on the stones. The cooks were getting supper down below. Her nose crinkled as the smell of roasting meats drifted up the stairwell behind her. No doubt a great feast would be laid before the visiting priests. She lifted the candle higher.

  She moved through the third floor, which was the sleeping chamber for most of the men-at-arms. A fire burned in the large fireplace set in the wall there. A few men were lying on pallets close to the fire lounging near their fellows. Those men followed her with their eyes as she brought the candle up through the floor. She glanced around the room as she rose higher.

  The stairwell had no rail to protect the climber from falling into the room as he or she passed through the hole and ascended towards the ceiling so Nadira chose her steps carefully. She stopped at the trap. It was locked, as she suspected. The heavy padlock swung just above her head as Nadira turned and sat on the step. She placed the candle beside her and rested her chin in her hands. Perhaps she should try going downstairs and see what would happen when she was caught. At least she would know if she were now considered a prisoner.

  She stood and carefully walked back down. The stair wound around the wall, and before she reached the bottom of the third story a blast of wind blew her light out. She stopped, afraid to place her foot on the next step, now completely invisible without her candle.

  The blast had come from the casement a few steps below her. She moved carefully, feeling with her slipper before resting her weight on the stone. When she was even with the casement, she looked back.

  She was still high above the third floor. Below, in the torchlight, she could see Michel sitting faithfully by her door and the few soldiers resting. The walls curved away from them, and in the shadow she hoped they could not see her. She leaned out the window to get her bearings. Another gust blew something slithery toward her. She recoiled before she recognized the rope that William used to get his heated stones from the laundry below.

  Again Nadira leaned out over the sill and this time looked up. The rope was attached to the iron bar that supported the shutters. Down, she could see a round form that must be the bucket on the ground.

  Nadira reached out into the cold night and pulled the rope in through the window. She tested it. Slowly she brought her knees up until she rested her entire weight on it. Bless William. He ties a magnificent knot.

  She glanced down at Michel. Ever so often, the young man would stand and peer down through the hole in the floor, looking for his father. Nadira knew he would be beaten for allowing her to come out of her room, but that could not be helped. She waited until he was bent over the floor again before climbing out onto the rope. With one push, she was outside.

  The stones of the tower were set with a thick mortar. The chinks were not wide enough to accept a man’s boot, but were just wide enough for a small woman’s large toe inside a silk slipper. It was enough for her to get a toehold with both feet, which took much of her weight off her hands. Still, it was difficult, and the coarse rope burned her palms as she lowered herself slowly to the ground, inserting her toes one by one in the cracks and descending them like a ladder.

  Half way down she lost a slipper. Nadira paused with her naked toe in a sharp crevasse and watched with dismay as the shoe seemed to float to the ground and land with a soft thump. When she finally touched ground she spent a few moments feeling around the base of the tower for it before proceeding.

  Where to now? No one had seen her or there would have been an alarm raised. She was outside the laundry. A glance inside the doorway told her that the servants had all gone, perhaps for their evening meal, or to prepare for the feast. The great fire pit was banked for the night, though coals still glowed red among the ashes and the great cauldron steamed above them. Nadira moved closer to the hearth and warmed herself. She ducked behind a large basket of folded linen when she heard a sound from the doorway. Two men opened the door and waved a torch inside.

  “Are you here, girl?” He snorted. “Why, she’s probably rolled up in someone’s blankets.” His companion guffawed. The torchlight faded and went out as they shut the door behind them. Nadira allowed herself to breathe again.

  They were looking for her now. She thought about where to go. She wanted to hear Conti and his guests talking about her manuscript. Where would they be? She had explored the third floor, and the fifth floor library was locked. The first floor was storage and kitchen and laundry; Conti’s solar was on the second floor over the laundry to take advantage of the warmth of the ever-present fires. She looked up. Access to those areas would be impossible. Except from below. She slid along the wall to the door and listened. There was no panic, no disturbance. Servants were working as usual, intent on their own tasks.

  Where would the guests be served their supper? Nadira straightened. This tower did not have a great hall; William had told her that this fortress was built to guard the one good road that stretched over the mountain from France through Andorra into Aragon. The prince of Andorra lived somewhere to the south in a much finer keep. The infrequent guests and tired travelers were usually fed where they slept. When a special meal was served, it was usually in Conti’s solar.

  Where was Maria? And William? He often came to her room to talk with her or recite poetry and other remembered bits from his beloved books with her in the evenings. He usually had no tasks after dark in order to spare the candles.

  Nadira looked up again at the strong beams above her head. The two long beams bracing the walls were also used for storing supplies. Sacks hung from the rafters filled with rags and cloths to be mended. Various tools and husbandry implements swung from iron hooks. If she were brave enough she could climb up there and walk along the beam to position herself beneath the solar.

  Nadira winced. It would be difficult in a gown, and unpleasant with the dust and spiders. As her eyes followed the beam from corbel to corbel, she heard footsteps on the floor above. The lone walker was soon joined by many more feet. Something heavy was set on the floor, shaking a curtain of dust from the ceiling.

  Her mind made up, she hitched up her gown, tucking the hem into her belt on each hip. By climbing the storage chests she could pull herself up to the rafters. She tried not to mind the spiders that scampered away from her, or the dirt that fell into her eyes.

  With a great deal of effort she found herself sitting on the main support beam an arm’s length from Conti’s solar. Inside she heard low voices. Her victory nearly ended there. In her excitement, she slipped in the loose dirt on the beam and had to catch herself before she fell. A small landslide of dirt and dust rained down upon the stone floor. The voices stopped for a moment and Nadira held her breath.

  A moment later and they star
ted up again. Nadira held very still.

  “He is very resistant. The very devil is in him.” This voice was tense and low. Nadira thought it might be Father Matteo.

  “I think he knows nothing. He can barely read his own name.” This voice belonged to Conti.

  “Or he pretends such.” This was spoken with vitriolic hatred.

  “Nay. I know him,” said the other voice, calm and steady. “He is Robert Longmoor of Montrose. He accompanied his brother Richard to the monastery at Toledo each winter. I know for a fact he never studied. He is honest when he tells you he has not read the manuscript.”

  “Why would he go to the monastery if not to learn?” Nadira caught her breath when she heard William’s voice.

  “That is an appropriate wonder for you, my friend. You cannot conceive of a life beyond your books.” Nadira heard Conti laugh softly. “Montrose was sent by their father to protect Richard. Richard had no mind but for books and languages, much like yourself, William. Their father did not want to lose his favorite son and his precious heir to bandits, battles, or an unsanctioned bride. Montrose was his way of indulging the family scion without endangering the bloodline.”

  “You can see where that got him.” The icy tone chilled Nadira.

  William’s voice, “So you know him well, monsieur?”

  “I knew his brother quite well. Richard was a brilliant man, lively and skilled in many languages, but his bodyguards did not spend any time with us in the libraries, and rarely at table. With Richard now dead, this brother Montrose is now his father’s heir. I remember he had already been gifted his mother’s dower when she died and then became Baron Montrose after saving the life of a duke in battle. I’m not certain where, it was not important to me at the time, but I warn you that his father has powerful friends in the church. What do you intend to do with him?”

  “He will tell me where he got that manuscript. I just need more time.”

  “And if he doesn’t tell you?”

  “He will tell me. They always tell me. And if he does not, he will be no one’s heir.”

  “He looks like Death himself, Father Septimus. Do you plan to kill him?”

  “No. Do not be foolish. If he is a heretic then he will suffer God’s justice.”

  Nadira swayed on her beam. She did not hear the rest of the conversation for the roaring in her ears. The Dominicans did not know that she had been part of Montrose’s party. Conti had not told them. She steadied her breath. This is probably why she was not under a more stringent guard. They must have wanted her out of the way while they tortured their prisoner. Her throat tightened.

  The whole time she had been in the tower, Montrose had been a prisoner somewhere. She counted back. Two months. Two months he must have been confined. She slept in feathers and nibbled on cake. Where is he now? The tower had no real dungeon, just a cesspit and root cellar at opposite ends of the structure.

  Nadira steadied herself on the beam and stood slowly, pulling herself up by leaning against the central pillar that thrust its way up from the floor to the ceiling. She listened. The conversation had paused while the men ate their supper. The few words she could discern concerned only the quality of the victuals and the passing of the wine. She doubted very seriously Lord Montrose was in the solar with them. Where then?

  In a flash, it came to her: the stable. There were no other private rooms in the tower. She and Conti were the only inhabitants who did not share space with others, and even she shared with Maria on the nights when it was too late for her to go to her home in the village. Conti must have given over his solar to the visiting priests.

  She held to the rafter and swung down. The drop was more than her height, but the laundry softened the fall and deadened the sound. Torture must be a noisy business, she reasoned. If a man had been brutalized within the confines of this tower, there would have been some sound, and even a careful Inquisitor would be hard pressed to keep servants and soldiers from talking about it. Nadira was certain she would have heard from Maria had it been happening within these walls.

  She slid along the wall to the outside door and peered out toward the stable. It was a goodly distance from the walls of the tower, close enough for the soldiers to guard, yet far enough to keep the odor of manure from the residents. The cattle were gathered around the low building, but none were inside.

  A soft light flickered from under the door. This alone was unusual. Like the library, no fires were permitted in the byre. The stable had no real windows, but merely small openings along the roofline for ventilation. She would not be able to peek inside, but must actually enter through the wide doors. After a final glance around the room behind her, Nadira was off across the yard.

  The ground was not level, but sloped gently away from the tower. The dairy was a small building near the well, the stable itself a bit farther from there. Nadira kept to the far side of the outbuildings. None but the cows would see her in the darkness. The entrance to the stable was a sturdy over-and-under double door. Both were closed but not bolted; if someone were inside the bolt would have to stay upright lest he or she be locked in. Nadira pushed the upper door in a finger’s breadth.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  INSIDE the stable, Nadira could see, between the stanchions, Maria sitting on a milking stool in the corner, knitting. No one else seemed to be inside. Nadira waited. Soon the expected gust of wind blew through the yard. She timed her move and pushed the top door all the way in and waited. There were no guards. She entered and closed the door behind her.

  Maria stood as Nadira approached; her knitting placed in the basket beside her. “Mistress! I am so glad to see you. Gerald has forgotten my supper.” Nadira did not answer. Her whole world focused on the still form in the straw beside the milking stool.

  Maria sighed as she followed Nadira’s eyes to the ground, “Yes miss, it is a sad day for this man. They brought him in here and chained him to the wall where the bull usually stands.” Maria waved a hand at the sturdy ring set in the wall. Nadira could not answer. The ring was linked with heavy chain that dangled from the wall and ended in a shackle around the man’s wrist. She knelt in the straw beside Lord Montrose.

  “No, miss!” Maria pulled her back up and away with a strong grip on Nadira’s arm. “He is injured. I’ve been told not to touch him.” Nadira pulled her arm free.

  “What exactly were you told to do, Maria,” she asked very quietly, keeping her voice steady.

  “I’m to watch him. If he wakes or cries out I am to run and fetch monsieur.” Maria picked up her knitting. “I am glad you are here now; I have been cold and hungry since the sun went down.” Maria gave the man a look of pity. “He has not moved since noon.”

  Nadira forced herself to wear a wan smile. “I’m here now, Maria. If you’d like to go to the kitchen and get a bite to eat you may.”

  “Thank you, miss. Oh, and please, monsieur warned me to be careful of the candle.” She nodded to the thick pillar on a milking stool near the wall where the straw had been carefully swept aside.

  Nadira waited until the door had closed behind the servant before she knelt again. Montrose was lying face down in the straw, his legs and arms splayed out and only the faint movement of his ribs assured her he was not dead. An inadequate blanket covered him from his shoulders to his thighs. Nadira reached out and lifted the lank and filthy hair that covered his face, laying the long strands gently across the back of his head. His face was covered with dense mottled beard, Nadira did not remember there being so many white hairs among the black the last time she had seen him. She stroked his cheek, combing the chaff from his beard with her fingers. His eyes remained closed, but his lips parted as he breathed in and out with slight breaths that merely made the straw tremble under his chin.

  Small sores were peeling around his lips. Dried blood splotched his cheeks, though it was obviously days old. She touched his throat at the jaw, feeling his heartbeat, then lifted the blanket over his ribs. With her other hand she lifted the tattered f
ragment of his shirt. It was in frightful condition and he smelled as though he had not washed in all that time. Miraculously, his side was well healed. She saw the angry red scar that marked him from armpit to hip, but no sign of wound rot. The wound had healed, but in its place the surrounding skin was discolored with bruises in all stages of healing, from fresh red splotches to week-old greenish tinged rings. She did not wish to move him.

  A more thorough examination would have to wait. She dropped the cloth, scanning the ground around him. There was no blood in the straw. He was not bleeding, at least not on the outside of his body. Nadira frowned as she plucked at the rags that covered him. These were the same tunic and leggings he wore to the fateful supper at the monastery. She blew her nose with the hem of her chemise and wiped her eyes. That tears had come did not surprise her, but the twisted feeling in her chest disturbed her. She told herself she would feel badly seeing any human being in such condition. She told herself she had sworn Lord Montrose her obedience and service. Nothing more. Here was her benefactor in need. It was her duty to help him, just as he would protect her should she be in danger or injured.

  Nadira shook her head. She knew she was fooling herself. She was feeling true and honest grief. There could be no rationalizing this pain. She put a hand over her stomach where the pain was the greatest and wiped her nose with the other. A great wave of shame crested before the sobs broke. Shame that she had been safe and warm while he suffered so terribly. She could not stop the tears, though she struggled to keep the volume low. She had not wept like this in many years. Not since the night she watched the light fade from her mother’s eyes as the silent infant was wrapped up and whisked from the room. That painful memory only intensified the torrent. Nadira bent over double with the effort to remain silent, squeezing herself with both arms as if she could choke out the hurting.

  Montrose’s lids fluttered, then opened slowly.