“Nadira,” Conti spoke slowly to her, as though she were a small child. “Lord Montrose has just murdered a priest before multiple witnesses. It is my duty to turn him over to the authorities. Father Matteo wants to take him back to Toledo for imprisonment. I believe that doing so would distress you. Am I correct? Answer me, Nadira.”
Nadira looked at him over the rim of her cup, then at the priest and William. With great deliberation she forced herself to say calmly, “Monsieur, I would prefer that Lord Montrose not go with Father Matteo.”
“If I let you keep him, do you swear to remain here with me until I release you? Would you swear to do my bidding with good humor?”
“Will I be a prisoner?” she asked.
“No. Not a prisoner, but not free either. In turn I will swear to keep you from,” here he paused searching for the right words, glancing at Father Matteo, “the interest of the Church.”
“And my lord?”
“He must swear…”
“A murderer?” Father Matteo slapped the table. “I will not accept an oath from him.”
Conti spun around, “You will be well compensated as agreed, Father. Leave the details to me. I give you my word.” To Nadira he moderated his voice, extending his hand to indicate Montrose’s body stretched out on the carpet. “Lord Montrose must remain here, in the tower. Should he attempt to leave, he will be killed. He will be my prisoner. Do you understand?”
“I do, monsieur,” Nadira set the wine down on the table. “Will he be in irons?”
“No, but he will be my prisoner until I release you.”
Nadira leaned down to look at Montrose. “I understand.”
Conti passed a hand over his face and sighed. He turned to Father Matteo. “We will discuss terms, Father. What do you wish done with the body?”
“A proper Christian burial, of course.” Father Matteo made a point of looking out the window and away from the twisted body of Father Septimus.
Conti raised his eyebrows. “And then?”
“I will retain custody of the documents.”
Conti nodded. He lurched to his feet, bringing Nadira up with him. He continued, “And I will provide everything you need for a safe and swift journey to Rome.” To Juan he said, “Keep your sword on Lord Montrose.” To William he said, “Have some servants help our guest prepare for departure, and send Raoul up with a shroud. Then I want you to go to the library and get the Lombard manuscript, the Wittenberg manuscript,” he touched each of his fingers in turn, “the Toledo breviary with the handwritten addendum and…” Conti looked pointedly at Father Matteo. The cleric nodded slowly. Conti sighed, “and the copy of the Hermetica of Elysium.”
William’s face was painful to see. Nadira could hardly bear the sight of his agony. She averted her eyes. She knew intimately the works that encompassed Lord Montrose’s ransom. She knew them like they were her friends. She had read them, felt their soft vellum, admired their illuminations and puzzled over their strange recipes. She knew that, for William, losing those documents was like having his heart pulled through his chest.
Father Matteo interrupted, “I’ll keep all the manuscripts we found in the murderer’s baggage as well. And I want the Byzantine Codex,” he added.
Conti’s face darkened, but he did not protest. After a long pause he nodded to the stricken William who then flew from the room before Father Matteo could make another hateful addition to the list.
When the door had closed behind him, Conti turned to Nadira. “Help Lord Montrose into my bed. We’ll keep him here for the time being. You will stay with him in this room until I come for you. Maria will bring you anything you need. Juan, you are to establish a post outside this door. No one but Maria is to go in or out without my order.” Nadira nodded as Juan sheathed his sword and strode to the door.
“Father,” Conti gestured with his hands that Father Matteo should precede him. Nadira did not move from her chair until both men had stepped carefully around Septimus’ body and disappeared.
As soon as the thick bolt clanked in the jam Nadira was on her knees beside Montrose, still prone upon the thick floorboards. “My lord,” she put her hands on his face. He opened his eyes for her, but she did not see any life in them.
“I am dead,” he said.
“No, no. Father Matteo and Conti have spared you.”
“You are naïve.”
“No. Did you hear? Could you hear them? Monsieur has ransomed you…”
“Ransomed me?” Montrose rose up to kneel beside her. He leaned heavily on the table leg as she had done. He stared into her face.
“With what?” he asked dangerously.
She flinched. “A copy of the Hermetica.”
“No!” He was on his feet and to the door, leaping over the body of the priest. She knew the door was bolted. He slammed against it with his shoulder.
“Stop! Please!” She cried. “He has only a copy. He can do nothing with it. It contains instructions for some elixirs. The rest is not meaningful without the endpapers. Let him have it.” She thought of the bruises and welts she had washed so tenderly the night before. He was in no shape to be throwing himself against anything.
“My lord,” she begged, placing her body between him and the planks of the solar’s door. He ended the assault on the boards. Breathing heavily, he stooped over, his hands on his thighs, then sank to his knees, leaning his head against the door. Nadira bent to touch his shoulders.
“You are exhausted, and I fear for your life. It is madness…” she did not know how to continue. What she wanted was for him to lie down in monsieur’s bed as instructed. She wanted him to be asleep when the gardeners came for the corpse. She wanted him to obey her. She wanted him safe. She wanted him.
This revelation made her stand up straight. She had made the decision. Monsieur had asked her, ‘Do you want him?’ There could be no halfway answer, no maybes. She had, with one sentence, ransomed this man for a fortune in manuscripts. Someone else’s fortune. Why? At the time, she only knew that she did not want him to go to the Black Friars. Now she put a hand out to steady herself against the door, her arm only inches above Montrose’s head. What price did she just pay? The skin on her arms tingled.
She did not try to steady her voice. “My lord,” she said shakily, “you will come to the bed.” She did not expect him to respond, and he didn’t. She reached down and put her hands under his arms, tugging. “My lord,” she repeated.
Reluctantly he leaned against the door, unfolding himself to his full height, staggering in his weakness. He towered over her. Nadira encircled his waist with her arms careful of his ribs, and led him to the great curtained bedstead. He followed where she led without protest, collapsing finally on the soft down bedding that covered monsieur’s thick straw mattress.
With each touch of her hand, he obliged by moving his body where she directed. She laid him out as though he were a child, arranging his limbs and bringing the coverlet up to his chin. When she looked at his face, his eyes frightened her. They looked dead to her, like he had passed some point where she and the room and the tower were no longer a part of his life. When she had him where she wanted him, she climbed in beside him, standing to pull the thick red draperies around the bed. She did not want to see the gardeners do their grisly work. Already she heard noises in the hall. Part of her plan was to make it difficult for Montrose to bolt when they opened the door. She wasn’t sure he could make the rush, but she knew Juan’s sword would make certain Montrose never made it to the stairs. She sat on the edge of the bed near his head, ready to fall on him should he move. The blue eyes had told her that he would welcome death. She had seen the same message in his brother’s eyes; so similar, yet so different.
“My lord?” she whispered, stroking his hair.
“Hmm,” he murmured.
“You will stay here, in this bed.” She put her other hand on his chest to emphasize her words as the door opened. Nadira peeked through the slit in the heavy fabric. Three men in dirty tun
ics and muddy guilloches entered with a length of white cloth. Nadira let the drape fall back. It was dark inside, and the air close around her.
“They are taking the body away,” she whispered.
“They will not let me live.” His voice was softer than usual.
“They promised.”
He made a desultory sound in his throat. “You place great store in men’s promises, do you not?” The soft voice broke. “You little fool.”
She felt her way to his cheek, stroked him. His hand came up to capture hers. Breathlessly she watched as he brought her tiny hand to his mouth and brushed her blackened fingertips over his lips. She watched with amazement as one tiny tear leaked from his eye and tracked its way down the side of his face into the pillow as he whispered,
“What will they do to you when I am dead?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CONTI allowed William and Nadira to tend Montrose in the solar. Nadira fed him, bathed his wounds and altered some clothing for him that William had obtained from somewhere in the tower. Probably monsieur’s, she thought as she fingered the fine weave.
Montrose slept almost continually. She had to awaken him to feed him the porridge and broths Maria brought her. After eating he would drop to sleep again. Nadira lay beside him, listening to his snores. A fever had warmed him on the second day alarming her, but the heat did not intensify and by the fourth day she was certain he would fully recover. The morning of the fifth day Maria woke Nadira with the news that she would be expected in the library after breakfast. She dressed quickly after waking Montrose and giving him his breakfast. Juan passed her through the door and she made her way to the top floor, slapping the trap with her palm as she reached it. William opened it and handed her up through the hole.
“Nadira, monsieur wants us to continue with the copying. In fact, he seemed annoyed at our recent disturbance. He has issued me two thick candles of beeswax, mind you, not tallow. He expects us to make up for the lost time, even after sunset.” He watched her face carefully, as though afraid she would be angry.
Nadira brushed down her skirts; coming through the trap always covered her with dust. “Certainly, William. My lord is doing much better. He does not need any more coddling.”
William sighed with relief. “I am thankful to hear that. I’ve set out the next group of manuscripts.”
Nadira went to her place by the window. The table was laid out even more carefully than usual. She sat at the bench, pulled the first leaf of paper, and positioned it in the mirror’s reflected light. William took his place and sharpened his quill. She read to him the first line of a Hebrew parable about a father’s love for his son. As she read, translating carefully and slowly from Hebrew to Castilian, William copied her words into Latin, for he was an expert at that language. They paused every so often to read back what was translated to make certain the meaning remained. Sometime they discussed the choice of a certain word, sometimes their work stopped, as there seemed to be no corresponding word in Latin for a Hebrew or a Moorish one. Nadira would have to think about the last time she heard the word used, and describe its meaning to William. Sometimes these conversations moved into new territory.
“What do you think this means, Nadira: ‘chase the little man, catch him up, make him squeal, force him to tell you everything.”
Nadira made a face. “I don’t know. Perhaps some kind of fairy or elf?”
William frowned. “I don’t want to put that in ink. That document is in Moorish? Yes?” Nadira nodded. This document was linked to others that seemed to be instructions for creating potions of some kind. “Maybe it is not really ‘little man’. What else could that word be?”
Nadira read the line again.
“Try to translate into a different language. Instead of Castilian try,” he paused, thinking, “What other languages do you know?”
“I am only fluent in Castilian and Moorish. I can read most Hebrew as well, but do not speak it. I can understand Frankish if I am in a room where it is spoken and if the men are slowed down with wine, otherwise I have trouble. I can understand most English and some Greek, but I cannot read or write those languages well.”
William looked at her with admiration. “No wonder monsieur speaks of you as if you were a great treasure.”
Nadira smiled. “I cannot take much credit for this, William. Except for severe and unpleasant lessons in Hebrew, I learned these languages imperfectly and incompletely. After all, it would have been more reasonable to teach me fine Latin, do you think? I could have gotten by much better.”
William moved over to her side of the table. He pulled a heavy book down from the stand behind her and opened it to the middle, leaning closely over her shoulder. “Here is the Plato. It was copied in a clear and straight hand. Sometimes the writers use a slanted and linked script that is hard for beginners. Their words run together making deciphering difficult for the uninitiated.” He pointed to the text. “This one is easy. The writer separated each word with a space between them.“
Nadira leaned over the book, feeling the creamy white pages. William read it slowly to her, his ink-stained fingers lightly touching each word as a lover might stroke his mistress. He read it in Latin, then Castilian for her, indicating each word with his finger. His voice was smooth and even. She did not stop him but allowed him to turn the pages one by one. Then suddenly his voice thickened and he stopped.
“What is it?” she looked up alarmed. She had lost herself in the philosopher’s arguments, enjoying the dialogue between this man Socrates and his student Glaucon.
William wiped his eyes and closed the book.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, replacing the book on its stand.
“What’s wrong, William?”
“I’ve forgotten why we are up here, Nadira. Reading this book is for pleasure only. Look outside.” Nadira glanced up. The sun was nearing the western mountains. He was right. Normally this time of day they would have moved their work across the room to sit at the western side of the tower and use the light from the fading sun until the last beam disappeared behind the crest of the familiar peaks. William spread his hands. “We have spent the afternoon discussing philosophy instead of copying. Monsieur will be angry.”
Nadira tried to smile reassuringly. “Let us finish the Moorish medicine page. We are nearly done. When monsieur comes in, we can show him this work. Perhaps use the translations to prepare something in the kitchen. He will not even notice we have not produced as much as normal.”
William considered this and decided it might work. He helped Nadira carry their things to the other side of the tower room. Nadira picked up the Moorish scroll again. William smoothed out his paper and dipped his pen. She read in soft measured tones, allowing extra time between lines for William to catch up. Her ears monitored his progress by the sound of the scratch of the quill on paper. When the scratching stopped, she looked up to see him examining his right hand and the quill he held delicately in his fingers.
“What is it, William? Do you have a cramp?”
“No. I’m just thinking.”
Nadira laughed. “You are always thinking. You are the thinkingest man I have ever known. How do you sleep at night? You must drive your bedmate to violence.”
William spoke as if he did not hear her, his eyes fixed on his fingers. “I watched you change Lord Montrose’s dressing yesterday.” He glanced up at her. “Will his thumb heal, do you know?”
“I think it will. It looks better each day. The swelling has gone down. Why?”
“What would I do if I lost the use of my hand?” he wondered.
“Oh, William.”
“No. I mean, has Lord Montrose thought about it? Has he said anything to you about using his hand again?”
“Not really, I mean, he does use it. He did use it…” she trailed off remembering what he did to Septimus with his bare hands.
“I was just thinking that for a swordsman to lose his right hand would be like me going blind. I could not b
ear it.”
“You might be surprised what one can bear,” she answered bitterly, not liking where this was going.
“I would not. I have thought about it before.”
“You worry too much.”
“No. I once had a terrible headache that lasted hours. I could not see even a lighted candle put to my face. I was terrified.”
“But it went away.” Nadira snapped the manuscript impatiently, reminding William what he was supposed to be doing.
“Yes,” he ignored her. “When the headache was gone my vision returned, but I spent an afternoon in hell, Nadira. So now I am supposing: what is Lord Montrose thinking right now while we were here enjoying Plato.” His eyes were sad as he watched his fingers flex. Nadira sighed as she reached across the table and squeezed his hand gently.
“A moment ago you were afraid of monsieur’s wrath. You have your mind on everything except your task. Is this document so dull?” She rattled the paper in her other hand. “Soon it will be time for supper. My lord is well enough to join us this evening. Perhaps we can talk about his hand and put any fears he may have to rest.”
William proved to be prophetic. When Nadira went to fetch Montrose for supper in the hall, she found him sitting alone in the near darkness, examining his hand in the light of a single candle.
“My lord?” she asked him. “Are you in pain?”
He glanced up at her briefly. “Will this heal, Nadira? Do you know?”
His words were so like William’s that Nadira faltered. Alarm spread across Montrose’s face. “Tell me!” The chair scraped the floor as he got to his feet.
“No, yes, I mean, sit down. Let me look at it.” Obediently he sat and held the hand out for her to see. He had unwound the strips of linen and removed the splints; they lay in a heap on the table. She took his hand, careful of the thumb, and turned it in the candlelight. The thumb was still purple, but the swelling had reduced to merely a minor distortion of the digit. The remnant of the crushed nail had fallen off days ago. He winced as Nadira ran the tip of her finger lightly over the joint. She realized he was holding his breath. “My lord, there is no sign of poison, and the swelling is reduced considerably. These are the signs of a good heal.”
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 20