CHAPTER NINETEEN
ICY shafts shot through Nadira’s limbs. William paled to an unhealthy gray. The sounds of the tower guards assembling before the great gate drew them all to the other side of the room. Below they could see Conti on his charger before the portcullis flanked by Juan and his men, also mounted.
“Shall we flee?” William asked anxiously.
“Where? They have closed and bolted the tower.” Montrose swung his gaze about the room. “I have a dagger or two. A knife, a stiletto. None will aid us against men in armor carrying crossbows and broadswords and fire. I must have a sword. I’m going below to get one.”
William nodded, the lump in his throat bobbing.
“Should we come too?” Nadira did not want to stay in the tower room.
“No. It is easier to defend a high place than a low one. If you must, you can escape to the roof. William’s bucket is still outside. Use the rope.”
Voices below ended their conversation. The rain muffled the words. As Nadira strained to hear the exchange, Montrose disappeared through the trap. On the ground, the army surrounded the tower. Nadira watched as the mounted men circled the building in pairs. Each man glittered with weapons; a few were in full armor. Behind the mounted men was a company of archers on foot. Nadira guessed there were perhaps a hundred soldiers. The clanging of the metal, the sound of the horses and the rain on the roof kept Nadira from hearing any of the exchange. Instead, she strained her eyes to watch. She willed herself to read the faces of the men closest to her. William put a comforting arm around her waist. She hugged him back. His meager warmth did nothing to steady the trembling chill that had started in her heart and now spread throughout her body.
The leader of the armed men rode forward with his lieutenants. His helmet sported a tuft of feathers dyed a gaudy scarlet. She strained to make out the standard that wilted limply from the bearer’s tall staff. It was futile. The two men spoke, occasionally gesturing. Nadira could only see Conti’s back. He sat his horse stiffly in his best velvets. The feathers in his hat drooped against his cheeks. The leader of the armed men drew his sword. Nadira’s hand went to her throat, behind her she heard heavy boots coming up the stairs. Montrose leaped through the trap, slamming it shut behind him. He reached for one of the benches, brandished it over his head and brought it down with a crash against the flagstones of the wall. William and Nadira both jumped. Montrose pulled the splintered wood apart and selected a stout piece to slide between the rungs of the trap’s lock. His long hair swung from his eyes, his face wild.
“They are coming. There are no swords left in the armory.”
Nadira’s gaze flickered to his hands. He was unarmed. They were helpless. She leaned out the window. The drawn sword of the enemy’s leader was making wide arcs in the air. Juan and his men had leaped into the melee. The three of them stared out of the window as the drama unfolded far beneath them. In the mass of mud and men, Nadira picked out the bright colors of Conti. He lay face down in the mud before the portcullis, unmoving. Horses stepped over him, men moved around him, their arms waving flashes of metal in the drizzle. There were barely fifty men in Conti’s guard. They were his personal guards, not an army. It would not end well.
With Conti down, perhaps dead, there was no one to speak for them. They watched from the high window as one by one Juan’s men fell into the ruddy mud. The portcullis came up. It would not be long. Montrose took her in his arms and kissed her long and tenderly. She allowed tears to fall freely from her eyes into his beard. His massive embrace enveloped her entirely. She felt William’s hand on her arm. The sound of heavy boots on the steps below beat heavily in her ears like the tolling of bells. Montrose pulled her and William to the great cabinet where Conti had kept his curiosities.
“Stay here. Use the cabinet as a shield as long as possible. If you must, leap from the west window. The ground there is paved and will kill you quickly. You risk a lingering death from the other windows, for the ground beneath is soft. Make sure you dive head first.”
“No! Robert!” Nadira held him as he tried to pull away. Already there was pounding at the trap. Then a long pause. No doubt they were bringing up a sturdier ram. Montrose cupped her chin in his left hand. He brought his mouth down to hers.
“Good-bye,” he whispered.
The trap flew open; splintered wood sailed across the room. The ram flew up through the hole as well, crashing against the stones of the wall. The first man through the trap was kicked soundly in the neck with the pointed toe of Montrose’s thick boot. His sword clattered to the floor. Montrose had it in his left hand in moments as the second man came though the trap, more cautious than his companion. Nadira watched as the sword made a high arc, severing that man’s head from his neck.
William made a strangling sound beside her. Blood covered the floor and stairs in a frothy fountain as the third man emerged, wisely with a shield over his head. Montrose’s back swing crashed heavily on the shield with a sharp whack. The soldier was able to get inside the tower room, despite the slippery footing. He and Montrose exchanged blows, steel to steel. A fourth and fifth man emerged through the bloody opening in the floor. William and Nadira crouched low behind the opened cabinet door.
The grunts and clatter of the struggle faded in her ears as Nadira’s eyes fixed themselves on Montrose’s dancing body. He was wearing tunic and trousers. He had not a glimmer of protection against the flying metal.
Already he was bleeding from a dozen cuts. Nadira watched incredulously as he struck a soldier with a mighty blow, then blocked another with the blade of the sword. He kicked the closer of the remaining two soldiers down the trap. Nadira heard the metallic clanking of the soldier’s heavy body bouncing down the stairs to the floor below. The last soldier was more formidable. He was clever with his feet, sparring only when there was no danger of slipping in the blood that covered the wooden beams and never taking his eyes from Montrose’s.
Nadira looked about for something heavy to strike him with. Beside her, William was on his knees. She made out the airy sounds of his “Ave Maria”. He would be no help. A crash brought her back to the duel. The soldier had picked up a stool and had flung it at Montrose’s head. Montrose was still holding his own with the sword left -handed, but Nadira could see he was weakening. Blood flowed down both legs in long red streams from cuts on his waist and hips where his enemy’s deflected strokes had slashed him. He slipped in the puddles it made at his feet. Soon he would fall.
She made her way slowly toward the writing table. The iron candleholders were nearly as tall as she. They were heavy enough to be a formidable weapon, yet light enough for her to wield. She had her hands around the nearer of the two when she heard Montrose cry out, his sword was knocked from his hand by a slash from his opponent. The blood-spattered weapon slid toward her at an alarming speed, spinning like a wheel. Montrose fell back from the blow.
Nadira rushed over to him and quickly thrust her candlestick into the soldier’s belly to keep him off Montrose. He was not expecting the blow and bent over double, falling clanking to his knees. She reached out with the candleholder as the spinning sword swept past her. The heavy sword crashed against the iron bar and slid sideways. The pommel spun into her hand neatly. With a great effort, she whipped it toward Montrose, who was unsteadily regaining his feet.
She saw Montrose reach out with his right hand for the weapon; his left had been slashed by his opponent’s blade when he was disarmed. The gaping wound flowed bright red down his arm, now hanging limp and useless. The soldier picked up the candleholder with one hand, brandished his sword with the other. Nadira reached for the second candleholder. She was not prepared to watch Montrose cut down.
The soldier had learned something too. His eyes were on Nadira now. As Montrose struggled to get a grip on the heavy sword with his weak hand, the soldier strode past him without a glance, focused on Nadira. She raised the candlestick in a defensive position, determined to ward off the expected blow. The blow never came;
instead, the soldier dropped his candleholder, reached for hers, and caught her other wrist with his free hand.
Nadira struggled to free herself from the soldier’s hold, twisting her body against him. Her wrist was in a vice; the soldier pressed her against his side, the edges of his armor pinched her. Montrose advanced on them with the sword in a bloody hand. Nadira jerked her arm to bring the soldier between her body and Montrose’s sword.
With a slash, the soldier was brought to his knees and Nadira was knocked to the floor. Montrose brought the point of the sword down through the collar of the soldier’s gorget, skewering him. He had not the strength to withdraw the blade as the dead man toppled forward. Montrose went down on one knee as the weight of the dead soldier pulled him to the floor, gasping. He was finished. Blood flowed from more cuts on his arms and chest; his tunic was red with it.
She reached for him as two more men came up through the trap. Montrose staggered to his feet and she moved behind him. She held his tunic twisted around her hands holding tightly to his waist, pressing herself up against his back. The great blow had ripped his tunic from shoulder to hips, laying bare strips of flesh in its wake. Montrose’s blood covered her hands and arms as she clutched him. He seemed to waver, swaying slightly from side to side.
She circled his waist with her arms to steady him as more enemies approached them. These two new soldiers carried crossbows, the bolts in place and ready, the points aimed at Montrose’s chest. A final soldier emerged from the trap. He moved slowly, his sword sheathed, a commanding air to his movements. The dyed feathers on his helmet identified him as the leader Nadira had seen strike down Conti below. His eyes took in the bloody scene, coming to rest on Montrose.
“Lord Montrose,” he said. His eyes touched Montrose’s wounds. “I see you are no longer a threat.” He looked at Nadira. “Ah. The Prize. I am pleased to see you are undamaged.” He scanned the room. “Come out, priest!” he called to William. William peered from behind the cabinet. One of the bowmen strode to the case and lifted William by the cassock, dragging him to the center of the room. Two more men came up through the trap. The leader addressed them next.
“Pack up everything in this room. Everything, even the furniture. I want even the smallest splinter. Pack it all in the crates and load it all into the great wagon. Cover the lot with the sailcloth. Take care that nothing gets wet.” To Montrose he said, “I will be taking the girl now, my lord. Unhand her. She will not be harmed.”
Nadira clutched Montrose tight. “No, my lord. You promised. We will not be separated.” She looked out at the commander from behind Montrose’s shoulders like a squirrel on a tree. “Let us make for the west window. Now.” There was no reply. Nadira shook him. Instead of an answer, his body came down on her like felled timber. She set her feet solidly as he fell back against her, but he was too heavy. He brought her down with him, pinned by his weight. He lay senseless across her legs, his head lolling against her breasts, eyes closed, and skin white behind the bloody locks that striped his face.
Alarmed, Nadira smoothed the hair over his forehead and pressed the flesh under the corner of his jaw. The flutter of his heart bolstered her courage. The two bowmen lowered their weapons as the leader advanced toward them. He went down on one knee beside her.
“He is quite dead, isn’t he?” The leader brushed Montrose’s body with his gaze. “I should expect so. If not, he soon will be.”
Nadira did not answer. Through her thighs she could feel his breathing, faint but definite. He had lost too much blood to remain conscious. With good care he could survive, she ran her hands over his chest. If he could avoid wound rot and rest he would live. She could sew such cuts. Montrose had survived such cuts in the past; he had a map of battle scars on his body to prove his resilience. Nadira’s mind, in a panic, ran through all she knew, hot water, bandages, vinegar, honey. Her thoughts raced faster and faster, and then were brought to an abrupt stop as she finally heard the commander’s words. He saw a dead man before him.
She felt her rising hysteria ebb with a tide of tears. Her reaction seemed to satisfy the leader that she, too, believed Montrose was a corpse. The man pulled her roughly from beneath Montrose’s body and to her feet. The only sounds in the tower were her mournful sobs. If she cried loud enough, perhaps they would not hear Montrose’s slight breaths. “Take her to the wagon, get her some clean clothes, blood on a woman offends me. Leave the priest. He is of no consequence. After the books are packed up, burn the tower with the bodies in it.”
Nadira did not resist as she was handed to one of the soldiers. She was lowered through the trap. Her last sight was of William bending over Montrose’s body.
Once more strangers had stolen her.
Nadira opened her eyes a prisoner again. She did not attempt to stifle the fierce emotions raging inside her. Her eyes flashed at the face of the soldier who bore her in his arms. His leer disappeared quickly, replaced by alarm. Yes. Fear me, she thought. She kicked, but found she was securely bound. She bit at the rough cloth that had been squeezed between her teeth. She wriggled until her bearer had to stop and reposition her in his arms. He picked up speed as he neared the baggage wagons. He had not the courage to disobey his orders, but Nadira could see that he wanted to toss her in the wagon. Instead, he lay her softly down before tying her tightly to the wagon bed.
Another soldier got in and sat beside her, his booted heel on her rope. She could see the gray sky above her. The rain had ebbed to a mist. The men were preparing to fire the tower even in this damp. She watched the casements as torches moved up the spiral stairs. She especially watched the top floor. They stayed in her sight for only minutes before the lurching wagon tipped down on the path towards the valley below.
It was a long ride punctuated by frequent stops to rearrange harness, or select a clear path. Nadira had been cleaned up and dressed; she remained trussed on her back in a wagon. She stared straight up. She could hardly look anywhere else. Her anger had faded to a simmer, her mind to a saunter. She began to sense the meaning of the book’s curse. Conti had once said that if the book had been cursed he would have reaped his reward by now. She remembered the bright silk and velvet trampled in the mud. William, too, is tasting this fruit, she thought.
Her grief overwhelmed her. She thought longingly of the elixir and the peace it conveyed. She closed her eyes and imagined herself back floating. If she could just die here in this wagon. Her soul would be free. She smiled. I am finished with these troubles. Let me go. Before the darkness of her eyelids, Nadira could make out a tiny speck of light. As she stared at it, curious, it moved toward her, like a torch tossed in a well.
When it passed, she found herself floating above the wagon, greatly amazed. Her mind, as sharp as ever, immediately steered her to the tower room. The tower was empty. Soldiers were streaming down the stairs to escape the fires on each level. Nadira concentrated on Montrose. Where was he? She leaned willingly into the blur of movement that accompanied her request. She stopped, hanging above Montrose’s head. She breathed a sigh of relief. She put her hand through his heart. It was beating hard, she felt his mind working, his body struggling to function. He had revived when the smoke began to curl up the tower stairs. Now he was making his way down, his hand over his mouth. She moved to the window. The soldiers were gone. Where is William?
She flew to a huddled mass of brown wool. William was hiding in the middens at the base of the tower. Montrose needs you. She put her hand through his cowl. Look for him. She watched as William found him, collapsed at the base of the stairs. She could not hear their conversation, but understood from William’s behavior that he was going to get help from the village below. William lifted an arm and tried to pull Montrose out of the burning tower.
With as sharp crack, Nadira was shaken back into her body in the wagon. A soldier was removing her gag and offering her a heel of bread. She bit the bread with strong teeth, glaring at him the while. She knew something now. Her body was bound but not her mind. She spit
the crust at him.
Two day’s travel brought them to a small town near the shore. The men charged with her care spoke a language she did not know. It was sonorous and lilting. She found she liked the sound of it very much and could make out a few words as she listened. The men kept speaking of Fiorenza and Napoli. She assumed they were from the peninsula. She did not see the red-plumed leader. He did not appear to be in their party. In his stead was another leader. This one was silent and had the face of a toad. He was coarse in his movements, yet quick with his eyes. Nadira noticed that the soldiers did not ride near him and made wide swathes when they had to move past him. She made a point to stare at him whenever possible as her gaze seemed to cause him intense discomfort.
On the third day, she was loaded on a ship like cargo. She had three guards.
One was to bring her food and water, blankets and privy pots, one tested and re-tested her bindings, and the third stood over her, his eyes scanning the horizon back and forth. The three guards changed duties occasionally, though Nadira could not find a pattern to the variations. During the night, another man came to watch as they slept.
To her relief, she was not sent below decks, but sat in a kiosk near the stern where she could watch the waves and sea birds. She had tried twice more to travel to her friends, but was thwarted each time. She came to realize she did not need the elixir to travel, but was dismayed that she apparently could not go as she willed. However, her dreams were rich with visions of William and Montrose. In her heart, she knew they were not captives, though she worried ceaselessly for them both. The sea breeze filled the sails as a steady wind drove them eastward.
One sunny morning the ship entered the tributary of a large river. Nadira was instructed to wash and dress in a fine gray linen gown, and then rowed to shore. She was escorted to a fine carriage, and though no one would answer her questions, she was able to discern a coat of arms above her head as she entered the vehicle. By evening she had arrived at a villa.
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 25