They passed through a low door into a chamber that looked like Salerno in miniature, with charts on every wall, stacks of books and racks of bottled herbs and oils. Two people looked up at their entrance: Brigit and Gretchen, the former looking blank and returning to her work, a quill in hand. The latter met Elisha’s glance and lifted her chin, her eyes flashing and her presence heating with power as if she expected him to attack.
“Good day, ladies.” The barber bowed to both, smiling. “Found everything have you?”
“Our studies are progressing well,” Gretchen told him, sparing a smile for him, but a fleeting one that vanished again as quickly.
“What do you study, madam?” Elisha asked.
“Medicine.” Gretchen reached for a book and flopped it open.
The barber flinched and shrugged. “Usually she’s so kind. Guess we interrupted.”
“Or she found something that doesn’t agree with her.” He had not seen her for months, since she escorted Brigit away from the vale of springtime where the baby had been born. Brigit studying medicine and growing close with the Pope’s physician—what could that mean? Nothing good, certainly not for the Pope.
The barber cleared a little space on a counter and started fetching out the ingredients for a poultice, starting with oil of turpentine. Elisha nudged that aside with one finger. “Try oil of roses instead, and a bit of egg.”
“I don’t see how that’s advisable.”
“Turpentine burns—surely that suggests that using it to take the heat out of my skin would hardly be effective.”
The fellow shook his head and found the other ingredients Elisha asked for, mixing them to his patient’s specifications, but with his shoulders hunched and his face set the whole time. Still, Elisha needed someone with two good hands to do the compounding and the wrapping, at least until he could perform his own little miracle and heal his palms with magic. Had he looked like that in his arrogant early years as a barber, forced to do the bidding of the surgeons and physicians?
As the barber applied the poultice and started wrapping, Elisha asked, “Can you read?”
“Some. A lot, really.” The young man kept his gaze averted. “Sometimes read in here, when I’ve got the time.” That flash of a nervous smile, caught out in something he was likely not allowed to do.
“When this plague is over, go to medical school,” Elisha told him. “I’ll bet you know better than the doctors how to heal most things, but they get all the money and all the respect that should be your due.”
The barber gave his knot a careful twist, then looked up. “You really think so?”
“Oh, aye. I’ve been where you are. There’s nothing harder than having to take orders from fools.”
“Master Guy is no fool.” The barber caught up his supplies and rattled them back into their places, then hesitated. “But some of the others.” He shook his head, then returned to Elisha’s side. “Fleas, you say?” He started toward the door. “You asked after Father Pierre Roger. He’s down here. Still barely breathing.” He gave Elisha entry to the room, then a wave of his hand as he exited.
The narrow chamber had a sloping roof, and a peaked window that looked into the palace yards below. Father Pierre lay on his side on a pallet, looking pale, his breath hitching. His gaze travelled the room, rising up to Elisha’s face, with a flicker of recognition. A long bruise marked his cheek.
Elisha knelt beside him. “Father, I was so sorry to hear you were injured.”
“The Jews . . . safe,” the priest managed on his shallow breaths.
“You did well.”
“Could go to . . . my rest.” His eyes shut on a longer blink, his hand fumbling the sign of the cross then dropping back to the blanket. “Not asking that . . . of God.”
“I should hope not. May I examine you?”
A slight nod, and Elisha moved closer. From the ring he wore, his single talisman, Elisha conjured his own healing, encouraging the burns to cool and the skin to knit. He gently lay a hand on Father Pierre’s shoulder, using the priest’s unblemished hands to create the affinity and heal his own. That done, his fingers moved more easily. “You can’t lie on your back?” He guided the coverings away from the priest’s bare back and found more bruising in a broad swath across his spine. “Never mind, I see why. You fell when they attacked the boat, and you landed on something, is that right?”
With the most delicate touch of his fingers, Elisha ran his hand along the priest’s spine, sending his awareness into the other man’s flesh. The priest’s back and face ached, and fear washed through his body with every tiny, shallow breath, never to walk, never to preach, never to speak the prayers and blessings of his Lord. Elisha sent him comfort.
In spite of the bruising, there was no obvious sign to explain Father Pierre’s breathing distress. And, as the barber had said, Master Guy was no fool, he would have noticed most things. The priest’s feet moved restlessly, so it was not as straightforward as a broken back—thank God: that was an injury Elisha could not overcome.
That left the small things. All of those little structures of the body that the plague exploited, things he’d not been aware of before he tracked the course of the plague through his own vessels. Then the sense of wrongness pulsed against his fingers, a tiny cramp in his own spine, so small that, if he had not stretched his attunement to the utmost, he might not have noticed at all. Given the heavy bruising of the priest’s body and his distress in breathing, Father Pierre likely hadn’t noticed. The pressure of a hand against an injured bone could diagnose a myriad of problems in the patient’s reaction, but only if that reaction could be interpreted outside the background of any other pain. This felt so small as to be almost nothing, a pinching or a pressure in the filaments of the spine rather than a break or a pain. Elisha settled his hands, waiting for the next breath, and gave a gentle nudge, using his own spine to guide his magic to relieve the pressure. The bones shifted ever so slightly, releasing the trapped filaments.
Father Pierre gasped, then expelled a long, shaky breath. He gasped again, dragging greedily at the air, his chest rising and falling. His hand making the sign of the cross once more, eyes damp with gratitude. “Father,” he whispered.
Drawing back his attunement to Father Pierre’s injuries, Elisha found the looming presence of someone, or something, more; a surge of interest that had him spin about, already reaching for the salted blade in his boot.
Flanked by a few soldiers, a fleshy older man stood in the doorway wearing a habit of white so pure it would hurt to gaze upon for too long. A curious hat with golden ridges crowned his head, and Elisha’s throat went dry as he met the eyes of the Pope himself.
Chapter 30
For a moment, Elisha froze, then dropped his gaze to the floor, sinking back to his knees.
“So you are the man I’ve heard so much about—the barber, the doctor, the murderer, the king. Defender of the Jews, offender of the cardinals. I have been told under no circumstances to allow you to come before me, and I have been told, by all means, that I should do so. What under Heaven am I to make of it?” Pope Clement had a deep, rich voice well-suited to singing, and Elisha could not tell if he meant this as a rebuke. “At the very least, my son, I am intrigued.” The Pope chuckled.
He stepped nearer, his pearl-stitched slippers peeking from beneath his dazzling robe. Four soldiers in his retinue, hot with the potential for violence, and two clerics, shimmering with devotion, and one mancer. Another soldier? Or a cleric? Until invited to do so by the Holy Father, Elisha dare not look up to find out.
“Pierre, my son, how does the day find you?”
“Much improved, Holy Father,” the priest replied. “This man seems to have found the difficulty.” He coughed a little, then continued, “By the grace of God, I believe he has healed me of the worst.”
“Then you shall shortly be on your feet and able to present yo
ur petition. Excellent!”
“Seeing that Pierre is improved, Your Holiness, we should move on. It does not to do linger in hospitals,” said the voice of Cardinal Renart.
The Pope stepped back. “Very well.” Cloth rustled, though he did not move again, and Elisha guessed he was blessing Father Pierre. “Come with me.” He moved away, then said, “Doctor, with me. I am not accustomed to asking twice.”
Elisha scrambled to his feet and hurried after as the papal party moved from the chamber. An audience with the Pope, indeed, but with Renart right there—what could he possibly say that would be heard? And how could he determine if the mancers held sway over the Pope as well as the kings? While claiming a kingdom required merely controlling the next heir and removing the monarch, claiming the papacy would require manipulating enough of the cardinals to force their choice of candidate into the Holy See.
“Thank you, Your Holiness,” Elisha managed.
Pope Clement laughed again. “Ah, I see he does have a voice, although his Latin is weak.”
“Yes, Your Holiness, forgive me.”
Clement’s neck and figure suggested a man who enjoyed his food and wine, while his clothes showed little sign of austerity—only silk could crinkle like that, and the pearls on his slippers alone must have been costly. At his chest hung a golden cross embellished with jewels that winked as they passed the narrow windows.
“Now that the priest is well, Your Holiness, I hope that you will no longer feel it necessary to pay these visits,” Renart said as he led the way down the corridor. “People will talk, even priests, and in the circumstances, it seems more fitting to give them no reason to doubt—”
“To doubt what, my son? My interest in every member of my flock, especially those who are shepherds themselves?” The Pope levelled a hard stare at Renart. “The Lord knows when a sparrow falls, is it not my duty to raise up those sparrows that I, in my limited wisdom, can reach?” Renart turned toward the stairs, but the Pope kept walking. “I should like to visit the ramparts today. It is so rare that my physician allows me outside; I intend to take full advantage, even if we cannot go hunting.”
“If Your Holiness would like to plan for a hunt, I am sure that some accommodation can be made, now that summer is nearly upon us. In the meantime, your physician and your cardinals, not to mention your flock, should prefer if you preserve your health.” Renart stood with bowed head, hands clasped together as if in pleading.
“In truth, Cardinal, I suspect some of those same cardinals would just as soon proffer themselves to take my place in the shoes of the fisherman if that health should fail.” His round face for the first time lost its air of amusement, his eyes keen.
Renart bowed deeper. “Your Holiness, put that thought far from your mind. We pray for your continued health and leadership in these difficult times, it is only that we do not always find our concerns are openly heard, Your Holiness.”
“Very well then, tell me your concerns should I walk the ramparts.”
“Master Giovanetti seeks your approval on the sketches for the east wall of the chapel before he proceeds with the frescoes—”
“I have approved all the rest of them, and he has done a fine job. Tell him to proceed.” He waved his hand, and Renart made a soft rumble of exasperation. The Pope’s lips quirked up. “What else, my son? Ah, yes, the coral tree for tonight’s banquet—indeed, it must be installed or how shall we detect poisons? As for the petition of the Bishop of Paris, I am still considering it, and I shall consider it all the better if I am allowed to walk in the sun and enjoy the majesty of the Lord’s creation.” He gestured toward the unseen sky beyond the vaulted roof.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
Pope Clement continued in the direction he had chosen and Renart started after, but the Pope turned, holding up his hand. “I believe you promised to arrange the hunt, and to communicate with my artist.” He pointed toward the stairs.
Renart stood a moment longer, his posture stiff, before he finally spoke. “I am sure another man could carry such messages, Your Holiness.”
“Indeed, but I have asked you.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.” Slowly, as if it pained him, he bent a knee and kissed the Pope’s ring before he departed.
The Pope’s amusement returned. “Each must serve in his own way. Myself, I serve the Lord and my flock, and I must insist that even a cardinal do likewise.” He set out again, one of the other priests hurrying ahead to open a door onto a brilliant day, letting in a rush of sunlight and warmth that nearly swept away the Valley’s chill. The other cleric spread a short red cape over the Pope’s shoulders, its fur lining as white as his robes. The Pope stepped slowly out as if savoring the moment, his robes all the more dazzling in the sunlight, and Elisha followed him onto the narrow walkway between the crenellated wall and the peaked roof of the palace. They walked along a section of older stone, flecked with bits of lichen, the metal of the roof weathered to a softer gray. The palace comprised two roughly rectangular yards, bordered by vast stone buildings. The far side of the second yard had a number of scaffolds in place around the towers and a hall with elaborate windows which Elisha guessed would be a church. While the windows on this end of the palace pierced plain stone, those on the newer construction featured delicately carved arches to frame them.
They entered another doorway and climbed a stair up and up until they emerged onto a square roof with a peak at the center and a crenellated walkway all around. A pair of archers faced them, bowing deeply when the Pope emerged. He waved his retinue to stay by the door and led Elisha down the walkway. The wind whipped at them and the sound of the windmills hummed into the air. At the far corner, they stopped, the Pope leaning on the wall, drinking in the view. A broad bow of the river partly circled the city of Avignon, with the king’s bridge pointing across to a land of green pastures and staked vineyards. A promontory thrust out from the palace, home to the half-dozen windmills Elisha had been hearing, grinding away. Even if the world were ending, people still needed bread.
“Your Holiness.” Elisha approached hesitantly, trying to frame what he must say.
“Yes, my son?”
“This pestilence that spreads across the land, it is no accident, nor is it divine in origin.”
The Pope frowned at him. “Everything is divine in origin, my son.”
Elisha mastered the frustration that rose at this. “But it is manipulated by men, evil sorcerers who want the wealth and power that the deaths and the madness will concentrate. They care nothing for either Heaven or Earth, they don’t care how many people die because of them—if half the world is destroyed, that will only make it easier for them to control it.”
“You sound like a flagellant.” At a loss, Elisha shook his head, and the Pope went on, “Like those preachers in the streets who claim that Revelations is upon us, the rapture. That we are all such sinners we cannot avoid the darkness to come.”
“But it doesn’t strike just sinners, it takes children, priests, monks, everyone.”
The Pope smiled. “You take a rather tight definition of ‘sinners,’ my son. We are all of us sinners, even myself, even the gracious queen some are claiming for the mother of the new savior.”
“You think God wants them to die, even if men are the ones who made it happen?”
“God does not want as men want. This is His world, His creation. The choices of man, indeed have sullied it—one need only to consider Eve’s apple or Cain’s murder to see that. We seek the redemption He offers, and the example He gave us in the Lord Jesus Christ. God is not invested in the flesh and the lives of men, but in their souls.”
“So we should simply stand back and let everyone die? How can you do that?”
“Come, Doctor, and see all my domain, all that the Lord entrusts me to oversee.” The Pope waved Elisha closer, spanning the horizon with its rich farmlands, fine vineyards and new stone h
ouses, the arms of the windmills swooping through the breeze. “There, do you see? Do you see it all?”
Elisha’s divided vision overlaid that landscape of wealth and beauty with a map of pain and dying, the Valley swirling here and there as people died, stalking the fields of France like a thunderstorm. “Yes, Your Holiness, I see it—”
“No! You see nothing.” Pope Clement turned on him, pressing his palm to Elisha’s breast, a brand of heat and faith that seared into his old scars. “Here is my domain, and no one sees it all except the Lord.”
Elisha caught his breath, pinned by the power of the old man’s presence. A prince of the church, decadent and rich, enjoying his command of a cardinal and looking forward to the pleasures of the hunt as much as any lord of England, and yet, he radiated his belief, a truth so deeply held that it shone, and drew Elisha toward that certainty, a certainty he had not felt since he was a child. Elisha longed for it. He longed to so believe in something, to so trust it, that he could abandon himself to that faith and rest in that knowledge in even the darkest of days.
The Pope’s eyes searched Elisha’s face, his hand remaining as if he could likewise search Elisha’s heart. “You worry for the flesh, Doctor, as well you might—such is your training that you must try everything to heal a man. So be it. And if you heal him, then it is God’s will that it be done. It is not my place to intervene in the problems of the flesh, but of the soul.” At last, he drew back, as if withdrawing a crutch from a wounded man to see if he could stand alone.
Elisha felt shaky without his touch, letting the stone at his back and under his feet support him as he remembered how to breathe.
Elisha Daemon Page 26