Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle

by E. C. Ambrose

  Blinking at the newcomer, the captain barked, “And who might you be?”

  “My name’s Brigit, my lord. My father holds the village yonder. I came down to see if I might offer assistance to His Majesty’s doctors.” Again, she smiled.

  This time, the captain stuck up his chin, taking her in, and nodded once. “Carry on, then.” He vanished inside.

  Lady Brigit closed the distance between herself and Elisha in graceful strides almost like dancing, her figure as fair as any whore back home in London, and fairer than many of the ladies. She wore well-made garments carefully embroidered—a task for those with few cares beyond the uniformity of their stitches. The sun warmed her creamy, indoor complexion and struck sparks from her long red-blonde hair, though her head seemed lop-sided somehow. Elisha squinted, then smiled in recognition. The hair on one side of her head was chopped just past her shoulder, raggedly cut off where it had been singed by the fire of two nights before. He bowed and straightened as she came before him, then his smile fell away as his mouth dropped open. He must look an idiot, he realized, but there was nothing to be done for it.

  Elisha’s hand flew to his cheek, feeling again the stroke of an angel’s wing. The breath had left him, and he felt suddenly light-headed though the sun might have stopped shining for all he knew. Those luminous eyes, shot with gold as if lit from within—or reflecting a fire, or meeting his own from the embrace of magnificent wings.

  “It’s you,” he breathed.

  Her hands leapt to her chest and Brigit started back with a quick intake of breath, the whites showing at her pale green eyes.

  “The fire,” he whispered.

  After a moment, the animation returned to Brigit’s face. Laughing too sharply, she smiled, pulling her hands away to smooth her fine skirt. “Of course, the fire. You must have seen me then.”

  Tilting his head to one side, Elisha frowned. “Aye, that I did, but I meant…” But what had he meant? That this woman was the image of a witch, burned at the stake twenty years ago? Shivering, he shook his head, feeling the brush of long hair against his bare skin. That brought another shiver, and he forced his eyes to look away. “Sorry.” He caught a shaky breath and let it out slow before taking another not quite so ragged as the first.

  “Yes, well, it’s about that that I came.”

  “To see me?” he asked, a giddy hope taking the place of his astonishment.

  With a negligent flip of her hair, Brigit said, “No, the physician, the man I spoke with afterward.”

  Elisha’s hope withered. “The physician. Of course.” It had been dark that night, and between that and her terror, no doubt she hadn’t got a good look at him. He pointed across the court. “He’s taken the cottage, though I think he’s gone out.”

  “Thanks,” she replied brightly, her expression still vague as if she had not quite recovered from whatever impact his words had brought upon her. “I’ll leave a note for him, then. Thanks,” she said over her shoulder as she left.

  Watching the gentle sway of her hips as she went, Elisha sighed, wiping a hand across his sweaty brow. She probably thought him a workman, out in the sun at such a time, laboring on behalf of the army. She rapped sharply on the cottage door, waited, and rapped again. As if summoned, the physician emerged from the base of the tower, noticed Brigit at the door of his cottage, and came forward, his imperious bearing falling away. With a hand draped casually upon her shoulder, he guided Brigit inside his cottage, and the door shut behind them.

  Elisha grumbled to himself. So she wasn’t all the proper woman she seemed, if she was willing to enter the man’s house alone and unaccompanied. Other men, like the assistant surgeon Matthew, looked up to Lucius for his long and distant education, but could his schooling draw on even a woman like that? Laughing at his own folly, Elisha hefted the pick again in both hands. Perhaps letters had some value after all.

  Before long, he started up a new song, and the soldiers joined in. Still, he had not made much progress when he became aware of Lisbet, standing nearby, gazing at him.

  Straightening, Elisha tipped his head to her, then realized it was about time for a break and crossed to the water, took a long draught, and splashed some over his head and shoulders. He shook back his hair, smoothing down the wild dark waves which had sprung loose from their bounds. Coming back from the cistern, he pulled the ribbon free so the mass of his hair fell all around him, then he gathered it all into one hand to bind it up again. To his surprise, Lisbet was still there. “Did you come to see me?”

  A flush coming to her cheeks, Lisbet said, “Oh, aye. I’ve found a barrel, as you asked.” Then she looked crestfallen as she said, “But it’s got a hole in the bottom as big as my hand. It’s the best I could find, though. Most others’re already in use.”

  With the briefest glance toward the physician’s cottage, Elisha said, “Show me. Maybe it can be repaired.”

  Bobbing a needless curtsey, Lisbet led the way into the dormitory and down a flight of stairs to a windowless basement.

  “You came down here?” Elisha peered into the darkness.

  With a giggle, Lisbet took up a candle from someplace. “I knew you needed it, so I looked everyplace I could go.”

  Casting her a look, Elisha nodded slowly. He would need to dissuade her of her interest in him more directly—if her brother the gunner didn’t appear from nowhere and take care of it himself. “Thank you. I’m sure all the men will appreciate your effort.”

  Her shoulders slumped a bit, but she brought him resolutely onward, then held up her light with a triumphant gesture. “There it is. Will it do?”

  Hunkering down, Elisha examined the barrel. Once, it had held wine but had clearly been put to many uses since. The hole gaped open just as Lisbet had told him, but he thought there must be some way to repair it. “It’s excellent, just the right size. Thank you.” Bending down, he took it in both arms, and followed her back to the surface. Lugging the musty thing into the hospital, he plopped it on the floor by Arthur’s chair.

  The mason, who had been resting from his exertions, lifted his chisel again and started pounding as if his life depended on it. Already, he’d demolished a good two inches of mortar all the way around.

  Elisha slapped his shoulder. “Excellent! Keep it up—within reason, of course.”

  “I’ll do that,” Arthur replied, then, under his breath, he said, “Teach them to put me by the yard—not yet a deadman.”

  “I need someone to put a patch to this hole,” Elisha called out. This time, there was no hesitation before two men volunteered and set to bickering over who could do it. One had a pierced chest, and wheezed out his protests, while the other shook a fist at him with half the fingers gone.

  “Either one, or both. Lisbet can help you get what you need.”

  The girl glowed at the mention of her name, and the hand he might have set on her shoulder hovered then slipped back to his side.

  “Back to work,” he mumbled, retreating into the sun.

  Once out the doors, he froze, his feet rooted to the spot.

  Up in the courtyard, Brigit paced near the cistern, drumming her fingers on it, then turning a circle as if looking for something. When her gaze fixed on him, her face lit up, and she came forward to meet him.

  Somehow, Elisha got his feet moving again, though he stumbled on the uneven stones. Too quickly, he grabbed the handle of the pick. “So you found him, then.”

  “I did, yes, and thank you again.” She tipped her head, her pale hands gripping each other in consternation. “You must think me completely daft. The fire.” She tossed her head. “It was you put your cloak over me.”

  “Aye, that it was.” He studied the ground as if he might count the weeds remaining between where he’d left off and the culvert.

  Soft fingers rested upon his forearm, and he looked up into the brilliance of her smile. “For that also, I owe you thanks. I was lucky not to be badly burned.”

  “You seem—that is, you look—fine.”
Elisha shook his head, chuckling. “That’s not what I mean at all, as no doubt you are aware.”

  Her laughter rang like the absent bells of the broken church and lifted his heart and his eyes back to her face. “Elisha Barber, is it? I had no idea a barber could be so silver-tongued.”

  Giddiness welling up in him, he muttered, “Tongue-tied, more like.”

  From the windows behind them, a chorus of rude noises and lewd offers echoed into the court.

  Elisha flushed, turning to focus an angry stare at his patients. “Enough! Be off with you, or I’ll discharge the lot of you!”

  “Besides,” Brigit called out, “you should know I’m spoken for.”

  The disappointed moans of the soldiers covered for Elisha’s own moment of loss, or so he hoped, before he faced her again.

  Her smile now seemed wistful. “Anyhow, I should be off myself.”

  “Aye, lady. I’m glad you’re well.”

  Nodding, Brigit turned away, picking her steps carefully across the court.

  Watching her go, Elisha’s heart made a lurch like none he’d ever felt. She was the image of the angel of his childhood—he could not simply let her leave. Before he could stop himself, he called after her, “My lady!”

  Brigit stopped and turned her head to look back at him. “What is it?”

  Arrested again by those gleaming eyes, Elisha wet his lips and lost his voice.

  She turned full to face him. “Well?”

  “I am a barber,” he said, foolish again, but what could be lost? He settled the pick and leaned one elbow on top, making every effort to relax. “So let me cut your hair.”

  Chapter 11

  Across the miles between them, Brigit stared, those luminous eyes searching his face for he knew not what. Just when he thought he must collapse beneath the weight of that stare, her face cleared, and she nodded slowly. “Yes, very well. I’ve no hurry.”

  Blinking at her, Elisha hesitated a moment, then leaned his pick against the cistern and approached her, cautiously, as if she might start up and flee. Indeed, the pulse leapt at her throat as he neared her, her eyes still roving. “I have shears in my trunk, and combs. Won’t be a minute.” His heart threatening to explode, he passed her by and entered the little door to his steeple. Quickly, he found the things he needed, threw on his fresh tunic, and emerged again into the sunlight to find her gone.

  Dazed, he drooped. Betrothed though she was—no, even if she were already wed—he must know her, he must find out how she came by those eyes and the face of an angel he watched burn. For a moment, in the sun, he thought he might have imagined her, or at least, transformed an ordinary woman on an ordinary errand into his angel. Then he heard laughter behind him and turned.

  Brigit popped her head out of the church door. “Well, then, I’m waiting!”

  “In there?”

  “Are you always so bright?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eyes.

  Elisha replied, “I always seem dimmer by daylight.” He gripped the shears and cocked his head in the direction of the hospital. “Wouldn’t you rather have others about?”

  With a cool smile, Brigit vanished into the church, her voice trailing over her shoulder. “I’m not afraid of you. What are you afraid of?”

  She was a whore; she had to be—no proper woman would speak so to a stranger. Vaguely deflated, Elisha followed, and found her seated on the mossy altar, swinging her bare feet above the flowers that carpeted the ruin. Her cast-off shoes lay to one side, along with the shawl she had held about her shoulders. The altar stood on a low rise which must once have been a platform of stone. A few stone benches stood around the walls, but the nave of the church held only flowers and fallen roofing, forming mounds for the delight of rabbits and weeds alike. At the far end, the arch of the main entrance stood empty, the hinges rusted into the air, lacking their doors. Two rows of columns marched along the sides, helping to support the high ribs of stone which soared overhead. The style of the church was new; light and lofty in comparison to the churches he knew. Back in London, they had torn down the older church to build just such a place, but of cathedral proportions. Fifty years later, only half-done, the place looked empty and forlorn. This church must only just have been built by the time it was abandoned. If things had gone badly with the fire in Brigit’s village, their own church might have ended up like this.

  Following his gaze, Brigit said, “The old lord deeded this land to the church, and they built their monastery here in my grandparents’ time. But the place had a reputation for healing disease. Victims came from miles around to pray here.”

  When her voice died away, Elisha saw her staring up where the roof should be.

  “There was an epidemic. Two or three survived, not enough to carry on, and the monastery was dissolved, the church deconsecrated.”

  The pale arch of her throat drew him nearer, watching it quiver as she spoke and breathed, the blouse she wore draping just barely upon her shoulders, the remaining long hair drifting down her back, caressing it like familiar hands. Lowering her chin, she smiled out the distant doorway. “It’s beautiful here. Like a church for the sky and the flowers.”

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. When the gaze swiveled around toward him, he looked away and came around behind her, dropping the shears on the altar beside her. He plied his comb through the softness of her hair, gently untangling the long ends.

  “It doesn’t bother you,” she asked. “Me sitting here?”

  Everything about her drove him to distraction, so that he must watch his hands every moment lest they take undue advantage. “It’s a good height.” But perhaps she wanted him to take advantage, perhaps that was why she’d brought him here.

  Annoyed, she said, “I mean on the altar. This is—or at least, it was—a church of the Lord.”

  “I was a barber to the street of brothels, my lady. Not much offends me.”

  She made a curious little noise but did not press him.

  When he’d combed out the fine hair, he came to stand in front of her, avoiding her eyes, surveying the damage of the fire. He took a bit of hair at either shoulder, measuring what remained against what had been. Well, he would do what he could. She was lucky to have her eyebrows. Elisha glanced down. Yes, she had her eyebrows, slightly singed, raised now so she could peer up at him without moving her head.

  He retreated again, this time to the side to start trimming. “You seem quite well-recovered, my lady,” he remarked.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Most women would have had more of a fright, catching on fire like that. I haven’t seen—” He broke off, shying away from the image of the angel in flames.

  “What?” she asked lightly. “You’ve not seen flaming hair, or witchfire?”

  “Neither,” he lied, and she twitched so that he had to pull away the shears before he trimmed more than he should. “Stay still. Actually, the fire seemed right ordinary to me. As for the witch—” He broke off again. He longed to question her, discover if she knew of the burned witch of two decades past, but dared not scare her off with too much talk of witches.

  “What about the witch?” She prodded a bit of moss, twisting a sprig of it between her fingers.

  “He seemed ordinary as well. But I have little experience.”

  “Ordinary? But how can a witch be ordinary? Shouldn’t he have claws and a hump and horrible fangs?” Her voice had sunk low despite the energy it conveyed, and he paused a moment in his snipping.

  “As I say, I have little experience.” But the image of the angel flashed again before him, the bright wings sweeping out, raising a riot of sparks into the air.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a witch, even one? Or perhaps heard tell of them?”

  Snip, snip. “Of course there are stories. The carter I rode out with claimed his cousin was turned black by one, and one of the whores told me a witch cursed her to become pregnant.”

  Brigit laughed, but the sound was brittle. She started to turn her head to
see him, but he placed a hand quickly on top of her head to still her. “Please, I don’t want to make this worse than it is.”

  “Sorry.” For a moment she sat silent beneath his attention, then asked, “But have you not once laid eyes on one, for yourself?”

  “Apart from two nights ago?” Why was she pressing him? Tension gripped his shoulders, and, for the first time in his life, he had difficulty steadying his hands. She spoke as if she wanted information from him, just as much as he from her. Could she be spying? Following up on something the physician said about him?

  “That was no witch you saw,” she said, “just a man in the wrong place.”

  “I thought as much.” Her confirmation of his conviction drained some of his tension. Snip, snip, snip. The scorched ends of her red-gold hair fell away, settling onto the toes of his boots and draping over the green grass below. His hands withdrew the shears resting briefly against his lips with a chill of metal before he lowered them. What harm could come of his admission? “Yes, I saw one. A woman, years ago. The last witch executed outside the city.”

  Strangely subdued, Brigit asked, “What was she like?”

  “I don’t know, I only saw her from a distance.” He longed for a moment to see Brigit’s face, but could not move, his eyes finding the form of the angel in clouds beyond the over-arching stone. “She was beautiful.”

  “They said she cast a glamour on the crowd, so they could not see her true nature.” Brigit’s voice caught, and she shivered.

  “Perhaps it was so.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “I was a boy, and it was a long time ago.” I had to be cleansed, he wanted to say, I had to be beaten until I believed what they told me, and not what my eyes could swear. I saw an angel, he wanted to say. The compulsion to speak burned within him, the longing to reveal this most secret memory, the thing never spoken to another soul. An angel touched my face, and I could not be the same.

  His throat ached with the need to speak, but his stubborn teeth refused, and he shoved the thought away. “I’m done,” he told her, his voice harsh.