Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle

by E. C. Ambrose

  “How…?” Elisha asked, ruffling the hair out of his face, then, “Wait. I need water.”

  “Still no manners,” the duke observed.

  “A poor nurse I make,” Mordecai sighed, rising and slipping back out the door.

  Wincing, Elisha said, “Sorry, Your Grace. Manners have never been my strength.”

  Duke Randall let out a hearty bark of laughter. “Don’t take me seriously, Barber, I beg of you. Do you mind?” he inquired, pulling up a chair and sinking into it. “I’ll take a bit of recovery yet.”

  Elisha started to rise with a frown. “What’s the damage?”

  Flapping his free hand, the duke said, “Tush, sit. I’ve been well cared for, by your own man.”

  “The surgeon?”

  “The barber,” he corrected. “Your assistant, as I understand.”

  “Then Ruari’s all right.”

  At this, the duke lost his smile. “Yes, yes, he’s fine, and his lady-friend as well. A captain called Madoc, I believe, and all but two of his men survived.”

  The softening of expression did not escape him. “Then what is the matter, if I may know?”

  “They will not come to you. I’m sorry. They saw,” he broke off, shaking his head. “They know what you are.”

  Nodding slowly, Elisha said, “Then so do you, Your Grace.”

  “So why have I come? Why have I taken you into my home? Aside from the fact that you won this battle for me. Alaric, the king’s pig of a son, promised to recant if I released him, and he’s kept his word about that, so at least my daughter’s honor is no longer in question, even if her marriage prospects are shaky. Now I’m hearing his brother Thomas is discredited for plotting against their father, we’ll have to hope that Prince Alaric proves worthy in other ways.”

  With a little shrug, Elisha invited him to continue.

  “But that’s nothing to do with you, really. I might have released him for the apology alone, but I thought I could get a little more than that.” The duke resettled his injured arm. “My wife is a wonderful, compassionate woman—you must meet her—the Duchess Allyson.” Then a grin split his face. “But you have already met her, under the name of Willowbark.”

  Relaxing, Elisha flopped back onto the comfortable bed and sighed. “I knew someone had to be here; how else would you know what went on?”

  “She told me you were too good to lose—as if I’d not seen it myself; that you deserved a better chance, and I gambled she was right. I won, quite handily, too.”

  “I was the lure in a trap to catch you.”

  “Not your fault. I should have expected as much from that back-stabbing bastard. No matter, here we all are, safe and mostly sound. I think I might have come after you even without my wife’s bidding.”

  “Did she know I was sent to kill you?” Elisha glanced toward him, and the duke narrowed his eyes over a slender smile.

  “Something was on, we knew that much. Some of my men argued to let you die instead or bring you back in chains. I took another gamble.”

  “With your life.”

  Again, Duke Randall shook his head. “I thought self-knowledge was one of the laws, but never mind that. That day we first met, on the field, my man dropped his sword for just a moment. You did not plead for mercy. You did not pray or rant against me. What did you say? ‘Don’t move him.’ You were on the verge of being executed, and you thought first of your patient—a stranger, and an enemy.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Elisha replied.

  “That’s exactly the point. It did not matter a whit to you who he was, if he was lord or servant, enemy or friend—he was wounded, and you had the skill to save him. Of course, I have my own interests at heart in bringing you here. If concerns over the king’s death can be assuaged”—he tipped his head to acknowledge the size of this if—“I want you to work for me. Even when you were just a barber, I thought to earn your loyalty.” He spread his hands. “And now, all the better for me. I suspect I may prefer to have you on my side.”

  With a grim smile, Elisha said, “I am rather glad I did not see myself, at that moment. But if you will have me, then I will stay.”

  Mordecai entered, the room warming with his familiar presence, bearing a tray of food with a tall mug of cold water. “From the river,” he said, offering it with a flourish. “Drew it myself.” He met Elisha’s gaze.

  Rising heavily from his chair, the duke said, “I’ll leave you to it. When you’re up and about, I can send you to the city, with an advance on your wages to purchase whatever you need. I expect the things you brought with you this far have been well dispersed by now.” He sighed, wincing at the pull on his wound. Again he gave a slight bow and withdrew.

  As he laid out the food on a little table, Mordecai said, “She’s come, you know, if you’ve not felt her.”

  Easing himself into a chair, Elisha took a long draught of water. “I wasn’t sure if I should hope for that or fear it.”

  Mordecai nodded. “I’ll send her, then you’ll be sure.” He disappeared through the door again.

  Tipping her head around the door, Brigit watched him for a moment before she stepped through.

  His heart rose just to see her. Her pale face looked as radiant as ever, as if an inner glow suffused her skin. She ducked away from his scrutiny, hiding her eyes as she entered. Bundled in her arms she carried a heap of dark wool. Turning from him, she laid it out on the bed and smoothed the cloth with a careful hand, her red hair swinging forward to hide her face. His lost cloak.

  “I cast a spell and found it for you,” she said. “The coins you sewed in are gone, of course.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, stiff and self-conscious. He must look a mess, with his bandages and his unruly hair.

  She spun on her heel and laughed, a beam brightening her face as she dropped onto the bed. She kicked her heels just as she had done on the altar, so long ago, when his hands had held the silken weight of her hair. “Oh, Elisha, it has been such an amazing time. It’s May, now, did you know? To think so much could happen in the space of a single month!”

  He wet his lips and remained silent as he took another swallow.

  “What you did,” she breathed, sighing as her eyes searched the ceiling, “I have never heard its like. I was right about you—my mother saw the power in you.”

  “Not in me,” he said, shaking his head. Then he froze and glanced up again. “What happened to the talisman?”

  With a toss of her head, Brigit replied, “I don’t know.”

  The lie cut through him with a delicate blade, and his hopes faded away as quickly as they had flared. “Brigit, you must give it back. It’s not just a tool, not even just a talisman—”

  At least she did not maintain the pretense of ignorance. “I can’t do that. I need it. We need that power.”

  “No, Brigit! You don’t know what it is, what it feels like.” He tried to push himself up, but a wave of dizziness swelled through him. “I swore an oath to lay it to rest.”

  “An oath you broke when it suited you.”

  He winced at the truth of this, but his expression hardened at the thought of anyone using it as he had done. He had been desperate to save lives—in the hands of another…

  “Elisha, a thing that strong cannot merely be set aside. It must be handled carefully—I know that. I’ve been a magus all my life and the daughter of one. Of course I know what to do. What if our enemies got hold of it?” Her hands clenched.

  “Your enemies are not magi, Brigit, they wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “They have bombards, Elisha, and knights and armies, and a legacy of slaughter. You have only just become one of us. When you’ve lived under this fear for years, you’ll know, you’ll understand, why we need every advantage we can take.”

  Passion lit her face and he almost believed in her.

  “When the time is right, Elisha, you can fulfill your oath. When the crisis is past.”

  He stared up at her. Would the cris
is ever be past, or would she have a thousand reasons to keep what she had stolen? Weakness prevented him from fighting for it as he must, and the failure soured his stomach. “Oh, Brigit. Why did I ever love you?”

  She gave a little moan of pain and dropped to the floor beside him, taking his hand. “Elisha, please. This is not easy for me, none of it! We may be at war, don’t you see? Alaric found the letter, the one his brother sent to hire Benedict to kill the king.”

  “No,” Elisha broke in. “Benedict died because he would have revealed his master—it was the physician’s letter.”

  Brigit frowned, her head tilted to the side. “But Lucius is gone already. Not that it matters. Even now, Alaric’s brother Thomas will be mounting an army against us. Alaric has claimed the crown, of course, since he was faithful, but it shall not be given up without a fight. That night you fell from my room, I was expecting an ally, a magus who might help us win victory. I’ve been preparing all my life for this moment. The time is at hand to claim our freedom. Oh, earth and sky, Elisha, the things that lie ahead for me will not be easy.”

  His voice broke, but he managed, “Easy? You will be queen.” Tears stung the corners of his eyes, and he brushed them harshly away.

  “If I had only met you first,” she whispered in his mind.

  Elisha flung her hand away, shaking off the contact as if it burned him. Indeed, the brand over his heart gave a sudden spasm of pain, and he cried out.

  “Elisha!” she sobbed, stroking his face, daring to touch again the angel’s mark.

  Again, he thrust her away, but not before he felt her words, a touch of surpassing tenderness, whispering, “I love you.”

  “But not enough to give it back,” he said bitterly.

  Brigit’s head fell, her red-gold hair rippling along his thigh. Then she shook herself and rose, drawing her arms about her. “I can’t,” she said, “Not yet. Someday, I promise you, I will do that, when this is all over with. There are such terrible things coming, Elisha, you can’t know it yet—” she broke off, then said, “Trust me.”

  Tears spilled down his cheek. “By God, Brigit, what in heaven or earth could ever make me do that?”

  With a soft cry, she fled.

  Elisha leapt up and stumbled for the door, already dizzy with the motion. “Brigit!” he shouted as if one last try would make her understand.

  “No!” she snapped, then spun about, still backing away, step by step. “Elisha Barber. You watched my mother die!” She flicked away a tear from her face. “If you had your accursed talisman then, you would have saved her!” She stabbed her finger in his direction. “And you would deny me that power? No, Elisha. Let no more witches burn.”

  Her bright eyes reflected the flame of that day, his cheek warm with the memory as he let her walk away. This parting would not last forever: They two were bound, both past and future, by her mother’s death, by the talisman, by all that they shared.

  Elisha gazed after her and wondered if she knew, if she had set herself upon that road as well, when she first refused his passion, then demanded it. In the stroke of her love, he had felt a deeper stirring, that of new life waiting and growing. Did she know yet that she would bear his son?

  Chapter 38

  A fortnight later found Elisha in Duke Randall’s carriage, returning to London with two of the duke’s clerks. There, they would find or order the things they needed to rebuild. During the battle, they had torn down several buildings for the stones launched in their bombards and run through all their medical supplies. There was also a shortage of brooms, for Duchess Allyson had turned every bit of straw into arrows for her husband’s archers. When Elisha’s spell turned them to rain, she gave up the arrows rather than spend more of her strength against his. Not everyone knew that she was a witch, but those who did kept their peace with her and gave thanks in the chapel for the gifts she could provide.

  When they left him in the high street, specifying a day to meet again, Elisha knew he must find Helena’s sister and try again to atone. He had so hoped to bring her child’s remains back with him, but that must wait; Brigit wouldn’t give up such power without a struggle. So he’d avoided her, and, for the moment, avoided Helena as well.

  Instead, and on the duke’s advice, he walked the few blocks from the gate to the leaded glass panes of the draper’s row, and opened the door to Martin’s shop.

  Samples of elegant fabrics decked the wall behind a counter, and an assistant glanced up while helping a finely dressed lady pick out just the thing to drape her walls. Looking him up and down, the assistant glowered, and Elisha laughed. The young man was fair and tall with a long fall of hair swept back by a ribbon a touch too bright for the average man. He was new since last Elisha had been there, and it was clear what he thought of Elisha’s entrance. Even clad in the Earl of Blackmere’s cast-offs, Elisha was clearly not a customer. Martin’s assistant had already leapt to a different conclusion.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” Elisha said, still amused by the assistant’s jealousy. “I’ll just wait, shall I?” He stepped to the counter and started to finger a delicate sample of silk which was probably worth more than the duke would pay him in his lifetime.

  Stiffening his spine, the assistant snatched up a silver bell and shook it, then slammed it back onto the counter. The customer jumped a little and frowned. The pretty young man murmured something soothing, and they bent together over the samples.

  A paneled door popped open. “What is it, Brian?” Martin called out, then stopped, his hand on the knob. A brief grin flared across his face, and he gripped the latch a little tighter. “Ah, yes, about the duke’s orders? I’ve been expecting you,” he babbled, adding to his assistant’s discomfort.

  Stepping lightly forward, Martin swung up a section of the counter and invited Elisha through. “Come to my office,” he said, then followed, shutting the door swiftly.

  Once inside, Elisha turned.

  Martin slumped with his back to the door. That ridiculous grin threatened to swallow his eyes, which welled with tears. “Mother Mary, I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Returning the smile, Elisha plucked something from his belt and shook it out—a long strip of purple silk. “But you have, thanks, in part, to this.”

  Shaky, Martin dropped into his chair, pressing a beringed hand to his cheek. “What’s happened to you? Tell me all! And your hair,” he moaned. “Oh, your glorious hair.”

  “I cut it all off to save you from temptation,” Elisha teased, dropping into a chair opposite. He had found someone to trim it short, so that the dark curls clung to his head. Perhaps one day, he would let it grow again, but maybe not. He smoothed the fabric against the leather desktop with his palm.

  “You’ve been badly hurt, haven’t you?” Martin asked, leaning forward. “I can see it all over you, and not just in the body, either.”

  For a moment, Elisha wondered if the draper might have more secrets than one. “I fell in love with a lady,” he sighed, still aching at the memory.

  “Oh, it would be a woman,” said Martin crossly. “But go on.”

  Elisha told him most of the story, glossing over his injuries, finding ways around the witchcraft, as he had rehearsed it all those nights in the duke’s castle. He foisted off the king’s death on a stranger, but suspected his voice revealed too much in any case.

  When he had done, he gazed at Martin’s smooth, handsome face.

  Martin sat back in his chair, one arm across his chest, the other propped against his face. “You loved the lady who will be queen.” He whistled softly, shaking his head. “Only you, Eli.” He frowned, toying with an end of the cloth. “’Tis a curious tale, and somewhat different from the one I heard.”

  “Where there’s a battle, the rumors will fly as thick as the arrows,” Elisha replied. “When that man Robert had hold of me, and the duke asked where I got this—” He tapped the fabric. “I thought for a moment you might have set me up for death, instead of life.”

  �
��Perish the thought!” Martin clapped a hand to his chest, setting his rings glittering in the afternoon sun.

  “Forgive me for doubting you,” he said, and pushed himself up. “I should go. I think your assistant has already gotten the wrong idea.”

  Rising with a sigh, Martin said, “I’ll reassure him, though I wish there were some foundation for his jealousy.” His smile turned rueful. “You’ll stop and see me before you go back?”

  “As you wish.” Elisha held out his hand, and Martin grasped it in both of his.

  Through their joined hands, an energy flowed which was not familiar, yet instantly recognizable. Both men looked up, catching each other’s eyes.

  If it were possible, Martin’s grin grew even wider. “I knew it! I just knew it!”

  Impulsively, Martin flung his arms around Elisha in a quick embrace, not long enough to make him uncomfortable, and broke away again, letting his hand linger. “How long?”

  “Just after I got there, I met—”

  Martin drew back with a stern expression. “Don’t tell me, please! You must know the rules.”

  “A few of them anyhow. I’ve only just started.” He spread his hands and smiled, that trace of regret running through him as he watched Martin’s expressive features. Martin remained his very dear friend, never to be more to him than that.

  As if he sensed Elisha’s regret—and well he might—Martin glowered. “Get out before I fall in love with you all over again!”

  Bowing slightly, Elisha took his leave, with a cheery wave to the disgruntled assistant as he left the shop.

  Feeling lighter, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, connected with something greater than himself—a people of whom he could truly be a part—Elisha leapt the drainage ditch and dodged around a party of bickering beggars. With Martin’s good will, he felt strong enough now for what he must face. He shied away from the hospital, its miasma of misery touching him briefly as he passed by. Shuddering, he hurried his pace, and soon stood before the little house in the mews with its sagging roof and crooked steps. His brother’s workshop stood to one side, smoke rising from the chimney.