“Pardon?” Isaac’s voice came closer as Elisha’s eyes flickered open.
“I have to go. I can’t stay here. Too many enemies.” He got one hand under him and tried to push himself up, the cape sliding.
Isaac caught him about the shoulders and steadied him. “Easy, Doctor. Surely you should know that a man can’t expect such a rapid recovery, even through the intervention of the saints.”
Elisha’s head swam, and he paused, letting his vision clear as he parsed out what the goldsmith was saying. “I know,” he whispered. “I need to find a place to recover.” But where? He clasped his other hand over his head as if he could squeeze it into compliance. He knew no one in this city save a goldsmith, an innkeeper and an emperor united in their low opinion of him; a friar convinced he was a miracle; and any number of mancers or their allies set to slay him. The empress might take him in—but he would not be safe inside the castle, not in his condition. He had to leave, and he had no place to go, nowhere in this city would he be either safe or welcome. Damnation.
Releasing him, the goldsmith eased away and came around to squat in front of him, careful to take up his velvet sleeves so they would not drag. His dark eyes studied Elisha’s face.
“Is he conscious? Excellent!” Brother Gilles loomed up at Isaac’s side, grinning. “Do tell me, Doctor, what happened? How did you come to be here and in such a state? How did you call upon the saints to help you? Come, Steward, and hear the tale!” Gilles flapped his hand toward the other man.
“Truly, it shall be a tale of wonders, I am sure—perhaps explaining a curious fit that took me not long ago,” the steward replied. “But we should also call for priests and physicians, should we not?”
“My enemies laid a trap for me,” Elisha said, barely above a whisper. “They linger still. I am too weak to meet them now. If they find me here, I’ll die.” He let his hand creep out to a pool of his own blood. With the last of his strength he smothered his presence with the impression of his own death.
“Goodness!” cried the friar.
“All the more reason to fetch the emperor’s men,” the steward said. “I shall return—”
“No,” Elisha begged. “My enemies are among them.”
“Gentlemen,” Isaac snapped, sweeping himself up so quickly that they moved back from him. “It is clear to me that this man is in no state to respond to your questions. He cannot recover if he fears the very men you would bring to question or protect him.” Isaac paused, and the steward gave a short nod. “If it please both church and state, I shall convey him to his friends in the city, and send word when he is ready for an examination.”
Brother Gilles’s round face collapsed into misery, and he sighed. “You may well be right, good friend. I shall prepare an account of what I have witnessed, and we will be ready for the doctor’s testimony when he is more able.”
“He is now a member of the party of the Empress Margaret, until she arrives at Bad Stollhein at least,” the steward said, rather sharply. “We must investigate who dared assault him under those circumstances. In the meantime, I can escort you to the gate.”
“Are you able to walk, Doctor?” Isaac asked, bending down again, holding out his hand.
Elisha took it, pulling himself up with far too much support from the slight goldsmith. He swayed on his feet and straightened, then slowly shook his head, still not letting go of Isaac’s arm. “I cannot manage the hill,” he murmured, then met the man’s gaze. “Nor have I friends to go to.”
Isaac gripped his arm in return. “Of course you have, Doctor. You’ve merely forgotten them in your recent injured state.”
Elisha frowned, but the goldsmith said no more, though a slight shake of his head urged Elisha’s silence. With their help, he made it through the door, down a corridor to a lower gate near the kitchens. Thank God there were no stairs here as there were at the main entrance. Here, the steward left them, suggesting Elisha send word to the barge in the morning to inform them of his condition. Isaac bargained with a carter who drove his oxen homeward after delivering butts of flour to the castle kitchen, and they two climbed into the back of the cart. Elisha sagged back, bundled into the cape the queen had given him, and stared at the deep gray turmoil of the sky.
The cart swayed back and forth, bumping down the road, and Isaac scooted near, crossing his legs at the ankle. “You still have your letter from Jacob, I trust.”
It took a moment to place the name, then Elisha nodded. “I can’t read it,” he answered honestly. “I did not think you cared for me, sir.”
Isaac’s eyes cut away toward the carter on his bench, then back. “It is not for your own sake I treated you so, believe me. I have seen wonders this day, Doctor.”
The raw hurt that pulsed through the goldsmith’s presence touched Elisha’s raw senses, and he dredged up a little power to seal himself from the other man’s emotions. “You owe me no explanation, sir.” Elisha swallowed, his throat still dry. “Rather, I owe you—”
“Don’t,” the goldsmith said, putting up his hand to forestall more talk. “Rest.”
Elisha knew not where they went, but shut his eyes, sinking into the near-sleep of healing, his frayed senses still spread, his ebbing power bent on concealing himself. Their departure through the lower gate should help in that regard. Pray Brother Gilles did not trumpet the miracle too widely just yet.
Shade reached over Elisha’s face, and he opened his eyes to see the tops of painted plaster houses and stone buildings cutting the sky in his view. Isaac rose and braced his arms against the back of the bench to speak to the carter.
The fellow gave an oath. “But that’s the Judengasse—you’re sure?”
Isaac shrugged broadly. “I know it, friend, but there’s a doctor can help him recover, or so he says. I swore I’d see him safely down, after that, I’m well away, believe you me.”
The two shared a chuckle. “Well, and they do have some learned men, I’ve heard,” the carter replied. “Don’t know as I’d want one of ’em touching me or mine.”
“God forbid,” Isaac replied fervently, crossing himself.
The cart made a few turns, then lurched to a halt, and Elisha pushed himself to sitting, his head a little more clear now. Isaac stepped by and jumped to the ground, reaching up to help Elisha to the ground and settle the cape over his shoulders. The carter lashed his animals onward rather than wait a moment longer in a street of Jews and the cart rumbled away. Isaac rapped the doorknocker on a house painted the gold of deer hide. A girl opened the door. “Yessir?”
“I’ve come in the name of Jacob of Trier, to see your master.”
“Yessir.” She opened the door wider to let them in, Elisha moving slowly as his muscles shivered, Isaac supporting him under one elbow.
The servant led them to a well-appointed chamber with a fire already lit, and Elisha sagged into a sling chair. “What shall I tell the rabbi, sirs?”
Rabbi? Elisha thought, but Isaac turned to him. “Doctor, the letter that Jacob gave you, he’ll want to see it.”
Elisha untangled his oilcloth packet, with Isaac’s help sorting out the two pages Jacob had given him, which the goldsmith turned over to the girl. She hurried away, only to return a few minutes later bearing a tray of wine and goblets. “He says to be comfortable, and he’ll be with you soon.” Leaving the tray, she curtsied and left them.
“Red wine,” Isaac observed. “What should you have in your condition?”
“Red wine is perfect,” Elisha said, feeling thirsty just at the thought, but given how much blood he had lost—“watered, if you can. Red meat would be even better.”
Isaac moved about the room and returned with a larger pitcher and a mug. Clearly, he knew his way around this house. Elisha studied his movements, trying to reconcile this familiarity with his vehement anger against Jacob, not to mention the attitude he shared with the carter. Then the
word came to mind. As Isaac poured him a tall draught of watered wine, Elisha leaned forward to receive it. “Converso, aren’t you?” A flash of fear and fury broke Elisha’s numbness, and the goldsmith’s face turned pale.
Chapter 14
Isaac replaced the pitcher with a hard click, barely under control, then he sat abruptly, his hands knotting together. “Yes, I am.”
Elisha took a long swallow, grateful for the warmth and wetness, then focused on his reluctant savior, a Jew who had renounced his own faith to claim the Christian God, probably to improve his own trade, given the showy cross he now wore. “If you’re found here, with Jews . . .”
“I’ll be accused of Judaizing, reverting to my old ways.” The edge of anger returned to Isaac’s voice, although his fear had not passed.
“That’s why you were angry at Jacob for asking you to bring my things.” Elisha’s voice strengthened with each swallow. “I’m grateful you brought me here, but you need not stay. I say again that I would do nothing to endanger your livelihood or your commission from the emperor.”
“Thank you for that,” Isaac murmured, never raising his gaze from his clasped hands. “I should go. I am no more welcome here than the rabbi would be at church.” His velvet sleeves rippled, but he showed no sign of leaving.
“I’ll think no less of you for going, nor would any man.”
“Except my kin.” The goldsmith shook his head, his dark curls bobbing. “No. The rabbi will be—”
“Don’t speak of me as if I don’t live in my own house, converso,” thundered the rabbi himself, a barrel-chested man dressed head to toe in black, his gray beard curling thickly over his chest. He strode into the room, commanding it in an instant, as if he possessed a magic so strong he could bend the place to his presence. The priests at Elisha’s burial held a power like that, the strength of their conviction blazing through them when they feared that he would use dark magic against them, even from the grave.
Elisha and Isaac sat up straight immediately, though the goldsmith kept his eyes downcast.
“Forgive me, Rabbi, I meant no disrespect.”
“For you to be here, in my hall, is disrespect. No more, nor less than what you did in that church, before that cross.”
Isaac flinched, then lifted his head, his steel returning. “You know the circumstances, Rabbi. You know what brought me there.”
“You should have gone with your family rather than to shame them like this.”
The goldsmith gave a cry, pushed himself up, and stalked toward the door. Then he whirled. “No, Rabbi, you are not rid of me so easily.” He shot out his finger as if it were a weapon. “Not before I have witnessed to Jacob’s words.”
“Jacob is an old man gone mad with grief, and overcome by his son’s return.” For the first time, the rabbi lifted a shaggy eyebrow at Elisha, scanning and dismissing him in an instant. “Jacob does well for us in Trier, and we hope he’ll continue to do so, but this”—he waved the parchment—“this is only a mistake to be scraped away and overwritten. Perhaps it may be suitable for writing a bill to haul garbage. Or perhaps to record your riches.” He flipped the pages into Isaac’s face and they fluttered toward the floor.
“Will neither of you tell me what he said?” Elisha asked.
Isaac ducked to retrieve the letter. “I have not read it, of course, but Jacob was too much in awe to be silent. He made claims for you, Doctor, for powers no man can manufacture. He calls you a wonder-worker.”
Elisha recoiled with confusion and not a little anger. He expected Jacob’s message to include an introduction, perhaps a recommendation, not a claim of miraculous powers; he’d counted on Jacob’s discretion, and the thought of his dangerous power being discussed, especially in a letter Jacob knew Elisha could not read, rankled him.
Isaac continued, “I have seen it myself, Rabbi, and you must know I have no reason to put faith in anything of the Jews.” Acid. Anger that covered his pain. Elisha wished he could reach out right then and work a wonder, healing the goldsmith of his grief.
“You. What have you seen?” The rabbi flicked his fingers, then, just as Isaac began to speak, turned his back and strolled to the fire to warm his hands.
With a movement of his jaw, as if he forced his teeth apart to speak, Isaac began again. “I have been to the castle of the emperor, Rabbi. He has granted me a commission that—” A pause. “It’s not important. In any event, I met with a collaborator to discuss the work that must be done—”
“What is this thing you will not tell me of? You reek with pride at your imperial commission, but you won’t speak of it? How great a thing can it be if you are ashamed to say it?” The rabbi spoke as if to himself, musing, dismissing Isaac’s work by his very lack of vehemence. The casual rejection stung Elisha on Isaac’s behalf, and goaded the goldsmith into speaking.
“As I say,” Isaac continued, firmly, “I met with my collaborator, and this man appeared from nowhere, pierced by arrows and running with blood. He fell to the floor, and we were shocked at his appearance, his being there at all, but also at his injuries.”
The rabbi’s back stiffened, and he made a derisive sound, but he did not interrupt again.
“I bent to help him, Rabbi, to see what could be done. He asked me”—a glance at Elisha, a hint of worry—“he begged me to pull the arrows, and claimed that he could heal the wounds. He said that, if I went for help, it would be too late. Given how much blood had spilled, and the placement of the arrows. I . . . did not believe that anything could aid him, and so I did as he bid me. I pushed the shafts through his flesh. I broke off the feathers, and drew out the points. And as I did so . . . his flesh . . . he was healed, Rabbi. I cannot account for it.”
The rabbi, who had gone still, snorted, and turned, his eyes narrowed. “You cannot account for it. Perhaps it’s you who are the wonder-worker, converso. Perhaps you have this mystic power in your hands.” He wriggled his thick fingers.
Isaac was no friend of Elisha’s, only an acquaintance in the right place, at the right time, taking this slight risk—or so Elisha had thought—of seeing him safely to the Jewish quarter where Jacob’s message might bring him favor. As a converso, Isaac risked suspicion to be seen in such a place, and now he endured the rabbi’s scorn. For what? To convince the rabbi of Elisha’s powers, powers that Elisha would just as soon keep quiet.
“No, if I had such power, I would be no converso. As God is my witness,” he spat, employing the oath of a Christian. Then, more softly but with the precision of his trade, he said, “As you are my witness.”
The rabbi reared back at Isaac’s oath, then growled, “I might have sympathy for the child you were, but no child of the righteous would have done as you did.”
Suppressing the spike of fury that dominated his presence, Elisha pushed himself to his feet, the cape sliding from his back. “We did not come for your approval, Rabbi, or for your condemnation. Surely there is a Christian inn or a pagan hovel that will show us more kindness.”
The rabbi stared at him, gaze flickering over Elisha’s chest. Holes edged in blood pierced the undershirt Jacob had given him. Swaying only a little, Elisha snatched up his new cloak, flinging it over his shoulders as he turned for the door. Isaac’s features softened, his forehead creasing in concern as Elisha approached.
Shaking his head, Elisha murmured, “You’ve done nothing to deserve such abuse.”
“You don’t know—” Isaac began, but Elisha took his arm, his rough fingers catching on silk.
“Nothing you have done deserves this, master goldsmith, not when you fight on my behalf. Whatever Jacob said of me, it’s not important. Let’s go.”
Isaac’s eyes grew suddenly moist, and he breathed a few words in that strange language of the Jews. “Jacob was right,” he said in German. “Forgive me, Doctor, we should never have come here.” He straightened, taking Elisha’s weight on his arm.
Elisha kept moving, ignoring the rabbi’s foreign words, but Isaac stood rooted to the spot, an edge of white showing at his eyes. Then he braced Elisha with his other hand, his fear and anger flowing freely through the contact, and faced the rabbi. “How could you, Rabbi? And how dare you? You kill him with your words. Is this what ha-Shem asks of you? Whether or not you believe it, any man of humility would at the very least keep silent.”
A wave of weakness swept Elisha’s body, and he swayed, the cape sliding away, his forehead dropping to Isaac’s shoulder. The goldsmith put up his hand, cradling Elisha’s head with unexpected tenderness. “Please, Rabbi,” Isaac said, very gently, as if he hated to disturb Elisha’s rest, “have your servant call us a cart. If you have any mercy—”
The floor boards creaked, and Elisha’s eyes fluttered open to a glimpse of the rabbi’s black shoe tips, poking between his own round, brown boots and the goldsmith’s pointed, painted leather; then a firm, unfriendly hand touched his back, fingers probing the torn cloth, brushing over the puckered scars. Elisha jerked, his elbow rising to ward off the intrusion, but it was Isaac who knocked away the rabbi’s hand.
“Do you think he wanted this?” Isaac shouted, and other footsteps rustled in the hall, the entire household summoned by raised voices. “I’ve no idea what he is, Rabbi, but he is no fraud.”
Elisha recovered himself, reluctantly giving up the comfort of Isaac’s support to straighten and prop himself against the door arch. Two women and a few children clustered around in the corridor, gaping. Elisha ventured a smile, and the children giggled, scurrying away.
“And Simeon?” the rabbi asked in a strained voice. “You saw your cousin’s wounds?”
“I saw his scars, Rabbi,” said Isaac at his most acidic. “I heard Simeon’s story from his own lips. No man would invent such suffering. Like you, I denied it. I did not believe it could be true.”
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