The subtle sting of self-loathing followed immediately after. Perhaps it had been a mistake to shed the aspect so soon. “I know you abhor a mess.”
“Do you wish to take anything more?” The warden wafted his hand toward the corpse, but Elisha shook his head.
“Thank you, no.”
“Because you require nothing. Exquisite.” The warden’s eyes gleamed. “The others will think it a gift.”
Elisha met his sharp and pale gaze. “And a warning, as it was meant to be.”
“I doubt any others will interfere with your remaining negotiations, nor shall they defy my commands. Neatly done, Brother.” With an elegant sweep of his hand, the warden bowed.
Elisha accepted his obeisance with the slightest tip of his head. If he moved, if he spoke, if he broke the careful blank of his expression, the awful power that curled within would shred him from the inside out.
“I am so sorry I must let you go, but if you think we are better served to bring the Pope to us, then your negotiations must take precedence.” The warden gestured for Elisha to go before him, and Elisha urged himself into motion, feeling brittle as ice. “I am not without influence myself, provincial as I am. I shall do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Elisha said again, though the words felt thick upon his tongue.
In the smaller chamber, the warden donned his embroidered robe, folding back the cuffs. Then he tipped his head, silver hair brushing over gold-worked flowers. “Brother Tigo told me the Orsini priest was present during your confrontation.”
Elisha smothered his shaft of fear, and gave an approximation of the Roman shrug. “He may have seen something he shouldn’t, but it was the confession, after all. I don’t believe there’s any danger in that quarter.”
“Perhaps no.” The warden opened his palm. “But it may damage your hopes with the Orsini.”
“He is still sworn to take me to their stronghold, at San Pietro. I think I can rectify any damage at that time.” Elisha gave a tight smile and a slight bow of his head. “But I do need to go, by your leave.”
“Certes, Brother. Until we meet again.”
Elisha raised his hand in farewell and drew open the Valley with a whisper of strength. It stood no longer as either an arch or an obstacle, but shimmered like a curtain of mist to be parted with a breath. Silence, the tumble of shades around and through, and he stood in the disused chapel deep within the tribune’s palace, alone as he could ever be. He gathered his things and returned to the bedchamber he shared with the tribune’s guards, empty save for him.
Drawing the warmth of an ordinary darkness into his chest, Elisha banished the Valley to where it hid, lurking like a tumor barely caged by his ribs. Slack-jawed, he stared up at the ceiling, his hands clenched together to keep from trembling.
By God, what had he done? What had he become?
The monk was a murderer, several times over. If any man deserved to die, it would be him. Collecting himself, Elisha shut his eyes. His right hand felt again the plunge, the jellied resistance of the eye, the pressure as he pierced the braincase, the crack as his blade thrust through the mancer’s skull. The quickest kill he could imagine making. The cleanest harvest the master had ever seen.
Elisha dropped to his knees. He dragged the chamber pot from beneath the bed and vomited, his throat and nostrils seared. He pushed the pot away, eyes stinging.
He bought himself time to save others from the mancers’ blades, but with what currency? Other men came to Rome to be cured of their sins; Elisha merely compounded them.
Once, Elisha held up his hands as the only thing he had any faith in. Tonight they slew a helpless man and bore no trace of blood, as if the crime had never been. He no longer knew his own hands.
Restless, he longed for sleep, but the power he stole from the dead man moved within his chest and the distorted face haunted his vision when he closed his eyes. He wiped his face on his sleeve and flung open the door, stalking down to the well to draw some water. It could not wash away the bitterness. He braced his hands upon the stone, letting water drip from his face and fingers. At his back, music and shouting filled the great hall, the raucous sound of men celebrating, but echoing with the fear of the doomed, soldiers on the verge of battle, not knowing when it would come. Elisha drank another draught and ran his wet fingers through his hair, shaking it back. Ignoring the guards and the drunks who cluttered the stairs, he pushed back into the hall.
“Rinaldo! Captain!” He called out over the sounds of the revelers.
The tall young soldier glanced up, breaking away from his conversation to approach, his face furrowing. “You don’t look at all well, Dottore.”
“There is a man, a provincial lord who comes to Rome frequently. He’s taller than you, with long silver hair and a beard, perfectly trimmed.” Elisha’s hands sketched the mancer’s height and figure and he forced himself to stillness.
“Count Vertuollo? But usually it is his son who comes to treat with us. How did you hear of him?”
“Rumors,” Elisha snapped back. “Orsini or Colonna?”
“Either, neither.” Rinaldo gave that rolling shrug so typical of Rome. “His allegiances are never clear.”
“Whoever he’s with, whatever he does, Rinaldo, he’s the enemy, do you hear me?”
“Dottore . . .” Rinaldo touched his shoulder, and Elisha jumped back, certain that Death would meet that contact with brutal force. The captain put up his hands, patting the air in a soothing gesture. “Come and have some wine. It will help to settle you.”
“Nothing will help,” Elisha murmured, “not tonight.”
“Herbs? Or women?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Tomorrow . . . until tomorrow.” He turned away, back to the chamber he shared with his ghosts.
“Get some rest, Dottore!”
Nodding vaguely, he found his way down the halls to his narrow door and shut himself inside. Meticulously, he replaced his talismans. The vial of earth from his brother’s death he hung at his throat and Thomas’s golden ring upon his finger. The scrap of cloth Martin had given him, his first talisman, he kept close to his heart, held inside his tunic with the pin containing scraps of toenails that had taken him to Brother Gilles. The dozen or so talismans he had taken from mancers or received from Margaret he concealed as well, placing the shard of the True Cross in his boot for the morrow.
As he placed each one, he invoked the peace of the dead. Not all were restless, not all howled their agony into the Valley, or vanished into a sorcerer’s breast. Biddy went with purpose and with joy, and Martin rose with laughter. Duke Randall died of a witch’s vengeance, but knowing he had not been wrong about Elisha after all, and the Emperor Ludwig died in battle, facing a foe he could never defeat, but facing it boldly, for those who would follow. And the mancer Elisha slew . . . he dare not send comfort or release him from fear, but he gave him the best death he could, swift and nearly painless. Somewhere in the catacombs, the mancer’s fellows would pull his skin and break his bones and make merry of his murder, all the while knowing any of them could be the next. Elisha’s hand took the life, but left whatever dignity remained.
Thomas had remarked upon his standards: that Elisha imagined he and God could save everyone, that Elisha, at least, was trying. Trying was not good enough for God, he knew, but it was enough for his king. In the end, it was all that he had. He drowned in the sorrows of his past, and remembered the strength of Thomas’s hands, bringing him to the surface of the water, bringing him home. With the image of Thomas’s face before him, and the vial of English soil clutched in his hand, Elisha allowed himself to be comforted and finally found his rest.
Chapter 36
Just as Rinaldo predicted, the tribune’s recent victory had only spurred on the barons, and they were not allowed to leave the palace again for almost a week. Restless as the lions at the Tower of London menagerie
, Elisha stalked the halls and tended every injury or medical complaint he could discover, pulling the teeth of aged retainers and soothing the aches of washer-women. Cola busied himself with grandiose plans for an imperial reception which left Elisha wondering if Charles served as the emperor in this vision, or if it were Cola himself who occupied the throne. Rinaldo seemed to regard Elisha as a new partisan of the tribune—so perhaps he had escaped the shadow of the noose—but Father Uccello remained distant. When they saw each other at all, Father Uccello aimed his sharp hazel eye at Elisha, his presence so controlled that the look alone revealed the depth of his emotion. Since his meeting with Vertuollo, Elisha sealed his own emotions, smothering his compassion. But the need to play the mancer stifled him, and he worried over what Vertuollo would do with his newfound regard.
A few days after their trip to San Paolo, Rinaldo, flushed with excitement, caught Elisha’s arm. “You and Father Uccello seem angry with each other—what’s happened between you?”
“He was embarrassed to need my help after Baron Colonna abused him at the church, that’s all.”
“Are you sure? It seems more than that.” His grip shook a little as if trying to cajole answers from Elisha. “Does he seem more . . . partisan to you? Closer to his family?”
“I imagine that being assaulted by the enemy during a confession might put a man in a foul humor. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Rinaldo let go immediately and backed off. “It is only the tribune is eager to bring the families together, to heal the rifts, not to allow them to fester.” He flashed a grin, then hurried off, leaving Elisha mystified by the whole exchange.
They were all at table when the Orsini messenger arrived, announcing that safe passage could be made between the palace and the Orsini territory around San Pietro. “Then we may visit?” Elisha asked.
Father Uccello set down the chunk of bread he had been dipping in oil and said, “Indeed. And the sooner you seek for repentance, the better off you shall be.”
Rinaldo glanced from one to the other, but neither spoke any more about it. The captain’s odd questions about the priest came back to Elisha’s mind, but still meant nothing to him. He was heartily sick of the politics of Rome, especially when the warring families kept him from finishing his task. Entry to San Pietro was a great step forward, and Elisha drained his wine and made ready.
Together, they rode winding streets down to the river and up again beyond, crossing a broad plaza toward San Pietro, the seat of the Holy Church and the greatest cathedral in Rome. In contrast to the grand towers and intricate sculpture of the cathedral at Cologne, San Pietro squatted at the back of a square plaza, colonnaded, and stocked with a handful of wary guards. Soldiers challenged them at the outer gate, and again when they stopped to dismount. Above the arched entrances, a mosaic showed the apostle Peter in front of a huge boat, apparently walking on water. Bits of gold sparkled with the last rays of the sun, but patches of tile were missing, and the entire building listed slightly to one side.
Inside, a few boys hurried to light candles for them, but these illuminated little in the way of painting, sculpture, or gilt work. Even as this party of fire-bringers moved ahead of them, Elisha felt the weighty silence of the dead. They lay all around him, beneath graven images set into the floor and altars by the walls, deep in layers and crowded into common tombs, as if so many sought burial here that they had to be crammed in like herring in a barrel.
“All of the popes are buried here,” Rinaldo whispered as they moved through the gloom. “And the apostle’s grave is below. We shall need time to see it all.” He crossed himself reverently.
Elisha nodded. Time, indeed. Relics, bones and shadows cluttered every niche and stone. Where before Father Uccello had told the tales of the saints at the churches they visited, here he maintained a frosty silence as they proceeded on the tour. The priest conducted them with a gesture or a word. His gestures, endowed with a healthy grace since Elisha had healed him, had become circumscribed, as if his new ease of motion disturbed him. Moving from one pool of candlelight to the next, the visit took on a solemn air, almost punitive. Elisha knelt at every altar, planting a few hairs to mark the false relics as he found them. San Pietro had many, displayed about the church, most with altars, but some with tombs or other graves. Elisha had a distant relationship with the Church ever since he watched the burning of the angel, though he continued to observe the proper rituals. Now more than ever, kneeling at an altar, forming the words to familiar prayers, felt like lying, over and over. And the fact that lightning failed to strike him down convinced him, more every moment, that God had no interest in the morality of His creations. But Elisha knelt, he prayed, he marked the relics on behalf of every believer who would come after him, every desolati the mancers would crush into terrified submission.
At last they approached the high altar, over the tomb of the apostle himself, and descended the curving stair into the crypt. The tombs of various popes, with statues and paintings of their occupants, surrounded the apostle, each figure illuminated briefly by their torch-bearers, as if they passed through a room of sleepers, hands pressed together in prayer. The sense of them rose in Elisha’s awareness, a focused atmosphere that reminded him of the mancer’s catacombs, but rich with faith from the dead interred there and from the offerings left by the living: old candles, bunches of flowers, bits of clothing, and votive charms. The frescoes and carvings featured chains and keys, affirming Saint Peter’s role in binding and loosing, and showed scenes of his torture at the hands of the pagan Romans of many years ago. Elisha glanced at Father Uccello and wondered if he, chained and nearly martyred for his adherence to the Pope, felt especially close to Peter. By the gleam of the priest’s hazel eye, Elisha thought it might be so.
Father Uccello glanced back at him. “This chapel rises above the bones of the Apostle. It is called the Chapel of the Confession.”
“Then it is fitting I share it with you,” Elisha said. For a long moment, their gaze held.
“Does the father, too, have sins to confess?” Rinaldo asked, leaning a little forward, but Father Uccello drew himself up with an intake of breath as if he would spout a sermon of brimstone enough for them all. “Forgive me, Father,” said the captain, but his face in the flickering light looked strange. Rinaldo crossed himself, gave a short bow and retreated out of their circle of candlelight.
Releasing the anger that had animated him, the priest sank to his knees, hands pressed together. After a moment, Elisha joined him. This side of the priest’s face showed no sign of the disfigurement, and Elisha wondered if his eye, too, had been taken by Ludwig’s torturers in their attempt to bend him to their will. Father Uccello intimidated him with his formidable demeanor and his depth of will, and Elisha ached to think of the pain that presence concealed. Surely, the fact he still cared showed he had not entirely lost his footing among the decent people of the world, in spite of what he had done in the catacombs.
“The captain seems to have taken against you, Father,” Elisha remarked.
“The captain allows worldly trifles to come between himself and the Lord,” Father Uccello snapped, then he sighed. “Perhaps I have allowed this as well. I had intended to show you the welcome of the Orsini and how well we maintain the Apostle’s church.” He stared over his prayerful hands. “I know not if I must atone for my inability to do so.”
“Your unwillingness, you mean, because of what you saw and what you felt at San Paolo.”
“Because you are a sinner born and willingly made, and until you repent of it, you shall never be saved nor see the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“I have too much work to do here on Earth, Father, to be concerned overmuch about Heaven.”
The priest gave a sharp exhalation. “You have no concern then for your immortal soul.”
“You worry for the souls of others, Father. So do I. This thing you think you know about me, I use it in se
rvice to others.”
“A godly man would not use it at all. He would fight every temptation to do so.”
Elisha’s hands pushed against each other as if he could crush his doubts between them. “I cannot fight what I am, Father.”
“Then you are not fighting hard enough.”
Elisha’s lips parted, but he thought of the monk upon the wheel and the knife Elisha had thrust through his eye. Had there been another way? He could not fight what he was—could he fight what he was becoming? Hands pressing together, he remembered his first glimpse of Katherine, kneeling, tearful, before an altar very much like this, praying for forgiveness or release. He left England to hunt the mancers and learn their plan. How, when he faced such a remorseless enemy, could Elisha himself afford remorse? He slew them alone in Heidelberg, and joined together with Katherine and Daniel to kill them in the mine, and now he knelt at prayer in Rome undisturbed by his enemies because Count Vertuollo had asked him to kill, and Elisha had obeyed.
By the chapel’s entrance, Rinaldo scuffed his feet, no doubt eager to return to the palace and the work of fighting men. Only two more churches of the seven, and Elisha, too, could shake off the weight of this unwelcome tour and turn to the problem of destroying the relics he had found.
Rising, his knees aching, Elisha crossed himself once more, and, after a moment, Father Uccello did likewise. The priest led them back up the curved stairs into the quiet sanctuary of the vast cathedral.
When they reached the door, Father Uccello paused and said, “Captain, I should like to join my family for this evening, but I shall return to the palace and the tribune’s council on the morrow, unless there is any objection?”
Rinaldo glanced around the piazza where his small troop of soldiers waited, with Orsini men stationed all around. “Very well. I will send you an escort.”
Elisha Mancer Page 31