The Necromancer's Grimoire

by Annmarie Banks

  THE

  Necromancer's

  Grimoire

  "...as above, so below..."

  Annmarie Banks

  Book Two of the Elysium Texts Series

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  London • New York

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

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  Westminster, London W1W 7AP

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  Knox Robinson Publishing is a specialist, international publisher of historical fiction, historical romance and medieval fantasy.

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Knox Robinson Publishing

  First published in the United States in 2013 by Knox Robinson Publishing

  Copyright © Annmarie Banks 2013

  The right of Annmarie Banks to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by an means, without the prior permission in writing of Knox Robinson Publishing, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning the reproduction outside the scope of the above

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  at the London address above.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN HC 978-1-908483-18-8

  ISBN PB 978-1-908483-19-5

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  info@susanveach.com

  Printed in the United States of America and the United Kingdom.

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  Chapter One

  Outside Rome 1495

  A pair of worn leather boots appeared to her left as she sat by the campfire. The soles crunched the twigs and small branches she was using to feed the flames. Montrose lowered himself to one knee and handed her a heel of bread.

  “We’ve been promised a stay at an inn tonight.” He took a bite of his own bread. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a good meal,” he said, chewing. “We will ride as soon as we have light.”

  Nadira looked up from the small cooking pot that was heating her water for washing. She imagined Robert Montrose clean and brushed and with a good meal in him. The fire lit the planes of his face with a soft glow, accentuating the deep lines on his forehead and the corners of his mouth behind the stubble of his dark beard. Grief. Only grief can etch a face so deeply.

  “That is almost too good to believe,” she answered slowly. “I assume this means that the knights do not fear that the French will return for us in greater numbers.” She bit her own bread, dry and tasteless, but welcome nonetheless.

  The five knights who had come to their aid were breaking camp among the small trees and low scrub that sheltered the small group from the road. The horses nickered and stomped as one of the knights gave them their grain; she heard the slap of leather on leather as personal items were packed and tied. Men moved about with little conversation, busy with the morning’s tasks.

  Montrose watched them for a moment, and then scanned the horizon to the east. She knew he was thinking of the French army, their scouting parties and his friends.

  “Aye. They plan to take us somewhere safe. They say there are many places where they are welcome with no attention from...” he paused, frowning “...authority.”

  He crammed the last of his bread into his mouth and rubbed crumbs from his chin, then wiped his hands on his knees.

  “I will follow them.” His dark blue eyes landed on her. “And Alisdair? Garreth?”

  “Soon,” she answered. “Soon. Give them time to wake up and start walking.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t.”

  Nadira’s smiled at his eagerness. “Then let us travel toward them. I don’t need to wash.”

  “No, no. You finish.” Montrose stood, his eyes narrowed as he turned his head to check the horizon again.

  “We are safe, my lord.” She reached out to touch his knee. “Be still.”

  His hand came down to rest on her head, but he did not stop looking about him. It was a hard habit to break.

  Later that morning Nadira sat astride behind Montrose. She circled his waist with her arms and laid her cheek against his back and swayed with the horse’s movements. The sun was near noon when the eight travelers saw two men trudging along an empty field.

  Montrose rose in his stirrups and Nadira heard him inhale sharply. She knew that they were Alisdair and Garreth. Montrose did not look behind him, but bent his arm to encircle her waist, scoop her off the horse and set her gently on the ground. With a great leap the animal shot towards the two men, leaving Nadira coughing in the dust.

  The leader of the knights rode up beside her and dismounted. “I say we stop here for a midday rest,” he said. His gray eyes twinkled at her. “I can see your baron has called a halt to the journey.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she coughed.

  The old knight stripped off his gloves and ran a hand over his gray beard to smooth it down. “I know it is difficult to overcome old habits, but it is distasteful for us to be addressed as ‘my lord’. The only lord is our God, the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ,” he told her.

  “But…”

  “Social conventions have no place in a group such as ours. In public, perhaps, if you wish to avoid unwanted attention, but here,” he spread his hands to encompass the wide fields, “it is not necessary. If calling me ‘Malcolm’ makes you uncomfortable, please call me by my family name. I am Malcolm Corbett.”

  Nadira looked up and nodded. “Sir Corbett.”

  He smiled gently down at her. “Just ‘Corbett’,” he corrected. “There stands Thomas Calvin with the dark hair, Reginald de Brus with the brown, and Lionel Matins who is fair.” He indicated each knight with a gloved hand, “Derrick Alban is with the horses. They also will resist being honored as equals to Our Lord.” He nodded to her once as he led his horse away to join the other knights.

  In the distance she watched as Montrose rode up on the two men in the fields. The men dropped their packs and quickly crouched for defense, sword and ax drawn and ready. Nadira laughed aloud at the moment they recognized their friend. The small figures tossed their weapons to the ground and danced about as Montrose threw himself down from his horse. There followed a great deal of masculine thumping of backs and slapping of chests.

  Closer to her, horses were tethered and satchels were pulled from the pack animals. William appeared at her side, crossing himself.

  “I am very thankful we have found them,” Nadira agreed with his silent gesture. “The silver hairs over my lord’s ears will never turn dark again, but now no new ones will grow with worry for his friends.”

  “As it pleases God.”

  Nadira glanced sideways at her friend. He looked like he could use a few days at an inn. His Franciscan habit was dirty and frayed and his honey-brown tonsure was stubbled like the winter wheat fields around them. His face, too, carried the signs of their recent adventures. His eyes we
re sad and looked like they belonged in the face of an old man instead of a young friar. His cheekbones stood out like he had not eaten well for weeks.

  “Yes,” she whispered softly. “As it please God.” He was safe now as well.

  “These are your lost companions?” He turned his golden eyes to her.

  Nadira nodded. “You will like them,” she promised. “Alisdair will make you laugh so hard your belly will hurt for days, and Garreth is the kindest of men, though he is frightful to look upon and as large as a mountain.” She shook her head, thinking of her friends. “I saw Garreth cleave a man in two with one blow from his axe, then mere hours later tenderly wash and clothe a frightened boy. And Alisdair...” she smiled, imagining William and Alisdair debating the finer points of scripture. Alisdair had not read a word of the holy books, but he knew the stories and the proverbs and could argue like a fiend. “Alisdair is the red one with spots, Garreth the huge fair one with the long braid. They come. You can see for yourself.”

  The three men approached the group, arms about shoulders, laughing. Montrose’s horse grazed, abandoned in the field behind them. Reginald rode after it as Montrose pushed Alisdair toward Nadira. “Here they are, safe and sound, as you said they would be.”

  Garreth knocked Alisdair aside and scooped her up in his arms, raising her high above the ground. Nadira withstood the painful greeting as she was alternately squeezed and kissed soundlessly. Garreth’s eyes were wet and his flushed face told her what he could not say. She kissed his cheek and hugged his neck. Alisdair punched his friend’s massive bicep and grabbed at her waist.

  “Gi’ the lass to me, ye brute.” His laughing blue eyes were bright with tears as well. “Ye’ll crush the life out of her.” Alistair’s greeting was gentler, but no less enthusiastic. He bent to kiss her mouth, rubbing his thick orange beard into her cheeks. This brought a disapproving growl from Montrose. The tall Scot laughed. “Share a bit o’ yer wealth here, Robin. Yer a miser if I can’t kiss the lass after all this time.”

  “Aye, then. Kiss her and give her back.”

  Alisdair and Garreth were introduced to the five knights and to William who nodded shyly at the big men before retreating behind Nadira.

  “There are not enough horses...” he whispered to her.

  “No, but I see Calvin taking the baggage from the pack animals. They will make it right.” She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear, where it refused to stay. She knew her hair would grow long again in time. For now it defied any attempt to tame it.

  William laughed softly. “You are thoroughly mussed. Don’t even try.”

  Nadira took a huge happy breath. “I have never been so overjoyed to be so mussed.”

  Alisdair and Garreth returned to her side for more smiles and hugs, now that Montrose was busy talking to Corbett. “You are well? And Garreth? Not injured? Ill?” She ran her hands up his arm to the shoulder, feeling his strength. She searched his freckled face for signs of pain or the off-color under the eyes that signaled illness. Garreth just grinned down at her, showing the gaps in his teeth and his missing tongue.

  Alisdair pushed his fiery hair up and over his forehead to show her a new scar that stretched from the hairline across his brow, thick and white over the bright orange speckles that covered him thickly from head to toe. “A gift from the French. They did not take us quietly, lass. But healed. See?”

  Montrose rode up beside them and bent to extend a gloved hand. Alisdair picked her up and set her behind him before taking the reins of the horse Calvin offered him. They rode only a few hours before they stopped at the promised inn. The building was not located in a town, but at a busy crossroads. The rolling fields and vineyards that surrounded the large stucco building promised good food and plenty of wine. Corbett was able to gain entry for them from the gatekeeper with a generous tip that suggested they would be very comfortable inside. Nadira and William were dropped at the inn’s doors as the rest of the men led the animals to the stable across the paved yard.

  “Shall we go in, then?” He asked.

  “I think it is expected.” Nadira looked up at the shuttered windows on the second floor. “This is the public entrance. Let us sit by the fire and wait for them, my feet are freezing.” The winter had been mild in this southern clime, but the fire would be welcome.

  They did not have to wait long before the rest of their party came stomping in to join them at the long table. Within moments barmaids were bringing wine and ale for them and candles for the table. Soon huge platters of meat accompanied the cups and tankards. There was much laughing and joking as the platters slowly emptied and the men slowly filled.

  Nadira rested her chin on her palms and sighed with pleasure. She was safe, surrounded by friends and the warmth of both the fire behind her and the wine inside her. The conversation sparkled with adventure. There were stories of how William found Sir Corbett, how Lord Montrose found her, and how Alisdair and Garreth escaped the French. Nadira was the only one silent, but her eyes gleamed. On one side of her Montrose told harrowing tales of his fate at the hands of the Black Friars and the Inquisitor from Toledo, on the other, William regaled the group with his stories of the monks at Coix and their bumbling attempts to lay hands on him and keep him there.

  At one point when she was laughing with William as he told her about how he cleverly smuggled food out of the monastery for his journey to France, there was a sudden silence at the table. She and William looked up to find all eyes on Montrose as he pulled the soft glove off his right hand to reveal his mangled thumb to Alisdair. He held it near the candle so all could see how the tip was missing the nail and how the first joint had been crushed. He turned his hand so the unnatural angle of the second joint was visible to his friends.

  “Ach, then.” Alisdair said quietly, breaking the silence. “I pity the man who did that to ye, Robin. Does he still live?”

  “No.” Montrose answered tightly.

  William swallowed, “No, my lords. That man was dead the day after the baron was unchained.”

  Eyes then fell on Nadira, as if she were expected to confirm this information. She frowned. “That is in the past. He is healed.”

  “Healed, lass?” Alisdair leaned closer to inspect his friend’s hand. “Can ye use it, then?” he asked Montrose.

  Montrose nodded, turning the thumb in the light. “I used it well enough on that priest.”

  Garreth grunted and reached out to take Montrose’s hand. He turned it one way and the other. His icy blue eyes flashed up at Montrose for a moment, then rested on Nadira.

  “Yes.” William answered for her. “She wrapped it for him. I saw her do it.”

  “And I,” Nadira finished, “have seen him use it more than once. You, yourselves,” she said to the knights, “saw him holding off the French on the road.”

  “Left handed.” Montrose looked down at her, small beside him. “You did not notice?”

  She opened her mouth, and then closed it. True, she had not noticed in which hand he held his sword. Her attention was elsewhere, on the approaching confrontation between the French soldiers and the knights. “Is it not healed, my lord?” she deflected. Happy times would not last if the men turned the conversation to vengeance. This was not what she had hoped. If the hand were healed, then perhaps it may become as a battle wound, the subject of drunken boasting, not an excuse for hunting Inquisitors. The man who crushed his thumb was dead. The Templars had battled the group of French soldiers who had pursued them. It was over. There was no need for more violence.

  Garreth released his lord’s hand. He jerked his chin at her and narrowed his eyes. He wanted her to tell this story.

  She nodded, understanding his mute request. “I found him in the byre at the tower in Andorra. You know it?” she asked Garreth. He nodded.

  “I was offered his life in exchange for my compliance.” Nadira wanted the explanation to be as brief as possible. The details would only enrage her friends, and lead them all down a dark path away from th
is friendly fireplace and warm wine. She took a deep breath and finished quickly, “but later I was taken from him and not returned until two days ago. In that time he healed well, and is now quite sound. Is this not true, my lord?” She looked up at Montrose and allowed her eyes to flicker with a warning.

  He tilted his head in reply. “Aye,” he breathed softly. “’Tis true.”

  This seemed to satisfy Alisdair who raised a huge arm for the barmaid to fill his tankard, but Garreth eyed Nadira with suspicion. He knew there was more to the story. William coughed and cleared his throat.

  “How long will we be staying here?” he asked in a small voice, a feeble attempt to change the subject.

  Corbett complied. “How long do you need to rest, Friar?”

  William’s face reddened. “Perhaps a day, Sir Corbett.”

  Corbett leaned back from the table. “We can all use a rest. My horse is limping. He needs a rest too. We have a small undertaking to make first, a few miles from here. I ask that Baron Montrose accompany us. Then on to Constantinople. You may rest four or five days, Brother William.”

  “Ach, then that is where we are headed? Constantinople?” Alisdair set down his tankard. “Verra nice whores there.” He nodded, agreeing with himself, then took another pull. “Ahhh.” He set the empty tankard down with a satisfying thump. “Excellent. Constantinople.” He looked all around the table. “But where the hell are we now?”

  “Just south of Rome.” Calvin answered. Nadira looked up from her lap where she had been wringing her hands. “Three days south,” he clarified. He pulled at his dark beard as he figured. “Three days from the coast at Napoli.”

  “We will sail from there?” Nadira asked.

  “Yes. A ship should be waiting there for us. I have sent Reginald to make the arrangements,” Corbett said.

  William sighed with relief. “Excellent.”

  Nadira did not want to ask the question that immediately came to mind, but not asking was worse. She took another drink of her wine for courage. She cleared her throat. All heads turned from Calvin to focus on her. “Will we be pursued by the French?”