Nadira whispered, “Did you and Portia go to the race field?”
Inez sighed. “Portia did. I could not. I told her that I would go to the vegetable seller’s booth to get something for our supper. She told me about it when she came back. All the sculleries crowded in the kitchen to hear her tell it. I’m glad I stayed away, though it is now said that those who stay away are guilty of the same crimes themselves.” Inez wrung her rheumy knuckles and gazed upward at the ceiling. “Save us.” She whispered to her nameless god.
“What else did you hear in the kitchen?” Nadira asked.
“Only that my lord is nervous. It is said that gold cannot be taken out of the kingdom. My lord wants to leave, but does not wish to leave his goods.” Inez said grimly. “And now this,” Inez nodded towards the dying man. “Master takes a great risk, and for what?”
“Master is a good man. He would not turn someone in need out of doors, no matter the risk.” Nadira turned back to the man on the bed. “Perhaps, should he survive, he will tell others of the master’s good deed. Perhaps it will save us from the eyes of the Black Friars.”
“Does anyone know he is here?”
The two women stared at each other silently. Nadira looked into the senseless face below her on the pillow. The stable boys know.
“Can you hear me?” she called again. Her voice sounded dry and flat to her own ears. She took another shaky breath, “Can you...” she choked off the rest of the sentence as the wounded man’s eyelids fluttered.
“Quickly, Inez, get the master!” she cried.
She moved closer and cupped her hand on the gaunt cheek. The eyes fluttered and then opened halfway. She could see the pupils staring up, dark pools in a sea of the bluest blue. His chest rose and fell with a jerk, the air whistling in and out of his nostrils noisily.
Inez was still standing over her, staring.
Nadira looked up. “Get the master now, I think he’s dying. Hurry!” Inez’s eyes widened, but she turned and made for the door, stumbling over the threshold on her way out.
Nadira bent her head over the wounded man’s face. “Can you hear me?” she asked clearly and slowly. The blue eyes flickered. With great effort, she saw them focus on her own. His lips parted and she saw his swollen tongue between his broken teeth.
“Pretty,” he whispered. She could see him attempt a smile with his cracked lips. Nadira put a cool hand on his forehead. “Pretty girl.”
The blue eyes closed and he sighed, his chest falling. Nadira could hear the master climbing the stairs. “Please, sir, please stay awake. He will be here soon.”
Nadira squeezed his shoulder gently. The man did not respond. She shook him sharply.
The blue eyes flew open and he gasped, “Henry!”
She leaned closer. “Is that your name?” she asked.
“Henry.” The wounded man took another painful breath, “Brother. Tell my brother….Henry...has...the...book. My brother. Rob. Little Robin. Robbie.”
“What book?”
Instead of answering the man groaned; his frail body shook, then suddenly stilled. The blue eyes stared up, unfocused. Master Sofir rushed through the doorway just as Nadira passed her fingers over the man’s eyes, closing them.
CHAPTER TWO
THE next morning the body had disappeared. Nadira did not dare ask what had happened to it. Inez’s tight lips and deeper wrinkles warned her off the subject. Instead she spent the day sweeping the floors and wiping the furniture, always with an ear to the street. Her master’s elegant villa was normally busy from dawn until late in the evening, with visitors and tradesmen in the great hall and carts and wagons in the wide yard. All manner of noise accompanied his business every day but Sunday. Today nothing happened. There were no visitors and the wagons stayed away. The change in routine was ominous to her; she ate her bread and was up the stairs to the room above the hall that she shared with three of the chambermaids. She lay awake in the dark, thinking of the fires in the race field.
Long past midnight a scratching from the front door directly beneath her snapped Nadira up from her pallet and sent her to the small window. The three girls did not stir. Below, she could see nothing in the moonlit street, but downstairs she heard the rustling sound of many men in the entry hall and the whispers of a few. Footsteps led away from the door and deeper into the big house. The whispering stopped and padded foot sounds moved to the vestibule and away from Nadira’s ears. She crept from the window, stopped long enough to cover herself with her cloak, and slipped lightly down the chilly stairs. She had to know, she had to be prepared to flee. She would not be taken to the fires.
She heard a small sound behind her. Inez was leaning over the banister from above. Nadira raised her finger to her lips and saw Inez’s form retreat back into the room. Again, after quickly looking to the right and the left, Nadira continued through the darkened hallways. If the visitors had a light, she did not see it. She stepped over the still-sleeping forms of the servants. They were too exhausted from the days’ labors to move or care about the night movements of the household. Nadira pulled the cloak tightly around her to keep the hem from sweeping their faces.
A dull thump caused her to stop and press herself against the wall. The odor of smoldering fires burned her eyes. Someone had opened the door to the kitchen and closed it again. After a brief look around, Nadira changed direction toward the kitchen, which was separated from the house by a small courtyard. The handle was high for her, and the door not easily moved. It was usually kept open to relieve the cooks from the heat of the huge fireplace. She rested her hands on the pull and very slowly leaned her shoulder into the planked door. It gave slightly, but with an exaggerated drag on the stones. It moved scarcely enough for the hinges to creak, when suddenly it reversed direction and was firmly closed again. Now pushing with all her strength did not move the door all.
There was another entry into the kitchen, but it involved going outside and around the stable yard. Nadira did not want to go outside; the stable boys slept lightly for the fear of horse thieves and were often posted on watch all night. If she were found outside at night by the stable boys, it might be seen as an invitation. Other servant girls made trips to the privy by way of the stable.
She was not ready to go back to her pallet. Impulsively she pushed against the door again, moving it a few inches. This time an eye appeared in the crack high up, first narrowed, then opened wide. Nadira recognized the cook’s face right away. Through the crack behind him she glimpsed the glitter of metal and the edge of a brown hauberk. Not a priest. Nadira sagged against the door in relief.
“Let me in” she whispered to the cook.
“No.” was the whispered answer, “Go back to your bed.”
She heard another voice, curiously accented, and then the door shut with a scrape and a clunk.
She waited. After a few moments she thought she heard a voice; she pressed her ear against the crack. There was a faint murmur of whispered voices and the door opened a handbreadth. An eye appeared in the crack again. This time Nadira could see that it was a clear blue, like the dead man’s eyes. The eye narrowed and examined her in the faint light. Softly, the eye’s owner spoke Castilian in a foreign-sounding voice, “Are you Nadira?”
“I am,” she whispered back. The blue eye moved up and down her body again. It disappeared for a moment and the door opened enough to invite her in. She squeezed through the vertical opening pulling the edges of the cloak closer to her body. Immediately the cook closed the door behind her.
When Nadira turned around, the eye now had a matching partner, both of them belonging to a tall soldier dressed in the Northern style. He was wearing a brown hauberk and appeared to be well armed. The leather straps and buckles across his broad chest and around his waist each served some martial purpose. His light helm was dented and rust tinged the rivets. Beneath the helm, rangy wisps of dark hair fringed his face and mingled seamlessly into his beard. He had a fine prominent nose and Nadira would have thought him h
andsome were it not for a long white scar that split his face in two parts from his forehead across the bridge of that fine nose and further across his cheek to the hinge of his jaw.
“You are Sofir’s servant girl?” The man asked in a low voice.
She felt a cold streak run up her spine. She tried to keep her voice firm when she answered, but failed.
“I…I am his servant,” she stammered.
“Remove your cloak,” he said shortly. Nadira instantly obeyed, dropping the cloak to her feet. The heavy cloth fell with a dull sound, and sent a cold draft around her bare ankles. The soldier poked the heap of cloth with his booted foot.
“Do you think a servant carries weapons?” Nadira was incredulous. The cook snorted.
The blue-eyed man glanced down at her, amused. “Many a man has gone to his grave with a servant’s knife in his back,” he said. He took Nadira’s elbow in his gloved hand and pulled her roughly to the cellar door. She shivered in her thin chemise.
“Can I not take the cloak?” she asked, puzzled.
“Take it,” he answered shortly as he opened the cellar panel and steadied her as her foot reached for the first step.
The enormous cellar was built to store more than just spices and wine. There was enough room for several dozen people and a ship’s worth of payload. She heard more low voices as she descended. As she emerged from the staircase, she was met by the familiar smell of spices and the sudden light from an oil lamp. She stopped at the bottom, hugging herself.
Sofir called to her. “Come here, Nadira,” he said, slowly reaching out his hand. She went to him obediently. Around him stood five bearded men, each fully armed wearing brigandines and thick leather boots and gloves like the guard above. Their swords hung heavily at their sides, their faces grim. They stared at her silently. Nadira sighed again with relief. Her fears of Black Friars and city aldermen were unfounded. These were just travelers, perhaps the vanguard of an important merchant. Now she regretted her curiosity and shifted her weight from foot to foot self-consciously.
In English, Sofir said, “Nadira, this is Robert Longmoor, Baron Montrose of England, and his men. Our injured visitor was his brother. My lord has come to claim the body. But more, he wants to know what this brother might have said to you before he died. It is very important to him.”
Nadira looked at the soldiers in the faint light. They were all very tall, standing head and shoulders above Sofir. The one with the most confident gaze was Lord Montrose, the dark one who had let her into the kitchen. None of the men spoke a greeting.
“Go ahead, girl,” Sofir prompted, waving a hand at her, “Speak English to them.”
Nadira tried to obey. Her throat closed up with the memory of the dead man’s mangled body. She rubbed the back of her neck. There was another problem. “I must have proof that this man is his brother,” she mumbled. “He told me not to tell.”
The dark one spoke calmly, “What?”
His blue eyes were darker than his brother’s, his hair very black instead of brown. She could not see the dead man in Lord Montrose’s features, no hint that they were brothers. But then his own mother would not have recognized the ruined body of her son. Robert Longmoor was taller than his brother, and heavier. He wore a short beard; the kind men wear when they would rather be clean-shaven but find themselves without a razor or opportunity. His dark hair emerged from his battered helm and lay on his shoulders, some of the strands curling up around the edges. All the men had the appearance of those who have been traveling for weeks, and taking sleep wherever possible.
Nadira had long ago learned not to assume that there is love between brothers. She could see that Lord Montrose’s face was composed, but drawn. Deep lines were etched in his forehead and his eyes were darkened with sadness.
Perhaps he was the brother.
She glanced at Sofir, and the older man smiled encouragingly. “Tell him, Nadira, they know enough already and we are in no danger.”
“And the proof?” Nadira tried to sound calm with false courage. She was one small girl among soldiers. The memory of the dead man’s defiance of his murderers gave her strength. He had trusted her with this deadly secret. She would not betray him.
Lord Montrose frowned as he considered her demand. After a pause he stripped his leather glove from his hand and pulled a ring from his smallest finger. He handed it to the soldier beside him. The soldier came forward and to her surprise, knelt before her, extending the ring for her inspection.
It was a gold ring, very small. Nadira easily recognized that it matched the one on the dead man’s hand. She swallowed hard. “Then you are Little Robin?”
The kneeling soldier closed the ring in his fist and brought it to his forehead. Lord Montrose looked stricken.
Only sincere grief could bring such a look to a man’s face. He must be the brother. She blinked back tears as she related her story. She told them of the meeting with Massey, the attempt in several languages to communicate, her administrations of various herbs and poultices. Finally, as she finished she said, “He was very brave, my lord. He did not tell them anything, though they savaged him terribly.”
Lord Montrose made an unintelligible sound in his throat and turned his head away. One of his men reached out and grasped his arm above the elbow, as if to hold him upright.
Nadira lowered her eyes courteously, “With his last breath he told me to tell his brother that Henry had the book.” She looked up again.
Lord Montrose’s eyes narrowed as he took in this news.
The man who had taken Montrose’s arm spoke to her in English. “Did he say nothin’ more, lass? Anythin’ about his companions?”
Nadira looked up again. The man who addressed her was curiously colored; his face marked all over with reddish spots like someone with a pox. His hair was a bright orange, very long and tied in several braids, his beard and eyelashes the same strange color. Nadira had not known men could come in this color. She answered him truthfully.
“He did not mention companions, my lord. He was brought to us alone and lived little more than a day. Again, I am sorry.”
Lord Montrose shook off his friend’s arm “Why was my brother brought here, to this house? Did they tell you?” His voice was soft.
Sofir answered for her. “Your brother was delirious and muttering unintelligibly. He was brought here because Massey knew my girl could interpret and write down what he said.”
A strange look passed over the nobleman’s face. “When my brother spoke to you, what language did you hear?”
“He spoke to me in Greek, sir, and in what you call Moorish.”
Montrose exchanged a glance with his friend. Then, “Do you read and write these languages as well?”
“Yes, my lord.” Nadira answered, puzzled.
“Do you read and write any others?”
“Latin and English. Some French. Hebrew.”
Montrose frowned at Sofir. “Where did you get this girl? Hebrew? Jews do not educate their women.”
The old man’s left eye twitched and Nadira felt him stiffen. “Surely you have made an error, my lord. I am a Christian. I attend mass twice a week. Ask my neighbors if you doubt me.” Sofir’s voice quavered. “And she is no Jew either. She was sold to me years ago with her mother, both of them Barbary moors.”
Montrose cocked his head, suspicion in his eyes. In two long strides he was upon her and had her right arm in a painful grip. Deftly he pulled her close to him, hard against his body. He twisted her wrist with one hand while opening her palm with the other. She barely heard Sofir’s feeble protests as a wave of fear deafened her. Montrose loomed over her, his chin inches from her eyes as he bent to examine her fingertips. He did not smell strongly like most men, but rather of wood fires and the slight fragrance of balsam as though he had been sleeping in a pine forest.
He lifted her fingers closer to his face, rubbing his gloved thumb over their black tips. Her fingers had been ink-stained for years; she could not remember a time when t
hey were not. She did not try to draw her hand back, but allowed him to inspect it while she in turn examined him. His eyes were a dark blue and very expressive. To her great relief they did not seem cruel. His mouth was set in a firm line, the lips pale and chapped. He was not exactly hurting her, though the grip was uncomfortable.
Montrose released her hand, but shifted his grasp to her upper arm. “We want to take the girl with us.”
Nadira flashed a look of terror at her master. Sofir responded quickly. “My lord, that is regrettable.”
“She will not be misused. We will swear to that. I swear to return her safely to you.” When Sofir did not look convinced, Montrose continued, “I swear upon my honor and I will pay for her. Put her worth what you will. I pay very well.”
Sofir spread his hands before him, “Accidents befall even the most careful, my lord. You may protect her from the acts of men, but none can protect her from acts of God. She is safe enough in my house.”
“We need this girl to read for us, as none of us can make out more than his name. Clerics are not to be trusted in this matter.”
“You tell me that none can be trusted in this matter, yet you trust me not to talk? You trust my girl here? I have to admit, gentlemen, this is highly unusual and not to my liking.” His voice rose. Nadira pleaded with him silently. Do not sell me, master.
“I trust no one, Sofir, but I have reason to believe that you will not be eager to contact the bishop. I have eyes,” he gestured with his chin toward a darkened corner. “I see a rotulus there on the shelf behind the barrel of salted fish. You would do well to hide your valuables better, Sofir. The Black Friars will find it as well,” he said. Nadira watched her master blanch; his face tinged almost green at these words.
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 2
