Montrose pointed a finger at him. “You want Beniste to read it for us?” He asked the Scot. Nadira had never heard him sound so vicious.
Alisdair raised both hands. “Nay. God love him, but nay.”
“There is no helping this.” To Alisdair he asked, “Do you agree?” to Nadira, “Do you swear?” Everyone nodded, even Garreth.
Montrose leaned back and closed his eyes wearily. “There is a book the brothers brought back from the Holy Land some years back. It is an Hermetica,” he began, “but this one is different from others. This one is said to have been compiled from scrolls that came from the Temple of Isis, stolen as Pope Theophilus destroyed the temples in Alexandria more than a thousand years ago. They held it for themselves for a century, but it was stolen again. It was then stolen from the thieves and repeatedly so until no one knows where it is now. The Borgia pope has charged his men with securing it for him, along with other books and scrolls. The librarians at Toledo are wary of his agents and advised us to be careful. Several documents have been stolen this summer. My brother discovered this from a priest and was warned to intercept it before it made its way to Rome.”
Nadira interrupted, “Why would he not want it to get to the pope?”
Montrose winced and spread his hand over his ribs. “Richard wanted it for himself. He said it would teach him the powers of the magi of Babylon and the magic of the priests of Osiris. What I have been told is that the pope intends to use this knowledge against his enemies in the name of Christ.”
“He considers the enemies of Christ to be the Jews and Mohammedans,” she frowned, thinking of home.
“Among others. I believe he would use the forces of hell to subjugate all to his will. I daresay Christ would fall far from his thoughts.”
Nadira was silent, then asked, “Who told you this?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does,” she answered boldly. She had shared the threat of death with him. He could share this secret. “My whole life I have heard men talk as if they had the answers to all the world’s problems. There is nothing like tables laden with food and wine to get men talking. I have filled many cups, my lord, and heard many stories. I do not believe all I hear. I would know where this story comes from.”
“I have the word of my brother, and he was a great scholar.” Nadira watched his cheek twitch as he said the word “brother”. “Richard saw the book, held it in his hands and read parts of it. He told me that it must not ever reach a cleric’s eyes. I would go to my grave on his words alone.”
“Your brother had this book in his hands and lost it?” Nadira was aghast.
Montrose sat up carefully, holding his side, and tried to find a more comfortable position so he could look her in the eyes. “He was in a room full of men who brought him in to read it to them. When he had finished, he was sent away. Some of the men wanted it copied entirely in Latin; others argued that none should be able to read it easily, especially not the clerics. It would be difficult for them to find another who can read both the Hebrew and the Arab tongue.” He looked at her pointedly
“I am no Mohammedan, nor a Jew. I am nothing.”
“So you have no allegiance to any doctrine?” His voice echoed his disbelief.
Nadira answered, “I was a servant to a spice merchant in Barcelona. My opinions have never been any man’s concern. If I read and write and keep the cups filled I am spared much notice by anyone.”
“And yet Sofir seemed over-fond of you. He did not require you to worship his god?”
Nadira hardened her eyes, remembering. “I believe he loved my mother,” she answered. “I was not mistreated, but neither was I exalted above my station. My mother rejected her god when my father was murdered, and my master saw little to gain in training me to a religion he abandoned himself.” She shrugged, “I lived, that is all. My godlessness was of no concern to anyone.” Nadira wanted these uncomfortable questions to end.
“And your mother taught you to read?”
His persistence was maddening, but she had promised to obey. She answered with a patience she did not feel, “My mother was a clever woman, my lord, and had been the honored wife of an emir. She could see it was preferable to read and write and do figures than to work in Sofir’s kitchen or the laundry. She had a beautiful hand in three languages.” Nadira could not help but add bitterly, “She did not eagerly embrace her new role as slave.”
Montrose nodded as if he understood, but Nadira knew he could not possibly comprehend her mother’s motives. What does he know of servitude?
“And she wanted the same for her daughter. I see.”
Nadira answered carefully, “I was taught to read and write because my mother told me that in this world the only things that cannot be stolen from me are my thoughts. She was very bitter, my lord. She had been a princess, yet through the rash and thoughtless acts of men, she became a slave and a whore. She had no expectations that my life would be better than hers. She was determined that no matter how miserable I might find my body, my mind would be free.”
She remembered how her mother had written her a poem about lovely turtledoves and insisted she memorize it. She made Nadira repeat it back to her until the words and cadence were perfect. The words seem to lift and fly and sing like those birds. Her mother had then said to her, “When the time comes and a man forces you to his bed, as you are being defiled with his wickedness you will have this poem inside you to repeat over and over while he works his evil on your body. If you are fortunate he will be finished after the second recitation.” So far Nadira had not needed that poem. Sofir had told her he did not want her to share her mother’s fate. The other servants and guests were forbidden to touch her.
Montrose cleared his throat. “What happened to her?”
Nadira tilted her head. “It is sad, my lord, but not uncommon. My mother kept the ledgers for my master, but she also kept his bed. She was too small to bear him the large child he planted within her and succumbed.”
“Sofir must have been…” Montrose paused.
“Yes, my lord, he was mad with grief for months. It was unseemly among his people for him to have shared his bed with a servant and a non-believer. It was well rumored in his synagogue that the child was his and he was disgraced. In his defense, my lord, he became apostate in his own religion for it, choosing to convert to Christianity rather than remain faithful to his people and his god.”
Montrose was silent, thinking, then “How old were you?”
“Oh, I believe eleven or twelve. I do not know.”
“And the child?”
“Dead.”
Montrose nodded. “I was twelve when my mother died. I was away in fosterage at the time. It was months later before word came to me. I had not seen her in some years.”
“I am sorry.” Nadira meant it.
Montrose nodded. “But self-pity is inappropriate now. We are too old to mourn parents.”
Nadira looked up sharply, “Not too old to mourn a brother.”
Montrose paled. “No. Never too old for that.”
Nadira did not answer. Her world was darkened with her own loss. She did not like remembering her childhood. Those long nights after her mother’s death, wondering what would become of her, worrying that the rabbi would come and convince Sofir to throw her out, or have her sold at the block, or given to one of his tradesmen. She cringed. She glared up at Montrose from the floor.
“No one is ever too old to mourn,” she whispered.
Montrose winced. “I was wrong to say so. I am sorry.”
She did not answer, feeling surly. She hugged herself tightly, sitting on the floor.
Montrose stretched out his hand to her from the bed. “Take it, Nadira. I would make a promise to you now.”
She stood up and walked slowly to the bed, placing her hand in his as instructed. His blue eyes looked like Richard’s now. She felt some of her anger fade away. Just a little.
“I apologize for dishonoring your mother’s memory,” he said. She t
ried to pull her hand back but he tightened his grip. “I am not finished. I need you; Nadira, and I want you to understand how important you are to this task.”
She nodded slowly, wanting her hand back. He gave her hand another squeeze, and then released her. “Am I forgiven?”
Nadira set her mouth in a firm line. She stared hard at him before answering. “I will do as you ask since I have little choice in the matter. I must go with you under your protection, or I am alone. I know very well what awaits me in the streets, my lord.”
“Aye,” Alisdair nodded. “Not so nice fer a pretty lass like you.”
Montrose gave them both a long look. “Nadira, I hope you would help us because you see the importance of our quest.”
He never heard her response, for suddenly Marcus’ body jerked, shaking the bed with a great spasm. “Jesu!” Montrose was knocked in the head by an arm and Alisdair rose to catch him as he nearly fell from the bed.
Marcus jerked again, this time flailing his legs as well.
“Hold him!” Nadira cried out. She leaped to the bed and placed her hands on the sides of Marcus’ head. Alisdair leaned upon the bed holding his legs until the fit ebbed away. She stroked the dark beard and smoothed Marcus’s hair from his forehead, murmuring comforting words. Montrose leaned over his friend anxiously. Marcus took a shuddering breath, and then lay still, his eyes stared wide. He was dead.
“Oh God,” Montrose breathed.
Nadira drew back in shock. It was not unexpected, but there is no good time for death. She watched silently as Alisdair tenderly closed Marcus’ eyes; his big hands trembled as the fingertips brushed the lids. Nadira could not help herself. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks as fast as she could wipe them away. She tried to cry quietly, but soon she was choking and coughing with sobs.
She could only remember Marcus’s strong arm about her waist as they rode, and the kind way he handed her food and drink. He had not been a talkative man, but his steadiness and courage had been evident throughout her brief time with him. She remembered how he lifted her up and brought her down from his horse countless times as though she were no heavier than a puppy. Not once did he ever touch her inappropriately, but treated her with great respect, though she had not yet earned it. Nadira covered her face with her apron and wept.
Montrose climbed weakly out of the bed, limped to the door and bolted it. He staggered back and pulled the blankets to expose Marcus’ body, head to foot.
“My lord, why did you bolt the door?” she whispered, snuffling. Surely they must fetch Garreth and Beniste.
“Be silent. Turn him, Alisdair.” Puzzled, Nadira wiped her eyes as she watched Alisdair roll Marcus over until he lay face down on the soft feather tick. Montrose went to the low table where Nadira had piled his clothing before she sewed his wound. He fished around in his jerkin until he found his hunting knife. He returned to the bed, holding it. He swayed dangerously before Nadira could reach him and prop him up. Alisdair took the knife from him and without a word, used it to rip Marcus’ tunic from the neck to the waist.
Nadira gasped as the clothing fell away to reveal Marcus’s back. Scrawled upon the skin were letters, numbers and symbols she had never seen before. Montrose leaned heavily on her shoulder. In a hoarse voice he said, “I want you to copy these exactly. Can you do it?”
She stared at the muscled flesh spread out before her on the bed. A servant never refused. “I can,” she answered automatically. “I…I’ll need ink and parchment, more light, a quill…and a pen knife.”
“Alisdair will get them for you. Bolt the door behind him and let no one in.” To Alisdair he said, “Do not tell them Marc has died. Not yet.”
Alisdair nodded and left the room. Nadira helped Montrose sit on the low stool and sheathed his knife for him, then she bolted the door as instructed.
The two of them sat in silence while they waited for Alisdair. She took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. It was easier to think of the words as part of a scroll than as part of a corpse. Look again. It was easier this time. Some of the writing was Latin, some Greek, and some was in Moorish. The ink appeared to be henna, but she could not be sure.
A few letters were Hebrew, which Nadira could read, but the combinations did not make sense to her. In addition, there was one line of writing that was in no language she had ever seen. In the place of letters were drawings of birds and body parts and what looked like flowers. What she could read said, “Knowledge comes not from words, seek ye the river’s edge for the key to understanding.” Then came the strange symbols. She smoothed out the skin over Marcus’ lower back where the muscles made a valley of his spine.
The flesh was eerily cool to her touch. In the small of his back were wavy lines and an arrow. Nadira remembered his scarred face, his quiet smile and his great strength. He had carried this cryptic message for his friends. Died for it. Nadira touched the words with her finger. The words seemed sacred now, when sacred had never meant much to her before.
She jumped when she heard a scratch at the door. Montrose made to get up, but she beckoned him to remain on his stool as she went to the door. She put her ear to the crack. Alisdair whispered, “Lemme in, quickly, lass, the servants are on my heels.” She unbolted the door, letting him slide in and closed it behind her. He did not bolt it, but took her arm. “You must go out and say that we dinna wish to be disturbed. Give ‘em the chamber pot and the crockery. Take the food and ale tell them you’ll tend to us alone.”
She moved quickly to obey. She went to the sideboard and grabbed the empty flagons from last night, then pulled the chamber pot from under the bed. She went obediently into the stairwell with the crockery. A small girl carrying a tray and older man with fresh linens met her there.
“Please, my master is ill and wishes to sleep undisturbed. I will take the linen and food to him,” she said with as much authority as she could. The old man took the chamber pot from her with a nod. The little girl smiled as she gave Nadira the tray.
“Please tell your master that Lord Montrose wishes to sleep undisturbed until the evening meal.”
The old man nodded again and padded back down the stairs, the little girl following. When they were out of sight, Nadira sighed in relief. She pushed open the door with her foot and then closed it behind her with her hip. Alisdair was there to bolt it.
She set the tray on the sideboard next to the ale cask. Alisdair filled a cup and handed it to Montrose, then lowered himself to the floor at his feet. The two men sat quietly drinking the ale as Nadira inspected her pen and ink. She carefully copied each letter and symbol from the corpse to the creamy parchment.
The symbols and birds were more difficult and she took pains to copy them exactly, pausing many times to hold the vellum against the pale skin for comparison. One of the lamps burned out and the quill had to be trimmed several times before she was finished. Marcus had stiffened by the time she finally set her tools down and blew on the last few marks she had made. Montrose sighed deeply and cleared his throat. That was the first sound anyone had made since the start of the grisly task.
Montrose stood unsteadily to look over her shoulder at her work. “Well done,” he said quietly. “They look the same.”
“Yes my lord, I was careful.”
“Can you read this?” He smelled strongly of the ale.
Nadira told him what she could read.
“Yes, that is correct. When we get the book you should be able to read it all for me, for this key will tell us if we have the right book. My brother put this on Marc’s back one night in Toledo…”
She looked up at him when he didn’t finish. He pointed to the words on the cold flesh. “I cannot let him be buried like this.”
“What do you mean?”
The two men exchanged dark looks.
“You can’t mean…” Nadira’s eyes widened as Montrose unsheathed the knife again.
He rubbed his face with the other hand, but the chafing brought no color to his cheeks. He
looked as dead as his friend. “Marcus was my squire, my companion,” his voice broke, “and now I must flay him. God, I hate this.”
Alisdair put an arm on his shoulder and took the knife away. “I’ll do it, lad.” He steered Montrose to a pile of straw. “You sleep. You can barely stand.”
“No…” Montrose put a hand on the wall to steady himself against Alisdair’s insistent push. “You can’t do it alone.”
“Garreth will help.”
“No.”
Alisdair gave up trying to get Montrose onto the straw. “C’mere lass, and take him downstairs to the hall. Put him in that big soft chair. Tell Garreth to come up.” To Montrose he spoke softly as one would speak to a child, “Go on, then, Robin. Go with the lassie.”
Nadira took a tentative step forward. Alisdair gestured with his chin toward the door. Montrose no longer protested, his eyes had that far away look as they did at the table the first day in Beniste’s house. Nadira took his elbow and led him unresisting to the door. Alisdair had taken a whetstone from his bag and the sharp tsing tsing of the blade on the stone followed them down the stairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEIR host had not asked any questions when Nadira left Montrose in the hall, so Nadira assumed he either knew their grisly business or had been fed an excuse. No one had come to disturb her in the garden where she now wandered, touching the plants as if busy with a task. No one called for her. She thought about her options. Her agreement to cooperate had been given under desperate conditions. She shouldn’t have to honor it now. I didn’t swear…did I? Nadira tried to remember that morning on the road from Barcelona. They had sworn. She had promised. There is a difference.
Should she offer to stay here as Beniste’s servant? He had looked at her across the table in a manner she knew very well. He would probably welcome her as an addition to his household, though perhaps not in the position she preferred. Beniste’s admiration was not limited to her skills as a hostess or even a bookkeeper. He had seemed to be evaluating her breasts rather than her penmanship when he had asked her to take down a letter for him after the meal.
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 8
