“Ah, yes. We had anticipated that Henry would be upset, but we were not ready for what did occur.” Father Bertram paused mysteriously. He turned to Nadira. “I hear you can read the Saracen script, and Hebrew too.”
Nadira did not like the way his eyes challenged her. She found it difficult to look away demurely. “Yes, father,” she answered.
Montrose interrupted, “And the book?”
Father Bertram frowned at him. “My Lord Montrose. Please. The book is not here, as you know.” He leaned towards Montrose. “And it will not come back here. If you plan to chase it down, then you will be traveling to Rome. However, I cannot see you wasting your time. The Holy Father probably has the book by now. He knows its reputation, he will be keeping it safe, and out of the hands of curious monks and scholars. In any case, please give him my most respectful greetings.”
Bertram leaned back in his chair, picked a bunch of grapes from his plate. “Brother Henry is now a ruined man, Montrose. He sits and rots in his cell, and he will until the day God calls him. I pray that you see the sense in my words and leave the book be.”
There was an uncomfortable silence at the table. Father Bertram’s demeanor was quite different from before. What had changed? Nadira watched Montrose carefully, though he seemed to blur as he moved. She shook her head. Right now, she did not care. Her thoughts turned to a warm bed and soft blankets. The room blurred around her. Didn’t Montrose tell her to do something? She fought to stay awake, focusing on Montrose. He was saying something to Father Bertram but she could not hear him clearly. She tapped her fingers lightly on the table, but could not feel the hard wood. She began to worry. She tried to focus on a candle. Its light wavered yellow and gold.
He told me to stay alert.
CHAPTER TEN
NADIRA opened her eyes, uncomfortable, her gown twisted around her legs. Then she remembered the wine. She tried to put her hand to her head, but found her hand would not move, nor would her feet. Alarmed, she blinked and focused. She was lying on her back, tied to the corners of a wagon bed. Above her a canopy swayed back and forth. As she became fully conscious, she could hear the clip clop of a team of horses and the jolting of the boards beneath her. She thought to cry out for help and drew a breath to do so, but as she did a face appeared above her.
“Don’t. No one will hear you. We are miles from the monastery.” The man sat beside her. He was small and slight with a pocked face. His breath was bad and his habit stained with mud. Nadira wrinkled her nose. She stretched her neck to look around inside the wagon. Above her swung lumpy sacks of supplies tied with cord, and there were grain sacks on the sides of the box. She pulled on her tether. She was tied with leather cord.
Left and right, the road stretched out as far as she could see. There was no sign of the monastery, no village, no town. The track the horses followed was overgrown and unused. That was all she could see. She should not be surprised to be kidnapped yet again. It must have been Father Bertram’s plan. She thought back to the dinner. He seemed interested in her literacy. She tried to remember if anything else had been said. Nothing significant she could remember, but that Father Bertram had seemed particularly annoyed with Montrose. She narrowed her eyes. What would he have done with Lord Montrose? Could he be tried for treason or heresy?
She thought she remembered that a priest could not draw blood. She heard that often enough from Sofir. Were the others also drugged with poppy juice? Bertram must have had someone come in and overpower them when she fell asleep. He could not possibly do it himself. She frowned. Asking the monks questions only caused them to turn their backs to her. She could get nothing from them. They had obviously been told not to speak.
Before sunset the monks became alert and sat up straighter as they rounded a curve. She leaned toward the canopy hole to widen her view. A stone tower and several outbuildings were at the crest of the hill. The tower was completely round and very tall, maybe five stories. She saw openings in the stones starting on the third floor in regular procession in a spiral around the tower. The top was crenellated; small forms were visible moving between the stones. Beside it a low building flanked the tower, another and another appeared over the hill as they approached.
The wagon had been seen from a long way off. It creaked up the last embankment and stopped before the main gate, a huge wooden structure reinforced with metal braces. A portcullis hung down before it, black and foreboding. The pocked monk pulled her back from the canopy hole. He untied her from the iron ring and pulled her roughly from the wagon. A tall soldier met them at the gate.
“Name your purpose!” he shouted.
The tall narrow-faced monk answered. “We are from the monastery in Coix. We come on an errand for Father Bertram.” The monk produced a roll of parchment from his sleeve and slipped it to the soldier through the portcullis. The soldier disappeared, but another, just as fierce, took his place. Nadira stood quietly, rubbing her chafed wrists and stretching her cramped legs. They waited only a few minutes before the tall soldier returned, this time with another man, not a monk.
This man was middle aged, his beard was dark but streaked with gray, his body stocky and powerful. His sharp, piercing eyes examined her through the bars. He was dressed in thick rich velvet and wore a great chain on his chest. Suspended from the chain was a gold amulet of some kind. Nadira couldn’t see it well in the folds of his robes. On his head was a tall hat made of some kind of fur that almost exactly matched his beard. He lifted the parchment to his face and read it again, lowering it to stare incredulously at Nadira. No doubt Father Bertram had written something about her that this man did not believe and he did not try to hide his skepticism.
“Open.” The velvet-clad man spoke in quiet authoritative tones. “Get the gate open and take this wagon to the stable. Unload the supplies and send the guests to the kitchen. Bring the girl to my chambers after she has been washed.” He gave her one last curious look before he disappeared through a tall door to the left.
The soldiers had the portcullis up in moments. One of them came forward to take the horses’ bits. The other dragged Nadira inside. The men took her to the laundry where she was instructed to wash up. She was given soap and cloths and a fine wool dress which was dyed a pleasant blue. As she walked out of the laundry, her guard handed her a heavy woolen cloak. She gratefully accepted its warmth as he helped her adjust it around her shoulders. The cape was too long to avoid being dragged on the flagstones. Nadira was careful not to step on it as they climbed the stairs to the master’s chamber.
The door opened into a large room, half the size of the tower’s diameter. Nadira paused in the doorway allowing her eyes to adjust to the light. Her guard was dismissed, but she heard the clanking sounds as he settled himself outside the door. The master was looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and barely concealed excitement.
He extended his hand and Nadira took it. It was large and warm and soft. The only calluses seemed to be on the fingertips. “Come and sit. It is time for us to talk.” He spoke to her in Latin, a challenge in his dark eyes. Nadira smiled guardedly and answered him in kind.
“You are gracious, sir. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He laughed lightly, the dark eyes lightening up as he then spoke in Castilian, “Please, may I offer you some wine?”
Nadira placed a hand over her heart, “I think not, my lord,” she answered in Castilian, “for I believe wine has not been a friend to me lately.” She smiled. The master laughed again.
“Perhaps some water then, or beer?” he said in English.
Nadira’s English was not as good. She could understand most of what was said if it was said slowly, but speaking was more difficult. She knew the word for beer. “Yes, a beer, sir.”
The master sat her in a chair with a high curved back. He took his place across a small empty table in an even larger chair and poured beer from a pitcher into a ceramic mug. He stared at her over the candle while she took a drink. Nadira was famished; her eyes dart
ed above the rim looking for any food in the room. The master caught her glance. He lifted a cloth on the table and produced a bowl of fruit. She plunked the beer down , too hungry to worry about good manners. The master smiled and pushed the bowl toward her. Nadira reached for an apple and a handful of plump grapes. She tried to eat daintily, slowly chewing the fruit while the master watched. When she was finished, he pushed a napkin toward her and she took it appreciatively.
“Now, mistress…?”
“Nadira, my lord.”
“Please call me ‘monsieur’. I am no ‘lord’, calling me so is disagreeable.”
“Monsieur. I am no ‘mistress’ either.” She smiled again and finished her beer.
Monsieur laughed pleasantly “Then let us get acquainted,” he said to her, his eyes eager. “I am Signore Conti.” He took a sip of his wine.
Nadira watched him curiously. He reminded her of her master Sofir with his easy intelligence and rich dress. She did not quite fear him now, and might actually admire him, for the proof of his surroundings told her he was a man of learning. A more chilling idea occurred to her. Perhaps he did not desire her for her mind. Her face must have betrayed that thought, for Conti leaned back quickly, his hands clasped over his chest.
“Forgive me, Mistress Nadira. I do not intend to alarm you. My interest lies in another field. Trust that I will leave yours to be plowed by another.”
Nadira laughed. The sound startled her, for she had not laughed aloud for many weeks now. His coarse humor contrasted sharply with his elegant appearance. Perhaps she was safe after all.
“Please, monsieur, tell me what I can do for you,” she asked tentatively.
He chuckled with her before answering. “Some time ago a monk from Father Bertram’s monastery rode through here, stopping for the night. He had in his possession a very fine book, a Hermetica that he could not read. I encouraged him to stay for a while. My wine cellar is quite famous, you know. This monk was encouraged to stay here for exactly as long as it took to copy the book while he slept off this wonderful wine.” Conti grinned. “And Father Bertram’s letter tells me that you can read the parts that I cannot,” he finished.
Nadira took a deep breath. So. Now she knew what Father Bertram had been doing while Montrose recovered, and why he changed his mind. Carefully she said, “I have heard ill of this book, monsieur.” She left the rest of the sentence hanging in the air.
Conti rubbed his chin. “I have been reading this copy since the monk continued his journey on to Rome. I am not afraid to admit that it makes no sense to me so far. More than half the book is in languages I cannot decipher. The monk did mention that the book was cursed, that it was used to summon demons,” he paused thoughtfully, “but I haven’t seen anything like that. Please do not succumb to rumor or superstition.” He looked at her meaningfully. “I do not believe this is an evil book. I have not been harmed and I have been studying it for months.”
“Monsieur, I am at your service.” Nadira said graciously. “Bring me the book. I will do my best.”
Conti looked surprised. “Is that it? You do not need to be convinced?”
“Monsieur, your hospitality has convinced me of your veracity,” Nadira was not above flattery herself. She must see this copy, and learn where it is kept. Should she be reunited with her companions, this information will be greatly appreciated. Conti sat back, silenced.
“Of course, I would be very grateful for your help,” he said quietly. He raised his eyebrows.
Nadira understood that he was asking her price. She was only too willing to tell him. “Monsieur. I have companions at Coix.” Her voice wavered. “I do not know what has happened to them.”
“Ah.” Conti stood and began to pace back and forth before the dark window. “Perhaps I can send word back.” He stopped. “You can read the Saracen script?” he asked with emphasis.
Nadira nodded. Conti continued back and forth, his fingers to his lips. He stopped again, “You can read Hebrew?” He narrowed his eyes as he peered at her.
“Yes. Quite.” Nadira radiated confidence.
“Very well. Very well. Very well.” His face flushed. He stopped at one of the shelves on the wall. He pulled off a wooden casket and brought it to the table. With great reverence, he carefully opened the curved lid and withdrew a sheaf of parchment. Each page was carefully numbered, but unbound. Conti placed the stack in front of Nadira, moved his chair around the table and sat beside her. Nadira watched him as he turned the leaves over to catch the light from the oil lamp on the table.
“I have read the Latin and the Greek, Nadira. Here it says, ‘all is one’, here it says ‘as above, so below’. Here is some Plato. Here is some Virgil.” Conti turned the leaves over until the one facing up remained. Nadira recognized the Hebrew. Conti looked at her. “And this one?” he prompted.
Nadira leaned closer and lifted the page closer to her eyes. “It is very poorly copied. I will do my best.”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered.
She read, “‘Seeing that there is a world made of three parts: elementary, celestial, and intellectual, and every inferior is governed by its superior and receives the influence of the virtues thereof, so that the very original, and chief worker of all does by the angels, the heavens, the elements, the plants, metals and stone convey the proof of his ascendancy over all three worlds and everything else in the universe.’” Nadira took another drink of the beer. Conti turned another leaf over.
Nadira continued, “That magic is the greatest of the pursuits of knowledge, for learning to control the elements, to learn the language of the metals and the stones, to hear the cries of the plants and the animals, to use what you have to influence the entire world to your own will. This is the meaning of existence: To learn what is and what is not, to hear color, to see sound, to know God, to speak to Him, to hear His answers in the world around you, to see His voice in the wind and in the grass. This you can do, you need…’” Conti turned the leaf, but the next page was in Aramaic. Nadira stopped. “I cannot read this, monsieur,” she said sadly.
Conti’s hands were visibly trembling as he flipped the pages though the stack. He stopped and slowly turned one of the pages face up. He spread it flat, then looked at Nadira. “My dear?”
Nadira looked long and carefully at the Moorish script in front of her. It was a strange dialect, and some of the words she did not know, but she began bravely, speaking the words first, and then translating them for Conti. “It is true that men may ascend beyond their flesh to the heavens and converse with angels. There are dangers there as well as wonders. This book will warn of the former while enticing with the latter. First, you must understand the wisdom of the book. You must consume the book with your heart, your inner self, your mind, your teeth…”
Nadira stopped and looked into Conti’s face. “Monsieur, she whispered, “You could not copy the endpapers.” He frowned. “The endpapers?” he questioned.
“The speckled papers at the end of the book.”
Conti sat back in his chair. His hand went to his beard once again. “The endpapers…” he mused. “They were very unusual. Ragged papyrus and spotted with black mold,” he remembered.
Nadira closed her eyes. Here was a test. This man was rich, powerful, and was better an ally than an enemy. She searched her heart. Montrose believed the abbot to be his ally and was sorely betrayed. This man—she opened her eyes, searching his face—is a scholar, a lover of knowledge. His face showed deep understanding and confidence inhis place in the world. He is truly excited to hear my words as I read. I can feel it. She had not been sworn to secrecy. Her currency was literacy. Her ransom was knowledge.
“Yes, monsieur,” she decided, “we can read these pages, but you will not be successful without the endpapers. These words can be copied and read, but what is unique about this book will not pass though a copy.” Nadira remembered with a twinge how Henry had said that the book would defend itself.
Conti cocked his head, “And how do you
know this, child?”
“I had the good fortune to sit and listen to Brother Henry explain the meaning of the endpapers…”
Conti interrupted, “Did Brother Henry consume the endpapers?”
Nadira nodded. “Yes, sir. He did.”
Conti leaned forward on his elbows and cupped his chin in his hand. “Did Henry mention consuming anything else, perhaps?”
Nadira thought back to that late evening a week ago. “No, monsieur. He talked about how he had swallowed half the page, when he should have tasted but a bit of it.”
Conti laughed heartily, shaking the table.
“I imagine he was quite sorry for that!”
“Oh, monsieur! You know about this madness? Brother Henry lost his mind! You should see him now, stuttering, shaking, incoherent, even violent,” Nadira remembered Montrose flying through the air and the sickening thud as he struck the wall. Montrose was twice Henry’s size. She shuddered. “The endpapers contain some kind of magic!”
“No, not magic, but not for the timid or the weak. I am annoyed that I missed something so obvious. I was so intent on having it copied before the monk departed that I missed it. I’ve heard of this black mold. What did Henry tell you about it?”
“He told us,” Nadira thought hard, “he was like a bug, that he flew out of the window, talked to spirits. He warned us not to seek the book,” she finished sadly.
Conti was musing, not looking at her. After a moment he rose, scraping the heavy chair on the wood floor, and reached for another scroll. He brought it back and unrolled it before her, tapping it with his heavily jeweled fingers.
“Can you read this?”
Nadira focused her eyes on the curling parchment. Before her lay a diagram of ten circles arranged like a boat with the prow facing downward. Inside of each circle was a Hebrew letter and lines were drawn connecting the circles to each other. Nadira frowned.
“I can read the letters, but I don’t know what they mean.” A hand came down over her shoulder and rolled up the parchment. A moment later, it disappeared.
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 13
