“Nadira! Jesu.” His voice was rough and hoarse and hardly more than a whisper. He blinked again, bringing his free hand up to rub his face as though he could not trust his eyes.
He reached up and touched her cheek. “You are real. Where are we?” he murmured, staring at her hard as though he believed she would vanish at any instant.
“My lord,” she blew her nose untidily into her hem, “Andorra.”
“I must look like hell if you are weeping so hard.” The blue eyes flickered in the candlelight. “Am I dying?” he asked calmly.
Nadira put up a hand to his lips to stop him from speaking until she had collected herself. When she felt confident that she could look at him without breaking, she answered with a steadiness she did not feel.
“I do not know, my lord.” She took a shuddering breath. “How…where…is the pain?”
“I am beyond pain.” He winced as if to prove it to her. “My body burns from head to foot. Am I bleeding anywhere?”
“No. Not that I can tell.” Nadira could not contain a sob.
“Then I am probably not dying. You do not need to weep for me.”
Nadira reached out and took Montrose’s big hand. It was heavy and rough like wood, but thankfully warm. She stroked the palm touching the calluses and raised scars with the smooth tips of her fingers. “You are speaking, and your hand is warm.” A big tear dripped down the curve of her cheek. She let it go.
He looked at her for a few moments before speaking. “You smell like lavender and are as soft and smooth as damask. I so worried that you had been ill-used.” The beard on his throat moved up and down.
“My lord,” Nadira put his hand between her small ones and raised it to her breast. “And you have been confined and mistreated this whole time.”
“You are well?” He demanded, squinting to see her. Nadira nodded. He continued, “…and Alisdair and Garreth?”
Nadira could not stop the tears. She squeezed his hand instead of trusting her voice to answer.
“You do not know.” Anguish in his voice.
Nadira wiped her face with the now soaking hem. “What shall I do?” She grieved. She realized she had not completed her plans, for even if her bold ideas bore fruit and she successfully freed Montrose from the wall, what then? Should they try to flee? It was early winter. The nights were bitter and the mountains no longer offered much but nuts and water. Montrose could not hunt in his condition and Nadira had never killed anything larger than a rat.
The nearest village was a mile away and firmly controlled by Conti. The villagers would not hide them. Any search would be in that direction and towards the valley below, yet there the weather was still mild. Olives and grapes had been harvested and stored away; the grain was threshed. Nadira’s throat tightened. Would they search with dogs? Stealing a horse was a capital crime. She would prefer not to intensify any search by piling more crimes upon her head. Hiding in the mountains with no food or shelter would be brutal. But it must be done.
“First I must free you….” Her words were interrupted by a smashing bang from the front of the barn. The two doors had been crashed open, and still swung uneasily on their hinges. Conti stood in the doorway flanked by William, the Dominicans and one of the soldiers.
“What in God’s name!” Father Septimus strode forward, whipping his cassock against the stanchions. He grabbed Nadira’s arm and yanked her to her feet. He then pressed her hard against the wall. Montrose’s hand was stripped from her grasp and fell back into the straw. He staggered to his feet faster than Nadira thought possible, dragging the manacle and heavy chain.
“Unhand her.” Montrose had not the strength to shout, but his voice was all the more dangerous for being jagged and low. He was answered with a backhand from the soldier that sent him spinning back to the ground, sending dust and straw into the air. Numbly, Nadira watched the golden straws float gently to rest upon his dark hair. A few weeks ago such a blow would not have even made his mouth twitch.
“Stop!” Conti stepped forward, pushed Septimus aside and grabbed Nadira’s arm from the priest’s grasp. She was pressed into his warm furs. The old priest was red with fury, panting and blowing like a bellows.
“Septimus, calm yourself.” He said. “You do injury in more ways than one.”
William’s soft eyes were on Nadira. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No.” She rubbed her arm where the old man’s nails had pinched her.
“What are you doing in the byre, Nadira?” Conti asked slowly.
“You can see what she was doing!” Septimus growled, “She was trying to free my prisoner.” Septimus pointed at Montrose who was now sitting upright. Montrose did not look up at the word “prisoner”. He crouched with one knee under his chin and his free arm around his ribs. His hair fell over his face, covering his eyes. Nadira could not tell what he was thinking.
“Is this true, child?” Conti asked softly. Nadira was about to confess when she was interrupted.
“How could she free me?” Montrose murmured. He shook his wrist, clanking the links.
The heads turned from Nadira to Montrose. He leaned his shoulder against the stone and used it to leverage himself to his feet, his boots scraping the ground as he rose with difficulty. He looked even more terrible in the added torchlight. His beard was matted and uneven, the unkempt hair still striping his pale face with black bands. Even as he was diminished in vigor, he was a full head taller than all but Conti, and still formidable in size. Nadira noticed a subtle shuffling of position of the priests to distance themselves beyond his reach. He glowered at them from behind the hank of hair in his face.
“Your servant merely showed her compassion for an unfortunate,” he finished.
Nadira sobbed, “No, my lord.” She turned to Conti. “Monsieur, do you not know Lord Montrose? My companion and guardian?” Her eyes begged him. She had heard him with her own ears admit to it. Conti averted his gaze. Nadira turned to Septimus. “Did you not know the name and title of the man you held prisoner?”
“Be silent. I answer no questions from you,” Septimus snapped.
Nadira narrowed her eyes. An unaccustomed feeling was welling up inside of her. She wanted to lay hands on the old priest and twist his cassock into wads. This intense desire must have shown in her face, for Septimus turned his back on her and appealed to Conti. “Surely you stand with me in this matter.”
All eyes were on Conti as he pulled his beard. He did not look at Nadira, small beside him, nor at Lord Montrose sagging against the byre walls, but at William. After a long and uncomfortable pause he answered, “I suggest we discuss this inside by the warmth of my fire, Septimus, with some of my fine wine. Let us allow the girl to bring your prisoner back to some semblance of humanity.” Septimus stiffened. “And then,” he looked pointedly at the Dominicans, “perhaps some arrangements can be made which will be advantageous to all parties.”
Relief flooded though her body. Nadira knees went weak.
“Monsieur…” she exhaled.
“ No, Nadira. I will speak to you later. William, you help her with this task. Father Septimus,” he turned to the old man and held out his hand. “Give me the key to his shackles.”
Septimus scowled, but dug in his sleeve for an iron key and handed it to Conti. “It is only your long and trusted friendship which permits me to listen to your proposal,” he snarled.
William lifted the chain while Conti inserted the key and twisted it. The heavy iron ring fell to the straw, clanking the chain sharply as it went. William met no resistance as he pulled Montrose’s left arm over his shoulders. Nadira took his right side. She felt eyes boring into her back as they made their way slowly to the door, Montrose moved as though he had to think about each step before he took it. William did not hurry him. When they were halfway through the yard, William stopped. “Where do you want him, Nadira?” he asked. His eyes were bright with curiosity and adventure. Nadira felt a wave of affection for her friend.
�
�The laundry, William.” That is where they could have some privacy and still be near the hot water, linen and food located nearby in the kitchen and buttery. Nadira did not want an audience for what was to come next. She freed herself from under Montrose’s shoulder and made for the kitchen fires for a light. When she returned she found that William had set Montrose down beside the cauldron. William pulled her sleeve. “What now, Nadira? You seem to know just what you are doing,”
“Oh, William!” She put her hands to her cheeks. “We must get him some beer and some food. I want to put him in a bath. One of these tubs…” Nadira looked around the laundry, then indicated the wooden tub she wanted, a half hogshead stained purple inside that must have once been filled with grapes. William rolled it over to the cauldron by the fire. Nadira went to Montrose. He opened his eyes when she swept to her knees at his side. “My lord,” she called softly, brushing his hair from his face and exposing the broad brow.
“Nadira, “he sighed. “You must know,” he watched William stirring the coals and laying on more wood, “you may heal me only to make this last longer.”
“What more do they want from you?”
“What do you mean?” He looked at her strangely, exasperation evident in his voice. “They want the book.”
Nadira frowned. “My mind has been with you. I have completely forgotten that cursed thing.”
His mouth turned down at the edges. “I have not forgotten it. It has been the sole topic of conversation for some days now.” He winced as he shifted his weight on the flagstones, “Intense conversation.” He held up his right hand. His thumb was swollen and purple, the end crushed and misshapen.
“For pity’s sake, you should have just told them where it is!”
“I don’t know where it is. No one knows where Valentine is. By God’s Wounds, I would have told them,” he answered between clenched teeth. “You’ll need leeches.”
“There are no leeches here,” William answered from the fireplace. “Not in the mountains.”
“Too late for leeches. This was done days ago.” Nadira indicated the colorful bruising along his ribs gently with her finger, “and we would need a leech the size of my arm.”
“No leeches, then. Perhaps some ale if you have it.”
“We have wine and beer.” She reached for a flagon that William silently set at her elbow. Montrose rose tremblingly on one arm to receive it. “Let me help you.” Nadira positioned herself behind him and helped him sit up enough to drink the beer. “Drink. I will hold you up.” She watched him empty the flagon. William hurried out, presumably to get more.
“How long were you in the byre?” she asked.
“I do not know. Some days. I did not count. I was longer in a cart, and before that in some hovel.” He blinked. His eyes traveled around the room. “This is the tower of Andorra?”
“Yes. Have you been here before?” Nadira laid him back down on his back.
“Many times. But never in the byre or the laundry,” he said wryly.
William returned and knelt beside her, “Here is some bread and wine from upstairs. The buttery is locked now. Do you want me to fetch the cook?”
“No. I do not want him to eat too much tonight, he would be sick. This will be enough,” she lifted the half loaf and weighed it in her hand. “Help me get these rags off him,” she said. William took the scissors from his belt and carefully clipped the tattered woolens from Montrose’s body. He paused every now and then to pull the strips of fabric away.
“Just throw them in the fire,” Nadira said. “I can’t see saving them for anything. They are nearly rotted as it is.” She poured hot water from the cauldron into the wine tub, ferrying the water in a bucket until the tub was half full. Montrose would fit inside if he tucked his knees up. She bent to help William with the last of the rags. While William carried the cloth to the fire, Nadira pulled at Montrose’s boot.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Nadira paused, looking at him as he lay nearly naked on a pile of bedding and kitchen cloths. “What?” she asked, puzzled.
“Careful pulling that one off.”
Nadira pulled gently as instructed, loosening the leather with her fingers as necessary to ease the boot from his leg. Something soft and black fell out as the leather cleared his heel. It was her own braid of hair, twisted and matted. “You still have it,” she marveled.
Montrose took it from her and laid it next to him. “Aye. It binds you to me,” he said in English.
Nadira tilted her head. “Aye. It does.”
William put Montrose in the wine barrel and the two of them finished filling the tub with warm water. With warm wet cloths she wiped his chest and arms, wringing the filth into a bucket. At first Montrose grimaced as she washed him, but after a few minutes made no response, though he covered himself when she dipped her scrubbing cloth deep into the water between his legs. She smiled as she reached for his feet one at a time and propped them on the edge of the barrel.
“I have washed a naked man before, my lord,” she said with humor as she scrubbed his thigh. “I was called upon to help in the sickroom from the time I was twelve years old.”
His face flushed from the heat of the water, “Of course,” he said.
She was totally soaked by the time she was finished. They lifted him from the cooling water and wrapped him in clean linens and lay him back down on the soft pallet. When they were both dry, she held an oil lamp close to his skin, checking him from head to foot over every inch of his body. William watched with curiosity.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked softly, not to disturb her concentration.
“Do what?” She answered absently, poking with her finger around Montrose’s feet. She moved back along his ribs where the scar marked him up and down like a pillow seam. She pushed the lamp up close and felt it with the tips of her fingers.
“Know what to do...” William trailed off, at a loss.
“Is that something one has to learn?” She asked him as the flickering light rippled over the muscles of Montrose’s chest. There were no more open wounds here, but there were terrible bruises, which spoke of a brutal beating sometime in the past week. His right thumb was at an odd angle. Nadira turned it over in her hand and held it closer to the light. She had not noticed it in the byre as it had been hanging in the manacle. Montrose’s arm jerked when she touched it.
“Don’t,” he said.
“What happened to it?” she whispered.
“Thumb screw.” He set his mouth in a tight line. The word itself conjured the image of the horrors of his torture. She lay the hand down beside him. Nadira reached for the tunic William had retrieved for her. “Help me get this on him. He is shivering.” They struggled to pull the heavy wool over Montrose’s head and get his arms through the sleeves. She lifted and positioned Montrose’s elbow so the damaged thumb lay gently on his lap. The three of them stared at it silently in the lamplight for some time.
“What can you do for it?” William broke the silence. Nadira’s confidence wavered. The end of the digit was crushed, the swelling and dark color were so disfiguring that only the fragments of shattered nail remained as a landmark to identify that this was once a man’s thumb.
“I can brace it with some thin bits of wood then wrap it with comfrey and boneset.” Nadira decided tentatively. Immediately William went to the pile of kindling and pulled out his penknife, searching for the perfect splints. Nadira looked up at Montrose helplessly. “It’s all I can do.” She poured the hot water over the herbs in the bowl. His hair and beard were clean now, but still needed to be trimmed, but that could wait.
William watched the whole procedure with great interest, constantly asking questions at every step. She tied off the linen strips, gently running her fingers over the now-mittened hand to smooth the material down. Not too tight lest there be more swelling in the night.
“I think I could do that now, if I had to.” William said, impressed. “You are full of wonderful surprises,
Nadira. Do we feed him now?” He nodded toward the bread and wine beside him.
Montrose answered for her by reaching for the bowl with his left hand. William poured some wine. Montrose consumed both bread and wine like a famished animal. Afterwards, he dropped to sleep so suddenly Nadira bent over his face to determine if he was still breathing. A great snore removed any doubt. William helped her cover him with the blanket.
“Now you can tell me what’s been going on,” Nadira pulled William down to sit beside her. “Who is this Father Septimus and why is he here?”
William glanced up at the door, and then settled in conspiratorially. “It’s like this,” William glanced up at the door again. “These men came three days ago with a hay cart and baggage. This man,” he gestured to Montrose’s snoring form, “was in the cart. Conti put the priests in his chambers and has been bedding in mine. Father Septimus is an inquisitor from Seville. Father Matteo is from Toledo. They came to see the copy of the book I made. You remember,” he prompted, “the one you’ve been reading for us.” Nadira nodded, so he continued, “Father Septimus was very excited. He wanted to know where the book came from and if there were more copies. Monsieur told them what you had said about Brother Henry so they wanted to question you.”
Nadira went cold. She tucked both hands inside her dress.
“But monsieur forbade it.” William finished. Nadira rubbed her icy thumbs together under her smock.
“Bless monsieur,” she said in a shaky voice.
William put a comforting arm around her. “Monsieur will not allow you to come to harm. I watched him in that meeting, Nadira. When Septimus demanded to have you brought to him, he sent Miguel to put you in your room and guard you. Monsieur and Septimus nearly came to blows over this matter. There was much shouting and shaking of fists. Do not fear.”
Nadira would have liked to believe him, but she could not calm her trembling.
“Now it is my turn.” His eyes lit up. “You must tell me about this man and how is it that you two are so…friendly.” William squeezed her shoulders.
“Just as monsieur is keeping me to read for him, Lord Montrose retained me to read for him this past summer. You see?”
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 18
