William nodded. “He’s been kind to you, then,” William twisted to see her face. “Tell me. If I am to release you to him it must be with confidence he will care for you and never hurt you.”
Nadira looked at him with surprise. “Release me? You misunderstand. I am indentured. Lord Montrose is my master.”
“I meant released from my heart,” William answered shyly. He averted his eyes so Nadira had to look beneath the golden lashes to see them in the lamplight. “Can it be that you do not see that he loves you?” William flicked his hand at Montrose lying on the floor beside them.
“William…” She made to protest.
“No, Nadira. You see him as a servant sees a master. I see him as a man. He looks at you as though it kills him not to take you up in his arms and consume you with kisses. I recognize that look.”
“You imagine…”
“You are blind.”
“I swear, William…”
He held up a hand to stop her. “And your tears. You would weep thus for any man? For any master? It cannot be so. Why do you deny it?”
Nadira opened her mouth to answer, but nothing of any sense came to mind.
“Did you not notice how his eyes did not stray from your face the entire time you were working on his wounds?” William cocked his head. “I wish you could see your face now, Nadira. You are red as a beet. You truly didn’t know, did you? His eyes were not the eyes of a master watching his servant, even a master watching a pretty servant. I saw no lust in his face and I was waiting for it. Even as the splash of water soaked your gown and brought your breasts out like a sculpture of Venus and placed them nearly in his eyes as you bent over his head, I never saw him take his eyes from your face.”
“You were looking at my breasts…”
I admit it,” he laughed, then turned serious, “but I would never renounce my sacred vows, as much as I have bent them and twisted them, never have they been broken. I do my share of penance as it is.” His sad smile was a faded copy of the habitual grin he usually wore. He squeezed her again. “I had hoped to keep you here for years and years.”
His eyes became distant. “It is sad to be so alone. There is no one, save monsieur, who can talk to me about what I read in the manuscripts. None to share my little triumphs. None to argue points of scripture or philosophy. Monsieur is here only over the winter. Summers I sit alone copying, copying…” He turned his eyes on her again. “This summer I was copying Plato. There is a line,” He quoted, “’Few persons ever really think that from the evil of other men something of evil is transferred to themselves. And, the feeling of sorrow that we feel for others becomes our own sorrow.’
“I think it means that we feel the pain of others differently than we feel pain ourselves, and not necessarily less. Perhaps we feel it even more. In addition, that we can be contaminated by evil not only by experiencing it ourselves, but by observing it in others.” William sighed. “I wanted to talk to someone about this, so I went to the stable. Jack told me to get out of the way; he was mucking the stalls. I went to the kitchen. Cook told me to shut up; I was interfering with the timing of his baked meats. I went to the battlements. The guards listened politely, but when I asked them what they thought about it, they laughed at me.” William covered his eyes with both hands. “I tested you that day in the library. I asked you about Plato, and even though you had never even read his words, you had something to say about them. You thought about what I said, you understood Plato’s meaning. I knew then I wanted to keep you here forever with me. God is punishing me for the sin of pride, Nadira.” He sounded so forlorn Nadira could hardly bear it. “And now I see that this man has your heart, and you have his. He will take you away from me.”
“Do you think he will be freed?” Nadira glanced at Montrose, snoring softly beside her.
“He must, Nadira. Already what Father Septimus has done is troubling. He won’t be able to keep Lord Montrose in chains without bringing suit against him, and there is no evidence but that copied manuscript found in his baggage, and it is proven Lord Montrose is quite illiterate. Father Matteo told me that Father Septimus has previously been chastised by his own bishop for,” William searched for the right words, “being overly enthusiastic about his work. Lord Montrose’s worse offense might be dealing in stolen manuscripts.”
“He didn’t steal it,” Nadira blurted defensively.
“Don’t tell me you know where it came from?” he cried.
“Yes,” she whispered, covering her mouth.
“God. Don’t tell them, Nadira. Don’t breathe a word of it.” William took her hand in his. “I mean it.” His eyes burned her.
She could not speak, just shook her head. She would never tell.
“They would go to that place and make trouble for the scholars there. You understand?” She nodded again, imagining more deaths like Richard’s, more torture. She glanced down at Montrose again.
“This man will take care of you; I know I do not need to fear that they would take you away. Monsieur is unyielding on that issue. He won’t give you up, but I can’t help but grieve at my eventual loss. I thought you would be here forever, Nadira. I have imagined the texts we could study, the discussions before the fire in the evenings when it is too dark to read on winter nights. For I know you will one day be leaving with this man never to return and I will be sitting alone up there in the tower room for years, copying, copying, and never speaking to anyone of what I have seen. I can weep for my loss. The sin of selfishness does not reach into my heart and control my tears.” He did weep then, and Nadira held him with one arm around his shaking shoulders. She had much to think about.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE weak sun climbed reluctantly over the east mountains as Nadira stood on the laundry threshold rubbing her backside and pulling her fingers through her hair. It was still very cold, but thankfully there was no wind. She pulled a few wisps of straw from her hair, tossing them into the dirt. Montrose stood behind her, studying the yard.
“There seems to be an entire contingent here.”
“I don’t know, my lord.”
“A hundred men?” Now he was scanning the crown of the tower.
“Surely not. Fifty perhaps.”
“Horses?”
“Yes, my lord. The horse stable is to the north.”
He stood a few minutes longer looking north, until he made eye contact with a guard posted near the stable. The guard immediately swept back his cloak and put a hand to the pommel of his sword.
“I will fetch some breakfast, my lord.” Nadira repeated, tugging at his arm to pull him back inside. A few minutes more of Montrose’ defiant glares and there would be armed men inside the laundry with them. “Stay inside, my lord. Do not show yourself like that. Please. You antagonize them.” She tugged again.
Montrose ducked at the lintel, pausing just out of sight in the doorway. “Nadira, I must go.” He searched the room with his eyes until they fell upon his boots by the fire. “I’m going, and you are going with me.”
“No. William told me to stay. I will stay and you should stay too.”
He tugged at his bootstraps with one hand. “Don’t be a fool. It is only a matter of time before they will come for you, too. You will not be spared.” The other boot slid up his calf. He had trouble setting his heel; Nadira knelt at his feet and adjusted his boot for him.
“You cannot leave,” she said without looking up. “You will not get past the guard. You cannot run far or fight with your left hand. You are here, warm, clean, fed and alone because I vouched for your compliance.” Nadira sat back on her heels, finally meeting his eyes. “Would you foreswear me?”
He stared at her a long time. Nadira watched his mind working. He wanted to flee; his whole body was poised to flee. She could see it in the tension of his shoulders, the set of his mouth, and the way his eyes were never still. She watched as he considered her words. He tested his feet; he rubbed his bandaged hand. Finally he sighed, the shoulders slumped, his eyes
closed.
“Trust me,” was all she could think to say, patting his foot as she rose to fetch their breakfast. “Let me feed you and shave you. You will feel differently then.”
He just shook his head, eyes on the ground.
Later, two guards entered with swords drawn, flanking the doorway. The guard captain, Juan, strode toward them with his sword sheathed. Nadira knew him from the Saturday competitions. He always took the top prizes as the men in the guard spent the day sparring with staves and shooting arrows at straw targets.
He nodded to her. “You will accompany me to the solar.”
Nadira rose, straightening her skirts and extending a hand to Montrose. She pulled him to his feet, and steadied him. The two guards fell in behind them. They ascended the stairs to the solar and entered through the opened doors. Nadira noticed a long table set up at one end and extra chairs brought in. William sat quietly in one of them. Father Matteo in another. Both Father Septimus and Conti stood at the ends of the table. The guards remained posted outside in the hall. Juan closed the door and bolted it, then drew his heavy sword and positioned himself square before it, the blade planted firmly between his boots.
“Please be seated, Nadira.” Conti made a graceful movement toward the chair to his left, beside William. Nadira sat obediently, her hands in her lap. All eyes turned to Montrose, tall and defiant before the table. His face was pale and his back not as straight as a man in full strength, but his former abilities were apparent in the breadth of his shoulders and the grace of his movement. Conti pulled a chair out for Father Septimus, and then seated himself, addressing Montrose.
“You are Robert Longmoor, Baron Montrose?”
“I am.”
“Why have you come to Andorra?”
“I was passing through on my way to Rome.”
“And what is your business with Rome?”
Montrose did not answer.
Conti continued without waiting for the answer. “We know you and your companions stopped at Coix to speak with Father Bertram. We also can see that you were well armed at the time. Your baggage contains a great many weapons, enough for a dozen men.” Conti paused. He leaned over to see past Montrose and locked eyes with Nadira.
“We also know you had this young woman in your party disguised as a man.” Conti caressed the tabletop with a ringed hand. “She was separated from you at the monastery.”
Montrose turned to look at Nadira as well. She responded with an uncomfortable smile, twisting her hands. All eyes were on her like coals.
“Aye. We had her in our party,” Montrose answered dryly.
“Then perhaps you will tell us what you are doing with her. Where is her family?”
Montrose did not answer. Nadira thought, he cannot answer, for there is no family. She opened her mouth to speak, but Conti held up a hand for silence.
“Your cooperation will do nothing but aid you, Lord Montrose. Obstinacy will only cause you grief.”
Montrose stood straighter and turned a cold glance at Septimus. “Of that I am fully aware, monsieur. I have no intention of being obstinate. There is no answer to your question no matter how it is phrased. I am a traveler to Rome, waylaid and disrupted by the corrupt priests at Coix; my baggage stolen, my men dispersed and my servant abducted and transported to your authority, monsieur.”
“You lie!” Septimus was on his feet, his face mottled red. Nadira jumped up without thinking, startled by the outburst. William quickly pushed her back in her chair.
Septimus waved a ringed finger in Lord Montrose’s face. “Admit you are dealing in stolen manuscripts. Heretical manuscripts! You had one in your baggage and you pursue another! This girl is your captive,” a bony arm flew out of its sleeve and the appended finger indicated Nadira. “You serve no purpose withholding the information I want from you. Nothing but stubborn, irrational, obstinate, impudent …”
“Father…please,” Conti’s forced courtesy did nothing to stop the flow of invective.
“And here he stands, as though he is the innocent victim of conspiratorial powers intent on destroying him. This rough, ignorant, son of a bitch dares to defy me again and again. Do not listen to him. He is a liar and a thief; the Devil himself supports him and inures him to God’s holy fires! I will take him to Toledo, where no man can resist the Inquisitors …”
The sound of the enraged priest faded to a low rumble in Nadira’s ears. Montrose’s face, at first impassive, had begun to twitch with the strain of maintaining his composure. Now she could see all manner of emotions flicker across his face, one chasing another in a flurry until all that remained was a murderous passion. Her heart pounded too loudly now for her to hear what was being said.
Did these men not see what was coming? Nadira again leaped to her feet at the very instant Montrose spun about and lunged for the sputtering priest. Montrose’s hands were around the old man’s throat and in the time it took Juan to take the three strides into the center of the room the priest was quite dead, his neck snapped with an efficient twist of Montrose’s still powerful arms. The English lord dropped what was left of Septimus derisively to the floor before slumping to his knees beside the corpse, his energies spent.
Nadira intercepted Juan, hurling herself upon Montrose, knocking him backwards the rest of the way to the floor with the force of her assault. She lay on his chest stretched out, her gown billowing over his legs, her hair in his face, and holding his arms to the floor. She had acted without thinking, seeking only to separate Montrose from Septimus, to stop Montrose from making that fatal, impetuous, and irrevocable act. The decision to fling herself upon him, made when she saw the glitter in his eye, came too late to benefit either of them.
Now she screwed her own eyes up tight, waiting for Juan’s sword to cleave her in two. Instead a hand clutched her hair and heaved her up like one would seize a cat by the scruff. Juan sat her down hard in her chair. There seemed to be no sound in the room, though she could clearly see the mouths of Conti and Father Matteo moving. Juan had the point of his sword on Montrose’s neck, but had not yet thrust the blade through his throat. The dead priest lay close enough to her that she could touch his side with her slipper had she dared. Nadira pulled her feet further under the chair and William’s arm kept her from falling out of it.
Her ability to hear returned as her heartbeat slowed. Juan placed his boot upon Montrose’s chest. William was intent upon Conti. Conti and Father Matteo conversed in a language wildly punctuated with waving arms and pointing fingers. No other guards had been called. Nadira glanced at the door. No running footsteps, no bell ringing, odd that no alarm had been raised. She made to stand, expecting William to halt her, but he did not. He merely pleaded with his eyes. Nadira took tiny steps in her green silk slippers across Conti’s prized Bukhara, winding her way past the discolored face of the dead priest and to Juan’s side. She had to know.
Juan glanced down at her before slowing removing his boot from Montrose’s chest. “He lives,” Juan said low, under his breath. “For now.”
“My lord,” she whispered. Nadira crouched beside the fallen man’s head. He lay staring straight up, blinking regularly but did not answer. She touched the pale flesh of his cheek where the beard had been. He was icy. His eyes wavered at the touch but they did not seek her out. He was insensible in a strange way, as though his mind had left him. The thick Castilian steel of Juan’s blade swung past her to touch his throat not a hand’s-breadth from her knees. She froze. Montrose did not react to the touch of the cold steel any more than he had to the soft caress of her finger. She realized he expected to be put to death any second, and welcomed it.
Nadira clung to the comforting stability of the thick table leg beside her. The ornate carved furrows lent their crevasses to her searching fingers. Above her, the voices that had been shouting in staccato Latin had calmed to the sibilant murmur of Castilian. She felt weak, leaning against the table, trying to listen. She heard the words, but they made no sense to her. Conti’s face appeare
d beside her. He reached for her with both hands, placing them gently on her shoulders.
“Nadira, this is an unfortunate and unforeseen development,” he said unnecessarily.
She noticed the hands on her shoulders were cold, the fingernails almost blue. Standing behind him, Father Matteo’s face had a pallor of its own, though he did not show the outrage Nadira expected. She herself was numb and found it difficult to be aware of any sensations. Cold hands pressed on her body, waved before her eyes, and then a sharp slap brought her back.
“What?” she shook her head.
“Can you hear me, Nadira? Look at me.”
Nadira made an effort to focus her eyes on Conti. He squeezed her shoulders. “I will give you Lord Montrose. Do you want him?” This seemed like a strange thing for Conti to say. She blinked.
“Nadira.” He shook her until it hurt.
“Yes,” she heard herself say.
“Give her some wine. Pass me that wine. Nadira, drink this.” Something warm and sharp was pressed between her lips. She coughed and the wine burned her throat. In a moment she felt her head clear.
“I’m sorry,” she looked at Conti over the rim of the cup, “what did you say?”
“I said I will give you Lord Montrose if that is what you want. His life is mine at the moment. Father Matteo would like to have him as well. We can come to terms but I need to know your desire.”
“Why?”
“Give her some more, William. This was quite a shock to her, father. Perhaps we can discuss this matter at length in a few hours after she has had time to rest.”
“No.” The remaining priest had a face of stone and a voice to match. He tapped the table with a bony finger. “There will be no more surprises. In a few hours I wish to be far from this cursed place. We will settle this now, and no one will leave this room until I am satisfied.” Father Matteo sat down, folded his hands, and assumed the air of a man considering a weighty transaction that would turn in his favor. With a start Nadira realized that was exactly the situation. She quickly drank the rest of the wine William poured for her.
The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) Page 19
