Elisha Rex

by E. C. Ambrose

Elisha froze, the youth’s familiar presence shocking him into immobility. Though he did not recognize the name, he knew that face. The last time he saw it, tears and blood and premature aging marked the cheeks before he healed the lad, before a mancer set Elisha on the throne.

  “No, they don’t know the miracles. Tell ’em yours, go on.” The vendor prodded the young man, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows.

  Adam crossed himself and started to sink to his knees. He brushed away the other man’s beseeching hand. “Don’t you know who this is? Did you not see him when we held the city, or the day that he was buried for our sake?”

  Snatching at him too late, Elisha nearly overbalanced and Alfleda gripped tighter. “Get up, please—for my sake, Adam, get up.”

  “But we thought you were taken! Bodily! To heaven! When the archbishop died, weren’t you—?”

  “Shut up,” Elisha hissed. He lurched away, crashing into a woman who’d stopped to gawk.

  “No, wait, please, your holiness!” Adam’s hands flailed in the air.

  Over the heads of their little audience, Elisha saw three guardsmen moving fast. He clutched Alfleda against him and burst free, running like a madman. To the right, a blast of cold nearly knocked him down. Alfleda shrieked. Elisha cut through the crowd, death howling in his skull. He spied an opening in the booths across the road and made for it, plunging into the gloom.

  At the same time, he threw off his projection and let death fill him up and spill over him, wrapping himself and the child he carried. As he had done on that long, terrible ride to the lodge, Elisha sucked down death and walked in the shadows. Ghosts rose up before him, enacting their awful, silent battles. Elisha burst through them, still running, praying the mancers could not see him.

  “We’re dead, we’re dead, we’re dead,” he chanted as the fear in Alfleda’s tears stung his throat.

  The two women he’d noticed earlier stood before them, solid and smiling, spirits hovered at their backs, the strange doubling of the dead—their personal hauntings. One of them pointed.

  Elisha spun away and ran down the back alley to a second row of booths more shaky than the first. Shouts rang out behind him, but the soldiers worried him less than the mancers, their murders touching him now on all sides as they converged.

  Dodging a guard, turning again, Elisha ran along another alley, one that reeked of raw meat and slaughter. It should have sickened him, but the power of the place streamed through his open awareness.

  Elisha stopped short and ducked under a row of sausages along the back of a stall. Holding his breath, he edged in among the swinging corpses of ducks and chickens, trying to shield Alfleda from the worst of the gore. She never raised her head, but trembled against him, and her prayers seeped through his skin.

  Elisha slipped behind the outspread ribcage of a massive hog and pressed his back to the wall. Barely daring to breathe, he tucked his chin over Alfleda’s head, staring down the narrow gap between the dangling animals and the rough wood.

  Pale light filtered through on the street, cut by shadows as people walked by. In the street outside, a shady figure tumbled from a window only to vanish and tumble again a moment later. A pair of soldiers ran through the shade, spears waving. Four others followed more slowly, glancing into stalls and shouting questions.

  The butcher emerged from someplace, wiping his hands, talking over his shoulder. “I’ve seen nobody, but I’m workin’ at the back—they might’a gone by.”

  “Keep your eyes out.”

  “On butcher’s row, m’lord? We’ve got plenty of eyes out!” he called after them, earning a groan from the guard, but a few chuckles from the other butchers.

  The soldiers moved on, and the shopkeepers watched them go. A tall man stalked down from the other direction, his head swinging side to side, his nose wrinkled. Elisha felt the probing touch and repeated his silent chant, “We’re dead, we’re dead.” His heart beat so loudly in his own ears, and Alfleda felt so hot against him, that he nearly collapsed in relief when the man stalked onward.

  The two women came up from their way, one of them taking the tall man’s arm then letting him go. The group of mancers exchanged the nod of strangers who suddenly recognize each other. Elisha dared not reach out his senses, even to know what they might say. Any change, he felt sure, would give him away.

  One of the women, a fair, well-dressed lady, approached the shop, craning her neck this way and that, as if inspecting the wares.

  “Help ye, m’lady?” the butcher offered.

  “No, sorry.” But she stared a moment longer into the darkness. Elisha shut his eyes and let his own prayers merge with Alfleda’s. A hand of cold riffled through the meat. For a moment, the squealing of pigs and the honk of geese filled the air as if their spirits responded to the call.

  “Here, what’re ye doing?” The butcher sprang out into the street, then turned a slow circle, for the women and their compatriot had vanished.

  After a long while, Elisha lowered some of his defenses, bit by bit. The shades around him faded into nothing, and he breathed deeply, despite the rancid air, until his lungs no longer burned and his heartbeat drew back from a gallop. He tipped his head this way and that, easing the ache in his neck, and realized how heavily the girl weighed in his arms.

  “Am I dead?” Alfleda whispered.

  “No, love, I don’t think so.”

  Cautiously, she raised her head and blinked up at him, then her gaze shifted to the bulky hanging pig that concealed them. “I don’t know that I shall ever eat pork again.”

  Elisha chuckled, very softly. “We owe much to that pig.”

  “Then I hope my father buys it and eats it and it’s the finest roast he’s ever had.”

  “Shh,” he urged her, but he caught her tiny smile, and he did not silence her too sharply. Keeping his shoulders against the wall, he edged out again, glancing both ways and extending his creeping senses before they finally emerged into the street.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” Disturbed by some stealthy noise, the butcher came up and frowned out at them.

  Elisha grinned at him, feeling giddy, hoping the feeling would fade quickly and not consume him with idiocy. “You have some fine pork, there, sir.”

  “Only the best.” He narrowed his eyes, looking Elisha up and down. “Ye look more like a vendor than a buyer.”

  Starting to chuckle, Elisha broke off gasping as the pain throbbed at his middle, his poorly-healed wound reminding him he had taken no rest.

  Alfleda wriggled down out of his arms. “Are you well?”

  He leaned his shoulder against the wall and waited for the pain to pass, light-headed with pain.

  The butcher stepped back quickly. “Take your sickness away and be gone with you!” He flapped his hands at them. “Be gone, or I’ll call the guard.”

  Elisha breathed a prayer of thanks for the cleaner air beyond, as they left the butchers’ row and made slow progress toward the inn where Sabetha would be expecting them. He had little notion how much time had passed since she left them, for time passed strangely in the kingdom of the dead. Then, in the church of St. Bartholomew, a bell began to ring. Others joined it, all across the city, tolling out the hour.

  As the pain subsided, Elisha straightened and increased their pace. An hour more, and Thomas would be married. Regardless of the king’s reasons, or the results of this madness, Elisha must be there. He stretched his senses, altering direction as soon as he felt the hint of death. Moving as quickly as caution allowed, they picked their way to the riverside and the battered inn frequented more often by sailors than by townsfolk.

  Alfleda stopped abruptly, and Elisha stumbled with her as she blinked at the place. “Sister Sabetha won’t like this at all.”

  “No,” he said, “I don’t guess that she will.”

  “She doesn’t,” the nun’s voice announced as she came
up from the opposite side. “I gave the message and came as quick as I could.”

  “Will the earl come, do you think?” Alfleda asked, still eyeing the sway-roofed structure before them.

  “Not if he knows this place,” Sabetha grumbled, hitching her thumb in the direction of the inn. “Only the cross’s kept me alive this long.”

  Elisha admitted that, even by daylight, the place looked desolate and angry. He learned of it himself only because a neighbor tended to fight over dice there, and Elisha and his brother had to fetch the man home to his angry wife. “Come on.” Elisha led the way, Alfleda hanging back with the nun, and they ducked under the grimy leather flap into the main room.

  “Women,” sneered one of the patrons, and the others laughed as they walked inside. Elisha’s head brushed the low beams of the sagging ceiling. A round fire pit lit the center of the room, revealing a half-dozen men slumped on benches, with their bowls or mugs, dropping the bones of their luncheon onto the dirt floor where a skinny dog snapped them up. A pair of dimly seen doors led out on the opposite wall, one tucked by a steep flight of stairs.

  “The private room,” Elisha demanded of a balding man toting a tray of mugs.

  “’Aven’t got one,” the other spat. Aside from his nasty expression, the innkeeper looked somehow familiar.

  Frowning, trying to place him, Elisha produced a silver coin and the sketchy eyebrows quivered, then the man transferred the mugs to his other hand and snatched the coin. “To the right.” He glanced over the three of them. “Ale?”

  “Wine,” said Elisha. “And I’m expecting guests.”

  “Oh, aye, guests, is it?” The innkeeper grinned and slid the coin into his apron. “No more nuns, I hope—they give the place a bad name.”

  Elisha laughed and remembered that he had once treated the man’s infected foot after he stepped on a broken mug. “How’s the foot, Gervais?”

  “No complaints.” The innkeeper started to pass them, then frowned over his shoulder. “Who’re—” He broke off and gave a grin that seemed a little warmer. “Wine,” he said. “I’ll fetch it.”

  “Yer daughter c’n stay wiv us, we’ll entertain ’er!” someone called out, and the rest laughed as Alfleda cringed against the nun.

  “Shut yer lip, or it’s me you’ll deal with,” Sister Sabetha announced, balling her fist. “And God’s on my side, I warrant.”

  They laughed again but let the three slip by into the low door on the right. A thin boy appeared behind them, carrying a candle to light the windowless room. Private indeed, Elisha thought, but no other way out. If the earl chose to turn against him, he was trapped here, the presence of Alfleda and Sabetha making him loath to apply his power again. A round table took up the center of the sloping room, with a few benches pushed against the wall. Wind off the river cut through the chinks in the walls, and the boy stooped to light a brazier. Beyond the interior wall, patrons murmured and someone rose from a creaky bench. “Sabetha, Sister,” Elisha began, but the nun sighed and bobbed her head.

  “Yes, I’ll keep an eye out. I won’t like it, though.”

  “I owe you an enormous debt already,” Elisha told her.

  She snorted. “Aye, well, don’t die before ye repay me, right?”

  “Right.”

  After patting Alfleda’s shoulder, the nun bustled out through the door. “Right,” she called out. “No teasing now, ye know I’m married.”

  As the flap slipped back in place, Alfleda ran the short distance between them and flung herself into Elisha’s arms. He let the energy carry him to thump down onto a bench, resting his back against the wall as he held her. “Such a brave girl,” he murmured over her golden head.

  “No, I’m not,” she sobbed against him, “I’m terrified.”

  “Courage isn’t having no fear, it’s what we can do in spite of it.” Holding the princess, Elisha wished for a moment that he had someone to comfort him. She did her best, but she was only a child—and too grown-up already. Would anyone hold him so, and touch his hair, and make him believe things would be all right?

  “My lord, I don’t think we should—”

  “Bosh and nonsense, this is the place,” pronounced a loud voice from the main chamber. “And here’s the nun herself. How fare you, Sister?”

  “Well, m’lord. Better, once I’m free of these fools.”

  The Earl of Blackmere laughed, his voice still booming. “No fear, Sister, my man’ll keep you company.”

  “I ought to come with you, my lord.”

  “Jeshua, the man I’m meeting is rather shy. I’d rather you stay here. If he kills me, I’ll shout.”

  “My lord,” the man answered, but said no more, his warning tone enough to carry the message.

  A hand decked with rings swept aside the curtain and the earl admitted himself, a glittering presence of gold brocade under a capelet of satin and velvet, dyed crimson. In this setting, the earl gleamed like a diamond in a pig’s trough. He stood about Elisha’s height, ducking just a little to step inside. He let the curtain fall and folded his arms, the stiff fabric of his sleeves crinkling. False sleeves to match the capelet dangled from his elbows nearly to his knees, clad in parti-colored hose with light shoes unsuitable for anything but dancing. The outfit looked so preposterous that Elisha nearly laughed, but he recognized his fear for what it was.

  Bowing his head over Alfleda’s hunched form, Elisha said, “Forgive me not rising to offer a proper bow, my lord.”

  “It is you.” The earl took a step nearer, the single candle revealing his astonishment. “I’ve thought you dead a hundred times, Elisha Barber, and that only since I was set to watch over you the night of your execution.” He shook his head, curls of sandy hair brushing his shoulders.

  “A thousand men have wished me dead, that many times and more. And I am still grateful for your care that night, my lord.” His throat felt dry as he searched for words to ask for what he needed.

  The earl gave a flicker of his fingers. “Never mind about the title. Either you and I are traitors together, or I’m about to make myself a hero to all your thousand enemies.”

  Elisha met his gaze. “I would not have you called traitor for my sake.”

  “Perhaps not for yours,” the earl said, “but for hers?” He walked around the table and squatted down before Elisha, not quite placing his immaculate knee in the dirt of the floor though his capelet brushed against it. “Is this the king’s daughter?”

  Slowly, Alfleda turned from Elisha’s chest and faced the earl. She sat straight, shifting the hair back behind her ears with a graceful gesture. “Yes, my lord. I am Alfleda, the daughter of Thomas.”

  He blinked at her, then smiled and bowed his head. “Your Highness, I believe that you are. I’m Phillip, Earl of Blackmere. You were at my house, the Yuletide before you . . . went away. Do you remember?”

  Alfleda’s face brightened, and she nodded eagerly. “I do, my lord! You have simply trunks and trunks of fabric. I made your lady furious by dressing up in them and playing at queen.”

  “That’s right.” He chuckled. “But you weren’t to know she was furious. She was afraid to shout at the prince’s daughter.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Alfleda pointed out, then added, “my lord.”

  “On the contrary, Highness, I am your servant.” The earl met Elisha’s gaze once more and put out his hand, clasping Elisha’s in both of his own. “I’ve brought clothing, for both of you, but first thing you’ll need is a haircut.” Grinning almost ear to ear, he shouted, “Jeshua, I’ve a man here who needs a barber!” Leaning closer, gripping Elisha’s shoulder, he whispered, “And a land as much in need of this one.”

  Elisha grinned like a fool. “But you didn’t ask about Rosalynn, or the archbishop, or—”

  The earl tapped his shoulder, his face turning serious. “You saved my life at Dunbury Ford, and I’ll
owe that debt to the end of my days; then you defended my foul shot on our hunting trip as well. As for the rest, I say, would the king’s enemy bring up his daughter, risk his own life, and ask no ransom nor prize?”

  “But you don’t know—”

  “What do I need to know, Elisha?” He shook his head. “What I know is this, that King Thomas should fall on his knees and thank the lord he has such a friend.” He rose and turned away from Elisha’s gratitude. “Hurry up, man,” he bawled, “we’re off to a wedding!”

  Chapter 30

  Elisha stared down at the richly embroidered doublet Phillip’s manservant was lacing up for him. Apparently Sister Sabetha had told the earl how thin Elisha was, for the earl had chosen his older clothes from leaner times. Despite his curiosity, Elisha was rather glad not to see how he looked, his hair trimmed, his nascent beard carved into a point; very stylish over the Channel, or so the earl assured him. He felt ridiculous.

  Alfleda, on the other hand, clad in one of the earl’s younger daughter’s gowns, looked every inch the princess. She held herself taller, chin up, shoulders back. Elisha imagined a stern tutor instructing her on deportment. In a concession to disguise, a maid tucked Alfleda’s long golden hair into a beaded hairnet, concealing its color and lending her a slightly older appearance. She stood solemn and expectant, re-adjusting to the idea of someone else’s dressing her.

  “What a vision you both are,” the earl declared, taking a critical look. “Excellent, and let’s be off.” He clapped his hands, and the two servants drew back, bowing.

  Slipping on a capelet of his own, Elisha nodded, then adjusted the wide cap that further disguised him. “Thank you, for all of this. I can’t promise in what condition I’ll return it.”

  “Just see that you’re not buried in it.”

  Elisha managed a smile, and Alfleda snuck her hand into his as they followed the earl out. He flipped another coin to the innkeeper, who gaped at them as they passed by.

  Sister Sabetha joined them, her eyebrows rising as she examined their new clothes. “Cor, such finery! Try not to look so ill about it, Barber.”