Elisha Rex

by E. C. Ambrose

  “I’ll try. See that you take care of yourself. We may not meet again after this.”

  “Oh, no, don’t try that with me.” She set her fists upon her ample hips. “You’ll find me at Saint Bartholomew’s, waiting to hear the word. And you—” She lifted Alfleda’s chin with her finger. “You go with God, y’hear me?”

  “I will, Sister,” the child assured her, wrapping the nun in a one-armed embrace.

  A large carriage waited outside, matched grey horses snorting into the light drizzle. Elisha stopped, but the earl put an arm about his shoulders and gestured toward the carriage.

  “We’re late already, Elisha. Late enough to attract the attention of the royal guard in any event.” He shrugged. “And they will be expecting that you should sneak in by some other means, not march boldly up the front steps. No, this is the way. Further, I suggest that the princess stay with my wife until we are seated; try not to look as if you belong together.”

  They helped Alfleda into the carriage, reintroduced her to the earl’s lovely wife, then followed her inside. A servant shut them in.

  “You know, my lord, I’ve always thought of you as . . .” Elisha hesitated, unsure how to say it.

  “You have expected less of me?” The earl nodded, smiling smugly. “Most do. They imagine, from the attention that I pay to my clothing, that I have little to spare for more pressing matters. My dear man, you have lived in this world, you know what the place is like—would you not rather immerse yourself in beauty and ignore the rest?”

  “I would,” Elisha agreed, his eyes coming to rest on the princess, self-possessed and watchful as her father. His own child grew in Brigit’s womb, prisoner to its mother’s ambition. “Perhaps, if I live so long, I will.”

  The earl pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on the seat for a moment, then leaned forward to Elisha on the opposite bench. “There’s a Flemish vessel at anchor now, which leaves with the evening tide. You need not live here in fear, Elisha. I can arrange your passage.”

  As the carriage lumbered into motion, gathering speed for the short ride, Elisha leaned back against the cushions and blew out a breath. Alfleda watched him from the corner of her eye. She was brave, a child worthy of her father, and Thomas would look after her with the full strength of his love and his loyalty. “I wish I could sail away and act as if I have no more part in the affairs of kings.”

  The earl briefly bowed his head. “That’s what I knew you’d say.” He touched Elisha’s knee, drawing back his gaze to the serious dark eyes. “After today, my place in the court will be as nothing; we’re both of us wise enough to know that. I can hardly claim ignorance of your alleged crimes. I expect we’ll retire back to Blackmere and hope to escape with our lives, if not our freedom. The king is not unjust, but he is despairing, and Randall’s gone a bit mad. It’s him I fear, more than the other.”

  Elisha’s belly clenched, and he said, “I can only hope that what we do today will start Thomas on his way to healing. And may support my own cause with the duke. I’ll do what I can to defend you.”

  With a quiet chuckle, the earl, too, leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “I am not sure that your defense will be of much use, but I thank you for it.”

  “God, and my father, will bless you, sir,” Alfleda said.

  The carriage rumbled to a halt, and its four occupants sat a long moment, not looking at each other, then a servant knocked, and the door opened wide, the man offering up his arm.

  “God bless us all,” the earl murmured, and his wife crossed herself. Then, with a tip of her head in Elisha’s direction, she stepped from the carriage down to the carpet, holding out her hand.

  “Come, child, we’re late as it is.”

  “Yes’m.” Alfleda gathered her skirts and crossed between the seats, her eyes round as she blinked up at Elisha. Saying nothing, she stepped out into the feeble light of day.

  The earl followed, and Elisha took a deep breath, stilling his fears, spreading his senses, reaching for attunement. Dear God. The place pulsed with the malevolent cold of the mancers and their victims. Distant and warm, he sensed the spirit of hurt and strength that was Thomas, and the lock of hair he carried hummed against him. “Courage,” he murmured and stepped down from the carriage.

  The servant knocked again on the wooden panel, then swung up behind as the horses started off again to wait with the other carriages. At the earl’s side, facing rows of royal guards who edged the carpet, Elisha gazed up at the arched façade of Westminster. Last time he came here, the false archbishop anointed him king and stole the blood that made his treachery possible.

  The earl stretched out his hand in invitation and they started the long walk. A few paces ahead, Alfleda walked softly in her borrowed slippers, her skirts lifted just enough, her head held high. The guards shifted a bit as they passed, but stood erect, halberds at their sides, holding at bay the thousands who gawked for a glimpse of the lords. The earl swaggered as they went, waving to the audience, and doffing his hat to the occasional lady whose station was not quite sufficient to gain her admittance. For Elisha, it was all he could do not to bolt and run. Those familiar faces he spied in the crowd showed no sign of recognition, but he anticipated the shout and the shot that would inevitably follow once they spotted him.

  “Halt!”

  Elisha jerked to a stop, his heart thundering in his ears. He pressed a hand to his chest.

  A pair of guards stood with their halberds to either side of the small door cut into the vast oaken gate which would gain them admittance. A third man faced them, bowing. “I’m afraid it’s too late to announce you, my lords, the ceremony’s begun.”

  “The fault is all mine, my good man. I could hardly decide what to wear.” The earl smiled broadly as they were bowed to the door.

  With a gracious curtsy, the earl’s wife swept inside, closely shadowed by Alfleda. The earl offered Elisha first passage. Weak sunlight filtered through the great rose window, turning to bits of pale color on the floor and dappling the crowd inside. Once the door shut, blocking the breeze, the scent and the restless shifting of so many people made Elisha think rather more of a barn than a church. The earl touched his elbow and led him ahead down the aisle. A few heads turned, but most remained focused on the events at the distant altar. Already, a choir of monks began to sing and the bishop’s golden miter bobbed slightly as he intoned Latin verses over the couple. Two figures knelt at his feet, with long cloaks that flowed over their shoulders and down the few steps. They bowed their heads, listening. Duke Randall stood near, with his wife beside him, and Lord Robert just behind. Brigit’s father hovered by them, a new surcoat emphasizing his belly, his face ruddy with delight. Brigit glared at him.

  “Not too close,” Elisha whispered to the earl, who gave a slight nod, then tapped his wife on the shoulder.

  She nudged her way into a row. “Pardon me, my lady deRoth,” she murmured. The other woman gave an unfriendly grunt, then gave way, squeezing in nearer to her neighbor with a rustle of satin.

  Darting a look to Elisha, the earl slipped in beside his wife, and Alfleda caught Elisha’s hand in the gloom. She tipped her head this way and that, and lifted herself on tip-toe, until Elisha scooped her onto his hip, her arms wrapped around him. Together they watched as her father wed their enemy.

  Elisha tried to follow the Latin at first, but his eyes drew back to rest upon Thomas, and he lost the will to understand the ritual. Ahead, and far away, Thomas raised his head, the crown glinting under flickering candles. His hair had the warm glow of a polished chestnut hull, and Elisha remembered the silk of it against his fingers that long ago day Thomas had trusted him to cut his hair. The bishop lifted something from a pillow at his side and offered it to the king: a delicate diadem that sparkled with jewels. Thomas turned to his wife. The word lodged in Elisha’s throat, and his eyes stung.

  “Can we not just run up an
d stop them? Can’t we, please?” Alfleda’s voice stroked with sadness across his cheek.

  “I wish we could,” he told her, eyeing the dozen men who clustered near the daïs—men who wore swords to a wedding. The presence of a few mancers, scattered through the audience, chilled him even in the heat of the crowd. If he let his guard down or broke his focus on the false projection he offered to the world, they would not hesitate. “I think it would be the death of me.”

  She stared hungrily toward the altar, and Elisha shut his eyes briefly. “You could go on your own, right now.”

  Yearning toward her father, she still glanced over at him, her eyebrows drawn up over glistening eyes. “No,” she said. “He should have me back by your own hand.”

  “He may yet forgive me, just to have you back at all. I can be patient.”

  She gave a shake of her head. “My father needs you.”

  A tear streaked down her face, and he freed one hand to gently wipe it away. “Soon, you’ll be together again.” Elisha’s jaw tightened, and it took a moment for him to recognize his envy. Alfleda would be with Thomas as he himself would not.

  The lock shorn from Thomas’s head translated a sudden wash of despair to Elisha’s touch.

  “Your Majesty,” the bishop prompted, and Elisha heard the whisper through his skin as Thomas looked up, and finally put out his hand.

  Brigit turned, her fine profile lit by her smile as she slid her hand into his.

  “Whom the Almighty has brought together, let no man put asunder,” the bishop intoned over their heads, wrapping a stole about their joined hands.

  Brigit’s smile flamed into the darkness, while a cry flew up in Thomas’s breast, a cry Elisha nearly uttered, but which never passed the king’s lips. Carefully, together, Brigit and Thomas rose. Brigit glowed, from the diadem atop her head to the rosy warmth of her hand resting in Thomas’s. She wore a magnificent gown of purple edged with ermine. The royal shade might not serve her own coloring so well, but she beamed so widely that it dazzled the eyes, and Elisha’s stomach churned.

  Beside her, Thomas’s solemn face, proud and empty, bore no trace of emotion. His eyes focused on some point beyond the rose window. He looked, indeed, so inanimate that Elisha imagined some spell worked upon his king. Perhaps Thomas wanted so badly to forget and to pretend all was well that he opened himself to Brigit’s command. Then Thomas glanced toward her and smiled briefly, his eyes still bleak. He possessed a certain grandeur of despair, his eyes bluer than ever, and darker, too; the royal tunic and cape enhanced the lean grace of his figure. As the king looked forward again, emotionless, Elisha thought that he might look just that way on his bier, arrayed for a funeral of royal proportions, the center of attention in a world he had fled.

  Elisha squeezed his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. His arm ached from holding Alfleda, and he gently lowered her to the ground, both of her hands wrapping his as she leaned against him. As the cheering died down, the choir began again, something bright and joyous that he should have been able to name, if he cared anymore. The censers went back to work, swinging their globes of incense down the aisle, mingling the sweat and stale breath of the crowd with the smoky illusion of sanctity. Up ahead, the sound of marching feet echoed through the cathedral, drawing nearer, and Elisha forced himself to look up even as the great doors at his back groaned open, letting a spatter of raindrops fly through and settle upon the narrow carpet in the bitter light. Four pairs of royal guards marched by, stately and tall with their halberds held straight and swords at their sides. Every edge glowed with the possibility of his doom. His hand in Alfleda’s felt clammy. As the last guard passed them to exit, she caught her breath, and Elisha steeled his resolve.

  In two quick steps, before he could change his mind, Elisha stood before the king. He swept into a bow, averting his eyes until he straightened again and found himself face to face with Thomas.

  “What—it’s you!” the king breathed, frozen.

  At his side, Brigit demanded, “Who are you?”

  Elisha did not respond, grateful for the hat which dipped low over one cheek, obscuring his face but for the short, pointed beard. Instead, he smiled and said, “A wedding gift.”

  “Guards!” Brigit shouted.

  “What’s going on?” called the duke from his place behind another set of guards.

  Keeping his eyes on the king, Elisha guided Alfleda before him. Thomas tensed, eyes narrowed as he glanced down—the merest flicker, assessing the danger as his hand reached for a sword he did not wear. Then, his eyes flew wide and his lips parted. He dropped to one knee, sweeping the hairnet from the girl’s head. She gaped back at him, still holding Elisha’s hand. With a soft cry, Thomas scooped her into his arms, his face pressed against her hair.

  Over their heads, Duke Randall stared directly at Elisha. “That’s him!” His finger thrust out and he, too, reached for a sword.

  Elisha’s belly clenched. “Long live the king,” Elisha said, then he flashed a grin at Brigit. “And God save the queen.”

  “Did you hear that? He threatened me! Move, you idiots!”

  The man behind drew his sword. With his daughter held tight, Thomas lurched to his feet. Tears streamed down his face, which broke into a grin that Elisha felt to his very soul.

  “Out of the way, Your Majesty! Thomas, get out of the way,” Randall roared, trying to push ahead with his two guards while Brigit floundered to the side in her heavy cape and gown.

  The king stood thwarting the tide. One hand cradled his daughter’s head against his chest as he blinked at Elisha, his smile lighting up his brilliant blue eyes. Elisha laughed aloud as he spun and ran.

  The vanguard, returning double speed, broke apart in confusion as Elisha burst through their midst.

  “Has nobody got a bow?” the duke shrieked as feet pounded back down the aisle.

  “Shut the doors! For God’s sake, shut them,” Brigit urged.

  Elisha ran as if he might launch into the sky and sprang out the huge double doors as the guards struggled to get them closed again.

  Outside, rain shimmered in the air, and the crowd surged forward so it was all the soldiers could do to hold them back, expecting the king, not a madman who bounded down the stairs, whooping and laughing. Elisha’s half-cape fluttered out in the breeze, his hat tumbling away to be seized up as evidence.

  “Pull!” cried a new voice and bowstrings sang.

  Giddy and light, Elisha flung himself into the air, spreading his awareness. Almost without thinking, he touched the rain, contact springing from drop to drop across the sky. An arrow buzzed toward him, and Elisha let his dreams run as wild as his heart. The arrows never struck home.

  Around him, the crowd gasped. Some cheered and others cried out for the Virgin, and a few even shouted his name—not with the gathered fury of those behind him but with the veneration of people receiving a sign.

  Heedless of faith or fury, Elisha ran through the rain, transforming it as he passed. Some part of him knew it was not over, that only his madness, only his sudden appearance and sudden flight defended him from his enemies. Elisha touched the rain and turned it bright with spring and promise. All around him fell a thousand tiny flowers, perfect in their beauty and blue as the sky, a carpet of petals, delicate as snowflakes to greet the king and his daughter as they started toward home together.

  Chapter 31

  Elisha fled into the crowds. Turning this way, then that, he found a well-populated street between the market stalls and slowed to a walk, binding his presence once more to the dead. Alert and less tired than before, he strode onward, stopping at the nearest clothier’s booth to buy a long woolen cloak with the last of his hoarded wealth. He flung up his hood and smiled his grim thanks. His own purpose might have been fulfilled, but he should do well to recall that others still searched for him. For a long time, he followed one little group of revelers then
another, allowing his presence to mingle with theirs, acting the part of a drunk, dodging guards and mancers both, wishing he could find a place to curl up and rest. The guards dispersed quickly through the crowd, expecting him to bolt. The mancers, too, drifted slowly away, some of them simply winking out of existence. There was a moment when Elisha felt the murder clinging to one of them, that he was tempted to turn assassin. Instead, he watched for them, seeing the same ones who seemed to haunt the city: the pair of women, the tall man, others he began to recognize. Twenty-three mancers in all. Nearly four times as many as he’d fought before, and there still remained the stout woman from the coal mine. They would be carrying talismans that allowed them to use the Valley of the Shadow. If he tried to strike one of them, the others could converge upon him, or simply vanish. Pausing at a junction, Elisha considered what to do. Then he heard a bell strike nearby and thought of Sabetha.

  Keeping well out from the city wall, where the guards would surely be given the new description of him, Elisha moved quickly out from the cluster of buildings and market stalls. He ought to shave his beard when he had the chance. He would more resemble himself, but the change might buy a little more time. Unfortunately, he could not risk seeing a barber. Any man of his former order might well recognize and report him, or simply cut his throat and claim whatever reward the duke offered.

  Elisha’s footsteps slowed as he stared ahead. The shape of the landscape looked familiar and his stomach clenched. With the gentle slope up, away from the city and the gray and white walls of Saint Bartholomew’s behind, it looked like the place where Brigit’s mother died upon the stake, but a large wooden building occupied the spot where the fire must have been. A few workmen moved up on the roof, binding on bundles of thatch. Tipping back his hood, Elisha watched them as he approached. The newly cut lumber still glowed pale in the subtle gleam of the setting sun, and stacks of tools and lumber surrounded the site. Something about it quickened his breathing and made his skin tingle with an unwelcome fear. The nun must wait a little longer. Frowning, Elisha stalked around the windowless place, then poked his head inside where a few masons worked by rushlight laying a stone floor. Two others leaned over a table to one side, studying a wax tablet diagram.