Elisha had been shaping it with his hands, and now he watched them. A glove, perhaps? Like a gauntlet with sharpened fingers? “But perhaps my lord Mortimer has something to add?” he said, raising his voice.
“What?” Alaric swung about. “Mortimer?”
The lord appeared around the corner and gave a short bow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I cannot countenance leaving you alone with a traitor and a witch. Everything he says is tainted. Don’t you think the French ambassador had more important issues to hand than watching where his servants went? No doubt you simply had a robber with quick blade.”
“Issues to hand,” Elisha repeated, and Mortimer twitched. He knew more about the weapon than Elisha did, and he knew too much about the dead Frenchman: Somehow Mortimer was involved. Mortimer was antagonizing Elisha now to distract Alaric’s attention from the Frenchman’s death—but the assailant’s cursing suggested something had gone wrong, that it was not a successful assassination, not carried out as planned. What if he had hoped to kill them both?
Would Mortimer try again to kill him, even on hallowed ground? Heaven knew the other barons would be pleased at Elisha’s death—all but Randall and a few of his supporters. And even Randall’s strength might be outweighed by the rest. Something stayed Mortimer’s hand, forcing him to work in secret. That suggested Alaric did not know what his man was up to, and Mortimer wished to keep it that way.
Aloud, Elisha said, “A robber with a quick blade. No doubt. If that’s all, Your Highness …”
Leaning against a marble pillar, Alaric regarded him, his face no longer boyish. “It’s hard to say. The French are very unhappy right now. My retainer”—he shot a dark look at Mortimer—“ruined their nasty little gift, their own retainer was killed on our watch, and I’ll have to refuse their princess.” He was scowling, but the expression looked pensive rather than angry.
He needn’t refuse the princess, Elisha thought, but he said, carefully, “I’ve told you, Your Highness, that I have had nothing to do with them, and I intend to have nothing to do with them.”
“What do you intend, Elisha?” Alaric held his name with a speculative accent. “You’re a barber, still a commoner. Randall’s taken you in, but he can’t change what you are.”
“It’s always been enough for me,” Elisha replied. His secret senses found Alaric warm and closed, any effort to sense beneath his skin foiled by some internal armor, slippery as a fish.
“Perhaps you should be seeking higher employment. A king could use a man with your talent. What do you say, Barber? Duke Randall and I have reached an accord. As his servant, your fealty will follow his at any rate—but I am prepared to offer you a place a bit nearer the throne.”
At his side, Mortimer stiffened. “You can’t do this, Your Majesty.”
“You do not know what’s at stake, Mortimer,” Alaric said softly and precisely.
“I’m not ready for such high service, Your Highness.” Their eyes met, and both men were silent a long moment.
“You know me, Barber. I held back my father’s men that day. One might even say we worked well together: I, rescuing his hostages while you took care of the man himself. I’m curious what else you might undertake in the name of justice.”
“A man who hires his father’s killer can hardly claim that virtue, Your Highness.” Elisha took the sting from the statement with a smile and a shrug. “Your barons are unhappy enough with me alive, never mind as part of your household.”
“At least he’s not a dullard,” Mortimer put in.
“They don’t have to know you work for me. Nobody else has to know.”
“What of God, who knows all?” Mortimer demanded.
Waving away this remark, Alaric shoved off from the pillar and strode over, his ermine-edged cloak slithering over the ground. He had dressed to display his kingship—not to Elisha, surely. Then to whom? Who would he be meeting at Compline? Alaric leaned close to Elisha’s ear and whispered, “You can do things even my lady cannot.”
Elisha swallowed, and the duke’s voice echoed in his head—if they could not seduce him, they would kill him.
Drawing back, Alaric went on, “Certain missions require the utmost secrecy, a surgical skill, one might say. You could travel, see some of the continent, enjoy much more luxury than you do now.”
“In the name of justice,” Elisha said, and Alaric gave a nod. “Because the assassin you already have has failed you. At least once.”
And Alaric froze while Mortimer slid his sword a few inches free of its sheath, his hand firm and face impassive. “My assassin?” the prince blurted. “I don’t know—” he stopped and gave a sharp breath, his face lighting up almost as it used to. “Oh, my good Barber, you don’t think I’ve been trying to kill you? If I wanted you dead, I’d call for your execution. Mortimer here would—”
“With pleasure,” the lord said.
Alaric swung about to face his retainer. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Mortimer.”
The lord hesitated, his sharp chin brought up, then, at last, Mortimer’s lips bent into a grudging smile and he bowed his head. “I thought you would be pleased, Majesty, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to do the deed.”
“The crossbow?” Alaric pressed. “And the Frenchman?”
Sheathing his weapon once more, Mortimer lowered his hands and lied so palpably Elisha could see it the stiffness of his face. “Regrettable, Your Majesty. And the more so if his death cast any aspersions on yourself. It was a clumsy attempt, Your Majesty, and the hireling has been duly punished.”
Alaric relaxed, shaking his head. “You can’t take these decisions for yourself, Mortimer. Don’t do it again.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me.” He watched Elisha from the corner of his eye, and his posture of lordly penitence seemed a bit too languid, the confession too easy. Nor did his admission of guilt ease Elisha’s nerves. In apologizing for the Frenchman’s death, Mortimer claimed the crime to be an accident, deflecting interest from the mysterious assassin with his strange weapon. If he did not work on Alaric’s orders, who, then, was Mortimer’s master? Far off, a door opened, echoing in the stone interior.
“Have you been thinking on my offer?” the prince asked suddenly, interrupting Elisha’s line of thought. “I can’t guarantee that Mortimer here is the only one with ideas of his own. A foreign residence might be just the thing for you.”
Thinking on it? As if Elisha should simply overlook the fact that the king’s retainers wanted him dead.
“I’m sure our enemies already have agents here, working against us,” Alaric went on, his gaze focused with a curious urgency. “I could use a man of your talents, to counter whatever threats may arise.”
In fact, Alaric’s whole being focused with a need Elisha could not understand; tension in his hands, in his shoulders, in the straining expression on his face. He looked so taut that Elisha wanted to soften, to speak soothing words, as a healer to his patient, to reassure him that the condition was not so dire as all that. What threats? he wanted to ask. Were the French so great a worry? Or did Alaric still fear his fallen brother? It was too late. Elisha’s heart, and hand, would serve another. “Do you actually mean to buy me, Highness, or are you only trying to figure out my price?”
In the nave beyond, voices rose, and Rosalynn’s voice called, “Elisha!”
Alaric spun on his heel and stuck his head around the corner, jerking back almost as quickly. “Oh, Barber. You work too cheap.”
“Your Majesty, she just—came in—should we …” The guard looked at a loss, gesturing down the nave.
“I don’t believe we have any more to say.” Elisha bowed curtly and stepped past the prince, walking swiftly.
Steel hissed behind him, and Alaric spoke in a low voice. “I did not give you leave.” Mortimer’s long shadow came up with a firm stride and a second blade.
Elisha’s heart hammered, the tension at his shoulders making his throat ache all the more. If he had thought
an honest refusal would earn his freedom he was mistaken. The seduction was over.
“Elisha!” Rosalynn pinched up her skirts and hurried toward him, her cheeks flushed, eyes darting to the soldiers, to the prince, back to his face.
For a moment, Elisha dearly wished she were a witch, but he must speak to the air and be quick. He stepped up boldly, evading the hesitant guards and cupped the lady’s cheek. She stiffened, eyes going wide. “Forgive me, lady,” he whispered as softly as he could, their cheeks pressed together, his lips to her ear. “I have need of you.”
“I’m listening,” she murmured in reply, breathless now, but not frightened.
“Would you know my friend if you saw him again?”
Rosalynn gasped and clasped her hand over his, trembling. “But he’s outside—he’s looking for you.”
Elisha bit down on an oath.
“We are not done here, Barber,” Mortimer snapped behind him.
“He must not come here. Not for anything. Nothing at all, my lady, do you understand?” He sent his urgency, perhaps too sharply, for she flinched, her dark hair brushing against his face.
“But how could I stop him?”
For a moment, their hands clasped, cradling her head, and he had to admit, “I don’t know. But you have to try.” Then he released her, stepping away. Rosalynn gave a shiver, her eyes still wide.
“Then I’ll take my leave,” she said, her voice a bit shrill. She took in the soldiers around them. “You will not attend me, Elisha?”
“I think not, my lady.” Alaric’s words fell like hammer blows at Elisha’s back. “Give my regards to your father, would you?”
“Yes, of course, Your Highness.” She made a pretty curtsey, turned, and walked away down the long nave.
“Don’t know her as well as I thought, eh, Barber?” Alaric spoke too loud, letting his voice echo from the stone arches. “She is every inch the slut I claimed her for.”
“There’s no call for that, Your Highness.” Elisha glanced back at the prince. “Don’t you have what you wanted? Everything you’ve wanted? Why taunt the rest of us?”
The door gave another creak, and a guard shouted, “You there! Be gone!”
“It’s all right, he’s just checking on me,” Rosalynn called over her shoulder and then hurried her pace, going to meet whomever the guards had spotted by the door.
Elisha’s heart sank, and he snapped back his awareness, gathering his strength.
“Get out of here, the both of you,” Mortimer called. “The barber is no more of your concern.”
Like the wandering stars, they stood for a moment aligned, Elisha at the crossing, surrounded by armed men, Rosalynn nearly at the door, Thomas framed inside of it. He must know his brother was here—had he come for some stupid, hero’s battle, or would he take the coward’s role and walk away? And what could Elisha say to make him leave without revealing him?
“You heard the lord, my lady,” Elisha echoed. “Get out of here.”
“I don’t like this, Majesty,” Mortimer muttered. “If she is no slut, then why did she come back?”
At this distance, in the dim light of the church, Elisha could just make out the figure of Thomas by the door, but his face remained in darkness. Rosalynn was near enough to see him, but she stumbled to a halt, then turned back to Elisha. She grabbed her skirts and started to run—directly toward him.
“No, Elisha, I won’t leave you!”
“Guards,” roared the prince. “Stop that woman—and shut her up!”
“What are you doing?” Elisha howled at Rosalynn, as the guards seized him, pulling him back. Three men sprinted past toward Rosalynn.
Her face pale but strangely resolute, she fell, full-length, and started to scramble up again.
Then, in a few long strides, Thomas sprang from his place. Elisha wanted to scream and rage at the both of them, but before Rosalynn had quite gained her feet, Thomas swept her up over his shoulder and ran for the door.
For a moment before they vanished outside, Rosalynn raised her hand, and they were gone.
Elisha gaped after them. She wasn’t a fool, not really. Her feet had been perfectly stable—she had fallen on purpose, giving Thomas time to rescue her. Elisha wanted to laugh aloud, but the guards were pulling at him.
“Who was that?” Alaric demanded of no one—then he flung himself in front of Elisha. “Who was he?”
“Some charity man she’s taken on,” Elisha replied.
With a wave of his arm, Alaric sent his other soldiers scrambling. “Get them. Bring them back here—I don’t like this.”
“I warned you, Your Majesty,” said Mortimer. “I said you couldn’t trust him. Whatever it is, she’s in on it, too.”
Elisha’s euphoria vanished. He dropped to his knees, pulling free of the confused guards, and slapped his hand to the marble floor, his wrist still bound up with the purple cloth of his talisman. Silk again. Contact. He snatched at his knowledge—strong, smooth, foreign—stone as smooth as silk. He stretched his power into it, as if he wove through the pattern of tiles, then he gave a tug. The floor rippled like fabric, tossing upwards. Men skidded and clattered to the ground, swords sliding away from them on the sudden wrinkles. Mortimer landed with a crack of his head and a groan. Elisha tugged again, sending the wave out behind him as well. He whipped off his right boot and stood up, maintaining contact through the sole of one bare foot.
“Damn it, Mortimer, where’s Farus?” Alaric cried, his fancy cloak swirling about him as he tried to maintain his footing.
But Mortimer only groaned the louder as he struggled to his knees and tumbled again.
“Said you didn’t want him here, Majesty,” blurted one of the guards. He slithered sideways, leapt a hump of marble and fell to his knees. “Went to see his sister!” The words grew louder as the man wobbled in a slick arc, clearing Elisha’s path.
Elisha leapt up and ran, each strike of his left foot keeping the floor briefly steady, before the right made contact and set the floor to shaking. He made for the south transept and the cloister of the monks, for a hundred men who’d call down the pope if any man—even their king—dared shed blood in their precinct.
A man’s length short of the door, an agony of horror snatched his throat and hurled him down, clawing at his neck, his breath cut off and lungs already burning.
Chapter 17
Elisha writhed on the floor, bewildered, power of speech and spell both ripped away. The rope tore into his throat, his feet kicked free of the earth—No! He was in the church at Beaulieu, his throat was bare, but his flesh remembered the grip of the rope that had hanged him at Dunbury weeks before. His head throbbed, and he struggled for breath. Each time he rocked against the floor, it drew him back into now, but his body recalled fighting the rope, fighting for his life. Pain streaked through him from the terrible grip, but there was no rain to carry his cries, no way to force a word from his constricted throat. No one to save him. Elisha sobbed.
Then, just as it had those weeks ago, Brigit’s face came before his eyes. Tears blurred her, a halo of stained glass lighting her from behind. His agony eased, and he gasped a breath that seared him. His shoulders hitched with effort, his bare foot shaking.
“You see, my lord king, you need me.” Her face briefly vanished, only to return, joined by Alaric’s.
Elisha blinked the tears away, the spasms passing.
Brigit’s brows pinched together, her lips pressed hard, as if she knew some echo of his pain and sorrowed for it. She bent nearer, and looked him over carefully, as he might search a patient for signs of injury. Her frown deepened.
“What in God’s name did you do that for?” Alaric bleated. “Now we’ll have to kill him!”
“What?” Brigit’s attention shifted in an instant.
“Pick him up. Don’t let him touch anything,” Alaric directed, the mask of his majesty returning to his face. Had Elisha glimpsed his terror, or was it his own terror projected on another? “And get your bloody
swords!” the prince snarled.
Brigit rose away from him as the guards moved in. Her hands drew apart, one of them concealing something that she slipped away beneath her surcoat. One of the men yanked the wrapping from Elisha’s wrist and bound his hands together. Six guards grabbed Elisha’s arms and legs, letting his head loll, so that he stared at a dizzying image of the door as it retreated from him. Bits of colored light swirled over him, candle flames and the Virgin Mary’s face.
“He shan’t be capable of much magic for a little while,” said Brigit. “But I don’t think he’s badly off.”
“I had this well in hand, Brigit, what are you doing here?” Alaric murmured, taking Brigit’s arm and closing behind Elisha’s bearers, cutting off his glimpse of safety as the procession moved toward the north transept, with its door that would lead to empty fields. At least, so his disoriented memory informed him.
“Looking for something. I thought he’d brought it here.”
“You’re not still after that accursed talisman, are you? You don’t need it. You are strong enough without.”
“In our realm, my love, a witch can never be strong enough. What do you mean, ‘now we have to kill him?’ Weren’t you already trying?”
A door at Elisha’s feet pushed open, releasing them into a world of chill twilight, the sky still bright overhead. His bearers crunched over stone, then grass. Patric and Ian appeared, bowed, with greetings gruff but pleasant enough for the prince and his lady.
“You’re sure he can’t act against us?” Alaric glowered down at Elisha, the prince’s face swimmingly upside down.
“Look at him. He hasn’t even figured out what happened to him.”
Alaric gave a sharp gesture, and they dropped Elisha onto the clipped grass, near a mound of sheep dung. He rolled to his side, retching and gulping at the air. The familiar smells of sheep and hay refreshed his battered throat as he took his first deep breaths. Hadn’t figured out what happened to him, but the memories of the past still chilled his flesh. Only the hanging rope itself could conjure such a vivid horror, the rope Brigit had taken for a talisman the day it almost killed him.
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