The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (8 page)

“I’ll say.” Alisdair whistled through his teeth as he sat back on his heels. “I’d say the bastard just missed finishin’ you off, Rob.”

“It was a small axe.” Montrose twisted, trying to see the gash under his arm.

“I don’t have a needle,” Nadira interrupted.

“Sew it later, just wrap him up with what cloth you have. We’ll wait to see if Gar comes back with the boys and the horses.”

At midday, Garreth did return with three of the horses and both boys. The boys had followed the wild men at a distance as they tracked the horses to the stream. Evan and Hagen were covered with dirt and leaves, but were unharmed. Evan was breathless. “My lord, you would have been proud to see Fafnir. The wild men tried to catch him but he kicked at them and bit them, he was grand!” This delivery was punctuated with enthusiastic gestures.

Hagen nodded in complete agreement. “One took a hoof right in the gullet, sent him down for good. The others ran off, but he let me take his bridle afterwards.”

Evan beamed at the big bay that stood impatiently over him. The boy shook the bits affectionately. “He likes me.”

“Aye, the filthy bastards were no match for the chargers, but they got our nags.” Alisdair grumbled. “Now that the war with the French is over, there’s no escaping these ruffians. Someone ought to start another crusade, lead them all to Jerusalem again, or take back Istanbul.” He pulled open a knapsack from one of the chargers and tossed out stale biscuit to the boys and Garreth.

The boys had brought them beechnuts that they had gathered while hiding in the forest. Garreth smashed nuts for her with the side of his axe on a flat stone, then shyly handed her the nutmeats. Nadira ate them gratefully, picking the meats from the bits of sharp shells. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Garreth reached over and pushed her shoulder. She could tell he had meant to merely nudge her by the remorseful sounds he made as she righted herself from the ground.

He picked up a heavy stone and threw it against a tree trunk, blasting bark in all directions and startling the birds. He then grinned at her, pointing at her hand. She smiled back.

After they had eaten, the boys stripped the horses and rubbed them down, then cleaned the saddles. Garreth slept. Alisdair paced the small camp. It did not rain, though the clouds thickened.

Nadira caught Montrose looking at the clouds too.
Perhaps he fears snow.
That thought chilled her in more ways than one. He might deem it safe for a fire should it snow, but would they stay here another day? Nadira did not want to ask, she wanted to leave this horrible mountain. Snow was definitely a possibility. Nadira could smell the cold wetness in the air that threatened. Montrose limped up and down, as though testing his legs. He stopped and rubbed his face all over, starting with his beard and finishing by pulling his fingers through his hair with a yank.

Finally he turned to Alisdair. “Pack up.” Nadira sighed with relief.

The small party readied for travel. Marcus was wrapped in a horse blanket and then laid in the center of another. Garreth, Hagan, Evan and Alisdair each took a corner. Montrose tied the horses to each other in a line and took the bridle of the first one. Nadira followed behind him. It was too steep to ride. She kept her eyes on the backs of the men in front of her. What kind of book could make men suffer so? What could a man read that was worth this kind of loss?
None of these men can read.
She stopped. The band of men and horses limped slowly away from her.
They chase what they cannot use,
she thought,
and they seek something they cannot find.
What have I agreed to?

Exhausted and half-starved, they emerged from the woods and a few hours later picked up the road again. Not far away lay a good-sized town surrounded by cultivated fields. Nadira had no idea what town it was, but it looked like they would get there by dark. Her mind chanted a litany: rest, warmth, food. She kept the image of an inn in her head as she trudged along the sodden road. It had been raining in the valley overnight. The horses slid in the mud and she was covered with the stuff by the time they reached the gates. Montrose stopped the horses and went forward alone to meet the gatekeepers.

After a short wait the gates were opened and they passed through. Nadira looked behind her as the gates closed again. Bandits must ravage farther than just the pass through the mountains, for armed guards patrolled the crenellated walls and the soldiers watched them carefully as they marched by. Passers by paused to stare as well. Nadira was too tired to care about how they must look, covered as they were head to foot in blood and mud. People pressed past her through the winding streets pushing carts filled with everything from fresh baked loaves to dung mucked from a stable.

A peddler came up behind them with a cacophony of live chickens, nearly running her down. Feathers drifted over her as he sped by. She heard the boys coughing behind her. She trudged behind Montrose keeping her head down concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, avoiding dung piles and deep puddles. She did not bother to look up again until they stopped before huge wooden double doors on immense metal hinges.

“I’m famished,” Alisdair breathed as he and the others gently lowered Marcus to the paved entryway. “Warm bed and hot food, God help us, Robin.”

“Soon.” Montrose mumbled. He banged on the door with the back of his fist.

Nadira looked up. It was a very fine house, among many of the same size built close together along the road. The second floor hung out over the street and provided a narrow shelter for the entry where Montrose stood now, leaning heavily against the lintel. To the left and right were long walls that she assumed contained a courtyard like Sofir’s house in Barcelona. They waited in the street for only a short time before the small peep opened then closed. Then one of the doors scraped open several inches. An old man stepped out. His white hair and his beard were long, but carefully combed. He was dressed in a gray tunic and breeches and wore good shoes.

“Oh, my lord Montrose!” he cried. “Come in! Come in! …Pierre!” he shouted, “Pierre come here and get these horses!” A half grown boy appeared behind the old man. He slipped shyly between the old man and Montrose and took the horses’ reins in his small hand. Evan and Hagen followed him wearily along the road toward the stables. The old man pushed the door open wider and beckoned them to enter.

Montrose reached behind him to pull Nadira through the door first and then pushed her to the side to give the men room to bring Marcus through. She pressed herself against the wall as the men wrestled the blanket across the threshold with grunts and scuffling. The door closed behind them, shutting out the light. Montrose took a moment to adjust his clothing. Exhausted, Nadira watched him. There was so little humor in the sight of a man, who looked like he had been sleeping in a slaughterhouse for days, straightening his collar and pulling on the cuffs of his tunic. She couldn’t even summon the energy to smile some encouragement for him. He brushed his matted hair back from his face, but this just left a streak of dried mud across his nose.

Nadira touched her own nose, imagining what she looked like. Worse, they all smelled like a byre. She understood his reluctance to enter the fine house, and also his desperation. She felt it too. The old man beckoned them to follow him. Nadira took her place behind Montrose who was now noticeably limping, favoring his right leg. The house smelled warmly of many fires and the aroma of something delicious roasting in the kitchen. Nadira’s eyes adjusted to the dim light as the old man led them to a great hall where a fire crackled in the hearth and a long wooden table lay set for supper.

As they entered, the master of this house rose from a chair by the fire. She had never seen such a tall man in her life. He towered above them all, thin-faced but with friendly dark eyes. He was dressed warmly in dark furs and velvets. Montrose signaled to his companions to lower Marcus again.

The tall man spoke with a gentle deep voice. “Montrose, my friend. You look horrible. Absolutely vile.”

Montrose grimaced. “Beniste, I apologize for this sudden intrusion. I thank you in advance for your hospitality.”

“Of course. And shall I call a doctor for your man here?”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

Beniste took Montrose by the upper arm and squeezed, then greeted them each in turn. He was surprised to see Nadira.

“Greetings to you, my lady,” he said with grace, bowing slightly. Nadira opened her mouth to correct him but was interrupted by Montrose.

“Adam,” Montrose appeared unable to keep his feet much longer, “please…civilities later.”

“Forgive me, my lord.” Beniste beckoned to someone hiding behind a door. A boy of nine or ten crept out timidly, looking up quickly at each of them, but not meeting their eyes. “Fetch the doctor, boy, and quickly.” The boy sped off.

Beniste put a hand on Garreth’s shoulder. “Perhaps your giant friend should lay the injured man on my table. There is more light here and a pot of water already heated on the hearth for my meal.”

Garreth and Alisdair lifted Marcus from the soiled blanket and carried him further into the room. Half the long table was cleared quickly and Marcus was laid out gently on its wooden surface.

Nadira chanced a look about the hall while the men were busy with Marcus. The room was paneled in wood except for the wall that contained the great hearth, which had been worked by skilled masons in pale gray stone.

Who was this Beniste? Likely engaged in commerce, for his demeanor was not that of a nobleman, and he had greeted Montrose with too much honor to be his equal, nor did the servants wear any kind of livery. She saw them peeking around corners and doorways wearing the simple clothing of their class. The hall was very like the one in Barcelona.

She was blinking sleepily at the tapestries when Beniste startled her with a clap of his hands. A comfortably large middle-aged woman emerged immediately and stood still in the doorway, her hands in her apron.

Beniste gestured to the table. “Bring some food and wine for our guests. Bring whatever is ready now. Hot or cold, it doesn’t matter. We will prepare a proper feast tomorrow.” Nadira felt ready to collapse. She must have looked it, for Beniste stepped over and took her elbow. He led her to the bench and seated her nearest the fire. She smiled at him wearily. The other men sat heavily on the benches at the other end of the table near Marcus. Garreth lay his head on his arms.

“My friend,” Beniste began, “surely there is a story behind all this. Look at you, all of you. Good God. And a woman with you...and where is Master Kemberley?”

“And you will hear it all,” Montrose said in a low voice. “My man John was slain by brigands in the mountains, and Marcus lies near death as you can see. We are too tired and sad to tell it all now.” He breathed in deeply, “And of Richard, we will tell all tomorrow.”

“Of course, forgive me, my friend. Let me get the servants to prepare a room for you.”

Beniste left the room without another word. As Nadira warmed by the fire, she felt dangerously close to sleep herself. Fortunately, the older woman returned with a tray followed by three younger women, also bearing food and drink.

The men reached for the food before it had even been set down. Nadira was given half a loaf of bread and a joint of some kind of fowl. A tankard of ale was set near her. So busy was she eating she did not even look up to see how the others fared. Afterwards she drained the cup and sat back.

Garreth fell forward with a thud onto his arms, making the cutlery on the table bounce. Moments later enormous snores erupted from beneath his huge arms. Alisdair, too, was nodding off. His hair had come loose from its braids, tangled in his eyes and crumbs lay scattered in his beard. Montrose was pale and drawn. His tankard was empty. Thick black locks of hair fell over his face, making it difficult to see his eyes. He seemed to be staring off into the murky corners of the room.

A young woman entered the room with a pitcher in one hand. She glanced at Nadira, raised the pitcher and her eyebrow at the same time. Nadira nodded and pushed her cup forward. The woman moved closer and poured dark red wine into her cup. As she poured, she whispered, “Can I bring you some fresh clothes?”

Nadira smiled at the idea of fresh clothing, perhaps even a bath. She couldn’t keep the eagerness out of her voice as she answered. “Please, if you could, and some hot water for washing and perhaps some clean linen for my master’s wounds.”

The woman stopped pouring, “Lord Montrose is injured?” She turned to look over her shoulder at Montrose.

“Yes.” Nadira answered with a frown, for a strange feeling had passed over her at the sound of the woman’s concern. The woman eyed Montrose as she filled his cup, and Nadira watched her.

She passed by Nadira on her way out of the room. “I’ll bring you what you need,” she whispered.

“Thank you.”

Montrose did not seem to notice the exchange; he had not even touched his wine but was staring straight ahead, as he had been for a while. In fact, now he appeared alarmingly pale. Nadira made to move closer and speak to him when Beniste returned. He took in the situation at once. He smiled at Nadira and sat beside her. “You are the only one awake, milady.”’

“Sir, you are mistaken. I am no lady, but a servant myself. And I believe my lord is still awake.”