Elisha Magus Read online

  “I heard what happened in the churchyard.” The sense of Mordecai’s presence turned a shade concerned. He brushed his hand over Elisha’s, and the next words echoed through Elisha’s skin. “As for this, you’ve worked a powerful magic, the sort that makes the lords take notice, one way and another.”

  “His master seems ready to offer me whatever I want, in exchange for unspecified services. I thought the nobles hated us.”

  With a wrinkle of his graying eyebrows, Mordecai replied without sound, “They both hate and envy us, and more than a few depend upon the power of a magus.” He gave a nod toward the head table. Beyond the refuse of a rich meal, Randall, the Duke of Dunbury sat listening to his guest of honor. On the other side sat his wife, Duchess Allyson, a highly respected magus who had loaned her power to that impossible healing a month ago when he had stitched Mordecai’s hand back on, rejoining flesh and bone and creating the bond between himself and his mentor.

  Elisha glanced away from the dark-haired duchess to the young, self-declared king, Prince Alaric, who held forth on God knew what despite the evident irritation in the duke’s posture. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the lady who sat beside Alaric: Brigit, Alaric’s betrothed. Elisha drew a deep breath, and let it out with a quiver of pain. His right cheek warmed as if her hand rested there, atop the mark her mother had placed in that same spot when he was a boy; had placed with the infinite wonder of her outstretched wing, before the fire claimed her.

  With a sigh, Mordecai shook his head. “Many cures I’ve made, but that you must heal for yourself,” he said aloud, breaking the contact of their skin.

  Hoping his thoughts had not been too obvious, Elisha asked suddenly, “Do you know why they burned her mother?”

  At this, Mordecai’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t know? Suppose not,” he answered his own question. “She’d been the queen’s lady in waiting. Queen died, king found her out, a witch so close to his wife.”

  “King Hugh, again.”

  “Really don’t know politics, do you?” asked Mordecai dryly. “Best start learning, or you’ll not last in this world.”

  Breathing in the scents of gravy and good wine, Elisha admitted, “It has its attractions, but I don’t know that I want to be a part of this world.”

  “Not sure you’ll have the option.” The surgeon’s dark, damp gaze settled gravely on Elisha’s face. “Take care.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Elisha felt the answering ripple of laugher in the air around him. He could not feel most men this way, but since he had healed Mordecai, they shared a bond beyond even those of other magi. Not that Elisha had been one long enough to know what to expect. Still, his sensitivity extended beyond his skin, and he felt someone approaching, an unfamiliar touch. He flashed back to the little man in the bulbous mask, who had bid him a hasty farewell before Mordecai arrived. The little man was a magus—one both sensitive enough to feel the surgeon’s approach and powerful enough to conceal his own nature. Elisha had dismissed the messenger too soon in his eagerness to seek out an assassin instead. He spun away from Mordecai, scanning the crowd around them, but the little man was nowhere to be seen.

  “That emissary, he was a witch,” Elisha murmured, but Mordecai cut him off with a gesture, and they turned as one to the newcomer.

  Clad in a light gown of blue that neither emphasized nor concealed her ample bosom, the woman wore the mask of a bird, done in painted leather complete with exotic feathers twisting back over her dark hair.

  Both men bowed, and the lady nodded in acknowledgement then held out her hand, palm down, to Elisha, who sucked in a quick breath. He felt the stirring of Mordecai’s silent chuckle, and Elisha reddened beneath his mask.

  He took the lady’s hand on his palm, with the lightest possible touch, and bowed over it, blowing a tiny breath across her knuckles in the acceptable substitute for a kiss he was not worthy to bestow. Through the contact, he felt curiosity, attraction, and irritation in a strange jumble. Frowning, Elisha slipped his hand from hers. “To what do we owe the honor, my lady?” he asked, using the plural despite the fact that her attention was clearly all his own.

  “My father speaks so highly of you, Elisha Barber, and I have cause to wonder why. I’ve not been home two days now, yet I’ve heard more about you than the rest of the battle and all his retainers combined. Why so?”

  Elisha swallowed, leaned away from her, and shot a worried glance at Mordecai. This was Lady Rosalynn, the duke’s daughter, whose denunciation by Prince Alaric had brought on the battle.

  “You seem safe enough now,” Mordecai said in a touch. “At least from certain death.” With the tiniest of smiles, he bowed his head. “My lady, if you’ll excuse me.”

  When she curtseyed his dismissal, Mordecai went off with a lively step and left a wake of humor in the air.

  Bristling, Elisha turned back to her. In his moment of inattention, she had slipped the mask from her face, and wiped sweat from below her eyes with two careful fingers. Rather he assumed it was sweat until he caught the flash of wetness in her dark eyes. Every line of her plump features showed her broken heart. How long could he look on her without his own becoming clear?

  “I saved the life of the Earl of Blackmere, my lady, during the battle, when I was still in the king’s service.”

  With a rough gesture, she pulled her mask back into place, folding her hands together. “Yes, I heard that story, from Lord Robert, in fact. He seems vastly amused by the fact that he held a sword to your throat for mistakenly thinking you would kill the earl. Now, he acts as if you are the best of friends, despite the fact that you are a barber and he is of noble birth. It was he who told me where to find you. None of which explains why my father should take such a liking to you, unless the rumors are true? That you are responsible for King Hugh’s death, and thus my father’s deliverance?”

  She had her father’s rounded features and shape, together with her mother’s taller stature and a prattling tone Elisha could blame on neither parent. Perhaps it was no wonder Alaric had determined to put her aside. Of course, Rosalynn could never compete with Brigit in any case, no more than Elisha himself could compete with Alaric for Brigit’s affections.

  “Some rumors are more true than others, my lady,” he said, tucking the silk cord that bound his cuff back into his sleeve.

  She made a sharp noise, and the beak of the bird mask lifted as if it might poke his eye out. “I see. You are awfully brash for a low-born living off a duke’s sufferance. Tell me, are you not enjoying my father’s generosity?”

  Elisha replied, “I am grateful for my position here, my lady.”

  “But I didn’t see you at the head table, and I’ve not noticed you dancing.”

  He could hardly explain to Rosalynn, of all people, why he couldn’t bring himself to dine at a table with the royal couple, so he pounced instead on the second query. “As you say, my lady, I am low-born. This music doesn’t suit me, and I don’t know the dances of court.”

  Tilting her bird’s head, Rosalynn lifted her shoulders. “I know them, but I don’t care for them, either. The past few months, I’ve been at my brother’s estate near Lincoln. They’ve got no proper musicians there but have to depend upon the local fiddlers.”

  Heavens, Elisha thought, nobles forced to dance to common music.

  “If I can get them to change the tune, will you dance with me?”

  “My lady, I’m not a fit partner for—”

  “You are favored by my father, and that will see you through tonight, so long as you do not take advantage.” As if she had crushed her sadness with sudden strength, Rosalynn thumped a fist onto her hip. “I have a mind to cause a stir for this king and all his fancy entourage.”

  Hiking up her flowing skirts, Rosalynn crossed the floor in rapid, manly strides, though the view he had of her was anything but masculine. She cut this way and that among the dancers, certain to be noticed although she took care not to interrupt any of the sets.
Her mother spotted her from the head table and got a familiar little frown upon her face; the young prince turned slightly more pale but did not turn his head. And there was Brigit. If he danced with Rosalynn, the stir would be more than sufficient. He considered slipping off into the shadows, perhaps even retreating to his little chamber near the castle infirmary.

  Then he thought of the tears in Rosalynn’s eyes. She wanted to be daring, to dance with a peasant at her father’s feast and pretend the gilded presence of the prince meant as little to her as hers did to him. During the battle, Elisha had the impression that theirs had been a match of power, not of love. Still, the prince had no right to wound her. He had no right to get his father into the battle that had left King Hugh dead. The younger prince pressed his own claim over that of his elder brother, Thomas, since finding evidence that Thomas had plotted their father’s death. Faced with a choice between a liar and a traitor, Duke Randall supported the liar. But how would Alaric make any better king than his father, if he would break a vow and start a war over a woman? If this was politics, Elisha wanted little part in it.

  Across the hall Rosalynn spoke earnestly to the lead musician, seeking a way to assuage her grief. Elisha had not got far in the search for his attempted assassin, and the crowd, for now, meant safety. Straightening his finery, Elisha strode over to meet her.

  Chapter 3

  “My lady?” said Elisha, offering his hand as he had seen the lords do.

  Rosalynn accepted, tightening her grip. The decorous dances of the nobility allowed only the slightest contact, never with the fingers closed about the lady’s hand. The dance she had requested—and which the lead musician ran through slowly again for her approval—required a firmer grasp.

  Elisha let her turn about his hand and lead him to the now empty floor. He hadn’t danced in years and never in such company as now tittered and rumbled at the edges of the hall. He hoped it wouldn’t be a disaster. “I’m not a very good dancer, my lady,” he began, “I’ve no wish to embarrass you.”

  The beak of her mask turned sharply toward him, so that he pulled back from its tip. “Embarrass me, Barber? How can I be more humiliated before this company than I have already been, to see my betrothed sitting beside that? Don’t worry over me—I’m for the nunnery after this. God is the only one left who’ll have me.”

  Raw hurt flowed from her hand into his. He pushed back the foreign feelings, withdrawing his awareness until he barely felt her hand in his as she tugged him out, her steps determined and ungraceful. If the dance was a disaster, it mightn’t be all his fault.

  At the head table, the duke looked on, a vague smile playing about his lips, while the prince, unable now to avoid it, watched over the rim of his upraised goblet as he drained his wine. Brigit reached out and slipped her pale, slender hand about his elbow, leaning into him, her lips close to his ear. The party of Frenchmen, come for the new king’s coronation and wedding, watched politely—not understanding what they saw.

  They reached the center of the floor, and Rosalynn made an effort to draw herself up. Elisha drummed his fingers briefly on his ever-present pouch, full of emergency medical needs. Then he spun her to face him, clasping right hands to begin the dance. He grinned, and through the contact, he sent a quiet wave of resolve, and the sort of anger that lifted a chin, that made a deep breath the more enlivening. He tried to be subtle, so that she might think it was his smile that encouraged her, or the starting beat of the music that sparked her back to life. Indeed, if she were determined in her melancholy, he could not have moved her, not without her willingness to go along. But Rosalynn was willing. She wanted this little revenge, and his nudge gave her the strength to draw that breath and touch her toe to the floor, poised to begin.

  A hand-drum gave the rapid beat, then the rebec player began. The dance had several forms, including lines, or circles, of couples, depending on how many joined in. Elisha and Rosalynn danced alone, forming a circle of their own.

  From the moment the music started, his gaze never left her face. Would Brigit notice? Would she care? It didn’t matter: he could imagine that she did.

  They skipped forward, trotted backward, pulled together and apart. Rosalynn’s skirts swirled about her as she spun a circle of her own.

  When they came together, Elisha hesitated. For the second verse, they should take each other about the waist, repeating the series—an intimacy casually undertaken by his people and steadfastly forbidden by hers.

  Rosalynn spun back to him, her arm slipping about his waist, her shoulder nestling against his own.

  Again, he followed her lead, starting to pray under his breath that the duke would take it all in fun. He might have more than one enemy at the head table by the time the dance was done. His hand settled on her hip.

  As they danced backward, she laughed aloud. As they pulled together, even closer, a tear trickled down past her ear.

  They twirled apart, clapping with the music, and returned to the center, both hands clasped this time, arms stretched across one another in a near embrace. This time, they pivoted at each change, performing all the steps in reverse. Listening, Elisha caught the trill of music which signaled the last pattern, and he released their left hands, turning her against him and dropping down on one knee.

  Startled, Rosalynn nearly lost her balance but landed neatly on his knee, her head thrown back, laughing louder now, wiping at her cheeks as she caught her breath.

  Elisha, too, gasped, his heart pounding in the rhythm of the dance. Someone applauded, and others joined in. Shaking, Rosalynn clung to his hand, her fingers kneading his.

  Elisha drew her to her feet, rising along with her and bowing over their hands. He led her away, knowing without probing, that if he let her go, she would collapse to the floor in a quaking puddle of grief.

  Elisha brought her quickly through the crowd and shook off her hand. Rosalynn fled into the darker hall beyond. He hoped no one else had noticed her tears. Her revenge would not be so rich if it were tempered by other people’s pity. Including his own.

  “You dance with passion,” murmured a voice nearby, and Elisha turned to find a tall man tucked into the shadowed arch. He wore a tunic that seemed stitched of rags and embellished with soil, complete to a simple mask of cloth that draped his face, holes torn out over his eyes.

  “Desperation, more like,” Elisha replied. “If I dance fast enough, I won’t fall on my face.” The stranger held one arm over his stomach as if it ached, and Elisha noted that he’d even wrapped his palms with rags. The set of his shoulders and the lift of his chin showed his noble bearing, or Elisha might have truly believed him a beggar. This garb didn’t have enough layers to conceal much of a weapon, but still … Elisha unfurled his awareness, sensing exhaustion and fear in the stranger—at war with desire. For Rosalynn? She would be as surprised to hear it as he was surprised to find it in such a costume. “An excellent disguise, my lord.”

  The man drew a sharp breath, his eyes flaring, his glance darting about before returning to Elisha’s masked face. “It should be, for what I paid.” It sounded like a jest but for the grim tone of his voice.

  “Not so much, I hope.”

  The stranger let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “By my faith, it was a princely sum.”

  A group of revelers, singing loudly, stumbled through the arch toward the yard beyond, and the stranger drew back from them then plunged into the darkness himself, leaving Elisha frowning after him. With his regal bearing and woeful garb, the stranger felt like Elisha’s opposite, as if they had traded places, leaving the nobleman masquerading as a beggar while the barber played a lord.

  A flourish of horns turned him from the arch to find the French delegation rising, filing carefully around the table. Each man of the party, and the two women, wore fixed smiles. The lords went unmasked, but their parti-colored gowns were of rich brocade with fleur-de-lis shimmering in gold on one side. The same symbol the messenger had worn, though his was woven coarse and b
arely recognizable. Elisha scanned their group of attendants as the lords approached from the floor—he did not see the mask or tunic, but one among them had a drooping stocking, that garter-ribbon still in want of adjustment. Elisha sucked on his teeth. The French? Just to speak of hiring out to them was dangerous. No wonder the little man tried to hide his identity. Elisha sought the source of one danger only to stumble upon another.

  “My lord prince—and soon, may we hope, the proud king of our sister nation,” pronounced the leader.

  “They must really mean it, if they’re not speaking French,” muttered a young man on the other side of Elisha’s pillar, only to win a cuff from his mother. He scowled but subsided.

  “In token of our friendship, we bring you this.” The man bowed stiffly and stuck out a hand, but the bearer hesitated and had to be waved forward. A smile from one of the women turned briefly genuine, as if she were amused by the whole affair, but Brigit’s eyes narrowed at them from her side of the high table.

  The servant knelt, holding up the offering, and the lord swept off an embroidered velvet sash to reveal a miniature church complete with a tower and angels, gleaming with gold, sparkling with silver. At its heart rested a crystal vessel, though Elisha could not make out the contents at such a distance.

  “A relic of the blessed Saint Louis, to guide you upon your reign.” They all bowed again.

  Alaric stared down at the gaudy thing, his jaw tight. He answered in French, a fluent little speech, in which Elisha caught a reference to the sainted king Edward the Confessor. Saint Louis had been king of France only fifty years before, and now was beatified, but Edward’s cult had been venerated for hundreds of years. The rest of the high table tried to conceal their amusement, but the French ambassador’s face seemed rigid. The lady beside him gave a deep curtsey—along with a view down her low neckline no doubt—and answered with a suspicious lightness in her voice. Elisha did not need to understand her words to know what else was on offer.