Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle Page 4

  At this, Elisha frowned. By God, he was a good surgeon, with the living around him as his proof. This was as close an admission as the physician might make that he knew it just as well. But Elisha had no wish to discover first-hand the wounds those new weapons could make. In silence, he studied his hands.

  Dirt and blood rimmed the stubby nails and filled every line and crevice of his knuckles. They were the large, strong hands of a workman, hearkening back to his farmer forebears. Now, despite his scrubbing, Nathaniel’s blood overlaid the nameless infant’s. Perhaps the blame did not belong entirely to him, but also to the midwife who concealed the baby’s death, then revealed—prematurely—that of the mother. These deaths were the culmination of the trouble between himself and his brother, trouble he had started two years ago in his arrogant, suspecting way. If he had not been such a fool back then, he would have been at Helena’s side, not summoned in desperation when it was too late. Even if he could do nothing for his brother’s family, others needed the skills he possessed. There on the battlefield lay the penance he asked for.

  He lowered his hands and looked again to the physician. “You’re going to Scotland?”

  The physician made a harsh sound. “Certainly not. Prince Thomas leads the army there, and they’ve got none of the new weaponry. No, we go to the plains at Dunbury Ford. You have heard of the battle?”

  Dimly, Elisha thought. Another squabble where one noble would be deposed and another just like him would be given the lands while farmers and villagers tried to put their lives back together.

  Lucius sighed. “The duke has defied His Majesty. Young Prince Alaric’s called off his betrothal to the duke’s daughter, and now the duke refuses his rightful fealty; he even claims the prince owes him an apology.” A snort. “His Majesty hopes for a quick victory.”

  In gentleman’s terms, a quick victory meant one in which lives were sacrificed and fortresses saved.

  “His Majesty hopes the barons don’t join in and recall the bastard princes from France,” the captain muttered.

  Lucius fixed him with a stare. “Nobody wants that, captain. Even those who don’t support our king. Are you one of them?”

  It was the same argument that brewed in alehouses all over town, and just as meaningless there as in his own jail cell. The succession was history, the battle of Dunbury was real. Elisha broke in: “When do we leave for this mission of mercy?”

  With a smug smile, Lucius replied, “Tomorrow dawn. I trust you don’t need much time to gather your things? Good. Meet us at Newgate.” As he lifted the long skirts of his robe, he turned back. “You do have a horse?”

  Rolling his eyes, Elisha said, “What do you think?”

  With a sigh, the other said, “I shall have a wagon for my important instruments and papers. You may ride with it. Perusing them might do you some good. A little of the knowledge of the Salerno School, eh?”

  Elisha reddened and looked away as the man gloated himself out the door.

  “Blackmail’s what that is,” the captain said, frowning in the physician’s wake. “I don’t like it, not even for a prisoner, nor yet for an innocent man.”

  “No one’s said I am innocent.”

  Shaking out his key ring, the captain gave him a stare of reproach. “Keep your own counsel then.” He plucked out the proper key and fitted it into the lock at Elisha’s wrist.

  Rubbing the sensation back into his fingers, Elisha remarked, “I have underestimated you.”

  At this, the captain smiled. “Most do. I find it works to my advantage.” With a brisk bow, he said, “Good luck at the front then. I don’t expect you’ll be back here.”

  “I rather guessed that myself.”

  “Now don’t talk that way, Eli,” Lucretia scolded. “Keep your wits about you, and God in your heart, and you’ll not go wrong.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll be going to war. I’d best get packing.” With a nod to the captain, the two made their way into the twilight.

  Looking at the sky, Lucretia muttered, “Oh, dear. I shall have missed the hour already and be late for curfew besides.”

  “Must be strange to go from working by night, to having a curfew.”

  She grinned. “You’ve said it, Eli, but all the same, I’ve a better master now than any I’ve ever known.” Then she grew serious. “I shall be praying for you. Do keep safe, Eli.”

  “Of course.” He gently squeezed her arms in lieu of an embrace. “See you do likewise, Sister.”

  Hiking up her habit, Sister Lucretia trotted off into the growing darkness. For a long time, Elisha watched her go. The Lord was lucky to have her service, as was he to be her friend. At last, he turned away, knowing full well why he dawdled. Eventually he must face the little house, awash with blood. Elisha forced himself to walk briskly. No unpleasant moment got better for waiting.

  He rounded the bend of their alley and noticed the dim glow of a candle at the waxed cloth window of the upstairs loft. Surely Helena’s family would be taking care of her, but there was no sign of company. Crossing the yard, Elisha opened the door and hesitated, listening, and heard nothing. Perhaps they had taken her from here to avoid the memories. As he set foot inside, however, the floorboards gave a groan, and someone gasped from above.

  “Who’s there? Who is it?” Helena’s voice cried out.

  “Only me,” Elisha said. “But why are you here? Please tell me you’re not alone.”

  “My sister’s preparing a room for me.”

  “Good.” He felt around on the shelf by the door and found flint and steel, and the lantern kept there. Nathaniel rarely bought oil, preferring a fire cheap and simple, but, even in the long months of their mutual silence, Elisha kept their oil jar full. It pleased him to fulfill another of his namesake’s miracles. Nathaniel had never spoken of it, but he had to know where the extra came from.

  After the lamp was lit and hung upon its chain, Helena’s voice came again. “I thought I heard someone earlier, and I thought…”

  Taking a breath, Elisha shut his eyes. “I am sorry, Helena.”

  “Come up,” she said softly. “Let me see you.”

  Setting the lantern back in its place, he mounted the narrow stair on the far wall and climbed until his head emerged through the floor of the sleeping loft. On a mattress of straw Helena lay, the candle beside her and a Bible, a gift from a wealthy former admirer, resting close to hand. Of the three who’d lived here, she alone could read, a skill she’d learned before her father’s ruin forced her into a different trade. Her face looked weary, with her hair bundled back in a matronly way. She fluttered a pale hand toward the book. “My only solace and company.”

  Folding his arms along the floor, he rested his chin upon them and watched her, even as she studied him. He hoped the light too dim to reveal the blood that stained his clothes.

  “It has been a terrible day, Elisha,” she breathed.

  Unheeded tears seeped from his eyes to course down his cheeks. Again he prayed the darkness would hide him, and he dared not betray himself by brushing them away. His pain seemed unearned compared with hers. “A terrible day,” he agreed.

  “I begged him not to send for you, not after…”

  Her words stung him, and Elisha clenched his teeth. “For that, too, I am sorry. I should have trusted you.”

  “And Nathan.”

  In a whisper, he echoed, “Him, too.”

  “You have not been touched by love, Elisha. You do not know its power. Or its pain. If I yet had one of them, my husband or my child, I might have felt some comfort against the loss of the other.” She stared up at the peaked roof, the nails that held the roof tiles casting pointed shadows in the flickering light. “I used to wish you dead,” she said, “For the wounding of my husband.” Her lips curved into a ghost of her smile. “Today I have learned better. Instead, I wish you love. I wish you love to have, and love to lose, and yourself to keep on living. To know every moment that love is forever gone.”

  Elisha pressed
his face into his arms, sobs welling up in him. He shook with the effort of silence and the pain she had struck into him with her quiet curse.

  “Helena?” a woman’s voice called from below. “Who’s with you?” Then a round face appeared beside the stairs. “Oh. It’s you.” Helena’s sister bore some resemblance, but as if she were the apprentice’s unfinished work from which a master would carve beauty. Her lips twisted at the sight of him as if she might be ill. “Come to have another go round? Now that the husband’s gone, you think Helena might yield to your wooing? And she weak from childbearing.” She made a derisive sound in her throat. “We’ve come to get you, dearie, get you out of this dismal place.” She gave Elisha a pointed stare.

  Wiping his bared forearm hastily across his face, Elisha said, “I’ll not be here in any event. Doctor Lucius has called me to the front.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Called you? You? He’s never had any use for you before.”

  Giving a bitter laugh, Elisha explained, “I’m the hands to do his bloody work.”

  “Heaven knows you’re good at that,” she cast back at him.

  He leaned his forehead against the floor, caught on the stairs between two women who hated him, trapped as a mouse by feral cats.

  “Get a move on, then,” Helena’s sister told him.

  With an effort, he raised his head and looked across the upper floor at Helena who stared back. “The house is yours, Helena. If you rent my rooms, and the—” He couldn’t bring himself to refer to his brother’s workshop. “Anyhow, the money should be fair. I’ll be taking some of my instruments; the rest should fetch a good price for you.”

  He heard her sister’s husband and young son come in at the door, ready to bear her away. Elisha offered, “I can help.”

  For a moment, all were silent. Then came Helena’s voice, stronger than before. “Two years ago, I swore never again to suffer your hands upon me.”

  Defeated, Elisha backed down the stairs, trying to shrink into himself so as not to brush against her sister. After a few minutes, the three had gathered up Helena and carried her back down and out the door, sparing neither word nor glare for Elisha as he stood alone in the large room.

  The table dominated one end, draped over with cloth to conceal the blood which must stain it. Examining the floor, he saw the glint of his spilled instruments, and knelt down to retrieve them with unsteady hands.

  “Barber?”

  Elisha jerked, scattering the gathered tools once more across the floor. He turned swiftly to the door and saw the master draper there, his half-beard shaved clean by some other hand.

  “Martin,” Elisha gasped, trying to still the wild pulse.

  Martin darted a quick glance around, then mounted the front steps, and shut the door. He bent down and collected a silver knife which lay at the turned-up toes of his shiny boots. “I came, I’ve been waiting—” He gave a nod toward the fireplace beyond which was Elisha’s own chamber.

  “About this afternoon,” Elisha began. “I am sorry, I hadn’t expected Nate, after so long—and to find me there—”

  Laughing gently, Martin lifted another knife in his clean, beringed hand. He shook his head. “Don’t apologize, Elisha. I know what’s happened today. I least of all would ask any such apology from you. It is I who should apologize. I was playing at the supercilious merchant and got a little carried away. Half your fee indeed.”

  Still kneeling, Elisha brought one knee up before him to act as a prop for his aching head. “How long were you waiting?”

  “Not long.” Martin gathered a probe and a lancet, then a curved parting blade.

  “Long enough to hear?”

  He nodded.

  Elisha blew out a breath.

  Martin Draper, Master of the Draper’s Guild, crouched on the floor, one by one gathering Elisha’s filthy tools. Fastidiously, he avoided kneeling down and besmirching his clothes. Every so often, he wiped both tools and hands on a delicate kerchief not quite up to the task.

  “Don’t do that,” Elisha said at last, snatching the handful of tools and reaching out for the next. “Your wife will notice blood.”

  Laughing again, Martin rose. “My wife is dallying with a weaver, unless I miss my mark. Handsome lad he is, too. And a good thing, since he’s like to be the father of my next child.”

  “I’ve no idea how you manage.”

  “I am a tradesman, Elisha. I contract, I conspire, and, above all, I compromise.” He remained standing, staring down at Elisha on the floor. After a time, while Elisha polished his tools on an edge of the soiled linen, Martin said, “I wish you’d just come clean; this curiosity is killing me.”

  Sighing, Elisha dropped the tools on the table with one hand, sitting back on his haunches. “I tried to seduce her. On the eve of their wedding.”

  “Oh, my.” Martin’s eyebrows notched upward.

  “I thought she married him only to get out of the brothels, that she wanted to set up on her own at worst, or take advantage of him at best. Nathaniel was so taken with her that he wouldn’t hear a word against the marriage, not from me. I told her I knew what she was up to, that I’d keep her secret, if, well, I got mine.” His face flamed, and he kept it averted. “I expected her to be more than willing, and I would have my proof. I’ve never been so wrong about a person in my life. She called me every sort of monster, slapped me, and called my brother to throw me out. Neither one would hear an apology.” He broke off, and looked up at last to Martin’s sympathetic face. “It’s been Hell, really, living in this house, but which of us could afford to move?”

  “If you’d told me,” Martin began, but Elisha cut him off.

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’ve got a position to maintain. If anyone knew—” But there was little point to finishing that sentence.

  “I love you desperately,” the draper said, advancing to touch Elisha’s cheek.

  Elisha gently withdrew from the caress. “No, you don’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  As much at the mournful expression as at the wistful tone, Elisha smiled. “It’s time you found someone to return your affections, Martin. You deserve better than a barber.”

  Running his fingers along his own cheek, Martin said, “A barber who doesn’t even finish the job.” With a shrug, he reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a narrow strip of cloth.

  “What’s that, a favor to carry into battle?”

  “Consider it such, if you like. I like that idea well enough.” He held it out and Elisha took the delicate fabric. “Keep it on you, Elisha, don’t part with it for anything.”

  Frowning, Elisha looked up at his friend. “But what does it mean, Martin?”

  Laying a finger across his lips, Martin smiled. “Now that would be telling. Promise me you’ll keep it?”

  “Is it blessed by a saint or something?” He ran the silk through his fingers, its fine fibers catching on the bits of dead skin. Threads of gold ran through in some pattern undistinguishable in the gloom.

  “Charmed by a witch, perhaps. Now don’t look at me like that. Just you keep it on you, and secretly.”

  “You do like your games,” Elisha grumbled, tucking the fabric into the pouch the captain had returned.

  With a final sigh, Martin slipped out of the door, back to his wealthy house, his courtly wife, and her handsome weaver.

  Sometimes, Elisha would have liked to love him, would have liked to think himself worthy of such a man—or, indeed, of anyone. But he was no good at make-believe, and Martin’s affection was a dangerous gift, even left unconsummated. He endured the flirtation when he tended Martin’s barbering needs in the privacy of the man’s chamber, but they could both be ruined if anyone knew.

  Elisha rolled his neck from side to side, trying to shake the tension, and caught something out of the corner of his eye. On all fours, he crept to the table and saw beneath it the thing he had noticed: the neglected leather satchel, still seeping blood.

  Chapter 5

&n
bsp; With cautious hands, Elisha drew the satchel from its hiding place, the weight of the dead child dragging it along the floor. He sat staring at the thing in front of him and thought again of the Bone of Luz, that mystical seed from which he might grow a new man. If he only knew how. The wild hope leapt within him that it might be possible, that some magic could bring it about, undo a little of the harm of this day and restore to Helena part of what she had lost, and with it, bring himself some measure of peace. Again, his heart raced. Yet how could he know if it were true? Who was there to ask without sending them both to the gallows, or worse?

  He had witnessed magic once, when he was yet a boy, the last time a witch had been brought to trial. This was before even the terrible drought which had forced his family into the city to find work. His parents came in from the country to watch the execution, packing lunch for all of them, plus a few leftover vegetables from the garden gone soft and rotten, ripe for the throwing. Nathaniel, judged too young over his protests to the contrary, had been left at a neighbor’s house to sulk.

  The three of them rode in their pony cart, the rangy new colt drawing them onward with the press of country folk all out in a common purpose. A tall pole had been erected outside the city wall in a patch of barren ground. The vivid purple of the royal pavilion, where the king and his two sons could recline in comfort for the festivities, brightened the gray of the city wall. Elisha had never been so close to the royal family, before or since. Nobility and townsfolk occupied the ground nearest to the site, leaving some distance for safety, so that the country farmers took up the surrounding grass, paying a few pennies to stand atop wagon seats for a better view.

  Vendors wandered the makeshift rows, hawking all manner of sweets and ale from barrels slung upon their backs. Musicians roamed as well, offering songs for the ladies, while a handful of bards tossed off poems with quick wit.

  Elisha begged a penny from his father to buy a little pennant of cloth painted with a hawk. So equipped, he ran about the grass, watching it flutter in the breeze. Dashing down a long slope, he stopped short.