The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (4 page)

“We will return her.”

Nadira watched as Sofir considered this. She could see he did not quite believe the outsiders, she saw the doubt slowly creep into his face. Nadira realized she had been holding her breath, for she let it out with relief as he finally turned to her. “I do not know these men, I cannot trust them and I will not sell you to them. You are like a daughter to me.” He turned to Montrose. “You hear my words, my lord. My girl is not for sale at any price. Find a reader somewhere else, and may God go with you.”

Sofir had barely finished speaking when there was a rush swifter than an arrow’s flight. Nadira found herself thrust away from Lord Montrose and into the arms of the scarred man. Sofir was pushed against the cellar wall with a dagger against his bearded throat, his eyes wide with surprise. She had not seen the signal for this coordinated response.

“We do not trifle with you, Sofir.” Montrose pressed his face close to the old merchant’s until they were nose to nose. Sofir closed his eyes and Nadira saw his lips move in prayer. She felt a rush of anger. She twisted herself to no avail. She was lifted off the ground where she could no longer gain a purchase with her feet to resist. Kicking only bruised her toes against a thigh as hard as oak.

“We will take what we cannot bargain for.”

Nadira was dragged roughly up the stairs; the jagged buckle of her captor’s baldric dug into her body. There was the sound of crashing and banging behind her, then silence. She took an enormous breath, but before the scream could escape, the gloved hand of the scarred man was upon her mouth. She tasted the salty leather and smelled the bitter tang of metal where his sword hilt had made an indentation in the palm.

Her hood was pulled over her face and she was carried through the back door and to the stables. She heard a stable boy’s voice, “What?” and then nothing more. There was a scuffling sound in the straw behind her, and then the hard leather of a saddle struck her midsection. Moments later she felt a man mount beside her and the horse move off at a trot. The jolting sickened her and fear of falling off and being trampled flooded her mind to the exclusion of everything else.

She could not draw a breath to scream with her body over the back of the horse, and another jolt caused her to bite her lip. Salty blood filled her mouth and almost made her retch. Within moments her captor urged his horse to a gallop through the pre-dawn streets and the unpleasantness of her situation changed to torment.

Nadira had only been on a horse once as a little girl. The memory was a mere image of being perched before her father on his favorite little Barbary stallion. By contrast, the animal pounding away beneath her ribs was an immense war charger, its legs longer than she was tall. The ground below her seemed miles away and every jolt forced her ribs into her mouth.

After what seemed like an hour, Nadira was in so much pain from this ride that falling seemed a blessing instead of something to be avoided. At least the torture would stop. She began to push on the leather instead of holding it tightly. Within moments, she had some freedom and then she felt herself loose in the chilly air.

The miserable jolting had stopped, but the relief was short-lived as she felt a greater jolt as the ground struck her the full length of her body. She lay dazed for a moment. Dawn had not yet arrived; she could not see clearly in the murk around her. She heard the horses’ hooves slow and then come to a stop. She tried to get up but still had no breath in her body. Feebly she pushed against the ground then suddenly a grip on her smock and cloak between her shoulder blades pulled her roughly into the air, her naked feet dangling above the ground. She was yanked around and set down hard.

“You fool! You could have been killed!” Her keeper sputtered, punctuating his words with a shake of her dress. Her hood fell back and Nadira could see that they were out of the city and on the road that followed the river. The moon shown a half-light near the western horizon and it was pink in the east. If she could get free of his grip she could run to the river and hide on the banks where there was overgrown brush and many trees. These men had no dogs.

She looked up at the man glaring down at her, his scar now white against the livid background of his face. She did not care that he was angry. The other men pulled their horses up around her and Montrose dismounted forcefully. He strode toward her, heavy boots thumping the packed clay road. He took her arm from the sentry and spun her to face him.

“You may not like it now, but we have done you a great service.” He snapped, whipping off his gloves and slapping them sharply against his thigh.

“Killing my master and stealing me from my home?” Nadira answered incredulously.

“Your master is not dead. We did not harm him, but the Black Friars will. Their master, Torquemada, has poisoned the queen’s ear. No one in Castile or Aragon or even Andalusia is safe from his touch. We come now from Toledo, where even visitors feel vulnerable. You could be returned to your home if you wish…”

“I wish!”

“But first you must read for us.”

“I will not! I do not know you and I resent being thrown over the back of a horse in the middle of the night!”

The red spotted man narrowed his eyes at her.

Lord Montrose pulled Nadira closer against his chest. The brass buckle on his baldric bruised her cheek. “You knew my brother for one day,” he said in a low voice, the thump of his heart rumbled beneath her ear.

“Yes, but...”

“And what did you think of him?” Montrose released her. Nadira wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, touching her swollen lip tentatively. She remembered the injured man, this large one’s brother. She glanced up at Lord Montrose. They were very different. This man was large and broad; his brother had been rather slight. Montrose was dark where his brother had been fair.

She remembered how his brother must have suffered as he was kicked and beaten, how strong he must have been to keep his secret in the face of such abuse. His body may have been slight, but his courage was considerable. She remembered how his blue eyes spoke to her in the end when his lips could no longer move. He had entrusted her with his last words. Trusted her to tell his brother what he had withheld from his torturers. A great surge of pity swelled inside her.

“You did not stop for his body,” she whispered.

“No.” Montrose took her arm again, and Nadira did not resist the grip. “There is no time, and I have not the heart to disturb his grave.” Now his voice was soft and low.

Nadira stared at her feet. She recalled Inez’s fear and her warnings. She looked back toward the town, long gone from sight. Her day was going to be full of inventorying the buttery and the larder, then perhaps copying a manifest. She looked down the road away from town, a ribbon of road stretched north toward places she had never been. She looked at the men and horses circled around her.

Three men sat patiently on mounts loaded front and back with supplies. The youngest-looking man in the back held the reins of two packhorses, he was not much more than a boy. They were very definitely on a long journey. The three other men were dismounted, hands resting on the pommels of their sheathed swords, quietly watching her make this decision. These men were not like Massey’s band of rough sailors.

She looked at their faces one by one. She saw that they knew she must come willingly or be of little use to them. Their patience seemed odd to Nadira who was used to being told what to do. In her narrow world, men gave the orders. Did it matter to her which men were her masters? It was only a matter of time before the Black Friars visited Sofir. Something else entered her mind, a thought she had not allowed herself to savor for many years. A possibility. Perhaps an opportunity.

“I will come with you for his sake, but I must ride vertically, not as a sack of barley.”

“Ha! She will bargain then,” The red-haired man barked out a short laugh. “You’d best ken what the merchant said about her bein’ clever, Rob, lest she get the better of you.”

Montrose ignored him. To Nadira he said, “Very well.”

“And I must have shoes and proper clothing.”

“I will get them for you at the next town.”

“You must swear not to harm me.”

“I have.”

“Do it again, and make your men swear.”

“Agreed.” Lord Montrose gestured to the mounted men. They joined their comrades on the ground, drawing their swords. “I swear you will not be harmed,” he said. The men repeated his words, pressing their pommels to their foreheads one by one. “Are you satisfied?” he asked her.

“There is more.”

Montrose looked like he was forcing himself to remain calm. “Speak already. We are in a hurry.”

“You will send me home when you are finished with me.”

“Already agreed. Let us not waste another moment.” Montrose pulled his gloves on.

“No, I mean, my real home. Morocco.” Nadira lowered her eyes, looking up at him through her lashes. She waited for the expected expletives, but she heard only the crunching sound of the horses at their bits. The silence went on so long she began to doubt her new idea. She clenched her fists and looked up boldly. Montrose was rubbing his chin with the reins while he studied the sunrise, then he looked at her hard.

“You will come willingly?”

Nadira nodded.

“You won’t run away?”

She shook her head. He studied her for a few more minutes, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes. “Agreed.” He signaled to the scarred man who immediately mounted his huge horse and scooped Nadira up before him on the saddle. She leaned back against his body as the horse moved into a rough canter. While not comfortable, it was bearable in this position. He kept one thick arm around her middle as the horse thundered down the road. Nadira did not look back. The group continued down the road, and soon they were quite beyond anything familiar to her.

CHAPTER THREE

A
T
noon they stopped for a quick meal of bread and warm ale. Nadira turned her bread around, trying to find a soft spot to start on. She chewed tentatively and wondered about all the food that must be in the knapsacks on the packhorses. No one had touched those bags, and she did not ask. She thought longingly of the mid-day meals in Sofir’s house. Ample platters fed Sofir and his guests; many of the leftovers usually found their way into her stomach. The memory of yesterday’s roasted apples dipped in honey made her squirm on the hard ground.

She glared at the last bite before grudgingly consuming it, forcing the dry morsel down her throat with a swallow from a small tin cup. The men reposed in various positions, some squatting, and some leaning against the large stones; the big one was stretched out like a carthorse in its stall at the end of the day. They made no attempt to speak to her but sometimes made furtive glances in her direction. The scarred man seemed to be in charge of making sure she had food and drink. Nadira had twice heard him called Marcus. He sat closest to her and it was obvious that he had been tasked with her care. Her smallest movement would bring his eyes upon her.

She smiled at him whenever this happened , but he did not ever change the cast of his face in response. Even as he ate his meal, his eyes lightly touched everything about them; his hands were constantly in motion and his boots tapped the ground. Nadira thought it best to be silent until spoken to. She had discovered that even the smallest sigh would stop conversation and bring all eyes upon her.

The other man with dark hair was called John. He was missing an ear and seemed to be tasked with helping the boys with the care of the horses.

Lord Montrose sat with his back against the largest boulder, his elbows on his knees, a piece of bread in one hand and a tin cup in the other. Beside him sat the red-haired one called Alisdair. Montrose was not eating but stared at the ground between his boots. Nadira watched as Alisdair tried unsuccessfully to hand him more food. Montrose drained his cup and Alisdair was quick to fill it again. Still, no words were spoken. Nadira was relieved when Montrose finally stood, flinging his crust to the grass. The sooner they were on the road, the sooner they might stop for the night. Nadira imagined a warm inn with hot food and a bed with no fleas.

The road followed the river down and they had not yet reached an inn. Late afternoon the men moved off the road some distance into the brush. They picketed the horses and stripped them of their burdens. The largest man spread a saddle blanket down on the high grass and patted it with his hand. Nadira thought he meant for her to sleep on it. She asked “Do you mean for me to sleep here, then?” The imagined inn faded away. There would be no soft bed, with or without fleas. The man smiled and patted it again but made no sound.

“Garreth will not speak to you, lass,” Alisdair said as he wrenched the heavy saddle from his horse. “Saracens put a dagger up through his throat. Put it right through his neck because he cursed their God.” Garreth indicated a thick scar under his chin with a broad finger.

Encouraged by the unexpected conversation she asked, “Why didn’t that kill him?”

“Lass, look at the size of old Garreth there. Saracens are a wicked bunch, but they are small and skinny as a whole. The unfortunate one who stuck the point in never got to slash with it. Garreth put both hands on the bugger’s neck and,” here he made a twisting motion with his hands and a popping noise. Nadira put a hand over her mouth and looked at him with big eyes.