The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (40 page)

Nadira absorbed the sights eagerly, famished for the outside world after her long confinement. The fresh breeze, laden with moisture from the recent rains, tossed her hair playfully, pulling locks from their pins and whipping her nose. The fine road was a pleasure to travel compared to some of the roads she had traversed due to the paving stones and deep ditches and they made good time. As the sun neared the tops of the trees on the western horizon, the lead guard veered off the stone and onto a dirt track. Nadira held on tightly to the saddle as her mount leaped the transition rather than dirty his hooves in the mire that had collected in the ditch. Behind her, the others also took position, almost single file on the narrow track. They were moving away from the setting sun, the long shadows pointing toward a cottage not far away.

“Is that where we are going, then?” Nadira asked when she was handed down from the horse in front of the cottage. She was not surprised that there was no reply. Instead, the guard reeled her in and positioned her against his thigh as he knocked his pommel to the door.

A man in drab vestments pulled the door open. Nadira did not know what kind of priest he was, though she was relieved that he was not in black and white. He looked at her with fear and curiosity as he took the cord from the guard and led her into the room. Nadira looked back as the door closed. The guards stayed outside. The cottage was small, only the one room. She and her minder were alone now. The walls were plain, the plaster colored a dove gray. Fine tapestries hung on all sides, and a prominent altar stood at one end of the room. Several chairs took up the rest of the space. Opposite the altar stood a low table and a larger chair obviously for whoever had called the meeting. Nadira turned around, looked up at the ceiling, then at her minder. He was staring at her with the same deliberation she had put to the room. She smiled at him. Immediately he lowered his eyes and blushed heavily.

“My name is Nadira,” she said as sweetly as possible. The priest shook his head, turned his eyes on the nearest tapestry. She moved to sit in one of the chairs. The priest played out her tether to allow the extra distance. Nadira sighed and leaned back in the chair, twisting her wrists to reposition the cords along another track on her wrists.

She heard their footsteps before she heard the door open. The simple priest pulled the door further and bowed as the men filed in. Nadira stood and curtseyed deeply, looking up through her hair to watch them come in. She counted ten before the door closed behind her. She could not stifle a twitch as she heard the lock turn. Nadira would not know the men sitting there by sight. Most were not churchmen. One very small and ugly man was dressed in exquisite taste. He was staring at her rudely. She recognized him from her journeys as the French King.

She swept her eyes, head still bowed, upon them all, trying to feel their intent. There was another man, dressed in the fashion of easterners. She frowned. His face looked familiar, though no name came to her mind. He, too, was staring at her with unconcealed interest. None of the men spoke to her, though low murmurs filled the room with a hum, and all eyes were on her. Nadira remained standing, her hands bound in front of her, waiting. Though she tried very hard to stifle the feeling, deep within her an ominous note of fear began to pulse in her middle. She tried to calm herself, for she knew very well that fear numbs the mind and turns a man or woman into an unthinking beast. Did not the sweet voice she heard while reading the book tell her she was safe? Did she not immediately feel the warmth of security and peace wash over her? Right now, her heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could not hear the words of the prayer.

Her eyes jumped about the room looking for an escape hole like a hare pursued by hounds. Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps that lovely voice was the voice of a demon. Perhaps she is now betrayed. When she began to tremble, she realized she had lost her battle with icy fear. Her mouth was dry, but her throat kept trying to swallow what was not there. She thought of Montrose.
He is not
here
. The thought calmed her somewhat. This time she was in danger and not he.
He is safe
, she thought.

Another wave of uncertainty swept through her as the members of this party lay their eyes upon her. She wavered, taking a deep breath.
Is this a trial?
Nadira did not know enough about trials to tell. There were no instruments of torture in evidence. She scanned the faces for a Black Friar. None wore the distinctive white robes and black cowl she recognized from Barcelona.
Nevertheless, this is
Rome. Perhaps the dress is different here.
She felt the warm tingle that encouraged a foray into the hearts of others. This might not be the best time, she thought, but another thought intruded: When is a better time? Nadira blinked.

One of the men stood and the room fell into an expectant silence. Nadira recognized one of the cardinals from the night she read the book for the pope. He was dressed in a more modest version of his vestments, and covered by a thick cloak. He glanced at her briefly before turning his back to her to address the room.

“Sire,” he nodded to the garishly dressed little man, “Gentlemen. Tonight we gather to discuss what will be done with this woman, and with the manuscripts brought to us from Aragon. Not all of you were present that fateful evening, though no doubt you have heard of what transpired. Some of you may believe this woman is a witch sent by Satan himself to tempt the pope with words. Others may be coveting the means to achieve the results promised by this woman. Sire, I know you sent word that you desire to purchase her should her abilities be proven. His Holiness is eager to hear your offer. I assure you, we will not leave this room until every man here is satisfied with a decision. I wish to introduce Father Matteo, late from Toledo, on a mission from God to strike at heresy and the enemies of the Church, and His Holiness’
legate a latere
.”

Nadira blanched. She had not seen Father Matteo come in. Like ice, her hands froze at the end of the tether; numbness crept up her arms to her heart. Father Matteo stood up. He was not wearing the black hood of his order, but strode to the front of the room in dazzling white robes. Nadira had not recognized him without the cowl. This gathering was not a legal event, but an ordeal nonetheless. It was, in fact, a secret trial. She scanned the faces again. When she moved her head, she commanded the attention of all the men in the room. The cardinal looked over his shoulder at Nadira and narrowed his eyes.

“You will each be given a chance to examine her,” he said, still looking at her, “before placing your vote.” He turned back to the room. “Sire?”

The king nodded to the man seated next to him, an old man with a full head of white hair and a snowy beard stood and cleared his throat with a slight cough. He wore a black robe with a heavy chain across his chest. Nadira stared into his eyes. He looked at her with some sympathy. She felt that he must be an advisor of some kind. The modesty of his dress in contrast to the others did not suggest nobility, but perhaps a learned scholar. She steadied herself for his questions.

He addressed her directly in Latin. “Please tell me where you were born and who your father is.”

Nadira steadied her voice before beginning the oft-repeated story of her life.

The king interrupted, “Have you, at any time, consorted with Satan or any of his devils?”

Nadira opened her mouth with surprise. “Absolutely not!” she answered with disgust. The room buzzed again with discussion. Is this the way the questioning will go? She wondered.
There is no
defense against superstition
. There is no way to prove she did not consort with demons, and no defense from someone insisting that she did. In fact, from what she had heard, there did not need to be any proof. Merely an accusation could send her to the stake. She already had done more than enough to be sent to the stake in her own country. Di Marco had promised she would be under the protection of the pope. She looked around again. His Holiness had not been invited to this meeting. Nadira felt another icy finger in her heart.

One of the other men stood up and addressed Father Matteo. “Has this woman been physically examined for any marks?”

“She has not. Until this moment she has been a guest in the house of one of His Holiness’ servants.”

“I say strip her now and let us see.” Nadira heard an ominous sound of approval from the men in the room. She narrowed her eyes. Fear or not, she did not like the turn this meeting had taken.

“I am not a witch!” she cried. “You are all foolish to think so!” There was the sound of scraping chairs as most of the men pushed themselves to their feet. In the ensuing din of raised voices and indignant remarks, Nadira felt a tug on her tether. Father Matteo had yanked it out of the simple priest’s hands. He dismissed the frightened man from the cottage with a dangerous look. Nadira twitched as the heavy door shut behind him.

Father Matteo reeled her in to him and held out his hand to one of the nearer nobles. A dirk was quickly laid across his palm, and with one slash of her laces, the lovely brown silk slid from her shoulders and bunched at her elbows. Another cut, and her tether was slashed to allow the dress to fall to her feet. Next, her chemise fell to the knife’s sharp assault. The rush of air that accompanied the fall of the dress did little to cool the hot blush that spread across her skin. Nadira reached down instinctively to cover her nakedness with both hands.

Father Matteo turned her around for the crowd, who now surrounding her to get a closer view. The men did not stand on formality. Even the king had to push someone out of the way to get a closer look. Candles and torches were held disturbingly close to her exposed skin and fingers swept her arms and legs searching for minute imperfections. Nadira closed her eyes so she would not have to see their faces as they violated her with their eyes, but flashed them open as a drop of hot tallow splattered on her arm. The examination ended, the men backed away, murmuring together. Other than a few brown spots on her shoulders, Nadira’s skin was as smooth and unmarred as an infant’s.

The men continued to look suspicious, but to her relief, she could see that at least some had decided that she might not be a minion of Satan. Father Matteo jerked her tether again and motioned her to pick up her dress. With the laces slashed and her wrists bound, Nadira could hardly dress herself. She wrinkled her brow at him. He took the same dirk that cut her laces and freed her wrists. “Put it on,” he said shortly. Nadira bent to pick up the dress and pull it over her head. The bodice would no longer fit her with the laces gone. She had to hold it up with one hand.

Father Matteo moved her closer to the seated jury. “If it is determined that this woman is in league with Satan to turn the Holy Father away from God, we must then decide her execution. If it is found that she is merely a tool of our enemies, then again, we must decide her fate. Either way she cannot be permitted to return to Rome to be used again, by Satan or by the enemy. Are there any more questions?”

A man stood in the back. “Give us a demonstration of her skills. What did she do for His Holiness?” His brusque demand went unchallenged. There was a murmur of agreement in the room. Nadira tensed. She could not perform a journey for this assembly, and if she could, anything she did would turn out badly. A glance at Father Matteo told her that he did not favor this direction, though the firm set of his jaw told her that he had anticipated such a demand.

“We shall perform no tricks or feats of imagination, nor welcome the Evil One here. The question we must address is to determine if this woman is a witch or a pawn, then decide how to dispose of her with the least amount of trouble.” He picked up a piece of parchment from the table next to him. “I have here the names of the cardinals attending the reading in question. I will read this list, then we shall determine the best way to ensure each man’s silence.” Father Matteo then proceeded to read the list of names one after the other in a dreary monotone.

This dirge was a dreadful omen for those unfortunate men. Nadira watched faces as the list was read. Consternation, fear, empathy; all were evident among the listeners. When he had finished, Father Matteo said, “And Di Marco possesses the original copy of this book. He has unwisely chosen to hide it. Right now, he is my guest.” Low laughter in the back told Nadira that being a guest was little different than being imprisoned. “An inferior copy was also brought to Rome. That one has been burned.” Nadira dropped her eyes. As painful as it was to hear about any book being consigned to the flames, she felt at the same time that these particular men did not deserve to contemplate the riches of the mind. Better that the book be burned than any innocent searcher for truth be burned in its stead.

Nadira took another breath. The copy that Di Marco had was the powerful one. The black pages themselves were missing from all other copies. This was information that these men would not receive from her mouth. She glanced up again as she heard the sound of paper rustling.

“This document,” Father Matteo held up for the room to see “was found in the baggage of Robert Longmoor, Baron Montrose.” Nadira wavered, but made no sound. It seemed as if her very heart stopped beating. She strained to see what Matteo was holding. She willed the roaring in her ears to stop long enough to hear his words. “You can all see the markings of the devil here,” he pointed a long finger at the strange symbols of birds and body parts. “This is proof that Satan is at work here in the world. It is known that Montrose was on his way to Rome with this document. I suspect he was one among many peddling unearthly evil for earthly rewards. It is my duty to protect the pope from sorcery, witchcraft and the plots of heretics.”