Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (20 page)

“I recommend a swift strike from the wrist, sir,” the guard said.

Eyeing him, Lucius raised his arm and gave the whip an authoritative snap.

Elisha flinched, causing a chortle to ripple through the expectant crowd.

“I have used such on my horses in times past,” the physician said.

Bowing, the guard gave ground, and Lucius walked up to stare down at Elisha’s face. “This rabble are betting on when you’ll start screaming. Oh, you’re brazen enough now, but I’ve got my money on the fifth lash.” Draping the whip over his shoulder, the physician sauntered around and out of view.

Tension gripped the muscles of Elisha’s back and shoulders, less for the expected pain than for the wait. He clamped his jaw so hard his head began to ache even before the first lash fell.

The whip bit and slashed along his spine, and Elisha jerked, his wrists pulling hard at the manacles.

The crowd roared, calling out, “One!”

The next blow came more swiftly, snaking from one shoulder down across his ribs. “Two!”

Setting his teeth, Elisha shut his eyes, keeping his head down despite the rub of the rough wood.

By the seventh blow, when Elisha still had made no sound, the physician began to fall into a rhythm, and the shouts of the crowd had become a chant of excitement.

Every hit carved agony along his flesh. He could picture the separate muscles,
the way they joined to the bones, the way they leapt at every blow. A wail rose in his throat, but he could not give ground, not to this barbarian nor the bastards who egged him on. Instead, he began to hum.

The sound buzzed low in his throat, echoing inside his skull, drowning out the bloodlust and the counting. His Master Barber had taught him to distract himself from other’s pain, to use music to flood the thoughts, but never before had he used it in his own defense. Flecks of wetness spattered his arms—the warmth of his own blood. His taut wrists trembled even as his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

Elisha forced back tears as the lash crosshatched his ribs and sliced rivulets of pain into his upper arms. Weeping could wait for the privacy of night. His eyelids ached with the pressure of holding back.

Suddenly, the whip snagged in his hair, jerking his head around and ripping free. He gasped.

Pressing this unexpected vulnerability, the lash flew again, snapping a line of blood down his exposed throat.

Elisha bit down on his tongue, the hot, metallic blood coating his mouth, and he whimpered, his humming dying away.

The crowd had gone silent—he knew not for how long.

“That’s enough now,” a stern voice said. “Surely, sir, that’s enough.”

The physician made a dissatisfied grunt, then said, “Very well. Let him down. However, I am not convinced that I have driven out the arrogance in this one. He’ll be for branding before too long, mark my words.”

The chain fell loose, and Elisha grabbed for the post, swinging his body around as he stopped his fall.

The physician had his back turned, rolling down his sleeves with short, angry movements, then holding out his arms for Benedict to replace the elaborate robe.

Watching them, Elisha clung to the wood. Every breath tore at his skin. The brush of his hair over his shoulders coaxed shivers of pain.

At last, buttoned up and turned out as perfectly as before, the physician faced him. His lips held in a firm line, he looked Elisha up and down. “I think we know now who is the master.”

Silently, Elisha raised his chin.

With a grimace of disgust, Lucius turned away. At his shoulder, Benedict met Elisha’s
stare, blanched and hurried off behind. The guards hovered a little longer, one of them coiling the whip over his arm, his face downturned. The foot soldiers all around drifted off, solemn, taking their money without saying a word.

At last alone, Elisha slipped to the ground, one arm wrapped around the post, his back sending out spasms of protest. He pressed his cheek to the wood, gasping. His fingers felt chubby and insensitive, his wrists throbbing where the chains ground in. His hands trembled with returning sensation.

Night fell around him before he summoned the strength to rise. His companions had not come for him, whether for fear of showing their support or because they could not leave their duties, Elisha had no way of knowing. He tucked his hands beneath his arms, shoulders hunched against the shaking which assailed him. Slowly, he stumbled his way toward the monastery. His body screamed, but his mind remained numb.

Crossing beneath the main gate, he tripped on the tiled canal and fell heavily to his knees, crumpled into a lump of pain. Water trailed around his toes, finding its way through the holes in his worn-out boots, and he dimly heard voices asking questions, calling for silence, saying too many things he could not comprehend. He inched forward, withdrawing the contact. After a moment, he managed to rise again, taking deep breaths, forcing his hands to hang at his sides.

Could he bear to face them? Could he bear to slink away like the dog they thought him? Resolutely, Elisha turned away from the tower, and took the steps down into the main infirmary. A new demarcation: one side curtained off, and the damaged banner of the king hanging from the ceiling.

Somehow, he stayed on his feet, kept walking toward the curtain. From a bed beside it, Matthew and Mordecai rose. The younger surgeon started to move toward Elisha’s path, but Mordecai put out a hand and drew him back, without shifting his eyes from his book.

Pushing aside the curtain, Elisha entered his own domain, deaf for once to the moans and crying around him. He tried to speak, wet his lips, tried again. “Ruari?”

Looking up from a patient toward the back, Ruari sprang to his feet, vaulting the bodies between them. “Oh, Sweet Lord, Elisha, I wanted to come for you.”
Worry twisted his features as he held out his hands, still wet with another man’s blood.

Elisha shut his eyes and opened them again. Every tiny movement took an age. “Better you were here—someone had to be.”

With a half-smile, Ruari said, “I knew you’d say that. Let me look at you. Lisbet, find us some ointment!”

The trembling girl hurried to obey as if she fled the sight of him.

Shaking his head, Elisha said, “Young man, tall, slender, blue eyes.” He made a gesture in front of his face, searching for the word. “Sharp nose—the look of a lord. Had a—” He put his fingers to his own aching throat.

Spinning a quick circle to remind himself, Ruari faced him again. “None like that brought in tonight.”

“Mary’s Tears,” Elisha muttered, and began to turn away.

The gentle brush of Ruari’s hand sent him rigid with pain. “My God, Elisha, I’m sorry. Ye can’t leave—what’re you about?”

“I promised I’d see him safe.”

Ruari drew close to his face. “Are ye mad? After this? For the love of God, Elisha, leave him lie; ye’ve done what you could and at such cost.”

He had made a promise. He let his brother down, and his nephew; he would not do the same to a stranger who needed him. Meeting Ruari’s dark eyes, Elisha saw his haggard reflection captured there, but he said no more, and Ruari nodded.

“I’m with ye, then.”

“Don’t,” Elisha said. “Trouble for me, not for you.”

“You are mad,” Ruari gasped.

Likely it was true. Elisha mirrored that half-smile of moments before. “Will they beat me again tonight?”

“They might well, for all that.” Bowing his head, Ruari made a little gesture of release. “God be with ye, Eli, and we’ll wait ye here.”

As he turned his back, Ruari let out a bleat, and Maeve cried out behind him, but Elisha had to keep going. If he stopped now, that foot soldier might lie all night. He had to know, at the very least, if his pain had bought the man’s life after all. Crossing through the curtain, Elisha was met with silence, which kept at his back on the long walk to the battlefield. By moonlight, he found the shattered tree, and stood among the uncleared dead, peasants all.

The foot soldier had caught his ankle from below, lying in a sort of dell, which had hidden them both from immediate view. Elisha re-traced his steps, coming up as he had earlier that day. There before him, the ground dipped away, its shadows revealing nothing. He knelt down, splaying his hands before him, and found a leg that was still warm. Groping his way along the body, he came to the exposed throat, to the limp hand which covered his own line of stitching.

Pressing his fingers to the pale skin, Elisha held his breath. The pulse beat beneath his hand, slow, but steady. Kneeling over him once again, Elisha lifted the young man into his arms, his flesh stinging as the welts pulled. Wincing, he tried to collect his breath.

“God give me strength for this,” Elisha whispered to the moon. Carefully, he rose, waiting a moment to settle the weight against his chest.

For the third time that night, Elisha crossed the infirmary, drawing a few curses and a few jeers from the squires and whores. Ruari held aside the curtain and immediately lifted the man from Elisha’s arms to lay him on fresh straw.

“Blankets, hot water, if you can,” Elisha said, just as his shoulders began to sag, and he felt an ominous trembling in his knees.

“Aye, we’ll see to him. What about you? I tried to go to the vestry, but they won’t let me in, or Lisbet either.”

“Fine,” Elisha mumbled, putting out a hand to steady himself on the barrel. “Rest, that’s all, water maybe.”

Rings rattled as the curtain was once more thrust aside.

Turning, Ruari shouted, “Get out, you!”

“I hardly need obey your orders,” Matthew snapped back. He rounded on Elisha and stuck out his arm. On his palm rested a copper pot with a fitted lid. “You’re to be back on duty in the morning.”

Frowning, Elisha picked up the container, enjoying the way it fit into his palm.

“Shouldn’t be wasted on such as you,” Matthew shot over his shoulder as he swept from the room.

Dumbly, Elisha stood there with the pot in his hand until Ruari gently unfolded his fingers and pulled it free. He popped off the lid, filling the room with the scent of lavender. Raising his brows, he turned it to Elisha, revealing a
creamy, cool salve flecked with herbs. “Sit down, and I’ll daub ye as best I can.”

“Aye,” Elisha agreed, releasing the barrel. With a soft moan, he tumbled forward into Ruari’s strong arms and felt himself borne to the ground. Blessedly cold, the stone caressed him, and he shut his eyes against the rush of pain.

T
he darkness lifted all too soon,
and Elisha squinted one eye open to see Ruari’s agitated face. “Elisha? It’s sorry I am to wake ye, but there’s naught to be done for it. Elisha?” A strong hand gently pushed his shoulder, giving him the slightest shake.

Rolling to his side, Elisha realized the sharp edge of pain had dulled, so he did not cringe too much as he stiffly sat up. Blinking into the candlelight, he said, “What is it?”

Ruari sat back on his heels. “It’s this.” He held up a folded square of parchment.

At first, Elisha took it for the very same letter he’d had from Helena, but the broken seal upon it was purple, and the squiggles on the front did not look familiar. “A letter?”

“Aye. Found it on that boy you brought. We thought to make him more comfortable, take off that damp coat of his, and this was tucked in the collar.”

“It’s not our business, Ruari.”

Holding it up to Elisha’s face, Ruari tapped the seal. “King’s seal, that is.”

About to shrug, Elisha stopped himself in time. “I’m a bit thick, yet, Ruari; if the king’s given this man a letter, how’s that our business?”

“But has he given it to him, or has the lad come by it another way?”

“What name is on it?”

Ruari snorted. “And how should I know that any better than you?”

“Sorry. I’m not quite here yet.”

“Aye, and who could expect it otherwise.” Ruari’s shoulders sagged and he tapped the letter against his other palm.

“Don’t suppose that woman Brigit is about?”

“Ye sound as if she’s naught to you,” Ruari teased, trying to coax a smile that Elisha was not ready for, not yet.

“She reads, and she knows more about the lords than either of us.”

Ruari brightened. “She did come round, looking for ye, before ye got back, I mean.”

“Why don’t you trot off and tell her I’m found.”

He sprang up, but glanced to the windows. “It’s a bit late, don’t ye think?”

Clarity dawned faster yet in Elisha’s mind, and he answered, “I think that thing in your hand could be worth our lives, Ruari. And if I’m wrong—”

“On your head be it,” Ruari completed. “How much can be on your head afore it touches the ground?”

“This head? Not on your life. Get on, will you?”

Tip-toeing between the sleeping or muttering men, Ruari vanished up the stairs toward the room Brigit had taken. Elisha reached a tentative hand toward the welt across his throat. By now, she must have heard what had happened. If he avoided turning his back to her, she might not find out how bad it was. Elisha laughed without sound. And if he could sit still as stone and avoid breathing, and if the mere sight of his face didn’t give him away.