Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (9 page)

“It was the best I could do in the moment.”

A warm hand sought his own in the darkness and gripped it tight—a soft hand, with the slightest calluses. Not a workman’s hand, nor that of any townsman he’d ever known. Elisha frowned. The young, clear voice said, “I thank you, Barber, for the blow that saved my life.”

With the other’s aid, Elisha pulled himself to his feet. “Take care with it, then. I’ve no wish to hit you again. But how did you come to this?”

“Look to yourself, Barber,” the stranger said, “if you plan to save any more witches. Mobs take no more kindly to the accomplice than to the accused.” Swiftly, he vanished into the night, leaving Elisha with neither cloak nor answer.

E
lisha rose
and went in search of his lost cloak, cursing the darkness when he found not a sign of it—nor of the silver coins he’d so carefully stitched into the hood. “Bloody Hell,” he muttered, making a second sweep down the road he had taken. Doubtless one of the townsfolk had collected it as a prize and would only feel the more blessed when he found the coins. The spring days were warm enough, but evenings grew chilly, and he felt it especially now that he was damp from his splash in pursuit of the witch. The cloak was a sore loss. When the wagons rumbled by a little later, Elisha dusted himself off and followed along, catching up with Malcolm and pulling himself up.

“Did ye see the witch, then?” the carter asked, with an eager grin.

“Only for a moment. I think the shrine just caught a spark from something—a candle most like. The poor man’s probably giving prayers of thanks right now that he got away.”

Malcolm snorted. “Ye know nothing of the world, eh? These witches, they’ll set fire to ye soon as look at ye. Revenge for theirs, if ye catch the meaning. And I had a cousin as turned black when he looked at one the wrong ways at market.”

Elisha left off rubbing his arms to keep warm. “Black?”

“Aye, black’s your hair. Took a bath in mother’s milk to clean him up.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“Dunno, I wasn’t there, was I? But that’s the least mischief I’ve heard from a witch.”

Hugging his arms close, Elisha laughed.

“Ye don’t believe me,” Malcolm grunted. “Suit yerself, ye’ll see some doings around these parts, mark my words. I hear this duke’s been accused himself.”

“Well, I’ll be looking forward to that,” Elisha said, then noticed the carter’s lowered gaze. “Just curious, that’s all.”

“Don’t be too eager, Barber. These witches, they take blood in their rites and summon up devils to torment those as displease them. Oh, aye, that village we passed’s had more trouble than a bit, let me tell you.” He straightened and flicked the reins to encourage a quicker pace. “Course, we may be in for a burning, we stay long enough.” He grinned at this and nodded. “Not been to one in years.”

This caught Elisha’s attention, and he asked, “Were you there, outside the city? Maybe twenty years ago?”

“That I was. You’d have been little more than a lad, eh? I’s lucky to be a groom then, with one o’ the great houses. We had a spot not five rows from the stake.”

“What did you see?” Elisha leaned forward, propping his chin on one hand to see what he could of Malcolm’s face.

With a flash of that suspicious look, the carter said, “She cast a glamour at the end, she did. The devil himself come into her and raised his fiery wings. Cor, that were something to see. Yet the priests held him back, so the archers got off their shots. Might’a been an awful day for all of us if they hadna taken her down.” He crossed himself, staring into the distance as if he, too, could still see the scene before them. “It’s the sacrifice, ye see. They’re strongest at the very moment of death, when they’ve given themselves over to darkness.”

“Like saints,” Elisha murmured, but into his hand, and the carter did not hear him.

They reached the encampment shortly before dawn, led onward by the night watch. The bombards were silent all night, but Elisha saw movement on the battlements of the distant castle and doubted they would have peace for long. The vast camp stretched along the riverside, a motley assortment of common canvas tents and the brightly decorated bell tents and pavilions of the knights and nobles. Spread out all around were the cookfires and bedrolls of the common foot soldiers and camp followers.

At the heart of this stood an old monastery, its towers crooked and collapsing, rents in the walls overgrown with trees and vines. The long nave of the church lay exposed to weather through gaps in the roof and empty windows. The wagons came around the front of this structure toward the old cells where the command post was established; the lower hall, once the refectory, still had a roof by virtue of the intact second floor. From the cries and the stink, Elisha knew they’d reached his destination.

He jumped down, staring up at the granite façade before him. To the right stood the ruined church. A huge rosette window filled its peak, the stained glass mostly gone, leaving only a few petals of brilliant color that gleamed in the new sun and cast emerald and gold upon the refectory wall, adjoining the church at a corner. The smaller spire alongside it was missing its top, and a flight of doves burst free, circling it in a swooping frenzy that much resembled ecstasy.

“Take any room remaining—not far from here, naturally,” the physician said. “I’m off for the generals. I’ll expect to see you at the infirmary soon.”

“Aye, my lord,” Elisha returned, still gazing at the tower.

Making a harsh sound of irritation, the physician strode away, barking out his orders to the carters as they began untying the ropes.

After a moment, Elisha pulled out his own bedroll and small chest, carrying them toward a peaked door just visible at the base of the tower. It hung off-kilter on a single hinge, and vines draped one side. A few footprints showed the place had been explored, but Elisha hoped no other had the same idea. Entering the darkness of a windowless chamber, Elisha let his eyes adjust, then found the narrow stair upward and followed it, his boots loud on the stone steps.

As he’d expected, the second floor had a small chamber once used for storage, but long empty now save a few leaves blown in. The stairs continued up through a sagging wooden floor, but this would serve well enough for him. Under the stairs, he set down the chest and flopped his bedroll on top. He longed to spread out his blankets and get a decent rest before facing what was to come, but that would have to wait for another nightfall. Crossing the floor, he leaned to look out one of the two broken windows and found a view of the camp below. The other window afforded a sight of the castle on its hill, with sunlight just touching its highest towers. Ranks of fortifications surrounded
it like trimmings on a lady’s skirt, while the remains of a town spread out below. The river curved around it, a silver gleam overarched by the fortifications on that side. A few blackened areas could be seen on the castle walls, and a few bites of rubble where the king’s siege engines had struck. The scorched corpses of those engines lay scattered about, testifying to the use of burning oil by the defenders. When the wind shifted, the air smelled of smoke and a strange metallic tang such as Elisha had never tasted before.

Hills rose up again behind the castle, thickly grown with spruce and oak. The plain separating the monastery from the castle was torn and dark already, crows and vultures circling the pits where unseen bodies lay. Standing there, Elisha realized he had never had such a view before, unobstructed by the buildings of town. He was used to the sight of grubby houses, gated stone manors, and tall shops whose top floors he would never know. The castle back in London rose abruptly to one side, a gray obstruction, featureless and massive, its white tower enclosed in moated walls, cut off from the people it ruled. From a distance, perhaps, it inspired wonder in those who approached it and fear in the hearts of its enemies, but Elisha’s work kept him to the north, and he rarely passed that way. But this place—he hated to imagine it destroyed, the castle brought low, the river black with soot and blood, the trees cut down for battering rams and ladders.

Even as he thought it, trumpets sounded below, and the soldiers roused themselves, forming up in ranks to greet another day of battle. Elisha turned away. His own duty lay not on the battlefield but behind it. He found his apron and strung it about his neck to catch the worst of the blood.

Taking up a leather bundle of his instruments, Elisha descended to the lower floor and out, across the grass to the building used for a hospital. A wide aperture gaped where double doors had once been, giving access to a long, columned room with a few steps down to enter. Near the entrance, a series of beds had been cobbled together from scavenged wood or perhaps taken from houses destroyed in the village. Each man occupying one of these had a personal attendant, be it squire or whore, carrying water or fresh bandages. Three men in bloodied clothes circulated—the surgeons.

Beyond them, a makeshift curtain separated the back half of the room. From there came the piteous cries he’d heard earlier, and Elisha bowed his head a moment, the long and tiring journey suddenly weighing on him full-force.
Few attendants crossed the boundary laid by that curtain and with little in their hands to aid those who suffered beyond it. He knew without guidance that this was the hall for the commoners, the foot soldiers who went out first, who died first, who might lie moaning for hours before a crew collected them from that bloody field. His people.

Steeling himself, Elisha walked down the few steps and inside between the beds. One of the surgeons seemed to be directing the others, so he sought the man’s attention, joining him at the bed of an older knight, his head wrapped in linen.

“Sir,” Elisha said, with a slight bow. “I’m Elisha Barber, brought by the physician Lucius.”

“What?” the man glanced up from a parchment he had been studying. A crude sketch of the human body filled the page, crabbed about with symbols and letters, matched to various limbs and organs. A cord attached the parchment to a rope belt with a half-dozen books and a few more scrolls already dangling from it. “Who are you?” The question furrowed his well-worn brow, gray locks straggling from under a soft, round cap. He looked up at Elisha from liquid brown eyes, his face lined with a weariness beyond the flesh.

“Elisha Barber.”

“Good. Been without since the last one took a ball to the chest. Bloody sight.” He looked Elisha up and down, and nodded. “Mordecai ben Ibrahim. My hospital, hear that?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Where’s the physician?”

Elisha shrugged. “Likely, he’ll be down when he gets his things settled.”

Mordecai glanced toward the heavens and sighed, a long, weary exhalation. “Man should let well enough alone. Water’s in the court,”—he indicated direction with a toss of his head—“supplies in the vestry. Short on supplies as it is. Don’t take what’s not your due.”

“Aye, sir,” Elisha repeated.

Bobbing his head, Mordecai resumed his examination of the chart in his hands. “Get on then, been long enough without.”

Dismissed, Elisha threaded his way back to the aisle and went to the curtain, drawing it aside to enter his new domain. A series of windows lit the
inside wall, with a few narrow slots to the outside. Immediately, desperate voices assailed him from all around. Aside from the usual odor of infection, the place smelled different from the city hospital—fewer diseases and more straight-forward injuries, he guessed. And maybe fewer corpses left about. A tearing sound drew his attention to the corner where a pair of ragged women looked up from their work. “What’s your business?” the older one called out.

“Barber,” Elisha called back, flinching at the wash of relief which flooded their faces. They dropped the fabric they were ripping for bandages and hurried over. Their skirts were tucked up into their belts revealing sturdy legs and unshod feet.

“Lisbet,” said the younger, with an awkward imitation of a curtsey.

The older offered a gapped grin. “And I’m Maeve. Praise the Lord, we’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

“I’m Elisha. When did the last barber die?”

“Two weeks now, I mark it. The surgeons come back when they can, but there’s officers and knights for them. And I hear there’s a physician, eh?”

“Aye, there is. Lucius by name. I’m sure he’ll be along before the day’s out.”

“A physician? Back here?”

Elisha nodded. “He’s got some methods to try for the wounds of these new weapons.”

Lisbet and Maeve stared at each other, and Lisbet shrugged. “Help is surely needed,” she said. “But what’s to be done aside from cautery or cutting?”

Spreading his hands, Elisha said, “I’ve no experience on the battlefield, so I’ll count on you two. What are we facing?”

Maeve opened her arms to encompass the men all around them. “As you see, Barber. A dozen more a day, and at least half that dying at night, so we keep a steady pace.”

The room held about fifty men, many unconscious while others gave only incoherent moans. They lay on the floor or on heaps of moldering straw, a few with pitchers by their heads. Flies buzzed in the air around the worst of them, those with stumps of arms or legs, those with their middles swathed in old bandages. Pale hands waved to him, one with no fingers left and a reeking putrefaction oozing down the naked arm. Sheets obscured a few faces toward the far end of the room, where one man kept up a constant stream of curses
as his body twitched. Two doors opened out of that wall, one to a set of stairs going up to the second floor, the other into sunlight. Through that door, he could make out a bunch of irregular shapes. He squinted to bring them into focus: discarded feet and arms, and corpses not yet buried. Staggered, Elisha stared a long time at the ceiling. This, then, was the penance that would lay his brother to rest. He was used to handling one patient at a time, perhaps two or three if there’d been a fight or an accident.