Elisha Rex (26 page)

“Only the best.” He narrowed his eyes, looking Elisha up and down. “Ye look more like a vendor than a buyer.”

Starting to chuckle, Elisha broke off gasping as the pain throbbed at his middle, his poorly-healed wound reminding him he had taken no rest.

Alfleda wriggled down out of his arms. “Are you well?”

He leaned his shoulder against the wall and waited for the pain to pass, light-headed with pain.

The butcher stepped back quickly. “Take your sickness away and be gone with you!” He flapped his hands at them. “Be gone, or I'll call the guard.”

Elisha breathed a prayer of thanks for the cleaner air beyond, as they left the butchers' row and made slow progress toward the inn where Sabetha would be expecting them. He had little notion how much time had passed since she left them, for time passed strangely in the kingdom of the dead. Then, in the church of St. Bartholomew, a bell began to ring. Others joined it, all across the city, tolling out the hour.

As the pain subsided, Elisha straightened and increased their pace. An hour more, and Thomas would be married. Regardless of the king's reasons, or the results of this madness, Elisha must be there. He stretched his senses, altering direction as soon as he felt the hint of death. Moving as quickly as caution allowed, they picked their way to the riverside and the battered inn frequented more often by sailors than by townsfolk.

Alfleda stopped abruptly, and Elisha stumbled with her as she blinked at the place. “Sister Sabetha won't like this at all.”

“No,” he said, “I don't guess that she will.”

“She doesn't,” the nun's voice announced as she came up from the opposite side. “I gave the message and came as quick as I could.”

“Will the earl come, do you think?” Alfleda asked, still eyeing the sway-roofed structure before them.

“Not if he knows this place,” Sabetha grumbled, hitching her thumb in the direction of the inn. “Only the cross's kept me alive this long.”

Elisha admitted that, even by daylight, the place looked desolate and angry. He learned of it himself only because a neighbor tended to fight over dice there, and Elisha and his brother had to fetch the man home to his angry wife. “Come on.” Elisha led the way, Alfleda hanging back with the nun, and they ducked under the grimy leather flap into the main room.

“Women,” sneered one of the patrons, and the others laughed as they walked inside. Elisha's head brushed the low beams of the sagging ceiling. A round fire pit lit the center of the room, revealing a half-dozen men slumped on benches, with their bowls or mugs, dropping the bones of their luncheon onto the dirt floor where a skinny dog snapped them up. A pair of dimly seen doors led out on the opposite wall, one tucked by a steep flight of stairs.

“The private room,” Elisha demanded of a balding man toting a tray of mugs.

“'Aven't got one,” the other spat. Aside from his nasty expression, the innkeeper looked somehow familiar.

Frowning, trying to place him, Elisha produced a silver coin and the sketchy eyebrows quivered, then the man transferred the mugs to his other hand and snatched the coin. “To the right.” He glanced over the three of them. “Ale?”

“Wine,” said Elisha. “And I'm expecting guests.”

“Oh, aye, guests, is it?” The innkeeper grinned and slid the coin into his apron. “No more nuns, I hope—they give the place a bad name.”

Elisha laughed and remembered that he had once treated the man's infected foot after he stepped on a broken mug. “How's the foot, Gervais?”

“No complaints.” The innkeeper started to pass them, then frowned over his shoulder. “Who're—” He broke off and gave a grin that seemed a little warmer. “Wine,” he said. “I'll fetch it.”

“Yer daughter c'n stay wiv us, we'll entertain 'er!” someone called out, and the rest laughed as Alfleda cringed against the nun.

“Shut yer lip, or it's me you'll deal with,” Sister Sabetha announced, balling her fist. “And God's on my side, I warrant.”

They laughed again but let the three slip by into the low door on the right. A thin boy appeared behind them, carrying a candle to light the windowless room. Private indeed, Elisha thought, but no other way out. If the earl chose to turn against him, he was trapped here, the presence of Alfleda and Sabetha making him loath to apply his power again. A round table took up the center of the sloping room, with a few benches pushed against the wall. Wind off the river cut through the chinks in the walls, and the boy stooped to light a brazier. Beyond the interior wall, patrons murmured and someone rose from a creaky bench. “Sabetha, Sister,” Elisha began, but the nun sighed and bobbed her head.

“Yes, I'll keep an eye out. I won't like it, though.”

“I owe you an enormous debt already,” Elisha told her.

She snorted. “Aye, well, don't die before ye repay me, right?”

“Right.”

After patting Alfleda's shoulder, the nun bustled out through the door. “Right,” she called out. “No teasing now, ye know I'm married.”

As the flap slipped back in place, Alfleda ran the short distance between them and flung herself into Elisha's arms. He let the energy carry him to thump down onto a bench, resting his back against the wall as he held her. “Such a brave girl,” he murmured over her golden head.

“No, I'm not,” she sobbed against him, “I'm terrified.”

“Courage isn't having no fear, it's what we can do in spite of it.” Holding the princess, Elisha wished for a moment that he had someone to comfort him. She did her best, but she was only a child—and too grown-up already. Would anyone hold him so, and touch his hair, and make him believe things would be all right?

“My lord, I don't think we should—”

“Bosh and nonsense, this is the place,” pronounced a loud voice from the main chamber. “And here's the nun herself. How fare you, Sister?”

“Well, m'lord. Better, once I'm free of these fools.”

The Earl of Blackmere laughed, his voice still booming. “No fear, Sister, my man'll keep you company.”

“I ought to come with you, my lord.”

“Jeshua, the man I'm meeting is rather shy. I'd rather you stay here. If he kills me, I'll shout.”

“My lord,” the man answered, but said no more, his warning tone enough to carry the message.

A hand decked with rings swept aside the curtain and the earl admitted himself, a glittering presence of gold brocade under a capelet of satin and velvet, dyed crimson. In this setting, the earl gleamed like a diamond in a pig's trough. He stood about Elisha's height, ducking just a little to step inside. He let the curtain fall and folded his arms, the stiff fabric of his sleeves crinkling. False sleeves to match the capelet dangled from his elbows nearly to his knees, clad in parti-colored hose with light shoes unsuitable for anything but dancing. The outfit looked so preposterous that Elisha nearly laughed, but he recognized his fear for what it was.

Bowing his head over Alfleda's hunched form, Elisha said, “Forgive me not rising to offer a proper bow, my lord.”

“It is you.” The earl took a step nearer, the single candle revealing his astonishment. “I've thought you dead a hundred times, Elisha Barber, and that only since I was set to watch over you the night of your execution.” He shook his head, curls of sandy hair brushing his shoulders.

“A thousand men have wished me dead, that many times and more. And I am still grateful for your care that night, my lord.” His throat felt dry as he searched for words to ask for what he needed.

The earl gave a flicker of his fingers. “Never mind about the title. Either you and I are traitors together, or I'm about to make myself a hero to all your thousand enemies.”

Elisha met his gaze. “I would not have you called traitor for my sake.”

“Perhaps not for yours,” the earl said, “but for hers?” He walked around the table and squatted down before Elisha, not quite placing his immaculate knee in the dirt of the floor though his capelet brushed against it. “Is this the king's daughter?”

Slowly, Alfleda turned from Elisha's chest and faced the earl. She sat straight, shifting the hair back behind her ears with a graceful gesture. “Yes, my lord. I am Alfleda, the daughter of Thomas.”

He blinked at her, then smiled and bowed his head. “Your Highness, I believe that you are. I'm Phillip, Earl of Blackmere. You were at my house, the Yuletide before you . . . went away. Do you remember?”

Alfleda's face brightened, and she nodded eagerly. “I do, my lord! You have simply trunks and trunks of fabric. I made your lady furious by dressing up in them and playing at queen.”

“That's right.” He chuckled. “But you weren't to know she was furious. She was afraid to shout at the prince's daughter.”

“I'm not stupid,” Alfleda pointed out, then added, “my lord.”

“On the contrary, Highness, I am your servant.” The earl met Elisha's gaze once more and put out his hand, clasping Elisha's in both of his own. “I've brought clothing, for both of you, but first thing you'll need is a haircut.” Grinning almost ear to ear, he shouted, “Jeshua, I've a man here who needs a barber!” Leaning closer, gripping Elisha's shoulder, he whispered, “And a land as much in need of this one.”

Elisha grinned like a fool. “But you didn't ask about Rosalynn, or the archbishop, or—”

The earl tapped his shoulder, his face turning serious. “You saved my life at Dunbury Ford, and I'll owe that debt to the end of my days; then you defended my foul shot on our hunting trip as well. As for the rest, I say, would the king's enemy bring up his daughter, risk his own life, and ask no ransom nor prize?”

“But you don't know—”

“What do I need to know, Elisha?” He shook his head. “What I know is this, that King Thomas should fall on his knees and thank the lord he has such a friend.” He rose and turned away from Elisha's gratitude. “Hurry up, man,” he bawled, “we're off to a wedding!”

E
lisha stared down
at the richly embroidered doublet Phillip's manservant was lacing up for him. Apparently Sister Sabetha had told the earl how thin Elisha was, for the earl had chosen his older clothes from leaner times. Despite his curiosity, Elisha was rather glad not to see how he looked, his hair trimmed, his nascent beard carved into a point; very stylish over the Channel, or so the earl assured him. He felt ridiculous.

Alfleda, on the other hand, clad in one of the earl's younger daughter's gowns, looked every inch the princess. She held herself taller, chin up, shoulders back. Elisha imagined a stern tutor instructing her on deportment. In a concession to disguise, a maid tucked Alfleda's long golden hair into a beaded hairnet, concealing its color and lending her a slightly older appearance. She stood solemn and expectant, re-adjusting to the idea of someone else's dressing her.

“What a vision you both are,” the earl declared, taking a critical look. “Excellent, and let's be off.” He clapped his hands, and the two servants drew back, bowing.

Slipping on a capelet of his own, Elisha nodded, then adjusted the wide cap that further disguised him. “Thank you, for all of this. I can't promise in what condition I'll return it.”

“Just see that you're not buried in it.”

Elisha managed a smile, and Alfleda snuck her hand into his as they followed the earl out. He flipped another coin to the innkeeper, who gaped at them as they passed by.

Sister Sabetha joined them, her eyebrows rising as she examined their new clothes. “Cor, such finery! Try not to look so ill about it, Barber.”

“I'll try. See that you take care of yourself. We may not meet again after this.”

“Oh, no, don't try that with me.” She set her fists upon her ample hips. “You'll find me at Saint Bartholomew's, waiting to hear the word. And you—” She lifted Alfleda's chin with her finger. “You go with God, y'hear me?”

“I will, Sister,” the child assured her, wrapping the nun in a one-armed embrace.

A large carriage waited outside, matched grey horses snorting into the light drizzle. Elisha stopped, but the earl put an arm about his shoulders and gestured toward the carriage.

“We're late already, Elisha. Late enough to attract the attention of the royal guard in any event.” He shrugged. “And they will be expecting that you should sneak in by some other means, not march boldly up the front steps. No, this is the way. Further, I suggest that the princess stay with my wife until we are seated; try not to look as if you belong together.”

They helped Alfleda into the carriage, reintroduced her to the earl's lovely wife, then followed her inside. A servant shut them in.

“You know, my lord, I've always thought of you as . . .” Elisha hesitated, unsure how to say it.

“You have expected less of me?” The earl nodded, smiling smugly. “Most do. They imagine, from the attention that I pay to my clothing, that I have little to spare for more pressing matters. My dear man, you have lived in this world, you know what the place is like—would you not rather immerse yourself in beauty and ignore the rest?”

“I would,” Elisha agreed, his eyes coming to rest on the princess, self-possessed and watchful as her father. His own child grew in Brigit's womb, prisoner to its mother's ambition. “Perhaps, if I live so long, I will.”

The earl pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on the seat for a moment, then leaned forward to Elisha on the opposite bench. “There's a Flemish vessel at anchor now, which leaves with the evening tide. You need not live here in fear, Elisha. I can arrange your passage.”

As the carriage lumbered into motion, gathering speed for the short ride, Elisha leaned back against the cushions and blew out a breath. Alfleda watched him from the corner of her eye. She was brave, a child worthy of her father, and Thomas would look after her with the full strength of his love and his loyalty. “I wish I could sail away and act as if I have no more part in the affairs of kings.”

The earl briefly bowed his head. “That's what I knew you'd say.” He touched Elisha's knee, drawing back his gaze to the serious dark eyes. “After today, my place in the court will be as nothing; we're both of us wise enough to know that. I can hardly claim ignorance of your alleged crimes. I expect we'll retire back to Blackmere and hope to escape with our lives, if not our freedom. The king is not unjust, but he is despairing, and Randall's gone a bit mad. It's him I fear, more than the other.”

Elisha's belly clenched, and he said, “I can only hope that what we do today will start Thomas on his way to healing. And may support my own cause with the duke. I'll do what I can to defend you.”

With a quiet chuckle, the earl, too, leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “I am not sure that your defense will be of much use, but I thank you for it.”

“God, and my father, will bless you, sir,” Alfleda said.

The carriage rumbled to a halt, and its four occupants sat a long moment, not looking at each other, then a servant knocked, and the door opened wide, the man offering up his arm.

“God bless us all,” the earl murmured, and his wife crossed herself. Then, with a tip of her head in Elisha's direction, she stepped from the carriage down to the carpet, holding out her hand.

“Come, child, we're late as it is.”

“Yes'm.” Alfleda gathered her skirts and crossed between the seats, her eyes round as she blinked up at Elisha. Saying nothing, she stepped out into the feeble light of day.

The earl followed, and Elisha took a deep breath, stilling his fears, spreading his senses, reaching for attunement. Dear God. The place pulsed with the malevolent cold of the mancers and their victims. Distant and warm, he sensed the spirit of hurt and strength that was Thomas, and the lock of hair he carried hummed against him. “Courage,” he murmured and stepped down from the carriage.

The servant knocked again on the wooden panel, then swung up behind as the horses started off again to wait with the other carriages. At the earl's side, facing rows of royal guards who edged the carpet, Elisha gazed up at the arched façade of Westminster. Last time he came here, the false archbishop anointed him king and stole the blood that made his treachery possible.

The earl stretched out his hand in invitation and they started the long walk. A few paces ahead, Alfleda walked softly in her borrowed slippers, her skirts lifted just enough, her head held high. The guards shifted a bit as they passed, but stood erect, halberds at their sides, holding at bay the thousands who gawked for a glimpse of the lords. The earl swaggered as they went, waving to the audience, and doffing his hat to the occasional lady whose station was not quite sufficient to gain her admittance. For Elisha, it was all he could do not to bolt and run. Those familiar faces he spied in the crowd showed no sign of recognition, but he anticipated the shout and the shot that would inevitably follow once they spotted him.

“Halt!”

Elisha jerked to a stop, his heart thundering in his ears. He pressed a hand to his chest.

A pair of guards stood with their halberds to either side of the small door cut into the vast oaken gate which would gain them admittance. A third man faced them, bowing. “I'm afraid it's too late to announce you, my lords, the ceremony's begun.”

“The fault is all mine, my good man. I could hardly decide what to wear.” The earl smiled broadly as they were bowed to the door.

With a gracious curtsy, the earl's wife swept inside, closely shadowed by Alfleda. The earl offered Elisha first passage. Weak sunlight filtered through the great rose window, turning to bits of pale color on the floor and dappling the crowd inside. Once the door shut, blocking the breeze, the scent and the restless shifting of so many people made Elisha think rather more of a barn than a church. The earl touched his elbow and led him ahead down the aisle. A few heads turned, but most remained focused on the events at the distant altar. Already, a choir of monks began to sing and the bishop's golden miter bobbed slightly as he intoned Latin verses over the couple. Two figures knelt at his feet, with long cloaks that flowed over their shoulders and down the few steps. They bowed their heads, listening. Duke Randall stood near, with his wife beside him, and Lord Robert just behind. Brigit's father hovered by them, a new surcoat emphasizing his belly, his face ruddy with delight. Brigit glared at him.

“Not too close,” Elisha whispered to the earl, who gave a slight nod, then tapped his wife on the shoulder.

She nudged her way into a row. “Pardon me, my lady deRoth,” she murmured. The other woman gave an unfriendly grunt, then gave way, squeezing in nearer to her neighbor with a rustle of satin.

Darting a look to Elisha, the earl slipped in beside his wife, and Alfleda caught Elisha's hand in the gloom. She tipped her head this way and that, and lifted herself on tip-toe, until Elisha scooped her onto his hip, her arms wrapped around him. Together they watched as her father wed their enemy.

Elisha tried to follow the Latin at first, but his eyes drew back to rest upon Thomas, and he lost the will to understand the ritual. Ahead, and far away, Thomas raised his head, the crown glinting under flickering candles. His hair had the warm glow of a polished chestnut hull, and Elisha remembered the silk of it against his fingers that long ago day Thomas had trusted him to cut his hair. The bishop lifted something from a pillow at his side and offered it to the king: a delicate diadem that sparkled with jewels. Thomas turned to his wife. The word lodged in Elisha's throat, and his eyes stung.

“Can we not just run up and stop them? Can't we, please?” Alfleda's voice stroked with sadness across his cheek.

“I wish we could,” he told her, eyeing the dozen men who clustered near the daïs—men who wore swords to a wedding. The presence of a few mancers, scattered through the audience, chilled him even in the heat of the crowd. If he let his guard down or broke his focus on the false projection he offered to the world, they would not hesitate. “I think it would be the death of me.”

She stared hungrily toward the altar, and Elisha shut his eyes briefly. “You could go on your own, right now.”

Yearning toward her father, she still glanced over at him, her eyebrows drawn up over glistening eyes. “No,” she said. “He should have me back by your own hand.”

“He may yet forgive me, just to have you back at all. I can be patient.”

She gave a shake of her head. “My father needs you.”

A tear streaked down her face, and he freed one hand to gently wipe it away. “Soon, you'll be together again.” Elisha's jaw tightened, and it took a moment for him to recognize his envy. Alfleda would be with Thomas as he himself would not.

The lock shorn from Thomas's head translated a sudden wash of despair to Elisha's touch.

“Your Majesty,” the bishop prompted, and Elisha heard the whisper through his skin as Thomas looked up, and finally put out his hand.

Brigit turned, her fine profile lit by her smile as she slid her hand into his.

“Whom the Almighty has brought together, let no man put asunder,” the bishop intoned over their heads, wrapping a stole about their joined hands.

Brigit's smile flamed into the darkness, while a cry flew up in Thomas's breast, a cry Elisha nearly uttered, but which never passed the king's lips. Carefully, together, Brigit and Thomas rose. Brigit glowed, from the diadem atop her head to the rosy warmth of her hand resting in Thomas's. She wore a magnificent gown of purple edged with ermine. The royal shade might not serve her own coloring so well, but she beamed so widely that it dazzled the eyes, and Elisha's stomach churned.

Beside her, Thomas's solemn face, proud and empty, bore no trace of emotion. His eyes focused on some point beyond the rose window. He looked, indeed, so inanimate that Elisha imagined some spell worked upon his king. Perhaps Thomas wanted so badly to forget and to pretend all was well that he opened himself to Brigit's command. Then Thomas glanced toward her and smiled briefly, his eyes still bleak. He possessed a certain grandeur of despair, his eyes bluer than ever, and darker, too; the royal tunic and cape enhanced the lean grace of his figure. As the king looked forward again, emotionless, Elisha thought that he might look just that way on his bier, arrayed for a funeral of royal proportions, the center of attention in a world he had fled.

Elisha squeezed his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. His arm ached from holding Alfleda, and he gently lowered her to the ground, both of her hands wrapping his as she leaned against him. As the cheering died down, the choir began again, something bright and joyous that he should have been able to name, if he cared anymore. The censers went back to work, swinging their globes of incense down the aisle, mingling the sweat and stale breath of the crowd with the smoky illusion of sanctity. Up ahead, the sound of marching feet echoed through the cathedral, drawing nearer, and Elisha forced himself to look up even as the great doors at his back groaned open, letting a spatter of raindrops fly through and settle upon the narrow carpet in the bitter light. Four pairs of royal guards marched by, stately and tall with their halberds held straight and swords at their sides. Every edge glowed with the possibility of his doom. His hand in Alfleda's felt clammy. As the last guard passed them to exit, she caught her breath, and Elisha steeled his resolve.