Elisha Magus (26 page)

“He’s wrong.” Thomas’s eyes snapped open. “What we heard last night—there is more at stake here than my crown. I need to know what.” His hand traced a path along his sternum and clenched into a fist.

“I’ll find out.” Elisha moved around the bench, combing and snipping.

“I can’t imagine who else could do it.”

“You’re not afraid they’ll convert me?” Elisha asked lightly, trying to cover his lingering fear.

“Are you hoping to die, so you needn’t live in fear of yourself?”

The question cut too close and Elisha hesitated, shears in hand, standing at Thomas’s back.

“There was a time, not long ago,” the king said softly, “that I would have been tempted to follow the easier road.” For a time, both men were silent, fairy thimbles and bellflowers bobbing around them as if considering their words. “Whatever else you may have done, Elisha, you have healed me.”

Elisha caught the tremor of that warm wave of gratitude, and he finished with the king’s hair, moving on to trim his beard to a manageable length, still putting off the moment he must take up the razor. “You’re lucky to have this place to return to, Thomas. I gave up my house in London. I’m not sure, actually, where I’ll go, afterward.” He shied away from mention of the execution.

“You’ll come here,” said Thomas firmly. “At least I’ll know where to find you.”

“Thank you.”

Better groomed, better dressed, the prince had a high, clear brow and a lean, handsome face to frame those keen eyes, and hints of the honored King Edward showing in his build. Thomas tilted his chin back, exposing his throat, slivers of blue eyes watching Elisha.

Taking the razor, Elisha weighed it in his palm. He could not help seeing Nathaniel, his golden younger brother, lying dead by the cut of a similar blade.

“Next time we meet will likely be in court,” Thomas murmured. “Whatever I say, whatever I do, you must remember that I am your friend. God grant me the strength to counterfeit hatred. I must play Judas and every moment I shall be living in Hell.”

Elisha checked the blade and found it sharp. His stomach soured at the thought that he must face the king in court.

“Forgive me, Elisha, what I must do. I cannot help but hurt you.”

Carefully, Elisha set the blade and made his first stroke.

B
y dawn the next day,
everything had changed.

Elisha’s borrowed tunic was replaced by a knee-length white linen garment, the reminder of his new status—or rather, the erasure of any status he might have had. A soldier took away his medical kit, handing it ceremoniously to Thomas, who gripped it a little too tightly. According to the plan, it should be hidden along with fresh clothes and other supplies to await his escape, but its loss made Elisha feel naked in spite of his gown. As a barber in London, he had owned little—never imagining he would lose it all, down to his dignity.

A fresh troop of soldiers arrived, drawing a cart. The duke’s family had been moved away, the king arrayed in his finest clothes, tall and handsome as a king should be. His eyes shone, his beard trimmed to frame his mouth though it seemed set into a hard line. He stared at Elisha with disdain—a good act, though Elisha could feel the regret that surged beneath it. Other witches might be less sensitive, but the king should be more guarded with his emotions. When they brought up the chains, Thomas’s fury and sorrow near exploded, then he made an effort to conceal his feelings, and the anger vanished. He suppressed it with a snarl that any other might have taken for his contempt at the criminal.

Elisha swallowed hard as the manacles closed upon him, and the soldiers urged him into the cart. Duke Randall stood nearby, allowed to show mixed emotions as evidence of the bargain he had made, to give up Elisha and see his daughter wed. Randall’s right-hand man, Lord Robert, had arrived, shaking his head at this turn of events but still willing to obey the duke and take command of Elisha’s passage to London. The duke and the king would ride on ahead in a display of solidarity, making way for the trial to come.

Mordecai had sent him a magical draught of strength and courage and then slipped away, still working on the plan that would set Elisha free.

The mists of the morning river curled around the cart as it creaked into motion, finding every pit and hump along the road. Elisha tried to find a comfortable position, but nothing would do. He rattled against the sides of the cart, his bare arms and legs scraped, his hands drawn down by the weight of the chains that bound him. The lodge dwindled behind him, trees closing in around the path. Four mounted soldiers rode behind, with more on foot. At first, Cerberus lagged behind as well, the cart about on a level with his tall head. He whimpered at Elisha, raising his ears, trying a tail wag from time to time. Then a whistle sounded from up ahead, and the dog gave a last wave of his tail before he trotted off to join his master. Elisha’s heart sank. In some ways, his would be the easier part in this deception: He would be brought to London to face the charges. When he heard from Allyson or Mordecai, he would act on what they told him, or prepare to defeat the chosen punishment. They would smuggle him a talisman of some kind at the right time; he would be searched when he entered the Tower, so there was little point in carrying anything now. All he must do was tell the truth about his deeds. That, and endure.

A small shadow swept over him and circled back. A crow. The scratches on his back left by the angry crows on the night of the healing stung in some affinity with the circling bird. It let out a single “Caw!” The harsh sound made him flinch. Another crow joined the first. The leaves above rustled with a few more crows that jumped from tree to tree, black flitting shapes that broke off from the shadowed branches and merged back into them. They cackled together over his head, soaring and circling back again, over and over, a vortex of sharp beaks and black feathers. No apology would be enough for them or for their mistress. Elisha lowered his gaze, hunching against the front of the cart.

“What the bloody Hell?” one of the soldiers muttered, watching the birds above.

“They’re his familiar animals, aren’t they? He’s drawn ’em out. We best be careful,” his companion said darkly, training his gaze on Elisha.

With a sharp cry, one of the crows dove. Elisha dropped even lower, and the bird swept over him, pulling up and streaking away again.

“He sent ’em at me! Did you see?” the first soldier demanded.

The horses snorted, as much at their riders’ nervousness as at the crows that came nearer with each dive. The next one grazed Elisha’s arm as it defended his head. “I’m sorry!” he shouted after it.

“What’s going on here? Where’d all these birds come from? Elisha?” Lord Robert rode alongside the cart, frowning down at him.

“Don’t, my lord, he’ll—”

“Shut up,” Robert growled over his shoulder. “Come on, Elisha. Hugh’s been dead for a month, and now they arrest you? I don’t know what’s come between you and the duke, and I don’t have to like it, but I’m meant to get you there safe. What can you tell me?”

Elisha lifted his head. “I offended the mistress of the crows. They hate me.”

A clutch of birds broke off, aiming for his face, and Robert drew his sword and with a harsh cry of his own, slashed through their midst before they reached Elisha. A few cut feathers drifted into the cart.

“You!” Robert pointed the sword at the fearful guard. “Ride back as quick as you can and fetch us a blanket. We’ll cover the cart.”

“Aye, my lord.” The soldier turned his mount and kicked it into motion.

Robert rested the flat of his blade on his shoulder. Once, in defense of a fallen earl on the battlefield, that blade had crossed Elisha’s throat when he was mistaken for a looter. Robert was quick to action, especially in defense of his comrades, but quick to forgive as well. They had been almost friends before now. “Thank you,” Elisha said. Robert glanced back and gave a nod, his thinning hair ruffled by the breeze of wild wings. When the birds dove again, Robert’s blade lashed out efficiently and returned to the guard position, a practiced move probably meant to slice the heads of standing enemies.

The crows shrieked their insults and shat upon his horse. Robert grimaced. They repeated this sally-and-retreat a few more times before the soldier returned with a horse blanket. Tremulously, he came up to drape it over the cart.

“Good work,” said Robert, then Elisha watched the side of his horse trot back up toward the front. Beneath the cover, the cart quickly grew humid, but at least the crows couldn’t reach him. Still, at every stop for bread or to see to his natural needs, they attacked with beaks and talons. He slept curled into the cart, smelling the straw, the horse that pulled him, and the stink of his own sweat. Every night, he heard the birds settling onto the cart rails, their claws scraping the thick material, and every morning he woke to early sun casting their shadows on his makeshift roof. If they could figure a way beneath it, they would have pecked out his eyes.

Their angry cries accompanied him all the way to London. Seven days? Elisha lost count in his fervent wish that it all be over. Just outside the city, a troop of yeomen from the Tower came out to meet the cart, and stripped off the blanket to expose the criminal to all the curious who came out from the farmsteads and gathered along the streets. A number of familiar faces watched him go by, some with fear, some with compassion, some who turned away when he caught their eye. The crows resumed their hectoring, and one sliced his brow with a sharp beak just as they reached the Tower, leaving a trickle of blood that oozed down his face. He wiped it away with his chained and weary hands, looking up at last to the rooftops of the king’s castle. It gleamed in pale gray stone with white edging, obscured by the flights of dark birds that circled over him. The cart moved beneath a gatehouse, wheels clattering over stone, the passage interrupting the pattern of crows. The spikes of a portcullis stuck out overhead, then a smooth ceiling broken by a square door which would allow boiling oil to be splashed down on any trapped there. A second portcullis, then an open yard where the cart groaned to a halt.

The Tower guard must have been warned not to touch him, for they urged him down with shouts and pike staves. Some gave wicked grins, wielding their pikes as if to skewer him. Elisha rose, twisting away from the curled and gleaming blades. He stumbled down from the cart, catching himself, his legs feeling weak after the last several days of bread and water and limited movement.

Lord Robert kept his mount, dominating the soldiers. “Leave off, you! Let the lords pass judgment!” He kneed his horse into their midst, forcing them back before he slid down and tossed his reins to one of them.

“Don’t touch him, Lord!” called one of the yeoman.

Robert scowled as he came to Elisha’s side. “I daresay if he wanted my life, he’d’ve taken it.” Robert cupped Elisha’s elbow and led him onward, his sympathy lending more strength than he could know. With his friend beside him, Elisha walked taller, fighting down the rising beat of his heart. In spite of the misery of the last few days, this was not his only friend. He had not been abandoned—he would not be. He must believe it.

“The king’s called for summary judgment,” Robert muttered from the side of his mouth, “so we’re straight to court. It’s a damned shame King Thomas didn’t get the chance to know you, nor you him. He’s a good man, for all this. Trials like this, it’s not customary for the accused even to speak.”

“I can’t claim innocence: there’s too many witnesses,” Elisha murmured back. “Including the duke.”

“Blast it!” Robert’s other hand slapped his sword hilt. “I doubt he’ll testify against you, but the idea’s probably enough.” They stopped outside a tall, peaked door, and Robert faced him, with a slight bow. “I’m sorry it’s ending this way.”

“Not your fault,” Elisha told him. “You’ve done what you could.” He longed to give Robert more reassurance, to promise they would meet again, but the fewer people who knew about the plan, the safer they all would be.

Robert pulled out a kerchief and wiped the blood from Elisha’s face, a gesture so motherly that Elisha smiled. Robert glowered back at him, snapping the kerchief away. He shoved open the door into the courtroom, gesturing Elisha through, but with his eyes averted, shining as he blinked repeatedly.

The courtroom glowed with candles on high rings of silver. Light glittered off the golden robes of the two attendant bishops, off the silver chains of office worn by the mayor and the gathering of lords, off the ruby rings on Duke Randall’s right hand, off the gold and jeweled crown that graced the head of His Royal Majesty, Thomas, By Grace of God, the King of England.

The ermine of his collar turned buttery in that light, the velvet soft and near the color of flame. And all of this finery stood arrayed against Elisha so he had to squint a little in the shimmering hall. He bowed as best he could, and crossed with the yeomen to a wooden rail that faced the great company.

A herald stood forward. “Before all the witnesses here present, his most august majesty, King Thomas, does hereby accuse one Elisha of London, a barber-surgeon, of high treason in the death of his majesty’s illustrious father and predecessor, King Hugh. There being seventeen sworn testimonies to this most foul murder, the lords of this court have found the defendant to be guilty, may God have mercy on his soul.”

Thomas did not look at him as this document was read out. Duke Randall made fists with his ruby-decked fingers, and the man beside him, the slender Earl of Blackmere grimaced, his face pinched with concern, perhaps recalling how Elisha’s intervention on the battlefield had saved his life. The bishops looked stern, and one of them crossed himself with slow reverence.

“Defendant to be hanged, cut down from the scaffold, drawn and quartered, each quarter to be sent to the four corners of the kingdom in warning against this grievous offence. Punishment to be carried out on the morrow.”