The Necromancer's Grimoire (4 page)

“I can't say exactly, because I am not in their confidence. But Brother Henry told me that long ago a nobleman went to Jerusalem and found the ruins of Solomon's temple. He found some wondrous things there. Brother Henry said he created a brotherhood called the Temple Knights to protect what they found.”

“Did he write a book about it?” Nadira indicted the sack on William's lap.

“No, no, quite the opposite. These things were kept very secret.”

“I see. Sir Corbett and his men are part of this brotherhood, then?”

“Yes, but there are complications. Long ago the brotherhood and the French King Philip became enemies and the Templars were publicly destroyed and then forbidden by the pope. Now they exist in hiding only, except in Scotland, where they are a bit more bold.”

“This explains why the knights were not shocked by what they saw me do on the road that day…”

“Maybe not shocked, but very definitely impressed. They still talk about how they saw you raise your arms and knock a horse to the ground.” His eyes were concerned, and a little afraid. “They said you killed a French soldier without touching him.”

She nodded. She wanted to learn more about how she could do such a thing. She looked at her hands. “And their purpose?”

“Sir Calvin has told me that your demonstration convinced them that you are the one they need. I don't know what it is they want from you. I think that the time that has passed since the brotherhood was formed has caused them to lose some of their knowledge. Their own documents were dispersed and hidden in various places to protect them. Now it is difficult for any one man to read them all. Some might be lost. There was talk of a treasure. When King Philip opened the Templar treasury to take it all for the crown, it was empty. The knights had hidden it all somewhere.”

“Has it been so long they have forgotten?” She had hoped they might teach her about her abilities.

“Henry said it was about two hundred years.”

Nadira sat up straighter. “That is a long time to be keeping secrets and hiding treasure.”

William's face fell, and his shoulders rose with a deep sigh. “I am starting to think I have spent my years looking for knowledge in the wrong place.”

“Ah.” Nadira did not know what to say to that. Here was another hurt that would not be mended with a needle. “William. You cannot be sad. No matter where you looked, you gained knowledge and insight. You know so much more about many things now than when you were a little boy.”

He turned to her and his eyes were moist, the lashes clumped together with unshed tears. “I may have been wrong about so much.” His throat moved up and down with the effort to keep his voice from breaking.

Nadira moved closer. “The quest for knowledge is never a waste,” she said softly.

He nodded, causing the tears to drop into his lap.

Alisdair shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “Women and priests,” he muttered under his breath.

Nadira looked up at him. “He is not a priest, he is a cleric.” She put an arm protectively around William's shoulders.

“'Tis the same to me,” Alisdair harrumphed. He stood up and stomped over to the window, blocking the light and keeping his back to them. Nadira could not tell if it was to give William some privacy or to conceal his own tenderness at the young man's distress.

William pushed her away. “Please...” he whispered. She released him reluctantly. He adjusted his robe where she had held him and wiped his eyes with his hands. “Please don't touch me.”

“I won't.” She felt her own throat tighten. She put her hands in her lap. “But, William...”

“No…no.” He waved away her protests. “I will calm myself. Monsieur showed me how.” He blinked repeatedly and took two long deep breaths. “He may have mentioned to you that I can be…overcome by an imbalance…”

“…of humors. Yes, he did tell me that.” Nadira suppressed an urge to pat his shoulder. “He told me.” Monsieur Conti had also told her that William had been passed from scriptorium to scriptorium for years before landing in his library in Andorra. Apparently being alternately excitable and then darkly emotional were not desirable attributes in a scribe, or a friar. Conti had warned her that William was prone to disturbing bouts of hysterics and for her not to be alarmed when she witnessed them. The storms always passed. She sighed, remembering the gentle alchemist with affection and felt the painful loss of his company and his wisdom. She said gently, “We can talk later if you like.”

“No. I don't want to leave. Please give me a moment.”

Nadira waited patiently as he took long slow breaths. The big Scotsman leaned on the casement and seemed absorbed in what was happening in the stable yard below.
The jailer is jailed as well
.

“Now,” William continued, “I was telling you what Sir Calvin said.”

“Yes.”

“He said they are taking you to Constantinople to obtain information before progressing further. They seek a book that will guide them where they want to go, that will tell them where to find their lost relics. That is all he would say about that.”

“And the
Hermetica
. When they bring it back. What will they do with it?”

“I do believe they will want you to read it to them cover to cover.”

“I suspected as much. I want to know what I said to the pope. No one would tell me.” Nadira was silent for a moment, remembering the day she read the
Hermetica
to the pope and his cardinals. Afterwards the book had been snatched away and sent to Naples to be deciphered by the Turkish prince. She had been imprisoned and feared for her life. Montrose had snatched her back from the hands of the French. She sighed with relief. That adventure was over. She was here now. Safe. She glanced at Alisdair. But still imprisoned.

“This is what is strange, Nadira,” William interrupted her thoughts. “Sir Calvin told me that when the proper person reads the book, the words that come out are different for each of the listeners…and the meaning is different for each of the readers.”

“So what Henry read was not what I read?” Nadira was incredulous.

William crossed himself. “I don't understand it either.” His voice shook. “It frightens me to think of it.”

Nadira felt a little twinge of fear herself. She remembered Monsieur Conti had told her that it was the fear that caused the damage to the reader, not the words themselves, or even the ideas. “What else is in that sack?” She asked.

He put a hand in and pulled out a small volume. “Poetry.” Another small book appeared, “Virgil. This Latin might be too difficult for you. I will have to read it aloud and translate.” He tapped the small book with a finger, “Also, I am to speak to you only in English,” he said in that language. “It is rarely spoken here in this land. I know you speak English, but Sir Corbett wishes for you to be fluent.”

Nadira blinked. “Why?”

“For privacy. Lord Montrose is fluent in French and English, but you are not. Spanish is weak for all of us but you. I have trouble with French, the verbs of that language come straight from hell.” He glanced at Alisdair. “I don't know about the red one, the fair one speaks nothing at all…”

“Alisdair speaks French, do you not?” she asked the Scot.

“Hmph.”

“Was that a French word?” William asked.

“No,” she answered. “That was a Scottish word. It means a lot of things.”

“But does it mean he speaks French?”

“I do not.” Alisdair turned from the window. “I ken enough to get by in the streets. Food and women. All that I need in France. Garreth spoke French. He kens it.”

“We can hardly use a mute to translate.” William raised his hands. “It is important we all understand one another. Everyone speaks English fluently but you, and you have a way with languages, Sir Corbett suggested it is reasonable for you to learn it better.”

“Then I shall,” she said in English. “I want a beer.”

William laughed. “Is that the best you can do?”

“It was the first English I learned. A ship's captain at table taught it to me and made sure I knew it well by the end of the evening.”

“Then we shall work on the finer points of grammar and vocabulary.”

Late the next day both Alisdair and Nadira heard the heavy thud of boots on wooden stairs before Montrose burst into the room. His rough stubble scratched her cheeks as he greeted her with a kiss.

“Robert,” she said in greeting.

Alisdair clapped him on the back and then stomped out, most likely heading for the ale barrels. Nadira could hear the distant scraping of chairs and benches and the movement of tables that suggested a meal was being laid below.

“You are well, I see,” he said as he thumped his saddlebags on the floor.

“I am well. And you?” Her eyes darted over him. She knew every inch of his body, from the top of his head where his dark hair stood up in places to the soles of his feet, now covered in thick leather. She could tell in an instant whether he was whole or not, or pained or not.

He flashed his white teeth at her in a brief smile. “I am hungry. Sir Corbett has ordered a great feast. I have come up to shake some of this travel from me.”

Nadira started to pull at some of the leather that strapped his chest. “You are not covered in blood, I see. Not completely, anyway.”

He laughed softly, touching her hair, lifting strands and letting them fall around her cheeks. “And you, soft as Damask, fragrant with lavender.” He bent his head and inhaled her hair. “Ah…I have been remembering your scent for the last twenty miles.”

She finally got the baldric unbuckled and let it fall to the floor with the scabbard and sword that was buckled to it. She began to work on another strap. He took her hands. “Not yet, not yet. Let me look at you first.”

“Bah! You may look at me all afternoon as you wish, but I wish to clean you up before you smear yourself all over me again.” She smiled up at him as her hands went for more buckles.

He did not answer, but another soft smile tilted his lips beneath the short beard. He assisted in helping her with the many ties and buckles that supported his arsenal. He laid each knife and dagger aside as they became exposed and then he helped her remove his brigandine. A long braid of dark hair slid out from the leather armor and he caught it in his hand. He caressed it once before setting it carefully coiled on the table.

“There it is,” she said. “I wondered.”

He pulled at the laces of the quilted vest that he wore under the stiff leather. When he was finally sitting on the bed in his linen tunic, she brought the pitcher and bowl and began to sponge his face.

“Aha. So. I do see some signs of wear.” She touched a fresh scratch under his chin that tracked through the stubble. He winced. “What have you been up to?” She murmured. The soft cloth lifted bits of chaff and smears of mud from his jaw line. She smoothed his hair with her little comb, revealing the silver streaks that had appeared over his ears since his encounter with the Inquisition. She touched them with her finger. She rinsed the cloth and wrung it. “I will cut your hair later. William has scissors and a razor.”

Nadira lifted his shirt where there was an obvious stain of some kind. “This looks like a scrape.” She frowned. “And you did bleed. Here, there is blood all over your tunic under your arms.” He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his arms when she tugged at the cloth so she could pull the tunic up and off. They both examined the spot she lightly touched, purple and red with many small scabs forming over his ribs. He stretched the skin with a thick finger bringing out a large circle of color, but there were no open wounds.

“Punched,” he said. “That circle is the mark the pommel made when it dug into my ribs as I fell, taking one of the guards to the ground; the scraping is from metal plates. The blood is from…I don't know. It's blood.”

“You fell? Is that why you were limping? And you were punched more than once. You are all colors over your ribs.”

He lifted an arm so he could see where she indicated. “Yes, well, and I twisted my knee kicking a man into a wall. You now have the complete inventory of my hurts.”

“Am I to hear the story? Or must I wait to hear it embroidered by Alisdair after you've told him.”

“I will tell you tonight, when we are alone and it is dark, and I have you curled up beside me.” He pulled her to his mouth for another kiss.

“My lord. Do you plan to go below tonight or not?” She wiggled to free herself from his arms and reached for the pitcher. “Let me get you ready.”

He sighed and twisted his face into a mock scowl. “If you must.”

Nadira wrung her cloth in the bowl and wiped his chest and his neck. “And you need to let me shave you next time. I don't know who did it last time, but it looks terrible.”

“Later. I don't want to spend the time, now.” He reached for her again, running his hands down her sides and over her hips.

“Please wait, my lord,” she laughed, “I am not finished.”

“Yes, you are. I am clean enough now.” He took her cloth and threw it to the floor then gathered her in his arms for more kisses.

When she could breathe again she took his face in her hands. “Your face did not crack.”

“What?”

“Alisdair said your face would crack should you smile. You have been smiling this half hour and I have seen no evidence of a cleft, except this one in your chin.” She touched it, teasing him. He laughed then and made to grab her and press her into the mattress, but she darted away with the bowl and pitcher.

“You are cleaned up, but now look at me. I shall have to change. You said you were famished, your food is being set out below.”

“You are my food,” he said.

“Then you shall not starve, my lord. Here is a clean shirt, are you going to arm yourself again?” She looked at the metal on the bed, figuring how long it might take to dress him if everything had to be strapped back on.

“I'll lock most of this away. I'll wear just the dagger and the short blade.” He got up with his brigandine and went to the chest under the window.

Nadira pulled at the laces of her gown. “Can you tell me what you did? Can I hear what caused all those bruises?” She chose a soft gray dress from her satchel and unrolled it, looking for stains.

He laid his weapons in the chest and locked it. The key slipped into his belt. He ran his fingers through his hair, standing it on end and mussing the work she had done with her comb. He pulled the clean tunic over his head. “We have it.” His voice carried no triumph, no sign that finally possessing the book gave him any pleasure at all.

Nadira paused to imagine what that had entailed. The men had set out to travel twenty miles on horseback, then enter a villa and steal a book without being discovered. She tilted her head. “Who has it? Sir Corbett?”

“Yes. The white knights were very eager to pass it about. It has been opened and looked at.”

“White knights. William called them that, too. They do not wear white, is that the name they gave you for their order?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and examined his boots. “Not an order, I don't think. They do wear white, but not where you can see it.” He rubbed a bit of mud from the edge with his finger. “They were good companions, Nadira, but made it clear that I am not one of them. They politely allowed me to open the book and look at the pages to confirm it is the one they seek, but took it from me in such a way to leave no doubt that they possessed it, not I.”

“They mean for me to read it again.”

“Yes.”

“You will permit it?”

He looked at her in surprise. “You are asking permission?”

“I…ah…yes.”

He tilted his head sideways and his blue eyes danced. “You have told me many times you will read what you will, my permission be damned.”

Nadira blushed. “True. True.”

“What is different now?”

“I would have your permission.”

“Why? The white knights would insist. I have no say in this matter.”

“I want you to have a say.”

“Why?” he asked again.

She sat down beside him. “You have bled more than anyone for this book. No matter the white knights have possession of it now; I want to know your mind.”

“This task has grown beyond duty. My blood was spent for a purpose and I have my reward. With what comes next with this book I do not concern myself.” But then his eyes narrowed with a faraway look. Nadira knew what he was thinking. His concern had shifted to vengeance. This look on his face she had seen before. All his recent good humor seemed to be flowing away but just as suddenly he seemed to shake it off.

“There is something else,” he said. “They captured a little man in silly velvets and a ridiculous hat. We brought him back with us. He is in another room, alone.
They would not let me speak to him and,” he shook his head when Nadira sat up straighter, eyes wide. “No use asking me his name, for I do not know. But I do know he was also at Prince Djem's villa to steal the book.” A half smile peeked through the dark beard, “I wish you could have seen his face when he saw all of us in the middle of the night in the corridor in our battle dress and with swords drawn.”

“Tell me.”

“Corbett and I were tasked with finding the book. The other knights secured the corridors for us. The servants were easily subdued; the guards were a bit more trouble. A quick search located the prince's sleeping chambers and fortunately for us, the little man in the silly hat had the book in his arms, along with a small wooden chest. We stole both the thief and his loot and brought them here.”

“And your wounds?”

He shrugged. “As I said, there were guards. The prince's private company at arms.” He gave her a sidelong look. “They were not expecting us.”

They were interrupted as Alisdair entered with two large cups. He handed one to Montrose and sat himself on the stool by the door. “Not ready yet.” He indicated the noise below. “They'll send someone for us when the meat's done.”

“Then you should rest, my lord,” she said to Montrose, but her eyes sparkled with this new information. She slid from his lap and picked up the stool from under the window. “Put your leg on this.”

Montrose leaned back against the wall with his cup, obediently stretched out one long leg and rested it on the stool.

“That should help, my lord.”

He winced. “It doesn't feel like it's helping.”

“Leave it for a few minutes. By the time we go down for the meal, it will be much better. Finish whatever he gave you there.” She pointed to his cup.

“Best listen to the lass, Robin.”

Nadira straightened up in mock surprise, hands on hips. “So you take my side? Coddling him? Making him soft and useless?” She tilted her head, teasing. The promise of story-telling at table put her in high spirits.

“And you,” she pointed to Alisdair's head. “It's a good thing you can't see yourself. Your hair is all on end. You look like you are afire. Let me fix that for table.”

He put a hand to his head and tried to douse the fiery strands, but the tangles, twisted braids and bits of twigs and chaff from the stable threatened to ignite again.

“Let me do it,” she insisted. She took the comb from the table and stepped behind him.

“Nay, lass. Leave it.”

“You can't go to table like this.”

“He can, and he has,” Montrose said. He drank from his cup and his eyes were merry.

“No. I'll not sit at table with a wild beast.”

Alisdair's hand intercepted her own before the comb could touch the tangles. “No. I say no.”

Nadira stopped, narrowed her eyes. “This will not take long. Why won't you let me?”

Montrose gestured with his cup. “He's afraid it will hurt. He hates having his hair combed. That's why he keeps it tied in braids.”

“For pity's sake. A big man like you, waving swords around, knocking people down, punching your enemies into next year…and you are afraid of a little tortoise shell comb.”

“Aye. A woman's weapon, a comb.” Alisdair shuddered and finished his own cup.

She tucked the comb behind her ear and reached for the braids with her fingers. He leaned away, but Nadira made a warning sound in her throat. His broad shoulders sank in defeat. She lifted a tangled braid and carefully unraveled it.

On the back of his head there was a place where no fiery red hair grew. Instead there was a scar as thick and as long as her finger. She touched it, feeling the smooth surface top to bottom.

“You must have taken quite a blow here. Surely this knocked you senseless.”

“Nah. Brigit did that.”

She stopped and leaned over to look him in the face. “You are joking.”

“Nay. She did it.”

Nadira went back to work. “I'm sure there is a story here.”

Alisdair stretched out both legs. “Oh, aye. One morning I come in from the byre to me breakfast and what do I see but a bowl of porridge. Now, lass, there's nothing wrong with a good bowl of oats, but I been eating it for three meals in a row. I yell at Brigit, ‘A man can't live on oats and groats! Do I look like a horse to ye? A man needs real food to do a day's work!'

“I was drawing in a breath to tell her just what a real man should be eating when there was a flying blur. The lass had leapt up from the fire, come up o'er the top of the table and took me right here…” he indicated the center of his chest. “I went over backwards with the bench and bashed me head on the floor stones, the lass on me chest, one knee in me gut, one hand twisting me beard and the other waving a bloody great spoon in me face.”

“She's screaming at me,” he pitched his voice like a screeching cat, ‘Ye'll eat what y' bring home, y' daft brute! Ye bring home some proper food and I'll be feeding it to ye!' Then she whacked me all over the face with that damned spoon, and me bleeding all over the floor from that…” he lifted an arm and touched the scar with a thick finger.