Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (44 page)

A
fortnight later
found Elisha in Duke Randall’s carriage, returning to London with two of the duke’s clerks. There, they would find or order the things they needed to rebuild. During the battle, they had torn down several buildings for the stones launched in their bombards and run through all their medical supplies. There was also a shortage of brooms, for Duchess Allyson had turned every bit of straw into arrows for her husband’s archers. When Elisha’s spell turned them to rain, she gave up the arrows rather than spend more of her strength against his. Not everyone knew that she was a witch, but those who did kept their peace with her and gave thanks in the chapel for the gifts she could provide.

When they left him in the high street, specifying a day to meet again, Elisha knew he must find Helena’s sister and try again to atone. He had so hoped to bring her child’s remains back with him, but that must wait; Brigit wouldn’t give up such power without a struggle. So he’d avoided her, and, for the moment, avoided Helena as well.

Instead, and on the duke’s advice, he walked the few blocks from the gate to the leaded glass panes of the draper’s row, and opened the door to Martin’s shop.

Samples of elegant fabrics decked the wall behind a counter, and an assistant glanced up while helping a finely dressed lady pick out just the thing to drape her walls. Looking him up and down, the assistant glowered, and Elisha laughed. The young man was fair and tall with a long fall of hair swept back by a ribbon a touch too bright for the average man. He was new since
last Elisha had been there, and it was clear what he thought of Elisha’s entrance. Even clad in the Earl of Blackmere’s cast-offs, Elisha was clearly not a customer. Martin’s assistant had already leapt to a different conclusion.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” Elisha said, still amused by the assistant’s jealousy. “I’ll just wait, shall I?” He stepped to the counter and started to finger a delicate sample of silk which was probably worth more than the duke would pay him in his lifetime.

Stiffening his spine, the assistant snatched up a silver bell and shook it, then slammed it back onto the counter. The customer jumped a little and frowned. The pretty young man murmured something soothing, and they bent together over the samples.

A paneled door popped open. “What is it, Brian?” Martin called out, then stopped, his hand on the knob. A brief grin flared across his face, and he gripped the latch a little tighter. “Ah, yes, about the duke’s orders? I’ve been expecting you,” he babbled, adding to his assistant’s discomfort.

Stepping lightly forward, Martin swung up a section of the counter and invited Elisha through. “Come to my office,” he said, then followed, shutting the door swiftly.

Once inside, Elisha turned.

Martin slumped with his back to the door. That ridiculous grin threatened to swallow his eyes, which welled with tears. “Mother Mary, I thought I’d never see you again.”

Returning the smile, Elisha plucked something from his belt and shook it out—a long strip of purple silk. “But you have, thanks, in part, to this.”

Shaky, Martin dropped into his chair, pressing a beringed hand to his cheek. “What’s happened to you? Tell me all! And your hair,” he moaned. “Oh, your glorious hair.”

“I cut it all off to save you from temptation,” Elisha teased, dropping into a chair opposite. He had found someone to trim it short, so that the dark curls clung to his head. Perhaps one day, he would let it grow again, but maybe not. He smoothed the fabric against the leather desktop with his palm.

“You’ve been badly hurt, haven’t you?” Martin asked, leaning forward. “I can see it all over you, and not just in the body, either.”

For a moment, Elisha wondered if the draper might have more secrets than one. “I fell in love with a lady,” he sighed, still aching at the memory.

“Oh, it would be a woman,” said Martin crossly. “But go on.”

Elisha told him most of the story, glossing over his injuries, finding ways around the witchcraft, as he had rehearsed it all those nights in the duke’s castle. He foisted off the king’s death on a stranger, but suspected his voice revealed too much in any case.

When he had done, he gazed at Martin’s smooth, handsome face.

Martin sat back in his chair, one arm across his chest, the other propped against his face. “You loved the lady who will be queen.” He whistled softly, shaking his head. “Only you, Eli.” He frowned, toying with an end of the cloth. “’Tis a curious tale, and somewhat different from the one I heard.”

“Where there’s a battle, the rumors will fly as thick as the arrows,” Elisha replied. “When that man Robert had hold of me, and the duke asked where I got this—” He tapped the fabric. “I thought for a moment you might have set me up for death, instead of life.”

“Perish the thought!” Martin clapped a hand to his chest, setting his rings glittering in the afternoon sun.

“Forgive me for doubting you,” he said, and pushed himself up. “I should go. I think your assistant has already gotten the wrong idea.”

Rising with a sigh, Martin said, “I’ll reassure him, though I wish there were some foundation for his jealousy.” His smile turned rueful. “You’ll stop and see me before you go back?”

“As you wish.” Elisha held out his hand, and Martin grasped it in both of his.

Through their joined hands, an energy flowed which was not familiar, yet instantly recognizable. Both men looked up, catching each other’s eyes.

If it were possible, Martin’s grin grew even wider.
“I knew it! I just knew it
!”

Impulsively, Martin flung his arms around Elisha in a quick embrace, not long enough to make him uncomfortable, and broke away again, letting his hand linger.
“How long?
”

“
Just after I got there, I met—”

Martin drew back with a stern expression. “
Don’t tell me, please! You must know the rules.
”

“
A few of them anyhow. I’ve only just started
.” He spread his hands and smiled, that trace of regret running through him as he watched Martin’s expressive features. Martin remained his very dear friend, never to be more to him than that.

As if he sensed Elisha’s regret—and well he might—Martin glowered. “
Get out before I fall in love with you all over again!
”

Bowing slightly, Elisha took his leave, with a cheery wave to the disgruntled assistant as he left the shop.

Feeling lighter, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, connected with something greater than himself—a people of whom he could truly be a part—Elisha leapt the drainage ditch and dodged around a party of bickering beggars. With Martin’s good will, he felt strong enough now for what he must face. He shied away from the hospital, its miasma of misery touching him briefly as he passed by. Shuddering, he hurried his pace, and soon stood before the little house in the mews with its sagging roof and crooked steps. His brother’s workshop stood to one side, smoke rising from the chimney.

Elisha’s heart gave a lurch, then settled down again. She must have sold it, or found another smith to take it up. As he stood, unsure what to do next, a man emerged, rubbing his hands on a cloth.

“Help you?” he called out.

Approaching a few more steps, Elisha said, “Yes, I’m looking for Nathaniel Tinsmith’s widow, do you know where she’s living?”

The man nodded his head to the house. “Still here, ain’t she? Go on through.”

“But who are you?”

“Roger Ironman, new to the parts. She’s rented me the shop ’til I get meself settled.”

As Elisha walked up, the door sprang open, and a child darted out, giggling like mad and bounding down the steps into the yard.

“I’ll get you!” a woman in a nun’s habit cried, springing after, then stopping short, her mouth dropping open. “Elisha!” Sister Lucretia wrapped him in an embrace, pressing her cheek against his chest.

It still ached, but he didn’t mind. Somehow, he freed his arms from the tangle of hers and returned the gesture. “Sister, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” he murmured. He felt the return of his sentiment and trembled. So long he had been surrounded by emotions he denied himself, from Martin’s love to Lucretia’s admiration. Since his awakening, he hurt more deeply, it was true, but he also laughed from that depth—cursed and blessed, and glad of it.

At last, they broke apart to gaze at each other. “You’ve changed,” she observed.

“Aye, that I have, Sister, and you don’t know the half of it.” He shivered in the suggestion of a breeze.

“Come inside—we’ve just got supper on, if I can catch that Annie!” her voice rose at the end, and a trail of giggles emerged from around the back.

Elisha looked toward the darkened door. He had last gone through it alone, bereft, and dripping with blood that should never have been spilt. “Am I welcome?”

Hesitating, Sister Lucretia kept his hand in hers, gazing with him. “Much has changed here, too.”

“Like Annie?” he asked, his surprise returning.

Lucretia brightened. “Aye, like that! She’s been God’s gift, and not his only. I convinced Helena to bury her grief in charity, and so she has. She takes in the country children, the ones recovering from the hospital, you know, who mightn’t be welcome back to their families as more mouths to feed.” She crossed herself quickly. “There are some as would rather their sick ones went home to the Lord.”

“I know, I’ve met them.” He took a deep breath. “I worried she might return to her old life. Nate would never…” But his brother’s name stopped his throat.

“Between what she’s given for the children and the rents from the workshop and your old rooms—sorry, Eli—she gets by.” Lucretia nudged him toward the house.

With some trepidation, but with the strength of her hand, Elisha walked toward his brother’s door.

At the steps, Lucretia detached herself and climbed inside, speaking in a low voice. From within, a baby wailed, and Elisha looked to the cloudless sky, mastering himself for what was to come.

After a moment, Sister Lucretia peered around the doorframe. “Come in,” she said, “It’s all right.”

The cry of the child had not prepared him for what met his eyes, and Elisha sucked in a breath. His throat seized up a little, and he forced himself to relax. What could be more natural, after all, than a woman nursing a baby?

Except if the woman were Helena, so recently bereft of her own child,
and her husband as well. All that she loved had been torn from her, and Elisha had been the surgeon who made the first cut. He never thought he would see her again, so he sank himself in his work as if healing others could repair the wounds he had caused.

She glanced up from the child’s face, one of its tiny hands wrapped around her finger. The smile she wore faded away, leaving her solemn and yet radiant. No woman had glowed like that save the Virgin Mother. Or Brigit, when she looked on him.

Elisha’s head bowed to his chest, and he folded his arms together. His lips trembled, and he fought to keep them still. “Helena,” he said, “I am so sorry. For you, for the baby, for Nathaniel—” His voice broke.

“Come here,” she said, “Kneel down where I can look at you.” Her tone brooked no refusal, and he obeyed, only too glad to sink to his wobbly knees. “This surprises you, does it? To see me with a child at my breast? Look closer, Barber, look.”

Her words drew up his gaze, and he saw as she lifted the infant away, turning it to face the other breast. Although the other side of its face had glowed with that bliss particular to babies, this side seemed stiff, the eye sloping and twitching, the arm a stub with fingers too small even for a child. “The mother took one look and turned it away,” Helena murmured, caressing the child’s cheek with her finger. “Sister Lucretia came to me.” Her voice faltered, then grew stronger. “She came to me because my milk had just come in. I hurt in so many ways, then, and that one seemed the most terrible. God had taken my baby to be with Him, she said, but it did not mean I should be alone, and here was this child…” She looked toward where Lucretia hovered at the hearth. The smile that touched her lips echoed the joy he heard in her voice: She had found the blessing beyond the curse, in this giving of herself.

“Everything is changed,” she said. “Even our king is new, and his betrothed. They say the battle you fought has been only the rumor of a greater war.”

“It was not my battle,” he murmured, thinking of all of those who had died, the men under his care, the men felled by arrows, by fire and stone. “Not mine alone.”

“Forgive me.”

Helena’s voice rang in his ears, widening his eyes as he looked up to her face. “But what have you done to need forgiveness?”

She glowed with that smile and with something like sorrow, or pity. “The letter I sent you,” she said. “It was cruel in its words and its intent. I had not yet healed. I still have not, but at least I’ve come far enough not to inflict my pain on others. I’m sorry. I still hope you will one day trust me with all of your story.” At his expression, she shook her head. “Not today. It’s still too soon.”

Elisha’s hands gripped each other, almost like a prayer. He rubbed one thumb over the nail of the other. “That night I left, do you recall your curse to me?”

After an instant, she drew a quick breath. “I do,” she said, “I cursed you to love, and to lose your love.”

He nodded, missing again the weight of his hair, the way he could hide behind its darkness. “It came true.” He swallowed hard, trying to hold back the pain of this strange wound.

She sat silently, only her breath betraying her presence.

He had drawn into himself again, not daring to feel whatever emotions rocked her—not even to punish himself.

Then her soft words fell through the still house. “Oh, Elisha, I am sorry.”

With a strangled laugh, he whispered, “I forgive you.”

Then her hand brushed against his hair, and she did not need to speak to answer him, for his defenses fell away, and she drew him close against her knee. His brother’s widow stroked his hair, and Elisha felt the chill slivers of Death rise away from him toward Heaven.