Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (5 page)

“That’s a load of horse shit.” He turned away, and found the captain and Lucretia exchanging a confused look.

“Maybe one of you’d better explain to me,” the captain suggested, his fists planted on his hips. “Or is this part of the famous duel between doctors and barbers?”

“Legends to the contrary,” Elisha began, “there’s only one reason to cut open a woman to get at her child, and that’s to lay them down in separate graves. Not in living memory has a woman survived such an operation.” Elisha thrust his finger at the physician. “And the only reason he would advise it is that the life of one whore means nothing to him.”

“Oh, come now, Barber, are you saying that even these miraculous hands of yours could not turn the operation to good effect? And without such barbarity?” The physician let out a little cackle. “One might imagine you a witch, carving up a child for the rites of the full moon. Willfully shedding its innocent blood to serve your evil ends.”

Elisha lunged forward with a clanking of chains, stopping short as Lucius instinctively scrambled to escape him, white suddenly glinting in the doctor’s cold eyes.

While the physician slapped his hat away from his face, and the captain
looked back and forth between them, Elisha declared, “Murderer I may be, but witch I am none, and you shall find no evidence to support it.”

Lucius flicked dust from his sleeves, concentrating on them while his breath still gasped a little. “If you continue to be hostile toward me, then I may rescind the offer I was to make. But perhaps your life is not worthy of my attention after all, no matter what your repugnant friends beseech of me.”

“Now you’re getting to the point, sir,” Elisha shot back. “So tell me what you want and have done; I don’t think any here believes you have my interests in mind.”

“Elisha, please,” Lucretia said beside him. “If you come before the peers, how shall they judge you but guilty? Please hear him out.”

Folding his arms with a rattle of chain, Elisha nodded. If they judged him guilty, it would be the physician’s testimony that swayed them. The chattering churl had him, and the smug little smile that played about his lips showed he knew it only too well.

“I
am glad
you’ve chosen to be reasonable, if only for a short while,” the physician said. “Without further ado, my presence is requested at the front, to advise the king and his generals as to the proper treatment of battlefield injuries. There are new weapons brought to bear against us, and new procedures must be developed to cure the wounds.”

A physician, concerned with the healing of wounds? Usually, they studied the urine and astrological charts of their wealthy patients and diagnosed illness without ever touching them. They didn’t get involved with anything bloody. Elisha tried to be patient.

“I intend to bring several of my associates and assistants, and I am willing to include even you among that number. When I have my own university, there shall be sufficient educated doctors and surgeons. In the meantime, there are enough gross wounds of the sort you are best suited for, and where even your skill may serve. Through such service you might avoid the noose, by my grace and that of God.”

“Your grace?” Elisha echoed. “You want to use me for the bloody work while you stand and blather about these new procedures with your associates. You’re commanded to serve, and you’re afraid to get your hands dirty.”

“Why should I, when there are such as you? If you are ready to hack an infant to bits, then surely a few amputations can’t turn your stomach. If you are ready to face your brother’s death with no remorse, then the loss of a thousand foot soldiers won’t deter you.”

Elisha flicked his gaze away. “
You
turn my stomach.”

“So you will turn down a position in my own retinue for what? Which story shall I tell the peers—the one which earns your death or your brother’s damnation?”

He flinched. It was a devil’s bargain either way. In the aftermath of his brother’s death, he longed for death to escape the burden of guilt, but could not bring himself to give up life so readily.

“Which would the widow prefer to hear, do you think?”

Elisha wet his lips. “There will be rumors spread already.”

“Rumors only. Rumors die with no fuel to fire them. Let each decide what he wills, and no affection lost between the widow and her friends.” Gathering his courage, the physician stepped a little nearer. “Or consider that your skill may indeed be worthy, that your hands may serve a higher cause, away upon the battlefield.”

At this, Elisha frowned. By God, he was a good surgeon, with the living around him as his proof. This was as close an admission as the physician might make that he knew it just as well. But Elisha had no wish to discover first-hand the wounds those new weapons could make. In silence, he studied his hands.

Dirt and blood rimmed the stubby nails and filled every line and crevice of his knuckles. They were the large, strong hands of a workman, hearkening back to his farmer forebears. Now, despite his scrubbing, Nathaniel’s blood overlaid the nameless infant’s. Perhaps the blame did not belong entirely to him, but also to the midwife who concealed the baby’s death, then revealed—prematurely—that of the mother. These deaths were the culmination of the trouble between himself and his brother, trouble he had started two years ago in his arrogant, suspecting way. If he had not been such a fool back then, he would have been at Helena’s side, not summoned in desperation when it was too late. Even if he could do nothing for his brother’s family, others needed the skills he possessed. There on the battlefield lay the penance he asked for.

He lowered his hands and looked again to the physician. “You’re going to Scotland?”

The physician made a harsh sound. “Certainly not. Prince Thomas leads the army there, and they’ve got none of the new weaponry. No, we go to the plains at Dunbury Ford. You have heard of the battle?”

Dimly, Elisha thought. Another squabble where one noble would be deposed
and another just like him would be given the lands while farmers and villagers tried to put their lives back together.

Lucius sighed. “The duke has defied His Majesty. Young Prince Alaric’s called off his betrothal to the duke’s daughter, and now the duke refuses his rightful fealty; he even claims the prince owes him an apology.” A snort. “His Majesty hopes for a quick victory.”

In gentleman’s terms, a quick victory meant one in which lives were sacrificed and fortresses saved.

“His Majesty hopes the barons don’t join in and recall the bastard princes from France,” the captain muttered.

Lucius fixed him with a stare. “Nobody wants that, captain. Even those who don’t support our king. Are you one of them?”

It was the same argument that brewed in alehouses all over town, and just as meaningless there as in his own jail cell. The succession was history, the battle of Dunbury was real. Elisha broke in: “When do we leave for this mission of mercy?”

With a smug smile, Lucius replied, “Tomorrow dawn. I trust you don’t need much time to gather your things? Good. Meet us at Newgate.” As he lifted the long skirts of his robe, he turned back. “You do have a horse?”

Rolling his eyes, Elisha said, “What do you think?”

With a sigh, the other said, “I shall have a wagon for my important instruments and papers. You may ride with it. Perusing them might do you some good. A little of the knowledge of the Salerno School, eh?”

Elisha reddened and looked away as the man gloated himself out the door.

“Blackmail’s what that is,” the captain said, frowning in the physician’s wake. “I don’t like it, not even for a prisoner, nor yet for an innocent man.”

“No one’s said I am innocent.”

Shaking out his key ring, the captain gave him a stare of reproach. “Keep your own counsel then.” He plucked out the proper key and fitted it into the lock at Elisha’s wrist.

Rubbing the sensation back into his fingers, Elisha remarked, “I have underestimated you.”

At this, the captain smiled. “Most do. I find it works to my advantage.” With a brisk bow, he said, “Good luck at the front then. I don’t expect you’ll be back here.”

“I rather guessed that myself.”

“Now don’t talk that way, Eli,” Lucretia scolded. “Keep your wits about you, and God in your heart, and you’ll not go wrong.”

“In the meantime, I’ll be going to war. I’d best get packing.” With a nod to the captain, the two made their way into the twilight.

Looking at the sky, Lucretia muttered, “Oh, dear. I shall have missed the hour already and be late for curfew besides.”

“Must be strange to go from working by night, to having a curfew.”

She grinned. “You’ve said it, Eli, but all the same, I’ve a better master now than any I’ve ever known.” Then she grew serious. “I shall be praying for you. Do keep safe, Eli.”

“Of course.” He gently squeezed her arms in lieu of an embrace. “See you do likewise, Sister.”

Hiking up her habit, Sister Lucretia trotted off into the growing darkness. For a long time, Elisha watched her go. The Lord was lucky to have her service, as was he to be her friend. At last, he turned away, knowing full well why he dawdled. Eventually he must face the little house, awash with blood. Elisha forced himself to walk briskly. No unpleasant moment got better for waiting.

He rounded the bend of their alley and noticed the dim glow of a candle at the waxed cloth window of the upstairs loft. Surely Helena’s family would be taking care of her, but there was no sign of company. Crossing the yard, Elisha opened the door and hesitated, listening, and heard nothing. Perhaps they had taken her from here to avoid the memories. As he set foot inside, however, the floorboards gave a groan, and someone gasped from above.

“Who’s there? Who is it?” Helena’s voice cried out.

“Only me,” Elisha said. “But why are you here? Please tell me you’re not alone.”

“My sister’s preparing a room for me.”

“Good.” He felt around on the shelf by the door and found flint and steel, and the lantern kept there. Nathaniel rarely bought oil, preferring a fire cheap and simple, but, even in the long months of their mutual silence, Elisha kept their oil jar full. It pleased him to fulfill another of his namesake’s miracles. Nathaniel had never spoken of it, but he had to know where the extra came from.

After the lamp was lit and hung upon its chain, Helena’s voice came again. “I thought I heard someone earlier, and I thought…”

Taking a breath, Elisha shut his eyes. “I am sorry, Helena.”

“Come up,” she said softly. “Let me see you.”

Setting the lantern back in its place, he mounted the narrow stair on the far wall and climbed until his head emerged through the floor of the sleeping loft. On a mattress of straw Helena lay, the candle beside her and a Bible, a gift from a wealthy former admirer, resting close to hand. Of the three who’d lived here, she alone could read, a skill she’d learned before her father’s ruin forced her into a different trade. Her face looked weary, with her hair bundled back in a matronly way. She fluttered a pale hand toward the book. “My only solace and company.”

Folding his arms along the floor, he rested his chin upon them and watched her, even as she studied him. He hoped the light too dim to reveal the blood that stained his clothes.

“It has been a terrible day, Elisha,” she breathed.

Unheeded tears seeped from his eyes to course down his cheeks. Again he prayed the darkness would hide him, and he dared not betray himself by brushing them away. His pain seemed unearned compared with hers. “A terrible day,” he agreed.

“I begged him not to send for you, not after…”

Her words stung him, and Elisha clenched his teeth. “For that, too, I am sorry. I should have trusted you.”

“And Nathan.”

In a whisper, he echoed, “Him, too.”

“You have not been touched by love, Elisha. You do not know its power. Or its pain. If I yet had one of them, my husband or my child, I might have felt some comfort against the loss of the other.” She stared up at the peaked roof, the nails that held the roof tiles casting pointed shadows in the flickering light. “I used to wish you dead,” she said, “For the wounding of my husband.” Her lips curved into a ghost of her smile. “Today I have learned better. Instead, I wish you love. I wish you love to have, and love to lose, and yourself to keep on living. To know every moment that love is forever gone.”

Elisha pressed his face into his arms, sobs welling up in him. He shook
with the effort of silence and the pain she had struck into him with her quiet curse.

“Helena?” a woman’s voice called from below. “Who’s with you?” Then a round face appeared beside the stairs. “Oh. It’s you.” Helena’s sister bore some resemblance, but as if she were the apprentice’s unfinished work from which a master would carve beauty. Her lips twisted at the sight of him as if she might be ill. “Come to have another go round? Now that the husband’s gone, you think Helena might yield to your wooing? And she weak from childbearing.” She made a derisive sound in her throat. “We’ve come to get you, dearie, get you out of this dismal place.” She gave Elisha a pointed stare.