Elisha Magus (3 page)

Across the hall Rosalynn spoke earnestly to the lead musician, seeking a way to assuage her grief. Elisha had not got far in the search for his attempted assassin, and the crowd, for now, meant safety. Straightening his finery, Elisha strode over to meet her.

“M
y lady?”
said Elisha, offering his hand as he had seen the lords do.

Rosalynn accepted, tightening her grip. The decorous dances of the nobility allowed only the slightest contact, never with the fingers closed about the lady’s hand. The dance she had requested—and which the lead musician ran through slowly again for her approval—required a firmer grasp.

Elisha let her turn about his hand and lead him to the now empty floor. He hadn’t danced in years and never in such company as now tittered and rumbled at the edges of the hall. He hoped it wouldn’t be a disaster. “I’m not a very good dancer, my lady,” he began, “I’ve no wish to embarrass you.”

The beak of her mask turned sharply toward him, so that he pulled back from its tip. “Embarrass me, Barber? How can I be more humiliated before this company than I have already been, to see my betrothed sitting beside that? Don’t worry over me—I’m for the nunnery after this. God is the only one left who’ll have me.”

Raw hurt flowed from her hand into his. He pushed back the foreign feelings, withdrawing his awareness until he barely felt her hand in his as she tugged him out, her steps determined and ungraceful. If the dance was a disaster, it mightn’t be all his fault.

At the head table, the duke looked on, a vague smile playing about his lips, while the prince, unable now to avoid it, watched over the rim of his upraised goblet as he drained his wine. Brigit reached out and slipped her pale, slender hand about his elbow, leaning into him, her lips close to his ear. The party of Frenchmen, come for the new king’s coronation and wedding, watched politely—not understanding what they saw.

They reached the center of the floor, and Rosalynn made an effort to draw herself up. Elisha drummed his fingers briefly on his ever-present pouch, full of emergency medical needs. Then he spun her to face him, clasping right hands to begin the dance. He grinned, and through the contact, he sent a quiet wave of resolve, and the sort of anger that lifted a chin, that made a deep breath the more enlivening. He tried to be subtle, so that she might think it was his smile that encouraged her, or the starting beat of the music that sparked her back to life. Indeed, if she were determined in her melancholy, he could not have moved her, not without her willingness to go along. But Rosalynn was willing. She wanted this little revenge, and his nudge gave her the strength to draw that breath and touch her toe to the floor, poised to begin.

A hand-drum gave the rapid beat, then the rebec player began. The dance had several forms, including lines, or circles, of couples, depending on how many joined in. Elisha and Rosalynn danced alone, forming a circle of their own.

From the moment the music started, his gaze never left her face. Would Brigit notice? Would she care? It didn’t matter: he could imagine that she did.

They skipped forward, trotted backward, pulled together and apart. Rosalynn’s skirts swirled about her as she spun a circle of her own.

When they came together, Elisha hesitated. For the second verse, they should take each other about the waist, repeating the series—an intimacy casually undertaken by his people and steadfastly forbidden by hers.

Rosalynn spun back to him, her arm slipping about his waist, her shoulder nestling against his own.

Again, he followed her lead, starting to pray under his breath that the duke would take it all in fun. He might have more than one enemy at the head table by the time the dance was done. His hand settled on her hip.

As they danced backward, she laughed aloud. As they pulled together, even closer, a tear trickled down past her ear.

They twirled apart, clapping with the music, and returned to the center, both hands clasped this time, arms stretched across one another in a near embrace. This time, they pivoted at each change, performing all the steps in reverse. Listening, Elisha caught the trill of music which signaled the last pattern, and he released their left hands, turning her against him and dropping down on one knee.

Startled, Rosalynn nearly lost her balance but landed neatly on his knee, her head thrown back, laughing louder now, wiping at her cheeks as she caught her breath.

Elisha, too, gasped, his heart pounding in the rhythm of the dance. Someone applauded, and others joined in. Shaking, Rosalynn clung to his hand, her fingers kneading his.

Elisha drew her to her feet, rising along with her and bowing over their hands. He led her away, knowing without probing, that if he let her go, she would collapse to the floor in a quaking puddle of grief.

Elisha brought her quickly through the crowd and shook off her hand. Rosalynn fled into the darker hall beyond. He hoped no one else had noticed her tears. Her revenge would not be so rich if it were tempered by other people’s pity. Including his own.

“You dance with passion,” murmured a voice nearby, and Elisha turned to find a tall man tucked into the shadowed arch. He wore a tunic that seemed stitched of rags and embellished with soil, complete to a simple mask of cloth that draped his face, holes torn out over his eyes.

“Desperation, more like,” Elisha replied. “If I dance fast enough, I won’t fall on my face.” The stranger held one arm over his stomach as if it ached, and Elisha noted that he’d even wrapped his palms with rags. The set of his shoulders and the lift of his chin showed his noble bearing, or Elisha might have truly believed him a beggar. This garb didn’t have enough layers to conceal much of a weapon, but still … Elisha unfurled his awareness, sensing exhaustion and fear in the stranger—at war with desire. For Rosalynn? She would be as surprised to hear it as he was surprised to find it in such a costume. “An excellent disguise, my lord.”

The man drew a sharp breath, his eyes flaring, his glance darting about before returning to Elisha’s masked face. “It should be, for what I paid.” It sounded like a jest but for the grim tone of his voice.

“Not so much, I hope.”

The stranger let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “By my faith, it was a princely sum.”

A group of revelers, singing loudly, stumbled through the arch toward the yard beyond, and the stranger drew back from them then plunged into the darkness himself, leaving Elisha frowning after him. With his regal bearing and woeful garb, the stranger felt like Elisha’s opposite, as if they had traded places, leaving the nobleman masquerading as a beggar while the barber played a lord.

A flourish of horns turned him from the arch to find the French delegation rising, filing carefully around the table. Each man of the party, and the two women, wore fixed smiles. The lords went unmasked, but their parti-colored gowns were of rich brocade with fleur-de-lis shimmering in gold on one side. The same symbol the messenger had worn, though his was woven coarse and barely recognizable. Elisha scanned their group of attendants as the lords approached from the floor—he did not see the mask or tunic, but one among them had a drooping stocking, that garter-ribbon still in want of adjustment. Elisha sucked on his teeth. The French? Just to speak of hiring out to them was dangerous. No wonder the little man tried to hide his identity. Elisha sought the source of one danger only to stumble upon another.

“My lord prince—and soon, may we hope, the proud king of our sister nation,” pronounced the leader.

“They must really mean it, if they’re not speaking French,” muttered a young man on the other side of Elisha’s pillar, only to win a cuff from his mother. He scowled but subsided.

“In token of our friendship, we bring you this.” The man bowed stiffly and stuck out a hand, but the bearer hesitated and had to be waved forward. A smile from one of the women turned briefly genuine, as if she were amused by the whole affair, but Brigit’s eyes narrowed at them from her side of the high table.

The servant knelt, holding up the offering, and the lord swept off an embroidered velvet sash to reveal a miniature church complete with a tower and angels, gleaming with gold, sparkling with silver. At its heart rested a crystal vessel, though Elisha could not make out the contents at such a distance.

“A relic of the blessed Saint Louis, to guide you upon your reign.” They all bowed again.

Alaric stared down at the gaudy thing, his jaw tight. He answered in French, a fluent little speech, in which Elisha caught a reference to the sainted king Edward the Confessor. Saint Louis had been king of France only fifty years before, and now was beatified, but Edward’s cult had been venerated for hundreds of years. The rest of the high table tried to conceal their amusement, but the French ambassador’s face seemed rigid. The lady beside him gave a deep curtsey—along with a view down her low neckline no doubt—and answered with a suspicious lightness in her voice. Elisha did not need to understand her words to know what else was on offer.

“Thank you, I’m sure,” said Brigit, pushing up from her chair. “It is a lovely gift and a fine addition to our chapel.” She emphasized “our,” and the French lady rose, recoiling a little with a swish of her silken headdress.

“Another dance!” cried the duke. “Please. Our pages shall parade the relic so that all may see the generosity of our neighbors.” He urged two boys to take up the cushion and make a slow passage down the table, the bishop, as well, rose to join the procession.

Distantly Elisha heard a new tune, one of the slow and courtly dances played toward the end of an evening, and the soft shuffle of slippers as the assembled nobles resumed their fun. A gaggle of children emerged around their parents’ skirts and ankles and rushed up to view the saint’s bone in its tiny gilded hall. Alaric gazed at the French lady a moment too long before Brigit seized his hand, and Elisha chuckled. Brigit hadn’t learned from the experience of Lady Rosalynn if she were expecting faith from her prince.

The duke’s hand settled on his shoulder, with an eddy of concern.

Elisha immediately began, “Your Grace, I’m sorry, she asked me, and I didn’t—”

Much to his dismay, the duke laughed. “I’ve not come to rip you limb from limb, Elisha, you can calm yourself about that. I’m only hoping we can settle the French and the prince without anyone having to invade.” He gave a sigh, then glanced up at Elisha. “Saint Louis is the patron saint of Paris. It wasn’t a gift, it was a threat.”

“My guess was they hoped it to be a nuptial gift, but not for Brigit.”

“Some things a man doesn’t need a knowledge of French to understand.” Then his glance turned speculative. “So what do you think of our Rosalynn?”

Flushed from both the dancing and now the question, Elisha managed, “She seems pleasant enough.”

“Pleasant?” The duke looked vexed. “From the way you danced, you might’ve thought her a ravishing beauty.”

Elisha hesitated, wondering how to remove the insult.

“Don’t be so concerned, Barber, I’m not out for blood, truly.” The duke exerted a gentle pressure, prodding Elisha into motion away from the crowd into an open-air yard. “In fact, I enjoyed it. I little imagined Rosalynn would dance again, never mind with such … exuberance. She’s been in a black mood since …” His gesture completed the sentence. “I thought the time at her brother’s would help her get over it and give me time to sort out Hugh and Alaric, besides. Now look what it’s all come to.”

Elisha slipped off his mask, rubbing the sweat from his face. “I don’t follow you, Your Grace.”

He tapped his fingers together, then sighed. “Hugh and I were cousins. It’s why he advanced me during the confusion after King Edward’s death.” He crossed himself briefly at the mention of the old king. “Hugh needed those around him who’d support his claim to the throne.”

“Cousins? Good God, I am sorry.” Elisha felt he was still back in the hall, dizzy with dancing.

“Sorry you killed him? Don’t be. Someone had to cut down the treacherous bastard. I’m only sorry it was not I who did the deed.”

This time, Elisha held his tongue. The night air chilled his skin, despite the stillness of June all around them. Lately, he felt cold all the time, indoors or out. Ever since the day he had invited Death into himself, and it had not entirely left him.

“In fact,” the duke continued, “I amazed Alaric right then when I failed to take the crown for myself, by right of arms aside from the ties of blood we shared.” He shrugged. “So here comes Alaric to be sure I support his claim over Thomas’s.”

On second thought, perhaps Rosalynn had gotten her conversational style from her father—neither of them seemed to require his participation, only his attention.

“It’s all about alliances, who can summon the strongest allies.” He cocked his head to study Elisha sidelong. “Have they started in on you yet?”

Elisha had almost forgotten the small man in the ugly mask. “Someone sent a messenger, offering wealth and power.”

“Not what you want?” The duke smiled. “Someone’ll find out what you
do
want, Barber, and offer you that. All these factions will want you for themselves.”

“What for, Your Grace? As you say, I’m just a barber.”

“Not just. You killed the king, apparently by magic, though few were close enough to know the truth, and every tavern and brothel from here to the border will be abuzz with stories. Every soldier you ever healed will claim himself a miracle—or a curse. Oh, no, Elisha Barber. As far as the barons are concerned, you are the most dangerous man alive, and you’d do well to remember that. They just can’t be sure what you’ll do next.”