The Necromancer's Grimoire (7 page)

“We depart at first light, yet I need you to write a letter for me before we go.” He grimaced and began pulling at the laces on his leathers. He jerked them so hard he tightened them instead. She pushed his hands away and put her own fingers to work unlacing his brigandine. An uneasy silence accompanied her efforts.

“I don't have ink or paper,” she said when he was reduced to his long tunic and nothing else. She picked up the discarded clothing and folded what she could, placing the quilted vest and leather brigandine on top of the pile.

“Call on William.” Montrose stretched out on the low bed. Nadira left him there, puzzled, but wise enough not to comment.

William was alone in the room he shared with Garreth and Alisdair. A quick glance located the two bundles that belonged to her friends set ready to go by the door, their owners most likely downstairs with the barmaids. William was busy stuffing a sack with books. He looked up as she entered.

“Ah, Nadira. Are you packed already?”

“No. The baron wishes to send a letter. He has sent me here to get the material. What happened below?”

William tied the opened end of his sack shut with some cord and laid it next to the two other bundles. “They talked about the route and money. Sir Calvin told Alisdair there would be no other place to post a letter until we reach Constantinople. Sir Corbett is sending Lionel and Derrick with the letters. Reginald is now in Napoli. The baron's rents are in Venice. Maybe he is posting something there. He is…displeased. I told him about the other book.” He glanced up at her as he opened another sack. “Calvin tested me on my Greek. He knows little Greek and wants me to read from some book in Constantinople. I asked him why he did not want you to read it,” William looked puzzled. “He said you would be otherwise occupied.”

“Did you pass the test?”

“Yes. My Greek is excellent,” he looked at her. “Do you know what he means by ‘occupied'?”

She nodded absently. “I am glad you will be there with me,” she said in a low voice.

“Where?”

She did not answer. “I need to write this letter tonight,” she said instead.

“Yes,” he looked at her suspiciously as he reached into the sack and removed his 
leather writing kit. “I don't have any ink. You will have to go to the landlord for some.”

“And paper?”

“I always have paper.” He felt in the bottom of the sack before pulling out a parcel tied on four sides with thin cord. His fingers deftly worked the knots until he was able to peel off one precious sheet for her.

She opened the leather kit and tipped it toward the lamp. She could see his quills and the small knife he used to sharpen the nibs. “I can use any one I please?”

“This one has the finer point,” he leaned over to indicate one of them. “And this one holds more ink with every dip.”

“Thank you.” She turned toward the door.

“Nadira...”

She turned back to him but only his golden eyes had something to say.

The landlord supplied a bottle of fine ink for a few coins. Nadira made her way up the stairs and back to her room. Montrose had not moved since her departure. She pushed the door closed with her shoulder and set her materials on the table. She lifted the heavy sword and placed it on his pile of clothing. The stool was too low for her and needed a pillow to set her at the right height for writing. When she was ready, the lamp glowing brightly and pen in hand, she spoke.

“You may begin, my lord. To whom is this letter addressed?”

He sat up and put his feet on the floor. He rubbed his face with both hands, finishing by pulling his fingers through his hair as she had seem him do many times when he was troubled.
 
“
Address it to Richard Longmoor, Baron Kemberley.”

“Oh…” she breathed. His father. She glanced sideways at him. “Robert…”

“No. Let me finish. Let us get this over with.
 
‘
Richard Longmoor, Baron Kemberley. I write from outside Rome. It is my sad duty to inform you'…” he stopped.

Nadira finished scratching his words and waited. When he did not finish the sentence, she prompted in a low voice, “of your son's death at the hands of pirates in Barcelona this past autumn.” She waited for his approval. He looked at her from across the room. She felt his gaze like a heavy weight. “My lord…?”

He nodded once, and she wrote the rest of the sentence, the scratching of her pen the only sound in the room. When she finished, she raised the quill and looked at
 him expectantly.

“What more is to be said?” he asked her.

“Certainly you must say more to him.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I've done my duty as written.”

“My lord. Surely you can imagine what these words will do to him, how they will tear at his heart. You must offer him more detail, more comfort.”

“Comfort?” He stood abruptly, glaring down at her, his face now pale.

She knew his anger was not directed at her, but at his own grief. She was not cowed. “Tell him what Richard accomplished before his death. Tell him of his son's courage and his defiance. Tell him of your brother's resolve and his…”

“Stop.” He was breathing heavily now and his pallor changed to a ruddy flush of temper.

“Robert…”

“Silence!” He roared at her and made for the door. His hand yanked at the latch before he must have remembered he was nearly naked. He could not escape. He stopped, touched his forehead to the wood panels. She watched his shoulders rise and fall.

Nadira put her pen down once again. After a long moment he turned to face her, his face wretched. “You do not understand.” His quiet voice was like gravel. “I am responsible for Richard's death…I have killed him.”

“No.” Nadira stood, pushing the stool back. “No.”

He shook his head slowly. “I was tasked with his safety and I failed. There are no words you can scratch into that paper that will comfort my father. No words to comfort me. This is the truth of the matter.” His shoulders sank lower as he leaned into the doorframe. “I will never see him again, hear his voice, nor listen to his stories. I have killed him. He was a bright light in this dark world, Nadira, and I snuffed it out.”

She took his hand and tugged at him until he allowed her to lead him back to the bed. He sat heavily, making the ropes creak. She put a small hand on his shoulder. “Richard left you,” she said. “He left you. Alisdair told me. He told me Richard sent you to the taverna and left before you returned. He outsmarted you, yes. But you trusted him. He betrayed your trust when he left all of you without a word and made his way to the docks. He did this because he knew you would stop him. He knew you would do anything to keep him safe. He knew this. That is why he slipped away. This is the truth of the matter.” She waited until he nodded. “Let me finish the letter for you.”

“No. He will know I have not supplied my own simple words if you insert your fine ones.”

“Is that important?”

“Do you believe I am a coward? Afraid to supply my own words?”

Nadira blinked, surprised at the question. “Of course not, however, I do know that you suffer. I am trying to ease this hurt for you.”

“Not all hurts are meant to be eased. Some exist for a reason.”

“Sir Corbett said the same thing. I admit I do not understand. When I am in pain I want it gone. Perhaps the idea of a good pain is an idea that men have.”

“It is an idea that Christians have. You do not have the concept of sin inside you.” He touched the round curve of her breast with one finger.

“And your suffering is payment for your sin?” The idea began to make more sense to her.

“Yes.”

“Psht,” she responded. “It is not the truth. Believe it if you will. Suffering exists to teach one how not to suffer.”

“Did you read this in one of your books?” His fingers continued to explore her body. Touching her body was comforting him in ways her words could not.

“No.” Nadira did not want to take the time to explain. His hands had lifted her gown and were now sliding up her thigh. “I see you do not wish to finish this letter tonight.” She put her own hand on his, leading the progress toward her hip. She encouraged him to explore further, “You would prefer another means of communication,” she said softly.

His hand pulled free from her leg and his face fell like the hem of her gown. “Prefer…” he sighed.

“You deny yourself the pleasures of my flesh as punishment as well?” She stroked the curly hairs on his chest through the open laces of his tunic. “Tonight may be the best time. I noticed our friends chose to leave us alone in this room.”

He removed her hand from his shirt. “No.”

“Then tell me what I must write to Lord Kemberley,” Nadira conceded defeat and went back to her seat at the table.

He waited for her to pick up the quill. After a longer pause, he said in a low voice, “Tell him his son is dead, buried in Barcelona. Tell him I am on my way to Istanbul and that I plan to avenge my brother's murder before I return to England. Tell him as long as Massey lives, I am dead inside.”

Nadira busily scratched his words, mumbling, “That is rather poetic, coming from you. ‘Fine words', indeed.”

He rubbed his face again. “You have taught me to think about words.”

She finished writing and looked up again. “More?”

“No. But I will need you to write to my sister's husband. He keeps my lands in my absence. I need him to send the next rents to Istanbul. Have Angelo in Pera hold them. He will know who that is.” Montrose paused. “I also need you to write to Venice where my rents are now. They also need to go to Angelo.”

Nadira had long wondered where the money was coming from. She waited for him to compose his thoughts and glanced up at him when he took too long. He roused himself from his memories. “You will enjoy Angelo's villa and gardens.”

“Will we be staying there?” she asked him.

“I always stay with him when I am in Istanbul. His hospitality is generous and his company informative. He is a great source of news. An incorrigible gossip. His servant, Thedra, dances…”

Nadira looked up from her paper. “Dances?”

She was surprised to see some color rise to his cheeks before he cleared his throat and changed the subject. “My sister's husband. Please.” He waved a hand at her quill.

She carefully cut the paper at the end of Lord Kemberley's letter with William's scissors and started at the top again. “What is his name?”

“James Radcliff. Send greetings to my sister, Catherine, et cetera.” Nadira formed the basic greeting. Montrose continued. “Tell him Richard is dead. I would rather he hear it from my letter than have him and my sister shocked by my father's fury. At least they will be prepared for him, as I know the old man will immediately travel there to abuse me to them further.” He made a face.

Nadira obeyed, the quill waving over her hand as she wrote.

“And tell them I have acquired plans for a water mill I saw cleverly constructed in Bavaria. I want him to find a place in the river suited for a mill and begin collecting stones. Tell him to start looking around the deep hole at the curve of the big rock.” She looked up, raised an eyebrow.

“Your brother's death and a construction project in the same letter?”

“Just tell him.”

Nadira bent to her work. “These plans?” She knew they were not in their baggage.

“Beniste has them. He is sending them.”

She wrote.

He paced back and forth, waving his hands in the air. “Send them my best regards, et cetera.”

“It is finished then,” she said. He gave her the information she needed to have them delivered properly and handed her his signet ring for pressing onto the wax. She finished her work and set the folded letters aside for the morning. “And?”

“That is all.”

“Will you answer a question for me?” Something had been bothering Nadira for weeks, but events and situations kept her from asking.

“If I can.”

“How is it that your estate is separate from your father's? In England land passes to the eldest son, does it not? You are the younger.”

“It does. Richard was the heir to my father's estate, Kemberley. Now I am, as much as that must enrage my father.” He rubbed the short stubble of his beard. “My own lands are a gift from a duke. I saved his life in a battle. He gave me a farm and a title. That is all.”

“A ‘farm'?” She puzzled. This was another English word she did not know.

“Land, with tenants. Most of my land is in sheep and oats. There is a rather small house…”

Nadira said, “I think you are being over modest, my lord. I shall ask Alisdair. I am certain to get a much better story.”

He shook his head. “You will get a better story. It will not be accurate.”

She prepared the bed for sleeping. “Then you can tell me the truth. There was a duke, a battle. How old were you when you saved his life? How long ago?” She climbed in and made herself comfortable. He put out the candle and followed her, covering them with the blanket.

“Maybe twenty-five. It was 1485.”

“What was the battle about?” She settled into the curve of his body.

“What are they always about? Power. Two men wanted to be king. Now one of them is.”

“How was it you were there?”

“My father is Talbot's man. When he calls for men and arms my father sends them. He sent me.”

“And Richard?”

He nuzzled the back of her neck and his words were soft. “Richard wanted to go as a chronicler, but my lord hoped he might take up arms and bring him glory, so he sent him as well. It looks good for a man to say to his lord, ‘I am sending my two sons to honor you with their service.' It looks very good, indeed.”