Elisha Magus (14 page)

Mortimer and the soldiers stood watching, and Elisha said, “You wished for privacy, Your Highness. This hardly seems private enough.”

For a moment, Alaric sucked on his lip, then he waved Elisha over to the north transept, motioning for his men to stay where they were. From that side crossing, they could still see the soldiers, but were unlikely to be heard. Mortimer growled and stalked back toward the altar, receding around the corner.

Elisha stood a few paces from Alaric, considering him. His regal attire looked a bit loose, the gold chain of office quivering with his breaths. The prince tried his smile again, but it had lost the youthful carelessness that Elisha remembered. There were echoes of his brother’s face about his brow and nose. “The man who spoke to me was a magus. He told me the king was against them, was hunting them down. He was looking for a place he and his companions might be safe. Apparently, he didn’t find it.”

In turn, the prince watched him carefully. “And the ambassador?”

“I never spoke with him. Or with the French lady.”

Alaric nodded slowly and shifted his weight, looking toward one of the recessed chapels. “I am inclined to believe you, given our history.”

“Then may I go, Your Highness?”

“You went back to view his body—why?”

“Did you hear about the other funeral that night?”

Alaric frowned. “Another funeral? What’s that got to do with the French?”

With a shrug, Elisha said, “We found another body on the battlefield and the funeral was held that afternoon. Someone tried to shoot me with a crossbow during the burial. I thought the robbery might have been another attempt. Besides, the robber had an unusual weapon. I wanted to know more about it.”

“An unusual weapon? I don’t recall hearing about this.” Alaric’s profile was calm, but his Adam’s apple bobbed, and Elisha made himself relax, spreading his senses to envelop the prince’s nervousness.

“The Frenchman was in fear of his life, then he lost it. That doesn’t seem coincidental to me. I assume the weapon was something foreign.” Something about the slaying put the prince on edge, but why should mention of the weapon attract so much interest?

“You think the French ambassador had him killed?”

“As a traitor, Your Highness, with the added benefit, perhaps, of embarrassing the duke or yourself.”

“I see. Well, the more they fight among themselves, the less likely they are to bother us.” Alaric tapped his lips. “So what did you determine about this weapon?”

The prince was not the only one nervous about this line of questioning. Beyond him, in the church, Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. Elisha unfurled his senses further, and found him lurking just past the corner, holding his breath. “It has more than one blade, perhaps as many as five, not flat, but …”

Elisha had been shaping it with his hands, and now he watched them. A glove, perhaps? Like a gauntlet with sharpened fingers? “But perhaps my lord Mortimer has something to add?” he said, raising his voice.

“What?” Alaric swung about. “Mortimer?”

The lord appeared around the corner and gave a short bow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I cannot countenance leaving you alone with a traitor and a witch. Everything he says is tainted. Don’t you think the French ambassador had more important issues to hand than watching where his servants went? No doubt you simply had a robber with quick blade.”

“Issues to hand,” Elisha repeated, and Mortimer twitched. He knew more about the weapon than Elisha did, and he knew too much about the dead Frenchman: Somehow Mortimer was involved. Mortimer was antagonizing Elisha now to distract Alaric’s attention from the Frenchman’s death—but the assailant’s cursing suggested something had gone wrong, that it was not a successful assassination, not carried out as planned. What if he had hoped to kill them both?

Would Mortimer try again to kill him, even on hallowed ground? Heaven knew the other barons would be pleased at Elisha’s death—all but Randall and a few of his supporters. And even Randall’s strength might be outweighed by the rest. Something stayed Mortimer’s hand, forcing him to work in secret. That suggested Alaric did not know what his man was up to, and Mortimer wished to keep it that way.

Aloud, Elisha said, “A robber with a quick blade. No doubt. If that’s all, Your Highness …”

Leaning against a marble pillar, Alaric regarded him, his face no longer boyish. “It’s hard to say. The French are very unhappy right now. My retainer”—he shot a dark look at Mortimer—“ruined their nasty little gift, their own retainer was killed on our watch, and I’ll have to refuse their princess.” He was scowling, but the expression looked pensive rather than angry.

He needn’t refuse the princess, Elisha thought, but he said, carefully, “I’ve told you, Your Highness, that I have had nothing to do with them, and I intend to have nothing to do with them.”

“What
do
you intend, Elisha?” Alaric held his name with a speculative accent. “You’re a barber, still a commoner. Randall’s taken you in, but he can’t change what you are.”

“It’s always been enough for me,” Elisha replied. His secret senses found Alaric warm and closed, any effort to sense beneath his skin foiled by some internal armor, slippery as a fish.

“Perhaps you should be seeking higher employment. A king could use a man with your talent. What do you say, Barber? Duke Randall and I have reached an accord. As his servant, your fealty will follow his at any rate—but I am prepared to offer you a place a bit nearer the throne.”

At his side, Mortimer stiffened. “You can’t do this, Your Majesty.”

“You do not know what’s at stake, Mortimer,” Alaric said softly and precisely.

“I’m not ready for such high service, Your Highness.” Their eyes met, and both men were silent a long moment.

“You know me, Barber. I held back my father’s men that day. One might even say we worked well together: I, rescuing his hostages while you took care of the man himself. I’m curious what else you might undertake in the name of justice.”

“A man who hires his father’s killer can hardly claim that virtue, Your Highness.” Elisha took the sting from the statement with a smile and a shrug. “Your barons are unhappy enough with me alive, never mind as part of your household.”

“At least he’s not a dullard,” Mortimer put in.

“They don’t have to know you work for me. Nobody else has to know.”

“What of God, who knows all?” Mortimer demanded.

Waving away this remark, Alaric shoved off from the pillar and strode over, his ermine-edged cloak slithering over the ground. He had dressed to display his kingship—not to Elisha, surely. Then to whom? Who would he be meeting at Compline? Alaric leaned close to Elisha’s ear and whispered, “You can do things even my lady cannot.”

Elisha swallowed, and the duke’s voice echoed in his head—if they could not seduce him, they would kill him.

Drawing back, Alaric went on, “Certain missions require the utmost secrecy, a surgical skill, one might say. You could travel, see some of the continent, enjoy much more luxury than you do now.”

“In the name of justice,” Elisha said, and Alaric gave a nod. “Because the assassin you already have has failed you. At least once.”

And Alaric froze while Mortimer slid his sword a few inches free of its sheath, his hand firm and face impassive. “My assassin?” the prince blurted. “I don’t know—” he stopped and gave a sharp breath, his face lighting up almost as it used to. “Oh, my good Barber, you don’t think I’ve been trying to kill you? If I wanted you dead, I’d call for your execution. Mortimer here would—”

“With pleasure,” the lord said.

Alaric swung about to face his retainer. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Mortimer.”

The lord hesitated, his sharp chin brought up, then, at last, Mortimer’s lips bent into a grudging smile and he bowed his head. “I thought you would be pleased, Majesty, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to do the deed.”

“The crossbow?” Alaric pressed. “And the Frenchman?”

Sheathing his weapon once more, Mortimer lowered his hands and lied so palpably Elisha could see it the stiffness of his face. “Regrettable, Your Majesty. And the more so if his death cast any aspersions on yourself. It was a clumsy attempt, Your Majesty, and the hireling has been duly punished.”

Alaric relaxed, shaking his head. “You can’t take these decisions for yourself, Mortimer. Don’t do it again.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me.” He watched Elisha from the corner of his eye, and his posture of lordly penitence seemed a bit too languid, the confession too easy. Nor did his admission of guilt ease Elisha’s nerves. In apologizing for the Frenchman’s death, Mortimer claimed the crime to be an accident, deflecting interest from the mysterious assassin with his strange weapon. If he did not work on Alaric’s orders, who, then, was Mortimer’s master? Far off, a door opened, echoing in the stone interior.

“Have you been thinking on my offer?” the prince asked suddenly, interrupting Elisha’s line of thought. “I can’t guarantee that Mortimer here is the only one with ideas of his own. A foreign residence might be just the thing for you.”

Thinking on it? As if Elisha should simply overlook the fact that the king’s retainers wanted him dead.

“I’m sure our enemies already have agents here, working against us,” Alaric went on, his gaze focused with a curious urgency. “I could use a man of your talents, to counter whatever threats may arise.”

In fact, Alaric’s whole being focused with a need Elisha could not understand; tension in his hands, in his shoulders, in the straining expression on his face. He looked so taut that Elisha wanted to soften, to speak soothing words, as a healer to his patient, to reassure him that the condition was not so dire as all that. What threats? he wanted to ask. Were the French so great a worry? Or did Alaric still fear his fallen brother? It was too late. Elisha’s heart, and hand, would serve another. “Do you actually mean to buy me, Highness, or are you only trying to figure out my price?”

In the nave beyond, voices rose, and Rosalynn’s voice called, “Elisha!”

Alaric spun on his heel and stuck his head around the corner, jerking back almost as quickly. “Oh, Barber. You work too cheap.”

“Your Majesty, she just—came in—should we …” The guard looked at a loss, gesturing down the nave.

“I don’t believe we have any more to say.” Elisha bowed curtly and stepped past the prince, walking swiftly.

Steel hissed behind him, and Alaric spoke in a low voice. “I did not give you leave.” Mortimer’s long shadow came up with a firm stride and a second blade.

Elisha’s heart hammered, the tension at his shoulders making his throat ache all the more. If he had thought an honest refusal would earn his freedom he was mistaken. The seduction was over.

“Elisha!” Rosalynn pinched up her skirts and hurried toward him, her cheeks flushed, eyes darting to the soldiers, to the prince, back to his face.

For a moment, Elisha dearly wished she were a witch, but he must speak to the air and be quick. He stepped up boldly, evading the hesitant guards and cupped the lady’s cheek. She stiffened, eyes going wide. “Forgive me, lady,” he whispered as softly as he could, their cheeks pressed together, his lips to her ear. “I have need of you.”

“I’m listening,” she murmured in reply, breathless now, but not frightened.

“Would you know my friend if you saw him again?”

Rosalynn gasped and clasped her hand over his, trembling. “But he’s outside—he’s looking for you.”

Elisha bit down on an oath.

“We are not done here, Barber,” Mortimer snapped behind him.

“He must not come here. Not for anything. Nothing at all, my lady, do you understand?” He sent his urgency, perhaps too sharply, for she flinched, her dark hair brushing against his face.

“But how could I stop him?”

For a moment, their hands clasped, cradling her head, and he had to admit, “I don’t know. But you have to try.” Then he released her, stepping away. Rosalynn gave a shiver, her eyes still wide.

“Then I’ll take my leave,” she said, her voice a bit shrill. She took in the soldiers around them. “You will not attend me, Elisha?”

“I think not, my lady.” Alaric’s words fell like hammer blows at Elisha’s back. “Give my regards to your father, would you?”

“Yes, of course, Your Highness.” She made a pretty curtsey, turned, and walked away down the long nave.

“Don’t know her as well as I thought, eh, Barber?” Alaric spoke too loud, letting his voice echo from the stone arches. “She is every inch the slut I claimed her for.”

“There’s no call for that, Your Highness.” Elisha glanced back at the prince. “Don’t you have what you wanted? Everything you’ve wanted? Why taunt the rest of us?”

The door gave another creak, and a guard shouted, “You there! Be gone!”

“It’s all right, he’s just checking on me,” Rosalynn called over her shoulder and then hurried her pace, going to meet whomever the guards had spotted by the door.

Elisha’s heart sank, and he snapped back his awareness, gathering his strength.

“Get out of here, the both of you,” Mortimer called. “The barber is no more of your concern.”

Like the wandering stars, they stood for a moment aligned, Elisha at the crossing, surrounded by armed men, Rosalynn nearly at the door, Thomas framed inside of it. He must know his brother was here—had he come for some stupid, hero’s battle, or would he take the coward’s role and walk away? And what could Elisha say to make him leave without revealing him?

“You heard the lord, my lady,” Elisha echoed. “Get out of here.”

“I don’t like this, Majesty,” Mortimer muttered. “If she is no slut, then why did she come back?”

At this distance, in the dim light of the church, Elisha could just make out the figure of Thomas by the door, but his face remained in darkness. Rosalynn was near enough to see him, but she stumbled to a halt, then turned back to Elisha. She grabbed her skirts and started to run—directly toward him.

“No, Elisha, I won’t leave you!”

“Guards,” roared the prince. “Stop that woman—and shut her up!”

“What are you doing?” Elisha howled at Rosalynn, as the guards seized him, pulling him back. Three men sprinted past toward Rosalynn.