by David Penny
“Ghosts?” said Jorge.
“Yes, ghosts. Do you believe such things exist?”
“What, did you see the farmer and his wife?”
“Of course not.”
“It’s just that the question isn’t like you. But then you’re not like you anymore, are you?”
“No, I expect you’re right. Are you going to answer me?”
Jorge was silent for a moment. A long moment, unusual for him, and Thomas took the time to think about what he might be able to offer the people of this town, wondered if he could remember any of the skills he had once possessed.
“Lubna?” said Jorge at last.
This time it was Thomas who remained silent.
“Did you see her?” asked Jorge.
“Heard.”
“She always was a voice of reason.”
“More than likely, even if it was only a figment of my own imagination.”
“She was always the more sensible. Was it good advice?”
Thomas nodded.
“So,” said Jorge, “this voice you heard, do you think it was her?”
“How could it be? She’s dead. We burned her body. If there is such thing as a soul hers will be with her God.”
“Which did she love more,” said Jorge, “her God or you?”
Thomas jerked his head, because he heard the voice again, as clear and firm as if Lubna sat next to him. Three words, but they were all that was necessary.
You, of course.
Lubna had always been sparse with her advice, as if she suspected Thomas rarely took it.
Jorge must have seen something on Thomas’s face because he looked around the room, searching for something that wasn’t there. “What are you going to do?”
“Whatever feels right.”
When they entered the small square Jamila and Aban were arguing, but stopped when Jamila caught sight of Thomas. She tapped Aban on the shoulder and pushed him toward the house. For a moment he looked as if he wanted to continue the argument, then Dana appeared in the doorway and he went toward her.
“Does he know she carries Luis’s child?” Thomas asked.
“Or his. She told me she doesn’t know whose it is.” Jamila smiled, surprising Thomas. “She claims it belongs to both of them.” The smile faded. “Only one of them now.”
“Luis may still be alive. I’m going to try and find out, if I can.”
“Why?”
“Because it serves my purpose for coming here as well as anything else.”
“You are talking of your wife, aren’t you?” said Jamila. “Jorge told me. Told me how she died. I am sorry you had to suffer in such a way.”
Thomas shook his head, unwilling to discuss it.
“Jorge also told me you are a physician. Would you examine Dana? There are others here as well who would benefit from your skill.”
“You must have women here who can attend to such things. It’s not appropriate for a man my age to examine a girl like Dana.”
“I will be with you. Besides, a physician is excused normal conduct, isn’t he?”
“Who are the others?”
“Ibrahim is an old man. I suspect there is little you can do for him, but there is also a friend of mine who has a pain in her side that doesn’t heal.”
“I have nothing with me. No instruments, no drugs or herbs.”
“You are better than anything else we have. Will you look at them or not?”
Thomas stared across the dry square. Already the day was growing hot, and dust swirls rose in spirals where the wind curled around the side of buildings.
“I will look, but can make no promises.”
“That will be enough. Who do you want to start with? Dana?”
“No, the woman with the pain in her side.”
Thomas felt naked as Jamila led him to a house on the edge of town. He missed his leather satchel, his herbs, the tools of his trade. But he had his fingers, his eyes and his ears, as well as knowledge acquired over thirty years.
The woman was in her forties, narrow-faced with a pinched mouth, but that might have been from the pain she was suffering. Her house sat above a steep slope that fell away to a distant valley floor where a river ran, only partly visible between dense tree growth. Thomas realised he must have stood nearby in the night when Lubna spoke to him.
“I will need her to lift her top,” Thomas said. “Perhaps you will help.”
It took a moment before Jamila could persuade the woman, and when she did she wrapped her hands across her small breasts. Thomas remained where he was, but his eyes tracked her side. She was even thinner without her clothing, and he knew life in the town must be hard. A multi-coloured bruise marked her side, and it was clear to him what had happened.
“How did you injure yourself? Did your husband hit you?”
“My husband has been taken, like all the other men—except this one’s son.” There was a sharpness to her voice and Thomas wondered how many others felt the same way about Aban’s continued presence.
“A fall, then?” He moved closer. “I need to touch your side.”
The woman drew away and Thomas straightened.
“He is here to help,” said Jamila. “You must allow it.”
“He is a stranger.”
“All the more reason he can examine you. He will be gone soon and nobody need ever know.”
The woman turned her head to one side, as if not seeing Thomas would make it not real.
He touched her, lightly at first, feeling for what he suspected, finding a sharpness beneath the surface. When he pressed harder the woman cried out.
“You have broken a rib. When did you fall?”
“I tripped a while ago when I was tending my fields,” she said. “I thought nothing of it, but then the pain grew worse.”
“I’ll see if I can find something for that, but I need to bandage you tightly. You must leave the bandage on for a week at least, two if you can bear it. There will be pain at first but then it will improve.”
Still she wouldn’t look at him. “Do what you must. I can bear pain. Life is pain, is it not?”
When it was done, and Jamila led him from the house on their way to see the old man, Thomas asked, “Where can I find poppy? And sativa, if you have it nearby.”
“We are too high here for those to grow. You may find a little poppy on the slopes beyond the river, but more likely you will need to go as far as Pampaneira.”
“This Pampaneira is a town? How far is it?”
“It’s large enough for what you need. The journey will take half a day, no more, and I will come to show you the way.”
Chapter Seven
Thomas could do nothing for the old man, Ibrahim. He suffered from age, bad eyes, and a heart that stuttered on the edge of failure. There was also a hard lump in his side next to his liver. His hands were stained permanently from working in the quarry, a tale he told as he was examined. Thomas suspected the constant contact with black powder had affected Ibrahim’s health. He had seen it before, the contamination slow and insidious. Few men who worked with the powder lived as long as Ibrahim.
“How many years have you?” Thomas sat on a stool beside the man, who rested on cushions in the corner of his house.
“Three score and seventeen.” The man laughed, like it was a joke on the fates. “Not so bad, eh? More than my allotted time, and some.” He looked up and met Thomas’s eyes. “I expect I will not see three score and eighteen though. Tell me true, physician.”
Thomas had never been one to soften such news, even less so now than he was, and he nodded. “No, you will not. You have months left to you, if not weeks.”
“It is as I thought.”
“I can prepare something for the pain. You do have pain, don’t you?”
“All the time.”
“And something to keep you going a little longer, perhaps.”
“I do not fear death. My life has been good, and Allah will find a place for me where I can ru
n again like I did as a youth.” The man attempted to stand, but Thomas put a hand on his chest to hold him down.
“Stay where you are.”
“There is something I need to tell you.” Ibrahim tried to rise again, and this time Thomas helped until he stood, swaying. “It is outside town, but you might find a use for what is stored there.”
“How far outside?”
“There is a stone hut in the quarry where I used to work. I built it with my own hands, quarry and hut both. Use what is held there if you wish, but if you cannot it must be disposed of in a safe manner.” He looked Thomas up and down. “You strike me as a man who can do that.”
“I know what you speak of. Is the hut locked?”
Ibrahim gave a laugh that turned to a cough, all the answer Thomas needed.
“Rest, I’ll go and take a look.”
“Can you do anything for him?” Jamila walked beside Thomas as they crossed the small square, her presence almost familiar.
“If I can get the right herbs. I might find something in this town you mentioned—I’ll go after I’ve seen Dana.”
They had reached Jamila’s house when Aban came running from beyond the village. “They’re back!”
Jamila reacted at once, pushing him in front of her. “You know where to go. Hide, now.”
“I want to fight.”
“Do as I say!”
Thomas turned and strode to the last of the houses. On the crest of the ridge six men sat on horseback. They stopped a moment to survey the village, then started down the slope, not in any rush. Thomas melted into a shadow and watched them come. Soldiers with leather jerkins and hard faces. He moved backward out of sight then ran to the square. Aban was gone, but Jamila remained outside.
“Jorge and I need weapons.” He considered trying to get to the hut Ibrahim had told him of but knew there wasn’t enough time to prepare an ambush.
“Go join Aban,” said Jamila. “They won’t take the women, but they’ll kill you both if you try to resist.”
“Or take us,” Thomas said.
“No, you are too old, and you look sick. Jorge they might, but not you. They only take the young. You they will kill.”
“Where are your weapons?” Thomas asked a second time.
Jamila took his arm and led him to a small room far in the back of the house. She stopped at a doorway, as if reluctant to enter. Thomas went into the room. Four swords hung across nails hammered into loose plaster, and he recognised those Aban had brought for their fight. There was a shield with an ornate emblem that meant nothing to him, and an axe he recognised as belonging to a Northman, a memory coming to him of Olaf Torvaldsson swinging just such an axe as he brought chaos and death to the Spanish. Thomas knew the axe was not for him, but one of the swords was finely made, well-balanced and light, and he took that. He picked another for Jorge, hoping he might remember how to use it, also taking the shield for him.
Jamila was waiting along the narrow corridor.
“These belonged to your husband?”
She offered a nod. “He fought bravely, but there were too many.”
“You saw them take him?”
Jamila gave another nod but said nothing. Thomas wondered what it must have been like for her to watch her husband dragged away.
“I don’t understand why they take strong men who might rebel. What keeps them from killing their captors and coming home?”
“The threat against the families they leave behind. Especially the sons.” Jamila turned and walked toward the front of the house. “They take the young boys to control the men. They took two of my sons, both younger than Aban. Biorn would not have put them in danger.”
“Biorn is your husband?”
Jamila nodded. “A good husband and good father both, and a good farmer. Not all Northmen are warriors, despite what people think.”
As they came out of the house Jorge stood in the sun, waiting for them.
“They are almost here.” He glanced at the weapons in Thomas’s hands, the shield, and shook his head. “There are six men.”
Thomas shrugged and held out the shield. “Stay indoors with Aban if you want, but I would like you at my side. There is no need for you to fight, I will do it all. Just look threatening, if you can.”
Jorge sighed and took the shield. He pushed his arm through the straps and tested it for weight, then held his hand out for a sword.
Jamila gripped Thomas’s arm. “They will kill you. I don’t want to watch another man die.”
“They can try. Ask Jorge whether I am an easy man to kill.” He shook off her hand, unsure whether his boast still held true. He knew he had grown weak over the months he had lived in the mountains.
Jorge followed and stood beside him. “Do you have a plan of any kind?”
“Of course I have a plan.”
“Is it one you intend to share?”
“We wait here until they arrive, then ask them to leave.”
“That is a plan?”
“The start of one. When they refuse and attack us, I will kill them.”
Jorge laughed. “If I didn’t know you as I do, I’d think you had a better plan and are keeping it from me. What shall I do?”
“Try not to get yourself killed. That will be enough.”
A young girl came running as fast as her skinny legs would allow. She skidded to a halt in front of Thomas, as if knowing who he was and why he was there.
“They’re at the edge of town,” she said, then was gone.
Thomas waited.
The men came into the square on horseback, not expecting trouble, their swords sheathed. They were talking, laughing. They must know there were no men left here, but still they had come.
A movement to one side caught Thomas’s attention and he gave a brief glance. Aban knelt on the roof-ridge of his house, a Moorish bow already strung and drawn half taut. Thomas wondered if he knew how to use it but was sympathetic. At Aban’s age he would have been unable to stand aside if men threatened his family.
The soldiers stopped laughing and slowed. There appeared to be no leader, only one who was a little braver—or more aggressive—than the others. He said something to his companions then urged his horse into a canter. His sword came from its sheath and he leaned forward, readying a thrust.
Thomas waited until the last moment then stepped to one side. He lifted his own sword and allowed the man’s speed to do the work. His blade slid smoothly through the leather jerkin and into flesh beneath. The sword was jerked from Thomas’s grasp, but he had expected such. He stepped back and took Jorge’s as two others came forward. They were slower, more careful.
“You might like to stand by the house,” he said to Jorge, then turned to meet the new attack.
The men left a decent space between them, but they should have dismounted. To reach Thomas they were forced to bend almost out of the saddle, and he hobbled the first horse, which stumbled to spill its rider. Thomas finished him with a single thrust. When he turned the other man had seen sense and was riding around the edge of the square back to his companions. Aban’s arrow took him in the shoulder. The man managed to remain in the saddle but his sword arm hung useless at his side.
Four men now.
Thomas walked toward them.
He frowned, aware something was different, and it took a moment to recognise what it was. He was used to battle, used to killing. Ever since when, at thirteen years of age, he had witnessed the chaos of Castillon where his father died. Fighting had always taken him in a certain way. It closed down his humanity, filled him with a searing cold that left no room for fear or mercy. Now, standing in a sun-filled square in a village barely worthy of the name, he was surprised to find the cold no longer present. Instead, heat seared his fingertips, and a fire nestled in his chest and belly. He shook his head. Different, that was all, and there were men to kill.
Only three remained capable of making any kind of attack, and Thomas saw that might not happen as they discussed their
next move between themselves. He saw one wanted to run, the other two unsure. What they saw was a single man. No doubt they had confronted single men before and triumphed—but Thomas was sure they had never met a man like him. He wondered if he was still that man.
He considered letting them ride away, then decided he needed answers to the many questions he had, so he ran at the soldier who wanted to leave the most. The man jerked his horse sideways, hoofs skidding on the dry dust, but he was too late. Thomas leapt, hitting him hard on his side and tumbling them both to the ground. He was on his feet in an instant, leaving the man stunned, ready to meet a fresh attack, but none came. Instead, Aban loosed more arrows, one after the other. None hit their target, but the remaining men turned and fled. Thomas watched as the winded man rose to one knee, then hit him hard on the side of the head. By the time he got back to the house, dragging the man behind him, the fire had left his body. He was winded, aware of how weak he had become.
“I need somewhere to tie him up so I can question him,” he said to Jamila, who had come to stand outside and watch.
“I will take you to an empty house. Are you going to kill him when you have what you want?”
“It depends if I believe him or not.”
She stared at the man, who was starting to regain his wits. Thomas knew he should have hit him harder, another sign of his weakness.
“If you don’t kill him,” said Jamila, “can I?”
Chapter Eight
Thomas glanced to where Jorge stood, as far away as he could get short of leaving the room.
“You don’t have to stay if you prefer not to witness this.”
Aban had secured the captured man, his relish at doing so clear. The soldier’s arms stretched above his head, a rope binding his wrists pulled tight over a beam. His feet had been left free, but he had to stand on tip-toe to relieve the pain in his arms. A shaft of sunlight came through a window and fell directly on him. Sweat beaded his face, more from pain and fear than the heat.
“A year ago you would never have treated a man this way,” said Jorge.
