by David Penny
“Olaf is still in Gharnatah, then?”
Fatima looked back at him from where she was sorting through what she would feed him. “For now. These are not easy times for him. He hurts too, but refuses to show it even to me.” She offered a brief smile. “I am pleased you can.” Another smile. “And Amal looks just like her mother, doesn’t she?”
Thomas nodded, though he was not convinced she did. He had sat and stared at her the night before while she slept, trying to find some similarity and failing. Belia told him it was understandable. Amal had only six months and would not come into her true looks for many years yet. But still he tried, desperate for some familiarity, impatient to find out how his and Lubna’s daughter would develop. Would she be as beautiful, as wicked, as clever, as stubborn as her mother? He knew it didn’t matter. Amal would be both herself and part of her mother and father. Just as Will was part of Thomas, despite Helena refusing to offer him any certainty he was his true father. How could two sisters be so different?
Fatima brought food and he ate until he could eat no more, and they talked of Lubna and their love of her, laughing as much as they cried. And then, as noon came and went, and the shadows on the floor had moved half way across the tiles, the door opened and Olaf Torvaldsson came in, making the room all at once too small. He stopped at the sight of Thomas, and for a moment it was unclear how he would react. Then he came forward and plucked Thomas from his chair, and this time Thomas was sure his ribs were broken.
“We need to talk,” Thomas said, rubbing his side.
“Not here.” Olaf turned away, stopped when his wife called out that food was ready. “We will eat later. Thomas and I have matters to discuss.”
Thomas glanced at Fatima, shrugged, and followed Olaf out into the afternoon sunlight, having to run to catch up.
“Are you aware–” He was interrupted when Olaf raised a hand.
“Not here. Do you have wine at your house? I assume that is where you are staying. Is Jorge with you? And how are my grandchildren?”
“Yes, I have wine. As for your grandchildren you will see how they are, but I spent an age getting into the palace, so I hope you know an easier way of getting me out.”
“I am Olaf Torvaldsson. If you are with me no-one will dare question who you are, or where we are going.”
Chapter Nineteen
When Thomas and Olaf entered the courtyard Usaden was training Will. Olaf stopped to watch, his keen eyes measuring every move, every thrust and parry, until he was sure Usaden was doing a good enough job. He turned and walked into the house without a word, leaving Thomas to catch up.
“Does he train him in the axe as well?” Olaf asked, as Thomas sat across the table from him.
“Usaden doesn’t know the axe, but Will practices everything you taught him in Malaka.”
“The axe is good for a boy to learn. It is easier than the sword at his age.”
Thomas didn’t point out that Will had used a sword effectively enough in a doomed attempt to protect his mother, when Pedro Guerrero and his men stormed the courtyard they had been sheltering in at the climax of the battle for Malaka.
“I will make sure he continues to practice. Perhaps you should give him lessons in the axe.”
“I do. I come as often as I can, to see them both.” Olaf looked across the room to where Belia was preparing the evening meal. “Is she awake?”
Belia gave a nod and left the room, returning a moment later with Amal. She placed her in Olaf’s arms, a tiny bundle clutched against his broad chest. Thomas watched a softness settle across Olaf’s face, and felt something stir inside himself without knowing what it was until he recognised it as jealousy. Olaf knew Thomas’s daughter better than he did himself. He had been wrong to flee to the mountains. His responsibilities lay here, in this house.
“We need to talk,” Thomas said.
“Are you back for good?”
“I don’t know. For now, at least, but I have unfinished business in the hills. When that is done I will come home.”
“Has this business anything to do with Mandana and his son? I saw them ride in yesterday to be greeted like some kind of royalty.”
“Is Muhammed dealing with them both?” Thomas sat up as Belia laid plates on the table, dropping them down with a clatter to indicate she didn’t approve of what they were about to discuss. “Do you know why they’re here?”
“Muhammed hasn’t told me. He hasn’t even mentioned they were coming. Which makes me think he’d rather I not know about it.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
Olaf smiled as if his face was unused to such an expression. “You get no argument from me on that.”
“So why do you still serve him?”
Olaf reached out and picked up a chicken wing. “Because his brother Yusuf, who you and I hoped to place on the throne, is dead. Someone has to keep Muhammed in check. There are people buzzing around him like flies on dung, all trying to get him to make them even richer than they already are.”
“Nothing changes. His father was the same.”
“But not al-Zagal. He was a steadying influence. It is a pity he was forced out. Tell me why you are here, Thomas. Have you come to rescue my daughter? I can help with that if you will let me.”
Thomas was aware he had given Helena barely a thought since abandoning his family and friends in Malaka.
“Is she still his captive?”
Olaf nodded and sucked the meat from a chicken bone before reaching for another. Amal snuggled against him, a smile on her sweet face. Perhaps she sensed the man who held her would lay his life down for her.
As I should have done for Lubna, Thomas thought, then dismissed the notion. He couldn’t carry the guilt forever, because to do so would stop him punishing those who killed her. It was revenge that filled him now. The trembling chaos of it hovered in the air around him, the tension of it coiled within his body waiting to be released. He knew Olaf must feel the same, perhaps even more so than he did, and the suddenness of the idea surprised him, together with the thought that Helena was another of his daughters—and one Thomas might be able to free.
“Does he still beat her?” Thomas recalled the news that had been brought to him in Malaka, when he had been unable, or unwilling, to do anything about it. Perhaps now he could.
“Not where it shows. Outwardly she is as beautiful as ever, but when I see her, as I do occasionally, there is something broken. Nothing physical, but up here…” Olaf tapped his brow. “Sometimes Muhammed deliberately displays her to me. He taunts us both, because she knows I am close and can do nothing.” His gaze met Thomas’s. “But you can.”
“Why would I? I’m not here for her.”
“Because she is Will’s mother, and my daughter. If you won’t do it for her, do it for your son—and for me.”
“What does Muhammed want with Guerrero and Mandana?’
“How am I supposed to know that? Nothing good, I’m sure, but what they are plotting together I have no knowledge of. So, you will do it, Thomas?”
“How?” He knew the decision had been made, not unhappy with it—only unsure whether any plan could work.
Olaf tipped his head in Jorge’s direction. “He can help. Jorge knows the palace better than anyone. There are others, too. I have prepared a way, if you are willing to follow it.” Olaf reached for more food, before realising Amal was still in his arms. He lifted her and held her out to Thomas, who took his daughter and buried his face against her tiny body to breathe in the scent of her. He felt something twist inside him—an uncoiling of love that had been frozen far too long.
“When?” he asked.
“Tonight. There is some kind of celebration being planned for Muhammed’s new friends. The palace will be chaos, so tonight is your best chance.”
“Do you miss this place?” Thomas asked. They were close to where the harem lay, Jorge’s natural home.
“A year ago I would have said yes. Now? No, I don’t think so. Like you, I’m a ch
anged man.”
Thomas knew a year ago he would have objected to the description, but not now. He longed for old certainties, longed for Lubna to still be at his side. At least what he and Jorge were doing might make up a little for the neglect of his wife, and his part in her death.
Olaf had spirited them inside the palace walls. Thomas had stayed with Fatima at their house, but Jorge had slipped away. Thomas wondered if he had gone to visit Bazzu, the palace cook, and if they had spent the intervening hours in her bed. He knew Jorge loved Belia, but knew equally well that fidelity was not a philosophy he embraced, or even understood. Jorge had loved Bazzu long before he met Belia, and there was some deep connection shared between them. Thomas had long since stopped trying to understand the ways of the man he called his friend.
It was dark before Jorge returned, but they remained in Olaf’s house eating food prepared by Fatima while she amused them with palace gossip. She knew what they intended to do, but there was no mention of Helena—perhaps because to do so might bring bad luck.
Outside, the noise of the celebrations reached them, and when they left after midnight wavering lights still showed in the courtyards they passed and men called to each other in loud voices. There were women, but no wives, only harem girls and others brought from the city and the Albayzin. Thomas glanced into the places they passed, but saw no sign of Mandana or Guerrero, no sign of Muhammed. They would be within the inner chambers, the most beautiful women placed at their disposal—and there was none more beautiful than Helena.
“Muhammed will almost certainly have Helena close,” said Jorge, as they passed along a corridor scented with oils from a nearby bathing chamber.
“Where will she have a room?”
“In the harem—no, near the harem. She won’t be allowed to enter that place again, but close by.”
“Then that’s where we go. I’ll recognise her room when we find it.”
Jorge smiled. “Indeed, her scent is not easily forgotten, is it.”
“As hard as I have tried.”
There had been no guards on the way into the palace and now Thomas saw why. Men were stationed at all of the entrances to the inner rooms. He came to a halt, looking around. To the right, a party was winding down, people slumped across cushions. Thomas took Jorge’s sleeve and drew him toward a side chamber that was empty. He didn’t know if where he was headed would still give them access or not, but he had sought out Britto earlier and quizzed him about which of the passages he had once used still remained open. Only a few, Britto had told him, but he knew which because he had been involved in the filling in of them. At one time, Thomas had known his way around them as well as he knew the inside of his own house on the Albayzin. He only hoped Britto was right, and a passage remained which would allow them to pass through the ring of guards.
Thomas began to examine the places where an entrance might lie, running his hands over the stones and tiles before moving on. At one point a sudden noise made them both press back into the shadows of a narrow corridor as a woman’s laugh sounded close by. When she appeared—running, but not fast—Thomas almost believed it was Helena. The woman had bright blonde hair, but as she passed, unaware of their presence, he saw it was not her. A moment later two men followed, laughing coarsely.
“I hope she is willing,” said Jorge, his voice less than a whisper, the judgement in it clear.
Thomas was about to move away when he felt something beneath his fingers where they pressed against the wall. He turned and went to one knee, examining a small opening set between the tiled lower wall and the stone upper. He hooked his finger in, found a catch and pulled at it. Something within the wall made a noise, and a small section swung out. Thomas pushed his hand inside to find a second catch. When he released this a wider entrance opened. He grinned and slid sideways into a tight space.
“All I can say,” said Jorge, “is it’s lucky I didn’t eat all Fatima put on the table.” He followed Thomas, the entrance barely allowing him access.
When Thomas pulled the door closed the interior was pitch black.
“How do we find our way?” Jorge’s hand came out, searching, touched Thomas and clung on.
“There is only one way to go. We don’t need eyes to guide us. Just be sure to keep hold of me.”
Thomas turned away, his own hands going out in front, feet sliding along the gritty floor. He tried not to think of what he might be disturbing, what spiders and insects had made this dark place their home.
The corridor turned slowly to the right and began to descend. A moment later Thomas almost pitched forward as his foot found empty space. He leaned back against Jorge and waited while he caught his breath, then explored with the tip of his foot to discover steps leading down. He found the first, the second, then descended a score until once more the floor levelled out. Ahead a light showed and he moved more confidently, sound reaching them as they came closer.
Light spilled through an opening above his head, too high to see through, but Thomas had been shown how to climb these walls a long time ago. He used that knowledge now until he peered into a large room. Fine wall hangings displayed hunting scenes, and silk cushions were scattered across the floor. Low tables held tiny cakes, flagons of wine and water pipes. The sweet scent of hashish and opium hung thick in the air. It should have been a scene of debauchery but was not. Muhammed sat to one side of the table, Pedro Guerrero and Abbot Mandana on the other. There were women, but they sat apart from the men, talking amongst themselves. Thomas craned his neck to take in as much as he could, until he found who he expected to be there.
Helena sat alone, head down, her white hair hanging to touch the tiled floor. She appeared to be thinner than Thomas remembered, but it had been several years since he had last see her, even longer since she shared his bed. She had been made a gift to him, as much a joke as a gift, from the old Sultan, Muhammed’s father. Helena had been scarred in an attack and considered no longer perfect enough for the harem. Thomas had managed to restore most of her beauty—but not enough for a return to the harem. Except here she was, though he knew beauty had little to do with her presence. Muhammed kept her close as punishment for Thomas. Why he carried such hatred was a mystery, but the man himself was a mystery. A Moorish Sultan who was also a vassal of Spain. Was that why Guerrero and Mandana were here—was it a sign of an escalation of the battle between Spain and al-Andalus? Or even the start of an end to the war?
Thomas turned his head so his ear was pressed against the opening, but there was too much background noise to make out what the three men were saying. He slid down and faced Jorge.
“She’s inside with Muhammed and the others, but they’re talking business.”
“They won’t let her go until they’re done. They might have need of her when they’re finished.”
Thomas nodded, knowing Jorge was right. Helena was nothing to him anymore, though still the mother of Will, and for that he would do all he could to set her free.
“How did she look?” asked Jorge.
“Broken.”
“That’s not like Helena.”
Thomas turned away, searching for a way out of the tunnel. They were within the gilded enclave of the palace now. There would be guards, though not many, and there would be eunuchs, but few of those, and they would be known to Jorge.
When he found an exit, it brought them out on the edge of the harem, which was no surprise. The purpose of these secret chambers was to provide access to and from such places.
The scent in the air was heady. Thomas pushed Jorge forward. At least if he was recognised he might be able to talk himself out of trouble, but he returned a moment later to say the harem was empty. No doubt the Sultan’s concubines had been moved elsewhere, away from any possibility of corruption. Jorge led the way through, both of them walking fast to a corridor beyond. Rooms without doors opened on one side where concubines were housed and where, Jorge assured him, Helena would have a place assigned.
They went slowly, both of
them glancing into each chamber to check the clothing, any books or journals that might be on display, breathing deep of the scent of whoever lived there until they came to a room where Thomas stopped and sat on the narrow bed.
“Here,” he said, and Jorge nodded.
“She is unmistakeable, isn’t she?” He sat beside Thomas and patted his leg. “You were a lucky man.”
Thomas laughed, but there was no humour in the sound.
They waited, for there was nothing else they could do. Jorge stretched out on the bed and slept. Some time later came the sound bare feet on stone and then Helena entered the room.
She stopped in the entrance, and for a moment Thomas saw her almost perfect mouth open to scream, then she recognised who sat on her bed, and who lay across it. She cocked her head to one side and took a pace inside, glanced back and took another.
“They may yet come for me,” she said. “I think the young one has not finished with me.”
“I expect there is business still to discuss.” Thomas stood, awkward. Should he embrace her? He thought not.
But Helena did. She came to him and put her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him, her unmistakable scent enveloping him with an insidious familiarity. He tried not to respond, but his body betrayed him.
“Oh, I think their business is concluded,” Helena whispered into his ear. “Muhammed has taken them to see the lions in his menagerie. He does so love to show them off. He told me to wait here and he would send a message when they are ready for me. I am to be made a gift to both of them, though I expect only one will be able to perform.”
Thomas put his hands on Helena’s waist and peeled her away from him. “Then we have to go now.”
“Have you come to rescue me? Oh, Thomas, you are such a hero. How can I ever repay you?” Even here, even now, she had to tease.
Thomas turned to wake Jorge, but he was already sitting up. No doubt he had taken everything in, as he always did.
