The Promise of Pain

by David Penny

  “Can we defeat them?”

  “How many of this Guerrero’s claimed thousand are real soldiers?”

  Thomas shook his head, sat up as Jamila placed food on the table. She said nothing, her expression sour, and Thomas was sure she blamed him for Aban’s loss.

  “About half, but I can’t say for sure. I’m hoping some of the others, the captured men, will help when the attack starts. Have you any idea how long Guerrero will allow us to be among them before turning on us?”

  “It will be difficult. My own men will have to be told they are putting themselves in danger if they are to respond fast enough when the time comes. But they cannot, must not, let any of that show. Guerrero has to believe we have no idea of his plan. As for when … that I do not know.”

  “What if it was you?” Thomas reached out and tore a strip of meat from a capon.

  “I would never stoop to such subterfuge.”

  “I am aware of that. But pretend you could—what would you do?”

  “I would attack on the first night our armies come together. The longer we are there the better chance they might discover all is not as it seems. I trust my own men to keep a secret, but can Guerrero say the same? And there are those he stole away from their homes. Forced men do not love their captors.” Olaf tapped a finger on the table as something occurred to him. “It is a shame we do not have one or two men among them to spread dissent, to spread the word so that when the time comes at least a few will fight with, rather than against, us.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “It is a pity, isn’t it?”

  Olaf stared at him.

  Thomas withstood the attention as long as he could, hoping Olaf would ask, but when he didn’t Thomas knew he had to respond.

  “Luis has returned to them, but as our man on the inside. I have been planning it since he first escaped but didn’t know if he would agree. He confirmed it in Pampaneira. His aggression during the attack was all for show, so they would believe him. Did you notice he attacked only me?”

  “And Aban?”

  Thomas glanced toward Jamila, but she was busy at the fire. He lowered his voice in case she might overhear. “He wasn’t meant to go. Did you see what happened to him?”

  “I was too busy.” Olaf glanced at Usaden. “What about you?”

  “I saw him sneaking away to one side and hiding behind a boulder. I believed him a coward, but now…” Usaden glanced at Thomas and offered a nod. “Perhaps he and Luis discussed the matter and he wanted to prove himself. It is a good plan if it works. Those two are close.”

  “Closer than you might think,” Thomas said.

  Usaden did as Thomas had and glanced to where Jamila was busy at the fire and lowered his voice in turn. “His mother keeps him too close. A boy cannot become a man if he is tied to his mother’s skirts all the time. If they are as close as you claim he might believe Luis can protect him, vouch for him.”

  “I understand why Jamila does it,” Thomas said. “She has lost too much already and doesn’t want to lose him as well.”

  “And now she has,” said Usaden. He turned away, making it clear the matter was ended as far as he was concerned.

  Thomas considered pressing the argument further but knew there was little point. Luis had been willing enough to undertake the task he had been set. Had Aban been equally willing, or taken prisoner? If what Dana had revealed to him was true he could imagine the two youths hatching a plan between them. He knew he should talk to Jorge as soon as he was well enough. Would their relationship be defined by the two men plus Dana, or all three of them together? Thomas needed distraction before he lost himself in the endless tunnel of his own thoughts. He turned to Olaf, who had listened to the conversation without expression.

  “Guerrero and Mandana will return when Muhammed doesn’t send the promised soldiers, demanding he give what was offered. When they come do you have a plan?”

  “I have an idea, and would like for you to help me put it into action.”

  “Me?”

  Olaf nodded. “Both of you, if you are willing. Usaden?”

  “To plan mayhem? Of course.”

  Thomas wondered why the Gomeres mercenary remained with them. He claimed it was because Thomas continued to pay him to train Will, but that was an excuse, not a reason. He hoped perhaps Usaden was becoming part of the extended family that had gathered around them. If so, he was welcome. Thomas liked the man’s quiet certainty, not to mention his other-worldly skill with weapons. He could have found no-one better to train Will if he had searched for a score of years.

  “It will have to be a good plan,” Thomas said. “We all saw what Guerrero and Mandana’s men are capable of when they fought in Malaka. They were demons, offering mercy to no-one: man, woman or child. They are creatures of the worst kind.”

  Thomas saw Usaden’s mouth quirk in what might have been the start of a smile, both aware the same description could apply equally to him.

  “We will talk of the plan tomorrow, test it out between us,” Olaf said. “Tonight, we eat and drink and celebrate our freedom. You, Thomas, if we are to succeed, need to regain your strength. You fought well enough, but not like I know you can.”

  “Muhammed knows where I am now. What if he still wants to kill me?”

  “He could have killed you in the dungeon if he wanted. He gave me his word he would not harm you.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Of course not—which is why tonight, and every night we are here, we set a guard.”

  Thomas was about to say they were still vulnerable but was interrupted by Belia, who came running down the stairs.

  “Thomas, you must come at once. I think Jorge is dying.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jorge lay on his back, arms spread, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps and sweat stained the single sheet that lay across him.

  “How long has he been this way?” Thomas went to the bed and pulled back the sheet to reveal Jorge’s naked body, looking for signs of mottling beneath his skin, relieved to see none.

  “He was better at noon, he even managed to swallow a little broth. Then he said he was tired and slept again. I left him, thinking it was for the best. When I came up just now he was like this.” She looked toward Thomas. “He is dying, isn’t he?”

  “He has a fever, certainly, but he’s not dying yet—not if I have anything to do with it. Or you. I need you to prepare something for his fever.” Thomas knew if anyone could conjure some magic to help Jorge it would be Belia, and the work would distract her.

  “I looked in your workshop, but there is little left anymore. Willow is a start, but this is no ordinary fever, is it?”

  “No.” Thomas knew he didn’t need to offer false hope. Belia was as wise in the ways of the body as he was, as wise as Lubna had been. They had been a formidable team, the three of them working side by side, and he pushed aside his grief before it had a chance to gain hold.

  “Will you need to open the wound again?”

  Thomas nodded. “First we have to bring his fever down, so go into the city and get whatever you can. Willow bark to start with, wort, lemons. You know better than me what you need. And get Helena to take you to Da’ud’s house, he’ll have everything you might need. I’ll stay with Jorge.” As Belia started for the door Thomas said, “Don’t say anything to the others. Not yet.”

  When she had gone, Thomas cut away the bandages around Jorge’s waist, grimacing when he saw the raised inflammation around the wound, experiencing a sense of despair when he smelled corruption. His fingers twitched with the need to act but he knew he had to wait for Belia’s return. In the meantime, he wiped Jorge’s body with cold water, cleaning as much as he could. It was a body Thomas knew almost as well as his own. A body he had mistreated when Jorge was barely more than a boy, unmanning him at the request of a Sultan—not Muhammed, not even his father, but a Sultan four times removed from the present one. Jorge had been barely thirteen years of age, Thomas o
nly a little more than twice that, but he had been strong enough to resist the call to create a eunuch using the old methods—methods which involved much cutting and hot coals. Instead, he had rendered the boy almost comatose and cut only what needed to be removed to ensure Jorge could never father children. His manhood remained, which Jorge claimed worked no less well than that of other men. In fact, he boasted his worked better than that of most men, and from the sounds Thomas overhead when he and Belia made love he had no cause to doubt it.

  He stared at the smooth skin between Jorge’s thighs, at his flaccid prick that lay to one side, and wondered if he regretted never being able to father children. He suspected he did. Thomas recalled when Jorge had asked if he would lie with Belia to set a seed in her belly and he had refused, even though Lubna had offered her blessing. Now, he determined that if the request came again he would agree. Jorge would make a good father, even if he was unlike other men. More so perhaps because he was unlike other men.

  Jorge was Thomas’s closest friend. His companion. He would not let him die. If he couldn’t save him then he knew nobody could.

  Thomas laid two fingers against Jorge’s belly, pressing lightly. Jorge stirred but didn’t wake, and Thomas eased the pressure. He wondered if it was possible to save this man he loved more than any other, and had no answer. He rose and went downstairs to the workshop, opening and closing drawers that had been repaired and replaced. Britto was coming in the morning to examine the other damage to the house and let Thomas know what could be done. Friendships, Thomas thought, amazed he seemed to be capable of forming them, even more amazed he was able to maintain them.

  He set aside a few items on the workbench that might prove useful, then went out to the garden that ran down the slope beyond the courtyard. Belia had replanted what was not dead, but the few things growing looked sparse in comparison to what had been there before. Thomas looked up at the looming palace and wondered how much Muhammed could be trusted. If his men had not done the damage here, then others were allowed to do so. The man had taken Helena prisoner, subjected her to beatings and worse, and handed her over to Guerrero like some delicacy on a plate. Thomas shivered despite the warmth of the evening, then heard the door from the street open. When he turned he saw Belia had returned. He pushed aside all thought of failure and followed her back to the room where Jorge lay awaiting their skills.

  When Thomas re-opened the wound he saw what the cause of Jorge’s fever was. Two stitches had pulled loose, and fresh matter oozed out. Thomas ignored the stink, as he had always been able to, knowing it would not concern Belia either. Between them they washed and wiped and washed some more.

  “I’m going to leave the wound open for a day or two,” Thomas said when they were finished. He had re-stitched the cut to Jorge’s bowel and packed the space around it with more egg-white mixed with honey, and Belia had prepared a tincture only she knew the ingredients of. She applied it to the stitches, re-applying it twice an hour as they waited. Fatima brought them food and took away the tainted cloths to burn, averting her gaze from the cavity on display.

  They had forced liquor of willow bark and poppy into Jorge and he slept more peacefully. Thomas knew he would have to keep him sedated until the wound was closed, but was unwilling to do so until he knew the internal stitches were going to stay in place this time.

  The night passed in fitful bursts of sleep.

  Dawn brought a cold light, which Thomas used to examine Jorge’s wound. The stitches were holding, but he knew it was still too soon to hope. A week might not be long enough, but another day, two at the most, would allow him to close the flesh on Jorge’s belly.

  “His scar will be worse,” Thomas said to Belia, who leaned against him, her exhaustion matching his own.

  “It will worry him, but not me. A man should possess a few scars.” She smiled. “Like you.”

  Thomas thought of how Will liked to touch them and ask where each had been acquired. How Lubna’s fingers would trace them lovingly, using each as an excuse to lead her fingers elsewhere. The memory of Lubna hurt, but not as much as it had, and Thomas didn’t know if that was progress, or the loss of something he didn’t want to lose.

  After a while he roused himself from what might have been sleep to hear the clash of metal on metal, and rose to look through the narrow window.

  Usaden was training Will, and as he watched Thomas saw how much his son had improved in half a year. He was too young to fight, but sometimes being too young didn’t prevent the fight coming to you. As it had come to Thomas. Older than Will, certainly, but not by so many years. He had lived thirteen of those years on earth when his father John Berrington had accompanied John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, across the sea. They were meant to teach the French a lesson. Except this time, it had been the other way around—a battle to end a war which had gone on far too long, with the English expelled from a region of France they had ruled for centuries.

  John Berrington had survived the first hours of the fighting, but late in the afternoon a French knight had spilled him from his horse, which toppled across him to crush his legs. The knight had ridden on in search of more glory. Thomas hadn’t found his father for several hours, by which time he was delirious with agony. There was nothing could be done, other than one final mercy—a mercy Thomas had administered himself. Recalling that day, he realised it was perhaps the first time his father had ever smiled at him, in that final moment of rationality, his hand clasped around Thomas’s, which in turn held a knife. He had pushed it into his father’s chest, closing his own eyes as he did so. When he opened them his father stared sightlessly at a grey sky, all life fled. Thomas closed his father’s eyes, then struggled to pull his boots off. He took them, together with a chain mail vest, but nothing else. He had felt no emotion, not even pleasure. He had hated his father with every fibre of his being, and knew his father hated him in turn for not being more like his elder brother, another John, who had died in their manor house in Lemster, alongside their mother. She, at least, had loved Thomas. And then he was alone. For a long time he had been alone.

  He turned to look at Jorge.

  No longer alone.

  There were people who loved him, and people he loved in return. The ice that had held his heart in an iron grip for half a year began to loosen its grip.

  Life staggered into motion again.

  Thomas let his breath go so loudly Belia turned to see what was wrong.

  He shook his head and wiped at the tears that filled his eyes. Nothing was wrong. The memories reminded him of all the people close to him who had died, and when they were gone he had carried on. He had done much since that battlefield, and knew he would do more if he could only grasp the reins of life once again.

  He crossed the room and sat beside Belia, took her hand and kissed the palm. She frowned at him, but Thomas said nothing, and after a moment her frown turned to a smile and her fingers twined through his. She leaned against him, as if she was privy to all the secret thoughts that filled his head.

  Three days later Thomas closed the wound in Jorge’s side.

  A week passed before Jorge managed to stand for the first time since being carried to the bedroom.

  Within two days he could manage the stairs and descend unaided to eat with them, small meals to begin with, but the stitches in his side had already healed and Thomas was sure those within had healed too.

  There was no return of the fever.

  It was time to talk about the future. Olaf had been patient, but Thomas could see he wanted to finish things, or at the very least start them.

  They went to Muhammed.

  And then they went to war.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Thomas was dressed as an ordinary foot soldier, surrounded by almost five hundred others. Like him, few of these men had been born in al-Andalus. They were a mix of North Africans, of French and German, Italian and English, still others from more distant eastern lands, yet more from the north, like Olaf, who sat astride a tal
l white stallion at the head of their company. Thomas wished he could ride beside him but knew such was impossible. Guerrero and Mandana were expecting Olaf. They would not be expecting Thomas, and if they saw him would instantly recognise the betrayal. So Thomas put up with the binding of the leather jerkin he wore and tried not to complain too much to Usaden, who walked beside him as though their march was nothing more than an early morning stroll. Kin remained close to Thomas. He had wanted to leave the dog at home with Jamila until Olaf told him other men would have brought their dogs. He was glad he was at his side. Kin’s unquestioning loyalty was a mystery Thomas welcomed.

  Muhammed had come to watch them leave Gharnatah, but there was never a chance he was going to accompany the soldiers. Instead he sat astride a tall horse and watched the column pass. Even before the last man left the city walls, Muhammed had returned to the palace, no doubt to fill his hours with worry over his action. Thomas only hoped the man wouldn’t back down and send a message to Guerrero telling him what had been done.

  An hour after leaving Gharnatah, a small group of riders appeared ahead in a pass that led into the foothills of the Sholayr. Ten riders, no more. They waited while the eight-wide column of men climbed the slope. A quarter mile away, Olaf rode ahead and spoke with them. Thomas assumed at least one of the men had Arabic, because Olaf’s grasp of Spanish was truly awful.

  The ten riders moved aside as the first men reached them. Olaf took up the lead once more.

  “Do you think they are suspicious?” Usaden asked, not the least out of breath even though Thomas was, despite a month gaining strength. There was no need to keep their voices low because the sound of so many feet prevented their words carrying.

  “A welcoming party, nothing more,” Thomas said, saving his breath for when he had something important to say. He didn’t know if he spoke the truth or not, only that if Guerrero wanted to attack them, he would have sent more than ten men.