by David Penny
“You found me here once,” Thomas said to Jorge. “Could you do it again, do you think?”
“Why would I want to do such a stupid thing?”
“But you know the way.”
Jorge seemed to think about it for a moment before nodding. “I expect so.”
“Good. So you can find your way home. Take Kin with you if he will follow. I go on from here on my own.”
Jorge shook his head. “You said the two of us.”
“I did, but I’ve changed my mind. This is between me and Guerrero, nobody else. And as much as I love you, I want you back in Gharnatah lying beside your beautiful woman, where you will be safe.”
The argument lasted an hour. All the while Thomas was aware Guerrero was moving further and further away. He believed Jorge only agreed in the end because he, too, didn’t want the man to escape justice.
Thomas watched him pick his way down the hillside, a second horse held loosely beside the one he was mounted on. Kin loped beside him but kept stopping to look back. The land rose precipitously from here and Thomas knew he would have to go the rest of the way on foot.
He waited until Jorge disappeared from sight. One last turn, one last wave, and then he was gone. Thomas drew a deep breath, the icy air sharp in his lungs. Then he turned and started to climb after Pedro Guerrero.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The entire world was white. An almost constant cloud hid all but the ground directly ahead. When it occasionally parted, Thomas made out the highest peaks, some jagged, others broad. It was a world of ice. A world of pain. Pedro Guerrero’s footprints showed clearly. He had abandoned his horse the day before, finally aware it was slowing him. His footsteps wandered from side to side. In one spot there was a flattened area where he had fallen, or simply collapsed.
The air was thin. Cold. Thomas had come to these high places at one time to die, but now he welcomed the cold as a friend.
The snow lay unfathomably deep, and at times Thomas knew he was walking where the wind had fashioned it into curling ledges, where nothing lay beneath but a thousand feet of clear air. There was nowhere else he could go, for Guerrero’s trail led him onward.
He reached the man on the third day after leaving the hut, the third day after sending Jorge and Kin to the warmth of lower ground—except the dog had returned, staying close to him now.
Guerrero sat awkwardly, his robe pulled tight around him, the hood almost obscuring his face.
“I thought you would reach me sooner than this,” he said.
“I was enjoying the journey too much to rush.”
“Will we fight?”
“That depends on you.”
“Oh, I am more than happy to kill you.”
Thomas laughed. “Fight it will be, then.” His fingers twitched, but he forced them to remain at his side. He looked around and then sat, wriggling to fashion a surprisingly comfortable seat in the snow. “Can I ask you something?”
Guerrero smiled, but there was nothing of humanity in it. “If you must. As long as you expect no answer.”
“When did you learn Mandana was your father? I have known him several years now, and he never mentioned a son.”
Guerrero stared out into space, into the thin air where snow swirled and blew, revealing an occasional glimpse of the distant sea and its warmth. Thomas had reconciled himself to killing the man without an answer when he spoke.
“We are to talk like civilized men, are we? Very well, then. My father was an Abbot, as you know—a man of God, like myself. He was not meant to lie with a woman.”
“But you had a wife.” Thomas saw the curl of anger cross Guerrero’s face and knew he still blamed Thomas for her death.
“I am no Abbot.”
“And your mother?”
A shake of the head. “I don’t know—no-one. Some woman he lay with and set a seed inside.” Guerrero’s breath plumed, drifted slowly around his head. “I didn’t know my father until I had thirteen years.”
You found your father at the same age I lost my own, Thomas thought. He knew Guerrero wanted to tell his story, and that he wanted to hear it. Wanted to hear what had brought him to this place, this time, to die. For die he would.
“And before?”
“I was in the care of nuns at first, then later, monks. Not much difference between them—except the nuns beat me more often and the monks beat me harder.”
“Your mother?”
“I told you, I don’t know, but I suspect she was most likely a nun too.”
“And your father didn’t know who she was?”
Guerrero’s gaze returned from the swirling snow. “He must have, because he told me he placed me with those who were meant to care for me and didn’t, but he never told me who she was. I used to dream she was some Duquessa fallen to a man who ravished her. I used to dream they might be true lovers, their love thwarted. But I expect the truth was far more mundane.” A smile touched his lips, gone almost as soon as it came. “The kind of dreams a boy has. It must have been someone close for him to know she was with child, but it could have been anyone.”
“What happened at thirteen?”
“He came for me. Oh, he was magnificent then, at the height of his powers, before he fell from favour.”
“Except Fernando took him back,” Thomas said.
“Then Fernando is a fool.”
“You have no argument from me. Did you love him, your father?”
“What do you think? Do you love yours?”
Thomas gave a brief shake of his head. He wondered how long he would let the conversation continue. He didn’t want to begin to feel sorry for Guerrero, and it was starting to feel as if he might.
“No, of course not,” said Guerrero. “Mine was a harsh master. He sent me to fight, told me it would make a man of me. In France at first, and then later for Spain—but never alongside him, no matter how many times I asked. Not until Malaga did he allow me close.” Guerrero smiled, a genuine smile this time, and a cunning settled in his eyes. “And you know how that ended, don’t you.”
Thomas struck out. Not a killing blow, the tip of his knife opening Guerrero’s cheek. The man reacted in an instant, his own weapon flashing from beneath his robe. Thomas had thought him exhausted, but it had been nothing but a ploy. Guerrero leaped at him, and they went rolling through the snow together. Kin barked and tried to bite Guerrero, but they were too tangled together.
Thomas kicked out, landed a lucky blow, and Guerrero rolled away toward the edge of the snow ledge. Thomas watched, waiting for it to give way, but Guerrero came to a halt too soon and rose to his feet.
“So, we fight to the death, do we?”
“It was always going to be thus,” Thomas said, and Guerrero nodded.
“I should have fucked her before I gutted her,” he said. “Let her find out what a real man was like between her legs before she died.”
Thomas let the taunt flow past him—beyond anger, at one with the ice. He glanced at the jagged peaks, black between banks of snow, and waited. There was nowhere for Guerrero to go. Behind lay an endless drop. Ahead stood Thomas. He knew if it was him, he would choose the drop.
Guerrero was not him. He attacked, hands a blur, sword and knife flashing.
Thomas stepped aside, the world seen in perfect clarity, the other man moving as if through water, and Thomas picked a spot and thrust his arm out.
Guerrero stopped and looked down, confusion on his face.
“You can’t,” he said.
“I did.”
“Nobody has ever bested me.” Guerrero sank to his knees, his blood already colouring the snow around him.
“There is always someone. One day I will be bested, but not today—and not here.” Thomas cocked his head to one side. “Does it hurt?”
Guerrero appeared to need a moment to think about it before shaking his head.
“That is a shame. But one I can remedy.”
Thomas walked toward Guerrero, the human anatomy held
in his mind—the nerve points, the soft places—and then he stopped, because Lubna spoke to him for the very last time, though he did not know that then.
No, my love—do not become like him.
Guerrero rested his brow against the snow.
Kin came and stood beside Thomas, who started to shiver hard.
Guerrero surged to his feet, bellowing, launching himself at Thomas. Who met him with his sword. He held him up as he felt the life leave him, then lay him in the snow and walked away.
It was not enough.
He screamed at the sky, only to hear his cries echo back over and over as the mountain caught and returned them.
Not nearly enough.
He walked, not knowing in which direction, not knowing if he was going home or going to his death. He walked until his legs gave out and he fell on his face. He would have stayed there, smothering in the snow, if not for Kin, who nipped at his shoulder.
Thomas rolled onto his back.
He pulled his robe tight around himself, then loosened it and made a noise with his tongue. Kin came and lay against him, and Thomas wrapped the robe around them both and closed his eyes.
He waited for Lubna to come for him.
When Jorge passed a body half-buried in snow he thought at first it must be Thomas and knelt, scraping snow off the face until he recognised Guerrero.
When he did find Thomas he believed him equally as dead, his body wrapped in a grey cloak, the hood covering his face. Snow had fallen so it almost obscured the fact a man lay there at all. Only when Jorge knelt and shook Thomas, then shook him harder still, did a curse emerge from beneath the robe, followed a moment later by a growl as Kin’s head emerged, and Jorge laughed and sat hard in the cold snow.
Historical Note
This will be short.
Although events continued in the rest of Spain, the period after the fall of Malaga was one of recovery and rebuilding for the Spanish monarchs following the unexpected resistance encountered in taking that city. Instead of advancing on Granada, as had perhaps been originally planned, they took some time to consider their next move.
This story is less about the history of 1488 and more about Thomas’s revenge. As such most of the events related in these pages are entirely fictional. They did not happen … but they could have.
Abu-Abdullah, Muhammed XIII (Boabdil to the Spanish), knew he was vulnerable, but is claimed to have made a pact with Spain years before when he was captured and held for almost a year. In many accounts it is considered that for most of his short rule he was working for the Spanish, not al-Andalus. This pact influences the central section of The Promise of Pain, and explains Guerrero and his father Mandana’s plotting.
Two more Thomas Berrington novels remain before the fall of Granada on January 1st 1492, and there is a great deal of history to cover in those books.
If you have enjoyed the adventures of Thomas and Jorge fear not. The fall of Granada will not see the end of their tale, but there will be a short hiatus before they return to England in the company of Catherine of Aragon. Just imagine—Jorge in the English Shires. Oh my…
The Thomas Berrington Historical Mysteries
The Red Hill
Moorish Spain, 1482. English surgeon Thomas Berrington is asked to investigate a series of brutal murders in the palace of al-Hamra in Granada.
Breaker of Bones
Summoned to Cordoba to heal a Spanish prince, Thomas Berrington and his companion, the eunuch Jorge, pursue a killer who re-makes his victims with his own crazed logic.
The Sin Eater
In Granada Helena, the concubine who once shared Thomas Berrington’s bed, is carrying his child, while Thomas tracks a killer exacting revenge on evil men.
The Incubus
A mysterious killer stalks the alleys of Ronda. Thomas Berrington, Jorge and Lubna race to identify the culprit before more victims have their breath stolen.
The Inquisitor
In a Sevilla on the edge of chaos death stalks the streets. Thomas Berrington and his companions tread a dangerous path between the Inquisition, the royal palace, and a killer.
The Fortunate Dead
As a Spanish army gathers outside the walls of Malaga, Thomas Berrington hunts down a killer who threatens more than just strangers.
The Promise of Pain
When revenge is not enough. Thomas Berrington flees to the high mountains, only to be drawn back by those he left behind.
About the Author
David Penny is the author of the Thomas Berrington Historical Mysteries set in Moorish Spain at the end of the 15th Century. He is currently working on the next book in the series.
Find out more about David Penny
www.davidpennywriting.com
Copyright © 2019 David Penny
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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