by David Penny
“Knowing she didn’t do it is worth the journey on its own,” Thomas said. “And though she might not have done the deed herself, who is to say she didn’t find someone else who did?”
“She has no money to pay an assassin,” said Jorge. The streets were still almost deserted, water running through them as deep as their ankles, rushing down the cobbles to gather in deeper puddles in squares and courtyards.
“She claims poverty, but there were things in that house a truly poor woman would have sold when she needed food on the table. But you are right, I don’t think she had anything to do with it, either in the act or in asking someone else. How would it benefit her?”
“She hated him.”
“If people killed everyone they hated there would be few people left in the world.”
“Only you and me, Thomas.” Jorge slapped him on the back.
“No. Only you.”
Twelve
The rain had not yet stopped, but finally it was starting to look as if it might. A brighter line hovered over the sea, moving slowly toward land. It did not cheer Jorge, who continued to complain about how wet he was, but at least he was doing so less frequently.
“Tell me your opinion of her again,” Thomas said, as much to stop Jorge’s moaning as anything else. They had spoken of Gracia Bernel Gomez over a meagre supper and gone to their shared bed early. It had taken Thomas a long time to find sleep, his own thoughts and the rattle of rain on the tiles above his head keeping him awake. He had used the time to examine the facts he knew, but the sound of the rain grew so loud even that failed to distract him. Jorge had begun a soft snore almost as soon as the candle was extinguished.
“I believe she had no hand in his death. I told you as much, or have you forgotten already? It is a shame — had she been guilty we could have returned to our quiet life. Damn this rain, will it never stop?”
“Don’t worry, you can’t get any wetter.” Thomas drew his horse to a halt and lifted himself out of the saddle to ease the ache in his thighs. He wiped a hand across his face to clear the water before starting to move again. “The man who told us about them said we would need money. Did they look like whores to you?”
Jorge wiped his face and smiled. “They were good-looking enough, certainly, and experienced too I’d judge. Two women living together without work, as they claim, that would make it possible, too. But no, I don’t think they’re whores. Do you?” Another smile. “Did you hope they were?”
“No. I was thinking out loud and letting my thoughts run away with me. I’m looking for some reason why she might have her husband killed, but that wouldn’t be it.”
“She didn’t. Why would she? Alive he might send her money, or change his mind and take her back. I would rather share a bed with her, with both of them, than all those girls of his together.”
“You would?”
“She accused me of having sin in my eyes. She could tell because she knows sin too. She is a woman with appetites for men as well as women.”
“Are you sure? You saw them with each other.”
“And you continue to believe I bed only women. There is more wonder among the peoples of this world than you can envisage, my friend."
“Does Belia know of your philosophy?”
“Of course, and shares it. Did you think she would not? I am who I am, Thomas. I cannot change my nature, and she accepts me as I am.”
“So you sleep with other people. Both of you?”
“Not since she has shared my life. But if I wanted to I could, and so could she.”
Thomas shook his head. Jorge was right, he was too innocent for this world, but preferred to be that way. He could not even begin to imagine how Lubna would react if he tried to make the same argument to her.
They had reached a narrow pass between two high ridges. Behind them the sprawl of Ballix spread across the plain, backed by high peaks that rose to the wide bulk of Maroma. Water coursed from the flanks of the hills to cut deep channels through what little soil clung to their slopes.
Jorge rode on for a moment before turning back. “What, have you forgotten something? If so you go back on your own. We are a third of the way home.”
“I thought I saw something.” Thomas pointed to one of the closer hillsides, which rose near vertical from the track they followed.
“A goat, an eagle, a ghost?” Jorge pulled on his reins, his horse turning patiently. “Who cares?”
Thomas continued to stare at the spot but began to believe Jorge was right, for nothing showed and he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks to get it moving again. The path twisted upward, turning back on itself before resuming the direction they wanted. The rain lessened then stopped and a beam of sunlight cracked the clouds and fell to illuminate the broad valley they had ridden out of. This time it was Jorge who stopped to point.
“I assume what you saw wasn’t that? A blind man could barely miss them.”
From the north, along the far bank of the Wadi-al-Cuevo which had re-emerged from the flood, a few men made their way from a roadway that emerged between low hills. Thomas leaned forward, narrowing his eyes, but the distance was too great to decide who they were. Then, as he watched, more men appeared. Carts came dragging small cannon. Others were loaded with tents and supplies. The numbers thickened to become an army. In their midst rode a man who could not be missed, his body encased in shining armour that glowed bright in a shaft of sunlight.
“Spanish,” said Jorge.
Thomas nodded, a sense of dread lodging in his chest. The year was young, the campaigning season still a month off, yet here they were. Spanish soldiers led, if he wasn’t mistaken, by a man he knew well. Fernando, King of Castile and Aragon. Which meant these men came with serious intent.
Others had noted their presence as well. Across the waterlogged plain tiny figures gathered only to splinter apart. Carts were hurriedly loaded, others made no effort to save their belongings as they streamed toward the still open gate of Ballix.
The town was ringed by high walls, well-defended, but there were not enough soldiers within to make a fight of it if the Spanish mounted a significant attack. Cut off Ballix and the supply route between Malaka and Gharnatah would be broken.
“He’s a clever general,” Thomas said, more to himself than his companion, but Jorge heard.
“It is Fernando, then, do you think?”
“It has to be. Only he would be allowed to wear such fine armour. He has come for war.” As he glanced at Jorge, ice filled his veins. “This might be the end. The end of everything. Take Ballix, cut off Malaka. If it falls by early summer the Spanish will turn to Gharnatah, honed troops filled with the joy of victory. By the turn of the year al-Andalus will be no more.”
“Al-Zagal isn’t an easy man to defeat.”
“You speak the truth. But look at them. There are …” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Five or six thousand, and still they come. They have cannon, siege platforms, and supplies enough for a month. Ballix will not last a week. And then there’s nothing between there and Malaka.”
“Malaka is a tougher prospect.”
“Perhaps. But it has grown old and lazy the richer it has become. You met Ali Durdush so I know what you think of him. Malaka will fall inside a month. Spanish corsairs will line the docksides, bringing more troops from Cadiz.” Thomas turned his horse. “We have to get back. We have to leave here.”
Jorge spurred his horse to catch up with Thomas. “To where? Returning to Gharnatah is pointless. Where do you intend, Thomas?”
“I don’t know, but we cannot stay here.”
“And the dead man?”
“Damn the dead man. Lubna and Will are back there. Belia and now Diego too. They have to be taken to safety. I was a fool even to come here.”
“No,” said Jorge, “if you hadn’t come we would still be living in ignorance. You always tell me it is better to know the truth than turn aside from it, however uncomfortable that might be.”
“I say too m
any things, and not all of them are right.”
“Well, that’s a first. The infallible Thomas Berrington admitting he might be wrong.”
“Sometimes I wonder why I love you as I do.”
“My beauty, obviously. My —” Jorge stopped abruptly as a group of men appeared ahead of them. They had been concealed behind a splinter of rock until the pair turned a corner.
Thomas came to a halt and glanced across his shoulder to discover a second group blocking the trail behind.
“Tell them you are a friend of Fernando’s.” Jorge eased his horse close to Thomas’s until their sides touched.
“That would be a mistake.”
“Not if you are persuasive.”
“These men aren’t Spanish.”
“Brigands?” Jorge drew his sword and held it up, for all the good it was likely to do if it came to a fight.
“Moors.” Then Thomas laughed and urged his horse forward. “Yusuf?”
The man at the head of the band of soldiers stood tall, broad-shouldered, no longer the youth who had worshiped Thomas but a leader, a general. Nephew to Gharnatah’s ruler, al-Zagal, and brother to Muhammed who laid claim to the crown. Yusuf was now a man of twenty-one years and, though Thomas had not seen him in several years, he had heard of his reputation as a leader of men and a brave warrior. He dismounted and walked forward, only slowing when he did not receive the welcome he expected.
Yusuf looked beyond him. “Is it only the two of you?”
“Of course. Who were you expecting?”
A flicker of the eyes. Yusuf knew Jorge, of course.
“Are you with the Spanish? A scouting party?”
Thomas stopped, uncertain. “Do you forget where my loyalty lies?”
“Rumour has it your loyalty lies with Spain these days. Have you come on behalf of your lover Queen to spy on al-Andalus?”
Thomas took a step closer, ignoring the other men as they drew weapons. He hoped Jorge had sheathed his own sword, for these were all experienced soldiers.
“Since when did you start believing rumour? Have you forgotten all those lessons I taught when you sat on my knee? The lessons Jorge taught you when you grew and began to discover women could be something more than playmates?” Thomas slapped his chest. “Are we not friends?”
Yusuf stared at him for a long moment. The rain returned briefly then passed on.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Where do you think? Ballix, of course.”
“The Spanish are there. Have you been with them?”
“It seems whatever I say you are not going to believe me. We are tired, and Lubna and Belia are expecting us at home. Let us pass and we can all forget this encounter ever happened.”
“Lubna is with you? In Malaka?”
“Where else would she be?”
“I thought …” Yusuf looked away, eyes tracking the steep inclines either side before returning. Something in them had changed. “Word is you had gone to your other woman in Ixbilya.”
“There is no other woman for me than Lubna, you know that. We have been in Malaka a year and a half while she studies at the Infirmary.”
“Is she good?”
Thomas laughed. “You know she is good.”
“As good as you?” Yusuf rolled his shoulder, the one that had been injured six years before, now almost completely healed.
“She could have fixed you as well as I did.”
“Then she is good.” Yusuf shook his head, rubbed a hand across his face, and released the breath from his lungs. “We are camped that way if you want to join us. You are welcome, both of you.”
“We need to get home. I am —” Thomas cut off what he was about to say. Yusuf didn’t need to know he was involved in the investigation of another murder, and the man had his own responsibilities. “Are you with your uncle’s forces?” Thomas referred to al-Zagal, Sultan in Gharnatah and a feared warrior. “Did he know the Spanish were coming?”
“He sent me ahead to scout the area. He feared they might come early, but we are fortunate the rain is hampering them, and …” Yusuf trailed off, studying Thomas. He offered a grim smile. “You know, for a moment I almost forgot I don’t trust you.”
Thomas held his arms out. “It is me, your friend. You can always trust me. Do you not know that here, in your heart?” He patted his chest.
“I want to. But my uncle says trust no man, for everyone betrays you in the end.”
“He’s thinking of Spaniards,” said Jorge, his first words since they met.
“Take no notice of him,” Thomas said. “All he understands is women.”
“Yusuf knows that, for I taught him well.”
Yusuf nodded. “Yes, you did. And my thanks.” He shook his head and laughed. “I cannot continue to doubt you, either of you. How can I when we have lived so much of our lives together? But tell me, is it true you have bedded the Spanish Queen?”
“Who told you that?”
“It is common knowledge. Everyone knows it. Was she good? I expect she is a disappointment after Moorish women, no?”
“If I ever find out I will let you know. She and I are …” Thomas thought of some way to phrase it but knew he could tell only the truth. “We are friends, it is true, but nothing more. She loves her husband and country too much to betray either.”
“But you are friends?”
Thomas nodded.
“And him?”
Thomas shrugged. “Not in the same way, but they know Jorge, certainly. And Lubna and Will.”
“Gods, Thomas, are you sure you have not ploughed her? And if not, why not? I never took you for a fool.”
“Believe what you will, I know the truth.” He studied Yusuf. Handsome, strong, confident. He wondered how much of that would remain after an encounter with the Spanish. Tides of loyalty surged through him, dragging him relentlessly where they wished. He decided to risk his life, trusting to old loyalties. “Are you stupid like your brother, or incapable like your father?”
“You know I am not.”
It seemed the gamble might work.
“And your uncle?”
“Is a great general.”
“Do you believe the Moors can win this war?”
“We are great warriors, and this is our land.” Yusuf looked around. “Even when it is as wet as this.”
“That’s no answer to my question.”
“I cannot give an answer,” said Yusuf. “It is not my place to give an answer. If you want to talk foolishness you should come and eat with us. We are camped close by.”
“We cannot.”
“Then at least walk with us, we go in the same direction for a while.” Yusuf turned away, his men falling in behind, others ranging ahead to protect their leader. A few curious glances were cast at Thomas and Jorge, but if Yusuf accepted them so would they. For now.
Thomas reached out and gripped Yusuf’s arm, holding him back while the others went past, until only the three of them remained.
“Do you think this war can be won?” he asked. “Not just this battle, but the war for the soul of al-Andalus?”
“It is not my place to ask such questions.”
“But you think them, don’t you? Just as I do.”
“It is not my place,” said Yusuf again. “But you are right, that does not mean I do not think on such things.” He glanced ahead to where his men were now a hundred paces distant. Far enough for honesty, it seemed. Yusuf began to follow the narrow trail, room enough only for Thomas beside him. “You are right. This war cannot be won, not even with my uncle sitting as Sultan in Gharnatah.” He stared down at his hands for a moment before looking up. “Tell me, Thomas, do you truly have the ear of the Spanish King and Queen?”
“I do. But not enough to obtain what you want. This war will not end at my wish or yours, else it would be ended already.”
“My uncle is a great general, but he is forged from iron. He has no humanity, no flexibility.”
“He keeps Gh
arnatah safe,” Thomas said.
“My brother seeks to replace him.”
“That will never happen.”
“Do not be so sure. You have been away from Gharnatah too long, even if I did believe you were in Ixbilya, not here. The Albayzin is in open rebellion against al-Zagal, and Muhammed and my mother encourage it. He would sit on the hill again if he can.”
“Then the end will come even sooner.” And because Thomas trusted Yusuf, trusted him more than anyone else in the ruling family, he said, “I believe Muhammed has been turned into an instrument of the Spanish.”
Yusuf stopped, turned to Thomas. “I do not like him, but he is my brother, and he is a Moor.”
“Who was held captive by the Spanish for near a year. There is a man, Martin de Alarcón, who was his captor that whole time. Except he is like no gaoler I have ever known. Martin is a clever man. He turned Muhammed to his will. Turned him to the purposes of Spain.”
Yusuf shook his head, his gaze going to his men who continued to walk away. “It is true he has said some things to me that have made me wonder where his loyalties lie, but if what you claim is true then it is a hard truth to take.”
“There is someone else who could sit on the hill,” Thomas said.
“My brother has the stronger claim.”
Thomas laughed. “Since when has claim ever mattered? Your father had the strongest claim, but Muhammed ousted him. He is not liked and you are.”
“Being liked is no qualification to rule. If it was then Jorge would be Sultan.”
“God help me, and God help Gharnatah,” said Jorge, who waited patiently.
“It is a good place to start,” Thomas said. “And you are a strong general. Olaf Torvaldsson tells me you are, and there is no better judge.”
“And if I sat on the hill, would that stop the Spanish?”
“No, but it might make the ending easier for everyone. They grow tired of our resistance. You have seen it. When Ronda fell they allowed the people to leave with their belongings. Last year, at Wadi-Ashi, the town was stripped of everything and many enslaved. What will be demanded next year? All our heads on stakes?”
“You preach treason, Thomas.”
