The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6)

by David Penny

  “And still they call you friend?” Woodville frowned, perhaps at the unfairness of such a situation. “England is a land of trade, as you know, and it would be remiss of my king not to foster such connections when he can. I would be most grateful, Sir Thomas, if you would do me the favour of mentioning nothing about my meeting with Durdush to their majesties.” He placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “It would be a kindness I can repay when you return to England.” His fingers tightened, and he tried to show some kind of threat in his gaze, but it had no effect on Thomas who was used to far harder men, ones capable of delivering on such a promise.

  Sixteen

  Thomas was in a foul mood as he made his way through the corridors of the castle in search of the room assigned to him and Jorge. His contentment had been wrecked when Woodville asked him to keep his secrets and Thomas had not said no, as he should have. His anger was at himself more than the man, who he understood only too well. Even as a boy he had recognised the privilege and sense of entitlement of such individuals. The world was arranged to satisfy their whims, whatever the cost to others.

  At last he reached what he believed was the room he was sharing with Jorge and knocked first, listening for any reply. When none came he entered, only to stop dead at the sight of Fernando examining the hangings on one of the walls.

  “I am sorry, your grace, I thought this was our room.”

  “It is, Thomas, it is.” Fernando approached, and Thomas turned aside as the man’s fist came toward his shoulder, which he feared was already bruised.

  “Do you want something of me?”

  “Not me, my wife.” He smiled. “She has questions for you that could not be raised at table.”

  “I…” Thomas hesitated. “It would not be seemly at this time of night. Servants talk, if only amongst themselves.”

  “Talk all they want, there is only one pair of ears such gossip might trouble. I trust you, Thomas, and I trust Isabel. She is in the dining hall. You will not be disturbed.” This time Thomas was too slow and the punch landed with a solid thump.

  Isabel stood in front of the fire, which had been re-stacked with logs. She turned at the sound of the door, a smile of welcome on a face that was pretty if not beautiful, a face Thomas found fascinating. Perhaps it was her power, or her humanity. This was a woman waging war with all the resources at her command, but still she cared for the small people. He had seen it first-hand and admired her all the more for it. This was a woman of the highest privilege, but she respected others too. The distinction between her and Woodville only cemented Thomas’s dislike of the man.

  “Sir Thomas,” said Isabel, offering a curtsey that was close to impertinence considering their positions.

  “Don’t call me that. It’s not my due and means nothing to me.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “To you, perhaps, but to others it means a great deal. Do not denigrate the honour afforded you, even if it was long ago. I am sure you earned it.” As Thomas stopped in front of her, she raised a hand to touch his face. “You are the bravest man I know.”

  “Perhaps you should make that the second bravest.”

  A moment’s thought. “Yes, perhaps I should.” She sighed. “Politics is so tiresome.”

  “I will not disagree with you, your grace.” He smiled as she started to object, then Isabel laughed at the realisation Thomas had used the term deliberately to annoy her, and he said, “I will call you Isabel when you know longer call me Sir Thomas.”

  “Then it is done, cousin Thomas.” She turned away, as if the moment had grown too intimate. “Come, I need to talk.”

  Thomas watched her walk to the table and sit. When she turned, it was to find his gaze on her and she frowned. “Have I changed so much?”

  Thomas tried to smile, but it felt false. “No, not at all, but I have not seen you in two years. I was reminding myself of…” He ran out of words, unable to express the emotions that roiled through him when he looked at her. He saw her cheeks colour and wondered if she too might not share his disquiet, then shook his head. Ridiculous.

  He took the seat at the head of the table, wondering if she had taken the one to the side on purpose, then dismissed the idea. He needed to stop over-thinking things. He sat back in the chair, stretching his long legs out.

  “So, what are we to talk of? You know there are some questions I cannot answer.”

  A sigh. “One day I hope to persuade you to come to me, but until then you can keep your secrets.” She placed her hands on the table and leaned close. “I want to ask about your countryman.”

  “Woodville? I know nothing of him. I only met the man tonight.”

  “But you know his kind, do you not, from when you lived in England. Was your father an influential man?”

  “My father was—” Thomas cut himself short. Isabel did not need to know that Sir John Berrington was a bully who had time only for his eldest son, who in turn shared the same name and took after him almost exactly. “My father was not without influence.”

  He recalled a time when that influence was withheld, after Thomas had been accused of murder. His father could have stopped the trial at once had he chosen to do so, but he allowed it to run its course. At the time Thomas had wondered would he have intervened if the rope threatened, not so sure of the answer. But his father was dead, as was his older brother and mother. Only John Berrington, Thomas, and his sister had survived the sweating sickness that swept through Lemster in the late winter of 1453. He had himself succumbed but survived, at the time thanking a God he no longer believed in. Thomas and his sister, Angnes. He called the name to mind, half afraid he might have forgotten it. Only when Isabel touched his arm and spoke did he realise he must have spoken it aloud.

  “Who is Angnes, Thomas? Another of your conquests?”

  He smiled. “She was my sister. No, she is my sister. I pray she still lives, and if she does she will be almost your age by now.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Life. And death. Nothing that hasn’t happened a thousand times over. It was long ago, and you have questions for me tonight.”

  Isabel’s eyes held his for a moment, her hand still on his arm, and he knew both of them sitting in this room, the Queen of Castile’s hand resting against the arm of a man who might be considered her enemy, was beyond any form of protocol that could be imagined. But it was how they were, she and he, as close as sister and brother, because both knew to be closer could not be countenanced.

  Finally, she gave a tiny shiver and sat up, her hand sliding away with the movement.

  “This man Woodville, then. You know his kind, do you not?” All business now.

  Thomas inclined his head. Yes, he knew the type, but so did Isabel. They were not so different, the nobility of England and Spain, the nobility of any country for that matter.

  “He claims his sister is married to King Henry. Woodville comes seeking a bride for his son, and my diplomats assure me his letter of intent is genuine.”

  “You have enough daughters to offer,” Thomas said.

  “But Henry has only the one son. A boy of two years. Arthur, I believe. How can we make a marriage with a boy so young?”

  Thomas smiled. “You have a daughter the same age. They would make a match, would they not?”

  She laughed. “I suggested as much but was rebuffed. He is, I believe, looking for someone older. Though why I cannot tell.”

  “You have older daughters, too.”

  “Isabel is pledged to Portugal. That cannot be broken or there will be another war before this one is finished. Joanna is difficult, and Maria is only three years older than Catherine.”

  “Are you saying you will rebuff his approach?”

  “I do not wish to do that. A marriage between Spain and England would forge a powerful alliance, the two strongest powers in the world joined.”

  “So you are saying you would pledge Catherine to this young prince? Arthur, you called him? I had not heard of him until you spoke
his name. I take little interest in my homeland anymore.”

  “You should, Sir Thomas.” She smiled and leaned close again, once more her hand coming out, this time covering his, and Thomas turned his over so that their palms rested together and she allowed the intimacy as he closed his fingers through hers. “Tell me,” she said, her eyes on their joining, “this Woodville, what is your opinion of him? The truth now, Thomas, for are we not the best of friends? You can tell me anything. Tell me whatever lies in your heart.”

  Thomas hesitated, but knew he had to speak. “I do not know him well enough to judge. He is like others of his kind, so you will know him better than I. But he …” Thomas hesitated before deciding he owed Woodville nothing. “I do not like him. He is not the kind of man I could ever like: privileged and arrogant without the skills to claim such.”

  Isabel laughed. “Well, I did ask for honesty.” Her fingers tightened against his. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And I agree with your judgement. Such men are a blight on both our lands, but nothing can be done about them. Politics again. If I want an attachment between our countries, I must work with him.”

  “I believe he is here for more than the joining between two countries. He has another prize in mind as well. He may also be in discussion with the man Durdush who came here today.”

  Isabel closed her eyes a moment. “Men seek fortune in war, and Malaka is rich. That does not mean his offer to us is not genuine.” She opened her eyes, her fingers tightening once more through his. “But I am not telling you anything you do not already know.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Then come join me. Your beloved al-Andalus is doomed. Do not condemn yourself to the same fate. Come be part of my court.” A flicker of a smile. “Now that you are Sir Thomas Berrington a place can be easily found for you. Bring Lubna, bring Jorge and his woman. And bring your son, for Juan loves him as a brother. All of you should come to where you will be safe.”

  The temptation was strong. It was one Isabel had made before, and each time she did, Thomas rejected her. Would he be a fool to do so again? Or was the intimacy of the moment swaying his decision? He had seen this woman in agonies, had seen her in anger and sadness, had seen her with joy on her face, and he knew he loved her. But could he turn his back on everything else he loved, beyond this place?

  Isabel must have seen the indecision in his face, or perhaps his fingers tightened against hers without knowing.

  “You do not have to answer me tonight, but you know you can always come to me at any time and will be made welcome.” Her fingers squeezed one more time before releasing their grip. She sat up, smoothing her hands across her clothes as if they had been disturbed in some way.

  Thomas watched Isabel leave the room. He was tired, but knew sleep would prove elusive, and did not want to disturb Jorge who, by now, would be sprawled across the entire bed.

  Twenty paces beyond the fort, the darkness was profound, and Thomas stopped and craned his head back to stare at the stars. He owned a copy of Nasir al-Din Tusi’s work on astronomy, left in his house in Gharnatah, and knew he was looking at other suns made small by distance, and other planets circling his own sun, but that knowledge did not lessen the awe at how many suns there must be, and the distances involved.

  A wind blew through the grass and there came the sound of a distant river rushing with floodwater. Then a human sound, a soft cough, and Thomas turned to see Richard Woodville walking toward him. Except as the figure came closer he grew less sure. This man walked differently, like a soldier, alert to the night. Thomas realised he had not been seen in the dark, so waited as the man came closer. His path would take him within ten paces. He wondered where he was going at this time of night, barely giving a thought to what had brought him here himself, because he did not have an answer. And then he discovered everything he had assumed about the encounter was false as the man stopped and turned to face him.

  “You are Sir Thomas Berrington, I assume.” The words were English, their sound unfamiliar after so many years.

  “You have the advantage of me, sir.” Thomas replied in the same language, aware his accent would by now sound strange.

  There came a flash of teeth in the dark as the man smiled. “I have heard that is a difficult task to accomplish. My name is Edward Danvers, and I am companion to Richard Woodville.”

  “He made no mention of a companion to me.”

  “He gives little thought to the work I do, little thought to me either. You are a man of nobility so I expect you are the same with your own companion. Though I admit he appears to be an easier proposition. Richard can be difficult at times.”

  “Did you follow me out here?” Thomas was curious to know what this man Danvers wanted, if anything. He was surprised at his candour. He couldn’t make out the man’s face, and it felt strange to be having a conversation with each of them half-cloaked by the night. It was easier to read a man when you could see his expression.

  “Richard told me he met you in company with the Spanish King and Queen. That you appear to be friend to them both. The Queen in particular, he said. And that your companion is an interesting man. A eunuch, by God! A real eunuch. I have never met the such until this night.”

  “Do you want something of me, or is this meeting no more than two men who cannot sleep conversing to pass time.”

  “I welcome the chance to talk with another Englishman, that is all, and I have been told you are a clever one as well as fearsome in battle. There are few enough of us in Spain. You are from the Marches, I hear. Did you know Richard was commissioned to restore order in Hereford? That is near to where you lived, is it not?”

  “Do you know the West?” Thomas asked.

  “I was born and raised north of Salop, so I know it well. A lush country plagued by proximity to the Welsh. What made you want to live among unbelievers, Sir Thomas?”

  “No Sir Thomas, please. I did nothing to deserve it. I live here because I choose to.” Thomas was in no mood to explain why, equally sure Danvers was in no mood to listen to his explanation, long as it would be. “What does your master want with Ali Durdush? I saw them together only a few days ago.”

  “Is that right.” Danvers softened his voice so that Thomas had to step closer to hear. “He tells me he is curious about al-Andalus. That is what you call it, is it not? Al-Andalus — land of the Vandals.”

  “As England is the land of the Angles. Does Richard know as much about this place as you? Does he care, or does he search only for a princess?”

  Danvers gave a laugh. “Oh, Richard is always searching for a princess.” He took three paces, closing the distance between them to a bare few feet. “You have met him, spoken with him, so you know how he is, and what he is. He relies a great deal on me. Allows me much freedom to work on his behalf, which I welcome. There is nothing worse than a master who is always looking over your shoulder, is there not? Or perhaps you would not know, as a man without a master.”

  Thomas could make out Danvers’ face now and saw that how, close to, he would not confuse master and servant, if that was what they were. He turned aside. “I am tired and going to my bed.”

  “To lie beside your eunuch, or atop him?”

  Thomas almost stopped, then gave a shake of his head and walked on.

  As expected, Jorge took up the entire bed. He mumbled when Thomas pushed him to make space, rolled to his back and opened his eyes.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?” Thomas sat on the edge of the bed, naked. He had nothing to hide from Jorge, and Jorge nothing to hide from him.

  “A man came looking for you. I told him you were probably outside eating some disgusting plant or other. I said he would no doubt find you by the smell.” Jorge rubbed at his head with both hands. “Did he find you? I mistook him for that Earl at first.”

  “He found me.” Thomas pushed at Jorge again, who had once more spread out. “Are you going to be trouble?”

 
; “I am never trouble.”

  “Ah, I must be thinking of someone else.” He leaned over and blew out the candle then pushed Jorge away for a third time.

  Sleep eluded him.

  He heard Jorge begin to snore but had not the heart to kick him when his foot slid across.

  He was thinking about Richard Woodville and Edward Danvers, and what they might want with the Malaka Guild. And thinking of the Guild brought to mind the death of Zufar al-Zaki that was no doubt connected to his position in that Guild. The two items came together in his mind, circling each other like moths coming closer together, circling a lamp not bright enough to shed light on an answer.

  Why did al-Zaki have to die? Because he knew something? Because he had threatened to expose someone? And could that someone be Richard Woodville, or was that only Thomas’s dislike of the man made him think that? As sleep began to enclose him, the thought he had lost before came again, this time fully formed, and he sat up in bed.

  Jorge groaned and rolled onto his front.

  Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the darkness.

  Elizabeth Woodville, married to King Henry VII. Sister to Richard Woodville, Earl Rivers. And her initial as it might be scratched into a ring. An ornate E.

  Thomas knew he was stretching coincidence to breaking point but could not help wondering how he might find out if his faint suspicion had any reality in fact. Woodville was not a man capable of murder, but Diego had said it was the other man who struck the blow. A tall man and a shorter one. Thomas rose and went to his robe, finding it by touch, but the ring he sought was not there. He recalled setting it in a box in the bedroom at home. But it could be retrieved and shown to Woodville. It would be interesting to judge his reaction.

  Seventeen

  Thomas and Jorge rode alongside an almost unbroken column of soldiers moving south through the narrow valleys of Axarquia, until that moment a region almost completely ignored by Spain. It was too rugged, too mountainous, and too rebellious. A string of white Moorish towns and villages straddled hilltops or nestled along riverbeds that dried out in summer and raged in winter. It was a land only the Moors wanted, a land only the Moors could make a living from. And now it was a land about to be turned into a battlefield as ever more Spanish troops came to reinforce those already there.