by David Penny
The shock among the Spaniards was starting to fade, and Yusuf handed Thomas his own sword before drawing another from its scabbard.
“Cowards, all of them.” He grinned, slashing his sword through the air. Then he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and Thomas almost fell backwards over its rump before grabbing a handful of Yusuf’s robe. Only as they raced away did he notice Yusuf’s men riding alongside them, hard-faced Berbers who would follow their master through the gates of Hell.
Twenty-Six
Yusuf rode fast, recklessly, away from both Spanish and Moorish soldiers, into sharp-ridged hills. Thomas would have asked where they were going but needed to concentrate hard on simply holding on. Only when they descended into a small clearing and he saw a wooden cart waiting, and a body laid on the ground, did he understand. Yusuf hadn’t been the only one from Gharnatah to fight tonight, but the other man was a shock. Thomas had always considered him invulnerable.
Thomas slid from behind Yusuf without a word and went to kneel over the figure that stared up at the sky. For a terrifying moment Thomas thought he was too late, but then the man’s eyes flickered as he became aware of him and a grimace pulled his mouth down on one side.
“Apologise to my daughter,” said Olaf Torvaldsson.
“Apologise yourself, for you will see her before noon.”
“If I last that long.”
Thomas knelt and examined a head wound. Bad enough, but not fatal. Then he untied the leather jerkin and drew a sharp breath.
“Noon might be optimistic,” said Olaf.
Thomas drew the jerkin farther apart, tracking the deep wound.
“A Spaniard?”
“A dead Spaniard. Now, anyway.”
“You killed him?”
“What do you think?”
“How?”
“Did I kill him? With my axe, of course.” Olaf smiled through his pain at the memory. “Took his head off.”
“How did he do this to you? I have seen you fight, and you are invincible.”
“Not anymore, it seems. I made the mistake of letting the fire take me.” His eyes tracked Thomas’s. “You know how it is. I have seen you in battle. You are like me. It is why I entrust my daughter to you.”
“With me it is not the fire, but cold that takes me.” Thomas wasn’t sure why he said it, except he loved this man like a father, more than he had ever loved his own father.
“Each man has his own way. Beware of it, Thomas, for it makes a man believe himself invulnerable.” He breathed softly for a moment, clear it pained at every inhalation. “I have been injured before, but fear this will be the last time.”
“You forget who I am.”
Thomas looked up to see Yusuf had come, together with a half-dozen hard-faced soldiers. He stood and watched as they lifted Olaf onto the bed of a cart. There was no horse, no donkey or mule. These men would draw their leader themselves. They raised him like he weighed nothing at all, and Thomas wished al-Andalus had ten thousand more of their kind, for if it did this land might be saved.
“Would you have come to save me if Olaf hadn’t been injured?” Thomas asked as he stood beside Yusuf.
“More than likely. You know how fond I am of you.” He smiled. “Besides, there were only three or four thousand of them. If it had been eight …” He lifted a shoulder.
They both watched as the cart was led away.
Yusuf offered Thomas a horse, but he refused. Instead he ran to catch up with the cart and climbed onto its bed to kneel beside Olaf and start the work that might save him. He ignored the head wound as he stripped the big general’s torso bare. He had a few instruments stowed in his pockets from the battle but had lost his leather bag. He used what he had as best he could, examining the deep wound in Olaf’s side, doing nothing until he was sure that doing something was the less dangerous choice.
“I’m sorry I have nothing for the pain. It’s going to hurt a great deal.”
“You forget who you talk to.” Olaf bit his words short as Thomas started the examination. He tried to sit up, but Thomas held him down with one hand, knowing he couldn’t have done so under normal circumstances.
“Lie still and I’ll try to hurt you the least I can. It will be better when we get to the Infirmary.”
“My men,” said Olaf. “I have to tell them you mean me no harm if I call out.”
“They know who I am.” Thomas thought that might not be a good thing, but it also meant they knew of his skill. He might have worked on some of them in the past, for he had been in attendance at scores of battles and worked on hundreds of men, and if he had they no doubt hated him and were grateful in equal measure. Or more likely the hate outweighed the gratitude, but so be it. These men, Olaf’s men, would not have stood at the back, but been in the front ranks. So yes, Thomas knew he would have treated at least some.
When Olaf screamed, the men came fast, only to be stilled by a stare from Thomas.
They travelled on, their path twisting to avoid Spanish scouts, until they came down to the walls of Malaka and entered the city.
“Will he live?” Lubna sat on a stone ledge, leaning forward, arms across her knees. She had come as soon as she received the message Thomas sent.
“He’s strong. I’ve cleaned the wound and sealed the bleeding with a hot iron. Belia’s potions will help if infection takes hold.” He stared into Lubna’s eyes. Thought of the child she carried. Another grandson or granddaughter for Olaf to spoil, and Thomas thought of how his face softened when the feared general bounced Will on his knee. Which reminded him he still had to find someone to continue training his son. A boy needed to know how to protect himself and, as he grew into a man, protect those he loved.
“He will stay with us,” said Lubna.
“Of course.”
“You were wise to bring us into the city before the Spanish came. Can we take him with us today?”
“He is better here for the moment. Let him sleep for now, there is enough poppy in his blood even for him.”
“Then I will stay, too.”
“We both stay,” Thomas said. “I have arranged a room for us nearby. We can take turns to sit with him.”
“I will do it. You are exhausted.”
“It is nothing. I have also arranged for a nurse who will fetch us if there is any change.”
“Is she good?”
Thomas considered a reply unnecessary.
“I sent Yusuf with Jorge to Diego’s house,” said Lubna. “It was hard to leave the other one, but you are right, we are safer inside the walls.”
Thomas nodded, only half listening as his eyes grew heavy. The next time he opened them his neck was stiff and Jorge stood beside Yusuf with an expectation on his face.
“What?”
“I asked if you were coming home. Will misses you.”
“Tomorrow,” Thomas said. “When we bring Olaf.” He glanced across to the man, who still slept. Lubna sat beside him, his big, gnarled hand in her small, soft one. “What are you doing here?”
“Lubna sent a message. Did you expect me not to come?”
“I don’t know.” But as he thought of it he realised Jorge and Olaf had become closer since events in Ixbilya almost two years before when the three of them had saved Belia from the Inquisition’s dungeons. Olaf still thought Jorge too soft, too weak, but that was his opinion of almost all men. No doubt including me, Thomas thought. He glanced at the unglazed window to discover night had come again and wondered how long he had slept.
“Is it late?”
“Late enough to eat,” said Jorge. “I was going to introduce Yusuf to al-Zaki’s girls. The house is nearby.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
Thomas glanced at Yusuf. “Do you want to meet them?”
“It has been some time since I laid with a woman. And a man can stand only so much of war before wanting a beautiful woman.”
“Four beautiful women,” said Jorge. “Not counting his first
wife.”
“I thought there were six,” Thomas said. “And are you sure they are willing?”
“Some have already left. That woman has driven them out. And yes, they are willing.”
“I don’t think I can manage four, let alone six,” said Yusuf.
Thomas watched the exchange, wondering if he was still asleep and this was a dream.
“You are a prince, and they are in need of protection.”
“I would never offer false hope,” said Yusuf.
“But they would imagine it all the same.”
“In that case we shouldn’t go.”
“Go find him a clean whore,” said Lubna, from beside her father. She didn’t bother turning around. “Two if you must.”
“It is never too soon to begin selecting members of a harem,” said Jorge to Yusuf. “You’ll be Sultan one day and will need beautiful women to reflect your power.”
Yusuf looked toward Thomas, a pleading in his eyes. “Can you tell him I only need to eat?”
“If it would do any good,” Thomas said. “You know Jorge. Besides, you might enjoy yourself. They are all clean, all young, and yes, all more than willing I suspect.”
Yusuf glanced toward Olaf. “Will he live?” Unknowingly echoing Lubna’s words.
“He will.”
“When will he wake?”
“Not until morning.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“I expect you do. And I think I know what about.”
“What is your opinion of his answer?”
“I couldn’t begin to work out how Olaf’s mind works, other than he is fiercely loyal to whoever rules on the hill.” Thomas waited for Yusuf to say something else, but he didn’t. Eventually Jorge pulled him away, chattering, explaining the varying attractions of the women who had recently belonged to al-Zaki but were now in need of a new protector, if only from his ex-wife.
When they were gone, Thomas rose and touched Olaf’s neck, searching for the pulse there, hard to find amongst the scars and muscle, but eventually it beat beneath his finger, strong and slow.
“Get some sleep,” he said to Lubna. “I’ll watch over him until dawn and then make arrangements to take him to Diego’s house. Have the others come into the city yet?”
“They were doing so today. And I will stay, too.”
“There’s no need.”
“I need to.” She glanced at Thomas, her eyes devoid of emotion, or emotion toward him at least, and he nodded and drew up a wooden stool. He closed his eyes.
When he woke again, dawn greyed the air and a mist hung in the empty street outside. Lubna’s head rested on the bed, her breath lifting strands of dark hair as she breathed, and Olaf was awake.
Thomas stood, felt his pulse briefly before his hand was knocked aside.
“I will live, thanks to you.”
“I am the decider of that, Fa.”
Olaf tried to smile, gave up the attempt, perhaps the gesture too unfamiliar to come easily.
“Did you fix me?”
“As well as I could.”
“Then I will live.” He glanced at Lubna. Satisfied she continued to sleep he motioned Thomas close. “I have something to tell you.”
“There are no secrets between us.”
“Let us say I do not wish to wake her, then. When will I be well enough to return to Gharnatah?”
“Several weeks, perhaps longer.”
“Then I need to tell you. What you decide to do is up to you. I will understand if you wish to do nothing, but you deserve to know.”
“Know what?” Thomas leaned closer to Olaf, the scent of the soap they had used to clean his body sharp.
“I received a message a week ago while I still rode with al-Zagal.” Olaf rested a moment, his eyes closed, then spoke again, his voice even softer. “We encountered the enemy early and were confident of teaching them a lesson, but they were ready for us. We were beaten. Badly beaten. Word got back to Muhammed. Word came back to us. The day after the news reached Gharnatah he took al-Hamra. The city has a short memory. One defeat and they turn on their best hope and sit a fool on the throne.”
Thomas waited, but the speech was over for the moment. A long speech for Olaf, who treated words like silver coins, too valuable to waste. Thomas knew what he wanted to ask, afraid of the answer that would come, but asked anyway.
“You have always told me you are the Sultan’s man.”
Olaf offered the smallest of nods. “Perhaps more so now. Fools need protection from themselves. But that is not all I need to tell you, merely the reason behind it.”
Beside him Lubna shifted, and Thomas waited for her to settle. Outside in the street a store owner began to open shutters, talking to a passer-by in a language Thomas didn’t understand. This was Malaka, after all.
He stared at Olaf, his eyes closed, and wondered if he had fallen into a doze.
But he had not.
“Muhammed has taken Helena. Taken her by force. That was the message I received. A message not to a general but a message to a father about his daughter. A message not altogether meant for me but, I believe, for you as well.”
Thomas thought about Helena, Lubna’s sister by a different mother. The exquisite Helena who had once shared his bed for half a year, and then, later, he had shared hers for a single night. Will was the result. At least, he hoped he might be; Helena continued to withhold that certainty from him.
“Did Muhammed send this message himself?”
“Possibly, I would not put such a thing beyond him.” Olaf’s breathing grew faster and the muscles in his chest tightened.
“Where is the pain?”
The merest shake of his head. “It is not the kind you can cure. The messenger passed on other news, most likely thinking I needed to know it. Which I did, even if the hearing of it was hard. He is punishing her for loving you.”
“Helena doesn’t love me,” Thomas said.
“More than she loves anyone else.”
“It is years since she shared my bed. There is nothing between us anymore.”
“But Muhammed does not know that, and sometimes I am not sure Helena does either. Do you deny Will is your son?”
“Sometimes I think he is, other times not.”
“But you lay with her.”
Thomas gave a brief nod. “Yes, I lay with her. But I had not lain with Lubna then. I would never betray her. I never loved Helena, but I do love Lubna.”
“I know you do. But it is beside the point. Muhammed hurts Helena so he can punish you.”
“Even though I don’t know of it?”
“Retribution needs no reason for some men.” Olaf’s eyes opened, blue-grey like those of Helena, eyes that had seen everything a man could witness, both the good and bad, the blissful and horrific, and treated them all the same. “I would go plead for her. He might listen if I bend my knee and pledge allegiance. He will need someone like me, someone strong.”
“There is no-one else like you,” Thomas said.
“Which is why he might release my daughter. But I cannot go to him like this, weak.” His eyes held Thomas’s, the question unasked, having no need to be asked.
“I can’t go,” Thomas said. “Not now, not yet.”
“But later?”
Thomas stared at the man, as close to a father as any he had known, and he thought of Olaf’s daughter, the blonde daughter, the woman who had once shared his house and his bed, and knew he didn’t have an answer to the question.
Twenty-Seven
The cart rattled along a cobbled street, Thomas guiding a mule as it drew its burden the short distance from the Infirmary to Diego’s house where they now lived. Six Gomeres soldiers accompanied them, short, hard men with dark eyes that showed nothing. This was Malaka, a Moorish city of sorts, but the man they protected was Olaf Torvaldsson so no chances were to be taken. Thomas had been unsure whether Olaf would need extra protection or not but had gone to where the Gomeres had made their camp below the
Rabita fortress to ask their help, thinking of the killer who still roamed free in the city. It would not be taken lightly if he endangered al-Andalus’s most famed general. Even the Gomeres captain, who had never before left his native North Africa, knew of Olaf’s reputation and assigned these half dozen men.
Two of them roamed ahead, checking every side alley and doorway, their heads turning to scan for danger. Two more came behind. Yusuf had returned to the mountains and his men, to pick at the Spanish army, but promised to return once Olaf was strong enough to travel.
The streets were almost empty, which was why they were moving Olaf now, before traders set up their stalls. Despite the presence of the Spanish army beyond the city walls, life continued, but there was a brittle nature to it now, as if everyone walked on eggshells, waiting for the inevitable attack.
Lubna sat in the rear of the cart next to her father, who maintained a stoic silence through gritted teeth as the constant jostling aggravated the pain of his wounds.
Jorge walked beside Thomas, explaining in great detail the beauty and skill of each of the women, and how before he left Yusuf had managed to bed at least three before sleep, or more likely exhaustion, claimed him. He said nothing about his part in events, though Thomas was certain Belia didn’t expect fidelity from him. She knew him better than that.
“Did you think Yusuf would really take any of those girls to be part of his harem?” Thomas asked when there came a brief break in the tale — caused more by Jorge’s need to draw breath than that he had finished.
“Of course not, but they believed he might.”
“Is it fair to let them think so?”
“Don’t be so judgemental. It’s not as if they’re anything but willing. Yusuf is a fine-looking young man. Strong and virile. He is welcome after that husband of theirs.”
“A husband who is dead, and whose killer we seek,” Thomas said. “And what do you do while Yusuf is bedding these women? There are two older, good-looking women in that house as well, no doubt of much greater experience than those girls.”
