by David Penny
He felt lighter as he rose and descended to the street. He turned away from his new home and passed through a small gate to the sea’s edge, looking for the fishermen he hoped might be there. They often came at dawn, and with luck would sell him some fish, octopus, whatever had been caught. Belia still had a little of the spice Narjis had given them and would make whatever he found edible if not succulent. But the shoreline was empty other than a galley pulled up in the distance beneath the towering wall of the Alkhazabah. Thomas wondered if they were moving the crates already, but it was no longer any of his concern. He cursed, his belly cramping with hunger as he started back toward Diego’s house.
Spanish guns began their work once more, iron and stone balls flying overhead to crash into walls, roofs, streets, and squares. Most of the population huddled indoors, seeking a false safety. Few appeared on the streets, so when Thomas saw six men enter from a crossway ahead he assumed they were soldiers on their way to man the walls, until they turned toward him. He saw a short figure at their head, dressed in a leather jerkin, a wide-brimmed hat shading his face against the morning sun. They had come for him. Had they been watching the Ataranzana, expecting him to return, or was this meeting nothing but coincidence? It mattered little. All that mattered was their presence and intent.
Thomas touched his belt, found the hilt of a knife, but he carried no sword, and cursed his stupidity at leaving the house in a hurry. He watched as the men spread out to block the street. Beyond, a woman emerged through a doorway then turned back, slamming it behind her. The men were forty paces away. Thomas smiled and turned around.
Another six stood behind, even closer. Hard men, seasoned soldiers accustomed to battle and killing. Had Woodville used all of them in his plan, or only the short man in the hat? It mattered little. It mattered not at all. Thomas drew his knife and swung his arms. He had thought himself dead many times before, had fought unreasonable odds and managed to survive. He had no doubt he would survive this time, but knew it might prove difficult. He began to walk, hearing the men behind start to follow, saw the men ahead close the gap as he decided who he would kill first. The short man, obviously. It was clear he was their leader, despite his size. A half foot shorter than Thomas, but that meant nothing. Thomas had been smaller than that when he killed his first man. Size counted for nothing. A tall coward would always fall to a brave man with skill, however short they were. A dozen men. Another dozen men who would die today, and Thomas realised he had no idea how many he had killed over the years. More than a hundred, he was sure, but less than a thousand. It was not the kind of count most men kept.
The cold filled him as he yelled and sprinted toward the short man, who grinned, ready for him, sword in one hand, wicked knife gleaming in the other, but Thomas had faced better warriors in the past and the fight barely lasted seconds.
The man swung the sword, over-confident. Thomas ducked, swerved, then buried his knife in the man’s side. It was not a killing blow, and as the man jerked away, the knife remained in his body and was pulled from Thomas’s grasp.
No matter. He stepped back, twisted, and punched one of the others hard in the face before taking a sword from his limp hand. He sensed rather than saw the short man come at him again, but slower now. The knife had failed to kill him, but it had to be agony, and a hurt man couldn’t help but slow down. Then Thomas remembered there were others behind him, alerted to the fact when some of those ahead stepped back as their companions readied to attack.
Thomas threw himself to one side, rolling away. Coming to his feet he placed his back against the city wall, facing the men, who took a moment to organise a fresh attack. It was the time that killed three of them.
Two figures appeared at the end of the street, one tall, the other a giant.
A battle axe hung from a leather thong on Olaf’s wrist. Yusuf carried a sword in each hand and a smile on his face. They didn’t rush, didn’t cry out. Olaf began to swing the axe when he was twenty paces from the rear rank, barely touching the hilt. Instead he used its weight to swing it fast, the blade almost a blur, and Thomas saw what he had meant the night before. Will needed to learn how to fight this way. Olaf was a killing machine. His blade took a man in the back, and he went to his knees. The momentum of the axe carried it around in a wide curve before it struck a second time.
Thomas turned away and began to run as the short man dashed along the street, abandoning his companions to their fate. He was fast, but so was Thomas, despite the fire that started up in his lungs and the lead that filled his legs. The man ran back along the way Thomas had come, heading for the gate to the shore. Had he come from where the galley had been drawn up? Was this the start of their plan to steal the wealth of Malaka? If so it would come to nothing now.
Thomas almost caught him at the Ataranzana, and would have had a stray worker not come pushing a cart through the arches directly into his path. Thomas tried to swerve, but the man kept coming and he crashed into the side of the cart. Beyond he saw the short man glance back and double his effort, extending his lead. Thomas pushed away from the cart and set off once more.
Had the man turned east he might have escaped, but instead he went west. Whether he didn’t know about the river, how wide and deep it was, Thomas had no idea, but he found him standing on the bank. He was removing his weapons and tossing them to the ground, knowing if he entered the water with them sheathed their weight would pull him to the bottom. He began to wade into the river, the bed sloping steeply so he floundered, arms thrashing, and Thomas smiled. He waited, knowing the man must either let the water to take him to his death or he had to return to shore. Except he was having trouble getting out of the river, so Thomas waded in to his chest and grabbed the man’s jerkin and dragged him out. As he pulled him to the bank, Thomas caught the man and turned him onto his back, knelt on his arms and slapped his face.
Thomas spoke in English, rusty from disuse. “Who is your master? Tell me or you go back in the river, and this time you’ll drown.”
The man only laughed and spat salt water in Thomas’s face.
Thirty-One
“You should have killed him,” said Olaf.
They stood on the street where the dozen men had ambushed Thomas. Three bodies had been taken away, the remnant of the attackers fleeing. Blood stained the cobbles. Under normal circumstances someone would already be there to clean it away, but these were not normal times.
“Dead he can’t give any answers.”
“But you no longer have him,” Olaf pointed out. “We could have taken him with us to the house and asked him politely. And then when that failed, I could have persuaded him of his foolishness.”
“I wouldn’t stain Diego’s house in that manner. He’s locked up for now and I can question him again later. I’ll even consider taking you with me next time, not that it will do much good. He simply stared at me. Didn’t say a word. It was as if he knew he was invulnerable.”
“Or doesn’t care if he lives or dies,” said Olaf. “Yes, take me next time and we will see how he fares.”
Thomas turned to Yusuf. “Was I wrong? What would you have done?”
“I would have killed him, answers or not.”
Thomas looked into Yusuf’s eyes and saw the truth of his words, saw how much the boy he had thought he once knew so well had changed.
“I’ll get a chance to try again, and when the Spanish come he’ll be handed over as a murderer.”
“Better ask your questions soon, then,” said Yusuf.
Thomas started toward the house. “What made you come after me?”
“We didn’t. Olaf was bored. I think he was looking for a fight, hoping some Spanish soldiers would try storming the walls. And then Diego came in and told us you were in danger. Jorge said he had done the same before and we should listen to him.”
“How did you know where I would be?”
“We didn’t, but Diego told us to come the way we did.” Yusuf shook his head, his face serious. “I’m not sure I l
iked it when his prediction came true. It spooked me, I have to admit.”
“He is strange, true enough,” Thomas said. “That’s twice he has saved my life now.”
“You would have managed without us, I’m sure,” said Yusuf. This time he smiled and Thomas saw it as a joke. “But it is lucky one of us was Olaf Torvaldsson, and I am no longer the boy who once sat on your knee.”
“I noticed.”
Will came skidding into the room as soon as they entered the house. He must have heard their voices. He leapt at Thomas, who plucked him from the air and swung him around.
“Where have you been, Pa?” Will clung to him. “Why are you all wet?”
“I fell in the river.”
Will laughed and punched Thomas on the chest. “Silly Pa. I want to know how to swim. Diego can’t swim. He told me I must learn.”
“Why?”
Will shrugged.
“I’ll teach you.” Thomas watched Yusuf wander away into the main room as he carried Will the other way, climbing stairs to the room he shared with Lubna. He threw a laughing Will onto the empty bed and found clean clothes. He was tired, despite it not being noon yet, and lay beside Will, but his son kept asking questions and jumping on him so he sent him downstairs, sleep coming almost immediately, the sound of the city filtering away to nothing.
When he descended the stairs some hours later, Olaf and Yusuf had taken Will and Diego out, and Belia stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face.
“What have I done now?” Thomas asked.
“I told you I didn’t want that man coming back here. And how does he know where we live?” She shook her head in anger, dark hair flying. “Take him to the Infirmary, I’ll not have him here.”
“Mandana?” Thomas said. “When did he come?”
“Now, a few moments since. He asked for Lubna but she refused to treat him. Do it and send him away. And no more, Thomas, this is the end of it.”
“I’ll tell him. Where is he?”
“In the courtyard. I told him he couldn’t come inside. I won’t have him tainting our house.”
“You have the ointments?”
“Lucky for you that I do.”
“No. Lucky for Mandana. I will end it today, I promise.”
“Promises, that’s all I ever get. I want action.” But Belia turned away to fetch the lotions Thomas would need for Mandana.
He was waiting in the courtyard, talking to Jorge. Mandana offered a smile, or as close to a smile as he could raise. He offered one so infrequently his face had no doubt forgotten the art.
“Show me your arm.” Thomas was abrupt, in no mood for small talk. He drew Mandana’s sleeve up as the man held the stump of his left hand out. “Is there pain?”
“You ask me that every time, and my answer is the same every time.”
“More than usual? Less?”
“It is better for your friend’s cream, but there are good days and bad days.”
Thomas poked at the mottled flesh with his fingers, wrapped his hand around the stump and squeezed. He watched Mandana’s face for any reaction. There were times he wondered why he did this for him after what he had inflicted on so many people, but there appeared to have been a genuine change in the man over the last few years. He was still a killer, but now he killed only for a reason, and when ordered. Thomas wondered if the change was caused by Mandana being reconciled with his own son now. He appeared to comment on Will often enough to make it seem likely.
Thomas poured a little of the thick liquid into his palm and applied it to the stump. He could feel a nub of bone sharp beneath the skin.
“Does it get hot or inflamed?”
“Not as much as it did. I told your friend she is a worker of miracles.”
“Indeed she is. Are you with Fernando’s forces?”
“I do his bidding, but my small band works away from the main army, as well you know.”
Thomas wasn’t sure he knew the exact nature of the work. He recalled the few times he had seen Mandana and his men, the rump of those soldier-monks who remained with him, a small group now but deadly. He had glimpsed them once before the siege of Ronda. Again on a hillside beyond the dry river bed as Thomas made his way back from Auta fort.
Thomas finished applying the cream and wiped his hands in a cloth.
“Why did you move from that magnificent house on the hillside?” Mandana looked around at the room. “This place is fit enough for purpose, but it is just one more house among a thousand.”
“It might have something to do with your friends surrounding Malaka.”
Thomas noticed Jorge had gone to stare through the side door which led to the street, perhaps looking for Mandana’s companions, perhaps searching for beautiful women.
“They are no threat to you. There are few among Fernando’s army who are not aware of the relationship you have with him and the Queen. In particular the Queen. Is it not so?”
Thomas opened a small pot and poured the rest of the cream into it, encouraging the last reluctant drops with a wooden spill before stoppering the top. He handed the pot to Mandana.
“Use it the same as before. At least once a day, more if you can.”
“I will see you again in forty days,” said Mandana.
“No.”
Mandana stared, his grey eyes cold, still the look of the wolf about him, but an old wolf now, a sick wolf. Thomas knew sick wolves were often the most dangerous.
“Your friend then, the exotic one. I would like her to rub lotion into my skin.”
“No.” It was Jorge who spoke without turning around.
Mandana stood and re-tied his robe, which had been laundered in the recent past. He looked almost respectable.
“How did you get into the city?” Thomas asked. “We are under siege, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“I told them I was coming to see you, of course. Your name is known far and wide. The great Sir Thomas Berrington. And if I was refused there are other ways. You know there are.”
A noise came from the street, laughter, shouts, and then the noise invaded the house and Thomas turned in time to scoop Will up as he ran toward him. His son clung to him, smelling of gunpowder and dust. Thomas looked at Olaf, who came in favouring his right side until he saw Mandana present and straightened up, refusing to show any hint of weakness in front of the man.
“We got meat, Pa,” said Will. “Morfar got us meat.”
“You took them too close to the wall, didn’t you,” Thomas said.
“They wanted to see the Spanish. And that’s where you buy meat, close to the wall.”
“You’re a target, don’t you realise that? Half the Spanish army know who you are, and every single man would take pride in bringing down the Sultan’s great general.”
“But they did not. We were outside no time at all, and see, I am home unharmed.”
“This time. Don’t take the boys again.”
“They wanted to go. Besides, it does them good. A boy will become a man, and needs to know what becoming a man means.” Olaf smiled and ruffled Diego’s hair. “All except this one.” He glanced toward Mandana. “I take it he is leaving?”
“He is.”
Mandana nodded. Thomas accompanied him as far as the street, where he saw two robed men at the far end waiting for their master.
“I thank you, Thomas Berrington,” said Mandana. “If there is anything I can do in return you need only ask. If it is in my power to grant, it will be done.”
“I don’t suppose you can stop this war, can you?” Thomas’s mood had improved, a weight removed from him by capturing the killer, still curious as to who his master was, though he had a suspicion. He would go to question him again later and press to find out his master’s name. He wanted a confirmation it was Woodville, though what good that would do he wasn’t sure of. He wondered if he could go to Fernando and tell him what the man was plotting.
“I said something within my power,” said Mandana.
<
br /> “Have you seen your son recently? It is a hard thing to lose a wife.”
“He still blames you for it, I’m afraid. I told him you would have done all you could, but sons do not often listen to a father’s advice. I am sure you know that well enough.” Mandana turned away, but Thomas called him back.
“One more question. Do you know of a man by the name of Woodville?”
Mandana laughed. “A countryman of yours, I believe. Yes, I have heard the name, but not met him. Why?”
“I wondered what had brought him to Spain.”
“What brings all men to war? Money. Position. Power. A man can obtain all three if he fights well, and survives, of course.”
“Woodville doesn’t strike me as a man who fights well.”
“He has a title, I understand, which means he will have others who perform the fighting for him, while he takes the majority of the spoils. I hear tell he has a companion who knows how to fight, and a small band of men he brought with him. It is the way of the world, you know it is, and nothing wrong with that. Is there anything else?”
“You’re sure you haven’t met him?”
Mandana shook his head. “I told you I have not.”
“Or any of his men?”
“How would I know if I had? Do they wear some distinctive uniform?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” Mandana turned, and this time Thomas let him go. He watched as he greeted the two men, who glanced along the street to stare at Thomas before taking up position either side of their master.
Thomas’s path to the Infirmary took him the same way Mandana had gone, but he saw no sign of him or his men. He became aware of the stink of gunpowder in the air. The sound of cannon fire had grown so frequent he had filtered it out, for to obsess on the noise could drive a man mad.
Lubna looked tired when he found her, hands already stained with blood, her clothes tainted with that and worse. As he approached, the soldier she was working on reared up from the table he was meant to be strapped to and swung a fist at her. Thomas moved fast, but not fast enough to prevent a blow which slammed into her chest and sent her to the floor. Then he was there, forcing the man down, pulling at the linen ties that someone had neglected to tie or knotted too quickly. It was not the soldier’s fault, but even so Thomas made no attempt to be gentle and the man cried out.
