by David Penny
Thomas pushed him. “Go. Go now. This is important. Ma needs you to keep her safe. Do what I say.”
Thomas thought his son would resist again, but instead, after a moment he turned and ran around the side of the house. Thomas could only hope Jorge was watching and would know what to do.
Still nobody had descended the stairs, and then he realised why as Will gave a cry, followed instantly by a man’s curse. There came more shouting from the front of the house, then the clatter of a horse moving away at speed.
Thomas scrambled out of the cellar the way he had come to find himself confronted by four men. There was no Gracia. No Danvers. One of the men was familiar and grinned at him, waving his sword in a pointless show of bravura. Someone had released the man Thomas had handed over to the authorities, but he wouldn’t be spared a second time.
Thomas looked around for Will but couldn’t see him. That was good. He didn’t want him to witness what was about to happen. He saw one of the men nursing his arm, beads of blood dripping through his fingers, and Thomas knew his son had done that. Will was so much like him, and an exultation rose through him, a need to release a tension he had held in check for too long.
He struck without warning. No more mercy. He took the first man in the throat, then turned to the others. Two stepped away, turned to run, but they only delayed the inevitable. It took Thomas less than five minutes, and when he was done he searched the house, but there was no sign of Gracia. He started alone down the road, leaving four bodies behind and a hunger inside to kill more.
Thomas caught up with Jorge halfway to the Spanish camp. He carried Will in his arms, which slowed him, but as Thomas fell into step he heard how they had hidden while the mounted man swept past.
“Was he alone?” Even as Thomas asked the question, thoughts tumbled through his mind, trying to make sense of the new information he had overheard.
“I couldn’t tell, he passed at full gallop.”
“Gracia wasn’t at the house.”
“How many were there?” asked Jorge.
“Four.”
“How many did you leave alive?”
Thomas ignored the question, believing an answer unnecessary. “The horseman was Danvers. Are you sure there was no-one with him?”
It was Will who answered. “The woman.” He clung to Jorge as they walked, head turning between the two of them. “The woman who took me.” He laughed. “She was hanging on.” He flailed his arms in copy of what he had seen. “She said I was not to worry. I was safe with her.”
“Danvers is controlling all of this,” Thomas said. “What I don’t know is whether Woodville is involved or has only been used.”
“He’s being used,” said Jorge.
“I’m not so sure. A man will do much for love, even that of another man.”
“There’s no even about it. But you’re right, except in this case Woodville is a man who has no great love of sex.”
“What is sex?” asked Will. “Like money?”
Jorge laughed and handed him across to Thomas. “Something like, yes, but more powerful.”
“Danvers said something I could barely believe. He said my entire household is in danger.” They increased their pace now Thomas carried Will. He held his son’s body against his chest, the touch calming the violence in his soul. “Does he know who we have in our household? Danvers said I’m in danger, my family is in danger … but Olaf, Yusuf, and Usaden. Gods, those three are enough to stop an army. And Danvers has four less men now. How many did we see camped at Auta fort — a dozen, was it? One is locked away, Olaf and Yusuf killed three. That leaves him with only four men. Four men against me, Olaf, Yusuf, and Usaden? They stand no chance.”
“Unless he has access to others,” said Jorge. “Fighting men are cheap in times of war, ready to turn a small profit for the kind of work they are good at.”
“That could mean someone else is involved, and I have an idea who it might be.”
The day had almost fully arrived. Long shadows fell across the ground as men rose and gathered into groups. Horses were saddled. From close to the city walls the deep cough of cannon sounded, the barrage a constant now. The wind had stilled to almost nothing and smoke hung in the air as fires were stamped into coals. Thomas made his way toward a pristine white tent where long banners flew, but before they reached it he saw Fernando astride a glistening black stallion, men around him. And then Thomas stopped. One of the men was Ali Durdush, and they were talking, heads close together, before Fernando grasped the Guild Master’s arm and allowed him to ride toward the city. Thomas cried out, but the distance was too great to allow his voice to carry.
He thrust Will into Jorge’s arms. “Take him home, gather everyone together, and take them to the Alkhazabah, it will be the last place to fall. I will meet you there. Take them as far and as deep you can, even into the Rabita if the gates are open, they will be even safer there.”
“Where are you going?”
“Durdush has sold Malaka to the Spanish. No doubt the city gates are thrown wide by now. Run, Jorge, steal a horse, do whatever you can, but get there first before the house is attacked. This army is in no mood for mercy.”
“And you? Come with us, Thomas. Nobody can kill you and I will feel safer if you are at my side.”
“I have to speak with Isabel. I can think of nothing else that might save us all.” He shook his head. “I can think of nothing.” He pushed at Jorge. “Go. Here!” He swung to one side and grabbed the reins of a horse as it came past, tugged on them and hauled the rider to the ground.
Jorge swung into the saddle like a man used to riding, and Thomas smiled at how his friend had changed so much. He handed Will up to him then slapped the horse’s rump hard before either could object. It took off at a run, Jorge bouncing wildly, Will clutched safe in front of him.
“Hey, what —” The man rose to his feet, then went down again as Thomas punched him.
A group of grey-robed men approached Fernando, Mandana at their head, his son beside him, and there was a hurried conversation. It was as Thomas feared. Danvers needed men, and Mandana had them. They had both been in Malaka the last months, and now the coincidence of such seemed too great. Thomas scanned the melee but there was no sight of Danvers. Had he returned to Woodville to break the last ties with his past? Thomas considered making his way there, then decided he owed Woodville nothing.
He pushed through the crowd; soldiers, women, cooks, and squires, men in command and men taking commands. He was almost close enough to Fernando to call out when the King spurred his mount and rode away at speed. The robed figures remained, Mandana’s skeletal form perched on too small a horse. Pedro Guerrero sat upright on a larger mount. Mandana saw Thomas and grinned, leaned over and said something to his son. He pointed and they both pushed toward him.
Thomas backed away, turned and ran, trusting agility over size. He believed he could take them both, but not when the rest of the Spanish army lay all around.
The entrance to the royal tent was well-guarded, so he waited until everyone was looking east, watching as the army gathered its strength for the final onslaught. When it was safe he slipped around the side of the tent and used his knife to make an opening in the canvas. A slight figure turned fast. The three women attending her stepped between their Queen and the intruder.
“Isabel,” Thomas said.
She stared at him, her face paling.
“I was told you were dead!” She let a ragged laugh loose. “I should have known better. Praise God you live, Thomas.”
For the first time he noticed how she was dressed, or partly dressed. Her legs were encased in bright steel armour, finely etched patterns cut into its surface. One arm was similarly encased, but an attendant held the breast plate in her hands and Isabel, Queen of Castile, stood in little more than a thin shift in front of a man who was not her husband.
The woman who held the breast plate ran at him, swinging it wildly toward his head. Thomas caught it in one hand and slid his other arm a
round her waist, held her against him as he approached Isabel. Another of the women turned and fled, no doubt to fetch guards.
“Tell them you know me,” Thomas said. He released the woman and handed the breast plate back to her, then turned his back. “Cover the Queen.”
Four guards burst into the chamber and came to an abrupt halt. They half turned, unable to gaze on Isabel, but aware of the intruder. They shuffled in his direction, heads averted from their Queen.
“Leave him!” Isabel’s voice carried a sharp command and the men halted, uncertain. “I know Sir Thomas. He is a friend.”
Still the men were unsure. A friend was one thing, but a friend in the company of their half-dressed ruler?
Isabel waved a hand. “All of you, leave now. Thomas, come closer, and turn around. You have seen me in childbirth, I am sure my dugs are no mystery to you. You would not be here without good reason.”
Thomas watched as the guards drifted one by one from the chamber. The last man glanced back at him and Thomas saw a fierce hatred in his eyes. He turned to look at Isabel, unconcerned. He had more than enough enemies already, what was one more?
“What is happening?” he asked. “I saw Durdush with Fernando. Has he surrendered the city?”
Isabel held her arms out and the women continued to dress her in the suit of armour. He could see they wanted to cover her chest, but despite what she had said her breasts did not show, only the swell of them beneath the thin shift. It was necessary to clamp the armour together in a specific order, the breast-plate the last item. They fussed around the Queen, clipping and tying and fussing some more.
“Malaka falls,” said Isabel. “Fernando rides to accept their surrender. All except your fool of a governor, but he can rot in that fort until doomsday for all we care.”
“And Durdush?” Thomas looked around, found a chair, and sat. Another breaking of protocol, but he was tired. His bones ached, and he wondered how much longer he could keep going.
“It is he who surrendered to Fernando. He does not want to see Malaka destroyed, but my husband is in no mood for mercy, not after the resistance they have shown.”
“Durdush returned to the city,” Thomas said.
“Did he? I leave such matters to the King. Is that all you came here for? You took a great risk for so little information.”
Finally the women were ready to attach the breast plate. Isabel held her arms out from her body as they laid it against her and threw more catches, tied more ties. One of them brought a simple helmet, etched with the same marks that adorned the rest of the armour, but Isabel waved it away.
“Leave us, I will call you when I am ready.”
The women looked at each other.
“I said leave us!” Isabel’s voice was sharp, an unmistakeable power in it that sent the women scurrying away.
“There, that is better,” said Isabel. “Just you and I, Thomas. bring me a chair so I may rest a moment. I do not think I can move far enough on my own.”
He rose and brought a wide, padded chair and held her arm as she eased herself into it.
“Now bring another so you can face me while we talk. Tell me what you are afraid of.” She smiled, but there was no hint of cheer in it. “I see it in your face and eyes. You are afraid, and you are here. What can I do?”
“I saw Mandana with Fernando,” Thomas said. “His son was with him. Do you know what task has been set them?”
“Fernando thinks I don’t know of his dalliance with the man, but I know everything.” She frowned. “I did not know about a son. Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. What are they tasked with?”
“There are men who wish to strip Malaka of every last coin and jewel, in war there always is. Fernando sends Mandana to stop them.”
“So he may take the gold for himself,” Thomas said.
“I will allow your impertinence because I know you are afraid, but there is no need for fear. Mandana has been sent to watch out for your family, too. You have your wife and friends in the city. They are to be protected.” She leaned forward. The joints of her armour grated together and she winced. “Did you think I would not watch out for you, Thomas?” She held out a hand, hers small and pale, waiting for him to respond. Thomas stared at it. Eventually he reached out and took hers, aware of how much protocol he was breaking, but Isabel gripped his fingers tight.
“We are friends, you and I, are we not? Good friends.” A smile. “I will do all in my power to keep you safe, for I have not finished with you yet. Come to me, Thomas, take my offer of a place beside me, for your world is ending. You know it is. Soon, next year, your al-Andalus will be gone. Come to me now and help me build a new Spain to match the power of England and France.”
He stared at her hand, feeling a tremor run through her, knowing she would feel the same from him. He thought about all she had said, both now and over the years he had known her. The offers. The friendship. And more. He knew the world he loved was ending. Knew it had no place for him anymore.
He looked up and met her eyes.
“Yes. When this is done I will come to you.”
Isabel smiled.
Thirty-Six
Isabel gave Thomas a horse so he could reach Malaka faster, but he abandoned it almost at once. The press of other mounts, of men and equipment, was too great. He continued on foot, trying to slip past bodies and often failing so progress was slower than he wanted. When he had sent Jorge back for the others he hadn’t expected the attack to come so soon, or so violently. The entire Spanish army was attempting to enter Malaka, some directly through the Ataranzana gate, others splitting northward for the Antequera gate and others which lay beyond. Only the Rabita and Alkhazabah would remain as places of refuge. At least for now.
The throng grew ever thicker, and Thomas saw why. Ahead lay the fortified bridge, a bottleneck for the thousands trying to enter the city through gates that had been opened to allow the Spanish access. As they forced their way across, some men were pushed over the sides into the slowly flowing river. Most, heavily armed, sank like stones. Others fought for a while only to disappear more slowly. Only the lightly armed managed to reach the far bank, carried two hundred paces south of the bridge before they could leave the water.
Thomas looked north, trying to see over the heaving mass of men. That direction was no better. He pushed his way to the south, pulling his weapons free and dropping them on the ground. He discarded the leather jerkin that was meant to disguise him as a Spaniard, removed everything he could until he wore only linen shirt and trousers. The crowd began to thin as he approached the river, people moving with him now as they tried to reach the bridge. Thomas came to the edge of the river and hesitated. Even slow-flowing the current was relentless. He saw men attempting to reach the far bank, most of them failing only to disappear beneath the surface. Their bodies would wash up along the shoreline for days, or become food for the fish of the bay.
Thomas hated the water. It had not always been so. As a boy he had leapt into the deep pools of the Lugge, which flowed swift through his father’s fields, and allowed the river to carry him where it would. And then he had been taken across the sea in a fragile ship and lost his love of water. But he knew he could swim well enough for what was needed this day.
He leapt now as he had leapt into the Lugge, a longer drop this time, the water embracing him like a lover as it closed over his head. Thomas used his arms and legs, grasping for the surface. He broke through and knew, had he not discarded everything, he would be lying on the river bed by now.
He orientated himself. The current had already carried him a score of paces south and he felt it pushing against him as he began to stroke toward the far bank. It was no great distance. He would have laughed at the task as a boy, and that boy would have laughed at the grown man who now made such hard work of it. For a moment Thomas thought he saw himself as a twelve years old, standing on the far bank laughing. A moment of raw fear ran through him at the notion that what he saw was his own
death. He increased his effort, almost halfway across, and then the far bank was closer than the one behind.
His feet caught in weeds and he sank beneath the surface. He kicked, freed himself, and put in one last effort. The next time his foot caught it was on mud, and he reached for the reeds lining the bank and pulled himself clear of the water. It cascaded from him as he walked toward the arched doors of the Ataranzana, their gates thrown wide to allow the invaders entry. He cursed Ali Durdush and vowed he would find the man and punish his treachery. He saw a dead Spaniard washed up on the bank and took his knife.
Within the Ataranzana, soldiers moved in chaotic patterns, and Thomas realised there was no-one in charge anymore. Commanders had turned as feral as their men, seeking murder, rape, and plunder. It was what they had come to war for.
In an alcove Thomas saw a man mounting a woman, her bloodied face turned aside, and he detoured to slide the stolen knife into the soldier’s neck and toss his body from her. She lay stupefied as Thomas moved on, knowing it would be only moments before someone else took the dead man’s place, but he couldn’t save everyone. Couldn’t save even one, it seemed, but he had others who needed his protection more.
Around him chaos reigned, and fear weakened him. How could his family survive such madness? He only hoped Jorge had been in time to take them to the relative safety of the Alkhazabah. There would other women, other soldiers, and he tried to make himself invisible, a tall man in wet clothes, his feet lacking boots. Only those he loved mattered now.
He reached Diego’s house, hoping to find it empty and relieved when it was. Empty of who he sought, though not of others. Half a dozen Spaniards sat in chairs, jugs of wine cradled against their chests. They had piled Thomas’s papers and books in the fireplace and lit them despite the heat of the day. It was mindless destruction, but that was what they had come for as much as the plunder. Thomas watched the men a moment, turning away when one of them noticed him and began to rise. There would be enough death in the city today without adding to it. There was nothing for him in the house anymore.
