by David Penny
“Every crate has been brought out.”
“Didn’t you think to count them? There are two missing.”
“We brought every crate out. It was not our job to count them. Is that not your job as senior clerk to the Coin Guild?” Durdush pushed closer to the man, using his bulk as a threat. “Why would we think to do so? Have them counted again. How many should there be?”
“Sixty-four, and I make only sixty-two.” The clerk started across the black sand toward the galleys where loading continued, each crate lifted on a pulley to be swung aboard. Before he reached it, another galley rounded the headland and pulled hard for the shore. Standing at the prow, ready to be the first to jump to the beach, was Fernando. Thomas guessed he had not trusted the exchange of crates to either Woodville or Durdush.
“There’s nothing for us here,” Thomas said, moving back inside once more, and this time the other two followed. He only went as far as the side tunnel before stopping and trying the keys he had taken from al-Farsi. One of them released the lock and he pushed the door open a crack, just enough to peer beyond, but all he saw was darkness.
“We should go back to the others,” said Jorge. “Mandana will be in the Alkhazabah by now.”
“And has been told to protect my family. Danvers is this way, with two crates of gold.” Thomas pushed the door open and stepped through, uncaring if the others followed or not. He ran his hand along the roofline, knowing there were no obstructions ahead, trusting to memory.
After he had gone sixty paces, the depth of darkness changed. Another forty and he could make out the shape of the tunnel where it opened into the chamber he had found on his first visit. From behind he heard the others start to follow, a curse from Jorge as he banged his head on the roof.
A candle guttered on a shelf in the chamber, its meagre light almost blinding after the passage through the tunnel. There were no crates and no people. Thomas took the candle and went on, into the passage on the far side he had not explored the last time he came here.
As he suspected, the tunnel began to slope upward. Wooden rails continued to run along the floor, marks on them showing that something had been dragged along them recently. The passage curved back on itself, still rising, then curved again.
“How much farther?” Jorge was right behind Thomas now.
“I’ve no idea. We must be getting close to the surface by now.” He stopped, listening, but heard nothing, the silence as dense as the darkness would be without the candle. He started off again, moving faster, a fear growing that Danvers might escape justice altogether.
Another curve and then light appeared ahead, a sliver of blue sky, the dark green shadow of a yew, and Thomas dropped the candle and began to run. He came out into a small courtyard. Nine men stood around two wooden crates, trying to work out how to carry them up a set of a dozen steps. One of the men was taller than the others, unmistakeable as Danvers. He was speaking Spanish better than his master as he tried to cajole the mercenary soldiers into following some kind of plan. He didn’t hear Thomas, nor Jorge when he joined them, but as Olaf emerged the big general let out a roar and launched himself at the group.
Two of the soldiers ran immediately. Another fell to Olaf’s axe before he had even drawn his sword. And then the others were defending themselves.
Thomas had eyes only for Danvers. He saw the man step back, saw him look to where the crates sat on the cobbles, taunting him with their closeness, then he turned and ran up the steps.
Thomas ignored the others, pushing one man aside as he came at him. He knew Olaf could handle them on his own, even if Jorge tried to help. He ignored the fire in his legs and the ache in his lungs as he gained on Danvers. The steps, like all those in the Alkhazabah, turned several times. Danvers was unfamiliar with their layout. Thomas caught up with him as they careered into a small courtyard deep inside the fort. He grabbed at Danvers, who stumbled to his knees. But he was fast. Even as Thomas loomed over him he rolled, a sword appearing in his hand. He struck out, almost taking Thomas in the thigh, but Thomas managed to leap aside at the last moment. It gave Danvers time to regain his feet. This time he didn’t run but faced Thomas, who drew the sword Yusuf had given him. He hoped it worked as well as it looked.
Danvers’ eyes flickered to where the steps entered the courtyard, came back to Thomas.
“There are two crates. Enough for a hundred men, let alone the pair of us.” He offered a smile, the same charisma that clung to the man still present, but Thomas saw it now as nothing more than a mask hiding the truth of what lay in Danvers’ soul. “I will even call my dogs off if we come to an arrangement..”
“What dogs?” Thomas took a step closer. “If you mean Richard, he is on the beach haggling for the funds to take him home. As for your men, I believe I killed them all at the farmhouse.”
“Which is why I sent others. Richard is useful, and he has the contacts I could not possibly broker. There was a man, a priest’s son, who was more than willing to kill your entire family for remarkably little in return. He mentioned something about revenge.”
“Priest’s son?”
Danvers smiled and nodded. “I believe you know the priest. Old man, one hand. Not long for this world, I would say. But his son … you know him too, and he knows you. Pedro Guerrero. Spanish, but an interesting man all the same. He bears no love for you, Thomas Berrington, no love at all.” Danvers cocked his head to one side. “So do we have a deal? The gold in exchange for all your lives?”
“We have no deal.”
Thomas thought it would be hard, that they would need to fight, to test each other, for he calculated Danvers had seen much of war, but in the end it was easy. Too easy, with no sense of satisfaction.
Danvers had expected Thomas’s answer and struck first. Thomas stepped to one side, bent at the knee, and slid Yusuf’s wondrous sword into the space between two ribs. Danvers looked down in surprise, then fell backwards, Thomas’s blade coming free as easily as it had entered. He lay on his back, eyes wide, life already gone, and Thomas wanted to strike at him again and again. Instead he ran back to where he found Olaf standing with blood on his face, all of the soldiers scattered around him, not a single body intact.
“Quickly, now,” Thomas said, “Danvers has sent men against the others.”
Thirty-Eight
When they had descended into the tower, the Alkhazabah had been almost deserted, its inhabitants taking shelter in the deepest cellars and rooms, in the places Thomas had told his family to go. Now Spanish soldiers barred their way, but not for long as Olaf tossed them aside. He took care not to injure any, his blood-lust sated for the moment.
Thomas was afraid the others had ignored him, or been too slow, so he ran toward the courtyard where he had left them. Spanish soldiers and mercenaries from a dozen lands lay even thicker between him and his destination, but he ignored them, and they in turn ignored him, perhaps thinking he was one of their own. One more man in search of plunder. He heard a clash of weapons behind and knew Olaf had found another fight. He was holding men back from ascending the passageways designed to resist invasion. One man like Olaf would be enough to resist an army in their confined space.
When Thomas reached the courtyard he felt a wash of relief when he saw no-one standing there, then discovered the reason for it. A clutch of bodies lay close together in the shade cast beneath scented yews.
“Lock the gates,” Thomas ordered as Olaf and Jorge came in behind him. Olaf obeyed, but Jorge ran past to throw himself on the ground beside a crumpled figure. He turned the body over and gave a great cry that rent the air.
“I am here, my love.” Belia stepped from behind the cover of the trees and went to her knees beside Jorge.
Thomas stared at them. At the figure they knelt over. His feet refused to move. He didn’t want to see what they saw. Then Will was there on sturdy legs. In his hand he held the knife Thomas had given him. It dripped blood on to the cobbles.
“I stuck him, Pa,” he said, but hi
s face showed no colour, and there was nothing of triumph in his words. “Madana — Will stuck him good. But he —” The boy looked toward the trees then broke down, falling to the ground. It was the spur Thomas needed to make him move. He scooped Will into his arms and carried him to the others, knowing what he would see but hoping the body might by some miracle belong to someone else.
Thomas glanced into the shade beneath the trees. Another figure lay there. Diego, with a sword in his hand. Like Will’s the blade was stained, and Thomas could scarce comprehend the fear he must have felt, and his bravery at confronting their attackers. It was obvious he had tried to defend the others. Had he not done so he might well have been ignored, but Diego had accepted them all as his family and perished as a result.
Yusuf, the heir to Gharnatah lay, on his back in the courtyard, bloodied sword in one hand, knife in the other. He was surrounded by a dozen dead Spaniards. Thomas gave no heed to the other bodies. They were nothing, not of his family. Some were Mandana’s men, but Mandana was not among them. Others were Spanish soldiers recruited on the journey through Malaka. Over a score of men, and Thomas knew Yusuf and Usaden would have been responsible for most of their deaths. He glanced around, but there was no sign of Usaden, and he imagined his body must lie concealed somewhere out of sight.
He glanced at Yusuf again as he passed. The last hope for al-Andalus. Thomas knew he had died protecting Lubna. Had sacrificed his own life for the love of her. For it was Lubna that Jorge and Belia knelt over. They lifted her upper body, and Thomas felt his heart begin to beat again as he saw her eyes open. He threw himself to the ground and gripped her hand. It was slick with blood and he tore at her robe, despair filling him as he surveyed the damage done to her.
“Save …” Lubna’s voice was barely a whisper.
Thomas leaned close, hands touching, finding wound after wound. He had come here almost naked, without his instruments, though he could see the only instrument that would save Lubna was a miracle. She was beyond anything even the famed Thomas Berrington could perform, and he cursed to the sky, a loud wailing that he hoped would pierce the hearts of whatever Gods sat above.
Lubna lifted a hand and gripped his shirt, pulling him close so his ear lay against the lips he had kissed so often.
“Save our child, Thomas … you cannot save me … but you can save our child.”
Her head fell back and her eyes closed, exhausted by the effort of speaking.
Thomas placed his fingers to her neck. Lubna’s heart still beat, faint and fast, but she lived yet, and he knew he couldn’t hasten her passing despite what she had asked him to do. He shook his head, trying to clear the agony from it, trying to ignore his guilt at leaving her here. All the wealth of the Guild, all the wealth of the world, was nothing compared to Lubna, and he knew he would carry this pain forever, would always regret what he had done instead of being with her, even as he knew it would have meant his own body lying in the courtyard. What was the point of living if she was not at his side?
Olaf stood with his back to the thick wooden gates. They were barred with planks but shuddered at each blow from the other side. Olaf remained as firm as oak, as strong as ever. A figure appeared from the far side of the courtyard and Thomas tensed, expecting more soldiers, but it was Usaden, a pair of bloodied swords in his hands. He glanced at Lubna, at Thomas.
“They have gone deeper. If they return you will have to fight.” He stopped beside Thomas. “The man who struck her has gone. I chased, but could not find him.” He stared down at Lubna for a moment, then shook himself and went to join Olaf at the gates.
Jorge held Belia in his arms, while she in turn held Will, who stared at Lubna and Thomas with shock on his face.
“Ma,” he said, trying to tug free of Belia’s arms but unable to do so.
“Is she?” said Jorge.
Thomas shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Then save her. You can save anyone, so save her.”
“I can’t work miracles.” He held Lubna’s hand, hoping she felt his touch, wanting it to be the last thing she knew before departing this life and going to her God. For go she would, he was sure. Her faith protected her, and for a moment Thomas wondered if that was the difference between those who believed and those, like himself, who believed in nothing. Was it that belief which carried them to heaven?
Lubna made a sound, but her eyes remained closed.
Thomas saw the child within her turn, the shape of an elbow, a knee. Boy or girl? He didn’t know, nobody could know despite what the midwives claimed. He didn’t want to know. He traced Lubna’s belly and found no wound there, so she was right, the child could be saved, but only by ending her own life the sooner. And he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t end her life a single second before her due. He thought of Guerrero’s wife brought in all those weeks ago, when Thomas’s own life had still been whole. There had been no hesitation that day. But he couldn’t do the same to Lubna. It was the logical choice, for he knew there was no saving her, yet still he couldn’t do it. Given the same choice a thousand times over he would make the same decision. So he waited, stroking her face and kissing her lips. Let her pass in peace, he thought, let her pass without pain.
His mind went forward, thinking of where she would want to lie. He knew it would have to be done today, as her religion demanded. He would build the pyre himself, alone if the others would allow it. But even as the thought came to him he knew Olaf wouldn’t allow him to do so, nor Jorge. And why should they, for did they not love Lubna as much as he did?
Lubna’s chest shuddered as she fought for breath.
It would be a mercy to do as he had done so often and bring an end to her suffering, but he could not. He had always been cold. Brutal, even. But never with her. He could never be anything but loving with her.
She is too strong, he thought. She will fight to the very end. Strong, but not strong enough to escape what was coming for her. He glanced up as Belia knelt on the other side of Lubna. Her fingers reached out and touched Lubna’s neck, pushed dark hair from her face. Her hand went to Lubna’s swollen belly and laid there as the child moved within, a sense of urgency in the movement now.
“You have to bring it out,” said Belia.
“Not while she lives.”
“It will be too late then.” She turned. “Jorge, bring me a blade.”
“No!” Thomas struck out. He caught Belia on the side of the face and she fell backward. Then Jorge was on him, punching Thomas in turn, who took the blows without feeling them. Olaf came, wrapping his arms around Jorge and tossing him aside. He returned and stood over his daughter, watching, all his great strength futile.
A crash sounded and the last door into the courtyard flew open. Spanish soldiers streamed in. Usaden’s blades flashed and men fell back, then all at once the fighting stilled as Fernando walked in amongst his troops. He glanced at Thomas, at who he knelt over.
“These people are to be left alone,” he ordered. He came to Thomas, but there were no words. Instead he laid a hand on his shoulder, then moved on, passing through the courtyard and beyond as he led his men deeper into the fortress.
Lubna coughed, blood staining her lips. Thomas wiped it away and she kissed his fingertips. Her lips moved, and Thomas leaned close.
“My love …”
He kissed her brow.
And then she spoke her last words, spoke them to him alone.
Her chest rose one more time, fell and lay still.
Belia pulled herself to her knees, a growing bruise on her face. She looked at Olaf. “Take him away from here, for he cannot see what I must do now.”
Olaf bent and wrapped his arms around Thomas. He fought to escape, but there was no breaking the iron grip. He was carried to the far side of the courtyard so did not see as Belia took Jorge’s knife and used it to release the life still held within Lubna. But Thomas did hear when a newborn let forth a wail to match his own as he threw back his head and howled at the sky.
Thirty
-Nine
It was a high peak. A place where eagles soared. South, the bright sea glittered. In the far distance clouds rose in towers marking where the coast of Africa lay. North, mountains ran away as far as the eye could see. West lay Malaka, spires of smoke rising into the air, the ground around it dark with moving soldiers. The city had fallen after a ferocious battle, and now the Spanish were attempting to rebuild it. Most of the population had been enslaved, but the rich, like Durdush, were allowed to escape with their families and goods. Thomas had heard nothing of Woodville since he saw him at the beach. He wondered if he had managed to obtain a small portion of what had been spirited away that day, but he did not think of it much. His own world had been destroyed. He would need to rebuild it in a new way, once this final task he had set himself was done.
Thomas took a burning torch from where it lay in a small fire and walked to the pyre they had all built. He took a breath, feeling his chest shudder, but he had no tears left. He was empty of everything but pain. He thrust the torch into the dry kindling and stepped back, but not far. The roaring heat burned his hair and skin, but he wanted to feel it, to experience Lubna’s ascension.
Then the others came, tossing their own torches after his. Jorge. Belia. Olaf. Will.
His new daughter lay against Belia’s breasts, trying in vain to suckle. They had found a wet-nurse, but the woman remained below in the city. She was not of their family, and this moment was only for family.
Will came and took Thomas’s hand, and he stepped back to protect the boy from the heat.
Flames rose. Wood crackled. Smoke curled into the air, carrying Lubna’s soul to wherever it’s next home would be. Diego’s body lay in the Christian burial ground with his mother and father. Yusuf’s had been sent to Gharnatah where it would be interred with all the ceremony due a prince.
They stayed on the hillside, all of them, until the flames died down. They gathered Lubna’s ashes, the nuggets of unburned bone, and placed them in a stone box. And then, as the sun touched the western horizon, Thomas turned away. He passed Will to Jorge.
