The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  “How have you treated her?” He expected Samuel to say he had bled Isabel. It is what most Spanish physicians would do, a universal panacea that frequently caused more harm than good. Thomas bled the occasional patient, but only for a specific reason such as a surfeit of blood.

  Samuel glanced across the food arrayed on the table. He reached out and speared a chunk of the pork with his knife and popped it into his mouth. His eyes stayed on Thomas as he chewed, as if aware of what had been on his mind. The scene that afternoon beside the river was testament enough to how dangerous being a Jewish converso could be in this new Spain, and Samuel was making a point: he had left his old life behind. The thought sparked a connection. Samuel had been the man at the burnings, standing back from the others. Thomas was sure it had been him, but did not know the significance of it.

  “I have raised her feet, at times uncomfortably so, but the Queen does not complain.” Samuel continued, unaware of what Thomas was thinking. “She never complains. I have made potions containing fennel and lavender, and I believe they have slowed the loss of blood. I have also had the nurses manipulate her both externally and internally.”

  “And she has not objected?”

  “She is an excellent patient. What would you do, Thomas? What am I missing?”

  “There are other herbs I would use. I plan to search them out in the morning.” He offered Samuel a look. “Theresa tells me there are places to the north, in the Jewish quarter. Perhaps you would like to accompany me? I intend to leave early so I can make up my liquors by noon.”

  “And you will teach me about them and their uses?” said Samuel.

  “It is unusual to find a physician in Spain willing to learn. It will be a pleasure. Come find me soon after dawn. My rooms are–”

  Samuel held up the hand holding his knife. “I know where your rooms are. Better accommodation by far than I am offered, but that is as it should be.”

  Thomas stood. “I saw you earlier today,” he said, “on the river bank where the burnings take place.”

  Samuel smiled. “I wondered if you would mention that. I saw you too, though I could not be sure it was you then.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  A shake of the head. “Nothing that concerns the palace or our working together. I… assist at times. But I would rather not talk of such things, not here.”

  Thomas was reluctant to drop the matter without discovering more, but knew it could wait until tomorrow. For now, he needed to clean himself, and to sleep.

  Samuel rose and offered his hand, which Thomas took.

  “There is someone else you will have to meet soon,” he said. “The Queen’s spiritual advisor. He objected to your being summoned, but she was adamant and, for once, overrode his wishes. He will want to talk with you.” Samuel smiled. “You may need to convince him that as an Englishman you are a good Catholic despite living among heathens.”

  Chapter Four

  Thomas woke to the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He sat up fast, grasping the wrist of the man who leaned over him. He had been dreaming of another hand, that of Theresa on him, except she and Lubna, Helena too, had been mixed together so he could not be sure who he dreamed of. It took a moment to shake off the lingering sensations that flooded his body.

  “I was asked to wake you at dawn, sir.” The man pulled his wrist free of Thomas’s grip and stepped out of reach. “I have brought hot water and food. Both are on the table in the other room.”

  Thomas waited until the man had withdrawn then slipped from the high bed and found a linen robe to cover himself. He ate quickly then washed himself thoroughly, despite having bathed the evening before. Satisfied he was as clean as he could make himself he returned to the bed chamber and dressed as he would have at home, linen pants and shirt, a loose cotton robe and leather sandals. Already the heat of the day had invaded the room and he knew he would need to keep himself covered if he was to be effective. As he passed through the palace door nearest the Cathedral and entered the wide cobbled yard Samuel pushed himself from the wall where he had been waiting and fell into step beside Thomas.

  “Theresa sent me a list of who can help,” Thomas said, reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a slip of paper he passed to Samuel. “Do you know these streets?”

  Samuel glanced at the paper, scanning it while they continued to walk. The early sun threw long shafts of light and shadow across the square fronting the massive Cathedral. Thomas recalled being told it had been designed to be the most wondrous place of worship in the whole of Christendom, a message to the defeated Moors who once ruled the city. He had heard a tale about the original chapter members, who were said to have stated: Let us build a church so beautiful, so grand, that those who see it finished will think us mad. Well, if that was their intent it certainly met the brief, he thought. Men worked high on wooden platforms as they laid tiles on the domed roof. Sometimes Thomas questioned the wealth spent on such shows of power, but doubted the gold would be spent any wiser if used on some other pointless show of vanity.

  “Yes, I know these places,” said Samuel. He handed the slip of paper back to Thomas, who returned it to the inner pocket from which it had come. “They are not the safest in the city, but I am known, and you do not look like a man of influence, so we should be able to complete your task without being accosted.”

  Samuel touched Thomas’s arm, turning him toward a maze of narrow alleys that led away north into a jumble of buildings. Almost as soon as they entered the sun was lost. Walls rose three or more stories high, only a narrow sliver of pale blue showing there was a world beyond.

  The temperature dropped, but still remained warmer than Thomas was comfortable with. He could only imagine how hot the city might become as the day progressed. Within the palace it was cool at all times, and was the best place for the Queen to lie. Thomas wondered if she would hold the growing child within her or not. He knew that, despite what few skills he possessed, there was little he could do to influence the outcome. Give him a man with a sword wound, a broken leg, or clouding of the eyes, and he was sure of his abilities. The interior of the body, at least while it remained alive, was a darker science to him. He had delivered children using the knife – had saved the life of the old Sultan’s youngest son that way, but in that instance Safya was already dead. Most of the women he worked on in such a manner did not survive. It was brutal, bloody work, only carried out when not to do so meant the loss of both mother and child. It reminded him of what some in al-Andalus named him: qassab, butcher. A reputation earned due to his apparent coldness to the suffering of others. So be it, Thomas thought. Pain was fleeting, even his own, and he had suffered much pain and lived through it. If a life could be saved he considered pain a price worth paying, even though he knew others disagreed.

  The alleys Samuel led them through turned and twisted. Occasionally they passed through small squares where some remnant of the city’s lost Moorish past remained as fountains splashed water and rills cut through limestone tiles. The people of this area moved slowly, their voices low. Thomas was sure those they passed must reside here, for it was not a place a casual intruder would be welcome. He was aware of glances cast in his direction, but Samuel was obviously known.

  “These streets have not changed in centuries, have they?” Thomas said, his own voice as low as those he passed, something about the place both calming and disturbing.

  “Should the Moors ever return, which they will not, there is much they would recognise. Less so in other parts. Why pull down beauty only to replace it with ugliness?”

  “They did that with the Cathedral.”

  “Of course, because they had to, and the Cathedral is also a thing of beauty. But here… well, few Spaniards enter far into the barrio.” The alley widened into a square, larger than some they had passed. Here stalls had been set up and a crowd was gathered to purchase fruit, vegetables and meat, although unlike the rest of Spain outside al-Andalus no pork was on display, reminding Thomas of Samu
el’s deliberate show the evening before, confirming the conversion from his former faith.

  They passed a closed doorway where a rough slash had been daubed across in red. It was not the first Thomas had seen – at home in England they had used the same mark to identify a plague house. Except here the daubing was rushed, as if whoever made it wanted gone from the place. Or had many other houses yet to mark.

  “Plague,” said Samuel, unable to know Thomas’s thoughts. “All who lived here have been taken by the pestilence, the house marked as unclean.”

  “Don’t the homeless seek shelter in such places?”

  “Some, yes. But of those who do many die. Few are willing to take up the offer of a new house so readily anymore.”

  “Is what I seek much further?” Thomas asked, aware the Queen remained in her bed, feet elevated, waiting for something he may not be able to offer.

  “We will find Belia Orovita here,” Samuel said. “She sells herbs and potions in that corner.” He pointed, but other stalls hid whatever he was trying to indicate. “She is the best herbalist in Sevilla, possibly in the whole of Spain.”

  “I have a little knowledge,” Thomas said.

  “Not like Belia does.” Samuel pushed between a group selecting the best fish, which to Thomas appeared suspiciously fresh until he remembered the small fleet of ships pulled up at the dock.

  The stalls thinned as they approached the far corner. Here the goods were clothing, bolts of cloth, carved boxes and ornaments. One small table had a rack on which stringed instruments hung. The owner sat at a stool plucking on gut strings, the sound both strange and redolent of the surrounding city.

  Beyond, in the corner beside an open doorway sat a single straight-backed chair next to a small table. A woman sat with her back to them but turned when Samuel called her name, a smile already on her face at recognition of his voice. Thomas stopped, surprised. He had expected someone older, and far less beautiful. Previous sellers of the herbs he now sought had always been crones, their knowledge etched into every line of their face. It seemed to him the kind of expertise they possessed was dying with each of them, the raw materials becoming more and more difficult to obtain. This woman was not one of that kind. She was tall, with dark hair falling along her back. Her skin was dusted the colour of honey, her eyes dark pools. She was not Spanish, but neither was she Moor. He suspected she came from a place far from Spain.

  “Belia, this is the famous surgeon Thomas Berrington. He needs some of your products.”

  The woman cast a glance toward Thomas that made it clear whatever Samuel might say she reserved judgement on just how famous he might be. Or how skilled.

  “What is it you wish, sir?” Her voice was soft, with an accent he couldn’t place. The name identified her as a Jew, but her features reminded him more of North Africa. Her clothing too resembled that worn by Berber women, long and flowing, but on her fashioned of fine cotton rather than hemp or linen. A long scarf hung at her neck, but her head was uncovered.

  “I will leave you with Belia,” said Samuel before Thomas could answer. “I have people I must visit while I am here.”

  Thomas caught Samuel’s sleeve as he turned away. “Come back for me when you are done. I have no hope of finding my way to the palace on my own.”

  Samuel smiled. “I will return in an hour. More than enough time for both of us to attend to our business. And if you finish sooner I am sure Belia will recommend a place you can get something to eat and drink.”

  When he had gone Thomas reached into his robe and pulled out a clutch of papers, each torn from a larger sheet the night before as he had searched his memory for anything that might help the Queen. He had started writing them in Arabic, then remembered where he was and rewrote them using Spanish. But looking at Belia he suspected she might have understood them in either language. He laid the pages on the table, running a hand across them to smooth the creases.

  Belia looked at the papers then turned to disappear through an open doorway. Thomas thought she had abandoned him, but after a short wait she reappeared with a second chair and set it down for him. She took her own and looked up, waiting until Thomas sat.

  Belia leaned close and turned some of the slips of paper. The faintest smile crossed her lips. “Do you always carry paper and something to write with?”

  “Not always, but mostly if I can, yes. Why, is it so strange? A man cannot hold all the knowledge he acquires in his head.” Thomas arranged the papers into some kind of order of importance. He doubted he would obtain everything he needed, but even a little would prove useful. “Udara leaves,” he said, turning to his task. “And feverfew, black cohosh…” He read out the herbs and tinctures he sought, pushing each piece of paper aside when finished with. When he looked up Belia was staring at him without expression, all amusement gone from her eyes.

  “You know of these?” she said. “And you know of their uses? Who is it you treat?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “You are a friend of Samuel, so perhaps I can guess. But do not worry, the Queen’s secret will be safe with me. Is there much bleeding?”

  Thomas returned her stare. He had told her nothing, but she knew who Samuel worked for, and it seemed she knew of the Queen’s condition, too. In turn he knew he needed this strange woman who, despite her attitude, he was warming to. It was her knowledge. Belia was skilled. She had seen immediately why he needed the herbs. Thomas was aware of his own nature, and how he was drawn to those who sought and nurtured knowledge, as Lubna did. Though sometimes he wondered what it was that drew him to Jorge.

  “Do you have them? Not all, perhaps, but some, and the Udara most of all. I know it is difficult to obtain, but–”

  Belia held up a hand and he stopped talking.

  “I have Udara. Only a little, but enough for your needs. It is expensive, though.”

  “Money is not an issue.”

  “No, I suppose it is not. Some of what you ask I do not have here but may be able to obtain if you need it.” She leaned forward, hands resting on the table. Thomas noticed her fingers, the length of them, and saw henna patterned on her skin, twisting away along her arms. “Some of these are useless, others dangerous. I will tell you exactly what you need, but you must exchange information with me first.”

  “I cannot tell you who–”

  Once again her raised hand stopped him.

  “You have no need to. I know who, though neither of us will ever mention the name or position of this individual again. You treat a woman in her mid-thirties, a woman who has birthed several healthy children already but has also lost others before their time. A woman who bleeds.” Her eyes lifted from an examination of the scraps of paper to capture Thomas’s. “How long before her confinement?”

  “The end of the year.”

  Belia nodded. One of those long fingers reached out, hesitated, then pushed some of the papers to one side. The others she gathered together.

  “I will fetch what you need. I have all of these, and one or two other items that will be of use.” She rose, tall and slim, waiting. “I can put together what you need, and then you can pay me, but only when the – when your patient has recovered.” She tilted her head to one side. “Unless you wish me to show you where to get that food and drink Samuel mentioned, while I prepare the mixtures for you?”

  “I would rather wait here, if I can,” Thomas said.

  A flicker of a smile.

  “I wish to learn from you,” he said, which was the truth, and this time the smile Belia offered carried a hint of pride.

  Chapter Five

  The bag of mixtures Belia had sold him knocked together in his bag as Thomas walked through alleys which grew narrower and narrower, until at last a square ahead opened out and he stepped into sunlight. Heat wrapped around him and he raised his tagelmust, aware he must appear an odd sight in Ixbilya, but perhaps less so here. He saw no-one in the square, but heard voices emerging from a shaded courtyard from which also came the splash of wa
ter. He made his way to the house he believed to be the right one and rapped on an open door. The voices stilled, then came a slow slap of sandals on marble and Thomas stepped back, an involuntary gasp coming from him.

  The man that caused the reaction stopped in the doorway, as surprised as Thomas, but it was he who spoke first, in fluent Arabic.

  “Have you pursued me here deliberately? Do you wish to dash me down even lower, or have you come to kill me this time?”

  “I – I was looking for someone else.” Even as he spoke Thomas knew the words made no sense. Abraham al-Haquim, ex-governor of the now defeated city of Ronda, supposedly impregnable until this man’s actions had at least in part caused its fall, had no doubt made his way to someplace he and his skills might be welcome. And no city in the whole of Spain had a larger population of Jews than Ixbilya, not even Gharnatah itself.

  Al-Haquim remained silent, waiting for Thomas.

  “I am not looking for you, Malik. I seek a colleague, a physician by the name of Samuel Ibrahim. I was told I could find him at this house” He watched al-Haquim, aware this meeting could prove dangerous. The man at least partially blamed Thomas for his disgrace and exile from Ronda. The truth was different, but Thomas had no intention of telling him he had pleaded for his life with Fernando, who had wanted the Governor executed in the most brutal manner for what he had done. Fernando was a fierce general, but continued to hold to the old ways of chivalrous combat. Al-Haquim’s panicked response of hurling live Spanish prisoners from the three hundred foot cliffs of Ronda had set him beyond such mercy until Thomas intervened. Not because he felt anything for the man, but because he knew that to create more martyrs would only extend the fighting. So it was that Abraham al-Haquim had ridden from Ronda astride a fine stallion.