by David Penny
“Well, you have found him, it seems.” Al-Haquim said. Someone moved behind him and Thomas peered into the shade, trying to make out who it was, fearing a soldier, aware he had come to this place unarmed. “I always considered you a lost soul,” said al-Haquim, “but this is too much a coincidence. Tell me, why are you really here? Have you come to inflict yet more suffering on me?”
“I speak the truth, Malik.” Thomas continued to use the honorific not due the man in hope of winning him over.
Two figures sat in the shadows, neither recognisable against the fierce light of the sun. One rose and came forward. “It is my fault, Abraham, I was meant to return for him. I left him with Belia and have been gone too long.”
Al-Haquim half turned. “Is it true you know this man, Samuel?”
“The Queen sent for him, so of course I know him.”
“He is allowed access to the palace, yet still you deny such to me?”
Samuel made a sound, not quite a sigh of exasperation, but Thomas heard such in the exhalation of breath. “It is not mine to gift, as well you know. And I do what I can. Thomas is known to both King and Queen. Some even say he is friend to both. Perhaps you should direct your request to him, he may have more success than me.”
“I doubt you have even asked,” said Abraham, and Thomas heard the same whine of privilege in his voice that had been present in Ronda – a man risen beyond his abilities, a man of thwarted ambition without the skill to further it. If Thomas thought he had even the slightest chance of finding his way back here he swore he would avoid this house in future.
“Perhaps I will get Thomas to ask the Queen,” said Samuel. He slid past al-Haquim and came into the small plaza. The sun was almost overhead, only narrow patches of shade clinging to the base of buildings.
Samuel touched Thomas on the arm. “Come, I have something else to show you before we return to the palace.”
As they reached the alley on the far side of the plaza Thomas hesitated once he hoped he was obscured by shade and glanced back. Abraham al-Haquim remained in the doorway watching them, an incongruous figure still dressed in the finery of a Governor of Ronda, a town no longer ruled by al-Andalus. In the moment before he turned away the third figure who had remained hidden approached and stood beside al-Haquim’s shoulder and a sound escaped Thomas.
“Are you unwell?” Samuel stopped and placed a hand on Thomas’s arm. “Is it the heat?”
“You know that other man as well, do you?”
Samuel raised his gaze. “The Abbot? He and Abraham work together.”
“Odd bedfellows,” Thomas said.
“We live in odd times.”
“Was he part of the business you came here to attend to?”
“Al-Haquim is an influential man.”
“Is, or has made himself? He cannot have been here long, four months at most. How has be grown influential in so short a time?”
Samuel offered an impatient glance and started away. “Does it matter? Accept that he is. The Jews of Spain support each other. You don’t see us fighting amongst ourselves, do you? We serve our masters and keep to ourselves. Even a converso such as myself is subject to suspicion. Abraham seeks to protect us all, whichever God we follow.”
When they entered the Cathedral plaza Thomas stopped in surprise, for they had been walking less than a quarter hour. He cursed himself for becoming distracted by his own thoughts, knowing he could never find al-Haquim’s house again. It was lucky he would never want to.
The heat of the day was untempered here by any shade. It beat against his head with a relentless pressure.
“Does the Queen know who you visit?”
“What the Queen knows is none of your business. Do what you were brought here to do and go home.” An angry glance. “And if you mention this matter to her I will hear of it and make it my job to have you disgraced.”
So you may slip once more into your position as her physician, Thomas thought? But he did not speak the words aloud. He wished he had not angered Samuel, for he had started to like the man. Except he had lied to him, even if only a lie of omission, and the reason for that was something to be thought on.
“What do you do for them? For him, Mandana?”
“Protect our people,” said Samuel.
“Your people? Mandana isn’t your people. And I’ve never known him to protect anyone.”
“You are a stranger here and do not understand what goes on. I do.”
“I am willing to listen,” Thomas said, still annoyed at Martin de Alarcon’s dismissal of his questions when they arrived. “Explain to me what happens here, and what concern it is of yours.”
Thomas wondered if he would receive another rebuttal, or the start of some answers. He knew he shouldn’t care what happened here. It was not his city. But he had never been able to quell his curiosity.
Samuel was staring ahead as they passed the last buttress of the Cathedral, the palace lying beyond the wide square, when a scream halted them both in their tracks.
Thomas turned, searching for the source of the sound, a wild cry that augured no good. He looked up, wondering if one of the workmen clinging like spiders to the Cathedral roof had fallen, but they appeared not to have heard. And then a man came running fast from within a wide door and almost knocked Thomas from his feet. He grabbed him, holding tight as he tried to pull free.
“What has happened?”
“Let me go, damn you. Let me go.”
“Not until you tell me, is someone injured?”
The man realised only a reply would allow him to escape. “It is the Ghost. He has taken another.”
That name again. Thomas looked beyond to the open doorway, and the moment he was distracted the man pulled away and ran hard across the square.
“Come away,” Samuel said, tugging at Thomas’s sleeve.
Thomas pushed him away and started across the cobbled stones. He heard Samuel follow, still urging him to ignore the disturbance, but he did not look around. As he came closer to the door he heard a woman sobbing. The same woman whose scream had stopped them?
Inside his eyes saw only darkness, slowly adjusting to glimpse burning candles, an altar, and arranged on it – for that was the only way he could interpret what he saw – the body of a man, his torso uncovered to reveal a bloody gash in his chest, the same wound he had witnessed not a day before. The woman who had screamed sat on a side bench, head in her hands, and Thomas went to her.
“Do you know him? Is it your husband?”
She glanced up, face wet with tears, and shook her head. “I came… I came to light a candle for my husband, but that is not him. My… no, it matters not. Only this man matters now.” She rose to her feet, swaying, then sat again and put her head down.
Thomas glanced at Samuel, who had entered behind him. He nodded at the woman, then went to examine the dead man. For dead he had to be. Nobody could survive the wound inflicted on him.
The body lay across the steps leading to the altar. Feet on the stone floor, head on the top step. Arms flung wide as if to better reveal the damage to his flesh. Thomas knelt, leaning close to observe, not yet ready to touch but knowing he would soon. Blood ran fresh from the wound, marking it as recent. He angled his head, then stood and brought a candle to shed more light.
The wound was deep. It had opened the chest cavity wide enough for a hand to slip inside. Thomas placed the candle near the body and only now did he allow his hands to test how recent death had come.
There was no sign of rigor, and a warmth continued to cling to the flesh. Thomas rolled up his sleeve and slipped his fingers into the wound. Yes, still warm. The man had been dead less than an hour, perhaps much less. Curious, Thomas explored deeper, stopped short when he discovered an absence within the chest. The man’s heart was missing. He probed deeper, hand sliding past wet organs in search of that which kept a man alive, but the heart was gone. Taken. He stood, wiping the gore from his hand on his robe as he turned. The wound reminded him of thos
e he had seen the day before, in the cart, and the man hanging on the city wall, but this time slightly different. Unless he did not remember right. He had more chance to study this body than the others. Three deaths in less than twenty-hour hours? Why was the city not in uproar? Or perhaps it was and he had not been here long enough to recognise such.
The woman had gone and Samuel now sat on the bench, his head to one side as if he had been watching Thomas’s examination with curiosity.
“This is not who the man meant, is it?” Thomas said. “A dead body? A ghost?”
Samuel glanced up to meet Thomas’s eyes. He shook his head, little more than a shudder.
“This man must have died in unspeakable pain, and not long since. Someone would have heard his screams.” He looked beyond Samuel. “Who was the woman? You should have kept her here, I might have wanted to question her.”
“She is no-one,” said Samuel. “A poor soul lighting a candle for another lost soul, nothing more. She would know nothing.” He glanced at Thomas’s right hand where bloodstains still showed. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Thrust your hand into him. He is obviously dead. What did you learn beyond that?”
“I learned his heart has been taken.”
“And that tells you what?”
“It tells me a great deal.”
Samuel coughed a laugh. “When I heard you were coming to attend the Queen I made enquiries. I needed to be sure you were the right man.”
“I am.”
“Yes, it is what everyone told me. You are the best physician in the whole of Spain.” The statement only served to increase the frown on Samuel’s brow. “But they also told me you meddle in matters that are none of your business. That death is attracted to you. Almost as if you encourage it.”
“I save lives, I do not take them unless there is no alternative.”
“Not you, perhaps, but some men carry bad luck with them. Are you one such, Thomas Berrington? A harbinger of death?”
Thomas shook his head. “We need to know who this man is. Only then might we discover who took his life.”
Samuel stood and echoed Martin de Alarcón’s words. “It is none of your business. Leave this for the Hermandos.” He turned away, stopped half way to the doorway. “It is not the first such death but hopefully it will be the last discovered.”
Thomas watched him walk away, called out before he reached the door. “Who is this ghost?”
Samuel stopped. His shoulders hunched, and then he turned, his face obscured by the brightness beyond.
“It is a name given by the mob, by thoughtless men and women, a name not worthy even of children.”
“The Ghost,” Thomas said, giving the word the same emphasis he had heard when the man had spoken it. “How long has be plied his trade?”
But Samuel only turned away and was gone.
Thomas glanced behind. He had gathered all the information he could, and Samuel was no doubt right. The local Hermandos would seek out this man’s killer. And it truly was not his business. His business lay in the palace waiting on him to heal her, and that was what mattered most.
Chapter Six
The facilities were not as Thomas would have wished, but they would suffice. His assistant was not the one he would have liked either, but he too would suffice. Thomas thought of Lubna and wondered what she was doing, imagined how angry she must be with him. He wanted to think of her more, longer and deeper, but the Queen waited for the lotions and liquors he was producing so he set his own needs aside for hers.
“Tell me what you are doing, and what this is for.” Samuel stood close, too close had Thomas not been focused on his work. He had not wanted the man here, not after where he had found him, who his companions were. And then there was the matter of the dead man in the Cathedrral. Thomas had more questions but knew they would have to wait until later. Samuel was not without skill or knowledge, and the fact he asked questions of his own showed he wished to acquire more – a trait Thomas approved of.
“This mixture contains the leaves and bark of the Uduru plant native to the forests of Africa. It is difficult to find, but your friend Belia has great knowledge and a long reach.”
“Not a friend,” said Samuel. “But it is true she has knowledge. Sometimes I think too much knowledge, which can be a dangerous thing in these times.”
“Do you use her for your own potions?”
There was a hesitation. “Sometimes, if conventional medicine fails. What will you do with the mixture?”
“Uduru can be used in two ways, as a potion to be drunk, and as a salve applied to the body. In this instance I will use both. I will make a pill the Queen must take three times a day until the bleeding stops, and then for two days afterward. The salve is to be applied to… a certain part of her body.”
Samuel laughed, less affected by what they had witnessed in the Cathedral. “A certain part of her body? Come, Thomas, we are both men of science.”
“Then you do not need me to state the name, do you.”
“Will you explain to me how you know about these mixtures, and what they are used for? I know only the little Belia chooses to pass on when I go to her, but she holds her knowledge close.”
Thomas let eight drops of raw alcohol run into the dry mixture in his mortar bowl and worked it in, adding four more when he saw the mix was still too dry.
“Perhaps when we are done. There is wine on the table, fetch it if you will.”
Samuel crossed the room, returned a moment later with the bottle. After an hour with Thomas he had removed his dark robe as the air in the room grew warmer. Now he stood, more comfortable in a loose cotton shirt embroidered with abstract patterns, and linen pants. He had removed his shoes. Dressed this way served to accentuate both his height and thinness.
Thomas poured a little of the dark wine into the mortar, mixed it and nodded, satisfied. He scooped the thick mixture into a prepared tray he had brought with him. It had been fashioned for him by a smith and was in itself, despite an apparent roughness, a work of art. A single sheet of sword steel rolled and rolled again until it could be flexed in the fingers, then heated and an iron rod pressed hard to form indentations. Thomas filled each of the four rows and four columns with the mixture and used a length of wood to remove the excess.
He handed the tray to Samuel. “Put it on the window sill for now. It must be baked afterward, once it has started to harden. You know where the kitchens are, I take it?”
“Oddly enough I do not, but I am sure I can find out. Theresa will know.”
“Is she with the Queen?”
“Most likely. She has little life outside these walls.”
Thomas began to clean the table, once again wishing for the smooth marble of his workshop at home, allowing himself to think of Lubna now he was involved in nothing more than repetitive tasks she would normally carry out. It was easier to think of her than other things that picked at his mind. He pictured her, short and lithe, washing down the marble surface, tendons in her arms standing out. Stronger than she appeared, stronger in more ways than he could count.
“Here, help me. Take any dirty tools or jars I have used and wash them. Wash them well. Have you not been tempted yourself, Samuel? Theresa is a fine looking woman, and from what I can tell willing for the right man.”
“I have heard an occasional rumour, but perhaps I am not the right kind of man,” said Samuel.
Thomas wet the table before using another cloth to dry it. He looked around, his mind already moving on to the preparation of the salve. They would be here until late afternoon, and then he would send for Theresa and give her instructions.
It was full dark by the time they were finished and Theresa had come and gone, yet still Samuel showed no inclination to leave. Thomas might have been annoyed had he not been so tired. He still ached from the journey and had slept little since he arrived, but when there came a knock on the door and a servant put his head through to tell them food ha
d been laid out he asked Samuel if he would to stay. There were still questions he wanted answered.
The scent of the food arrayed before them sparked a pain in Thomas’s stomach and he tried to recall the last time he had eaten. The day before, with Samuel, the hospitality now reversed.
When he spooned a portion of capon in sauce onto a plate he discovered it strongly spiced and knew it had been the Queen herself had ordered the meal. He had eaten with her before, the last time after the fall of Ronda, and knew she favoured the stronger flavours of Moorish cuisine to that of her own country, which tended to thick stews and even thicker meats, none of which tasted different to the other.
“You said you enquired about me,” Thomas said as he selected food for his plate. “Who did you ask? There are few here that know me other than the Queen, and I am sure you would not question her.”
“Theresa said she and you spent a great deal of time together when you were in Cordoba to attend Prince Juan.” Samuel poured wine for them both, picked at a sliver of meat before glancing up. “Did you bed her? She is, as you say, a fine-looking woman.”
“We worked together, nothing more.” Thomas recalled a time when he had almost weakened, if weakness it would have been and not two consenting adults thrown together under extraordinary circumstances. “So what was it Theresa told you about me? Is it she who believes me too curious?”
Samuel laughed. “No. She has nothing but praise for you, and, I suspect, an admiration that verges on love. It was another physician I consulted. He had heard of you by reputation, studied in the same infirmary in Malaga as you. As I did myself.”
“Would I know him?”
“He was after your time. He is the best physician I have ever met.” He stared at Thomas, waiting to be challenged.
“He must possess rare skills indeed. I would like to meet him.”
“Perhaps. I will ask next time I see him, but he has taken a different path now.”
“What kind of path?” Thomas asked, but when Samuel answered it was only to return to an earlier subject.
