The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  Now Will held his arms out to Jorge, who picked him up and held him to his chest, kissed the top of his blonde hair, straight like his mother’s and almost as long.

  Thomas settled the two bags around his shoulders and lifted Lubna. Walking wasn’t easy, but he knew the way now and it wasn’t far. As they passed one of the doors daubed with a slash of paint Jorge asked the same question Thomas had a few days earlier, and Thomas passed the same information on that Samuel had given him. A plague house.

  “Is that what is wrong with Lubna?” asked Jorge, all the softness leached from his face.

  “I don’t know.”

  Belia peered from an upper window when Thomas rapped on the door then disappeared without a word. A moment later bolts were thrown and she ushered them inside.

  “What do you need?” No hint of reluctance from this woman he had met on only two occasions.

  “Somewhere to lay her, and willow bark to start with. She has a fever and I want to bring it down.”

  “I have other herbs if you need them.” Belia led him through to a room at the back, larger than he would have guessed from the outside. A door gave on to a small courtyard where the slabs had been lifted and replaced with soil. The space there was packed with a surfeit of plants.

  “She is with child, so I want to take things slowly until we know what’s wrong.” Thomas laid Lubna on a long table once Belia had cleared it of the tools of her trade. The space reminded him of his own workshop, smaller but with the same bowls and jars of herbs and spices.

  Belia leaned close and felt under Lubna’s arm and Thomas realised he should have done so himself, cursing his own stupidity.

  “It’s not plague,” said Belia. “Hopefully no more than a fever.” She went to a shelf, scanned her finger along its contents then plucked a jar down. With swift movements she ground the contents into a fine powder and mixed them with water.

  Thomas sat Lubna up and Belia made her drink the entire contents of a small cup. Only then did she turn to see who else had come into her house. Thomas saw her gaze take Jorge in from head to toe. She gave a sharp nod, as if in approval.

  “And who is the boy?”

  “My son,” Thomas said, no hesitation. “Will.”

  “Is he ill too?”

  “Not as far as I can tell.”

  Another nod, trusting his judgement.

  “I cannot thank you enough for this,” he said. “I didn’t know where else to go. I have no friends in the city.”

  “You have one friend,” she said. “I will make tea. Is anyone hungry?”

  “There is no need.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Jorge.

  Belia smiled. “You look like you might always be hungry, for one thing or another.”

  Thomas tried not to groan. Jorge was doing it again. And what made matters worse, however hard Thomas studied him he could never see what it was he did.

  Belia waved a hand. “There are chairs in the room through there. Out that door and turn right. Go sit, I’ll be through in a moment.”

  “I’ll stay with Lubna,” Thomas said.

  “Then I will fetch your tea here.”

  There was a hard wooden chair and Thomas pulled it close to the bench. He reached across and felt Lubna’s neck. Her heart raced but not dangerously so. He thought the fever had abated a little but feared this might only be wishful thinking. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against her shoulder, stroked the skin of her arm. From the other room he heard muffled voices, Jorge’s unmistakeable tone, Belia’s lighter, but coloured like his with strangeness. The pair of them strangers in a foreign land. Thomas wondered what Jorge would do when the Moors were defeated, what would happen when there was no harem to care for, no scented ladies to amuse. He knew Jorge would survive. The boy he had turned into a eunuch all those years ago had become his most trusted friend. They had fought side by side, and sometimes Jorge even proved himself useful. He had come a long way from the effete palace plaything he had once been. Jorge was now the possessor of both muscle and skill, as well as a keen sense of people that Thomas envied.

  He jerked awake at a touch on his arm. Belia stood beside him, a cup of steaming liquid in her hand. She placed it on the table then leaned across to touch Lubna’s chest.

  “She improves,” she said.

  Thomas did the same. Belia was right, Lubna was cooler, her temperature almost normal.

  “Perhaps no more than a fever, then,” Thomas said, relief in his voice.

  Belia touched his arm. “Let us hope so. Are you sure you don’t want some food?”

  “It’s the middle of the night, you should go back to bed. You do not have to cook for me or my companions.”

  “I like your friend, the big one. The little one, too. He looks like you, a little.”

  Thomas smiled, said nothing.

  “Besides,” said Belia, “it is not the middle of the night anymore.” She inclined her head to the window where grey light filled the small courtyard.

  “I see you grow your own poppy and hemp,” Thomas said.

  “It is not the best place, but I have more plants along the river bank west of the city, and in other places I keep secret. The ones I grow here are herbs that don’t object to shade and which are useful to keep on hand.”

  “I have a garden at home,” Thomas said. “It is south facing. My poppy and hemp does well, but other things less so.”

  “Such is the way of the world,” said Belia. “Come through, she sleeps the sleep of recovery now. Please, come tell me of your garden, and Granada. I would visit one day perhaps, when it becomes part of Spain.”

  And with that she broke the fragile bond that had been growing between them. At least that was how it felt to Thomas.

  “I will stay with Lubna,” he said. “I am sure Jorge is more than capable of amusing you.”

  Chapter Ten

  As Thomas walked toward the palace from Belia’s house the first hint of dawn was painting the streets with grey light, and the last person he expected to call out to him when he reached the Cathedral square was Abbot Mandana. The man stood partly hidden within an entrance, waving the one hand that remained to him.

  “Berrington, here.” A tone of voice that expected no refusal.

  Thomas stopped and looked around. There were few people on the street yet for the day was barely begun. The only others he had passed were those who drew carts to collect the plague dead.

  He tried to decide if ignoring Mandana would be the wisest course of action, was on the point of doing so when the man called out again.

  “There is something you must see!”

  Which was all it took, that damned curiosity taking control again. And Thomas still wanted to know what Mandana was up to. He wouldn’t put it past the man to be pursuing his own interests while the city degenerated into chaos. It was exactly what Thomas expected. So he turned and trotted across the cobbled square, determined it was better to know all be could if he wanted to stop the man.

  “This had better be good.”

  “Not good, no,” said Mandana, “but I believe it will interest you. I would welcome your opinion. You saw the body on the altar yesterday – did you examine it in detail?”

  “Enough to determine cause of death, and that it was in no way natural.”

  Mandana offered a curt nod. “Then tell me about this one, too.” He turned and strode to where a shaded courtyard held half a hundred orange trees, their scent sharp in the pre-dawn air. Pulled to one side was one of the plague carts, so common on the streets that Thomas barely noticed them anymore, unlike the population who fled at their sight. This one was empty, but its bed showed stains where previous residents had lain.

  “Here,” said Mandana, and turned into a small alcove.

  Thomas stopped, staring at the figure of a man naked to the waist. Two orange trees grew close together here and his wrists were tied one to each. The nails hammered into his palms were redundant and would not have supported his weight wit
hout the ropes.

  “Is it the same as yesterday?” asked Mandana.

  “I will need to examine him,” Thomas said.

  “Then do so, and quickly before someone comes this way.”

  Thomas looked around. The body had been hidden to him when he entered the courtyard, but now he saw that anyone crossing it, should they look in this direction, would have a clear view of the man. As if the body was being displayed. He glanced at the sky, judging where east lay, and saw that as soon as the sun rose high enough its light would spill into this space to highlight the gruesome scene. The body had been deliberately posed, left here where sunrise would make its presence clear to anyone who passed.

  He leaned close, not yet touching, his eyes taking in the cuts to the chest wall, the exposed ribs, six of them sheared through. It would have taken a specific instrument and some strength to open the chest in such a way.

  “Is he–”

  “Be quiet,” Thomas said. “My work will go faster if you say nothing.” He didn’t glance behind, his entire vision peeling the layers from the body. He rolled up a sleeve and slipped his hand into the wound, searching for what had been missing in the first body. Except here the heart had been left in place, and was apparently undamaged, but Thomas could not be sure without removing it, which was something he had no intention of doing. He tested the body for rigor and found the limbs stiff, but not as stiff as they would have been six hours ago. Thomas estimated the man had died no more than two days before, no less than one. He pulled the sleeve of his robe down to cover the smear of blood and turned to Mandana.

  “The wound is similar, but his heart has been left in place. I judge this man and the other could have died at the same time, or near enough. Their wounds would indicate the same. Samuel tells me there have been other deaths going back some time.”

  Mandana nodded. “A number, yes. They began near a year ago. Long enough for whoever is doing this to be given a name by the mob.”

  “Are all displayed this way? In public view?”

  “No, the displaying is recent. The last six bodies only. Before then… well, some were found discarded amongst the plague dead, others partially burned. Whoever is doing this didn’t want his work recognised at first. Now… well, now it seems he does.”

  “Why the change?”

  “Perhaps you should ask when you find him, Berrington.”

  Thomas took a pace away from the body. “Can you find someone to remove this man and dispose of him, before he becomes another source of gossip and fear? And you and I need to talk.”

  “I know little that can help.”

  “I would rather be the judge of that. Where were you going when you saw me?”

  “Going? No, I was coming. One of the Cathedral workers sent word.”

  “To you?”

  Mandana nodded.

  “Why? Is your interest known? Surely the Hermandos are a more natural choice.”

  “The man recognised him,” said Mandana. “He is known to Abraham, and I was there when the message came.”

  “So it was not sent to you directly.”

  Mandana made an impatient sound. “Does it matter who the message was for? I was there when it was delivered and came at once.”

  “Why the interest?”

  “You said we needed to talk,” said Mandana, “and you are right, we do, but now is not the time. I know of another killing site and would welcome your opinion on it. When can you make the time?”

  “Not today.”

  “But soon,” said Mandana. “Come and find me soon.”

  Chapter Eleven

  As soon as Thomas walked through the gate that marked the border between city and palace he knew he was in trouble, but did not regret the delay. He had walked from the Cathedral without noticing his surroundings, trying to puzzle out exactly what was happening in the city, unable to understand Mandana’s interest. He cursed his own curiosity which was already scratching away at his resistance. He recognised the reason, knew himself well enough to acknowledge it was the following of skeins of mystery that attracted him, and wondered when that need had first sparked inside. Perhaps in childhood when he had been forced to prove his own innocence of murder. It was the first time he had used the mental muscles since honed. It was also, he recalled, his first experience of the sickness that now ravaged the city. The sickness that took his brother and mother, and almost Thomas himself.

  Guards stood to either side of the entrance to the palace and as soon as they saw him one started across the yard. “You are to come with me,” he said, “by order of the Queen.”

  Thomas followed, believing a storm was about to engulf him, but knowing it would pass. What he did not expect was to be led not to the Queen’s chambers but into a wing of the palace he had never seen before. A long corridor led to a stone-walled room where a grey-haired man sat working on some papers spread across a table. He must have heard their footsteps from far off but only now did he turn his head. His eyes tracked Thomas up and down, showing nothing.

  “You are Thomas Berrington?”

  Thomas nodded. “You have the advantage of me, sir. I thought I was being taken to the Queen.”

  “Soon. After we have talked.” The man indicated a second chair on the far side of the table, gathered his papers together and slid them into a drawer. When he laid his hands on the table Thomas saw his fingers were marked with ink stains.

  “I don’t talk to people without a name,” Thomas said, half expecting some kind of smile, a twitch at the corner of the mouth at least, but nothing. Instead the man leaned closer, his gaze sharp, probing.

  “You are close to the Queen. She has talked of you.” Now an expression came but it held no trace of amusement. “In my opinion she talks of you too much.” He tapped a finger on the table, over and over, a habit, perhaps even a nervous habit. “I am Friar Hernando de Talavera, advisor to her grace in all matters of religion.” His eyes met Thomas’s, held them with an unexpected ferocity. “You are from England, I understand?”

  Thomas nodded, unwilling to say more until he knew what the conversation was about.

  “And England is a Catholic country?”

  Another nod.

  “So, can I assume you are also a Catholic, even if you choose to live amongst the infidel?”

  “What do you want of me?” Thomas said.

  “Of you? I want nothing of you, only to investigate your heart and mind. For someone as close to the Queen as you are it is my duty to ensure she is not subject to the wrong kind of ideas. Heathen ideas.”

  “I am her physician, not her confidant. I leave matters of her soul to you, Friar.”

  “She speaks of you as a friend. A close friend. She claims you are one of her closest friends.” A pained look crossed the man’s face.

  “Then you are privy to information I am not.”

  Talavera sat more upright, his fingertips continuing their constant tap-tapping, barely audible, but the movement annoyed Thomas and he had to restrain himself from reaching out and stilling the hand.

  “I am the Queen’s confessor, so I am privy to all things. She holds nothing back from me. Nothing at all. Make no excuse, Thomas Berrington, for I see into your soul just as I see into the soul of the Queen.”

  Thomas spread his hands. “You are still talking of matters I know nothing about.”

  Talavera made a sound. “You are an intelligent man. The Queen claims so, as do others I have questioned about you. Do not pretend ignorance with me.”

  “You have questioned others about me? Who?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. What I can tell you is that in most instances you are well liked, and respected.”

  Thomas smiled. “In most instances?”

  “As I say.”

  “Tell me what you want of me.” Thomas leaned forward himself, closing the space between them.

  “I want you to cure our Queen and then to leave. I want you gone as soon as she is well enough to travel.”

&nbs
p; “She is well enough now,” Thomas said.

  “That is not the opinion of all.”

  “Who is her physician, these others or me? Is my word not to be trusted?”

  “That is why we are having this conversation. I do not have to like you, Thomas Berrington, but I must respect your skills. What I hear is you are loyal but headstrong, not subject to following orders you disagree with, and the purpose of an order is for it to be followed, agreement or no. As the word of God must be followed. I also hear your loyalty is unbending, which is something of which I approve, as long as it does not warp into something more than loyalty.”

  Thomas wondered when the man might say something he understood, so remained silent in hope of a point being made he could sensibly respond to.

  “Why do you live with the infidel?”

  “Because I choose knowledge over superstition.”

  Talavera scowled. “There is no greater knowledge than the knowledge of our Lord Almighty and his son Jesus Christ. As a Christian you know that, yet you do not embrace it.”

  “I embrace logic, beauty, and science.”

  Talavera’s scowl grew, revealing stained teeth. “Science and religion are poor bedfellows.”

  “Which is why I choose the path I do.”

  “The world is changing. If you are as intelligent as people say you must know your way of life is coming to an end. God will prevail in this land and all will be swept aside, your science included.”

  “Tell me what you want of me” Thomas’s hands had curled into fists and it was only through an effort of will he did not close them around Talavera’s neck.

  “I told you what I want. You will cure the Queen and you will leave this land.”

  “And what if she does not want me to leave?”

  “She is a loyal servant of the church. She will do what is right. She always does.”

  “A church that burns people for following their own God? Are there to be yet more fires tomorrow? That church?”