by David Penny
“You don’t approve.”
“Mandana can be useful, I understand that. But if it was me? He would have been dead years since. He has no place in a civilised land.”
“You have told Fernando your opinion?”
“I have, but although he listens he tells me sometimes the decisions a king must make are hard.”
“Does Mandana know how you feel about him?”
“I have told him to his face, but he only laughs. He laughs more than he used to, as if he finds the entire world amusing.”
“Do you fear what he might do? What he might instruct his men to do? Mandana does not suffer enemies to live, particularly enemies who have the King’s ear.”
“I would like him to try,” said Martin, and Thomas knew he would be a hard man to kill.
“He has a position in the castle over the river, as well as some strange friends.”
“You can say its name,” said Martin. “Castillo de Triana, home of the Inquisition.”
“What is your opinion of that organisation?”
Martin stopped. “Do not ask me that. Do not ever ask me that again. I consider us friends, but no friend would ask such a question, not in this city.”
“Then I will ask you something you can answer. Is Mandana involved?”
“He sits on the panel of judges.”
“Yet I hear he is not in complete agreement with the methods used or the victims chosen.”
“Not victims. Heretics. There is a difference. And if he has doubts he does not express them and would be wise to keep it that way. As you would be wise to not get involved in matters that are nothing to do with you.”
“He showed me the body of a man that had been cut into.”
“So? There are many dead in this city. Too many. And people still fight and get themselves killed.”
“This was not the first, I understand,” Thomas said.
They started to walk again just as Will appeared at the end of a long avenue of neatly tended bushes. He was hand in hand with a girl his own age, while an older boy walked behind. A tall man and two women brought up the rear. Will saw Thomas and waved, called out. The older boy looked up. For a moment his face remained blank, then broke into a grin as he launched himself along the avenue, neatly avoiding the lunge of his protector.
Thomas knelt as Prince Juan, heir to the thrones of Castile and Aragon, threw himself into his arms. The boy clutched tight around Thomas’s neck.
“I will not tell your mother that you ran so fast, Juan. You remember what happened last time, don’t you?”
Juan extricated himself and straightened his jacket as if embarrassed at his sudden show of affection. Then he thrust out the leg which had been broken, the leg Thomas had repaired.
“See, I can run even faster now, all thanks to you.” He turned as Will and the girl approached, the girl’s features familiar even though Thomas was sure he had never seen her before. “He claims to be your son,” said Juan, sounding now like the young Prince he was.
“Then he claims right. And the girl, she is your sister?” He searched his memory, trying to place Isabel’s children in order. “She is Maria, is she not?”
“Juana did not want to play today.” Juan leaned closer. “She is too serious. So I had to bring Maria, but she is too young for me. I have eight years now.”
“Then you are almost a man,” Thomas said, pleased when Juan suppressed a smile. “And a man must accept his responsibilities and play with his sisters even if they are young.”
“Can your son fight? What is his name, Thomas?”
“Will. Short for William.”
“Juan is not short for anything,” said Juan, as if that made him better, which well it might.
“People do not shorten the names of princes.” Thomas glanced at the two women and lone guard who shadowed the royal children. “It seems each has made a new friend. Can my son accompany them for a while? It will do them good to learn how others live.”
The guard looked uncertain, as did one of the women, but the other nodded, a smile on her face, and Thomas tried to recall if he knew her or not.
“It is time they had a drink and something to eat. He can come with us, if you will allow it, sir?”
Thomas knew Will would be safe, and there was something he needed to do. Nothing would befall his son inside the palace. Not unless he ran too fast down a stair, and he suspected Juan would prevent him doing that.
“I have rooms in the eastern part of–”
Thomas was interrupted by the woman. “I know who you are, Thomas Berrington, and I know where your rooms are. I will ensure your son is safely returned and arrange for someone to be with him until your business is complete.”
Thomas tried again to remember if he knew the woman or not. There were so many who attended the Queen, and so many who tended to similar looks. Whether he knew her or not she knew him.
“My wife will be awake by then, you can leave him with her.” Once more it was easier to avoid any explanation, and perhaps soon it would no longer be necessary.
Chapter Fifteen
Thomas was pleased to find Jorge and Belia downstairs when he arrived at her house in the square, and made no mention of their sleeping arrangements. Jorge’s actions were no surprise, but Thomas had not thought Belia so ready to tumble into bed with him so soon after their meeting. But knowing Jorge as he did it might have been expected.
“Belia tells me you have bought us a new house.” Jorge sat at the table, picking at slices of fruit. The aroma of coffee laced the air, together with the scent of fresh bread. “I would as soon stay here.” He glanced at Belia. “If I am welcome, that is.”
Belia reached out and stroked Jorge’s head, the stubble of hair beginning to appear.
“Liberated rather than bought,” Thomas said.
“Is it a fine house?”
“It is indeed. Belia might like to move there as well, though it will be no permanent home.”
“How long?” asked Jorge. He wiped his fingers in a cloth and stood, stretching. “And I hope I need to do no work on it.” After his bones had clicked he slid his arms around Belia and pulled her against him.
“Until Isabel releases me,” Thomas said.
“If she releases you. Ah well, there is little to keep me in Gharnatah these days, and Ixbilya has its charms.”
Thomas shook his head and avoided looking at them. “You will need furniture, food, and wood for the stove, and fresh bedding and beds too, most like.”
“And clothes?” said Jorge. “Do they have fine clothes for sale in this city, silks and the like?”
“If you are willing to pay.”
“I am always willing to pay,” said Jorge.
“I know of someone who can furnish the house,” said Belia, slipping from Jorge’s arms and tidying the table. “I will ask them to arrange it. We can all sleep there tonight if you wish.”
“Lubna is with me in the palace now,” Thomas said. “Tomorrow will be soon enough if we need to. I would accompany you but I have an appointment. I would take Jorge with me if you can spare him..”
“You are welcome to him. I suspect my task will be easier if he is otherwise occupied. Does your patient need any more medicines prepared?” Belia had no need to mention a name.
“She is recovering, thanks to you. But Lubna has a belly ache. If you have something for that I will take it.”
Belia smiled as she moved away.
“She complained on the journey,” said Jorge. “We took food where we could, and I was ill too. She’s tough, and Bel will find her something to help.”
“Bel?”
Jorge raised a shoulder and examined his nails, finely filed and perfect. “What is this other matter? You haven’t gotten involved in something that is none of your business again, have you?”
“What makes you say that?”
Jorge made a show of innocence. “I said nothing.”
“You have no need to. But yes, possibly.”
/> Jorge shook his head. “Then I had best come in case you get into trouble. I’m sure Bel can spare me until this evening.”
“This business might also involve a pair of old friends.”
“Who?”
“You will meet one this morning. The other not, but I will try to explain everything when our business is done.” Thomas was reluctant to tell Jorge too much. Their morning would prove difficult enough, and if he tried to explain how difficult Jorge might not come, and Thomas wanted him there.
Jorge maintained a constant commentary on the city, the people, and particularly the women as Thomas led him through fine thoroughfares toward the river. He grew more quiet when they reached the start of the Barcas bridge and caught sight of the charred posts, holding back as Thomas stepped onto swaying planks.
“Is that thing safe?”
Thomas rocked, sending wavelets dancing away from the pontoons on which the bridge rested. “I’ve seen forty men cross it. I am sure even someone as big as you will be safe.”
“I am not big”, said Jorge.
Thomas knew it was true, though the new slimmer Jorge could do nothing to reduce his height, and it marked him out in this place where even Thomas was regarded as tall.
“Just come on,” he said, turning away.
“Where are we going?” The bridge dipped as Jorge stepped onto it. He gripped a rail, but after a moment fell into step.
“There.” Thomas nodded to where Castillo de Triana loomed from the edge of the river.
“And what is there?”
“It is the home of the Inquisition.”
Jorge stopped. After a moment Thomas did too and turned back to him.
“Why are we going to the home of the Inquisition?” said Jorge. “Should we not be running as fast as we can in the other direction?”
“It is not us they want,” Thomas said.
“I did not assume they did, but still I would rather not go there.”
“We are to meet someone.”
“An Inquisitor?”
“No.” Then Thomas reconsidered. “Perhaps. But not like the others.” He was still confused at the change in Mandana. “You will see when we get there.”
“So mysterious,” said Jorge. “Always so mysterious.”
As they started up again Thomas wondered if Jorge’s good mood would survive the meeting.
There was a single soldier guarding the entrance, a heavy double door thrown open on one side. Likely no more than one man was ever needed, for most people avoided this place rather than sought it out. Thomas gave his name and said he was expected. The guard disappeared for a moment, no doubt to pass on the message. When he returned he took up his stance, standing a little straighter, staring at Jorge as if he had never seen his like before, which was no doubt true. The man would be unable to tell Jorge was a eunuch, but he could tell he was different.
“When do you plan to tell me who we are meeting?” said Jorge.
Thomas sighed, knowing he had drawn this out too long. “An old friend. One you believed dead.”
Jorge shook his head, opened his mouth to speak then snapped it shut as he stared beyond Thomas to where Abbot Mandana had appeared at the gate. When he managed to tear his gaze away it locked on Thomas.
“Him? How?”
“A deep pool of water, apparently.”
“Why did you bring your pet, Berrington?” Mandana’s voice was hoarse, as if he had stood too close to the flames of the Inquisition. Thomas could imagine the man there, near enough to hear the screams that turned to whimpers and to smell the stink of burning flesh. Unless he truly had changed.
“My friend has skills I value. Are you going to keep us standing here in the sun all day or show me what you brought me here for?”
Mandana turned abruptly and walked inside. Thomas glanced at the guard, but it seemed they were now granted admittance and he walked into the shadows of Triana, hoping Jorge would follow but knowing he would continue even if his friend remained outside.
Inside the castle the air was cool and carried a dampness which rose from the river, together with the taint of corruption, as if something foul rotted beneath the flagstones. As he followed Mandana deeper he was aware of the weight of stone above, of the array of corridors leading ever deeper into the interior, and the further they penetrated noises came, faint at first, then louder until they could not be ignored. Voices calling out in fear and pain, screams, sobs. And other sounds. As they passed a cell where the door stood open Thomas peered inside to see a naked man laid across a wooden instrument. A guard stood at one end, his hand on a ratchet. Two red-robed priests were at the man’s feet, which were blood-caked from some earlier torture.
“Tell me the names of your friends,” said one, and the other nodded as if it was the most incisive question ever.
“There are no names! I have told you again and again, I am innocent.”
The priest nodded and the guard heaved on the handle of the rack. Fresh screams filled the air.
“Berrington!” Mandana’s voice was impatient. “Do you want to see this place or not? I judged you strong enough to take these sights, but perhaps I was wrong.”
Thomas cast a final glance, not wanting to but drawn to the scene, then started away. “Show me then, and let me leave.” He glanced at Mandana. “I can leave, can’t I?”
“Of course. I need your skills.”
Thomas wondered what might happen when Mandana no longer had that need. He led the way through a series of turns as Thomas tried to make note of the direction they went, not that he was likely to ever want to return here. At last Mandana’s steps slowed. The cries and stink of torture had been left behind. To the right a wide corridor led away to a series of dungeons. Ahead another door was half open.
“Is this the place?” Thomas asked.
Mandana nodded. “You can enter alone, I have no wish to see it again.”
Thomas took three paces, pushed the door wider, then stopped and glanced down at the latch. There was a heavy iron bolt, but it lay on the inner side only.
Mandana smiled. “What, did you think I was going to take you captive?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
Mandana held his arms out, a picture of innocence. His missing hand marred the effect.
“Go in, tell me what you see.”
Thomas took a step, still hesitant. “Will you be waiting here?”
“I have other business to attend to. Besides, this is not for me but you, to provide more information to help you catch this killer.”
“What if I have questions?”
“Find me later. Ask and someone will bring you to me. But if you have questions I will be disappointed in you.” Mandana began to turn away but Thomas had not yet finished with him.
“How long since the chamber was used?” He had no need to mention what it had been used for.
“Two months.”
“And how often?”
“I don’t understand.”
“How many times did he kill here?”
“Once. Do you think we would allow the man to kill at will inside the castle?”
“I don’t know, would you? Or would someone else? Are you sure it was only the once?”
“That I have been told of.”
“And who were the victims? Was one of them displayed?”
“He was.”
“Where?”
“In the courtroom where the guilty are tried. He had been sat in one of the chairs used by the priests. His head was on the table in front of him.”
“Who?”
“The new Bishop of Ronda, visiting the Cathedral here. Now really, I must go, already I am late for the court.”
Another man of God, Thomas thought. There had to be some significance. Did the killer hate all religion, or only Catholics?
“Wait. One final request. I want to know what you said to my son.”
“I whispered a message for him to pass to you.”
“Would i
t not have been simpler to tell it to my face?”
Mandana smiled. “It amused me to do it the way I did.”
“And the message was?”
A sigh. “I expected you to have worked it out by now. “I said to him, ‘Tell your father Samuel is a bad man’.
Not something, as Will had said, but Samuel. And why was he bad? Thomas started to say something, but when he looked up Mandana was striding down the corridor, and the room behind was calling.
The chamber was small and empty. There had no doubt been a table here but it had been taken away, though Thomas wondered why because he doubted any blood stains would have concerned anyone within these walls.
Thomas walked the perimeter but nothing remained. He went to the door and shut it, threw the bolt then pulled on the ring set in the wood. The door was solid, secure. He leaned his ear against it, heard nothing. Would the screams that had filled this room be heard from outside? However thick the wood of the door the noise must have passed through. Except what were more screams in a place such as this?
He walked the floor, his gaze hard against the stone. A stain here, another there, but whether they were from the killings or nothing more than business as usual here he could not tell. He wondered why Mandana had bothered to bring him here. There was nothing of any use.
Or was there? Thomas wondered if he was here not to uncover evidence but to experience the place.
He walked to where he believed a table would have stood and lay flat on the floor, crossing his arms across his chest and staring upward. The ceiling was high and made of stone, no doubt the underside of the floor of whatever rooms lay above. He glanced around, saw nooks where candles or lamps would have sat. There were hooks on the ceiling where more light could be hung from. Or instruments of torture.
Thomas wondered why this room had not been used again.
Then he thought about the Bishop of Ronda. It would have been a recent appointment, someone plucked from obscurity to instil Christianity in a town which until earlier that year had belonged to the Moors. Thomas did not think Ronda significant in the choice of victim, only the man’s faith. And faith was the common factor so far in the instances he was aware of.
