The Inquisitor

by David Penny

  Thomas knew his hand should not be resting on the waist of the Queen of Spain but it had found itself there without conscious volition. Isabel looked up at him, the moment full of a strange potential until a loud voice broke the spell.

  “Unhand her, rogue. Only I am allowed to molest the Queen!” It was Fernando, laughing like a madman. He punched Thomas on the shoulder, making him stagger. “Isabel, why do we not have parties like this?”

  “We have a position to uphold, my dear.” Her attention switched instantly to her husband, and Thomas felt like a fish released from a hook. He looked around, seeking escape, but it was Isabel who moved away toward Lubna and Helena. Fernando’s eyes followed, then rose to appreciate Helena’s pale hair that fell almost to her waist. She was dressed in a loose silk robe which accentuated the curves that lay beneath.

  “Ah,” said Fernando, “if only I were not married.”

  “In that case she would not want you.”

  “The King of Spain? Why ever not?”

  “If you were not married, would you still be King of Spain?”

  Another laugh. Another punch. Thomas was tempted to respond but managed to restrain himself. “In that case I would be King of Aragon, which is a not inconsiderable title.”

  Thomas leaned close. “Shall I ask on your behalf, your grace?”

  For a moment it looked as if Fernando might say yes, then he shook his head. “A man’s mind wanders at times, does it not? Even the great Thomas Berrington’s, I am sure. Have you upset your wife in some way? I notice she avoids you.”

  “You know how it is, as a man, I am sure,” Thomas said, and Fernando smiled.

  “Sometimes I look forward to battle as a respite from royal life.” He glanced at Thomas. “But I never said that to you.”

  “And I will never repeat it. Have you spoken with Olaf?”

  “The giant? I am tempted, but unsure how an approach would be greeted. I hear he has no Spanish, and I no Arabic.”

  “Swedish, perhaps?”

  Fernando laughed. “No, no Swedish either. Where is Sweden?”

  “Far to the north. Cold. You would not want to go there.”

  “You have been?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Neither have I been to the moon, but I know I would not like to go there either. Do you want me to act as go-between? I speak both Spanish and Arabic.”

  “But your Spanish is not good, Thomas.”

  “Good enough for men of war, I expect. Olaf is a man of few words, and those few contain even less syllables” He started across the room, the floor under his feet pulsing like waves on sand. Olaf’s head turned to watch their approach, a grin slowly spreading on his face. He embraced Fernando as one warrior to another, no words required. The unprecedented act of chivalry exhibited by Fernando that allowed Olaf and his party to travel deep into the Spanish hinterland would not go without appreciation. Thomas expected their conversation to be long and include matters that would not normally be spoken of between a King and the general who opposed him. Thomas saw Martin de Alarcón hovering and waved him across, knowing the man could act as interpreter as well as he.

  He detoured past Jorge and knelt. “I will need you tomorrow.” He held a hand up as Jorge began to object. “Give it no thought tonight, but tomorrow, before noon, I will come for you. I will explain everything then.” He moved away before Jorge could respond, but he had looked into the man’s eyes and knew his pretence at inebriation was only that. Jorge rarely if ever lost control, and Thomas wondered why he had chosen to do so himself tonight. He returned to the table and swallowed down a flagon of wine, picked up a second, smaller nugget of hashish and placed it on his tongue. Tonight, he sought oblivion.

  And then he walked as straight as he could toward Lubna.

  She must have seen him coming but made no acknowledgement, continuing to talk with Helena, who did turn her head to smile in greeting. She touched his chest, then kissed him, mouth against mouth as they had once done. When the embrace was over Lubna stared up at him, a mixture of anger and fear in her eyes.

  “What is father doing with the King?” asked Helena.

  “Not ending the war, unfortunately. Talking of exploits past and future, no doubt.”

  “I like your friend Martin,” she said. “He is what a real man should be.”

  Thomas smiled, the barb failing to catch in him this time.

  “He is unmarried, I think,” he said.

  “I do not seek a husband. But he is handsome, and I have never had a Spaniard. Are they good in bed?”

  “Ask Jorge.”

  “He has had a Spaniard?”

  “He is a Spaniard,” Thomas said.

  “Ah, yes, I always forget that. But Jorge is different.”

  “Indeed. Why do you not go talk with your father and include him in the conversation? You will understand half of it, and Martin is acting as translator so you may understand it all.”

  “What interest do I have in the words of men of war?”

  Thomas smiled. “I was thinking not of the words, but of a particular man of war. You two were deep in conversation before I called him away.”

  “Lubna was, less so myself. But perhaps I will.” She touched Thomas’s face, kissed him again and was gone, leaving only a swirl of perfume behind.

  “You can go to her if you want,” said Lubna. “You have my permission. A wife must be modest and obey, I understand that. And a good Moor may have many wives.”

  “I don’t want many wives.”

  “She is more beautiful than me, and more skilled I expect, but you will know about that, won’t you.”

  “I do not want her skill or her beauty. Besides, you are beautiful, more beautiful than you know. Are we friends again, as well as man and wife?”

  Lubna’s eyes examined the floor. “Why did you abandon me outside the cathedral?”

  Thomas raised her chin with a finger. “Do not think on it tonight. I will explain in the morning, but tonight is for you and me and no-one and nothing else. Tonight is our wedding night.”

  “I have not forgiven you yet,” said Lubna.

  “But you are my wife now, you have admitted as much. I can order you to forgive me, can I not?”

  “You can try.” Her eyes rose, a spark in them now. “But you will have to hold me down to make me obey.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And kiss my body. After you have undressed me, of course.”

  “I can do that, too. I am a man of many talents. You have told me so yourself, I believe, on more than one occasion.”

  “I forget. Once, perhaps. You will need to remind me.”

  Thomas looked around, a contentment settling through him even as his arousal grew, and the hashish had made his entire being almost uncomfortably sensitive. These people were his friends. All of them. Even those he did not know well. Even the strangers. He saw Will curled into sleep beside Juan on a cushion near the open window. Jorge embraced Belia in full view, and soon they would need to retire to privacy. Olaf and Fernando leaned toward each other, Olaf a foot the taller, exchanging words almost too fast for Martin to translate. Helena clung to his arm, her fingers twisting through his hair. On the far side of the room Theresa was in conversation with a man Thomas did not know, the two of them exchanging touches of promise.

  He took Lubna’s hand and led her away. “Come, my love, and show me how far the henna strays across your limbs.”

  She smiled and leaned against his arm. “Oh, it goes everywhere, Thomas. Absolutely everywhere. And you will have to work hard, very hard, to earn my forgiveness for abandoning me as you did.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The room was pitch dark when Thomas came awake. Lubna leaned over him, but he could only tell by the touch of her hand against his chest.

  “There is someone outside,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “We are in a house full of people, of course there is someone outside. Go back to sleep.”

  “No, the
y are creeping. I heard them.”

  “Creeping,” he said.

  “Yes. There – do you hear it?”

  And he did. A creak of a stair tread, he knew the exact one, four steps from the top.

  “It will be Jorge gone for a piss.” Thomas tried to pull Lubna down beside him, then stopped because he heard something else. Unmistakeable, the soft sound of a sword drawn from a scabbard, steel against leather. And a whisper, so more than one person.

  He rolled from the bed which was nothing more than a scatter of cushions on the floor, though he barely noticed the discomfort when they came to this room, his mind elsewhere. He patted along the floor until he found the wall, then along the wall until he found his clothing and cursed. No weapon. Of course there was no weapon. He pulled on the too refined trousers Lubna had helped him remove and went to the door, pressed his ear to the wood.

  Definitely more than one man, perhaps even three. They had stopped directly outside, though exactly how he knew he could not say, only that he was sure. Then a whisper of a voice and the creak of a board as they moved on. They were looking for someone in particular.

  Thomas crept back to the tangle of bedclothes.

  “Did Isabel stay, or Fernando?”

  “How would I know? You saw them last when I did.”

  “They will have returned to the palace, they must have. Stay here. Lock the door behind me when I go.”

  “Stay, Thomas. It is not you they seek.”

  “Our friends are in these rooms.” He rose and crept to the door, opened it a crack and peered out. Candles burned out here, their light making him squint after the utter darkness of the room. He glanced back and pointed to the heavy key sitting in the inner lock, and Lubna nodded, her face set. She ought to know me well enough by now, Thomas thought, then dismissed her from his mind as he sought the cold of killing he knew too well.

  He had been right. Three men stood along the corridor, heads together as they whispered. One pointed to a door and another shook his head. Then Thomas ran at them, near silent on bare feet. One of the men looked up at the last moment and uttered a cry which would, with luck, be enough to rouse the others. Thomas turned so his shoulder took the man under the chin. His head snapped back against the wall and Thomas took the sword from his hand and slid it into his chest as the man slumped to the floor. By which time the other two were ready for him. He saw they were experienced, coming at him in an instant, no hint of hesitation. These were men who knew that victory went to those who attacked first and fast.

  Blades clashed as Thomas deflected the first man, but he was forced to step back under the onslaught. Under normal circumstances he knew he could beat these two, sure of his own ability. But these were not normal circumstances. Cobwebs of intoxication still clung to his mind and his body felt clumsy. Even so he was sure he would prevail, until another five men came running up the stairs, all pretence at silence gone. Whoever was behind the attack it had been well planned.

  Thomas deflected another blade, turned to the side in an attempt to keep both groups of men in sight, but already he knew his death was close and wished he had thought to kiss Lubna one last time before rushing out here.

  Then the door at the end of the hallway crashed open and a naked Olaf Torvaldsson stepped out, sword in one hand, axe in the other. He came steadily, almost filling the width of the hallway, and when one of the attackers turned and slashed at him with a sword Olaf swung and removed the man’s arm at the elbow. Thomas turned to the three who were now within feet of him and deflected the first blow. He ducked under the second and lifted his sword into a man’s guts, who went down screaming, feet scrabbling in his own blood.

  “Keep one alive,” Thomas called to Olaf, “I need questions answered. You can kill the rest.”

  Olaf nodded, frowning over whether to merely disable the man in front of him or take his head off. He made a decision and swung, perhaps hoping the man whose arm he had removed would not bleed to death.

  Seeing the odds rapidly diminishing the pair in front of Thomas turned and ran. Too late Thomas saw Lubna step from the doorway of their room just as the first man reached her. He slammed into her and she flew sideways, landing awkwardly. The man ignored her only to be met on the stairs by Martin de Alarcón, who took him in the throat before slipping on the spray of blood. The remaining men leaped over him and, though Martin reached up, he could do no more than leave a gash in the leg of one.

  Thomas turned and ran along the corridor as Will appeared in the doorway where he had been sleeping with his grandfather. Lubna lay on her front, dazed. She was trying to get to her knees and failing. Thomas dropped the sword he held and lifted her, carrying her through to the room she had foolishly left.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Trying to help.” Tears sparked in her eyes, tears of pain and fear. “My belly hurts,” she said.

  Thomas laid her on the cushions and drew her legs apart, used his hand to check for any bleeding, satisfied when he found none.

  “Stay here,” he said. “Do not move. Do not come out again. Hear me?”

  Lubna nodded, a grimace on her face as she held the small swell of her belly in both hands.

  Thomas went outside, picked up the sword he had dropped and made his way to the end of the gallery where the man Olaf had taken the arm from sat. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, face pale. Blood pumped from the stump of his arm and Thomas called for a cloth. A hand touched his shoulder and he looked back to find Helena with a torn sheet. He took it and wrapped it tight above the arm. He smashed the hilt of his stolen sword into the wall until wood broke, then levered a piece out and tied it into the cloth, turned to cut off the spray of blood which slowed, then stopped.

  Thomas felt the man’s neck, cursing until he found a faint pulse.

  “Carry him inside,” he said to a now trousered Olaf, who bent, grabbed the attacker under his shoulders and dragged him into the room.

  “Helena, take Will downstairs. Gather the others, get them to check the doors in case they return with reinforcements.”

  He followed Olaf into the room where the disabled soldier lay flat on the bed. Olaf lit candles then closed the door. Thomas took a jar of water from the floor and emptied it across the man. He spluttered and rocked his head, but his eyes remained closed.

  “Have I killed him?” asked Olaf, only curiosity in his voice. He was a man used to killing and never doubted its purpose. The gift of death was his to offer anyone who tried to take his life, or that of his friends.

  “Maybe. If you have we might never find out who sent them, or who they were after.”

  “You, surely? The rest of us are strangers here, and the King offered us safety.”

  “This is not Fernando’s doing.”

  “No. We talked. He is an honest man. A chivalrous man. It will make me sad one day to have to kill him on the field of battle.” Olaf grinned. “He said the same to me.”

  Thomas checked the man’s pulse again, finding it a little stronger.

  “Help me sit him up, and put pillows behind him.”

  The man groaned as they lifted him and this time his eyes opened, darting around the room as if still under attack. His gaze fell on Olaf and a cry came from his lips.

  Thomas gripped the man’s chin and turned his face to his own. “It’s not him you should fear. Who sent you? And who were you after?”

  The man spat in his face.

  Thomas reached down and gripped the bloodied stump, squeezed. The man screamed, his legs making motions as he tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go.

  “Who did you come for?”

  The man shook his head, sweat beading his brow. “If I tell you I am dead.”

  Thomas smiled, watching what the expression did in the soldier’s eyes. “Then you are a dead man either way, because if you do not tell me what I want to know I will kill you. And I will do it slowly. It might even take until dawn before you draw your last breath.” He squeezed on the stump
again, less violently, but still the man screamed.

  Thomas waited until the pain had ebbed then squeezed again. Some small part of him observed his actions and hated what he saw, but that part of his humanity had been set aside until an answer came. It would return, it always did, but there were times he wondered if it did not take a little of the real man with it each time it left.

  He leaned close to the man, smelling rank breath and unwashed leather. “As far as I see it, you have two choices, because you are not leaving here until you tell me what I want to know, or you die where you lie, after many hours of agony. He reached again for the stump and the man yelled in anticipation.

  “The Alarcón! We were sent to kill Martin de Alarcón.”

  “On whose orders?”

  “I cannot – no, no, don’t! Abbot Mandana!”

  “Why?”

  “You think I know that? I’m a soldier, I do as I’m asked.” He glanced at Olaf, back to Thomas, and then his gaze went to the doorway. When Thomas turned he saw Martin standing there, rubbing at his arm where he had knocked it during the brief fight.

  “Why would Mandana want you dead, Martin?”

  Martin shook his head. “I have no idea. None at all. If Fernando found out such a thing the man would be gone from Sevilla in a moment. Or burned on one of those damnable fires.” He looked to the man. “Do you recognise me?”

  The soldier nodded.

  “Am I the man you came to kill?”

  Another nod.

  “You can do it, if you wish,” Thomas said.

  Martin glanced at him, shook his head. “I could not.”

  “Give me your knife, then,” Thomas said.

  Martin stepped away, turned and left the room.

  Thomas shrugged and looked to Olaf, who in turn looked around for what he knew he had brought to the room but not to the fight. He found a blade, honed to a wicked sharpness, and tossed it hilt first to Thomas. Who snatched it from the air and in the same movement thrust it between the soldier’s ribs to pierce his heart.