by David Penny
“This is not good,” said Olaf as they followed, his voice low, showing none of the panic Jorge had.
“No, it is not. But if she has been taken it was not long since, so there is a chance we can find her before Ramon starts his work.” He started across the square after Jorge, who knocked against a man as he entered an alley, ignoring the cries of protest.
“Why take her? As some kind of punishment on you both?”
“It is possible. But he also needs a subject who is not a Christian. Belia is known to him and meets that condition. But yes, it is more likely to show us that he can take anyone he wants, at any time. He can slip between the shadows of this city like the Ghost that gave him a name.”
“Then we are fortunate it was not Lubna,” said Olaf. “Or Helena. Or, by all the Gods in Valhalla, Will. This Samuel will help?”
“I think so. He is a friend to Belia too.”
“Like Jorge is a friend?” asked Olaf.
“No, not like Jorge, but not for want of wishing it I suspect. You two had better wait outside. Jorge they may admit, but I want you to stop him doing anything foolish. He has already lost one woman he loves to Mandana, a second might break him.”
“He is stronger than he appears,” said Olaf. “Which is a good thing, for he looks soft.”
“Not as soft as he once was,” Thomas said. “And you have been training him with the sword, as you have me.”
“But he is not naturally skilled like you. Still, he shows some improvement.”
At the palace Thomas was once more admitted with no more than a nod. He had sent Olaf to take Jorge to an inn near the waterfront but not allow him to drink.
A paige informed Thomas that Samuel was with the Queen so he started toward the man’s modest room then stopped and turned back. He didn’t know if he would be able to get close to the Queen, but if he managed to do so he could ask her help.
It was not as difficult as he imagined, and thinking back he recognised it never had been. Guards were posted at the entrances to the palace but here, in the inner sanctum with the gardens protected by high walls, only servants moved through the hallways, eyes downcast as they passed. No doubt a call would bring dozens of men, but Thomas did not expect anyone to call out at his presence. He heard voices while still two doorways from Isabel’s chambers, all of them familiar. The Queen herself, Theresa, Samuel, and also the King. Good, he would be even more sympathetic.
He approached quietly, stood for a moment in full view. A discussion was going on, Samuel a part of it. Thomas was pleased to see Theresa wiping the Queen’s hands with a cloth. It had taken him a long time to persuade anyone here that keeping the body clean was an aid to good health.
Before he could decipher the matter under discussion Isabel looked up, a sixth sense alerting her to his presence. She looked startled for a moment before smoothing her features. She fluttered Theresa aside, who turned as she carried the water bowl away, her eyes meeting Thomas’s without surprise.
Fernando strode across the room. “You know you are banned from these chambers.”
“I am aware of that, but I must speak with you both, Samuel in particular.” He almost asked what their discussion had concerned, but knew it was most likely to do with household matters rather than conspiracy.
“Why should we listen to you? You are tainted. My wife wants nothing to do with you anymore.” His words a show for Isabel.
Thomas tamped down a rising anger, cutting off a response before it could spill from his tongue. “Isabel is an intelligent woman, she will recognise her mistake soon. But I need assistance tonight, Fernando.”
“Your grace,” he said.
“Forgive me, your grace. But I need help now. Ramon has taken Belia, Jorge’s friend. You met her after the wedding. I believe you were much taken with her beauty.”
“The Jewess? What do you mean Ramon has taken her?”
“If you are not going to expel Thomas, my dear, bring him close so we may all hear what he has to say.”
See, Thomas thought, already rationality is driving out suspicion.
Fernando glanced back, his eyes returning to Thomas, who saw that he had won this first small encounter. He followed the King of Aragon and Castile into the room, where Fernando took up a protective stance beside his wife.
“What is going on, Thomas, why have you invaded this place when you know you are no longer welcome?”
“A life is at stake.”
“Whose?”
“Jorge’s woman, Belia.” He knew Isabel had spent time at the house talking with both Belia and Lubna, her curiosity continuing to be pricked at how such diverse religions might be reconciled, and what they had in common.
“She is ill? Why have you come here if the pestilence has taken her?”
“A pestilence, yes, but the pestilence of a single man.” He glanced at Fernando, who knew a little more of what he spoke. “She has been taken to the Inquisitor’s prison beyond the river.”
“Why?”
Thomas almost laughed. Did Isabel not know there was no why to who was chosen? It could be no more than a whim, a wrong glance, a word spoken out of place, the whisper of a neighbour, or nothing at all that chose those who lived from those who died. There was no rationality anymore, only hate, suspicion, and retribution. Except in this instance the why was easy.
“She is taken because of me. Ramon took her to show he could. To show that no-one, and nowhere, is safe.”
“What do you expect us to do?” said Isabel. “It is a matter for the Inquisitors now.”
“Not Inquisitors. Ramon must know them, must have access to Triana, but he is not a part of that organisation. He has taken Belia there to kill her. To search for her soul, or lack of it. I thought…” Thomas realised he had not thought. He had come here in expectation of a miracle. That the King and Queen would tear down the walls of Castillo de Triana and free all those inside. “I thought if I could borrow the same number of soldiers we took outside the walls this morning I could find her.”
“We cannot,” said Isabel, her face set, all emotion held in check.
Does she want to help or not, Thomas wondered? He could not tell.
“Three dozen men, your grace. That is all I ask.”
“It is not possible!” She rose and walked away, her face turned toward the window. She went onto the terrace, her body rigid with either anger or shame.
“Isabel!” Thomas called out, and saw her shoulders twitch, but her gaze remained resolutely turned away.
Fernando gripped Thomas’s arm and drew him away. He could break free, they both knew he could, but to do so would change their relationship forever. Broken as it was now Thomas expected time to heal the wounds.
“Take him from here,” said Fernando to Samuel. “Make sure you escort him through the gate and inform the guards he is not to be admitted again.”
Samuel did not take Thomas’s arm, but he had no need to. Though it seemed he did have a need to explain, or excuse the behaviour of Isabel and Fernando.
“Who rules in Gharnatah?” he asked, using the Arabic pronunciation he would have learned while training in Malaka.
“The Sultan rules,” Thomas said, frowning.
“And if the Sultan decreed that Allah did not exist, that his priests on earth were powerless, what would happen?”
“He would be Sultan no more,” Thomas said, beginning to see the point of the conversation.
“And in Spain the ultimate power does not reside with either of the people in there, and they know it better than anyone in this land. Their marriage was only allowed by Papal decree. They rule with the permission of a Pope in Rome who could withdraw his support at any time. He will not, because they fight for Christendom against the infidel you side with. What goes on inside the walls of Triana is done in the name of God but, more importantly, in the name of the Pope. Neither King nor Queen will defy that power.”
Thomas stopped walking. “Then she is lost. By morning his work will be done an
d she will be dead. Cut open.”
“Not yet,” said Samuel. “I am allowed access.” A brief smile, tinged with bitterness. “They still need someone skilled on occasion. I will try to find her, try to find Ramon and reason with him. We were close friends once, that might still count for something.”
Yes, Thomas thought, and I might have misjudged you.
“I am sorry,” he said, but Samuel only frowned, not privy to the thoughts inside Thomas’s head. Which was good, he considered, for those thoughts were dark with retribution, fire, and blood.
Chapter Forty-Two
It took both Olaf and Thomas to restrain Jorge, to stop him running across the bridge to Castillo de Triana. For a moment Thomas was sure he would break free and they would have to follow unprepared, but in the end Jorge saw sense and they returned to the house beside the river. Will had been placed upstairs in bed beside Lubna, and Thomas stood in the door and watched them both without entering. Better to let them sleep so they would know nothing of what was about to happen. He closed the door and crept down the stairs on bare feet.
Olaf sat at the table cleaning his sword even though it required no cleaning. Jorge paced like one of the lions caged behind the palace of al-Hamra. He carried a sword in each hand and held one out to Thomas, who took it, slicing the air to gauge the feel.
“It’s a good sword,” he said.
“It should be. It’s one of Daniel’s,” said Jorge. “See,” he held his own blade out, “it has his mark. The O and D intertwined here.”
Thomas lifted his own blade and saw the same mark. “Where did it come from?”
“I bought them, of course. My brother’s skill with metal has spread far and wide since Fernando appointed him smith to the royal court. He continues to live in Qurtuba, but his weapons travel far and wide.”
“I don’t recall a blade with a finer balance,” Thomas said. “It must have cost a good sum.”
“I am nothing if not a rich man,” said Jorge. “And would give it all up for Belia’s safe return.” He looked into Thomas’s eyes. “Samuel should have returned by now with news.”
“The castle is a big place and Ramon might be anywhere inside. We must give him more time. Besides, our business, if we have to conduct it, will benefit from being done in the small hours of the morning.”
“And if she is dead by then?”
“The victims I have seen are all been killed close to dawn, in the small hours before the first rays of the sun. It is what he does, it seems, and he will not change his method now.”
Olaf held a hand out and Jorge passed him his own sword before turning away, his shoulders hunched. The big general rose, swung the blade, held it out to Jorge who did not take it. “It is too light for me. I’ll stick to what I know.” Olaf laid the sword on the table and went back to cleaning his own blade, a heavy, triangular sword favoured by men of the north. Thomas had tried it once and could barely lift it high enough to strike a blow.
“Do we fight our way in?” asked Olaf, his tone suggesting it was the option he favoured.
“It would be impossible,” Thomas said. “There are hundreds within the castle walls, at least a quarter of them soldiers. We would be cut down before we got a dozen paces.
“Not without loss on their side,” said Olaf. “And the Spanish are cowards. Kill one or two and the others will flee.”
“You forget they fight for their God. It is not an option we should choose, even if it is the only one left to us.”
“So how do we get in?” asked Jorge. He continued to pace, unable to rest, though rest is what they all needed because Thomas had an inkling of a plan.
“We wait for Samuel to return. There is still time. And then in the dead hours of night we go, if we must, when everyone is tired and bored. We will try to look as if we belong and simply walk inside.”
“And if you are challenged?” asked Olaf.
“There will be few on the outer gate at that time of night. We kill them and gain access. But only if it is necessary. Stealth will be our friend tonight, not the clash of steel.”
“That is a shame,” said Olaf.
Jorge stopped pacing and put his fists on the table. “We must go now. It is late enough and it will give us more time to search for her.”
“If she is there I believe I know where she will be held,” Thomas said. “We go directly there, free her and get out as fast as we can. With luck there will be no bloodshed, either theirs or ours.”
“You make it sound as if bloodshed is a bad thing,” said Olaf. “These are Spaniards. I was born to kill Spaniards.”
“You were born a long way from here,” Thomas reminded him.
“But I was young when I travelled south.”
“Kill Spaniards tonight and Fernando will withdraw his offer of safe passage. You die too.”
Olaf grinned. “But I will take many with me.”
“Father,” said Helena, who had sat the entire time listening without comment, and Olaf turned his head as though surprised to discover the presence of his most beautiful daughter. “Listen to Thomas. Your wife needs you. Lubna needs you, and so do I.” She reached across the table and covered his knuckled hand with the elegance of her own. “Al-Andalus needs you. Thomas has prevailed in such situations before. He came to rescue me, remember. Trust him. I know it is hard for a man such as you who is more used to leading, but this matter requires subtlety.”
“I can be subtle,” said Olaf.
“Yes. Subtle enough to decide whether to strike at a man’s head or belly. Listen to Thomas. Follow him, if only for tonight. Listen to him for the sake of Belia and Jorge and the rest of us who want to see you all return alive.” Helena’s eyes flickered toward Thomas, and he saw something in them he had never done before, not even when she had shared his bed, and it worried him, but he dismissed the idea as being brought on by the strain of the night.
“When?” Olaf said, turning to Thomas.
“Two or three hours yet. We should try to sleep.”
“Sleep?” Jorge’s voice rose. “How can we sleep?”
“Yes,” said Olaf, “sleep is good before battle. It stills the mind.”
“I cannot sleep!” Jorge started for the terrace, stopped, looked at the door as if planning to leave immediately.
Helena rose and brought a jug of wine and four cups to the table. She poured for each of them and Thomas watched her drop something into one of the cups. When he looked up, catching her eye, she offered a faint smile and passed the cups around, ensuring Jorge was handed the one she had drugged.
Olaf drained his in a single gulp. Thomas sipped. Jorge looked at the cup as if it was something foreign, a tremble in the hand holding it.
“Fill them again,” Thomas said, holding his cup out. Once Helena had done so he held the cup in the air. “To our endeavours this night! May success walk with us.” He knocked his cup against Helena’s and Olaf’s, waited for Jorge to come to the table, which in the end he did, dragging his feet like a chastised boy. He returned the salutation and when Thomas raised the wine to his mouth Jorge did the same.
“How much?” Thomas asked of Helena a while later as Jorge lay with his head on the table, a glisten of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“He will wake in time, and with a clear head,” she said. “It is the residue of what Belia prepared for Lubna.” She walked to the terrace and leaned on the rail. The ships were quiet, swinging lamps the only movement. After a while Thomas rose and joined her.
“If we do not return–”
Helena put her hand on his chest, stopping him. “You will return.”
“If we do not you are to take Lubna and Will home.”
Helena shook her head, ice-white hair exposing and masking her face in turn. The scar she had once used the hair to hide was barely visible anymore. “Do not talk of it, for it cannot happen. You are Thomas Berrington. Death is your friend. He will not take you yet, it is not your time.”
“None of us know w
hen is our time.”
“Tonight is not yours. I know it.” Helena took a step, and before Thomas was aware of what was happening her lips were against his and he cursed his body’s reaction. She could still affect him even as he saw the mischief in her. A mischief that had been lacking of late.
He put his hands on her waist and pushed her away, saw a smile of satisfaction to know she had sparked confusion in his mind. Thomas released her as if her body burned. Then he dropped over the railing to the riverside below and began to run toward the palace, one more task to complete before Jorge woke and the rest of tonight’s work could begin.
On the Barcas bridge they passed two carts of plague victims on their way to the lime pits, but neither cart master so much as glanced in their direction, three men dressed for battle, heavily armed, leather jerkins protecting their torsos. Olaf had pulled on a helmet which barely fitted, his eyes blazing like coals from a brazier. The planks of the bridge shook under their heels and Thomas feared the sound was loud enough to wake the entire population of Castillo de Triana. He glanced toward Jorge, whose face was as set as Olaf’s.
Jorge had woken as Helena promised, clear headed and calm. Not his usual self, for that would only come with the freeing of Belia, but controllable. Olaf might be a different matter. The big general revelled in mayhem, and their work tonight required more subtle endeavours.
A single guard dozed at the main gate, there for show rather than vigilance, for people avoided this place unless they worked within. The man sat up, then rose at their approach. His eyes took on a wary look as he saw their manner of dress, and he stepped to block their way.
“You gentlemen appear to be lost. The whorehouse is that way, but it will be closed at this time of night.”
Thomas saw Olaf tense, and stepped forward, fumbling into his pocket for what he had gone to Samuel’s room to fetch. It had taken some time to find it, but eventually he discovered the small bottle of liquor hidden in a compartment beneath a loose floorboard. Now he emptied a little onto a muslin cloth and stepped close to the man as he started to draw his sword.
