by David Penny
“Should I stand on one leg as well? Or would that still make it too easy?” He glanced at the men. “Are they any good?”
“That you will find out.” Fernando held his sword out. It was a fine weapon, and as Thomas took it he saw the sign of Daniel Olmos on the blade.
“If they do kill me, will you send news to my family?”
Fernando laughed. “Of course. I might even make you a Duque to honour your memory.”
“That makes it almost worth the losing, your grace.”
Thomas turned and moved fast, sending the sword of one soldier spinning out of his hand before blocking a panicked blow from the other. He stepped back and pointed to the sword lying on the grass, waiting until the man retrieved it, waiting until they were ready this time, then grinned as they came at him side by side. Too obvious.
He disarmed both then waited once more.
“Try,” Fernando ordered his men. “You make it too easy for him. I will not punish you if you kill him.”
Thomas shook his head, deflecting a sudden blow from the right. This time they spread out, coming from either side so he had to parry and thrust in opposite directions. They were also trying harder, perhaps not hard enough to kill him, but more than before. Thomas knew he could take them both any time he wanted, but had no wish to harm either man.
As he fought everything else faded from his mind, as he had hoped. There was only combat, the clash of steel, the flash of blades and the eyes of the men pitted against him. Surety flooded his body, filling him with a cold fire, bringing a harsh arousal with it and he was grateful Theresa was not waiting for him because he knew he might be unable to restrain himself if she were.
Sweat stung his eyes and he shook it away.
His arm began to ache, but he knew the men were tiring also, and faster than him, just as he knew he could end this at any time, but the joy of battle was on him and he did not want it to stop. He recalled the first time he had discovered this gift, for gift it was, one that had kept him alive a hundred times or more. It was not something he deserved or worked to obtain, merely something given him at birth. The first time he had fought and killed a man Thomas had been thirteen years old and his own life had almost been forfeit. The man had wanted his boots. His father’s boots. They were too big for Thomas but he wore them anyway, and the man had demanded them. He had been a soldier too, wandering France after the Battle of Castillon which had brought defeat to the English and death to John Berrington. The battle that had orphaned Thomas. The soldier had companions, but no more than a half dozen. They sat and watched the fight, calling out encouragement to their man, then a huge cry when Thomas’s blade took him through the belly. The man sank to his knees, hands trying to stem the blood that pulsed from the wound to pool on the ground. It wasn’t the first time Thomas had experienced the cold fire that took over his body, but it was the first time he had killed a man. He glanced at the companions, preparing to kill them all if he had to, but they made no move.
“Finish him,” one said. “He’ll last a day in agony if you don’t.”
Thomas looked at the soldier, who tried to shuffle backwards, and knew it was the truth, so he pushed his sword down through the man’s shoulder to pierce his heart. That was when he had joined the small company of men. He thought they took him in as some kind of mascot, little knowing that within a year he would be their leader, and their number would have grown to a score, and that their band would ravage the land south of the Garonne river.
A glint of sunlight on steel brought Thomas back to the present and he realised he had been fighting without thought, thrusting and parrying in a dream. The memory, almost as real as the day he experienced it, disgusted him. He had tried over the years to leave the Thomas Berrington of that time behind, to expunge his memory entirely, and all it took was a stupid fight to bring it rushing back. He had done things no man could be proud of. The only pride he took was that he had turned his back on that life and chosen a better path.
Anger at himself filled him and he attacked hard, disarming both men and throwing their swords as far as he could.
As the killing lust drained from him he heard clapping and turned to see Isabel and Theresa standing side by side on the balcony. Fernando too was applauding.
“Huzzah, Thomas. Damn me, if I had a hundred like you I could end this war tomorrow.”
Thomas smiled as he handed the sword back to Fernando. “You forget I fight for the other side, your grace.”
Fernando let out an enormous laugh and clapped Thomas on the back, laid his arm over his shoulder.
“But afterward, Thomas, you and I will rule the world. Alongside our wives, of course.”
“Of course.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
The palace was as silent as it ever grew when the King and Queen were present, a distant background hum of work carried out in kitchens and workrooms, the occasional footsteps of a servant. Thomas passed an occasional guard as he made his way through the corridors. He had finally found Samuel in his rooms and asked his questions only for Samuel to shake his head.
“He showed nothing, Thomas. I have already told you, he was the best surgeon I have ever seen. Better than me, better even than you. He was as rational as any man I have ever known. He picked up knowledge like an urchin picks up a spilled coin, without thought or effort. If there was any sign of insanity I did not see it. Or there was none then.”
Thomas had pressed, searching for some tiny clue, but Samuel was adamant. If Ramon was mad, his madness had developed much later.
“Besides,” Samuel had said, “he is dead, isn’t he?”
“Not yet. Or not yet that I know. And until I know it he is not dead.”
He had left Samuel to his studies, but instead of returning to his own room in the eastern wing of the palace his feet took him as though of their own accord toward Isabel’s chambers. Except he knew Isabel was only an excuse.
He did not understand the emotion roiling through him. Did not want to understand it. He had been in almost this exact same situation before and only an attack by Mandana had stopped what would have felt like betrayal. And if that had been betrayal what would it be now? Except… even as his legs carried him he shook his head, trying to believe the excuses he conjured.
He needed to ask Theresa if the Queen was well, concerned about her condition.
He needed to berate Theresa for her constant teasing when she knew nothing could come of it.
He needed to see Theresa.
Dressed as the Queen.
He tried to think of those he loved, of where Jorge, Olaf and Lubna would be by now. Home, no doubt, Lubna and Will returned to the house on the Albayzin with its view of al-Hamra. Olaf in his spartan rooms alongside the barracks, Fatima pleased at his return. And Helena would be in the house on the Alkazaba that had been gifted to Thomas but in which he had spent only a single night. A night burned in his memory with guilt and joy, for Will had been the result of his weakness. At least Lubna had not yet shared his bed then, but it barely mattered, for Thomas knew he had sinned in his mind. He knew he was a man of many imperfections and weakness, and there were times he wondered exactly what Lubna found to love in him.
Nothing. Not tonight. Perhaps not ever again.
He stopped at the end of a corridor and leaned on the stone cill of a window, breathing hard of the cool night air that drifted in. A tremor ran through him, of fear, of lust, of shame.
When he looked up a cry escaped his lips. Across the dark courtyard another window offered a view into a candlelit chamber. At first he thought he was looking at Isabel, except Isabel would never dress herself, and the body that was slowly being hidden beneath a gold-threaded gown showed no sign of carrying a child, and he knew it was Theresa who stood there, half revealed as she drew the dress to her shoulders and reached back to tie the tiny clips to close it. Her hair was piled atop her head in copy of the Queen. They were the same height, the same build, and it was only because he had seen her with the
dress earlier he could be sure who he watched. The thought of what would happen if he continued made his legs weak.
Then he saw a figure appear. At first he took it for Fernando and it struck him that it was not beyond the King to take Theresa dressed as his wife. But this figure was too tall and all at once Thomas knew who it was as the man raised a grey hood and slipped it over Theresa’s head.
Thomas ran, careening through corridors too fast for safety.
When he reached the chamber it was empty, but the acrid-sweet scent of the liquor hung heavy in the air. His flight had alerted guards, and the guards in turn had alerted Fernando, who came crashing into the room with a sword in his hand.
“Jesu’s scars, Thomas, what are you doing? I thought he had returned.”
“He has, and taken Theresa in mistake for Isabel.”
“How could he? They are nothing alike.”
“They are when Theresa is wearing one of Isabel’s robes.” He turned and started away, but Fernando grasped his arm.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
Thomas jerked himself free. “Then come with me. He is out there with Theresa and will have somewhere safe to take her. Are you willing for him to kill another victim? Someone you know?”
Outside he turned and surveyed the dark city. The river lay at the foot of the slope. Two inns in a small square were pulling down their shutters.
“How can he have escaped us?” said Fernando. “How, Thomas? He is meant to be dead!”
“Be quiet, I am thinking.”
Fernando grabbed his arm again and turned Thomas around. “Thinking? Thinking? There’s been too much fucking thinking and not enough action. Where is he!”
Thomas ignored the King of Castile, Aragon and Spain, and once more turned away.
He closed his eyes.
Was Ramon a friend of Abbot Mandana after all?
Qurtuba had been Mandana’s base when he started to kill three years before, and Thomas had tracked his deeds through the city, learning the alleys and roadways as well as he knew those of Gharnatah.
Ramon would have a place. A safe place prepared, ready with a table and instruments and ties for his victims. The first would already be waiting there. Theresa might also be there now, being stripped and tied down. It might be too late. Except Ramon had started on the other woman first last time, the unbeliever, rushed, true, but keeping the main prize until last. He would do the same again. Thomas prayed he would do the same again.
He closed his eyes, drawing alleys in his mind.
Where?
And then it came to him, the only possibility, and he wondered if the keys to the Church of San Bartolomu still hung in the same place in the house Lawrence had once lived in, perhaps even lived in again. It was the place where Mandana had taken his victims after they had been prepared. The place where Jorge and his lover Esperanza had been held before the final parade of Semana Santa.
Thomas opened his eyes and looked at Fernando. “I think I know where he has taken her.
The house where Lawrence had once lived lay abandoned, as did other houses around the small square, just as they did in Ixbilya. The ravening pestilence was no respecter of position or Godliness. Thomas found the keys where they had always hung and took them to the carved door. When he unlocked it and pushed nothing happened. The door had been barred from the inside.
Fernando had come and he called up his men and they began to hammer at the door, but Thomas knew it would take hours to break it down. There was another way, though, one Lawrence had shown him years ago, and he went back to the house and along a narrow corridor to what had once been a library but was now a bare room.
A narrow door was set at the far end, offering an alternative entrance to the Church. This door too was locked, but there was a key for it hanging from a hook where it had always been. Thomas turned it, making no effort to keep the noise down. He could hear the sound of hammering from where Fernando’s soldiers continued to batter at the main door, and whoever lay inside would not hear the small sound he made
Thomas pushed, relieved that the killer had not known of this other entrance.
He stepped through, at first believing he was wrong, that this was not the place, as total darkness greeted him. The sound of the soldiers hammering on the door filled the narrow space, making thought almost impossible. Then a light flared and a lamp was drawn up to swing on the end of a cord. By the faint illumination Thomas made out a hunched figure, two more showing pale in the swaying light. Both women. Both naked. One paler than the other. Both still alive. The killer had not started his work yet, only now completing preparations. Thomas watched him check the knots on makeshift ties torn from a length of cloth.
He started forward, going faster when he saw the tall figure unroll instruments and select a narrow blade. The man hovered over the darker skinned woman, then moved, his impatience for an answer driving him to start with Theresa. As he laid one hand against the side of her breast to judge the first cut Thomas sprinted.
He hit Ramon hard, grabbed his hair and smashed his face down onto the table. Not making the same mistake as before Thomas pulled at the bindings holding Theresa and wrapped them around Ramon’s hands while he still clutched them to his face. He tried to fight back but Thomas was stronger and got both hands cinched tight in front before taking more cloth and binding his feet. Only then did he return to the table to free Theresa.
She sat up, arms covering her breasts. Thomas smiled at the show of modesty after the number of times she had offered herself to him, but even he saw the situation was different now.
“Where did he put your clothes?”
Theresa nodded, still too shocked to talk. Thomas found the ornate robes and brought them back, turned away as she dressed. He worked on the bindings of the other woman and helped her sit. She made no effort to cover herself and Thomas experienced a sudden recognition. He had seen the woman before, three years earlier, in a brothel when he was searching for a missing girl. He tried to summon up the name. It evaded him, but he was sure it was the same girl.
He went to her discarded clothing and returned with a pale robe.
“I know you,” she said, still uncovered, making to effort to hide herself.
“And I know you. When did he take you?”
“A few hours since. He came and offered twice my usual rate and like a fool I took him upstairs. I should have known there was something wrong by how fast he finished. He must have given me something because I woke up tied to this table. What did he want with us?” She glanced at Theresa, her modesty restored.
“Nothing you want to hear about.”
Thomas went to the main doors and worked the thick oak bars free, stepped back fast as they flew inward followed by half a dozen men and Fernando, who showed puzzlement at first but recovered quickly.
“Where is he?”
“Over there,” Thomas said, not bothering to turn, not wanting to look at the man again.
“Where?”
“There!” Now Thomas did turn. He knew the interior of the church was dim, but was Fernando a fool? Which is when he discovered it was he who was the fool. Ramon had been left in a corner, hands and feet bound, but a single length of cloth lay on the stone floor.
“He can’t have escaped,” said Fernando. “There is nowhere to go.”
“I came in by another door,” Thomas said, moving fast to where it remained open. He passed through, out of the small house and into the courtyard. When he reached the square soldiers continued to mill about. “Did he come this way?”
“Did who come this way?” One of the soldiers, his tunic marking him as an officer of some kind.
“Ramon! Did he come this way?”
“It is the middle of the night. We haven’t seen a soul.”
Thomas turned. He had to still be inside somewhere. He started back toward the church, making for the main doors this time, when a shout brought him to a halt. Men were pointing at the domed roof of the church, and Thomas craned
his neck to follow their hands.
A tall figure stood on the edge of the roof where a lead gutter offered scant footing. He had freed his legs and hands and walked with arms extended. Thomas tracked the edge of the roof and saw that if he managed to get to the corner it might be possible to leap to the roof of the adjoining house, and from there attempt an escape.
“I want men over there,” he shouted, pulling at the soldier nearest him.
“Who are you to give us orders?”
Thomas cursed, but was saved by Fernando who strode from the church and turned to look up as Ramon almost lost his footing. He was over half way to where he could attempt the leap.
“Do as he says,” said Fernando. “His orders are as good as mine.” He came to stand beside Thomas. “He can’t get away this time, can he?”
“Not unless he has wings under that robe and can fly.”
“Maybe he has. He’s escaped us enough times before. Not that I blame you. Madmen have a subtle logic that allows them to confound mere mortals.” Fernando looked up to where the figure was edging along the gutter. No more than a dozen paces now. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in sending someone up after him?”
“And lose one of our own? No, I think not.” Thomas tried to judge the distance the man would have to leap. Too far or not? He had the advantage of height, but that meant he would be falling, too. Did that make the feat easier or more difficult? Thomas could not tell.
“He has to decide now,” said Fernando. Around him his men had fallen silent, transfixed by the man who now stood on the meeting of two roofs. He looked down at them as if seeking an alternative way, but there was none short of him descending the way he had come up, and that was no option. But neither was the leap. There were men surrounding all escape routes now.
“We have him,” said Fernando, slapping Thomas on the back.
A voice called out and boots sounded loud on the cobbles as a soldier ran across to them and stopped in front of the King.
“Your grace, we have found the man you seek.”
