A Tear for the Dead

by David Penny

  “Lie her on her side,” he said, then went to fetch a leather bucket. “You might want to stand at a distance.”

  The woman backed off a few paces. Thomas watched Theresa’s face and chest. The expected reaction came swiftly. Her throat constricted, and she vomited a mixture of liquid and charcoal into the bucket. Her eyes remained closed, but her chest heaved for air. She wasn’t finished yet, Thomas knew, rewarded with a second expulsion of her stomach contents.

  “Water,” he said without looking around. A moment later, the woman placed a mug in his hand. He sat Theresa up and forced the water into her, waiting to see if that too would be ejected. After a while, he laid her on her side again.

  “I have done what I can. Now I need to leave. Give her water, plenty of it, and if you need help, send for someone.”

  “When will you return?”

  “I don’t know. Later today, I hope, but it might be tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I have to go into Gharnatah if Isabel will allow it.” He saw the woman’s eyes widen at his use of the Queen’s name and knew he might have made a mistake.

  As Thomas made his way towards the farmhouse where they had eaten, the rain clouds had moved north and the heat of the sun raised steam from tents, clothes and the churned mud. He had almost reached his destination when a voice hailed him. Thomas slowed and looked around. A rangy figure strode across the ground as if the mud was not sucking at his boots in the same way as everyone else’s. Martin de Alarcón raised a hand in greeting.

  “Are you going to the same place as me, Thomas?”

  “If you mean Isabel, then yes.”

  “I do mean the Queen. I hear you ate with her today.”

  “Did you also hear Theresa was taken ill?” Thomas started to walk again, Martin falling in at his side.

  “I did not. Was it something she ate?”

  “You could say that. She was poisoned.”

  Martin stopped abruptly. “How sick is she?”

  “She hasn’t regained consciousness since I treated her.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Of course I’m worried. She ate at least one tart containing amanita. She might have eaten more. If it was one, she should be all right. If she ate three, maybe not.”

  “Does the Queen know?” Martin started walking again.

  “We were all three at the table, so she knows.”

  “I mean, does she know how ill Theresa is?”

  “That is why I am going to her now. And you?”

  “She has a task for me. No doubt the same task I have been working on fruitlessly for the last eight years, but one day, Boabdil might weaken and we can end this war once and for all.”

  “Not so fruitless, then,” Thomas said. “Without you, we would not be gathered here now. You have shortened the war by years, Martin.”

  “I wish it felt that way. That man is…” Martin shook his head. He had no need to tell Thomas how difficult Abu Abdullah, Sultan Muhammed XII of Gharnatah, could be.

  They entered the farmhouse and kicked off their boots, which were caked with thick mud. A guard informed them the Queen was talking with her advisors and they would have to wait. Thomas led Martin to where he had eaten. He saw the food had been cleared away, the table now set for another meal. He wondered how Isabel would feel about eating after what had happened. No doubt the food served at her next meal would be plain Castilian fare.

  “You are going to talk to him?” Thomas asked. Both men stood at the edge of the terrace and stared across to where the fabled palace of al-Hamra sat atop its red hill.

  Martin sighed. “It is what I do, is it not? It is what Isabel and Fernando see me as doing.” He shook his head. “I had another life once, before we captured him.”

  “Before you turned him to your will,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, that too.”

  “You did too good a job. He is your plaything now.”

  “Once perhaps that was true. Of late, he has discovered his courage again.” Martin glanced at Thomas. “Did he have courage before?”

  Thomas smiled. “Oh, he did. He was magnificent. A leader of men and a fierce warrior. I have stitched his wounds, both his and his brothers’. He had two, but one died. Now there is only Abu Abdullah and Tarfe. I think sitting on the throne changed him. He is beset by fears and phantoms these days. But you know all this, don’t you?”

  Martin gave a soft laugh. “Are you not concerned you are revealing secrets? Even if we are on the same side now?”

  “Are we on the same side? Yes, I expect we are.” Thomas did not feel as if he had switched loyalties, only that he carried no loyalty towards Abu Abdullah. Gharnatah owned his heart, not its leader. And now he had another to serve: Isabel, Queen of Castile. A woman he loved as much as he had ever loved any other than Lubna, and she was beyond his love now.

  Thomas was drawn from his thoughts by approaching footsteps. He turned to see Isabel enter behind a guard, who she sent away.

  “If they had told me sooner it was you, Thomas, I would have come at once. You too, Martin. How is Theresa?”

  “No better, but no worse. I need to go into Gharnatah. The man who made the tarts that poisoned her lives there.”

  “Will it help her if you find him?”

  “It will help me kill him,” Thomas said.

  “Not again,” said Isabel.

  “It was not Theresa the harm was meant for. The man wanted you dead.”

  “What was it?”

  “The mushroom tarts,” Thomas said. “Some had amanita mixed with them. I have purged Theresa and one of your ladies is staying with her until I get back.”

  Isabel stared at Thomas for a long time without speaking, then her gaze shifted to Martin de Alarcón.

  “You are going to see our friend in the palace?” she asked.

  “Do you have any last-minute message for him, Your Grace?”

  “Tell him I want the war to end without bloodshed.”

  “It is already too late for that,” said Martin.

  “Without too much more, then. Is he a reasonable man?”

  Martin shook his head. “He is not. Ask Thomas the same and he will confirm my answer. Boabdil is a fool, afraid of the shadows of birds and the muttering of his own citizens.”

  “As well he should be,” Thomas said.

  Isabel shifted her attention back to him. “Go with Martin, he will get you inside the city walls. Find this man if you must, but return to me as soon as you can. I will not have Theresa languishing for lack of your attention.”

  Thomas walked beside Martin in search of two mounts to take them the short distance to Gharnatah’s walls.

  “She relies on you a great deal,” said Martin.

  Thomas tried to hear any note of judgement in the words, but failed.

  “She needs good people around her. People like you. I do what I can, but fear it is not enough.”

  “More than if you did nothing. Who is this man you seek? Another of your distractions?”

  “Is an attempt on Isabel’s life a distraction? I think not.”

  “No, of course not. But had she eaten those tarts instead of Theresa, you would have saved her, would you not?”

  “Isabel is slighter than Theresa, and her constitution not so strong since the difficulty of Catherine’s birth.”

  “It is one reason she wants you at her side.”

  They came to where several hundred horses were held inside a rough wooden fence. Its creation had taken half the trees from the hillside, the ragged stumps that remained a testament to the work. Martin asked for two mounts and a man went to fetch the first two he could round up.

  “Do you intend to talk with Abu Abdullah?” Thomas asked.

  “No point my going otherwise. Why—do you want to see him, too?”

  “I don’t, but I would like to get inside the palace. If I am with you, that will be all the easier.”

  Martin laughed. “I will tell the guards you are my se
rvant, that should do the trick. Unless any of them recognise you, and then you are on your own.”

  “It has been some time since I entered there,” Thomas said. “I hear he changes the guards often for fear they might turn on him.”

  “With good reason.”

  As they mounted the horses and set out, Thomas worried that Martin was right and his journey was a distraction from helping Theresa. Would finding the cook make any difference? The deed was done now, and even killing the man would not take it back. At least he would never be allowed entry to Isabel’s kitchens again.

  As they neared the open city gate, Thomas changed his mind.

  “When we are inside the walls, I will leave you, Martin. I need to see someone else before I go to the palace. I am sure I can find my own way inside.”

  Chapter Four

  As Thomas watched Martin climb the slope towards the palace, he wondered if he had made the right decision not to accompany him. There was no guarantee he would gain admittance on his own. But if Jorge couldn’t find a way in, then nobody could. Thomas turned away and crossed Hattabin Square, heading for the alleys that would lead him to his old house and the family he had neglected for far too long.

  When he entered the courtyard, he heard laughter and stopped in the shade, a strange reluctance filling him. Out on the sun-dashed flagstones, Usaden was teaching Will and Amal how to foil an attacker when you possessed no weapon. Watching them, Thomas wondered if it wasn’t more of a game than a serious exercise. If so, it was good. He worried Will was too obsessed with fighting. As he was the grandson of Olaf Torvaldsson, it was understandable, but Thomas didn’t want sweet Amal to pick up on the same blood-thirstiness as her brother. He slipped away unseen and entered the house.

  Thomas stopped dead in the doorway, unsure whether to back away. Belia sat in a low chair, her robe open on one side to reveal her breast, to which her ten-month-old son was suckling with gusto. Close by sat Jorge, an indulgent expression on his face, and Thomas felt a sense of satisfaction replace his previous reluctance as he observed what he had helped to give this couple. Thomas was Jahan’s biological father, but that was little more than a nicety. The boy belonged to Jorge and Belia. He was their son. Just as Will was Thomas’s son, despite his mother Helena continuing to deny him the certainty he craved.

  As if sensing his presence, Belia glanced up and gave a smile, wide and welcoming.

  “Thomas!” She eased Jahan from her breast and drew her robe closed. She handed the boy to Jorge, who placed him against his shoulder and rubbed his back. Belia rose and came across on bare feet. She embraced Thomas. “What brings you home? Did you miss us too much?”

  “Always,” he said, wondering if he regarded this house as home or not anymore. “I came to see Da’ud, but I couldn’t do so without calling here first.”

  “Did the children see you? They ask all the time when you are coming home. Or when they can come to you. Was the journey far? Where are you living now? Qurtuba or Ixbilla?”

  “I live a league south of here in the Castilian camp.”

  “How long have you been there?” Jorge rose and came across. As he touched Thomas’s shoulder, Jahan gave a loud belch then settled.

  “Here, give him to me,” said Belia. “He will sleep now, I’ll put him upstairs in our room.”

  When she had gone, Jorge said, “The army of Castile has been camped outside the city walls for near two months, and only now you come and see us? Has Isabel got you so much under her thumb she doesn’t allow you to visit your family?”

  “I have been busy.”

  “I expect you have. Is that a reason, or an excuse?”

  Thomas looked at the man who was closer to him than anyone else in the world and wondered if he deserved Jorge’s rebuke. He expected he did. He did not understand why he had not come before. The walls of Gharnatah were as open as a bucket with no sides. People and goods flowed in and out constantly. It was almost as if the Castilian army was not there at all.

  “It’s an excuse,” Thomas said. “I accept I should have come sooner.”

  “Except you didn’t.” Jorge shook his head, and Thomas knew he wasn’t forgiven yet. He wondered whether he ever would be. “Amal calls Belia her Ma now. You are father to Jahan and he has hardly even seen you.”

  “No, you are Jahan’s father, you know you are. He need never know of my part in his conception.” Thomas stared into Jorge’s eyes. “I did it for my love of you.”

  Jorge returned the stare before smiling. “Don’t tell that to Belia. She still thinks you are half in love with her after what the pair of you did.”

  “Perhaps I am, but she is yours heart and soul and we both know it.”

  “Yes, we do. Now come and hold your children while they still remember who you are.” Jorge led the way into the courtyard and Thomas followed. From upstairs came the sound of Belia singing her son to sleep. The tune was alien to his ears, but soft and comforting all the same.

  Outside, Jorge was mock punching Will. Thomas watched for a moment, aware his son had grown in the months he had been away. Ten years old now, Will might be taken for a man. He was tall with broad shoulders, his pale hair hanging along his back in a plaited knot, just like that of his morfar Olaf Torvaldsson.

  It was Amal who saw Thomas first. She gave a high squeal and ran towards him, arms out. She too had grown. Four years old and already a miniature copy of her mother.

  Thomas knelt and scooped her up, swinging her around, swinging her upside-down to peals of laughter. Then he held her to his chest and let her kiss his face all over. All his doubts, all his fears crumbled into insignificance beneath her onslaught of love. They would return, he knew, but tempered by what was happening here.

  When he put Amal down, she tried to climb up his leg, but now Will was approaching, more circumspect, as if unsure of the welcome he would receive. He was too big to be swung around and tumbled upside-down. For a moment they stood facing each other, then Thomas opened his arms and Will came into them. The hug he returned almost took the breath from Thomas’s lungs. Will was only an inch or two shorter than Thomas and would tower over him before he became a man, just as Olaf did.

  Thomas kissed his face and tried to hug back as hard as he could before holding Will at arms’ length, his hands on his shoulders.

  “Have you been taking care of everyone like I asked?”

  “Of course I have, Pa.” Even Will’s voice sounded deeper, though he was not yet of an age for such to happen. “With the help of Usaden.”

  Thomas looked beyond his son to the Gomeres mercenary who had turned his back on his old profession to become an integral part of this family.

  “Is that true?” he asked.

  “Some of it, but I can teach Will little more now. He has grown to be a better fighter than I am.”

  “Not true,” said Will, and Thomas was pleased at the show of modesty.

  “He is not as fast, I admit,” said Usaden, “but he is stronger. And with an axe he is unbeatable, just like Olaf.”

  “I see you were teaching Amal a trick or two as well when I came in.”

  “I saw you watching, but we had not finished our training, so I made no mention of you to them. And yes, a girl needs to know how to defend herself. Are you back for good, Thomas?”

  He shook his head. “I have people to see and things to do. I don’t know how long I can stay.”

  Usaden nodded as if he understood and made no judgement.

  Thomas felt an arm snake around his waist as Belia came to stand beside him, as though she was his woman, not Jorge’s. Thomas glanced to where his friend stood and saw only an indulgent smile. Life had taken a strange turn, but Thomas was growing accustomed to it.

  “Stay tonight, at least,” said Belia. “I will cook a feast and you and Jorge can drink wine until you cannot stand up, and then you can sleep in your own bed.”

  “I wish I could, but I have to return to Theresa.”

  “Don’t tell me she has finall
y seduced you?” said Jorge.

  “She lies close to death. Poisoned. It is the reason I am here. The reason I need to visit Da’ud.” Thomas glanced at Belia, who continued to lean against him. “I would welcome your advice. You are better with herbs than me.”

  Belia released her hold and took a step back, her face serious. “What nature of poison, do you know? Have you given her charcoal? What else?”

  “Amanita,” Thomas said. “And yes, I used charcoal, then made a liquor up as you showed me, but still she languishes.”

  “Amanita rarely causes death unless given in large doses,” said Belia. “Are you sure there was not something else?”

  “It was baked into small mushroom tarts. Most were safe, a few were not. I suspect Theresa ate at least three of the wrong kind.”

  “Were you together?” asked Belia. “It is strange she ate all the bad ones while you had none.”

  “We were with Isabel, and yes, it is strange. I believe they were meant for the Queen, not me or Theresa. I doubt their maker even knew we would be there.”

  “Have you captured the woman who baked them?” asked Jorge, who had come closer.

  “It was a man, and no—he has returned to Gharnatah. At least, he lives within its walls. If he has any sense, he will have fled al-Andalus entirely.” A thought occurred to Thomas. “He intended the poison for Isabel, he must have done. But I was told this man is a skilled cook and was sought out especially to prepare Moorish food for her. He is known to Bazzu, so there can be no stain on his reputation or he would never have been allowed near the food presented to Isabel. Which means he must have been put up to it by someone else.” Thomas stared up at the palace of al-Hamra, illuminated in the late afternoon sunlight. “Perhaps Abu Abdullah sent him. It’s the kind of underhand scheme that would appeal to him. What if his instruction was to poison Isabel but not kill her? He might want her weak, but not dead. Or even…”

  “Even what?” said Jorge. “It seems you are creating an entire conspiracy on very little evidence.”

  “I am aware of that, which is why I need to seek the evidence. But not today. Today I need Theresa to recover. Will you come and help me, Belia?”