by David Penny
“Where have you been since we last spoke?” Thomas asked. He sipped at his coffee and nodded approval.
“I had matters my master wished me to deal with while I am here. We travelled north to discuss trade.”
“What can Castile have that the Ottoman Empire lacks?”
“Who says we spoke with Castile? We lack the weapons that are being developed here. War is good for innovation, and this war has been fought over many years. The French make the finest cannon in the world, and I am interested in these new iron rods that spit fire.”
“They kill as many who use them as the enemy.”
“But they are getting better, are they not?”
“I trust in a bow if I want to kill a man at a distance.” Thomas watched for any tell from Koparsh, but saw none.
“But you are English, and English archers are renowned the world over. We Turks are less skilled, but a crossbow is as powerful as an English bow, and almost as accurate. You have been a long time away from England, my friend. Can you still draw a longbow?”
“I did so only a few days ago and killed a man.”
Still nothing showed. Thomas had come with a suspicion the Turks had been involved in some way in the attempt on Isabel’s life, but if so, Koparsh was the most skilled liar he had ever seen. He knew he should have brought Jorge, except he would have been distracted by Salma, just as Will had been. He was unsure whether to mention her relationship with Fernando to Koparsh or not. He held it in reserve for now.
“Have you returned to talk more with the Queen?” Thomas asked.
“No, though if she wants to talk, I am more than happy. We are here to watch the end of al-Andalus and report back to my Sultan. Also to offer a haven to Abu Abdullah if he requests it. As a courtesy, one Sultan to another.”
“Even if this one is a defeated Sultan while yours rules more lands than all the countries west of you?”
“I believe generosity is something to be admired.”
“You offered men to Isabel the last time you were here. Does that offer still stand?”
“The few men I have with me would make little difference to the result, but if she wishes to avail herself of them, she is more than welcome. All she has to do is ask me to my face.”
“I will pass your offer back to her, but no doubt you are right. How many other wars have you ridden to witness?”
“One or two. The world is changing, is it not? These days there are many small skirmishes, except for here. This might be the last great war ever fought. It is why all Christendom offers their help.”
“You do not mind that they have?”
“We do not share your faith, but my belief is we share the same God under different names. How many men make up her army now?”
“You keep saying her army. What about Fernando?”
“We are honest men, Thomas, we both know who the army follows, and it is not that strutting fool. Oh, he can burn well enough. He is a devil in bed and a demon in battle, but the army does not love him like they love Queen Isabel. Tell me whether I speak false or not.”
“It seems you have already made your mind up. It is not my place to change it.”
“You have learned diplomacy, I see. Good.”
“I assume you heard about Fernando’s skill between the sheets from Salma. Do you not mind her infidelity?”
Koparsh stared at Thomas, amused. “It is not infidelity where none is expected. Salma is her own creature and makes her own decisions.” He reached for his coffee, but was unusually clumsy. The cup fell to the floor, smashing. Koparsh uttered a loud curse and wiped at his foot.
“So she is not working on your behalf?” Thomas asked, leaning forward.
The sound of raised voices came from outside, and Thomas recognised one as belonging to Will. He rose to his feet and walked to the entrance. Three of Koparsh’s men held Will while a fourth stood in front of him with fists bunched.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“What is going on here?” Koparsh’s voice was sharp.
His man took a step back and lowered his hands.
“The boy stole from me.”
“I didn’t, Pa. He says I did, but I took nothing.”
“Show me what he stole.” Koparsh strode to the small group.
Thomas glanced around, judging the number of Turks. Too many for him to take on alone. Had Koparsh erected his tent closer to the Castilian army, the argument would have brought others, men bored and looking for entertainment. As it was, Thomas and Will were the only interlopers.
A movement caught at the edge of his vision, and when he turned his head, he saw Salma standing in the tent’s entrance. Her lips were parted, and her eyes on the developing situation showed a sharp brightness.
Will’s accuser glanced at Koparsh for permission before taking four paces. He pushed his fingers into the pocket of Will’s jacket. Thomas watched the movement and saw what the man did. He withdrew his hand and held the fist out to Koparsh.
Koparsh reached out and a small medallion fell, catching the sunlight. Thomas stepped closer to see a silver moon on a chain. It was not the kind of ornament a soldier would wear, more like a token given by a wife. He glanced at Will, who shook his head but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.
“What is the punishment for theft in Castile?” Koparsh’s voice was low. All trace of friendship from a moment before had drained away. “In my homeland it would be the taking of a hand at least. For something as valuable as this it might mean the taking of a life.”
“Will is no thief,” Thomas said. “Did you not see your man plant the trinket in his pocket?”
“I saw him withdraw what was already there. I am aware your son is not old enough to be punished, even if he was not your son. So how do you suggest we settle the matter?”
Thomas took a deep breath, fighting his own anger. It was out of place if they wanted to walk away with their lives.
“Your man has his trinket back, is that not enough?”
“Surely it is the act of theft that puts your son in the wrong. But what to do?” Koparsh looked at Thomas, at Will, and then at his man. He was short, wiry, with dark hair and beard. He looked as if he had been a soldier from birth. “Perhaps we can let Allah decide, if you agree to fight my man in place of your son.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“To stop me having to kill you both,” said Koparsh.
“Are you willing to invoke Isabel’s wrath? How would your master react to his emissary killing a man who advises the Queen of Castile?”
“My master would agree with me in this matter. He too is a believer in justice.”
“Will stole nothing!” Thomas breathed slowly, fighting the tremble in his hands.
“I can fight him,” said Will. His body had softened as the argument built, the opposite of Thomas’s increasing tension. He didn’t understand what Koparsh was trying to do, but recognised the danger. There were twenty men surrounding them and Thomas was unarmed. He had faced harsh odds before and triumphed, but on this soft afternoon all he saw was certain defeat.
“My son is ten years of age.” Thomas directed his words at the man who had planted the medallion. “What honour is there in fighting a boy?”
“I can win this fight,” said Will.
Thomas knew how Usaden had honed Will’s natural talent, but how far would Koparsh push things here? To the death? He half believed Will could defeat the soldier, but did he want to watch his son take a life? Such an act would change him forever. One day such a thing would happen, but not now, not here. Yet he could see no solution. If he offered to fight in Will’s place, he would have to kill the man, which he knew he could do. But what then? Would Koparsh allow them to walk away?
“What is this about?” He spoke softly, so only Koparsh heard him. “Have you been waiting for me to come so you can execute your plan to kill me? Was that a signal when you deliberately spilled your coffee and cursed?”
Koparsh said nothing. He watched
Will, watched his man. He made a tiny gesture with his fingers, and those holding Will released him. Will shook his arms and took a pace towards Thomas.
“Stay there,” Thomas said. He faced Koparsh, waiting.
“Blunted blades,” said Koparsh. “First man bested. There will be no killing today, agreed?”
Thomas stared into the man’s eyes, seeking a clue to show this was some manner of joke, but all he saw was disdain. Hatred would have been better. He turned and looked at Will, who was stretching as Usaden had taught him.
“Me and your man,” Thomas said, with a nod.
“No. Your son. It is he who stole, it is he who must be punished.”
Thomas knew they had little choice. Any alternative would see them both slain.
“What do you think, Will?”
“I can do this.” No hint of doubt in his voice.
Thomas looked back at Koparsh and nodded. “First one to call a halt is the loser, agreed?”
“Agreed. If your son loses, you will make reparations for the insult. Say ten silver pieces.”
Thomas walked to Will. A bare ten paces, but in that time he thought of his own father and how he had allowed a group of older men to beat Thomas senseless in the market square of his home town of Lemster. He claimed it would make a man of him. Well, it had made something of him. Angry, mostly. It had been the manner of justice favoured by John Berrington. The manner of justice favoured by Koparsh Hadryendo, too, it seemed. The man’s veneer of civility had been cast aside to reveal a killer beneath the fine clothes.
Thomas reached Will and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, feeling the strength of muscle there, but still unsure of the result of the coming fight.
“He will come at you slowly. He wants to taunt you, so hit him hard and hit him fast. Remember everything Usaden has taught you.”
“I can take him,” said Will.
Someone pressed a blunted sword into Will’s hand, another into his opponent’s. Thomas didn’t want to move away, but knew he had to. He glanced towards Salma, who had come closer. Her eyes held a strange, cold hunger as she stared at Will.
Thomas turned away, not wanting to see her.
“Don’t be afraid to cry out if he hurts you,” he said. “Most injuries I can fix. Don’t make me have to work too hard to patch you up.”
He stepped away without looking and bumped into a man. A circle had formed twenty paces across. In the centre stood Will and the Turkish soldier, who swung his blade through the air, twisting it, tossing it to catch the hilt again. All very impressive.
“Let the fight begin!” Koparsh’s voice rang out.
Will ran fast at the man, who took two paces backwards in surprise. He raised his blade to strike, but when it descended, Will was no longer where he had been, twisting away as fast as Kin could change direction.
Will ducked, brought his own blade down and smashed it against the man’s extended forearm. There was a sharp crack as the bone snapped. The man screamed.
Thomas glanced at Koparsh, knowing this was the most dangerous moment. The man’s face showed nothing. Neither anger nor pleasure nor relief.
Will did the right thing. He placed his sword on the ground and walked towards Thomas.
“I can fix his arm if you let me,” Thomas said. “It is what I used to do.”
“I heard you were a physician,” said Koparsh, transformed once more into the soft-voiced diplomat. “It sounded like a bad break to me.”
“But clean. Let me treat him and I guarantee he will fight again within two months.”
“The war might be over in two months. Besides, if a boy can beat him so easily, I am not sure I want him in the ranks of my men.”
“Will can beat any of your men,” Thomas said. “He is the grandson of Olaf Torvaldsson. There is no disgrace in losing to him. It might even be worn as a badge of honour. The longer that arm goes without treatment, the worse it will be for him.”
Koparsh gave a nod. “You, go with this man and let him fix your arm.” He turned to Thomas. “Understand that this had to be done. Tell your son not to steal anything else of mine or I will come after you both myself. I am not so easily defeated.”
Thomas made no reply. He took Will’s arm and walked away, aware all the time of those behind him. Only as they came close to the edge of Isabel’s army did he start to relax. When he heard footsteps behind, he turned to see the injured man following, his arm gripped tight, face pale. When Thomas looked at Will, he saw he had closed down his expression. His gaze had turned inward, and Thomas knew they would have to talk about what had happened. Later, once he had set the soldier’s bone and sent him back to his master. He knew there was no time now to visit Abu Abdullah, but determined to do so early the following day. If the talks took place, it might mean an end to this war he had believed would never end.
Thomas took the man to a small room and re-set the bone before binding it tight. He would normally have used poppy to dull the pain, but this time did not. He saw the man hold his mouth tight to stop himself from crying out, but his face was pale and sweat stood out on his brow.
“Did Koparsh plan all of this?” Thomas asked.
The man stared at him as if he failed to understand the words.
“Or was it Salma? It cannot have been your idea.”
Still the man said nothing, and Thomas jerked on the wet bandages deliberately, pleased when the man cried out at last.
“Leave these on for a week, then come back so I can replace them. The bone will knit and you will fight again if Koparsh allows it.” He recalled the man’s words, the coldness of his judgement. “Do not concern yourself you have been bested by a boy. My son is no ordinary boy. Far from it.”
The man stared at Thomas, then used his good arm to reach into his pocket. He drew out the medallion that had caused his defeat and held it out, swinging from his fingers on the fine chain.
“For your son. He fought well. This is his prize.”
Later, as Thomas stood outside and watched the man descend the slope, Will came to join him.
“You did well,” Thomas said. He held out his own hand. “For you. Your reward.”
Will looked at the medallion. It was a thing of beauty, a thing of worth. He reached for it, lifted it to study it more closely.
“Did Koparsh give you this?” He looked up to meet Thomas’s eyes. “I never stole it. That man put it in my pocket.”
“I know he did, and now it is yours. Everything had been planned long before we went there. Why I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
“We should have used sharper blades,” said Will.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ten days passed before Thomas dragged a grudging acceptance from Abu Abdullah to meet with Isabel and Fernando. With the King’s return, the original plan to involve only Isabel on the Castilian side had been forced to change.
Now Thomas sat on the narrow terrace of his house and looked across at the gathered army. There were fewer men than two weeks earlier because a third had moved east and now camped almost at the walls of Gharnatah. The skirmishing continued, but it was only a pretence at war even as men died on both sides. Mostly those of Castile, Thomas heard. So many that Isabel had sent an order the invitations to combat must cease. Unlike most of Isabel’s orders, it seemed this one was being ignored.
A man on horseback emerged from the throng and Thomas narrowed his eyes. He was expecting Martin de Alarcón, either today or tomorrow, so they could ride in search of a suitable location for the meeting between opposing leaders. As the figure approached, it shocked Thomas to recognise not Martin, but his own son, Yves. Apart from the brief sighting on the ridge the day Will fought the Turks, he had been absent since his mother’s death at the farmhouse. Thomas assumed he had scurried back to his holdings in France. Or been killed by the same men who murdered his mother.
Thomas rose and went into the house to find Belia to see if there was any food left from their morning meal. He asked her to bring it
to the terrace, then returned and watched his son close the final distance.
Yves dismounted and tied his horse to a rail. As he walked up to the house, Thomas examined his face. It was pale, and circles shadowed his eyes. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes the entire time since running away and found nowhere to wash. A conclusion confirmed as he came closer.
“I have sent for food, but you might like to bathe first.”
“I was wrong,” said Yves, ignoring Thomas’s words. “My mother lied to me my entire life.” Yves’ head dropped and his shoulders shook.
Thomas took a step closer, unsure what to do, and then, as always in such situations, he asked himself what Jorge would do. He closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around Yves, letting him sob against his shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do, Father.”
Thomas pushed Yves away and stared into his son’s eyes, wondering if his manner was an act or not.
“There was a man at the farmhouse with his throat cut,” he said. “Did you do that?”
Yves returned the stare, his own less certain. “What man?”
“I knocked him out, intending to question him. After you rode off, I found him dead, half hidden among the bushes. He was alive when I left him.”
“It will have been one of the others. They were vicious. It would not surprise me they killed one of their own if they thought he might talk.”
“Perhaps. Why did you not keep riding north to France?”
“I was afraid to. It was always Mother in charge. I clung to her skirts when I was young and never lost the habit.” Yves took a shuddering breath and pulled away. He wiped an arm across a face which reflected his pain. “Can I stay here until I know what I am going to do with my life?”
Thomas hesitated. He didn’t know whether to believe Yves about the dead man, but he also didn’t think him capable of cold-blooded murder. He was too weak, and Thomas only needed to look at him to see he was a broken man. The question was, did he care enough to fix him?