A Tear for the Dead

by David Penny

  Isabel stared at Thomas, the food in front of her forgotten.

  “Nobody told me that. Whose idea was it? What did they do?”

  “They nailed a sign saying ‘Ave Maria’ to the mosque door with a knife. I saw Perez de Pulgar do it with my own eyes. Then he saw me. If Olaf Torvaldsson hadn’t arrived, I believe de Pulgar would have killed me.”

  “Ave Maria?” said Isabel. “Is that such a great insult?”

  “How would you react if the Moors nailed an inverted cross to the door of the church here? Or to the cathedrals of Córdoba or Sevilla? The only thing that might have been worse is if they had nailed a pig’s head to the door.” Thomas let his breath go, trying to release a sudden anger but only partially succeeding. “I should not tell you this, Isabel, but I will because I am your man now.” Like it or not, he thought. “There will be retaliation, most likely today. You might want to warn Fernando and de Pulgar. When the attack comes, it will be vicious. You have insulted their God. What would you do if they insulted yours?”

  “It was not at my order, but you are right. Retribution would have to be taken. Why are you telling me this? Do you not consider Granada to be your city?”

  “It is, but I have a higher mistress. I told you, I serve you now, like it or not.” This time he could not withhold the words. “I made a choice and will serve you as long as you ask.”

  Isabel reached out and took his hand. “I need you, Thomas. I need your intelligence, your wisdom, and your knowledge. I need your skill. You saved Theresa when nobody else could. You saved Catherine and Juan. You will save others around me, I know you will. One day, when this war is over, you and I will have a conversation and I will ask what it is you want. You will tell me how you wish to spend the rest of your life and, if you ask it, I will release you. But until then, you are mine. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Isabel giggled as she released his hand. “Do you know, I almost kissed you then? What if someone saw us?”

  “Then it is good you controlled yourself, Your Grace.”

  Isabel reached out and patted his face, pretending it was a slap.

  “Now, you will come with me while I go to berate my husband. I will not tell him who told me of this coming attack, but he will know anyway. I suspect you will have more men to heal before the sun sets on this day.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  They found Fernando on the edge of the camp, together with Perez de Pulgar. The two men sat on stallions, watching as a cohort of Moorish soldiers gathered beyond the walls of Gharnatah. As Isabel approached, de Pulgar twisted in his saddle, then leaned close to whisper into Fernando’s ear. Whatever he said must have been amusing, because both of them laughed.

  “This may not be a good idea,” Thomas said. “It looks to me like a battle is in the making. You should go back to where you are safe.”

  “I have never turned away from conflict and I will not do so today. I will speak to my husband and de Pulgar both.”

  Thomas glanced around. “Whatever you want to say might be better done in private.”

  “I will take care to lower my voice, but what I have to say must be said here and now before more lives are lost in another pointless show of male pride.”

  Thomas wondered if Isabel’s female pride might be just as dangerous, if not more so, but considered it wise to omit mention of the fact.

  Beside Fernando, Isabel stopped, a tiny figure who did not even reach his thigh where he sat astride his horse.

  “I need to talk to you. Both of you.”

  “Can you not see we are busy?” Fernando barely glanced in her direction.

  “No, you are not. You are strutting peacocks, both of you. Either we have this conversation here and I shout up at you so everyone can hear and I get a sore neck, or you come down and we walk a little distance so nobody but you will ever know what I have to say.”

  Fernando gave an exaggerated sigh, but Thomas saw he was beaten. He slid from the saddle, making Isabel take several steps back to avoid being crushed beneath him. She looked at de Pulgar, who followed the example of his master.

  Isabel glanced around. The bulk of Castile’s troops stood thirty or more paces distant, but several nobles had gathered around the King. When Isabel glanced in Thomas’s direction, he nodded his head at a small rise where boulders were stacked to form some kind of enclosure. No doubt it was where night-watchmen settled for the night. Isabel nodded and strode in that direction. Thomas caught her up, but she did not look at him. They reached the enclosure and turned, waiting.

  Fernando and de Pulgar remained where they were, talking between themselves. Isabel said nothing, but her body was tense, and Thomas could see she was holding her anger in check.

  “When they come, do not shout at them. Yours must be the voice of reason.”

  “When has my husband ever listened to reason? Ah, see, they have ignored me long enough to make a point and now they deign to honour us with their presence.”

  Fernando arrived first. De Pulgar came ten paces behind and stayed the same distance when they stopped walking.

  “What is this about, my love?”

  “My love?” Isabel’s voice was too loud and she made an attempt to control herself. “Do you know what that man has done?”

  “Struck a righteous blow for all of Christendom.” Fernando glanced at Thomas. “Is it appropriate that he be here?”

  “I trust Thomas implicitly. He stays.”

  Fernando shrugged, as if he cared not whether Thomas stayed or went. Despite what Isabel said, Thomas moved away and went to stand beside de Pulgar.

  “Was it your idea or Fernando’s?” he asked.

  “Fernando, is it? I call him King, or sire, or Your Grace. What right do you have to use his name?”

  “The right of a common man,” Thomas said.

  “Does he know you lie with his wife?” said de Pulgar. “Everyone else does, so no doubt one day he will have to kill you. If I do not do it first. I would have done so last night if that mad Northman had not come to spoil our fun.”

  “Do you even know how great an insult you made to them?”

  “They are heathens. Whatever insult they think I gave means nothing to me or the King. See, I call him correctly. You would be minded to do the same.”

  “Men will die today because of what you have done. Do you not care about their lives at all?”

  “As long as you are one of them, I will consider my work done.” De Pulgar turned and walked away to one side, careful to keep his distance to Fernando the same.

  Thomas watched him go. The man took a dozen paces, then stopped, not wanting to be far from his master, but wanting to distance himself from Thomas, who turned away to watch Isabel and Fernando. Both their faces were stark with restrained anger. Isabel was doing most of the talking, but if she believed Fernando would buckle under her onslaught, there was little sign.

  Thomas wondered if she had made the wrong decision. Wondered if he should have been more forceful in opposing her, but it was too late now.

  How long the argument would have gone on became irrelevant as a great cry rose from the gathered soldiers. Thomas turned to see a single figure ride out from the army of Gharnatah. At first, he thought it might be Olaf himself, then saw it was not. Instead, another Moorish warrior came towards the Castilian line. Thomas recognised him as Abu Abdullah’s younger brother, Tarfe, regarded as equal parts insolence and bravery. He rode a dazzling Arabian stallion back and forth in front of the Castilian line while threatening them with a lance. Such was his confidence that nobody thought to challenge the man until he turned one last time and somebody called out, pointing.

  Thomas saw a stained board being dragged behind Tarfe’s horse, the same one de Pulgar had nailed to the door of the mosque the night before. Now it was covered in ashes and manure. Thomas was still staring at the display when Fernando came past, deliberately knocking him to the ground. De Pulgar followed, aiming a kick at Thomas. A moment later, Isabel knelt
beside him.

  “Are you all right, Thomas?”

  “They need to hit me harder than that if they mean me to stay down. What did you say to him?”

  “I told him I can never sanction such an insult again. Never! How can I broker a peace when he spits in the eye of the city?” She offered a hand to help him up. “I also told him he is not to see that Turkish woman again.”

  Even though he didn’t need the help, Thomas took her hand as he rose. Let the soldiers see. Most already believed them lovers, let them have evidence for their unfounded suspicions. It was a petty move designed to enrage Fernando even further, but Thomas smiled all the same. Small victories.

  “What did he say about that? About Salma, that is?”

  Isabel scowled. “He tried to tell me it is ended. She has another conquest now. He expected me to believe him. Does he think me a fool?”

  “I think he considers everyone other than himself a fool.” Thomas knew his words were dangerous, but he and Isabel shared too much now to withhold the opinion.

  A disturbance made them turn to see Fernando shouting at the front rank of nobles, demanding someone challenge Tarfe. Most hung back, finding something interesting to look at elsewhere. Then one young warrior jostled his horse through the ranks until he dismounted to stand before the King.

  Tarfe had stopped displaying the soiled sign and waited to see what was going to happen. He had risked everything on the insult. If he had guessed wrong he would die at the hands of a hundred men. But it appeared he had guessed right. His challenge had been accepted.

  The young knight mounted his horse again and walked it towards Tarfe. Isabel ran to intercept him and reached up. He lowered his lance and she tied her lace kerchief to it.

  Thomas stayed where he was, aware someone was about to die, but which of them it would be, he didn’t know. Olaf had told him Tarfe was a skilled warrior, but headstrong. The evidence of that judgement was in front of them.

  The two men faced each other. There was little point in conversation or insults because neither would understand the other. Instead, some kind of agreement was made without the need for words and they turned and trotted away to put distance between themselves.

  A joust it was to be. To begin with, anyway.

  Fernando waved a hand. A trumpeter gave a loud blast and the two men started for each other. The thunder of their horses’ hoofs was loud for a moment before it was drowned out by the cries of the Castilian army.

  “What is this all about?”

  Thomas turned to find Koparsh Hadryendo standing beside him, Salma a few paces back with the other Turks beyond her. Thomas wondered who her new lover might be, not that it was any concern of his.

  “Did you hear what happened last night?” he asked.

  “Something about an insult to Allah, but Gharnatah is not my city.” Koparsh narrowed his eyes. “I take it that thing being dragged behind the horse is the item in dispute?”

  Thomas shook his head at the stupidity of Tarfe for not cutting the sign loose. It would slow him and make manoeuvring more difficult.

  Even above the shouts of the soldiers, the clash of lance on armour cut through the noise, but both men rode on, still seated.

  They slowed and turned. When they met a second time, it was the Castilian knight who came off the worse. Thomas saw Tarfe shift at the last moment. The tip of his lance shattered into a hundred shards, but it landed true. The knight tumbled backwards and hit the ground hard.

  Had Tarfe followed through in that moment, the result would have been different, but he wanted to show off, riding backwards and forwards with the board still dragging behind. Only when the Castilian knight rose to his feet did he approach and dismount as they drew swords.

  Both antagonists fought well, but slowly the young knight began to gain the ascendancy. To Thomas, it was clear Tarfe was the more aggressive, but the knight more skilled.

  The two men clashed, pressed chest to chest. Tarfe drew a long dagger and tried to plunge it into the knight’s belly, but he twisted away just in time. He swung around, his sword a blur. Before Tarfe could defend himself, the sharp blade sliced into his neck.

  Tarfe stood a moment longer, but he was already dead. His head lolled at an angle, barely connected. When he fell to his knees, and then his front, the young knight took Tarfe’s knife and used it to complete what his sword had begun.

  He turned to the Castilian army and held Tarfe’s head high, greeted by a tremendous cheer. Then he turned and did the same to the gathered Moors, whose cry was one of rage.

  The young knight tossed Tarfe’s head to the ground, picked up the soiled board and carried it back, holding it aloft so everyone could see the words. Thomas looked at Isabel, but if she felt any sense of victory, her face did not reflect it. Unlike Fernando, who strode to the man and embraced him.

  When Thomas saw Isabel approach the pair, he moved to join her, afraid Fernando might hurt her. No doubt he believed this victory justified the actions of himself and de Pulgar.

  “You have started a war with your actions!” Isabel shouted at Fernando, unable to control herself any longer.

  Thomas reached out to take her arm, then stopped, knowing he could do no such thing, not here in front of everyone. He had to be the loyal servant, not the master.

  “No, I have stopped a war. We start the war only when I am ready. But this man,” Fernando slapped the young knight’s shoulder, “has shown the skill of Castile. We should do the same. Challenge their general, that big Northman. Him against this man.”

  “I fear I cannot fight again so soon, Your Grace,” said the knight.

  “Then someone else. Perez, you are ready for the challenge, are you not?”

  “The big general?” De Pulgar appeared less confident than his master.

  Fernando laughed. “Perhaps I should order Thomas here to fight him. He claims to be a skilled swordsman. He even claims he can best me, but in that he is wrong.”

  Thomas said nothing. He was sure none of the gathered men would face Olaf. Not unless they were insane.

  Which, it appeared, one was. A man with no loyalty to either side.

  Koparsh Hadryendo approached Fernando.

  “I will challenge the man. I met him when I was in Gharnatah and believe he has a weakness.”

  “Olaf has no weaknesses,” Thomas said.

  “I watched him practise with his men. He favours the axe, that was clear to see, but he is less skilled with a sword. I will challenge him, man to man, with swords.”

  “Olaf will still kill you,” Thomas said.

  “I think not.”

  Thomas only shook his head.

  “I would like to see that fight,” said Fernando, “but fear I cannot allow it. You are our guest. Besides, how could I explain your death to your Sultan?” He looked around. “Who else is brave enough?”

  Another man approached. He was tall, almost as tall as Olaf himself, almost as broad across the shoulders. When he spoke, his Castilian was guttural, and Thomas heard the accent of Germania in his words.

  “I fear no man, Your Grace. I will challenge him.”

  Fernando looked the man up and down. “You will fight with a sword? I have seen you before, but forget your name.”

  “I am Arnulf Hanmman, Your Grace, and sword or axe, all weapons are the same to me.”

  “And the stakes?” Thomas asked, knowing it was not his place to speak, but doing so anyway.

  “No stakes. Only honour. We will offer the General an opportunity to avenge the loss of his man. If he wins, I will allow Isabel her pointless meeting with Boabdil. You and she can attend, for I want nothing to do with it. Wars are won through might, not words.”

  “And if Olaf loses?”

  “It gives me permission to start my siege. The cannon will sound and walls will fall. What say you, Berrington? Will you walk out there and talk to the father of your dead wife?” Fernando spat out the final words in a deliberate attempt to anger Thomas.

  “W
hat if he says no?”

  “He will not. Torvaldsson is a proud man. Too proud to turn away from proving himself the better warrior.”

  Thomas looked at Arnulf Hanmman. He was big. He was strong. But Olaf was unbeatable. The man would die.

  “I will talk to him.” Thomas glanced at Isabel. “And when Olaf wins the fight, that is the end of it. Agreed?”

  Fernando shrugged, his attention already on the coming conflict.

  “Agreed. And when my man wins?”

  “Agreed,” Thomas said, glancing at Isabel again. “With your permission, Your Grace?”

  Isabel stared at her husband, her anger still simmering, still barely under control.

  “You will keep your word if I allow this? I can have my meeting with Boabdil, and Olaf can walk from the field?”

  “Do whatever you like. And so will I.” Fernando glanced towards Salma. Any relationship or love that had once lain between him and Isabel had turned to dust. Destroyed by Fernando himself.

  As Thomas moved away, a blond-haired figure came running towards him. It was Will.

  “Let me come with you,” he said, clutching at Thomas’s hand, fear showing in his eyes.

  “You know Olaf cannot be defeated,” Thomas said.

  “I do, but I want to stand behind him when he fights. You and me, Pa. We have to let them see which side we stand for.”

  Thomas looked beyond his son to where Jorge stood. At least he had left Amal behind with Belia. She was too young to witness this madness. Usaden stood at a distance, Kin beside him. Thomas nodded at him and they loped across the ground to join him.

  “Then let us stand with your morfar. Let us stand for Gharnatah.” He gave one last glance in the direction of Isabel, whose face showed only despair, and wondered if he had just destroyed any chance of continuing to serve her.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Thomas’s doubts started when they were half way between the two armies. Four men and a dog. Even Kin felt it, sticking close to his side. Five tiny figures in a vast landscape. He was sure many on both sides would be more than happy to kill him and all those with him. And then, as if sensing his uncertainty, Olaf walked out to greet them. He clapped each of them on the shoulder, then knelt to stroke Kin, a sight Thomas had never seen before.