The Promise of Pain

by David Penny

  “Tried to kill me, you mean.”

  “Of course. And all those who have aided you.” Jorge let his breath go in a show of frustration. “We are four. What can we do against a hundred times that number? Not even Olaf can triumph against such odds.”

  “He will think of something.”

  “Something like running far and fast from this place. That sounds a sensible idea to me.”

  “When was the last time I did what was sensible?”

  Da’ud al-Baitar came in spite of not being invited. He looked older than Thomas remembered, but strong enough for what was needed. He mixed a potent liquor of poppy, hashish and alcohol, then helped Thomas force it into Jorge, who looked at first as if he might eject it all immediately. But he settled after a short time, his eyes turning glassy as Thomas busied himself with a small brazier and charcoal. He used bellows until the coals glowed white, then let them settle for a time. He pushed three iron rods into the coals—each tipped with a scorched wooden handle, each ranging in size, each for a specific purpose.

  “Did the blade go clean through?” asked Da’ud, standing beside Thomas to study Jorge.

  “Almost. His gut is damaged, I can smell it. I need to open the wound and clean it before I can repair the wound.”

  Da’ud stared at Thomas. “If anyone else said they could save him I wouldn’t believe them. How bad is the damage inside?”

  “I won’t know until I open him up.” Thomas pulled at the linen straps, ensuring each bound Jorge tight. He brought the brazier close, then laid his instruments on the side of the table ready for use.

  “Go to the other side and use your weight to hold him down,” Thomas said. “I dare not use more poppy, and there will be a great deal of pain.”

  As soon as Da’ud was in position Thomas used a small blade to widen the wound in Jorge’s side. He pulled the tissue back, and as soon as he did a rank stench filled the air.

  “How bad?” gasped Da’ud, using his weight to hold Jorge, who had not woken but still his body fought against what was being inflicted on him.

  “I can’t see yet.”

  Thomas brought a lamp closer, tilting it so light fell into Jorge’s body cavity. There was too much blood to see anything, so he put the lamp down and wetted a cloth with warm water. Gently he dabbed into the opening, cleaning what he could until he saw where the stink was coming from and sighed.

  “I think I can fix it,” he said.

  “And clean it?”

  “It will take time, but yes, I believe so.”

  Da’ud shook his head but said nothing.

  Thomas continued to work, dabbing, pouring water inside the wound and then wiping it away. Slowly the stench lessened, but only because he was clearing the leakage from the perforated bowel. The wound itself would have to be closed if Jorge was to live.

  Thomas brought the lamp closer again so he could examine the cut in the bowel wall. The edge of the sword had sliced through one side only. Jorge was fortunate. Not as fortunate as to be uninjured, but fortunate enough to live, Thomas hoped. He glanced at Da’ud.

  “Gut or fire—which would you use?”

  “I wouldn’t use either. I couldn’t do what you are doing, Thomas, you know I couldn’t.”

  “Gut then, I think. Fire might do more damage, and the gut will rot away within a few months, which means we can close him tonight.” Thomas went to his cabinets and began to search for what he needed, cursed when he couldn’t find it. For a moment he scanned the floor, then shook his head. Even if he found a length of gut, he wouldn’t be able to use it.

  “In my bag,” said Da’ud. “I thought you might need some.”

  Thomas opened Da’ud’s leather satchel and rummaged inside, came out with a small wrap of oilcloth and opened it, withdrawing a length of damp, coiled gut. He used the brazier to bring a needle to white heat, then waited for it to cool before threading the gut. It was of good quality, as he would expect from Da’ud—fashioned from the sinew of a bull, he judged. He used a long forceps in his left hand to press the edges of Jorge’s bowel together, another in his right to push the needle through and out the other side. It was slow work, and for a brief moment Thomas had a vision of how Lubna would do this far better than he was capable of, and a wave of grief almost made him swoon. He hesitated, breathing deep, knowing Da’ud’s eyes were on him—knowing if he didn’t continue Jorge would die. He started to work again, pushing all other thoughts aside.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Olaf and Usaden sat on opposite sides of the table, their heads close together as if they were plotting something, though what it might be Thomas was too tired to care about. He felt defeated. Jorge’s wounding had weakened him. They were bound too tightly together, each passing year binding them ever closer. Thomas had considered them both invulnerable, despite Jorge’s lack of fighting skill. Thomas had always assumed he could save him from whatever threat came.

  He went to Belia, who stood beside Jamila at the open cooking fire and touched her shoulder, amazed as always at her strange beauty when she turned to him.

  “I have done what I can for now. You can go and sit with him if you want, but he’s sleeping. Tomorrow you must get everything you need and prepare salves.”

  She stared into his eyes, a look he could not turn away from, captured, implicit in her love for Jorge.

  “Will he live?”

  “If you and I have anything to do with it. But it will take time. The wound damaged him inside and I had to repair it. Da’ud is with him until you go there, so finish here if you want.”

  Belia shook her head and walked from the room. Thomas had expected her to do nothing else.

  He walked through the big ground floor room to the staircase, barely taking in anything. He ignored the rich scent of good food, the smell of wine, and began to climb steps still familiar after almost two years away from the house. He stopped in the doorway of the room he considered his and Lubna’s. Dana lay on her side, small on the wide bed, hair spread about her head like a dark flame. Thomas wondered whether if Luis and Aban were here they would all three be sharing this bed, and knew the answer.

  He backed away, thinking he should have asked what the accommodation arrangements were. The women had arrived first and obviously chosen what to them were logical rooms. Thomas continued along the corridor to the end, ducked through a low doorway into the extension Britto had built for him and continued on to the room that had been added for Lubna when she had been no more than a servant. Except, for Thomas, she had always been more than a servant.

  There was a narrow cot waiting for him there. He had walked past other, larger rooms, knowing this small space was where he wanted to sleep. This is where Lubna had lain her head each night for more than a year after she first came to his house. He had shared his bed with her sister Helena then. This is the room Lubna had remained in when Thomas went with Jorge to attend Queen Isabel’s son in Qurtuba. Where he had clashed with Abbot Mandana for the first time.

  Thomas lay on the bed. It was hard, too narrow, but for months he had slept on rock and moss and it felt like the most comfortable bed he had ever lain in. He closed his eyes, intending to rest for a short while only and then to go down and talk with Olaf about what they should do next. Instead, sleep invaded him like a dark cloud, tumbling him into senselessness.

  The dream, when it came, was almost welcome.

  Lubna sat astride him like she had never done in this room, only later coming to his bed. Thomas reached for her, touched her breasts, her belly slimmer than he remembered because she had been carrying their child a year before. He was hard inside her, knowing he cried tears because even as the dream enveloped him he was aware it wasn’t real. He would never lie with Lubna again. Never feel her heat enclosing him. Never smell the perfumed scent of her, hear the mumbled words of lust…

  Thomas came awake in an instant with a cry of alarm.

  He expected the room to be empty, but instead of Lubna, Helena sat astride him, one
sister instead of the other. She was as resplendently naked as he remembered, her movement against him interrupted by his cry.

  Thomas put his hands on her waist and threw her aside.

  “What are you doing?”

  Helena sprawled on the cold floor, slowly pulling herself into a sitting position. If she was upset or disappointed at his reaction she didn’t show it.

  “Even you must know what we were doing, Thomas, or have you forgotten the feel of me so soon?”

  “Not we, you. Why?”

  “You have to ask?”

  Helena stood, reached for her discarded robe but held it in one hand instead of putting it on. Tall, slim, her exquisite beauty was something most men would pull onto their beds, not toss aside.

  “There is no longer anything between us.” Thomas sat up, pulling the single coarse blanket to cover himself where Helena had revealed him, uncomfortably aware that the arousal she had sparked remained.

  “Then why did you rescue me?”

  “You are Will’s mother. Did you think I would leave you to be beaten by that man?”

  “If I mean nothing to you then you would have.”

  “You must be thinking of someone with less sense of duty,” Thomas said.

  “You have no softness in your heart, only calculation and logic.”

  Thomas considered getting off the bed and throwing Helena through the door, but there was no lock and he doubted she would stay outside.

  “What is it you want of me?”

  Helena smirked. “I thought it was fairly clear what I wanted. A few more moments and I would have brought you to a peak.” She tilted her head to one side so white hair fell to cover part of her face. “How long has it been since you emptied into a woman?” And then she saw his face and took a step back, held up a hand. “I am sorry. I forget myself.”

  “You forget? She was your sister—how could you forget?” Even as he spoke, Thomas knew Helena had never considered Lubna to be a true sister. She had been born to Olaf’s second wife, Fatima, a Moor. Lubna looked nothing like her elder sisters, which for Thomas was something to be admired and preferred, but he knew he was not like other men. “And I am still waiting for you to tell me what you want, other than the obvious. I hope you enjoyed what little pleasure you might have taken.”

  “I always do,” said Helena. She took a few paces closer to the bed, halted again. “I have something to tell you, if you will listen. Something important. I forgot about it until today. It came to me as we fled down the hillside.”

  “Dress yourself first. If it’s so important why wait until now?”

  “I wanted to tell you when we were alone.” Helena raised her arms and the robe slid along her body to cover her nakedness. She looked around as if searching for a chair, but the room contained nothing but the bed. Thomas recalled at one time there had been a small table and stool, but they had been removed when the room fell into disuse. “You can tell the others afterwards, but you need to hear this on your own first.”

  Thomas gave a shake of his head. “You’re making no sense. I keep no secrets from Jorge, you know that.”

  “But he is sick–”

  “Not sick. He is injured.”

  Helena waved a hand, uninterested in the distinction. “Whatever you say, Thomas, for you are always right. This concerns that man—the Abbot, his son, and Muhammed.”

  “You already told me they are conspiring to defeat al-Zagal.” He leaned into the corner of the wall and crossed his legs. As if he had issued an invitation, Helena moved to the foot of the cot and sat as far away from him as she could. She stared at Thomas for a time and he knew she was waiting for him to throw her off the bed again, but for the moment he allowed her to stay where she was.

  “Tell it me then, so I can get some sleep. Alone.”

  “I told you only some of it before, but not everything.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you hadn’t come when you did Muhammed would have killed me before long. He grew more and more violent. I think he hit me because he couldn’t hit you.” Helena stared at her folded hands for a moment, then lifted her gaze. “I want him dead, and those two talked of killing him.”

  Thomas started at Helena. “You said they wanted his men alongside them so they could defeat al-Zagal.”

  “That is what they told Muhammed. When he had gone and I was alone with them they spoke freely, assuming I didn’t understand Spanish. But I have been learning the language.” There was no need for Helena to explain why. Everyone knew the ability to speak Spanish would soon become essential.

  Thomas waited, his eyes tracking Helena’s face. He searched for the scar that had first brought her to his house as a tainted gift, but could see no trace of it anymore. He nodded for her to go on.

  “I didn’t want to tell you everything before because of what they did. I was ashamed. Muhammed offered me to both of them. I think it was his idea of a joke, father and son mounting me at the same time, but Mandana couldn’t do anything. His son was a different matter. He was harsh. He enjoyed inflicting pain on a woman. But even when he was inside me he talked about you. He wanted to know what you did to me in bed. He did things to me you would never have dared do, and laughed. And then I was discarded like a soiled cloth.” Helena’s eyes flickered as she scanned his face. “I couldn’t confess what they did to me, so I couldn’t tell you everything I heard. Now I can, because you saved me.

  “I crawled to the corner because I hadn’t been dismissed. I have learned that lesson since being taken captive by Muhammed. I only do what is told to me clearly. I have no mind of my own any more, only orders to be followed.

  “After a while they forgot I was there. I think they knew I wasn’t expected to live much longer. I’m sure Guerrero hoped he would be allowed to kill me, and the thought chilled me to the core because I knew he would take his time over it. But that’s not what you need to know. When they were with Muhammed they talked of defeating al-Zagal, and Muhammed liked their words. He hates his uncle even more now than he did before. But when they were alone they spoke of al-Zagal as a friend. Muhammed hates his uncle, but not half as much as al-Zagal hates his nephew. He will never forget how he sent forces to Malaka and attacked his own soldiers from behind.”

  Thomas nodded, all his attention on her words, wanting to hear the rest. He knew full well of the enmity between al-Zagal and Muhammed—but was that enough for al-Zagal to switch sides? Did he believe by doing so Muhammed could be defeated, and he would take back the position of Sultan he had once held? Thomas knew Helena spoke the truth as she saw it, but was it the actual truth? What if Guerrero and Mandana knew she was listening, knew she understood their words? This could be another ploy—but against who? Not Thomas himself. Guerrero might hate him, but he was nothing in the scheme of things. He also knew there would be a price to pay for the information Helena revealed.

  “They laughed at Muhammed,” said Helena. “They consider him a fool, and a weak fool at that. They have no interest in fighting alongside him, only defeating his army and killing him.”

  “Did Fernando send them to do this?” Thomas asked.

  “The Spanish King? Perhaps. They mentioned his name, but I think they are working for themselves. They want Muhammed dead for their own purposes, not for Spain, even if it would draw this war to an end. That would be a good thing, would it not?”

  “Tell me exactly what was said.” Thomas hoped he might learn something Helena had missed.

  “Do you expect me to remember every single word?” For a moment Helena showed some of her old spite before her face softened. “But I can tell you their plan. I can do that.” She stared at Thomas, and he knew she was about to state her terms.

  He shook his head. “No. I saved your life, be grateful for that. There is no place for you here. Tell me what you know and I will ensure somewhere is found for you. Somewhere safe.”

  Helena returned his gaze, and Thomas believed it might have been the longest she had ever looked at
him.

  “We can talk of what I want another time. They asked Muhammed for soldiers. A thousand at least, more if he can send them. They are meant to join those Guerrero and his father already have. Their combined forces will travel east to confront al-Zagal. That is what they told Muhammed, but it is not their intention. They will take the soldiers and then attack them, kill them all. Then they will return to Gharnatah and attack the palace. They spoke of no details, no doubt they are already worked out, but I do know they are sure of victory. They have been inside al-Hamra, been shown its walls and dungeons, been allowed to view its defences. They are confident of defeating Muhammed and whatever guards are left behind.”

  “I don’t believe they are capable of killing a thousand of Muhammed’s soldiers. He may be an idiot, but Olaf is not, and it is he who trained them. I have seen Guerrero’s forces. He doesn’t have enough men to kill a thousand.”

  Helena waved a dismissive hand. “I’m no soldier, but they were sure the men could be killed. All of them.”

  Thomas stared into space. Could Guerrero have other forces he hadn’t seen? And then it came to him, the answer so obvious he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  Helena tilted her head as if she had seen the realisation on Thomas’s face. “They were even more sure of victory now my father could be removed from the hill. You have aided them in that.”

  “He’s not exiled,” Thomas said, but he was wondering how long Guerrero and Mandana had been planning their move. “Have they met with Muhammed before?”

  Helena nodded. “For some time. Before I was captured. Even before Malaka fell.”

  “Fernando’s a clever bastard,” Thomas said, his voice low, and he wondered if Isabel was also a party to the plot. With Muhammed removed Gharnatah would fall, and with it al-Andalus. This long, expensive war would come to an end, with Spain victorious. At one time such an idea would have terrified him, but now Thomas was no longer sure. It might even be the best solution. It would prevent more years of fighting, more death, and he knew the end was inevitable. Al-Andalus was doomed, even more so since Muhammed had become Sultan and sat on the red hill.