by David Penny
“Who did the fort belong to?”
“Someone who valued his life more than a roof. No doubt he will return once we leave.”
“And the town?”
“The town wants to continue enjoying a quiet life. You will both come and eat with us, won’t you? Isabel likes your friend.”
“Which Isabel?” But Thomas knew the answer. Once more Jorge had woven his spell on any woman over the age of ten, and most below as well. He glanced at Jorge, who smiled, and Thomas nodded. “It would be our pleasure.” And he knew he spoke the truth.
Fifteen
As they entered a wide room set on the upper floor of the castle, Thomas saw that Prince Juan wanted to come to him. But now, aged nine years, the ties of duty bound him to protocol. He remained where he was, trembling beside his mother.
Isabel, being Queen of Castile, apparently believed protocol did not apply to her. She smiled broadly and came in small, rapid steps to stand in front of Thomas, looking up at him.
“My husband neglected to tell me you were with the party from Malaka.” She cast a glance at Fernando. “How should I punish him, Thomas?”
“He has brought me here now, your grace, so no punishment is necessary. How does Catherine fare? Well, I hope?”
A slight moue touched Isabel’s lips. “If you had accepted my offer of a place in my court you would know the answer for yourself, but yes, she fares well. A sturdy little thing, thanks to you. And use my name, Thomas. Are we not friends? Are we not the best of friends?” Her hand came out, hovered without touching, then withdrew. “You will stay the night? We have much news to catch up on. I want to know all about your son and wife.”
“Lubna carries another child.” He saw a momentary cloud pass across Isabel’s face. He could still not quite forgive her reaction when Lubna lost their first child and Isabel had banished her from her presence. “We will have a new addition to our family before the end of summer.”
This time Isabel could not restrain herself and touched his wrist. She used the gesture to draw him forward. “Come, say hello to Juan and Isabel.”
As they crossed the wooden floor, Juan gave up the effort at restraint and came to Thomas. He knelt to embrace the boy, who hugged him tight in return. He glanced at Juan’s sister, who watched the encounter without expression. Thomas had never managed to spark any friendship with the girl, unlike Jorge. When he looked toward the children’s mother, she was watching the encounter with a smile on her face.
“Thomas lives in Malaka now,” said Fernando, perhaps considering the reunion had gone on long enough.
“Is that true?” said Isabel. “You always told me Granada was your home.”
“Lubna is studying at the Infirmary. She will make a fine physician one day.” He smiled. “No, she is already a fine physician.”
“But not the best in Spain?”
“Not yet. One day though, more than likely. She needs to control her compassion before she becomes great.”
A servant appeared from a doorway hidden behind a heavy drape. He announced their other guest had arrived and that dinner would be served shortly.
Thomas offered his arm. Isabel rested her hand on it, while Jorge did the same with the young Isabel, who could not manage to suppress a smile, no more than she could the flush that coloured her cheeks.
The dining room was more homely than the larger space they had met in, draped with Moorish hangings left by the previous owner, finely wrought lamps scattering points of light across the floor. The scent of rich food filled the air and half a dozen servants stood around, waiting for them to sit. A tall, slim man stood apart, his clothing marking him out as someone important, though his presence in this room with the King and Queen of Castile made that fact clear. Thomas saw the man stare at him in surprise. Perhaps he had expected to have the ear of Fernando to himself alone. Thomas studied him a moment, unsure if he was the same man Durdush had been speaking to outside the Ataranzana buildings after their meeting or not. He looked similar, his clothing too, but it had been at a distance and many men looked the same. For a moment Thomas wondered if Spain had not already opened unofficial negotiations with the Guild.
Fernando took a chair at one end of the table, Isabel the other. She patted the space beside her, making clear where she wanted Thomas to sit. The others found their own places. Thomas saw the newcomer take a chair next to Fernando and smiled. The man was ignorant of where real power lay in the room. He caught a curious glance cast his way and wondered what the stranger made of him. A rangy figure dressed as if he had only that morning ridden out of the North African desert, the dust of travel still on his clothes. He watched as the man examined Jorge, finding more to his liking there — once again making the wrong choice.
Juan sat on Thomas’s other side, the young Isabel opposite Jorge, her eyes lifting often from an examination of the table to gaze at him. The servants fussed about, bringing knives and plates. Large platters of food were set along the table. Fernando, as was his right, took the first morsels, choosing half a capon and slicing into it to release the juices.
Thomas waited for Isabel to make her choice, but she made no move. He leaned closer and kept his voice low. “Who is the stranger?”
She smiled and spoke loudly. “Sir, my friend here wants to know who you are.”
Thomas scowled, but Isabel only smothered a laugh with her hand.
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” said the stranger. His voice was cultured but cold, a voice used to issuing instructions with an expectation they would be instantly obeyed.
“As you do me.” He did not want to make mention of having seen him with Durdush, if in fact he had, not in front of Fernando, in case it was not a meeting that should be broadcast far and wide. “I am Thomas Berrington, sir, a physician.” He spoke in Spanish, though suspected the man was English, like himself, and would also know French, like himself.
“The finest physician in the whole of Spain,” said Isabel. “He saved my son’s leg, and saved my youngest daughter’s life and mine both. He is a worker of miracles. We should petition the Pope to have him made a Saint.”
The man inclined his head, but his expression showed scepticism.
“I am Richard Woodville, Earl Rivers,” he said, his Spanish stilted and coloured by the accent of a rich man of the English shires. “My father knew a Berrington once.”
“There are several of us still in England, I believe,” Thomas said.
“John Berrington, squire to John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. Is he a relation, sir?”
Thomas stared at the man, reluctant to reveal anything about himself, but Isabel reached across and touched the back of his hand. “Can it be, Thomas, two Englishmen who have acquaintances in common? Answer the man, is this John Berrington known to you?”
There was no way out unless he lied, and he would not do that to Isabel.
“He was my father.”
“Died at the battle of Castillon, if I’m not mistaken,” said Woodville. “Berrington … Thomas Berrington.” He mouthed the words as though tasting them and finding a lack of liking. “He had a son of that name, I heard. Can that be you?”
Thomas wanted to flee the room but knew it was impossible.
“I was beside him when he died, sir. But you are too young to know of those matters, they happened many years ago.”
“You are right. I was barely ten years of age when Castillon was fought over. But tales of bravery are often spoken of around the firesides of the gentry.” Woodville tapped the table with his knife, delving into a memory that was no doubt at best third- or fourth-hand. “I heard you served well. Is that true?” The note of disbelief was barely disguised.
Isabel leaned close. “Did you, Thomas? I would expect nothing less from you, but you have not spoken of this battle to me. How old were you?”
“I had but thirteen years,” Thomas said, “and believed I would never see my fourteenth.”
Another memory surfaced to Woodville, and his examinat
ion of Thomas showed a puzzled note of respect. “Of course … Sir Thomas.” A nod of the head in acknowledgment of the honour.
“Sir Thomas?” Isabel frowned. “What say you, sir?”
“It is a tale told among a few men of honour,” said Woodville. “The boy who fought the French and killed many. The boy who treated the English, saving their lives. Although …” He stared at Thomas, gave a slight shake of the head, and Thomas saw the man knew what else he had been rumoured to have done, but was going to keep that information to himself.
“This is true, Thomas?” This time Isabel laid her hand over his.
He saw Fernando note the familiarity and decide to ignore it. Instead he leaned toward Woodville. “Are you saying Thomas is an English Knight? Sir Thomas Berrington?”
“He is, your grace. Word has it that a degree of bravery was shown. Bravery for a grown man, let alone one so young.” He turned again to Thomas. “But it is said you perished during the battle, or soon after, for nothing was ever heard of you again.” He frowned. “I can scarce believe you are that boy now full grown. And turned native, by God.”
And much worse besides, Thomas thought. If only you knew all the truth of it. He tried to change the subject by talking to Juan, but Isabel was not finished with him yet. She leaned closer, her blue eyes capturing his.
“Tell me about this battle. Are you really Sir Thomas?” She smiled as if she could not believe such a thing. As Thomas could barely believe it himself.
“It was meant as a joke, I am sure,” he said. “A poor joke at that. But yes, there was a prince there who bestowed a title on me. Whether he had the power to do so I neither knew nor cared. It is something I had forgotten about. All of it.”
Isabel smiled. “But it makes you an important man.”
“I don’t want to be an important man.”
“You already are.” Her voice soft, her eyes on his. “Titles can be bought and sold, Thomas. Favours granted or taken away. Great men rise above all that. Do not dismiss an honour granted in good faith.” She smiled. “I am sure I have offered you such before, only to be turned down.”
“I do not seek honours. They mean nothing to me.”
“But a great deal to other people.” Her eyes finally left his and looked along the table. “That man, Woodville, he has changed toward you because you have a title. Sir Thomas. It has a sound to it, does it not? Sir Thomas Berrington of … where did you say you are from?”
“Lemster.”
“Perhaps not, then. It is a shame you are married or I would have found you a pretty lady of nobility.”
“I am content with the wife I have.”
“Yes, of course, and I understand why you are.”
“What is he doing here?” Thomas asked.
“Woodville? He has been sent by the English King in search of a wife. His sister Elizabeth is the King’s wife, he tells us, so he has all the right connections to negotiate. And he bears a letter marked with the royal seal of King Henry.”
“Is he looking for any wife, or a Spanish wife in particular? Not for the King, for you say he already has a wife. Who, then?”
“A connection between Spain and England would serve us both well, but I am sure he would be near as happy with a French or Flemish princess for his son.”
“It has to be a princess, does it?”
“For a prince destined to be a king, of course.”
“The English King is old,” Thomas said. “And from what I hear not in good health.”
“All the more reason to find a wife for his son. Henry has a boy almost the same age as Catherine.”
Thomas examined Woodville, who was deep in conversation with Fernando. Yes, the man had the look of privilege if not necessarily money. He had no doubt worn his best garments to this meeting, but Thomas noted a tear in one sleeve where the stitching had pulled apart, and a stain on his vest. The clothing was of good quality, but not new. Thomas was no judge of fine clothing and would ask Jorge his opinion later.
As for Jorge, he leaned across the table toward the young Isabel, weaving his spell until the girl’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparked with a new-found merriment.
For a moment, contentment settled through him in this room, warmed by a deep fire, sitting beside a woman he carried high regard for, if not even love, and his closest companion nearby. Then he chastised himself for allowing such pleasure to overtake him. These two, King and Queen, were the enemy of everything he had ever wanted, determined to destroy his way of life and the lives of those around him. For a moment, he hovered on the crux of anger before pushing it aside. His life had changed a great deal and would no doubt change even more in the months and years ahead, and he determined to take whatever opportunity for pleasure he could as he turned back to Isabel to find her sharp eyes on him.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” But a flush coloured her cheeks, just as it coloured her daughter’s, and he wondered what fancies her thoughts had conjured in turn.
Later, after the table was cleared and they had all drunk more wine than they should, Richard Woodville approached Thomas as he stood next to the fire.
He proffered a nod, but even that carried an air of reluctance. “Sir Thomas.”
Thomas scowled in return. “I am Thomas, only Thomas, my lord.”
“You cannot take away an honour bestowed by the crown. It will prove useful to you when you return to England.”
“I have no plan to do so.”
“The King tells me you live amongst the heathen, and that soon their land will be destroyed. Would it not be sensible to return to your ancestral lands and take up a position in the west? That is where you hail from, is it not? Some small burgh along the border with Wales?”
Thomas nodded. “Yes, a small place. And you, Earl Rivers, where is your ancestral home?”
“I have a place in Bedfordshire. But call me Richard. We are both men of title, after all.”
“Except yours is far above my own. You are related by marriage to King Henry.”
“Still, we are exiles in a foreign land, so use my name. If you do return to England I could be of great help to you. It is true my sister is married to the King, and I am not without influence.”
Thomas wondered at the boast, for his influence did not extend to his choice of tailor. There had been a war in England, Thomas knew. He wondered if Woodville had chosen the wrong side, saved only by his connection to the crown.
“Isabel told me about your sister.”
Thomas noted the slight widening of Woodville’s eyes at his use of the Queen’s name. He glanced across at where she was deep in conversation with Jorge and her daughter.
“Your friend is a charming man, is he not?”
“Too charming sometimes, but yes, he is. My closest friend in the world.”
“He is a heathen?”
Thomas laughed. “He was born in Qurtuba, but was captured by the Moors. He is now a harem eunuch.”
Woodville looked back to study Jorge. Isabel had joined Fernando, and both children had come to Jorge, leaning against him as he whispered tales their mother would no doubt disapprove of.
“A eunuch? You surprise me. He has … there is something about him that attracts the eye, something very masculine.”
“I can assure you he is not wholly a man, but he manages well under the circumstances.”
“I understand you now reside in Malaka,” The question was offered casually. Too casually perhaps, “and live among the Moors.”
“I have made my home in their land, yes.”
“Why do such a thing when you are obviously close to both the Spanish King and Queen?”
Thomas looked into Woodville’s eyes. There was a coldness there, a sense of absolute entitlement. “I am sure you know as well as I do that being close to royalty is not without its dangers and responsibilities.”
Woodville held his gaze for a moment longer than would be comfortable to another
man, but Thomas was not any other man.
“England has been a difficult land to prosper in these last years, I admit, as I am sure Spain is. War is a time of sacrifice, but a time of opportunity, too.” Woodville’s gaze took in Thomas from head to toe. “Those men who were here earlier, the Malaka Guild. What do you know of them?”
“Less than you, perhaps. I am sure I saw you in conversation with Ali Durdush the other day. Was it you or am I mistaken? Do you have one message for Spain and another for Malaka?”
Thomas watched Woodville stiffen and hoped he had sparked anger in him. He didn’t like the man, but would try for politeness because he was the guest of Fernando. He reminded him of a dozen similar he had known in England. The man who his father had been Squire to, John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, had been a different kind of man, his titles bothering him little, but there were enough others who lauded title over capability or loyalty.
He could see Woodville wondering whether to lie or not. He would be aware Thomas was close to Isabel and Fernando, and he obviously wanted something from them himself. Unless Isabel’s tale of him coming as an emissary in search of a princess was true, but that seemed too convenient a ploy. And then the decision was made, as it had to be, to tell the truth. Or at least a version of the truth.
Woodville lowered his voice, turning away so neither Isabel nor Fernando could see his face. “King Henry has much sympathy for their majesties. We are both Catholic countries, after all, and I am indeed here in search of a wife for his son, Prince Arthur. But Malaka is a city of great wealth and influence, and it would be remiss of me not to open discussions with Durdush too. In case matters do not progress as we would all want.”
“Not me,” Thomas said. “I would see Malaka prosper. I would see Spain fail and al-Andalus grow greater still.”
“Then it is fortunate we are here by the fire where their majesties cannot overhear you.”
“They know my mind.” But Thomas was unsure if he spoke the truth or not, and wondered if Woodville would betray his honesty to Fernando. Not that it worried him over much if he did.