The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6)

by David Penny

  “Go into the Spanish camp?”

  “Can you think of any other way to rescue my son?”

  As they turned into the street, Thomas caught sight of a man kneeling in front of their door and broke into a run. The man heard the sound of his boots and turned, sprinting away fast. Thomas chased him as far as the alleys which wound against the western city wall next to the Ataranzana before deciding he had lost him for good. By the time he returned to the house, everyone was standing in the street outside.

  “Did you find him?” Lubna’s eyes were circled with dark bruises of exhaustion, but Thomas knew she wouldn’t sleep until Will was returned to them.

  “No, but I know who has taken him.”

  Lubna punched his chest. “So why are you not going after them? Why are you standing here?”

  “Because we need to prepare.”

  “Will has been taken!” She screamed the words at him, her fists pummelling against him. “Our son has been taken.”

  Diego came to stand beside them, a hand reaching out to Lubna. “Will,” he said.

  “He’s not here. Go back to bed and you will see him soon.”

  “A woman took him.” Diego’s expression appeared to have lost all the softness it usually possessed. Even his speech was clearer. “But it is all right, Thomas. He is unharmed. He will be safe until tomorrow.”

  Thomas turned toward Olaf. “Is Usaden inside?” The Gomeres had been lodging with them ever since they came to the city.

  “As far as I know. I haven’t seen him leave.”

  “Go fetch him, I need him to do something. You as well if you are willing.”

  “Of course I am willing.” Olaf turned and went into the house.

  “If it is fighting you want then I come too,” said Yusuf. “For Will. For you. You know that, Thomas.”

  “What I plan will be fast and fierce and dangerous, and I dare not risk you among the Spanish. I have another task for you if you will do it. We all meet inside to make a plan, as soon as I’ve seen what that man was doing.”

  Thomas approached the smaller doorway he had seen the man kneeling at, cautious as he came closer. He had heard of the Spanish carrying small parcels of gunpowder armed with fuses. They would light them, then throw the entire thing into the enemy. But he could see nothing obvious as he knelt. Then he caught sight of the corner of a sheet of paper and reached for it.

  He pulled out a note. A ransom note, of a kind. Written in English, which only confirmed Woodville had composed it, though there was no signature or seal, only the words scratched with a damaged nib so the ink had splashed and scattered around the lines.

  We have your son. Stop looking into matters that are none of your concern and he will be returned to you safely in three days’ time. Continue and he will be returned piece by piece.

  Thirty-Three

  “Get away from us!” Thomas pushed at the holy man al-Antiqamun, but he continued to prance around them. He reeked, both his body and the rags that clothed him. His hair was knotted, and Thomas tried to keep a distance between them, afraid of what might inhabit it.

  “You go to kill Spanish, yes? I will help. I will curse them. I will call down Allah’s holy fire on their heathen heads. Antiqamun come too, Thomas Berrington.”

  Thomas turned to Usaden, who stood impassive in front of the heavy Ataranzana gate. Behind him another score of Gomeres showed no more emotion than he did, not even the tell-tale tremor of fingers or tapping of toes normally seen before going into battle. These men were cut of sterner stuff than others.

  “You explained what was needed?”

  Usaden nodded.

  “And they know they may not come back?”

  Usaden smiled. “We will come back, all of us. We are Gomeres. And if we do not then we die willingly, for your son. Besides, it will be an honour to see him fight.” He glanced to where Olaf stood, an axe hanging from one hand, a shield gripped in the other. He had painted his face blue with a dye Belia had prepared for him, the whites of his eyes standing out in the darkness.

  Hours had passed before they were ready. Lubna had disappeared, still angry at Thomas for not dashing to Will’s immediate rescue.

  “Is he recovered enough?” Usaden leaned close so no-one else could hear.

  “He claims he is.”

  “But you are the physician.”

  “And he is Olaf Torvaldsson.” Thomas didn’t believe any other explanation was needed. He had seen how fearsome Olaf could be when he attacked the men in the street. He glanced at the sky, full dark now, the moon dipping toward the western horizon. “It is time to go.”

  “Yes. It is time.” Usaden waved a hand and four of the Gomeres released the heavy boards holding the gate shut, but they didn’t swing it wide yet. Instead it allowed them to open a smaller door. The men stepped through without a sound, without looking back.

  Thomas glanced at Jorge and saw his hand clenched at his chest. He touched his shoulder but said nothing, and Jorge nodded. He would do this for love. Love of Will, love of Lubna, and love of Thomas, who wondered at what exact moment the two of them had become so close. It had crept up so slowly he could identify no particular moment in time, only the accumulation of days, months, and years that had brought a realisation of how much they relied on each other. They had become inseparable. Brothers.

  He stepped away and followed the Gomeres, knowing Jorge would be right behind.

  Beyond the door a wide wooden bridge arched above the Wadi al-Medina to where a second gate lay, built into a stone tower. The bridge was empty, their boots sounding too loud as they crossed it. At the far side half a dozen guards stood sentry, but at the approach of the Gomeres they began the process of unlatching a doorway like the one they had already passed through.

  “What is happening beyond?” Usaden asked.

  “There are a few men, but not many. Now and then someone tries to raise a ladder and we fire arrows at them. Go through fast and go through hard. May Allah be with you.”

  Usaden glanced at his companions, but his gaze rested longer on Thomas and Jorge.

  “You are sure of this?”

  “Of course,” Thomas said.

  “We will try to give you an hour, but more likely it will be less.”

  “A quarter hour will suffice. Once we are among them we’ll be safe enough.” He and Jorge had dressed as Spanish soldiers, picking out the clothes from a stack taken from dead attackers. Thomas’s outfit was tight, Jorge’s even more so, but Belia had unpicked the seams and made them a little more comfortable. Thomas had thought the day would pass in an agony of impatience, but it seemed to have flown by in an instant so much needed to be done.

  Usaden turned away and nodded to the sentries. As the door was pulled open they ran through. Other men might shout and scream to frighten the enemy. The Gomeres ran in silence, their swords doing all the talking needed.

  A group of Spanish sat on the banks of the river, getting to their feet only slowly, some not even rising to their knees before sharp steel stole their lives.

  Thomas and Jorge followed at the rear, deliberately hanging back.

  Olaf walked rather than ran, his axe whistling about his head at the end of its leather strap, his shield clattering as Spanish swords swung at him. He was unhurried, a bringer of mayhem in the darkness. A Northman.

  Al-Antiqamun stood amongst the confusion, arms held aloft as he called down Allah’s fire on the heathens. It was even possible that for him flames did fill the sky. For some reason, nobody tried to kill him.

  Thomas grinned, but it was a rictus of anger. He wanted to join the others, to stab and cut and wound, but knew he couldn’t indulge himself. Later, perhaps, once they had freed Will. Show the boy what war was really about. A lesson that might cure some of his aggression, or might not. A brief memory came to Thomas of his first experience of battle, and how he had pissed himself in fear. But that had been long ago and far away, and he had learned since to love the chaos of war. Except tonight he turned h
is back on the melee.

  He parried a thrust from a Spaniard and ran past him, trusting Jorge would be close behind. South along the river bank until they came to dark volcanic sand, then west, the sound of waves on their left.

  Thomas stopped after a quarter mile, trying to drag breath into his lungs. Beside him Jorge did the same. The Spanish camp slept. From a distance of three or four hundred paces came the sound of metal on metal and the screams of dying men, ignored by those asleep in tents or laid on the ground around fires that had burned to little more than embers. Such attacks were common on both sides, and the army knew to ignore everything other than the orders of their King. Which is what Thomas was relying on. He started off once more, working his way through the sleeping men, the pair of them nothing more than two soldiers returning from the latrine pits or the whores who would have set up camp nearby.

  He picked his way carefully, moving west, always west, until they were almost at the rear of the camp of over ten thousand men, knowing that the tents of the nobles would lie as far from the city wall as possible. Somewhere close to here, Fernando slept, or sat awake making plans. Thomas wondered if Isabel had joined him. He knew she was not afraid of the field of battle, and that her presence improved the morale of her soldiers far more than did her husband’s.

  “I take it you have a plan,” said Jorge.

  “Wherever they’ve taken him will be close to Woodville.” Thomas’s eyes scanned a darkness lit by the glow of fires, one or two lamps raised on poles illuminating grey canvas.

  “Why would he keep him so close?”

  “Because it’s what I would do. It gives him control, and power.”

  Jorge shook his head. “I still don’t see it. He is a friend to Fernando, an important man. His sister is married to the English King. Why risk all of that?”

  “He has titles, but my father always said a title doesn’t put food on the table. He needs money. He needs the wealth of Malaka, or at least a part of it. That’s what this is all about. The killings to silence men. He intends to steal the Guild’s gold.”

  “Not possible,” said Jorge. “You saw the tower it’s held in, the way it’s guarded day and night, and the escape tunnel. If he thinks he can get his hands on that he’s a bigger fool than I already take him for.”

  “It can be done.”

  Jorge laughed, hand over his mouth to cover the sound. “Believe what you will. So where will we find Woodville?”

  Thomas nodded to where a large tent stood apart from the others. “That will be Isabel and Fernando. Woodville will be close. There … or there …” He pointed to other fine tents, each with banners snapping in a strong breeze that carried the sharp odour of rotting fish. The army would need to net vast quantities to feed themselves, and the waste must be somewhere nearby.

  As he surveyed the shadowed camp, the sound of a man’s shout carried clear through the night. A familiar voice, and then a familiar figure. Al-Antiqamun ran ahead of a group of soldiers, his tattered robes fluttering behind. He might have escaped, if that indeed was his intention, but another group intercepted his path and he ran straight into them.

  “Madman,” said Jorge. “If he’s not careful he’ll wake the whole camp and we’ll be captured too.”

  “Fernando will free us if we are.” Thomas watched a scuffle as the soldiers tried to hold onto al-Antiqamun without getting any closer than they had to, which was not a simple task. A conversation appeared to be taking place, and after several minutes four men led al-Antiqamun away toward one of the finer tents.

  “Where are they taking him?” said Jorge. “That’s not Fernando’s tent.”

  “It’s not. But it might be Woodville’s.” Thomas took a few steps into the camp. Men had woken but were beginning to settle again now, soldiers able to sleep at any time. Thomas followed narrow trails that wound through camp fires and sleeping men, the stench of unwashed bodies mixing with the smoke. A crescent of the low-hanging moon offered barely enough light to pick a way through.

  Al-Antiqamun was being dragged through the entrance of the tent and Thomas moved faster. He arrived at one side and leaned close, listening for voices within. He recognised one only slowly, because al-Antiqamun was speaking in Spanish, a skill he had never shown before.

  “… have news for their graces,” said al-Antiqamun. “There is a way to gain entrance to the city, a place where a thousand men might pass undetected. But I will tell only the King.”

  “The King is busy. Tell me and I will pass your message on.”

  “Ask these men to loose me first.”

  “I won’t do that.”

  “Then I cannot tell you what I know. It is a shame. This siege could end tomorrow.”

  The soldier laughed. “It ends tomorrow anyway, madman.”

  Jorge pulled at Thomas’s sleeve, but he jerked his arm away.

  “He’s not your killer,” Jorge whispered, his mouth against Thomas’s ear.

  “Let’s wait a little longer and see what happens.” Thomas stepped away from the tent, unwilling to continue their conversation in whispers. He walked two dozen paces, a dozen more, then stopped beside another fine tent from which came no sound.

  “Have you forgotten your son so easily?” said Jorge.

  “Diego said he wouldn’t be harmed tonight.”

  “Diego? You put too much faith in that boy’s mysterious powers. It’s not like you.”

  “Has he been wrong yet?”

  “One earth shaking and a ring, some trick with dice, and the ring was likely nothing more than some shiny thing he wanted. You know who we seek isn’t afraid to cut, or take a life.”

  “Will is five years old,” Thomas said, as if that fact alone offered protection, but even as he spoke he knew whoever had taken his son wouldn’t care if he was five months old. Yet he also believed Diego, but didn’t know why.

  He started walking again, away from where al-Antiqamun was pleading his case. Except as he began to pick his way toward the other well-appointed tent, shouts came from behind and he turned back.

  Al-Antiqamun came sprinting from the entrance of the tent, robes once more flying. Without hesitation he headed directly toward the largest tent on this side of the gathered army. His poor excuses for captors came out behind, one of them clutching his arm, and even in the dark Thomas saw blood trailing from the man’s fingers.

  Al-Antiqamun reached the tent and tossed aside a sleepy guard who stood at the entrance. Thomas began to run, back the way they had come from, uncaring if Jorge chose to accompany him or not. If al-Antiqamun posed a threat to Isabel or Fernando he had to be stopped. It was a clever plan, and showed more cunning that he would have given the madman credit for.

  He reached the entrance before the Spanish soldiers, who came more slowly, and dashed inside. Thomas cried out. A well-dressed woman stood with her back to him and at first he took her for Isabel, the man beside her Fernando. Then he saw the woman’s hair was dark, curling and long, and the man was taller than the Spanish King. Not that al-Antiqamun knew that. His momentum carried him at the man, a knife raised above his head.

  He slashed out with more intent than purpose and landed a blow that parted the fine cloth on the man’s chest, but drew only a shallow wound before Thomas reached them. He leapt at al-Antiqamun, landed on his back and wrapped his legs around him, grasping his wrist as the knife began to descend again.

  The dark-haired woman screamed. The well-dressed noble cursed and clutched a hand to his chest, the pain of the wound hiding the fact it was not life threatening.

  Thomas twisted al-Antiqamun’s wrist to dislodge the knife. He released his legs and regained his feet, spun the man around and punched him hard on the side of the head.

  Al-Antiqamun laughed, and then the soldiers arrived.

  Thomas stepped back so they could arrest the man again, but instead two of them drew their swords and slashed at the mad preacher until he dropped to his knees. One of them stepped close, placed the tip of his bloodied sword ag
ainst al-Antiqamun’s shoulder and pressed down.

  Arms grasped Thomas, one to either side, and the man who had delivered the killing blow turned to him, a smile on his face.

  Thirty-Four

  “This man is Thomas Berrington, friend to your King!” Jorge stood inside the entrance to the tent, as if unwilling to commit himself in case the soldiers turned on him too. Not that he would stand much of a chance if they did, wherever he stood.

  “And I’m the Pope,” said the soldier with the bloodied sword. He took another step toward Thomas, who had relaxed so that those who held him had in turn relaxed their own grip.

  “In that case, your holiness, you will no doubt show him mercy.”

  “The mercy of a blade.” The man turned the tip of his sword, exploring the places he might strike. Here … or here? Wherever he chose it would be a killing blow, Thomas had no doubt.

  The dark-haired woman came close, stepping between Thomas and the soldier. “This man is innocent. He saved the life of Don Alvaro, and no doubt my life as well.” She glanced toward Thomas, dark eyes alive with something, the excitement of death, the joy of continuing to draw breath. “Let him loose, for the man is a hero and should be rewarded.”

  Just what I need, thought Thomas, an admirer. He tested the grip of those holding him, but served only to remind them he was meant to be held prisoner.

  “I have heard mention of your name, sir,” said the woman. “Sir Thomas, they call you, the King and Queen. I hear you are friend to the English King Henry, and an important man in your country.” Her voice, until now soft, hardened into a tone of command, someone used to being obeyed. “Now unhand him!”

  Thomas thought she had confused him with Woodville, but it didn’t matter because miraculously the men released their hold.

  Thomas shook his shoulders, stared into the eyes of the man who had been ready to spit him. The soldier took a step back and glanced at his sword, as if seeing it for the first time. He shook his head and sheathed the weapon. He looked toward Jorge, who had come a few more paces inside.