by David Penny
“Is it true he is friend to King Fernando?”
Jorge nodded. “And the Queen. But we will make no mention of this matter, for you did well to kill the madman. That is all anyone needs to know.”
“No, it is not,” Thomas said. He stared at the man in front of him. “I seek another Englishman, one by the name of Woodville. Do you know where he is?”
“The name only,” said the soldier, “but not where he makes his camp.” His companions moved past him, picked up the body of al-Antiqamun, and dragged it away.
“I know of who you speak.” The woman came close and touched Thomas’s arm. She glanced toward Jorge, back to Thomas, as if trying to make a decision between them. For once, against all past experience, she chose Thomas.
This is all I need, he thought, hoping Jorge would turn up his charm and distract her. Her companion had unbuttoned his vest and shirt to examine the slash across his chest.
“I am bleeding!”
Thomas went to him and pulled at the edges of the wound. “It is shallow, and clean. Find untainted water and wash it well, then leave the wound uncovered until morning. If it begins to itch or turn red, wash it again and keep the wound open.”
“And if it becomes worse?”
“I would normally tell you to send a message for me, but under current circumstances that might prove difficult.”
“You are friend to Fernando and Isabel, are you not? That is what your companion said. So why can I not send a message?”
“Because I live on the other side of the city walls.”
“You are a heathen?” The woman came closer, this new information only serving to increase Thomas’s attraction.
“I am nothing,” Thomas said. “Now, if you will show me where Woodville has set his camp I need to talk with him.” He preferred not to mention the true purpose behind their presence.
She glanced at her companion, who continued to press and prod at his wound, then turned back. “I will take you. Both of you.” A hint of a smile crossed pretty lips before she turned away.
“Nobles,” said Jorge as he fell into step beside Thomas. “Sometimes I wonder what is going to become of the world.”
“I think we already know what is going to become of the world. Nothing good.”
The woman led them toward a large tent, not as big as the one she had been in, but substantial. Thomas caught her wrist and drew her to a halt.
“This is far enough. My thanks.”
“I know Richard, it is no trouble to take you inside.”
“I know him, too,” Thomas said. “Please, I wish to surprise him. Return to your companion and remind him to clean the wound.”
When they moved away, the woman stayed where she was.
“What if Will isn’t here?” asked Jorge.
“He won’t be, this is too open. He would be heard if he cried out.” Thomas angled toward the side of the tent where the rear backed onto open country. What had once been fields of crops now lay scorched and blackened, the stink of their burning thick in the air. “But Woodville will know where he is.”
“Why are you so sure? Because Gracia’s lover told you? I wouldn’t trust the word of either of them.”
“I believe it because he is here. I don’t know the man, but I know his type. Why would an English Earl make the dangerous journey to Spain unless he seeks something?”
“He is already an important man. I don’t understand it. We should be looking for the true culprit, not this popinjay.”
Thomas almost laughed at the words, coming from Jorge.
“The man has status, but he lacks the wealth to support it. He wants all or part of the Guild’s gold and is willing to kill to get it.”
“But not kill with his own hands,” said Jorge.
“Of course not. He is an Earl. He will have someone to do the killing for him. You remember his men we saw making camp near Auta Fort? Soldiers, mercenaries brought from England. Whether he came with a purpose in mind or not doesn’t matter. He has found a purpose now, but made a mistake in taking my son.”
Thomas halted close to the rear canvas wall. The wind from the sea caused it to billow, a shiver running through it. “Here, I think.” He drew a knife, short but sharp, and punched a hole at head height. He used both hands to pull the blade down, sawing to part the heavy canvas.
A pale yellow light greeted him, a stale smell, and he pushed into a chamber larger than expected. The light came from a lamp hanging from a wooden support which held up the roof. A wide bed occupied one side of the chamber, and Richard Woodville lay turned away from them, fast asleep.
Thomas crept close and leaned over the man. Beyond him a second pillow showed an indentation, the covers disturbed where someone had lain beside him, but whoever it was had gone. Unless they had only gone outside to relieve themselves. Thomas reached over and felt the pillow, but it was cool.
Woodville stirred, rolled onto his back, mumbling.
Thomas placed a hand over Woodville’s mouth and held the knife so he would see it as soon as his eyes opened, which they did almost at once. They darted between the two men and he struggled, but Jorge came and held him down.
“I have a question.” Thomas kept his voice low. He was sure at least one guard would be standing at the entrance to the tent, possibly more. Even if they didn’t, a hundred soldiers were within earshot. “Answer me true and you can return to your dreams. Mislead me, or lie, and I will find a use for this blade. My companion is able to detect a lie when he hears one, trust me. I am going to remove my hand now. Cry out and it will be the last sound you make. Trust me on that, too.”
Thomas withdrew his hand, ready to press it back if Woodville made a sound.
The man lay there, breathing hard.
Thomas reached inside his robe with his free hand and closed his fist around the ring Diego once possessed. He had returned to his room at the last minute before they left to retrieve it. He withdrew his hand but kept it closed around the ring for the moment.
“You can release him now,” Thomas said to Jorge. “You are not going to fight back, are you, Richard?” He deliberately used the man’s first name, knowing it would annoy him. Despite leaving England over thirty years before he knew the ways of the nobility well enough to be able to insult one.
“I will have you killed for this,” said Woodville.
“You will try, I am sure, but you should know I am a difficult man to kill. Now, one question to begin with.”
“Ask it.” Woodville’s eyes darted between them, around the tent, but there was nothing there to help him, and it was clear he was afraid to call out with a knife at his throat.
Thomas opened his hand so the ring caught the lamplight. “This is yours, is it not?”
Woodville stared at the ring, his expression the only answer needed, even though when he spoke he said, “I have never seen it before in my life.”
“I am disappointed in you, an English gentleman, lying in such a manner. I know it is yours. A gift from your sister, Elizabeth, wife to your king. The inscription makes it clear.”
Woodville’s expression changed, as much to do with the threat of violence coming from Thomas as any words. “Where did you get it? I have not seen the ring in months. I believed it lost, at home.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Thomas leaned close so his face was inches from Woodville’s. “You lost it when you killed Zufar al-Zaki. Tell me, what have you done with my son?”
A look of confusion crossed Woodville’s face. “What nonsense is this? Your son? I did not even know you had a son, nor a wife. Not even a dog, unless this is your loyal hound beside you.”
Jorge smiled.
“Where is Will?”
“Who?”
“I can use this knife to end your miserable existence unless you tell me, and am content to take my time over it, just like your own dog does.”
Woodville tried to sit up, but Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder.
“When you start mak
ing sense I might be able to answer you.”
Thomas glanced at Jorge, a sudden uncertainty coming to him. Jorge shook his head. “He knows of what you speak. Cut him.”
Thomas smiled, saw the colour drain from Woodville’s face. The knife flashed and a line of red bloomed on the man’s arm. He cried out, clutching the wound to his chest.
“I’m still waiting,” Thomas said, “but my patience is beginning to wear thin.”
“I know nothing of what you are saying. I came here to arrange a marriage between two countries, nothing more.”
The knife darted again and blood welled on the other arm.
“Stop it! Stop this foolishness now.”
Thomas’s uncertainty grew. He knew enough about men to tell when they were lying and when not. He glanced at Jorge, who knew such things even better.
“Is it him or is it not?”
Jorge shook his head. “You told me Gracia said it was him.”
“Who is Gracia?”
“Al-Zaki’s wife.”
“And who is al-Zaki? Make sense, man, or kill me now and be done with it.”
Thomas sat on the bed beside Woodville. Jorge came and sat on the other side. He stretched his legs out.
“This is a fine bed.” He patted the mattress stuffed with feathers, leaned over and sniffed at the pillow on his side of the bed, a brief frown marking his brow. “Who has lain beside you? Not a woman. Is your companion Danvers?” Jorge smiled. “He is handsome enough, I give him that, and I am certainly no man to judge another over his preferences. What does he know of this business?”
“You are as mad as your master.”
“Oh, I have no master,” said Jorge. He reached out and ran a finger along Woodville’s jawline, up into his hair. “Now tell Thomas what he wants to know before he loses patience. I should warn you he is not a patient man.”
“I don’t know what he wants.” Woodville’s voice was a wail of anguish. “Yes, Edward laid beside me, but he rose and left hours since. I am sure you have shared a bed with your master, too. It means nothing. Nothing at all.”
Jorge sniffed the air like a hound, moving his lips. He smiled. “Do not pretend to a man who knows the scent of sex as well as I do. Tell Thomas where you have taken his son.”
Woodville tried to sit up, but Thomas held him down with one hand.
“I know nothing of your son, nothing of any killings. I tell you again, I am here on behalf of my king.” He glanced at Thomas’s hand. “Yes, that ring is mine, but I told you I have not seen it for months.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps Edward stole it. Yes, that must be it, Edward stole my ring. It is him you seek.”
Thomas rose and walked into the chamber. He waited for Jorge to join him but made sure to keep an eye on Woodville, who remained lying on the bed, too afraid to attempt escape. What he said made a kind of sense. The man was a weakling and a coward. Danvers was not, but he had always appeared too amenable to have carried out the killings.
“Do you believe him?” he asked Jorge, keeping his voice low.
“As far as I can tell he speaks the truth. He is not clever enough to make up such an outrageous lie.”
“Danvers is an Englishman, too, and they are of similar appearance. What if he told them he was his master? Would it not make sense if he planned theft and murder? Olivia told me the man who laid with them was a skilled lover.” Another glance toward Woodville. “That is not him.”
“No, it isn’t, but Danvers … yes, he could be. He is a little like me, but has all his manhood intact.”
Thomas stared at Woodville. He saw the weakness of the man, lying there awaiting his fate. Most others would at least attempt an escape, or to fight. He looked around. Woodville didn’t even have a weapon nearby.
Thomas approached the bed. “Where has Danvers taken my son?”
“He tells me nothing, disappears at all times of the day and night. He was gone all day yesterday and only returned at midnight, and now he is gone again.”
“Where?”
Woodville seemed to collapse, any remaining resistance broken. “Yesterday he rode west, returned from that direction. I do not know where he went, but that is the direction you seek. There is nothing left there, Fernando has burned the land as far as the eye can see.”
Thomas stared at Woodville. Smiled when the man pulled away as he saw the intention in Thomas’s eyes. And it was true, Thomas wanted to kill him. He was trying to decide how much truth lay in the man’s words. If he thought Woodville was involved he could not allow him to live, not after Will had been taken. But he wasn’t sure. He glanced at Jorge, who no doubt knew what he was thinking and offered a tiny shake of the head.
Thomas slid his knife back into its scabbard and stood. He dropped Woodville’s ring on the bed.
“If you tell me wrong I will return and make you eat that. And then I will cut it out of you.”
“I speak the truth. One Englishman to another, Sir Thomas.”
Thomas’s fingers twitched.
* * *
“I thought you were going to kill him when he said that,” said Jorge.
“He’s too big a fool to die over a few words.”
They were a quarter mile from the rear of the Spanish camp, following a wide roadway, well paved, that led like a taut string into the distance. To either side lay burned crops and the ruins of shacks and houses that had once dotted this landscape. A low mist rose no higher than their knees, parting like water as they walked. Through the darkness the shape of a single farmhouse lay outlined against the far hills. It was the only building left standing in the burned landscape.
“What do we do when we get there?”
“Watch. It will be light soon. We find somewhere to hide and see the lie of the land, and then when we’re sure, we take Will and kill them all.”
“I will leave the killing to you, if you don’t mind. I don’t have the same taste for it as you.”
Thomas glanced at Jorge. “It’s not something I do lightly, but there comes a time when men must be punished for the evil they inflict on others. You will be with me, though, won’t you?”
“Of course. I will always be with you.”
Thirty-Five
Thomas pressed his back against the rough stone of the farmhouse. His nose stung from the acrid smoke that continued to taint the air, but the house itself appeared unharmed. To his right a window was propped half open, casting a narrow arc of light across the ground beyond. The mist had risen, cloaking the burned land with a silver carpet. Thomas listened for voices, for some clue his son was held captive within. He knew, of course, he could simply storm inside and kill anyone he met, but what if Will wasn’t here? And if he was, someone might be holding a knife to his throat. Thomas didn’t doubt, if that was the case, whoever held it would not hesitate to kill his son. So he waited until he knew more. Jorge remained hidden on the far side of the roadway, crouching behind a stack of blackened straw.
Thomas drew his sword, a thrumming impatience building within. Will had been held captive for almost a full day now, and he wondered how he fared. Was he afraid? Or was he — and the thought came even though he didn’t want it to — already dead? It wasn’t a possibility he was willing to acknowledge.
Thomas tensed, readying himself to burst through the door, when there came the sound of a rapidly approaching horse. At first he couldn’t place from which direction it came and hesitated, then he caught movement in the growing light, a shadow within the low-lying mist, and he stepped back out of sight. He glanced toward Jorge, relieved he couldn’t see him, which meant the rider wouldn’t either.
Thomas stepped carefully along the side of the house in search of another window where he could listen. On the far side, he found what he was looking for, as well as a hatch set into the ground which must offer access to a cellar of some kind. He tested the doors and found them unlocked. Carefully he raised them and propped them open.
The horse pulled up and there came the sound of people moving fro
m the house onto the roadway.
“It is now, today,” said a voice in rough Spanish. “I want you with me, all of you.”
Thomas wondered why English was not used until he heard Gracia’s voice. “And the boy?”
“He’s no use to us anymore. Kill him. Leave the body as a warning. Berrington should have been more careful.”
“You said nothing of killing,” said Gracia.
“He’s a dangerous man.” A different voice. Thomas was frantically trying to work out how many he would have to fight, how many he would have to kill, all reluctance stripped from him now. They had kidnapped Will, used him as a tool, and would now discard him.
“Don’t worry about Berrington — he will be dead soon, his family with him, and by sunset we will all be rich beyond the dreams of man. Now go kill the boy, then follow me.”
Thomas dropped through the cellar hatch and crouched. He found himself in a small space, a dim lamp swinging from the beam of the floor above. Will sat on a filthy blanket in one corner, a knife in his hand and cold determination on his face. Thomas gave a grin at the sight of his son ready to fight. Of course he would be ready to fight.
He scooped him up and kissed his face, then set him down again. He expected someone to come into the cellar, but nobody appeared. Perhaps they were still gloating over the coming together of their plan, though he thought Gracia had sounded more unsure about the way events had turned out.
He went to one knee. “How many?”
Will held up a hand, fingers spread. Five. Plus the man who had just arrived. Danvers, if Thomas was not mistaken. The man who was behind everything. Not Woodville, but the companion turned master.
Thomas picked Will up and lifted him through the broken hatch, set his feet on the blackened earth.
“Go to the front and show yourself. Jorge is there, he will take you away from here.”
“Pa come.”
“Not yet. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”
Will stared down at his father, his mouth set, the knife still held in his small hand. He took a step toward the open hatch. “Pa stay, Will stay.”