The Fortunate Dead (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 6)

by David Penny

  He passed the workshop of Narjis al-Ishraq, the Mistress of Spice, and saw the door broken to lie in the street. The screams of women came from inside, but he continued on. He hoped that most of her girls had already escaped, but if not there was nothing he could do. Thomas’s world had shrunk to the eye of a needle. Lubna. Jorge and Belia. Olaf and Yusuf. Will and Diego. Nothing else mattered.

  At the Infirmary soldiers had dragged physicians and nurses outside. Some had been killed, others defiled. A few wandered the wide street, not knowing what to do or where to go. Thomas ignored them. His destination was closer. Only a quarter mile more.

  Shouting came from an alley and a score of Gomeres ran out and turned, forming a barrier as a hundred Spaniards attacked without hesitation. He scanned the Gomeres for Usaden but didn’t see him. He hoped the man lived. He grimaced as the two forces clashed, almost sorry for the Spaniards who had no doubt thought the Gomeres easy prey.

  The stench of powder, of burning and blood filled the air. Tatters of smoke rose from buildings. The bodies of men, women, and children lay on every corner. In a small square a commander had organised his men and they were dragging anything of worth from the surrounding houses and piling it onto an already large cache.

  Thomas reached the old Roman amphitheatre. There were soldiers here, but the majority of the Spanish had not reached this far yet. He passed through an open metal gate, wondering where all the guards had gone. He stopped to catch his breath at the next barrier, a heavy doorway that resisted his efforts to open it. He hammered on the wood, wishing he had taken weapons from one of the dead soldiers. All he had was the short knife he had stolen at the Ataranzana, and he counted himself fortunate he hadn’t needed to use it.

  He hammered at the door again, sure someone must hear him on the other side. A group of Spaniards entered the wide square fronting the Alkhazabah, but they ignored him, drunk on stolen wine and killing. Thomas scanned their number anyway, looking for the man he sought, though not expecting to find him. Danvers. Woodville’s lover. If he found the man he promised himself he would take his time killing him. Let him know how his victims had felt, even if Danvers had not taken their lives himself. He hammered on the door again. This time the sound attracted the attention of some of the soldiers, who turned and called out insults and threats. A group of half a dozen started forward at a fast walk, weaving only slightly.

  Thomas watched them come and prepared himself.

  There were six, well-armed but drunk.

  And then a hoarse voice called out as a new group came into the square, a tall man at their head, his companions dressed in grey robes over clothing designed for war.

  “Leave that man, he is mine!” shouted Mandana.

  His group were larger, a score at least, and they pushed past the six soldiers until they stood in front of Thomas. His gaze swept across them, a sense of dread settling through him. A half dozen he could have defeated, perhaps, but not this many. He knew how well-trained Mandana’s men were, how fanatic their devotion to both him and their God. And then he saw, standing at the rear, Pedro Guerrero. His eyes blazed, locked on Thomas, and he knew the man still carried a hatred and blamed him for the death of his wife.

  Thomas held his arms wide. He dropped the knife from his grasp and Mandana laughed.

  “We are not here to kill you, Berrington. There are more important matters to attend to inside these walls. Fernando has sent me to take the fortress on the hill. He also mentioned I should protect your family if I could.”

  Thomas frowned. Was what Isabel had told him the truth, then? He could scarce believe it.

  “Why?”

  “Because he is my King and has asked it. Besides, this madness will end by the morrow and then my true work will begin. Priests are already tearing out the inside of the mosque so they can erect an altar. The King and Queen will come to attend the first speaking of Christian prayers in this city for half a millennium.” Mandana stepped past Thomas, reached up with his good hand, and hammered the hilt of a sword on the door.

  “Call out to them,” he said. “They will admit you, like they have admitted your friends.”

  “If there is anyone there.” Thomas glanced across the gathered men, but Guerrero had gone, together with half of their force. For a moment he wondered if the man had ever been there, or had it been nothing more than his own mind conjuring phantoms from his dread.

  Mandana stepped back and looked up at the walls. He turned to one of his men. “Go see if you can find ladders. There will be some outside the city walls, which are …” He looked at Thomas, who pointed.

  “That way will be closest. Three hundred paces and you will find a gate, no doubt thrown wide like all the others.” He pushed past Mandana and found a section of low wall to sit on. He tried to remember the last time he had slept and couldn’t. Exhaustion washed over him in waves and he gave a start, unsure if he had slept or not as Mandana came to stand in front of him.

  “Tell me, why do you really want to enter these walls? Not to protect my family, I am sure. Is it the gold? If so it’s already being taken somewhere you can’t reach it.”

  The men Mandana had sent returned carrying three roughly fashioned ladders. They lifted them against the walls where they reached above the parapet.

  Thomas rose and stood close to Mandana. “I’m still not sure I trust you. Allow me an hour before you follow, and then I will help you. I know a man who can give you access to the Rabita, but there will be soldiers there.”

  Mandana’s pale eyes studied Thomas. “I am used to soldiers fighting against me and I am still here. My men are well trained.” He nodded. “Not an hour, I will allow you half that, and then we come. Find your man so we can move quickly.”

  Thomas glanced at the ladders. One man had already ascended to the walkway at the top of the wall, another was climbing up. “Call your men back. Or leave them there if you wish. But give me time.”

  Mandana washed a hand across his face, the skin of both face and hand stained dark with dirt. “Not for you, but for your son, Berrington. A man must love his son, must he not?”

  Thomas hesitated, trying to see beyond Mandana’s eyes into his soul. Could he trust him or not? The man was a master of subterfuge, but these last years he had seemed to soften, had come to him for his help, and Belia’s potions. Did that mean anything, or nothing? He didn’t know, but he did know the man had changed. He looked across the soldiers but still saw no sign of Guerrero and was convinced he had never been there. A mirage. A ghost of fear.

  Thomas ran to the ladder, climbing fast. A soldier at the top drew his sword, but Mandana called out and he sheathed it again. Thomas looked down, but already Mandana was leading his men away, forming them into ranks as Moorish soldiers came from roadways into the wide square. Now it was Mandana about to protect the entrance of the Alkhazabah.

  Thomas turned away and ran along the narrow walkway to where a set of steps took him down to the inner sanctum. There were three more doors he had to pass through, but they were also three doors protecting those he loved.

  Thirty-Seven

  Within the Alkhazabah it was almost possible to forget that a battle raged in the city beyond its walls. There were few guards, but those he came across Thomas tried to persuade to follow him. Only a third of them did, but by the time he penetrated to the inner chambers he had half a dozen men with him. He climbed through narrow pathways with high walls which were designed to slow attackers, turning and turning again on themselves. As he ascended to the inner chambers, he made sure to bar each door behind with the solid oak bars standing ready beside each. He passed people carrying valuables in a vain attempt to save something from the Spanish. The Alkhazabah boasted three layers of high walls, but everyone knew they would eventually be breached. Thomas almost missed finding Jorge and the others because they were not where he had told them to go.

  He turned into a large courtyard where a pool of still water ran from one side to the other. Dark yews scented the air wit
h their sap. Lubna and Belia sat on a stone bench, staring across the wall to the distant sea, as if it offered a promise of freedom. Thomas could barely stop himself from punching Jorge.

  “Why are you here? I told you to take them to the chambers beyond the store tower, into the Rabita if you could.”

  “There are stout walls between us and the chaos out there,” said Jorge. “Would you have me subject them to darkness and misery when they are safe here?”

  “Mandana is coming,” Thomas said, unsure if that was a threat or not. Isabel had told him he had been sent to protect his family, but still he couldn’t bring himself to fully trust the man.

  “Both Olaf and Yusuf are here, plus Usaden. And me, of course. We are a match for any score of men, if not more.”

  “Olaf is not fully recovered.” Even as he said the words Thomas recalled the sight of him striding into the midst of the Spanish soldiers, axe swinging.

  “I would still back him against a dozen men.”

  “As would I. But our work this day isn’t yet done. Danvers has a plan to steal the gold, and I think I know how he means to do it. I need you all with me. The women and children must go farther. You have to take them where I asked.”

  Yusuf came to stand close, Olaf a few feet away. Usaden remained with the women, a sword in one hand. His expression alone was enough to kill most men.

  “I won’t leave the women unguarded,” said Yusuf.

  Thomas knew he meant Lubna. Yusuf had developed far too great an interest in her, perhaps seeing there all the attributes a Sultan would need in a wife.

  “I brought a few men with me, and there are others, all looking for someone to command them. Go find others and give them orders they can follow.”

  “I stay here.” Yusuf’s face was set firm. Thomas knew he didn’t have time to persuade him if he wanted to stop Danvers’ plan, nor the strength to drag him away unwillingly.

  He gave a curt nod. “Very well. Keep Olaf with you then, I can manage what I need to do with Jorge.”

  “I come with you,” said Olaf. “How can I face my daughters if you get yourself killed? I know you, Thomas. You are headstrong.”

  Headstrong? This coming from Olaf. Thomas shook his head.

  “Usaden then, and whatever soldiers you can find. Take everyone to the safety of the inner chambers and protect them.”

  Yusuf laughed. “If my brother and father could hear you issuing me orders they would take your head.” He stepped close and embraced Thomas, kissed both cheeks, then held his face in his hands and kissed his mouth. “I will care for them as if they are my own. Which they are, in here.” He slapped his chest. “I would rather call you father than the one I have. Here, you have come to a fight without a proper weapon, take this.” Yusuf wore two swords. He drew the one on his left, a blade of exquisite beauty obviously crafted especially for a prince of the ruling dynasty. For a moment Thomas thought of refusing, then reached out and took the hilt. Yusuf was right, he had come here with nothing more than a stolen knife and might need a weapon before the day was finished.

  He went to the small group gathered in the shade beneath the stand of yews. Here in the courtyard, with a view over the walls to the sea, it was easy to believe they were safe, but a battle was being fought nearby. He embraced Lubna and kissed her, placed his hand over the swell of her belly until he felt their child move, then kissed her again. She clung to him.

  “Stay with us, Thomas. Forget the killings, forget this plot. Stay with me and Will.”

  “You know I can’t. Not now. Do you expect me to turn away from those guilty of murder?”

  “I do not care. All I care about is you and those I love. What does it matter if they escape? You cannot heal the entire world. This wealth you protect is not yours. Let it go.”

  Thomas pulled free of her arms, pushed at her as she came after him, his heart breaking when he saw the tears that streaked her face.

  “You are safe here. Go with Yusuf. And you know me, I always return. We will celebrate tonight and laugh over our fears.” He turned and walked away, but Will came running after him and clutched at his legs. Thomas lifted him, inhaling his scent before setting him on his feet and going to one knee so he was level with his son. “I have an important job for you.” He waited until Will nodded. “Look after Ma and the others. Can you do that?”

  Will gave another nod. Thomas handed him the knife he had taken from the dead Spaniard, and Will stared at it, then took it, determination on his young face. Thomas hugged him, then pushed him away, watching as his son wiped an angry arm across his face. He stared up at Thomas as if trying to inhale a memory that might last forever.

  “Don’t go, Pa. Diego says you can’t go.”

  Thomas touched Will’s head, ruffled his hair. “I have to.” He slapped his chest. “I’m like morfar — nobody can kill either of us.”

  “But they might kill us. Diego told me they might kill us.”

  Thomas looked past Will to where Diego knelt in the shade of the Yews. He had the set of dice he had been given and threw them over and over again, each throw tumbling before coming to rest with two threes uppermost. It was a clever trick but meant nothing, certainly didn’t mean Diego had the gift of prophecy.

  Thomas went to one knee and held Will’s shoulders. “Diego sees things that aren’t there, you know that. I have to go. You’re safe here. Usaden is with you, and Yusuf. Do you think anyone can get past those two?” He embraced Will one last time and rose, turned away quickly before the boy could make any further objection. Thomas knew he had already spent too long here.

  He felt a sense of freedom, of completion, as he joined Olaf and Jorge. Three of them would be enough in the tunnel to the beach. Enough to punish guilty men who believed they were about to escape with the wealth of a city. He rose and led the way to the tower that stood higher than the rest of the fort, hoping he would be in time, and that his theory was right.

  The body of Kohen al-Farsi, Master of the Alkhazabah, lay at the foot of the steps that led down to the lower chambers. Thomas knelt at his side but found no wound other than a dark bruise to his forehead where he had hit the stone on his way down. He checked for a pulse but it had stilled. His hand was clutched around the keys which had been used to open the tower, and Thomas took them. He had promised Mandana he could offer an easy way into the Rabita, and the keys would do that.

  “Where are the guards?” said Jorge.

  “Their job is done — there’s no gold left here anymore.” Thomas rose to his feet. He went to the entrance of the top chamber and looked in. The stone floor was empty, but marks in the dust showed where crates had once stood, other marks where they had been moved. A sturdy pulley system showed where they had been lowered to the base of the tower, the ropes still swinging. “The guards have taken the crates down to the tunnel. Which is where we need to be. It was always going to be on this day. The day the Spanish entered the city.”

  He started down the steps, which turned and turned, descending ever deeper. Each chamber they passed lay emptied of the wealth that had once been stored there.

  “Gods, how much value was here?” asked Olaf, seeing the chambers for the first time.

  “No man will ever know. More gold than anyone can imagine. More riches, I suspect, than even the Malaka Guild knows. Each of these rooms was filled with crates. Each crate held enough wealth to last a king a century, and there were … I don’t know how many.”

  “We have passed six floors so far,” said Jorge, “and we are nearing the bottom, so eight in total. How many crates in each?”

  “Does it matter?” Thomas snapped.

  “I was curious, that is all.”

  They reached the lowest level, which also lay empty. In the far wall the stout door Thomas had used before stood open, a strong draught greeting them. He ducked his head to enter, knowing Olaf would find it difficult, but the old general made no comment as he followed in the rear.

  The tunnel was dark, without light of any k
ind, but a faint illumination came from far ahead, growing as they walked, and the sound of waves breaking on rocks came to them. They passed the door to the side chamber and Thomas pushed against it in passing, relieved to find it held firm. For a moment, he had feared more men might emerge to block their escape route.

  Thomas held up a hand as the exit approached, went on hands and knees and crawled forward. He sighted five men, all with their backs turned. One of them was tall, and when he turned Thomas saw it was Woodville, who must have been telling the truth when he said he was negotiating on behalf of Fernando — though why the King would trust an Englishman was a mystery.

  “We agreed the share in advance,” said Ali Durdush, speaking in stilted Spanish. “Thirty crates for the King, the remainder for the city.”

  “Don’t you mean the remainder for you?”

  “I am the city now,” said Durdush.

  “We should kill them all now.” Olaf knelt beside Thomas, his teeth showing white in the dimness.

  Thomas looked beyond the small group. Four crates remained beyond the tunnel. The rest were either being carried, or had been carried, to waiting galleys which were pulled up on the beach. There were four, because three would not have been enough. No wonder men had died for this knowledge.

  “Danvers isn’t here.”

  “Who is Danvers?” asked Olaf. “Is he Spanish? I am in the mood to kill more Spanish.”

  “These aren’t the men I seek,” Thomas said, moving back into the tunnel. Olaf and Jorge stayed close to the entrance, Olaf out of the need for mayhem, Jorge from curiosity.

  “They’re arguing,” said Jorge, and Thomas came closer again. Durdush was standing close to a clerk Thomas had not seen before. It was he who was doing the shouting.

  “Where are they!” The clerk stepped close to Durdush, unafraid of his status. They had switched to speaking Arabic, and Woodville stood to one side, a frown on his face, his own position threatened.