by Robyn Young
She looked at him suddenly. ‘Nothing. I didn’t mean that. I meant—’ She shook her head, turned fearfully towards the door. ‘You should leave. I don’t know what I was thinking, inviting you here. He would—’
Jack rose, caught her gently by the shoulders. ‘You can trust me, signora. I understand your pain.’
‘How could you?’ She met his eyes, defiant, but hope cracked her voice.
‘My mother was murdered. My half-brother was, in a way, responsible. I know what it is to despise your own blood.’ She had gone still beneath his hands. ‘Talk to me. Let me help you. What does your father make you do for him?’
Her eyes darted away, emotions warring across her face. After a moment, she looked back, something set in her expression. Jack thought she was going to speak, confide in him, but instead she rose on to her toes and kissed his mouth.
He moved his head back in surprise, but her hands came up to slide over his, still gripping her shoulders. She kissed him again. He could feel the heat coming off her bruised cheek. Her lips were soft. He tasted wine and tears. Desire flamed in him, a lit fuse. He forgot his questions. Releasing his hands from hers, he moved them around her back, down to her waist, pulling her to him. He felt her chest pressing against his, the curve of her spine beneath his hands, sliding lower now, gripping fistfuls of silk. He kissed her deeply, felt her lips parting, her mouth opening to receive him. Orange blossom filled his senses; sweet, intoxicating.
There was a noise outside the door. A girl’s laughter, sharp and high. Laora pulled from him as if burned. ‘My sisters!’ She grabbed his sleeve and tugged him towards the far wall, where he realised one of the wooden panels that lined the room was a door. ‘You have to go,’ she breathed. ‘Take the first door you see at the bottom of the stairs. A servants’ passage will lead you to the street.’
Jack halted, half dazed, at the door. ‘Can I see you again?’ The question came fast, urgent, twin needs now burning in him: for answers and for more of this, of her.
‘Laora?’ A girl’s voice, sing-song and mocking outside the door. ‘My mother wants you to clean up the mess downstairs.’
She looked back at him. ‘Please!’
Jack stood his ground, waiting.
‘Yes.’ Laora clutched at his arm as he slipped through the door. ‘Sir James, beware of my father. He will not forget a slight.’
It had seemed an easy assignment: overseeing the men appointed with collecting anything valuable from Loja’s houses, workshops and mosques; making sure the items found their way into the treasury of the crown, rather than the grubbing hands of soldiers. It was a preferable task to managing the lines of men, women and children being escorted from the town and certainly more preferable to supervising the clean-up, the dust-laced air down near the walls still thick with the stink of putrefying corpses trapped under rubble. But, after over a fortnight picking through the lives of strangers, Harry was bored.
Pushing open a set of carved doors, he entered a bedchamber. Patterned tiles decorated the floor, the bed was heaped with cushions and the domed ceiling was painted with stars. A brocaded cloak lay beside the bed. On a table by the windows, which offered a view across the river towards the mountains, was an assortment of personal items: an ivory comb, a jewel-handled razor, a glazed bowl. As Harry walked around the bed, his foot knocked something on the floor. Crouching, he picked up a hunting horn. It was beautiful; polished bone decorated with filigreed silver. Glancing furtively at the doors, he was about to tuck the horn on his belt, hide it beneath his cloak, when he saw them – two sets of eyes blinking at him from the shadows beneath the bed.
The jolt of fear passed as he realised it was just children. A boy and a girl. The two of them were huddled together, dark eyes fixed on him. He saw scraps of food and guessed they’d been hiding here since the town’s surrender. The boy was staring at the hunting horn. Harry saw the conflict in his face – terror warring with fury. Was it his? His father’s? He put his finger to his lips.
‘Sir Harry Vaughan?’
He rose swiftly, the horn still in his hand, to see a royal guard enter the chamber. ‘Yes?’ he said curtly, cheeks colouring at the nearness of being caught stealing the king’s plunder. Gathering his composure, he tempered his tone. ‘What is it?’
The guard knew enough English to answer, although his accent clung to the words. ‘My lord Ferdinand wishes to speak to you. He is in the physicians’ tent. With Sir Edward Woodville.’
‘Woodville?’ Harry swallowed dryly. ‘He’s—’ He stopped himself saying alive. ‘Awake?’
‘Yes, sir. And asking for you.’
Nodding tightly, Harry headed across the chamber. One of Rodrigo’s squires, sent with him to supervise the search of the buildings in this quarter, met him on the landing, half a dozen soldiers following him, tramping dust on the stairs. Reluctantly, Harry handed the horn to the squire. ‘There are items of value in there. And two children. Under the bed.’
He wasn’t sure if the man had understood, until he was halfway down the stairs and the screaming started.
Outside, the streets were busy, men sweating as they shifted piles of rubble, digging out the dead and clearing the streets so repairs could begin on the broken walls, the town set to be garrisoned by the king’s men. Loja was a Christian town now, another piece taken from the Moors in this long game of war. Carts rumbled past, loaded with clothing, coffers, chests and weapons. Many of the walls of the houses were pocked with gunshot and sprayed with vicious arcs of blood, dried to rust.
Harry breathed through his mouth as he walked with the royal guard down the steep, winding street to the gates. The reek of death turned his stomach, although it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been a week ago, when the dead were still piled high in clouds of flies, awaiting burial.
It was in these streets that he’d first found himself after the treacherous climb over the walls. The battle existed in his memory as a series of disparate images – brief, violent bursts – that continued to flash in his mind. The chaos. The concussive reports of guns. The savage crack of a sword against his helm. A man snarling in his face, before the side of his head exploded in a burst of red. A man on his knees trying to stuff his insides back through the gash in his stomach, entrails slipping through his frantic hands. El Barbero on the ground, Rodrigo grasping his shoulders, the soldier clutching one eye, blood oozing black between his fingers.
The relief Harry felt leaving the stinking city curdled at the sight of the white pavilions, rising ahead on the edges of the king’s camp. It wasn’t until two days after Loja’s fall that he’d heard Edward Woodville had been found, bleeding and unconscious under the sprawled bodies of the enemy. He had asked Rodrigo to check on the knight’s condition, nodding sombrely at the shakes of the hidalgo’s head and his grim expression, while privately rejoicing. Since it seemed Woodville had spent the past weeks lingering at death’s door it was a shock now to hear the son of a bitch had crawled his way back to the living.
With the surprise came fear. Had the knight recalled something from that moment outside the walls? Had he – or someone else – seen the bolt raised in his fist? Had he told the king? As they neared the pavilions, Harry’s gaze flicked towards the tracks leading up into the mountains. But where would he run to in this wilderness?
The area around the physicians’ tents was quiet, much calmer now than in the first days after the assault, the air rent with screams and whimpers as physicians, surgeons and servants worked to tug bolts and barbs from flesh with pincers, cauterise stumps of arms, hack off mangled legs, sew hanging flaps of skin and stuff wounds with lint soaked in wine.
Outside the entrance to the largest pavilion, two royal guards stood sentry, wearing the livery of Queen Isabella. The queen had arrived yesterday at the head of a train of knights and ladies-in-waiting, her velvet mantle a sweeping trail of scarlet, auburn tresses flaming in the sun. She had come like a beacon, shining light across the battered Christian forces, cheered by victory,
but exhausted from the long siege. Her presence had given new life to their triumph and fired their blood for the next phase. The Marquis of Cádiz, Don Carlos and others had already travelled onward to prepare the ground for an assault on Íllora, another settlement to the east. Beyond that, and other smaller towns, lay the huge coastal city of Málaga; jewel in the emirate’s crown and the last major obstacle to Granada itself.
To Harry, the queen’s coming had both kindled his hope and renewed his sense of purpose. With Woodville out of action, possibly for good, and this new turn in the war, which had served to make Ferdinand a good deal more welcoming, he might, at last, be able to work his way in with the queen and the king, earn their trust and fulfil the task he had come here for: stop Columbus securing those funds he needed for a voyage, giving King Henry time to prepare his own expedition west.
This need had burned all the fiercer in him when, last night, Rodrigo had told him the queen had commissioned a council of experts to look further into Christopher Columbus’s proposal. Harry had attempted to find out more about this council and whether the sailor might now secure Isabella’s support, but the hidalgo, dismissive of the whole affair, hadn’t been forthcoming.
Inside, the pavilion smelled of vinegar and turpentine, urine and sweat. Servants and a few priests moved between wooden stretchers set out on the ground. Many of the wounded, lying in various states of consciousness, had been provided with fresh blankets, gifts from the queen. The royal guard led the way past the bodies to an area at the far end, screened off from the rest of the tent. Two more guards were stationed outside. One, seeing Harry approach, ducked his head through the curtain of cloth, said something, then swept aside the screen for Harry to enter.
King Ferdinand was seated on a stool by a makeshift bed. Like most of his men, he was grey-skinned and drawn from the siege, but there was resolve in his face and a clear focus in those dark eyes. He looked like a man about to tilt at a target. Harry, heart thumping, glanced at the figure in the bed.
Edward Woodville, propped up on pillows embroidered with the queen’s arms, was barely recognisable. His face was a lumpy mass of purples and yellows, lips puffy and cracked, one eye swollen shut. One side of his head had been shaved, his scalp knitted with stitches across a wide black gash. His body was hidden under a blanket, but Harry had the impression the rest of him would look just as broken. How on earth had the bastard survived? It was a damn miracle. Thinking of this as God’s work gave Harry a chill as he considered the graveness of the crime – the mortal sin – he’d almost committed. As soon as he was back in the anonymity of a city he would find a priest to absolve him.
Removing his cap, he bowed low, trying to avoid the one perfect blue eye now staring at him out of the ruins of Woodville’s face. ‘Your highness.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You asked to see me?’
The king rose, reached out and, to Harry’s bewilderment, grasped him by the shoulders and kissed both his cheeks. ‘Sir Harry, I am in debt.’
Harry caught a whiff of leather, sweat and sandalwood as the king stepped back. ‘My lord?’ he stammered, wondering – since he knew the king’s knowledge of English was scant – what the man might mean.
‘You save Sir Edward. And he save Loja. I write to King Henry. Tell him your brave acts.’ Ferdinand looked between him and Edward, lying silent in the bed. ‘God’s blessings upon you.’ He called to one of the guards outside, switching into Castilian.
Harry looked round as one of them entered, holding a war sword in a decorated scabbard. It was an exquisite weapon, with a gold disc pommel engraved with a sun, rays carving outwards. The guard handed it to the king, who held it out to Harry.
‘I gift to you.’
As Harry went to take it, cheeks warm with surprise, an image of Wynter brandishing their father’s sword ghosted across his mind.
I know, brother, what it is to bear his blade.
The image vanished as Harry took the weapon. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘With this, you spill more blood. Infidel –’ Ferdinand swept his hand in a slash through the air.
Harry faltered at the prospect. It was just such an offer that had led him into this hell and away from his purpose. But he could hardly refuse. He bowed mutely, the sword heavy in his grip. At a mumble from the bed, he glanced round to see Woodville was speaking. The words were hard to understand, since the knight had lost most of his front teeth.
Ferdinand placed a hand on Woodville’s shoulder, then nodded to Harry.
As the king ducked out through the screen, leaving them alone, Edward Woodville gestured weakly to a goblet on the floor by the bed. Stooping to pick it up, Harry handed it to him reluctantly. The knight slurped awkwardly at it, wine spilling down his cheeks like red tears. When he was done, he passed it back to Harry.
‘I wanted to thank you.’
The words, although thick, were now clear enough for Harry to hear. They took him aback completely.
‘It is strange, Harry, the clarity that comes when you are near death.’ Woodville wiped his wet cheek with a shaky hand. ‘Lying here with only pain and prayer for company, I have had time to see my errors.’
Harry sat on the stool, warmed by the king. ‘Errors?’
‘I came here on crusade to honour my brother. But when you arrived, I allowed the doubts I’d been harbouring to turn me from my cause.’
Not just you, you bastard, thought Harry. ‘It is understandable, Sir Edward.’ Oh, how easy it was to play the saint when the sinner was concealed. ‘You wanted the truth of your nephews’ fate.’ Harry shook his head, sighed expansively. ‘But I’m afraid the one man who could give you that is gone. And may the devil take Richard,’ he added. ‘For that whoreson killed your brother and my father.’
Woodville nodded after a long pause. ‘By saving me from the infidel’s bolt, you put me back on the path. Allowed me to complete my mission. Further this holy cause.’
Harry let out a breath, this one not for show. Woodville hadn’t seen him rushing up behind him, quarrel in his fist. ‘Then, you believe me? When I tell you I know nothing of what happened to the princes?’
‘I do.’
Harry tensed, seeing there was something else.
‘But I still wish to speak to your brother, James Wynter. King Richard may be gone, but I feel certain Wynter – if he is alive – must know something.’
‘I believe he is most likely dead, as I told you. But if not, I know nothing of his whereabouts.’
‘If you hear anything of him, anything at all, you will send me word?’
‘I will.’
Woodville sank back on the pillows, closed his one good eye. ‘I must rest. I need my strength for the journey.’
‘You are leaving?’
‘I have done what I came for. Done what was needed.’ Woodville’s eye flickered open. ‘You must take my place, Harry. Continue the fight. Acquit yourself well. For England. For your father.’
‘I shall.’
This time, when the knight’s eye closed, it didn’t open again.
After a moment, Harry rose and slipped out. He strode from the tent, past prone and broken bodies, relief opening like a fan in his chest, the king’s sword gripped in his fist.
Rodrigo de Torres watched Harry leave, the screen that separated Edward Woodville from the common soldiers left drifting in the breeze flowing through the tent. The young man hadn’t even noticed him there, just strode straight past, eyes on the exit.
That name again. He had not misheard that night at the cave, the blood of the enemy smeared down his blade, Harry in front of him, eyes widening as Edward Woodville greeted him – not in gratitude or relief, but fear.
James Wynter.
In his mind Rodrigo saw that day, over three years ago now. The sun-scorched earth, the sweet tang of the olive groves, the river glittering blue. The dark-haired Englishman with the angry eyes and the sword, ready, in his hand. They had intended to teach him a lesson, bloody his face and wound his pride. Show h
im his place. Rodrigo hadn’t imagined that day would end with Estevan Carrillo, his friend since boyhood, bleeding out in the dust.
He still bore the scar in his side, slashed open by the stranger who had come to find the Englishman, interrupting their duel. But the deeper hurt had come later, having to tell Estevan’s father, returning from a campaign against the infidel, that his son had been murdered and, worse, his killer had escaped justice. This had been made all the more bitter by the fact that the man had word of a death for him too – that of his father, struck down in the ambush by the forces of Muhammad al-Zagal.
It had been a time of unspeakable grief for them both and the years since had brought them close, each seeking the comfort the other could bring for the absence in their lives. Rodrigo had become like another son and promised he would find the young man’s killer, but although he’d questioned various officials during his visit to England for the king’s coronation, no one he met had heard of the man he’d known as Jack, or, as the stranger had called him that day, James Wynter. He hadn’t thought to ask Harry Vaughan. What a miracle God had worked for him, bringing them together.
‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Captain.’
El Barbero had shifted on his pallet to stare up at him with his one good eye. The other, ruined in the battle by the brutal thrust of a Moorish dagger, was hidden behind a leather patch. The soldier’s scarred face was pale and oily, but the man was as strong as an ox and Rodrigo had no doubt he would recover from his injuries. ‘I need to go to Íllora, my friend. I will return as soon as I can.’
‘Íllora? I did not think the king had ordered you there?’
‘He hasn’t.’
The soldier’s brow puckered. ‘What is wrong, Captain?’
‘Don Luys Carrillo is there. I need to speak to him.’ Rodrigo’s gaze flicked to the cloth screen covering Woodville’s sickbed, then back to the tent opening Harry had disappeared through. ‘I’m going to find the man who killed his son.’