by Carrie Lofty
Gavriel tugged on Fernan's arm. "Stop it, you fool."
"This isn't working. Should I try speaking in Mozarabic?"
"You should try behaving as if you wear the Cross of St. James," Pacheco said with unmistakable menace.
"Master," Gavriel said. "What if the one I choose does not wish to accompany us?"
"This is a slave auction. What choice will they have?"
"You intend that the Order will own them?"
"Of course," Pacheco said with a shrug. "Gavriel, you of all people should know this is no ordinary brothel. Make your selection and let us have done with this place. Now that our business in Toledo is concluded, we will return to Ucles tomorrow."
Fernan nodded toward another Moor on the platform. "I'll take him then. One's as useless as another."
Pacheco placed the appropriate bids and purchased the slave. The stooping auctioneer led his most recent sale down the steps. Fernan looked the young man up and down, his expression twisted in a distasteful sneer. "I wonder if he even speaks Castilian."
"You could ask him," Pacheco said.
"Oh, the hassle this will be."
A woman with fair skin followed the auctioneer to the center of the platform—a woman to stop the breath in Gavriel's lungs. The muddied sounds of the brothel faded. Fashionably dressed in a deep blue linen gown decorated with fine embroidery, she surveyed the crowd of buyers with a placid look. No fear tainted her shadowed eyes. No tension contorted the muscles of her body. No bitterness ruined the smile on her mouth. For all the world; she embodied the peace Gavriel had yet to find, this woman on the verge of bondage.
She rolled her eyes shut and licked her lips, head falling back. Unbound hair the same red-brown of ripened dates stretched to the shapely curve of her waist. Gavriel imagined digging his hands into those silky strands, bending her body to his, tasting her white flesh. Mouth dry, he choked on the image of transforming her look of peace into one of desire. Desire for him.
A quick glance revealed that animal hunger mirrored across dozens of faces. Fernan bathed her with a look of abject lust "Can I change my mind?" he asked.
The muscles in Gavriel's arms and torso tensed. The nameless woman inspired more thoughts of sin than he had suffered in a month. Lust Envy. Wrath. He closed his eyes, breathless, but dark imaginings would not leave him be. Squeezing his fists until he thought his fingers would break, he prayed for strength—strength enough to hold his temper until she was gone, until temptation passed.
A loud commotion of shouts and drawn swords clamored from the entrance. Heads turned. The same six guards materialized out of the shadows, barring entrance to a young man with black, curling hair. Patrons around the auction platform backed away from the disorder, cramming bodies against bodies. One man elbowed Gavriel in the stomach. A woman screamed.
And so did the man at the door.
"Ada!"
Chapter 2
The intruder, nothing more than a half-grown boy, dodged swinging swords—jumping first, then rolling clear. He scrambled between two guards and slipped like a fish from their grasp. Spinning once, he drew a pair of exotic, curved blades from their sheaths. Metal met metal as he defended against another guard, a man twice as wide and twice as slow. The boy caught his opponent's sword between the curved blades and twisted, sending the much heavier weapon to the ground.
Gavriel watched the display with curiosity, admiration, and envy. Saints save him, mostly envy. He had not seen fighting skills of such refinement and natural grace in years, not since he last held a weapon. Young and agile and calculating, the intruder fairly danced through his attackers, disarming them when possible, incapacitating them as a last resort.
Well, that was one difference. Gavriel had never hesitated to kill.
The brothel's patrons bunched and shrank like sheep in a pen. Women screamed and covered their exposed bodies; only now, with the threat of violence, did they find their modesty. The musicians tucked close to the rear alcove continued to play, oblivious to the threat, or perhaps accustomed to a steady diet of violence and nightly disruptions.
"This way," Pacheco said, grabbing Fernan's slave by the arm. "Toward the alcove. There's a back door."
Hood in place, mouth agape but blessedly silent, Fernan followed their master's urging. Tugging his slave's arm, he turned toward the task of navigating a safe escape. But Gavriel did not move.
Another handful of guards emerged from secret places. Roused from sleep or maybe from a harlot's bed, one had forgotten his tunic but not his sword. Another strapping man picked up a piece of wood from a broken table and used it as an impromptu shield. The boy was outnumbered, and for what? Why? The slave girl?
Gavriel found the woman rooted to the same spot on the platform. The boy's desperate shout, the rolling waves of violence and fear—none of it had changed her placid expression. She idly reached a hand to the low beam ceiling, the stretch pulling her fitted bodice taut over her breasts. A private smile turned the corners of her lips as she teased loose a bit of crumbling plaster.
"Gavriel, we must leave. This is my command." Pacheco's thundercloud expression left no room for argument, but Gavriel offered one anyway.
"That boy stands eight to one."
"Do not think of going to his aid." Pacheco squinted, reddening with anger. "Now do as you're told, novice."
Gavriel retrieved a fallen sword and stood ready to aid the boy, to defy his master. He tightened his fingers around the hilt and sank into a relaxed stance. The heft and weight of the weapon was a homecoming, more familiar than the billowing robes he wore. But the contrast gave him pause, that place where the white linen at his wrists draped over gleaming steel.
"You have responsibilities," Pacheco said, his voice devoid of the previous flash of anger. Cold now. Threatening. "You made a vow—not to me, but to God."
Yes. One of three. He would abstain from violence.
The second vow, obedience, pressed down on the backs of his hands. The sword grew twice as heavy, then heavier still, until it dropped from numb fingers. The muffled clang of metal against the swept earth floor rattled into his bones.
"Come away now." Pacheco tugged his sleeve.
Atop the auction platform, the strange slave girl yelped. Surprise marred her peaceful features as a man grabbed her around the waist. Gavriel recognized him as one of the patrons who had been prepared to bid for her. The sleepy-eyed slave laughed, but when her captor did not relent, she struggled to escape his clutching arms.
"Ada!" The boy intruder fought past one more guard to within a body's length of the platform. Blood stained his tunic. "Stop him!"
Gavriel jumped onto the platform without thought and thrust out his leg.
The abductor and his comely treasure took a tumble, rolling down a trio of steps near the rear alcove. Startled musicians stopped short with a screech of dissonant instruments. Her arms and legs flailing beneath the man's weight, the woman fought with unexpected zeal. She shrieked in an unfamiliar language and kicked free of entangling skirts, hooking a boot heel into his calf. He slapped her cheek with the back of his hand.
But she would not be contained.
She slammed a knee between his legs and thrust the howling man aside. On all fours, she scampered past fleeing patrons and screaming harlots to find the sword Gavriel had dropped. She stood, wiped a mess of tangled hair from her forehead, and raised the weapon in a convincing stance. Someone had taught her how to hold a blade.
Perhaps the boy warrior who fought to reach her side.
She began to laugh again and swayed to a rhythm the frightened musicians had stopped playing. Her purloined sword dipped. Gavriel hopped off the platform, intent on pulling her from danger.
"Down!" the boy shouted.
Gavriel dropped to the floor and dragged the woman with him, flinging aside her weapon. A squeal of metal sounded above their heads where the boy used his curving blades to deflect a dagger—a dagger aimed at Gavriel's neck. The thwarted abductor wanted his priz
e back. Two parries later and the man dropped dead beside Gavriel and the slave he still held
She smiled up at their champion. "Jacob!"
The boy named Jacob panted. A riot of sweaty black hair curled across his brows. He caught Gavriel's eye. "Can you take her out the back?" he asked in Castilian, his accent thick and unfamiliar.
"Can you fight free on your own?"
Jacob only nodded, turning to defend against another guard.
Gavriel hauled the woman to her feet and hoisted her over one shoulder. She fought him just as she had fought the eager patron. Wild limbs struck his back and kicked the air in front of his face. He squeezed tighter. Some detached part of his brain recognized the curve of her backside and the deep satisfaction of using his muscles to keep her close.
Woman and man.
He flinched at the thought, but not at the chair flying past his head. It crashed into the nearest wall and splintered. Spongy pillows gave way beneath his feet as he picked through the messy brawl toward the alcove. Although he wondered about the boy's success against the armed hordes, he dared not look back. The temptation to exchange a flailing female for the cool power of a blade might be too great.
Pacheco and Fernan awaited him in the alley behind the brothel. The stench of fetid but temperate night air was a welcome change to the heated poison of smoke and perfume. Gavriel's infuriated burden used the change of scene to renew her efforts. She pounded his back and scratched his neck with long nails. He cursed, pulling her from his shoulder.
The woman landed with a hard thump on filthy cobblestones. She wheezed, her breath gone. Gavriel knelt and pressed his thumbs against two points at her throat, applying pressure until she collapsed.
"You killed her!" Fernan gasped.
"I did nothing of the sort. Now she rests." He unfolded his long limbs and stood tall. "What happened to your slave?"
"He escaped," Fernan said, beaming. "Can you believe my luck? I think it means God has freed me from my obligation."
"Hardly. We'll discuss that later." Pacheco stared at the motionless woman, eyebrows bunched together. "Who is she, Gavriel? And what are you doing with her?"
Jacob burst through the alcove door with a shout. He and Gavriel pushed the door closed and wedged it shut. Pounding fists echoed into the alley like a war cry.
Picking up the woman in the midst of chaos had been one thing. Touching her again gave Gavriel pause. But the pounding fists did not relent. He steeled himself and lifted her limp body.
"What is this about, nino?" he asked.
"No time," Jacob said, breathless. "Run."
Through Toledo's winding cobblestone streets, where every surface was bathed in shadow, Jacob ben Asher split his attention between his unexpected companions. The silver-haired man led their ragged group, while the thin one stumbled behind him, his face a waxen gray color. The tallest of the three—the one who had tripped Ada's captor and hauled her from that disgusting place—carried her over his shoulder.
Jacob would have rather taken Ada back to the condesa's palace, but he could not risk being caught Not by the guards at the brothel. Not by lospedones, the city infantry. Upon finding a Jew alone with a dazed Christian woman after dark, they would not ask questions before detaining him. Or worse.
And as blood flowed from his collarbone, seeping under his tunic and down his chest, Jacob could not be certain of making it to the palace himself, let alone with Ada in tow. Pain gathered in a dull pulse, refusing to be ignored.
He tensed his fingers around the hilt of his knives. The silver-haired man led them deeper into a part of the city Jacob had never explored. Worry escalated with every fatigued step. These men were members of a religious order. Their white robes emblazoned with red crosses and their closely cropped hair said as much. Whether knights or clergymen, he no more relished being subjected to their varied sense of justice and inherent prejudices than he did seeing Ada on that auction block. Bitterness welled beneath his ribs, making it hard to breathe.
Foolish woman.
They stopped before a large building, some blend of residence and place of worship. The exterior, although austere, was graceful and attractive. Brick and stone alternated up the high, sheer walls, their creamy color glowing faintly in the deepening darkness. A defensive wall ran around the second story, and wooden balconies scattered across the patchwork of windows and arched brick doorways.
"This is one of our properties," the silver-haired man said in Castilian, his black eyes intent on Jacob. "You and the girl are welcome to stay with us tonight."
The design was Mudejar—Moorish people who had long lived within Christian communities—and Jacob wondered how these men had come to own a property they obviously had no hand in designing. Except, perhaps, for the bell tower. Christians added bell towers, and Moors added minarets. Like stamps of ownership.
"Who are you?" he asked, working his tongue around then words. Even after more than a year in Toledo, he claimed no genuine fluency.
"I am Gonzalo Pacheco. This is Fernan Garza and Gavriel de Marqueda, two of my novices from the Order of Santiago. We are freyles clergicos"
"Clergymen?" He glanced at the one called Gavriel whose height and strength hinted at a capacity for combat, not prayer and sacrifice. "You are not caballews?"
"I understand your hesitancy," Pacheco said, smiling. But whether because of circumstances or night shadows, the smile did nothing to reassure Jacob. "We have no intention of trying to convert you this evening—merely in tending the girl and your wounds."
Jacob flicked his eyes to armed men walking along the defensive wall. "I worry nothing of conversion."
Gavriel hiked Ada on his shoulder, her long hair trailing down his back. "We've had enough violence for one night, nino."
Boy.
Jacob rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth. Once he had stood alongside Robin Hood and Will Scarlet—those legendary heroes of England. They had worked to bring low the villains who had imprisoned Ada and threatened the whole of Nottinghamshire. Jacob was a clever and worthy fighter, respected by those who knew him.
With that litany running through his mind, he said, "I am called Jacob ben Asher, and I appreciate your generosity."
A maze of corridors and a dozen inquisitive faces later, Jacob sat bare-chested on the floor of a private room, the austere space in keeping with the dictates of their order. Pacheco sat at his side bearing a tray of clean linen strips and a bowl of runny, milky salve.
"I'm surprised you did not suffer worse," he said, examining Jacob's wounds.
"Master, why tend this Jew?" asked Fernan. The thin, sallow novice stood in the doorway to an adjoining room. His frightened expression had been replaced with contempt.
"Although I disagree with his faith, he saved Gavriel's life," Pacheco said. "He deserves medical attention at the very least."
"Gracias" Jacob said quietly. He had known too many eager zealots who would have left him for dead in an alley. The aging Jacobean's generosity eased his apprehension.
When the salve bit into the nasty slice on his upper arm, he clamped his lips together. The other, deeper gash just below his collarbone awaited treatment, but he would not give Fernan the satisfaction of seeing him cringe.
The tall one, Gavriel, patted a strip of cotton to the back of his own neck. Dark dots of blood colored the strip and stained his draping white hood. Jacob looked to where Ada lay prostrate on a simple cot and wondered how much of the man's flesh was embedded under her fingernails.
"Now explain yourself," Gavriel said. "You took an unforgivable risk to your person, charging in as you did."
"That is none of our business " Pacheco said.
Jacob worked to keep pace with their conversation, their words a jumble in his brain. Ada was better versed in the Castilian language. No, she was a master. Truly gifted.
Gavriel loomed above where he and Pacheco sat, appearing more formidable than pious. "Master, his actions put us in danger. I for one would like to know why
."
"Mind your tone, novice."
Gavriel dropped his gaze and muttered a thick-voiced apology. He turned to the room's single window, hands clasped at his back. The thick stained glass was nearly opaque, but light from the room's two torches reflected patterns of color across his face.
Pacheco exhaled a weary sigh and returned to Jacob's wounds. "This one at your collarbone may require sutures. Do you have a physician who can attend you?"
"One of your own kind, no doubt," said Fernan.
Jacob shook his head and ran an unsteady hand through his hair. Sweat had dried, curling the ends to the texture of straw. "Her Excellency's physician is Christian."
Pacheco raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"The Condesa de Valdedrona. I was sent afield with her men and returned only this afternoon." He glanced at Ada again, her skin pale like the brothers' robes. An impotent feeling of anger and sadness settled in his stomach. "I searched the palace but Ada was missing again."
"Missing?" Half of Gavriel's face caught the torchlight, the other half hiding in night shadows. "She'd been abducted?"
Jacob hissed as Pacheco probed the wound at his collarbone. He could endure pain of the flesh, but the pain Ada had caused burrowed deeper, proving far more destructive. Life in Castile had aged him more than he cared to contemplate.
"No. Creo que..." He exhaled heavily, searching for the words. "I believe she was there by choice."
Gavriel frowned. "Why?"
Meeting the man's fathomless eyes was a challenge. Admitting the truth was almost impossible, a failure unlike any he had known. "She has a taste for opium."
The three Jacobeans stilled. They exchanged soundless looks until, inevitably, they turned to Ada. She always seemed so peaceful when she slept, cradled by the drug—perhaps in compensation for the terror of her waking life.
"And she was willing to sell herself to slavery?" Gavriel's expression held none of the sympathy Jacob would have hoped for from a man of God.
"Perhaps her debts are too many." Months of unshed tears clotted in Jacob's throat He wanted to sleep, sleep without burdens. This devotion did neither one of them any good. "I could not leave her in that place, a terrible fete. She would never break her promise, not when well. Her choices are not her own."