by Carrie Lofty
"You hardly know me, and what you know is highly unflattering," he said. "Do you really believe in me so much? How can that be?"
Blanca raised her chin and offered an unexpectedly cold smile. "Because I know where Abez lives. Help me find Gavriel or she won't be in hiding much longer."
On shaking legs, he stood and looked the diminutive rustic in the eye. "You're cruder man you appear."
Chapter 33
Outside Dona Valdedrona's private audience chamber, Jacob twisted and untwisted the tunic laces at his neck. He waited although so little time remained. As the sun neared its zenith, Ada would be facing the trial of her life. If he left for the arena, he would only arrive in time to watch her die. No, his best chance to expose the treachery aligning against Castile was to wait for his patroness. And, as much as it pained him to admit, his duty was to the greater security of the kingdom. Gavriel would take care of Ada.
The anteroom door opened to welcome Cilia, Condesa de Valdedrona. His thoughts slapped to a stop and he interlaced his hands behind his back. Standing before him, the midday sun flowing behind her like the aura of an angel, her brief welcoming smile collapsed.
"Jacob, you're here."
She greeted him in Norman, a language shared by her Sicilian family and the English nobility. Jacob's father had taught him the courtly language, hoping he might grow to become a royal physician or tutor. He found it none so difficult as Castilian. Their shared secret
"Your Excellency," he said with a bow. "Where are your guards?"
"I sent them away. You have much to say, I know, and I want no curious ears."
She rested against the closed door, her creamy skin drawn tight, eyeing him with a directness he admired. Resplendent in a gown made of pale blue silk and the finest teaseled wool, her shining, honey-colored eyes revealed far more experience than her twenty years. Jacob felt a swell of admiration for the young mother of two, the widow who had given him his first opportunity in Castile.
"I thank you for seeing me," he said softly. "And for keeping my visit a secret from His Majesty and his guests."
"He doesn't need to know all that occurs in my household." Her smile was swift and bittersweet. She walked to a table and poured two mugs of wine. "Now tell me everything."
"I intercepted scrolls on my last assignment before you left for Segovia." He smiled and accepted a mug of wine. He was no longer sweating, and his hands were steady. Always the same. The thought of speaking to her sent him to shivers, but the act itself was simple.
"You didn't bring them to His Majesty today. Why not?"
He exhaled and fingered the hilt to one of his curving blades, noting that she had not asked him to remove his weapons. She should not be so trusting, even in the company of a man who would die defending her.
"The de Silva family has returned from exile under the protection of King Ferdinand," he said. "They conspire with the Leonese and the Almohads, intent on conquering Castile and sharing its spoils."
Her pale honey eyes widened, but she quickly masked her shock. A consummate aristocrat. "These scrolls implicate the Leonese? Do they dare—?"
"Listen to me!" Her flinch would have stopped him, but the safety of too many lives depended on his being understood. "You were disobeyed. Did you know that? The judge who was to release Ada sentenced her, instead, to trial by combat. He did not allow her a second. She fights for her life in the trial arena. And you—" He drew one of his blades and brandished it in the bright sunlight. "And you did not demand I remove my weapons."
She backed away in haste. Drops of wine sprinkled onto the heavy woolen rug. "You would do me harm?"
Despite her obvious fear, her voice remained steady. Jacob sheathed his blade and held out his hands, empty, palms up. "Of course not, milady, but you're too trusting."
"Perhaps."
From behind her back, she drew forth a dagger just as long as her hand. Their eyes held for a moment.
He grinned and nodded in approval. "The de Silva family has returned to the Peninsula. They assume hostilities will resume—"
"—at the conclusion of the truce. Just in time for a summer campaign." She tucked the blade into a sheath hidden somewhere in the many pleats of pale blue silk. "What of His Majesty? Do you fear for his life?"
He hesitated, every answer jamming in his throat like water behind a dam.
"No reason to hide your thoughts, Jacob," she said, her words a mixture of steel and softness. Few men would have been able to resist her quiet authority. Jacob had no desire to. "You've had access to the scrolls and all of the intelligence. Please, I ask your opinion."
"Milady, I believe the de Silvas have positioned an assassin here in Toledo."
"Do you know his identity?"
He swallowed. "I do."
"Then I'll ask my personal cadre to accompany you. Secure the traitors, and feel free to dispatch my men to free Ada." If she yet lives. Please, God.
Ada stared at the latched doors. Outside the chamber where she stood in wait, the crowd bellowed its approval. Wild applause followed. Three men had walked out those doors. Three men had not returned. Each time one fell, the arena erupted into that same gleeful riot of noise.
Her wrists remained bound by manacles, the chains draping heavily to just above her knees. In her right hand she held the short sword she had selected from among the armaments available to the condemned. She was not officially condemned, not like those men who hanged for their crimes. She merely stood on the cusp of providing a fair amount of spectacle to a bloodthirsty crowd, all in the name of justice.
But there was no justice if her debts and broken contracts meant death.
She exhaled, eyes closed. If she intended to survive the next hour, she would need every resource and all of her wits. Clear and focused. Other thoughts would only get her killed.
Flanked by two guards wearing helmets and quilted armor, the bailiff approached. He did not wield an ax or tie nooses, but he would open those doors and send her out to do battle, one on one, with a trained warrior.
"Ada of Keyworth," he said, reading from a scant piece of parchment. "For the crimes of debt and negation of contracts perpetrated against citizens of the Prelate of Toledo, Kingdom of Castile, you have been ordered to endure a trial by combat Best your opponent and you will be released Do you acknowledge these charges?"
"I acknowledge I've been judged by a corrupt minister of these courts."
She could not help herself. The truth was simply too gruesome. She felt the absurd need to confront her captor with it, as if her tale might open a mind long closed to the pleas of the guilty. Having read from the parchment, he had at least a little education.
Lord, let him be a thinking man.
But the bailiff merely blinked. "If you are innocent, this trial will prove as much."
She gripped the hilt of the dull sword. Although the metal was relatively light, her forearm already ached. Waiting. "Do you really believe that?" she asked, her eyes direct
The man glanced behind her and around the cell. "Where's your second?"
"I have none."
He blinked again, but this time his brows drew together in a frown, one that seemed to surprise him too. "You have no second?"
"I was not permitted one," she said "The judge banned my husband from standing in my stead. Did you think I came here by choice or sheer pigheadedness?"
"But you're a woman."
"I am." Ada smiled, a little saddened by the man's confusion, desperate enough to use it against him. "You're sending a woman into the trial arena. I hope you'll be able to sleep tonight"
Whatever fleeting moment of doubt she saw on his face vanished. He nodded to the guard on his left who used a key to unlock the manacles. The bailiff turned and opened the doors.
Her time had come.
Every morsel of food she had forced herself to eat that morning splattered onto the grimy, blackened floor of the chamber. Half-kneeling, she fought the endless waves as they stole her courage. But she ne
ver let go of her sword. It was part of her now.
Looking up to the doors opened wide, she watched how the bailiff negligently turned his back. His posture said she was no threat to him. Her fate had already been decided. Ada drew nourishment from her indignation. She was not done yet. And no captor should ever turn his back to his prisoner, especially when she held a sword.
Once she had thought to kill Hamid al-Balansi. To kill for opium—the plan seemed, in hindsight, too terrible and wretched to contemplate, and that old need flooded her with shame. But could she kill an innocent man to save her own life, as she had threatened Paco?
Before Ada could steal her nerve, the bailiff returned and knelt beside her. He gripped her forearms and pulled her upright, his mourn close to her ear. "Rumor has it he's blind in one eye," he whispered. "I don't know which, or even if it's true."
Soaking up the words, she set aside thoughts of taking the bailiff's life. He had offered the only help he could. Now the responsibility was hers.
Luckily, she knew a thing or two about blind opponents.
Gavriel wondered if it was possible to go mad by bearing witness to the unimaginable. As Ada stepped into the dazzling spring sunshine, he put his palm to his forehead, half expecting to feel his mind give way beneath the bone. His life, the one he wanted to share with Ada, was poised on the verge of destruction, and he would die before allowing that to happen.
Hundreds lined the arena's four sides, armed with quick judgments and insults. De Silva stood silent and tall beside him, his eyes riveted to Ada, just like the other fifty people perched on that high observation platform. A tiny smile curled the corners of his mouth. He snapped his fingers.
Four hands like vices seized Gavriel's upper arms. De Silva family guards, including the false shepherd who had been following them for weeks, held him fast. The man grinned, his ruined eye like a blight across his face. Soon Gavriel was bound by ropes at the wrists and ankles. He struggled, pulling against each new restraint As his knees hit the wooden platform, he was forced to kneel. De Silva's fingers wrapped around his skull and wrenched his eyes forward. Gavriel could not look away.
"Are you watching, Gavriel? This should be quite a display."
The crowd cheered the arrival of Ada's opponent Bloodied from his previous three victories, he wore battered armor and a dull steel helmet with a full visor. His curved sword was Arab in origin, possibly brought from the Holy Land.
And Ada, a scholar and a woman, was supposed to defend herself against such a man?
The awaiting warrior caught sight of her by the open doors and strode forth to initiate their duel. She waited, her agile little sword balanced easily in both hands, feet planted.
Even as his mind shouted for her to run, he waited until the men pinning him against the wooden platform relented, just a bit, their attention shifting to the arena. He shoved his shoulder hard to the right, toppling the nearest guard. Ankles and wrists bound, Gavriel could only use the bulk of his body as a weapon. He ground his elbow into the fallen man's sternum, then jumped away from two more guards who mustered against his aggression.
Before he could stand, he kicked both feet up and connected with the hand of a man bearing down on him. The sword flew free and into the crowd, well out of reach. He rolled to his feet, all grace gone, and shoved into the guard's gut, pushing him hard against the platform's railing. Wood cracked. Gavriel's thighs ached with the tension of pushing, pushing against his enemy, fighting to keep his own balance. One slip and he would plummet into the crowd below.
A second sentry attacked, sword raised, but Gavriel shuffled aside. When the sword sliced downward, it found the metal of the shepherd's armor. The clang of iron preceded another splitting crack as the wood gave way. Momentum propelled both men through the barrier and down, landing atop the bloodthirsty spectators below.
Ada would live. She had to. All he could do was fight, hoping she kept running until he could reach her.
Gavriel spun away from the arena and right into his father's fist His nose exploded in pain. His head snapped back, blood rushing into his throat.
Instinct pushed to the fore. More quickly than he would have thought possible, he recovered from the punch and bowed his body into a crescent to avoid de Silva's sword. He somersaulted forward.
"Gavriel!"
Blanca?
And there she was, shoving closer with Fernan at her side. Armed with more steel than sense, they frightened onlookers with random swings of their weapons.
"I would've liked to finish what I started there in the baths," she said about the fallen shepherd. "But your way will do, Gavriel."
With Fernan's sword momentarily holding de Silva at bay, Blanca used Ada's dagger to slice the binding ropes. Gavriel was free. He snatched the sword from Fernan and jumped past his unlikely aides, catching his father's blade with his own. Fury propelled his movements and infused them with more speed, more strength.
De Silva caught every blow with expert precision. He backed away from Gavriel's assault with measured steps, the crowd fleeing from their duel. Hot red anger on his face admitted no defeat and offered no quarter. His tunic ripped at the armpit as he struck out and sliced Gavriel's left arm..
Gavriel skirted backward, hunched over, his sword lowered and one hand clutching his wound. Blood oozed through his fingers. His knees shook. An agonizing fire sapped the dexterity from his muscles, but he, too, refused to yield. Death had no power to frighten him, not when he had already seen the worst of all scenarios: Ada fighting for her life.
She needed him.
Slippery fingers interlacing with dry ones, he gripped the hilt and attacked anew. De Silva continued to accept each jolting strike of metal on metal with an expression perched between amusement and fury. Gavriel was a nuisance, a broken slave, a barrier to be stepped over on his way to power. But that barrier still had a weapon and a reason to fight.
Renewed power surged through his body. The sword he held became lighter and more agile. He moved with longer strides, pushing de Silva back, back still. His throbbing wound faded into the back of his mind, like Fernan and Blanca fending off the soldiers or the continued shouts of the crowd. He could only hope they shouted for Ada.
One last furious strike and de Silva lost his balance and fell backward, clinging to the broken handrail. Gavriel twirled his sword for a better grip and raised it for a killing blow. Easy. This was easy, the pain and rage finding a home, like the tip of a sword imbedding in flesh.
But he hesitated. All he vowed had been to keep from exacting revenge on this man. His father. His master. He had learned strange lessons in the. monastery, the foremost of which was that he could no longer kill as blithely as he once had.
When forged steel finally met flesh, de Silva's right hand and the sword it held dropped to crowd below. His savage howl sailed over the noise of the crowd. He clasped the ruined limb to his chest as the howls collapsed into sobs.
Another scream climbed Gavriel's scarred back. Ada!
Blanca slid across the platform and pressed Ada's dagger to de Silva's neck. "Go!"
Fernan jumped forward, guarding de Silva with his sword— a sword he held with convincing authority. "She's right! We have him!""
Gavriel nodded once and, weapon in hand, he flew through the crowd to the arena floor. His vision narrowed, his limbs shook, and his heart pounded only for Ada.
Chapter 34
Ada ducked behind haystacks, gasping for air. Onlookers shouted and whistled. They were clearly on the side of her attacker, their jeers forming a wave of disapproval when she ran.
Her arms ached. Her calves throbbed and her lungs burned. The constant taste of rancid fear coated her tongue like black tar. The short sword she held felt as nimble and useful as timber. She gathered her wits and assessed her surroundings. Running had served her well, but her opponent had already battled and bested three men in that space—if not others on previous days. He knew the arena. He was skilled and strong.
He would find
her.
She shook her head and inhaled, swallowing the tar taste. Calm. She needed to be calm. She needed to stop mocking the idea of ever being calm again.
The warrior's sword stabbed through the crisscrossed hay, narrowly missing Ada's head. She yelped and jumped clear. He lunged after her, swatting at her head, but his glove slipped off her hair. Long tresses would have been a trap. Even as she ran, she grinned. She had nothing left but small victories.
In an open clearing, her entire world defined by the circling, shouting crowd and a barrage of soldiers, she sought cover. Cover and weapons. Near the eastern edge of the arena, she found a scattering of egg-sized rocks. But what could rocks do against armor and a sword?
Her opponent barreled across the clearing, sword at the ready, charging her like an angered bull. She backed, backed away. When he strode across the loosened rocks, he stumbled just enough to upset his attack. The downward arc of his blade wobbled wide.
Ada skittered to the side and around his back. She turned and, using both hands, swung her sword with every bit of strength. Dull and rusted from lack of proper care, the blade only slapped the warrior's thigh. He spun to the right—always to the right
She dipped around his left side and, when he pivoted to follow her escape, she stayed in his blind spot. Using the blunted sword as a club, she aimed for the backs of his knees. The man sagged to the ground with a grunt. The force of the blow radiated up her arms. She abandoned the sword and ran behind him, yanked off his helmet, and tossed it into the crowd. They responded with an unexpected cheer in her favor.
From overhead, two soldiers fell off the wooden observation platform, their armor rattling like an empty bucket. Women screamed and men pulled them away from where the fallen soldiers lay immobile. Ada spotted Gavriel on the platform where he fought a sword duel with another man. She cried out in surprise, in giddy joy. Although he did not look down to see her, he was alive and fighting. She only had to survive another few moments.