by David Penny
“Yes, Theresa is a handsome woman. I understand her husband is older by some measure, and chose to remain in Cordoba.”
“Is that so? Her domestic arrangements do not concern me so long as she is good at her job, and I know she is that.”
Samuel chuckled. “And there was me believing what people say.”
“What do people say?”
“That you are a cold fish.”
Thomas smiled, more than half tempted to tell him of the concubine who once shared his bed, tales that would make most men envious. Except Samuel appeared uninterested in either man or woman. Thomas wished for Jorge’s presence, for he was a better judge of humanity than him.
“It is of no matter to me what people think.”
“See? That is exactly what I mean. You should care more.” Samuel picked up a piece of meat, sniffed and returned it to the plate before choosing something else. “It is no business of mine if you mounted her. Good for you if you did. Some say it is a man’s duty to spread his seed as widely as he can.”
Thomas smiled. “But not you.” He was aware they had slipped into small talk when there were more serious matters to discuss, but the lethargy that flooded his limbs, the spiced food, the darkness against the windows all conspired to push other concerns from his mind.
A lift of the shoulder. “I have little opinion on the matter.”
No, Thomas thought, I don’t suppose you do. He poured himself more of the excellent wine and surveyed the remains of the meal. He decided he was no longer hungry and rose from the table. He stretched, the bones in his spine cracking and popping. He was still tired from the journey but knew true rest was impossible until the Queen was restored. Or not.
“For a man to be given a name, this Ghost, it tells me it is not the first time he has killed.”
Samuel remained at the table sipping at his wine. He said nothing, as if he had not heard.
“When I came from the Cathedral it was clear word had spread. The crowd talked of nothing else. I have seen the same before. Those attracted to the mystery of death yet repelled by the act itself. Even here where death is sanctioned.”
“Your concern is for the Queen, nothing else. This Ghost is none of your business.”
Thomas looked to the west where a faint sliver of purple light remained on the far horizon.
“I have more questions to ask, about Mandana and al-Haquim. About the Inquisition. An exchange, perhaps – I will teach you my techniques in return for answers to those questions.”
“What if I have no answers?”
“You are involved with the two in that house, you cannot deny it. I would know what Mandana is planning, not what he pretends.”
“I will consider your request, but it is difficult for a man in my position. When will you know if your magic works?”
“Science, not magic. This time tomorrow, perhaps sooner if, as you say, she is already mending. The human body is a thing of wonder, so frail and yet so strong.” Thomas slapped at his neck as he heard the whine of a mosquito. “It was Mandana I saw in that house, wasn’t it? Is he still a man of God or not?”
“He is still a priest, still an Abbot,” said Samuel, “or claims the title whether it is his due or not.” An expression of distaste crossed his face. “Ask me about him if you will, but not tonight. It has been a long day and I am fatigued. There is much you need to know when I can make sense, for he has spoken of you even before you were sent for.”
Chapter Seven
When Thomas returned from an early visit to Belia to collect the promised herbs she had not had the day before he discovered Theresa sitting on the edge of his ornate bed. She did not see him at first because he had removed his boots on entering the outer room. She was staring through the window to the gardens beyond, her face in repose, body relaxed, one hand in her lap, the other spread on the bedcover. Thomas watched her until an unease crept through him and he coughed to attract her attention.
“Where have you been?” She was on her feet in an instant.
“I had business elsewhere.”
“The Queen is your business.”
“And it is on her behalf I have been working. I take it you are here for some purpose other than to question me? Has Isabel’s condition worsened?”
“The opposite. She is better. Much better, and asking for you. She ate a good breakfast, bathed, and now is waiting on you. She has been waiting almost an hour and is sure to want to know what is so important it caused you to ignore her summons.”
“Let me change. Tell her I am on my way, I will be right behind you.”
Theresa smiled and offered a curtsey so ornate it came close to insubordination.
As soon as he was alone Thomas stripped and washed quickly before dressing in something more appropriate for greeting a Queen. He had noticed that new clothes had been brought to the room and wondered if they were Theresa’s doing.
Thomas had only just finished dressing when Theresa returned and called out, asking if he was ready. He tied his shirt as he went out and accompanied her to the Queen’s chambers. Isabel sat in the outer room on a solid oak chair padded with stuffed velvet. Thomas stopped and did as he had with Theresa, studying this woman while she was distracted. She was pale, but he expected such. The swelling of her belly was barely discernible beneath an ornately patterned robe.
Isabel turned her head and offered a tired smile. “Send someone for a chair, Theresa, then leave us. We have matters to discuss, my cousin and I.”
Thomas felt the skeins of loyalty twisting inside. This was the soft Isabel, the Queen who called him cousin not in reference to family but to honour him and his friendship. When a servant carried in a second chair, far lighter than the Queen’s, Thomas sat. Of Theresa there was no sign.
Isabel patted her knee. “Come closer, Thomas.” She stared at him, her gaze flickering across his face, and Thomas had to force himself not to turn away. “You look tired.”
Thomas smiled. “As do you, your grace. My journey was long, but nothing in comparison to your difficulties.”
“Do not call me that when we are alone. You, who has saved the child I carry. Are we not friends, Thomas?”
“As you say.” But still he could not bring himself to use her name. Not yet. Later, perhaps. He had always found informality easier with Fernando because they had fought side by side. “Are you well enough to be out of bed, your grace?”
She made a moue of distaste but allowed the formality. “Come, feel my neck, or whatever it is you do. Samuel is a big one for the feeling of the neck. I do not recall you ever having the need of it.”
“I have never had a call to treat you before, your grace.” Thomas rose and crossed the space between them. She looked up as he came, a small figure with red-blonde hair. Not a pretty woman like Theresa, but handsome, with a sense of assurance that spoke to him far more than the shallowness of looks. Thomas laid his fingers against her pale throat to find the pulse. It was steady, strong, a little fast but not abnormally so.
“Your medicines are powerful, are they not? I feel myself recovering by the hour.”
“The body is a wonderful creation, able to heal itself with only a little help. Would you show me your tongue, your grace?”
“Only if you ask correctly.” She pressed her lips together, struggling to suppress a smile.
“Can I see your tongue, please… Isabel.” He stressed the name, making her smile.
“Much better, yes?” She opened her mouth and Thomas leaned close. Her breath was stale, with a hint of the rigours her body had been through, but he could tell she was mending and returned to his seat.
“You will stay at my side,” said Isabel, no hint of a question. “As my physician.”
It was the same statement she had issued on several occasions before, and though Thomas had not deliberately said no he always went away in the end. However much he admired the woman sitting near him he left her because his life lay elsewhere.
“For as long as I can.”<
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Once more that moue, and then a sly smile. “I have dismissed the other, so you must stay.”
Thomas leaned forward. “Samuel? You dismissed Samuel? Why?”
“Because I have you now.”
“But I am not here all the time. I have other–”
“Then you should be here all the time.” Isabel’s eyes remained on the view, avoiding Thomas.
“Am I not to sleep? Not to have a life of my own?”
She sighed, still avoiding his gaze. “He is not as good as you. You said as much yourself.”
“And meant it. But he is as good a physician as I have seen in Spain, and more than good enough to attend you when I am elsewhere. I will tell him to return.”
At last her gaze fixed on his. “It is not your place to do so. It was my doing he is gone.”
“And you will accept him when I ask him to return.” Thomas refused to look away, the moment stretching out as a silent battle of wills took place. Finally, Isabel made a sound and shifted in her seat, the gardens once more offering an appeal.
“Do what you must. I expect I have to do as you say, do I not?”
“Where is Fernando?” Thomas wanted to change the subject, aware of how close he had come to insubordination, unsure how Isabel would have reacted if she had been more stubborn.
“If I tell you then you will have to stay. I do not want you running off and telling your friends of his plans.”
Thomas smiled. “I believe you may already have.”
Isabel laughed, the previous matter forgotten, the sound cut off abruptly as some remnant of pain troubled her. Thomas rose at once but she held up a hand. “No, I am fine. Just a foolish woman who forgets she has been unwell. If you ask of my husband then I must return the query. Your wife is well?”
Thomas had always been vague in the past when Isabel talked of Lubna as his wife, but now he wanted her to know the truth, his response edged with a hint of resentment.
“We are not married. We were about to be when Martin came for me.”
“Martin de Alarcón? Yes, I sent him for you, but what has that to do with a marriage?”
Thomas hesitated, but he had gone too far now. “Lubna and I were to be married the day he came. All was prepared, but I considered your need more important.”
“You came here rather than marry?” Isabel leaned forward.
“I made a decision. The right one, I believe. A marriage can wait, a Queen cannot.”
Isabel stared at Thomas for a long while before before she sat back in the chair. Her body relaxed as though suddenly tired and she closed her eyes. Thomas waited, knowing she did not sleep. When she spoke, her eyes still closed, the words surprised him.
“My spies tell me you are looking into things of no concern to you.”
Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what she referred to. His visit to al-Haquim’s house, or the body in the Cathedral? In both cases there was only one person he could think of who knew of both.
“Your spies?”
A lift of the lips, but the eyes remained closed. “Yes. Did you think I would not have spies? How innocent of you.” Now her lids rose, her gaze once more capturing him, but the subject changed yet again, though he knew it would return soon enough to what he did not want her to know. “Tell me, in your opinion is Samuel Ibrahim a good doctor? If I do as you ask and return him to his position in the palace can I place my trust in him?”
So was Samuel one of her spies? Is that what she was telling him? But if so why dismiss him in the first place?
“He is curious, which I always consider a good sign. Yes, he is a good doctor. You can trust him.” Though he wondered if he spoke the truth. Hadn’t al-Haquim called Samuel his spy? Was the man walking a dangerous tightrope between two masters?
“I would rather put my trust in you. Is he as good as you?”
Thomas stared into her eyes. Finally he shook his head. “No, of course not.”
Another smile. “One of the things I most admire about you is your lack of modesty. In other men it would seem boastful, but in you it is not, because you always speak the truth. So why were you visiting that man?”
Oh, but she is a clever woman, Thomas thought, and whoever her spies are they see everything.
“Samuel told me it was where I would find him. Surely you have been told of his visits?”
“You have a surfeit of curiosity, Thomas. And the Cathedral? Was that any of your business?”
“Was I meant to ignore it? Besides, being curious makes me good at what I do,” Thomas said. “Samuel has a little of it too, but not so much as myself.”
“Why the interest?”
Thomas looked down at his hands, the fingers long and slim. The index finger on his left hand had a deep scar running almost the whole length of it, but he could not recall the reason why. Some fight in the last thirty years, he supposed. He had fought a great deal once, often for no reason at all. The anger of youth needed little reason.
“You must know there have been deaths in the city, Isabel?” He looked up, deliberately using her name, for were they not close friends, and close friends could talk of anything?
“There is pestilence,” she said. “Of course there is death.”
“The death I talk of is deliberate. They call him the Ghost.”
She waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. “The crowd talks of everything and nothing. I have not been long in Sevilla and my mind has been elsewhere. I carry a son, another heir to the throne of Spain, perhaps.” She studied Thomas, her eyes tracking his face, and he tried not to look away. She was silent a long while, then she drew a breath deep into her body. “You tracked another killer in Cordoba.”
“A killer who remains unpunished.”
“He claims it was not him.”
“Of course he does, but we both know different.”
“Will you chase down this Ghost as well?”
“Are you asking it of me?”
“I am not, but will it make any difference if I do or not? It appears to me you always do what you want regardless of my wishes.” The faintest of smiles. “In other men, I would consider it a weakness. In you… perhaps not. You have been of service to my people in the past.”
Thomas tried to determine if she was giving him permission to investigate or not, aware she would never directly make the request, and he dare not ask in case she refused. Her gaze had gone to the darkened window once more, losing focus, and as he watched he saw how tired she was.
“I will let you rest, Isabel,” he said, his voice so low it barely disturbed her.
She nodded, the slightest movement. “Yes. I need sleep. Do they not say sleep is a great healer?”
“People say many things that have no basis in fact, but this may be one that does.” Thomas experienced an urge to cross to the small woman and kiss her cheek, even as he knew such a thing impossible. The warmth of the room, the night pressing against the windows, the almost near silence of the palace triggered a sense of closeness that encouraged dangerous thoughts.
He stood abruptly. “I will see you in the morning, your grace. Sleep well.”
She glanced at him, something in her eyes matching what he had been feeling, and Thomas turned away quickly and strode for the door.
In the rooms beyond he found Theresa next to a window, looking into the city where lamps illuminated the streets and people gathered and broke like smoke in a breeze. She heard Thomas’s boots on the wooden floor and turned.
“Isabel tells me she has dismissed Samuel. Why did you say nothing to me? Where will I find him?”
Theresa shook her head. “He has friends over there somewhere.” She waved a hand but whether in the right direction neither he nor she could be certain. “So, it will be you tonight.” She smiled. “If you need company to keep you awake you only have to ask.” But even as she spoke the words Thomas sensed some underlying sadness and wondered if she missed her husband.
“Have you been waiting for me? Did you want something?”
“Always,” said Theresa, still no joy in her voice, as if the teasing had grown stale. She glanced away. “I wanted to know if you thought the Queen improved.”
“What is your opinion?”
“I am the nurse, you are the physician.”
“Humour me.”
“I believe whatever was broken is mended, and that it is your doing. All your doing.” She turned suddenly and laid a hand on his chest, a mannerism that threatened to become a habit. “Now tell me, do you agree she is better?”
“Yes, she appears to be. Do you know who told her of my interest in the death in the Cathedral?”
Theresa shook her head. “Has there been a death?”
Chapter Eight
Thomas gave in to the midday heat and threw his hood back, believing he had finally reached his destination. He wiped a hand across his face to clear the sweat but almost immediately it returned. The small square he had entered looked familiar, but so had others he had passed through in search of the house he sought. He had visions of wandering these alleys for weeks until he expired for want of food and water. Perhaps even lack of company. He had seen no-one. Heat assaulted the city like some ravening beast, driving its population indoors. And then, as he crossed the square to enter yet another alley, on the far side he caught a glimpse of water and knew he was close.
Thomas had spared little notice to where Abraham al-Haquim’s house lay when he first came here, but now he stopped to study it from a distance, gauging, judging. It was wide, two stories high with a further level behind outer walls that hinted at a courtyard. It was the house of a man with both money and power. In this place where most dwellings were tumbled cheek by jowl such lavishness stood out. It told him al-Haquim had found a position he no doubt believed matched his importance. Even if it was the importance of defeat.
There was no closed door here. Instead a man stood to one side as though interested in no more than the view of the small square, but his eyes tracked Thomas’s approach.
“You were here the other day.” His hand rested on the hilt of a workmanlike sword, but for the moment it remained undrawn.