The Inquisitor (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 5)

by David Penny

  “Yes, that church. So it may protect itself from the evil within.”

  “You approve?”

  “It is not my place to approve or not. There are others concerned with such matters. My concern is the Queen’s inviolable soul, and I will do anything to protect her.”

  “As will I.” Thomas said.

  “Tell me,” said Talavera, “do you believe it was you or God who cured her grace?” The priest crossed himself at mention of his master.

  “I believe the Queen’s devotion helped her to recover, but it was my hand that mixed the potions, Theresa’s hand that administered them, and another woman who supplied the herbs. She may have recovered on her own through faith alone, but I believe God works through those who walk this earth. He does not bother making an appearance himself. Not even for a Queen.”

  “Sir, your words are close to blasphemy.”

  “I speak the truth.”

  “Whose truth? God’s truth? There is only one truth, and it is not yours.”

  “Are the burnings God’s truth?” Thomas’s anger sparked him to utter words he might come to regret. This man was close to Isabel, in some ways even closer than her husband, and certainly far closer than Thomas himself. The torture, the executions, were done in the name of their God, which was why Thomas had turned his back on all religion.

  “The burnings cleanse.” Talavera glanced aside, his first sign of weakness. “Spain faces greater threats than ever before, and there are times we must perform acts beyond what we wish.”

  Thomas waited for the man to say more. Instead he firmed his shoulders and washed a hand across his face, the moment gone. Whatever Talavera’s opinion of the Inquisition it was one he held close. It might be voiced to those he trusted, but it was clear he did not trust Thomas. There was still something he might reveal if it was asked, and Thomas rested his arms on the table in mirror of Talavera.

  “Tell me what you know of Abbot Mandana, Friar.”

  “I know you were involved in his pursuit a number of years ago,” said Talavera. “After he took Prince Juan.”

  “I rode alongside King Fernando, and when it was done we all assumed Mandana dead, yet here he is, once more at the heart of events. How did such a thing come about?”

  “His being alive, or his being involved?”

  “I understand a pool of water is responsible for his being alive.”

  “It was God’s will,” said Talavera, crossing himself again. “And his involvement is because the man possesses skills few others do. I will say no more on the matter.” Talavera stood and walked to the window, though there was nothing to see other than a corner of the stone wall that surrounded the palace gardens. Thomas wondered if the turning of his back was in dismissal or to hide his true thoughts.

  “Tell me one thing. Do you trust Abbot Mandana to do what is best for Spain? For King and Queen?”

  “He is the King’s man,” said Talavera, which was no answer, but all he was going to offer.

  “And the Queen?” Thomas said. He watched as Talavera’s shoulders stiffened, but he refused to turn around.

  Thomas rose, uncertain of what to do. An edge of anger still ran through him, and he was aware he needed to set it aside and use logic. He stood with his fists on the table, trying to decide whether there was anything more to be learned. This man was close to Isabel, privy to her deepest thoughts, to the fears she carried unaided. Oh to be a spider on the wall when the two of them talked, that would be something to wish for. He steeled himself to walk away, a harder thing to do than confront Talavera, but also wiser. Thomas turned, a sense of failure settling through him, just as a servant appeared, flushed as if he had been running.

  “You are Thomas Berrington?” the man asked, and when Thomas nodded, “The Queen needs you. She needs you now!”

  When Thomas saw Theresa with the Queen a moment of fear ran through him.

  “Are you unwell, your grace?”

  Isabel smiled. “Theresa was only keeping me company until you arrived. She will leave now.”

  “Is it seemly, your grace?” said Theresa.

  Another smile. “I believe I am safe with Thomas. Besides, we are not alone.” She inclined her head toward the three paiges that stood against the walls, staring at the ceiling to ensure they did not meet the Queen’s eyes.

  A second chair had been placed crossways to where Isabel sat, and as soon as Theresa left the room she indicated it, waiting for Thomas to sit.

  “I have sent for food and coffee. It is coffee you prefer, is it not? And water for me. I am being good, you see.” She was far too amenable, and Thomas watched her closely, wary. The message brought by the servant had sounded urgent, but now the Queen was relaxed, almost flirtatious. “Tell me, what is more important than the Queen of Spain?”

  Steel encased in velvet. She shifted in her chair as if some inner pain troubled her.

  “Do you have some discomfort, your grace?”

  “Do not try to distract me, Thomas. Where have you been?”

  “You know where I have been. Your advisor Friar Talavera wanted to ensure I am not about to corrupt you.” Pleased when he saw a twitch of her lips.

  “And who called on you in the middle of the night?” The trace of a smile gone now. “Were you so desperate you had to drag some woman in from the street? I have seen the way Theresa looks at you. Could you not have slaked your lust on her? I am sure she would be more than willing.”

  “The woman is my–” Thomas stopped. No, he would pretend no longer. “She was to be my wife. Our wedding was interrupted by Martin when he came for me. I told you this when I came.”

  Isabel stared at him for what felt like an age, her face without expression. Finally she leaned forward, her fingertips touching.

  “Yes, you said something. I am curious why you would do such a thing, interrupt your wedding and come to me instead?”

  “The wedding had not started, and I considered your wellbeing more important. So did Martin. He was insistent.”

  “He is a good servant, but had I known…”

  “How could you have known?”

  A shake of the head, as if it was a failure on her part. “Is she the one who ate with us in Ronda? Small, dark haired? She is beautiful. You have chosen well.”

  “Sometimes we have no choice,” Thomas said, knowing it might sound wrong. “I mean, love has no reasoning, it just is. Jorge says that all the time.”

  “Jorge is the tall one. I remember him. Handsome. He was there in Ronda, too, wasn’t he? Have they all followed you to Sevilla?”

  “And my son.”

  “Your son? He is here, in the palace?”

  “They came last night but were not admitted.”

  “Why not?” A wave of the hand. “It does not matter. They must join you. Your wife and son must be with you. But perhaps not the handsome one. He was the cause of trouble last time he lived in the palace.”

  “Jorge remains with a friend.”

  “I would meet with them. Your wi–your woman follows the cult of Islam, does she not? I recall us talking of it. She surprised me.”

  “She has a habit of doing that.”

  “And we must talk of your wedding. Send her to me when she arrives. I have matters of state to attend to, but later this afternoon send her to me so we can talk of weddings, woman to woman. And send your son, too. Juan and he shall be friends.” As if life could be organised so simply, but perhaps for one such as her it could.

  “He is younger than Juan,” Thomas said.

  “Then Maria.” A smile touched with mischief. “Perhaps we can make a match between them.”

  “He is no prince.”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It was almost noon and another building stood in front of Thomas. Lubna remained in Belia’s house, asleep beside Jorge. When she woke Thomas would take her to the palace, but he did not want to rely on Isabel’s hospitality, knowing it could be withdrawn as swiftly as it had be
en offered. Hence the house they stood in front of.

  Will clutched Thomas’s hand, patient, quiet. There had been a change in the boy over recent months. He had never been silent, even though the words he spoke were often garbled, one phrase in Arabic, the next Swedish, another Spanish. Then he had changed, saying less and watching more. Thomas worried the boy spent too much time with Olaf Torvaldsson, a man who said little and watched everything. Olaf had been training Will, Thomas unsure whether that was for the good or not, but he did know they were living in dangerous times. An ability to fight would be useful, but was the age of three old enough? Olaf claimed so, claimed it was the perfect age to begin learning how to use the shield and axe. He intended to turn Will into a miniature berserker. “When the Spanish come,” he had said. “everyone must be ready.” It had been a long speech for Olaf. Long but true.

  “It’s certainly big enough,” Thomas said to Belia, who stood the other side of Will, his other hand in hers. “And you are sure nobody lives here?”

  “It is a plague house,” she said. “It was a rich merchant’s. The entire family were swept away and now it lies empty, for no-one will risk entering. There are a hundred such houses throughout the city. They will stand empty for years unless someone takes ownership. There is a man who uses my services sometimes who works with those living in shacks outside the city walls. I suggested they could make use of the houses, but even they refuse, though they barely have a canvas roof over their heads.”

  “So are more rational, or more stupid?” Thomas examined the two story facade that fronted the street. “Jorge likes big houses, but Lubna will be in the palace with me soon. Even Jorge, big as he is, will have enough room where you are.”

  “If the Queen let’s Lubna stay,” said Belia. “I hear she is jealous of your other women.”

  “Then you hear more than me.”

  “I thought your son was Jorge’s when you brought them to me, and Lubna his wife. Why did you not correct me?”

  “Had I known I would have. You know Jorge is incapable of becoming a father, don’t you?”

  Belia laughed. “Do you think I want to bring children into a world such as this? But it is a pity, for he would make a good father. It is why I thought him Will’s. It is clear the boy loves him, so I thought… well, you know what I thought. Jorge is unattached?”

  Standing in the fierce heat of midday, Thomas said, “Yes, unattached for the moment.” He glanced at Belia, beautiful in her own right, something otherworldly about her. “You know he does not understand the concept of fidelity?”

  “I think he may have mentioned it to me at some time during the night, but I was otherwise occupied and paid little heed. Besides, you assume I am looking for permanence. We may all be dead tomorrow. No-one can predict where this pestilence might strike, or when there will come a knock on the door from those red-robed priests.”

  “How many has it taken?”

  “The sickness? Thousands in this city alone. You have it in Gharnatah, but not as bad as here. Did you have it where you come from, Thomas, this England?”

  “I came close to death as a boy. My mother and brother were taken. My sister was spared, as was my father.”

  “I am sorry you lost those close to you.”

  Thomas glanced at her. A tall woman, dark hair covered in the Moorish manner, except she was not a Moor. He suspected Belia’s race to be far more ancient. “I was not the only one, and at least I survived.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I had twelve years, almost thirteen. It was the summer before I sailed to France.” Thomas started forward, jerking Will with him, and Will in turn pulling Belia. “I suppose we had better look at this house, then.”

  The door stood closed but unlocked, a white mark across the dark wood sufficient to keep out interlopers, left this way when the last of the dead were taken out. Thomas stopped on the threshold, holding Will back, who was curious to see inside. He took a breath through his nose, let it out from his mouth, moving his tongue around. There was a faint hint of what had happened here, but soap, water, and effort would clear it. A wide staircase rose from a spacious hall, splitting into two galleries from which rooms led. To the left a large room acted as both kitchen and dining room, a windowed balcony looking over the river.

  “This is indeed a fine house,” he said. “You are sure no-one will object to us using it?”

  “Not immediately. People have long memories where the plague is concerned, but eventually questions will be asked, by the city authorities if not its population. As you say, it is a fine house, and fine houses are worth money. How long will you stay in Sevilla?”

  “Likely no more than a month. I hear the Queen is already planning to travel north while she still can.”

  “Will you go with her?”

  “If she hasn’t dismissed me by then.” Thomas stepped into the hallway. Limestone flags provided a smooth floor. Thomas felt like an intruder but knew it was his own emotion being projected. The house was neutral, as houses are. “I don’t suppose I can employ someone to scrub every surface with lime, can I?”

  “Superstition.”

  “Or not,” Thomas said, thinking of the work that was needed to clean and make the house habitable. Did he want to bring Lubna here? “Is there not somewhere smaller? Somewhere people have not died in?”

  “I did not expect you to be superstitious.” Belia released Will’s hand and walked deeper into the house, opening doors that had not been opened in a month or more. “Look, there is a good larder here, and the balcony is wide. It is a fine house indeed. We could all live here and never see each other if we did not want to.”

  “Try telling that to Jorge. You would come with us, to live here too? You could move your business here where the neighbours are richer.”

  “I do not do what I do for money. You only ask because you want someone to help clean.” Belia softened her words with a smile. She walked to the cold fire and knelt to examine shelves near the floor. Thomas watched her, uneasy.

  “Jorge,” said Will, beside him.

  “What about Jorge?”

  “Jorge like here.” Will waved a hand at the wide room that took up almost the entire ground floor, and Thomas smiled.

  “Yes, Jorge would like it here. What about you, Will? Do you like?”

  Will tugged at his hand, drawing him to the tall windows that looked across the river. Castillo de Triana, the home of the Inquisition, was not visible from the house, for which Thomas was grateful. A narrow door stood open and Will pulled free of Thomas’s hand and ran outside onto the deep balcony. There was a railing, but even if there had not been the balcony was only four feet above ground level. Thomas looked up and saw another, set out from the rooms above. Yes, Belia was right, it was indeed a fine house. When he returned Belia had found soap and buckets and was scrubbing the surface of the abandoned table. Thomas took another bucket and started at the other side of the room.

  When they were finished Will was nowhere in sight. Thomas had grown used to leaving the boy to wander freely at home, both in his own house and at the palace, where he knew he could come to no harm. He checked the front door but it was still shut, a bolt thrown across. He climbed the stairs, calling out, but could not find his son in any of the four rooms on the second floor. He searched for a ladder to an attic but found none. He ran down the stairs, taking three treads at a time.

  “He’s out there,” said Belia, who had already started work on the chairs and walls.

  Thomas went to the balcony. Will was standing on the bank of the river, the water wide and deep, the current strong. A man stood beside him, one Thomas recognised, and he leapt the balcony railings and ran toward the water, calling his son’s name.

  Will looked up and grinned, his hand clasped in that of the other man.

  “Mananana,” said Will.

  “You are a lucky man, Berrington,” said Abbot Mandana. “If I had a son I would like one such as this. He is curious, like his father. He w
anted to know what I was doing here, but of course I could not tell him the truth, so I said I was coming to see you, which is also the truth, just not the whole truth.”

  “Is there any more news about what happened this morning?” Thomas held his hand out and Will, taking a last look at Mandana, released his hold and came to him. Thomas wondered if the house Belia had brought them to was not a poor choice after all. He looked along the river bank, relieved to find the killing ground out of sight. Would the smoke and the smell of burning flesh be, too?

  “Nothing. I am here for trade on behalf of al-Haquim. A corsair is to dock this afternoon with a cargo of slaves. They will be useful, for much work is going undone with so many dead.” He glanced down at Will, up at Thomas. “You are willing to help me still, are you?”

  “You said there was something else you wanted to show me.” Thomas made no attempt to hide his disdain.

  Mandana smiled and nodded toward the house. “Do you intend to live here?” He nodded at the house. Belia was visible through the glass, bending to scrub at something on the floor. “Is that your wife?”

  “A friend.”

  “Ah. A friend. You are a fortunate man to have so many friends. Take care of them, for we live in dangerous times. Speaking of which, yes, if you are ready to help we should talk.”

  “Where and when?”

  “If you can make it tonight that would be good. And then I will show you another sight tomorrow.”

  Mandana dropped to his knees and held his an arm. Will, always far too willing to trust everyone, ran across and flung his arms around the man’s neck. Mandana hugged him, whispering into his ear, but his gaze stayed on Thomas the whole time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What did that man say to you?” Thomas carried a tired Will as he followed Belia through streets grown busy.

  “Something,” said Will, his words soft with coming sleep.

  “I know he said something, but what?”