by David Penny
He pushed Jorge aside, who suddenly turned and walked to the door, shot the bolts and stepped outside. When Thomas turned back to al-Haquim the man was grinning and Thomas almost did kill him then, his hand twitching in anticipation. He took a breath and held it, leaned close to al-Haquim.
“You can never hide from me, believe that, neither of you can hide. I will come for you when you least expect it and take your miserable excuse for a life. And if anything, anything happens to those close to us, if anyone touches them, then both your deaths will be long and painful.”
And then he went after Jorge.
“Get off me!” Belia’s fists stuck Jorge’s chest but he continued to hold her against him as if she might disappear if he let go. She looked toward Thomas. “Tell him to let me go. Or better still, kick him. Jorge, stop it!”
“He thought something had happened to you,” Thomas said. He pulled out a chair and sat, a weakness flooding through him as relief came. He reached for a cup and poured wine from the jug waiting on the table.
“Taken? Who would take me? And where?”
Finally, Jorge released her, but his hands continued to stroke her hair, her face, her arms.
“Has anyone been here?” he asked.
“Only that priest, the old one. He said he was a friend of yours.”
“What did he want? Did he ask you to go with him?”
“He said he had a message from you.” Belia frowned. “Or for you. He mumbled, so I can’t be sure which. No, it must have been from you because he wanted me to go to the palace where you both were. I thought the Queen had been taken ill again so I went.”
“And Mandana?”
“Came part of the way with me. Then as we approached the Barcas bridge a man approached and spoke with him. He came to me and said there was news, and I was no longer needed. It was all very strange. Did you not send him, either of you?”
“There was no news,” Thomas said. “He’s letting us know he could have taken you, could take any of those we love, whenever he wants. I am sure he has access to the palace. I have to warn Lubna.” He turned for the door.
“We need to move from here,” said Jorge.
“What are you talking about?” said Belia. “We have only just found his house, and it is perfect. I am not moving again.”
“It will make no difference,” Thomas said, pausing at the door. “If Mandana wants to find us he will. Be vigilant, that is all we can do.”
“Or act before he comes again.”
“He may not act at all. It was a warning, a show of strength. He was letting us know what could happen. I’m going to the palace. Once I’ve seen Lubna and Will, I’ll find Samuel and see what he has to say, though he is a pawn in this game, nothing more, and no doubt disposable.”
Thomas sat Will on his lap, arms wrapped around the small body, holding onto him tightly as Jorge had held Belia. Will was soft against him with the coming of sleep. Thomas could feel the growing muscle in his son’s shoulders, had seen how he held himself when he and Juan fought. He could scarce believe the event had only been that morning. It had been a day too filled with information he still needed to digest. He had gone in search of Samuel, wanting to know if he was friend to al-Amrhan, but he was missing from his small room and nobody had seen him.
Thomas kissed the top of Will’s hair. “You do know you were meant to let him win, don’t you?” he said, referring to Juan. The prince had been sure of victory, but Olaf had trained his grandson well. Perhaps too well.
“Why?”
“Because one day Juan will be King of Spain and you might need a friend.”
“Morfar say no mercy,” Will said.
“Olaf has no mercy, certainly, but he is a general and you are my son.”
“You fight King?”
“Juan is not King yet.”
“No. The now King. Fedando.”
“Fernando,” Thomas corrected.
“What I say. Someone say you fight Fedando. Who win?”
“Nobody won,” Thomas said.
“So you lose.”
“No, neither of us won. It was a draw.”
“Morfar say draw same as lose.”
“Morfar says too much,” Thomas said.
“No. Not much. Morfar not talk much.” Will grinned and clenched his fist, arm across his chest as though holding a battle shield. “Morfar fight.”
“Indeed he does.” But Thomas wondered for how much longer. Olaf Torvaldsson was not young anymore, and despite his strength and size, however great a fighter he was some battles could never be won by strength alone. It was a lesson Thomas knew he should learn himself if he was to protect his family and friends. And still someone in the city was stealing away two people at a time and though he now knew who, he did not know why, or where al-Amrhan might strike next.
Chapter Thirty
Thomas had been in this situation before and his feelings then were the same as now. Nervous. Uncertain he was making the right decision even though he knew he was. And frustrated, but not at the present situation. He had done his duty for the Queen, had spent time with her children and his son, eaten with Jorge and Belia, and between times when he could he had pursued an investigation he feared was beginning to grow stale. In two weeks there had been no more deaths, or none that he had heard of. Abbot Mandana did not request his presence anymore, which was a mercy at least, and Samuel was cool toward him. There had been no repercussion from his threats to al-Haquim, and he suspected the man had shown his usual cowardice and made no mention of it in order to save face. What result the plotting of the three men accomplished Thomas did not know. Jorge was a help, and between them they had tracked down the families of a number of the victims, but if there was any link between them it was beyond their wits to find it. But now, today, he and Lubna would finally wed. Not where either of them wanted, but it was a marker, a proof of their love.
Lubna had been spirited away by Belia, the Queen her co-conspirator, for her second henna night. By now she would be bathed, perfumed and decorated with dark lines of dye. A new set of clothes had been commissioned, Jorge deeply involved in their selection and preparation. Thomas had not been allowed to view them or provide any input. When he asked why Jorge simply looked him up and down and said nothing.
Thomas sat on the wide balcony and stared across the palace gardens. Two men were planting a new tree, an operation involving much conversation and little action. He thought of the information he had discovered and wondered if it had been worth the effort. Nothing he had found offered a clue to why the victims were selected or what the relationship between them was. Jew and Christian, Moor and Hindu, men from distant Africa whose religions defied explanation. All different. All dead. All cut in a variety of ways that showed no logic. The city Hermandos had been informed about al-Amrhan. They said he would be sought out and captured, but there was no sign of him yet. Thomas was sure the man had fled, perhaps to continue his work elsewhere.
He was growing tired of making no progress. When he had been involved in such matters before there had always been a thread to follow, one he could gradually unwind to the heart of the mystery. But not this time. He knew if al-Amrhan remained in Seville he would seek new victims, fresh bodies, and if he did there was a good chance of him being caught. Thomas also knew in hoping for this he was wishing someone dead.
Footsteps sounded and he turned to see Jorge enter the room. Thomas raised a hand, tiredness, or something, making the movement an effort.
“It is time,” said Jorge.
“How does she look?”
A smile. “You will see for yourself shortly.”
“Who came? Anyone?” Isabel and Fernando had signed a temporary decree of safe passage for anyone who wanted to attend the service, the decree lasting six days. Messages had been sent to Gharnatah but Thomas had heard nothing in response.
“You will discover that as well. Why would I want to spoil a surprise?”
“Nobody, then. Ah well.” Thomas forc
ed himself to rise. “Let’s get this done.”
“I am pleased to see you so enthusiastic. Lubna will be relieved.” Jorge was dressed to impress, in flowing silks of multiple colours. It was the first time Thomas had seen them, and was glad he had not been involved in their selection, for he would have tried to stop his friend. But now, seeing them, as vibrant as any courtesan’s robes, they enhanced Jorge’s sense of difference. At least people would see them coming.
As for Thomas, he was dressed in fine jacket and trousers, boots polished, hair cut shorter and beard shaved. When he had looked in a mirror he hardly recognised the man staring back, but had to admit he looked ten years younger. He would ask Lubna which Thomas she preferred, but half feared for her answer.
It was an hour shy of noon when he and Jorge strode from the palace gates and took the short walk to the Cathedral. The square was busy with people going about their business or simply taking time out from whatever their day might involve. Traders had set up tables and stalls selling a variety of foods, clothing, and finely crafted leather goods. More than a few of those passing turned to look at them as they crossed toward the shaded entrance door which stood open to admit them, but Thomas knew who had attracted their attention. Jorge in turn straightened to his full impressive height and moved in such a way that his robes rippled and swayed, multiple colours alternately revealed and masked. Thomas smiled that he had made an effort.
The air cooled as they entered the Cathedral and walked along the wide nave toward the main altar. Half way along Thomas stopped and dropped to one knee and crossed himself. Jorge remained standing.
As they started up again he said, “Why did you do that? You are no more a believer than am I.”
“I do not know who is watching, and the Queen believes me devout. I would have her continue in her misconception.”
Two priests approached waving censers, the pungent incense rising to the high vaulted roof. They nodded at the pair as they passed and tried not to stare at Jorge, who led the way as they approached, holding a hand out to ensure Thomas did not try to pass him and enter first.
He is revelling in this moment, Thomas thought, and smiled, finally relaxing. It was like when as a boy he had jumped from a high rock into a deep pool of the Lugge. Fear at first, and then the fall when he could do nothing, the die already cast. Followed by exultation and joy for still being alive at the end of it all.
He heard a murmur of voices, the intonation of a priest speaking Latin, the scent of the incense stronger here, the clack, clack of the censers providing an offbeat accompaniment to the words.
Jorge stopped and looked back. He said nothing as he stared into Thomas’s eyes, who was surprised to see a damp glitter in those of his friend. His best friend, he realised. Jorge belonged here, leading him into the side chapel that was built around part of the mosque that had once stood in this place. Lubna would have not allowed the ceremony otherwise.
And then Thomas’s skin prickled as the priest stopped chanting and a new voice began to sing the Islamic call to prayer, a high voice rising to the ceiling. He glanced at Jorge, who raised a shoulder.
“The Queen said she would allow it this once, in honour of you both.” He smiled. “I think she likes Lubna almost as much as she likes you. I can understand why.”
The adhan came to an end and Jorge nodded, leading the way. Thomas suppressed a gasp as he entered the small side chapel. What he saw was not possible, but it was there. His eyes did not deceive him.
The tall bulk of Olaf Torvaldsson stood beside Lubna. The figure to her right had no need to turn for Thomas recognised the ice white hair of Helena, who had come with her father to witness the marriage of her sister.
“What–” Thomas began, but Jorge stopped him with a finger against his lips.
“A message was sent. What else did you expect him to do?”
“It is safe?”
“A promise has been made. Fernando still believes in chivalry.”
Then Thomas saw Lubna as she moved from where she had been hidden behind her father, and he thought his heart might still in that moment, and he would have been content had it done so, because he could never dream his life could ever be better than this.
She was tiny beside Olaf. Dressed in a pale blue robe that fell to the ground, one sandalled foot showing, the skin curling with patterns. A silk hijab in the same colour covered her hair. She faced straight ahead even though she must have known from the stilling of conversation that Thomas had entered the chapel.
To the left, next to Fernando, sat Isabel, her children also present.
Now and never again, thought Thomas, in this one instant, al-Andalus and Spain gathered together, at peace.
Martin de Alarcón sat close by, the only man wearing a weapon, there to act as protector to King and Queen. Also, perhaps, Thomas hoped, as a friend. Beside him was Theresa, a handful of other guests scattered through the small chapel. He took his place beside Lubna, wanting to take her hand but knowing he could not.
The service began, the priest mouthing words in Latin that Thomas understood a little of, knowing Lubna would not, but there was nothing to be done about it and the words were oddly soothing. His mind drifted, the incense, Lubna’s presence, the utter strangeness of their situation drawing him out of his normal rationality into some other realm. When he glanced at Lubna she too seemed affected, even though the words meant nothing to her. It was the rhythm, the clank of the censer, the smoke. He saw her lips moving softly and knew she was intoning her own words in Arabic. When he glanced toward the Queen he saw she also watched Lubna, a strange expression on her face. As time passed a sense of unreality settled over Thomas and he felt something he had not done since he became a man. The presence of God. A God he did not believe in, a God he did not trust. But there was something here, in this place, something not of this world. He tried to dismiss the sensation and could not. Is this how Lubna feels when she prays, he wondered? This belonging, this stillness. He was used to his mind always working, always teasing at the next problem, but now it was emptied of all thought and he drifted, those around him growing distant. There was only him, and Lubna, and God. Then Jorge nudged him hard in the ribs.
“The rings,” he said.
It had been a matter for discussion. An exchange of rings was not usual in an Islamic wedding, but Lubna knew it meant something to Thomas. So two rings, not one. Thomas did not want Lubna to be marked as his possession if he was not marked as hers. The decision had been made long ago in Gharnatah, and Jorge had brought them with him as if he knew this moment would come before they returned.
Thomas took the ring from Jorge’s palm and slid it onto Lubna’s finger, then she took the ring from her father’s calloused hand and slipped it onto his. It felt strange. Thomas was not one for ornament, and he wondered would he grow used to it or not.
Suddenly people were milling around them. The Queen kissed Lubna’s cheek. Fernando followed suit before grasping Thomas’s arm and muttering about him being a lucky man, a lucky man indeed. Helena came and kissed him softly on the mouth, a reminder of what had once passed between them, then she moved on, heading for Martin de Alarcón, the second most handsome man in the room. But Helena had no interest in Jorge, and Martin was close to the Spanish King and Queen. When al-Andalus fell, having a friend in those circles would pay dividends.
Jorge laughed at something Olaf said, then Olaf was hugging Thomas, almost breaking his ribs, and he wondered at the stupidity of what he had thought about this man when he had sat with Will on his lap. Olaf was made of oak. He would never weaken. Thomas could imagine Olaf striding the earth a thousand years hence, immortal, invulnerable.
And then it was done. Isabel and Fernando moved into the main nave, Martin close behind. Jorge found Belia, who had been hidden at the back, and Theresa went to join them. Finally Thomas reached out and took Lubna’s hand inside his, bent and kissed the mouth that had grown familiar, and felt her lips curl in a smile against his.
“Well,” she said, “I’m glad that is over. Can we go and consummate the wedding now?”
Thomas laughed. “I think Jorge has something planned.”
“So do I, and it does not involve Jorge.”
“Marriage is good for you, obviously.”
They walked into the nave and on a whim Thomas tugged Lubna in the opposite direction to where the rest had gone. There was a gate at the rear of the Cathedral that led to the remnant of a Moorish garden left after the Spanish sacked the city and, by some miracle – though whose God the miracle came from he could not say – still remained.
They passed through an arch into a walled courtyard dotted with orange trees, fruit hanging heavy from their boughs but not yet ready to harvest, if they ever would in this shade. It seemed they were not the only ones to have come this way because he saw Theresa on the far side talking with a dark-robed man. At first Thomas took him for Samuel, then saw his mistake when the man grabbed Theresa and tried to drag her into a doorway. Theresa slapped the man’s face but he continued to grip her arm.
“Hey!” Thomas started forward, breaking into a run. As the man looked up Thomas saw a face he recognised, but could not recall from where. One of the physicians he and Belia had questioned? It was possible. Then the man was running fast, skidding into the Cathedral square. By the time Thomas followed he had disappeared among the throng.
He turned back and went to Theresa, who was rubbing at her arm.
“What was that about? Do you know that man?”
“I have never seen him. He said he had something to show me, something important, but I did not like his face or his tone. There was only one thing he would want from me and he was not getting that.”
Lubna arrived and laid her hand on Theresa shoulder.
“Where was he taking you?” Thomas asked.
Theresa waved a hand. “I don’t know. Somewhere that way.”