by David Penny
Thomas grunted, admiring the man’s bravery, or stupidity. At least Martin had taken the precaution of dressing in the long dark robes favoured by the Moors. Now, in his own city, he was dressed as a Spanish noble, albeit a bedraggled and filthy noble. Thomas pushed through the crowd, ignoring protests, until he caught up with Martin.
“How much farther?”
“Not far, but I would prefer to be without these crowds. They’ll thin soon enough when the burnings are done.”
Their path took them around the edge of the crowd, close to where fires had burned. As they reached the closest point Thomas turned to watch as fresh faggots of wood were stacked. Rumour had reached Gharnatah of what was happening in parts of Spain. The suspicion and persecution. The cleansing by fire.
“I thought you were a Christian country,” Thomas said, knowing it was not his place to judge, but unable to say nothing.
“We are,” said Martin. “And what is done here is done in the name of God.” His voice was low, as though reluctant to speak in defence of this action. He crossed himself, touched two fingers to his lips.
They passed the bridge leading from the far bank, to be confronted by a group of individuals tied together, wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle. Held here on the edge of the water out of sight.
“Do you need to make such a spectacle of it?” Thomas heard the disgust in his voice and hoped Martin did too.
“The citizens need to see we protect them.”
Thomas spat on the ground. These people needed him, but he wasn’t sure he could do what was being asked. Men and women stood with heads bowed, rough tunics thrown over them, each marked with a slash of red, no pattern to the marks other than what they indicated. These were the conversos Thomas had heard of. What made the sight worse was that each knew the fate awaiting them.
“At least we have the mercy to behead our enemies,” Thomas said. “This is beyond cruelty.”
“You have no understanding of what we do.”
“Nor do I wish to.”
Martin stopped so suddenly Thomas walked into him. “This is not your country, and these are not your people.” Each phrase was punctuated by the thud of a closed fist against his chest. “It is none of your business what is done here. Do what you have come to do and look the other way. We are fighting a war. One that has come too close to home.”
The two men stared at each other. Thomas felt an urge to strike out at Martin, but knew it would do no good other than as a release for his anger. He tucked that anger somewhere inside where it could smoulder like the ashes of the fires.
“Take me to the Queen then, away from the stink and these people.” Thomas offered one last glance at the figures. Twelve of them, two women among their number, all with downturned faces. A melee of priests and hangers on jostled in preparation for the coming executions. At the rear stood a tall man dressed in black robes. Not a priest, nor executioner. For a moment his gaze caught Thomas’s, hesitated, then moved on.
People continued to stream through the gates as Martin led the way to a smaller door set into the wall. He pounded hard and eventually a grill opened and the face of a man appeared.
“This is a private entrance.”
“As well I know. I am Martin de Alarcón, on the Queen’s business, and I demand entry.”
“You could be anyone.” The man’s eyes scanned Martin from head to foot. “You don’t look like you’re on the Queen’s business.” His gaze shifted to Thomas, who stood patient, the saddle bags still across his shoulders like some pack animal.
“If you force us walk to the Macarena gate then I will make it my business to discover your name and be sure to report your assistance.” Martin turned to look to where the fires were being re-laid, fresh wood being stacked to form a platform. “I am sure no man can be considered completely innocent these days.”
By the time Martin turned back the door was already being unbolted. But whether the man had opened it to allow them entry was brought into question as it swung inward and a group of robed men emerged. Thomas stepped back, a chill of fear running through him. He wanted to run but knew it was too late. The lead figure stopped at the sight of Martin, then his head turned.
Thomas had been aware Abbot Mandana, the rogue priest who had almost killed him and Jorge three years earlier, had been taken back into the fold. He had seen him in the ranks of soldiers scattered across the plain below Ronda before it fell, but he had not been close to the man since hunting him down for the kidnapping of a royal prince. The man’s gaze, when it fell on Thomas, was as cold as ever. He looked older, and held his left hand across his chest. Except there was no hand anymore – a wolf had torn it from him.
“What are you doing here?” Mandana’s voice was rough, his clothes reeking of smoke.
“He has come to attend the Queen,” said Martin.
“She needs no heathen near her.”
“Thomas is an Englishman, Abbot. As good a Catholic as you or I.”
Mandana made a sound in his throat, half cough, half laugh. His companions moved on, leaving the three of them in a loose triangle. The guard made to close the door but a glance from Martin stayed his hand. Mandana’s gaze remained on Thomas, his eyes tracking his face. It was as though spiders crawled across his skin. Mandana smiled to reveal long, yellow teeth. “The sacks suit you, Don Berrington. You always were stubborn as a mule. Try to make no trouble, sir, for troublemakers are not welcome in Sevilla these days.”
Thomas pushed past him. It was either that or strike the man. He cursed at the thickness of the crowd that made progress near impossible. He turned to ask Martin if there really was no better way when all at once the pressure eased. More than eased as men, women and children stopped dead in their tracks and a murmur ran through the crowd, the same word repeated. The Ghost. It is the Ghost.
Thomas craned, trying to see what had caused the commotion but too many bodies lay between him and whatever had caused them to stop. And then they began to run. Slowly at first and then with a growing clamour, climbing over each other, trampling the weak underfoot in a haste to escape.
“Leave,” said Martin, his voice sharp. “Leave here now.”
But Thomas had never been a man to turn away from unpleasant sights and pushed forward, progress suddenly easier as the crowd fled. So it was he saw the source of their fear. A man had been hung against the wall. Ropes at his wrists and neck were tied to spikes and the body swung from side to side as if only recently placed there.
Thomas took a step closer, then more, staring up at a figure whose chest was bared and cut in the same way as he had seen the body in the plague cart less than an hour before.
“What is this?” he said. “More of your damned torture?”
But Martin only grabbed his arm and dragged him away, not needing to repeat his words again. Not your business.
Chapter Three
By the time Thomas left the Queen’s inner chambers he had almost forgotten his encounter with Abbot Mandana and the strange sight of the hanging man. They would come to mind later, once he was alone, but for the moment there were more pressing matters. From behind he heard footsteps and the closing of a door. He didn’t turn, not yet, but made his way to a window that spilled late sunlight across the wooden floor, staining it blood red. Which, he considered, was appropriate.
“Do you have the cloth?” He turned, his attention on what the nurse held in her hand. Only when he took it did he raise his eyes to see who had attended Isabel. “You,” he said.
A brief smile touched Theresa’s lips. “Did you not recognise my voice, Thomas Berrington?”
“It has been some time.” But something of her tone had been familiar, and had he not been so distracted by Isabel he might have realised who the voice belonged to.
It would have been inappropriate for him to lay his own hands on the Queen, or even to be afforded sight of her body. Instead he had stood behind a screen and issued instructions to the women beyond. This woman amongst them. This woman who he had almost laid ha
nds on three years before when they shared the duty of attending to Prince Juan, Isabel’s only male heir.
Thomas turned his attention back to the cloth, reaching for it. White linen, stained red with royal blood. “She still bleeds, then.”
“Not so much, but yes, she still bleeds.”
“And the child moves? You are sure?”
“I am as good at my job, Thomas, as you are at yours. Yes, the child moves. Another boy, I am sure.”
Theresa appeared not to have aged. If anything she looked younger, a little slimmer, her auburn-red hair bright with the sheen of health.
“I need to go in search of supplies,” Thomas said. “Marjoram, fennel, valerian root. Lavender, of course, but that is everywhere. Feverfew and black cohosh if I can find them. Do you know of somewhere?” Thomas’s gaze rose to meet Theresa’s and he felt a jolt of arousal at the hunger he saw in hers. He suppressed it, knowing he would have to work with this woman over the next weeks until the Queen recovered. Or lost her child, the supposed boy.
“I am meant not to, but yes, I know. I will provide directions. You will find most in the narrow alleys east of the palace, where the Jews live. There is a woman there who is much prized for her skill in such matters.” Theresa shook her head. “Some people continue to believe in magic rather than place their trust in God’s mercy.”
Thomas held her gaze. “And you?”
“I believe in you. If you say these herbs are needed then I will tell you where to find them.” She tilted her head to one side so thick hair covered one eye. The move made Thomas uneasy. “Can you cure her?”
“I would prefer to have examined her myself, but–” Thomas held a hand up as Theresa started to speak. “No, I trust your abilities. It is only that I would have liked to see for myself. I know such is not possible, but even so…” He glanced down at himself. He had scrubbed his hands and face but beneath the robe his body was coarse with grit. “I need to bathe. Send me those directions and I will do my best.”
“Then she will recover,” said Theresa. “The child too. Shall I ask for a bath to be sent to your rooms?”
“If you can.”
Another smile. “And wash you as well, if that is your wish. You turned me down once, remember, but the offer remains. You know it does, do you not?”
“I was to be married less than a week ago.”
Theresa laughed. “Is that meant to be a polite refusal? What has being married to do with anything? Particularly for one such as you. Is it true that in Granada a man may take many wives? I have heard rich men there have concubines. Do you have a concubine, Thomas?” She placed a hand against his chest. “Would you like one?”
“What I want is to wash the stink of travel off me, to dress in clean clothes, and in the morning I will go in search of the herbs I need. Nothing else concerns me.”
Theresa left her hand in place a moment longer, the pressure of it having no effect now as Thomas thought of Lubna, who would be nursing her disappointment alone in Gharnatah. And of the news she had broken to him the morning before she left for the palace. Isabel was not the only woman in his life to carry a child.
“Then I will send a note for you.” Her hand slid away and she began to turn.
“Wait. Do you travel with the Queen now? The last time I saw you we were in Qurtuba and now you are here in Ixbilya–”
Theresa offered a laugh. “Where?”
“Sevilla, then.” Though Thomas believed the word sounded almost the same. He would have to remember to use the Spanish pronunciation, as he would the Spanish names for the herbs he sought. “Are you close to her?”
“She trusts me,” said Theresa, starting to turn away again
“One thing more,” Thomas said, and she turned back, a look of impatience on her face that surprised him. She was not the same Theresa he had once known. Something had changed in her, she carried some sadness that had not been a part of the woman he had known.
“Have you changed your mind about my offer?” But it was not said to tease, she was merely playing the part expected of her.
“When I came into the city there was a man hanging from the wall,” Thomas said. “And the crowd were calling out a name. The Ghost. Over and over.”
He watched Theresa’s expression stiffen.
“Ignore them, it is superstition, nothing more.”
“The body wasn’t superstition. And I saw another with the same wounds in a plague cart. What is going on in the city?”
“Pestilence, nothing more. Some fool finds it amusing to occasionally display the bodies and the mob have given him a name. Ignore it, Thomas. You are here to care for the Queen and nothing more.”
He watched as she finally made her escape, watched until she disappeared. He wiped a hand across his face, and wondered if he could save the life of the child Isabel carried. He would do his best, but sometimes his best was not good enough. And he knew she had lost other children early. It was said she had difficulty carrying to full term. Which would be… Thomas shook his head. He should have asked. Not seeing Isabel himself he had no idea how far along she was in her pregnancy. Long enough for the child to move, which would make it three months, more likely four. But what if it was seven months? That would make a difference to his treatment. Thomas knew he had distracted himself with his questions about what he had seen. It had been a mistake and he went to the door Theresa had used, wanting to ask the more important questions he had neglected.
He passed through a series of rooms without paying them heed. They were each there to offer protection to the inner sanctum where Isabel, the Queen of Castile, lay nursing her pain and fear. The first room was empty, and Thomas walked faster, passing through two more before he heard voices, recognising Theresa’s, plus that of a man. The words were muffled until he used a final door, and then they cut off abruptly.
Both people turned toward him, only Theresa familiar at first. The man was tall and thin. He was dressed as a priest in a long dark robe, the hood thrown back to reveal luxuriant hair that would more suit a noble than a man of God. His face was clean shaven. Thomas frowned, trying to place where he had seen him before.
“You are the other doctor?” the man said.
“Are you Isabel’s priest?” Thomas had heard tell of her confessor, but if this was he then he was not what he had expected.
The man smiled. “A confessor of sorts, but I am like you, Don Berrington. Before you were sent for I was the Queen’s physician.” The voice was cultured, with only a slight accent. Thomas listened hard for a note of hostility but found none.
“For how long?” Thomas asked.
“Since she came to Sevilla, so two months.” The man glanced at Theresa, a brief flicker of his eyes, but it was enough. Theresa made a curtsey and moved away. “Come, you must be tired and hungry, let us sit together and discuss the Queen and what treatment you intend for her.” Still nothing there, nothing at all.
Thomas followed the man, hanging back to observe him, a sense of confusion about their encounter. He recalled the last physician to the Queen, the one he had met in Qurtuba, and the enmity shown him then. They moved along corridors, any servants they encountered standing with downcast eyes until they passed. Thomas saw this man was treated with the same deference as a noble, yet he was not, which told something of the honour afforded him.
They came to a small chamber set with a table, food and wine already laid. The man indicated a chair.
“This was to be my supper, but there is enough for us both, I am sure. Sit, Don Berrington, and forgive me in advance. I have a thousand and one questions for you and fear I will inundate you with them, so let us eat first.” The man poured dark red wine into fine crystal goblets before taking his own seat. Despite wanting to bathe Thomas took the offered chair, the food sparking his own hunger. They had eaten little and badly on the journey, and the meal laid before him sweetened the air with the aroma of familiar spices. He waited for the other man to start, but when he sat without speaking Thomas
reached out and pulled the leg from a fine capon and bit into it, wiping grease from his beard.
“You have the advantage of me, sir.”
A smile. “I doubt that. My name is Samuel Ibrahim. Like you I trained at the infirmary in Malaka. A fine city, and cooler than Sevilla.”
“You are a Jew?” There was no judgement in Thomas’s words. Jewish physicians were renowned throughout Spain for their skills, and he was pleased Isabel had seen fit to appoint one.
“I was, but now I am a good Catholic.”
Thomas wondered if this change was a means of furthering Samuel’s career or a genuine conversion. He tore a chunk of soft bread free and dipped it into a spiced sauce, used his fingers to take one of the pieces of marinated pork. He noticed that Samuel helped himself to small strips of capon, bread and beef, but ignored the pork.
“Have you been treating the Queen?” Thomas asked.
Samuel nodded. “I believe I have stemmed the worst of her bleeding, and Theresa tells me the baby still moves, so there is hope.”
“How long until her time?”
“The child will be born before the turn of the year. A month either way. You know how it is, Don Berrington, short of asking a man and women when last they laid together it is impossible to be more accurate. And particularly when that couple are King and Queen of Spain.”
Thomas worked the timings, aware that when he had last met with the Queen on the plain below Ronda she must have been carrying the child, possibly not even aware of it herself. Ronda had fallen at the beginning of May, so Isabel may not have noticed the lack of her monthly bleeding. Which raised a thought.
“This problem she has,” Thomas said, “is it the first time she has bled?”
“The first time this pregnancy. She has done so before and lost the infant as a result, which is why you were sent for.”
Thomas listened for any hint of resentment but heard none, unless it was because they spoke Spanish and he missed it, but he thought not. He found he was growing to like this Samuel Ibrahim, even if he wasn’t being entirely honest.