by David Penny
“What is your opinion?” asked Belia.
“I didn’t like Salman, but neither did he strike me as someone capable of cold-blooded murder. Al-Amrhan must wait until we find him at home, so tell me what you think.”
“Is this cold-blooded murder?” said Belia.
“I don’t know.” Thomas scattered fine sand on the paper to dry the ink, blew the excess away. “If I knew why the man was killed, what his killer was looking for, I might have a better idea.”
“Is he looking for something, do you think? I have not seen any bodies, so I must take your word for it.”
“The cutting is clean, not like the strike of an angry man. They remind me of the incisions a surgeon would make to save a person rather than take a life, but taken lives have been, and for a reason we do not yet know. That is what we are missing. The man’s motive.”
“Does there always need to be one?” Belia rose and smoothed her robe. “Are you going to the palace?”
“If they are still there. And yes, there is always a motive even if it is not one we might understand, but it will mean something to the killer.”
“I will walk with you as far as the market. When you see Jorge tell him not to be late for dinner. Are you and Lubna coming again?”
“I don’t know, but best assume not. Whatever was so important to have them scurrying to the Queen will probably have consequences.”
Belia offered an enigmatic smile but said nothing as she led the way from the room. Thomas folded the notes he had made and slipped them into a pocket of his robe.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“What did you say?” Thomas stared at Lubna, wondering whether she had lost leave of her senses.
“We are to be married in the Cathedral.”
“That’s what I thought you said. But you told me you didn’t want to be married here, it wouldn’t be an Islamic wedding.”
“It will not, but I know you do not follow Allah, so this wedding is for you. Besides, there is a place which may satisfy us both. She sent Jorge and I with a man who showed us a side chapel. It is a part of the old Mosque, and it feels right, Thomas. It feels like Gharnatah, not Spain. Unless you have changed your mind and do not want to marry me anymore?”
“No, I haven’t changed my mind. I had thought you wanted to wait until we returned home, but if you want to marry here then we will. When?”
“As soon as we like. Unless you wish to invite someone. Isabel said she would grant safe passage to anyone we wanted to come from Gharnatah, other than the Sultan, Aixa and Muhammed.”
“Anyone? Even your father?”
Lubna smiled. “Do you think he would come? I would like him to be here. And what about Helena, and my other sisters? Would they come too, do you think? We could invite Da’ud al Baitar, Britto even, he is a friend now, is he not?”
Thomas shook his head. “Why not everyone we know? I can’t imagine Olaf coming, not here into the heart of the enemy. Besides, it would take a fast horse and rider four days to make the journey, likely ten days to come back if it was Helena. She likes to travel in comfort. Are you willing to wait two weeks?”
“I have waited two years, what difference will two more weeks make?”
“Then write to her. Write to your father – no, write to Helena and ask her to talk to Olaf. He might come, he’s bloody minded enough. Where would they stay? You will have to warn them there is disease here. No, it won’t work.”
“Sit down,” said Lubna, “and try to breathe. I will write and wait for a reply. Let us set a date twenty days hence, that should be enough time. Now tell me, how did you get on today? You started to tell me but I think my news knocked it out of your head.” She wrapped her arms around him where he sat and kissed the top of his head.
“Where is Will?”
“With the princesses. They like to dress him up like one of their own.”
“So long as he doesn’t get used to it.”
“Isabel said… no, I told her it was impossible.”
“If it’s what she spoke of to me I agree. We are not nobles and never will be.”
“Particularly me. Are we to stay here tonight or go to Jorge’s house?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“Then let us stay here,” said Lubna. “I am becoming used to the trappings of nobility even if I do not have the right colour of skin for it. But you do. Isabel said she would make you a Duque. She has a spare title or two lying around, she told me. One of them thanks to you and Jorge.”
“Carmona,” Thomas said.
“Yes, I think that was the name. Would you like to be the Duque of Carmona?”
“I want to go home,” Thomas said. “With you. Married or not, though we would marry once we get there, I promise.”
“Isabel still needs you. Until the baby comes, at least. And now I am also here I can help when her time comes. I met the nurse, Theresa, and we talked. I like her, she is good at her job. She talked about you. I think she is a little bit in love with you.” Lubna shook her head. “Goodness knows why, you are no great catch.”
“You know she was Tabado’s lover?”
“That does not stop her gazing doe-eyed at you. But tell me, for I have distracted you, have you identified the killer you seek?”
“We have some names, but nothing is certain yet.” Thomas reached into his robe and withdrew the list he had made, smoothed it out. Lubna leaned across him to read it and he allowed his hands to wander until she slapped them away.
“These two are your suspects?”
“So Belia says. The only pair both capable and of the right mind.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I need to know more about why the victims were killed, and to be sure if it truly is a pair who are taken each time, a pair who are killed side by side. But why does he only display one of them?”
Lubna came around and took a seat. Beyond the window the wall was painted ochre by a setting sun and a paige walked the walls putting a spill to lamps. It was a long way around the palace walls and he would not complete his circuit inside the hour.
“Can you be so sure it is always two?”
“The most recent have been. It is near impossible to tell with the first deaths, they were too long ago and the method had changed since. This displaying of the bodies. But since that began Mandana assures me it has always been two, and a killer like this will not change his ways.”
“Why two, then? Are they the same or different? Are they always men, or are women taken as well?”
“I heard tell of a man and woman being killed together, but it may not have been related. Nobody thought to check them for injuries, so if they were cut in the same way I will never know.”
“What was the theory, and have you written all this down?”
“I did so the night we were at Jorge’s house,” Thomas said. “You were part of it.”
“But you know more now. Do it again, Thomas, put down everything you know and everything you suspect. Add what you learned today. And take a guess at what might be the logic of a twisted mind. You are good at that.”
“Thank you.” Thomas was unsure whether it was a compliment or not.
“And while you do so I will see if I can rescue our son from the hands of those princesses.”
After she had gone Thomas stared at the wall, thinking of her words. Our son. Was that how she saw Will, as theirs? As good as if she had birthed him herself? The boy might not even be the fruit of Thomas’s loins but he did not even think of that now, so perhaps Lubna was the same. Will was theirs. Their son. He smiled. He, Thomas Berrington, had a son. And then the smile faded. He might have another, one he had never seen, one snatched away from him when he was a bare seventeen years of age. He had given no more than a passing thought to Eleanor in over two years. He knew she likely still lived, and lived a good life. But the man who stole her from him, the Duque d’Arreu, would be gone. He had not been a young man when his soldiers left Thomas for dead on the side
of a French roadway. But the child Eleanor had been carrying, he, or she, would have near thirty years by now, in the prime of life for a member of the nobility. And he laughed suddenly at the notion that he could join such ranks.
But instead of doing as Lubna suggested and write his thoughts down again, he scribbled a short message, pulled on his robe and went to the long courtyard where soldiers were practicing their sword work. He hesitated a moment, observing those who were skilled and those who were not, finding none who could match the standard he had seen when Olaf trained Moorish soldiers. But there were more of the Spanish, and they had invested in artillery. However good a swordsman might be, however skilled a horseman, an iron ball fired faster than a man could see was a mighty leveller.
Beyond the gate the streets and squares were busy and Thomas overheard talk of more people taken by the Inquisition. He wanted to return to the house of Quys al-Amrhan. Perhaps the man had returned by now, and if not Thomas would try to gain entry. He still remembered the skill of breaking locks Jorge had taught him.
The house lay north and west, set in a huddle of narrow houses, as if they wanted to be hidden from the view of passing strangers. A few old men sat on stoops, and here and there the scent of hashish and opium sweetened the air.
Al-Amrhan’s house was indistinguishable from any of the others. Thomas had questioned Belia on why a skilled physician would live in such a modest place, her answer no surprise. Al-Amrhan was a Moor in a city of Spaniards and Jews. The Jews might use his services, but they also had skilled physicians of their own. The Spanish would rather seek out the worst of their own before using such a man. There were a few Moorish exiles who might call on him, but not enough to make a man rich. Or even raise him beyond sleeping cheek by jowl with the city wall.
The house huddled in shadow at the end of a row, the light of lamp or candle absent. Thomas shaded his eyes and leaned close to a poorly fitted window, rippled glass distorting his view. Nothing showed. The closest light came from a lamp burning at the far end of the alley. Thomas looked around before kneeling in front of the door and reaching inside his robe. A simple selection of the right tool, a twist, and the cheap lock gave way. Thomas pushed at the door and entered.
He found candles in the single room that was all the house consisted of, and lit one, doubting there would be any passerby to wonder who was inside. The only windows were either side of the door. The rear wall was solid brick. The room was no more than six paces deep, the same wide. A blackened stove was set in the far corner, the stone above dark with soot. A narrow table and even narrower bed showed where al-Amrhan ate and slept. A wooden dresser held a few plates and an ornament of some kind. Thomas took the candle closer and was surprised to discover a non-working model of the elephant clock that marked off the hours inside the palace of al-Hamra. It made him think al-Amrhan might have some connection to Gharnatah as well as Malaka, but even if he did the information was irrelevant.
Thomas set the guttering candle on the table and pulled out drawers to reveal worn clothing, an assortment of knives more likely used for eating than protection, and then in the bottom he found what he had suspected would be present. He took out the leather case and unwrapped it on the table, the contents no surprise. He pulled up a chair, sat and leaned close after drawing the candle closer. Too close as it singed his hair, and he pushed it away before trying again.
Familiar instruments, nothing he did not own himself. Clean. Well cared for, as were those inside his robe. There was little use for medical instruments unless they were clean, though he knew many Spanish physicians saw no need.
Thomas withdrew each and turned it close to the candle flame, not exactly sure what he was looking for. A trace of blood? And if he found some what would it prove? But there was none. The instruments might have been purchased only that morning and cleaned since.
He straightened, twisting his spine. It had been a long day and Lubna would be waiting for him. The thought brought a smile to his face, which was instantly wiped away as he caught sight of something coming at him fast. He was too late to stop the blow entirely but managed to bring an arm up to stop a rock splitting his skull open. As he staggered away and fell into the corner beside the stove he glimpsed a robed figure, hood raised. The man snatched at the instruments, turned and ran. Thomas clutched his arm to his chest, fearing it broken, but when he managed to make a fist without the pain worsening he staggered to his feet and set off in pursuit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
By the time Thomas reached the alley al-Amrhan had disappeared. No ordinary surgeon would have been capable of such speed. Thomas stopped, slowing his breathing as he continued to rub at his arm. He heard the strike of boot heels on cobbles and ran to the end of the alley but still the man was out of sight. He listened again, trying to place the direction of the rapidly fading footsteps. He was going to lose him if he didn’t do something, so he took a chance, turned right and ran as fast as he could, which was not as fast as he was once capable of, but fast enough. Two streets further on he saw his quarry. There were more people now as they approached the centre of the city, impeding both of them, but the closer al-Amrhan came to the Cathedral the thicker the crowds grew, and Thomas was both taller and stronger. He pushed his way through, closing the distance between them. Men pushed back, a few uttering oaths, a few striking out, but Thomas ignored their blows.
A hundred paces on and a woman carrying a basket of bread stepped in front of him and he bowled her over, not even looking back at her wailing cry. A hundred more paces and he cursed and pushed those impeding him out of the way. The crowd had gathered to watch a line of victims the Inquisition had selected being led toward the bridge and the dungeons beyond, a score of men and women surrounded by red-robed priests, a man at the head holding a gilded cross.
The line blocked al-Amrhan and he turned back, eyes scanning the crowd, passing directly over Thomas, who knew the man had had little chance to see him in the house. He circled to the side as al-Amrhan began to walk in a new direction, moving at a more sedate pace. Thomas’s long legs ate up the ground more quickly and he was on the man before he knew it. He reached out and grabbed his arm, fingers closing to prevent escape.
Al-Amrhan swung around, one of the instruments gripped in his hand. He slashed at Thomas’s face, who swayed back, came forward again and smashed his forehead into the man’s nose. Al-Amrhan’s went to his knees. Thomas gripped him beneath his arms and dragged his dead weight along, not that there was much weight. Beneath his robe al-Amrhan was skin and bone and little else, and Thomas wondered why he insisted in staying in Sevilla when Moorish cities needed men of science and would welcome his skill. Unless the killings were his reason.
Thomas dragged al-Amrhan to the side of the square and leaned him against the wall as he started to come around from his stupor. His eyes focused, went away again, came back.
“Who sent you to kill me?” said al-Amrhan, his words slurred by the blood flowing from his broken nose.
“I’m not here to kill you. Why did you run?”
Al-Amrhan touched his nose, winced. “Why do you think I ran? I value my life, such as it is.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it for you,” Thomas said. He glanced around, knowing he couldn’t take the man to the palace but needed somewhere to question him. There was only one place he could think of. Unless he dragged al-Amrhan to al-Haquim’s house and left him to the tender mercies of Abbot Mandana. But no, he could not do that to someone however many he might have killed. Instead he untied the rope holding the robe at his waist and knotted one end around al-Amrhan’s wrists, the other wrapped several times through his own. He tugged.
“Follow me, and do not cry out or I will tell them you escaped from the line of prisoners over there.” He nodded at the group being led away. He didn’t expect al-Amrhan to believe the lie but he followed meekly as if all resistance had drained from him.
Belia was alone in the wide ground floor room when Thomas arrived. He sat al-Amrhan in
a chair and used the rope to tie him to it. His head turned, eyes finally falling on Belia who had watched proceedings from the balcony and only now come inside.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “This is not your house. Save me from this madman, send for the guard. You know me, Belia, I do not want to die.”
“You won’t die,” Thomas said, “not unless you have done what I suspect, and it will not be me who condemns you. The courts will do that.”
“Then I am truly dead. What am I meant to have done?” He tried to blow the clotting blood from his nose, his eyes watering.
Thomas stepped behind him and reached around. Before al-Amrhan could react he snapped the nose back into place. It would bruise even more, but at least it would set reasonably straight. For however long the man might live, which might be only a matter of days, and Thomas wondered why he had bothered.
“Did you hit him?” asked Belia. She brought a bowl of water and a cloth and began to clean al-Amrhan’s face, dabbing gently at the dried blood.
Thomas pulled a chair close and sat, his knees almost touching those of the other man. He glanced at Belia. “Where is Jorge?”
“He went out. Said he has some things to do.” Belia smiled. “I assume you can guess what, that you know what they have been plotting all day?”
Thomas shook his head, but in frustration rather than negation. He tapped al-Amrhan on the chest.
“Why are you killing them?” he said. “And why two together?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. Killing who? You are a madman, sir, and will pay for this unprovoked attack on an innocent man.”
“As you would claim, of course.” Thomas sat back. “What did you have against Deacon Tabado?”
“Who?”
“Filipe Tabado, Archdeacon to the Archbishop of Sevilla. Did you kill him because of his religion, or something else? Tell me and you might die without too much pain. You might avoid the fires.”