The Red Hill (Thomas Berrington Historical Mystery Book 1) Read online

  The Red Hill

  David Penny

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Historical Notes

  References

  The Thomas Berrington Historical Mysteries

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Three men lay tumbled in the bed of the cart but only one of them would live. Thomas Berrington had saved a score like these today and knew more waited his judgement. He lifted the head of the first and stared into blank eyes. Gone. The next... possible. The last had acquired a wound to his stomach, another to his chest. Blood frothed at a gaping hole each time he exhaled.

  The dying man’s eyes searched the pale sky, flicking left, right, as if seeking something to latch onto, each laboured breath an agony. Eventually the man recognised the figure leaning over him and Thomas watched a slow resignation fill his eyes.

  Thomas leaned in and whispered, “You fought bravely. You’re a hero.” He had no idea if he spoke the truth or not.

  Nothing in the man’s eyes offered a clue. Instead he began to struggle. He might die within minutes, or draw this torture out for hours. Thomas had seen men cling to the tatters of hope long after they should have let go. He leaned close, his left hand closing around the man’s right arm, just in case, his right reaching down to the weapons belt. He withdrew the knife. Without needing to look, without hesitation, Thomas slipped it between the man’s ribs to pierce his heart.

  For a moment the soldier’s eyes widened, but already life was fleeing—then gone. Thomas closed the man’s eyes and straightened to find the cart driver watching, his face expressionless.

  “There’s a place for the dead over there.”

  Thomas turned away to the last man, the one who might be saved. He dragged him clear, caught the stained body easily as it rolled free.

  Behind him the pale walls of the city of Gharnatah rose, the eastern gate thrown wide to welcome the returning victors. Thomas had been born in a land a thousand miles to the north but considered this city home now.

  He carried the man towards the infirmary tent set hard against the wall, screams and stench greeting him as he drew near. Hell enfolded him as he entered—hell in all aspects but one. Many of these men would return to fight again. No free table remained but Thomas saw the occupant of one no longer had need of it. He tipped him off with his leg and laid his new patient down.

  “Ahmad!” Thomas shouted as one of the boys fetching and carrying ran past. “Drag this corpse out of my way and put it with the others. And fetch my instruments.”

  He leaned over, pulling aside the man’s leather jerkin. This one had found a home for a musket round. It was lodged in his shoulder. Thomas dug with his fingers, searching for the object, causing the man to groan and rouse.

  “Don’t touch me!” The man swung a blow with his uninjured arm, but Thomas blocked it easily.

  The musket ball was too deep to reach without cutting. “Do you want to live, or shall I tip you onto the pile with the rest?”

  “I want a real surgeon.” The man’s voice was slurred, brains scrambled from loss of blood and pain.

  “I am a real surgeon.”

  “You’re ajami. I want a Moorish doctor.”

  “Want all you like, it’s me you’ve got.”

  Ahmad returned with the box of instruments. Most seemed almost clean. Thomas rummaged through, picking out what he needed, a hooked blade and small forceps.

  “Bring me poppy liquor.”

  “I don’t need—”

  Thomas smiled at the wounded soldier. It was not a reassuring expression. “You’ll thank me when I start. Did we win?”

  “A great victory.”

  “Aren’t they all? Now lie still and shut up, I need to speak with a colleague.” Thomas turned away. Stopped. “And don’t run off or I’ll drag you back and start without the poppy.”

  Da’ud al-Baitar glanced up as Thomas approached.

  “Help me here a moment.” On the table lay a pale figure, a slash to the man’s side half repaired. “This one doesn’t know how close to death he is.”

  Thomas put his hands on the man’s shoulders and pinned him down while al-Baitar worked quickly. The stitching wasn’t pretty, but soldiers boasted of their scars, each one testament to their courage—or foolishness.

  “I need you to assist when you’re done here,” Thomas said.

  “A few minutes. You can leave if you want, I can attend to him on my own. Go back to that pretty wife of yours.”

  “I’ll stay.” Thomas was unwilling to face the barely understood reasons behind his reluctance to return home. Most men would be only too willing to rush back to Helena, more than content to have been made the gift of a concubine from the Sultan’s harem.

  Instead Thomas watched his friend work. Al-Baitar’s movements were sure, confident—but too gentle for this place. It was why Thomas was the one standing outside deciding who to bring in for treatment, the one offering solace to those who would die in agony without his mercy. He knew why the man lying on his own table didn’t want him. Not because he was a foreigner, ajami, but for his other name—qassab. So be it. Thomas had been called far worse, and this butcher saved lives as well as took them.

  Thomas spat in an attempt to clear the bitter taste from his mouth and drew the long tail of his tagelmust across his face. Dust coated his skin, gathered in the three day stubble on his cheeks. His wish for a quiet life had been thwarted once more. If only people would stop trying to kill each other. He had saved the man in the cart but wondered why—in a month the soldier would return to fight again. All Thomas had done was delay an inevitable fate.

  Cart wheels raised more dust from the bone dry earth. A gust of wind brought the scent and sound of water from the Hadarro which ran close by, its flow hidden behind trees, water running out through a grill embedded in the city walls. The sun touched the tops of the Elvira hills and soon Thomas would follow the soldiers’ footsteps and pass through the western gate into the city. Once he had completed his work.

  He watched the passing soldiers with emotionless eyes. Those who caught his gaze looked away, uneasy at the coldness of his stare. Thomas was trying not to think of the time he had been like these men. A time richly coloured in his mind—that colour mostly red.

  He shifted his attention from the men in front as feeble cheering came, followed by the rapid clatter of a horse in full gallop. Someone came fast alongside the slowly moving line. As they passed men raised tired arms and hoarse voices to a figure they recognised. Thomas narrowed his eyes, shook his head when he saw who it was.

  Yusuf, the Sultan’s youngest son, reined his horse hard and jumped to the ground even before it had come fully to a halt. A slack body lay draped across the beast, wedged between saddle and shoulder. Blood streaked the horse’s flank.

  “Save him, Thomas,” Yusuf said. “I would have you save him. He’s not dead yet, I think. You saved me, you can save him.”

  Thomas went to the figure and grabbed a handful of hair, lifted the head. He leaned close. The boy still breathed.

  “Why this one?”

  “Because you can.” Yusuf’s voice was stern and Thomas almost smiled.

  He turned back to the horse and tugged at the unconscious boy’s belt, caught him as he fell. The movement aggravated the wound. The boy’s eyes opened and he started to fight.

  “I know you.” The boy’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

  “Good for you.”

  “You are the Sultan’s pet.” The expression of distaste on his young face reflected his feelings.

  Thomas was used to such judgement. He glanced at Yusuf to see if there was any reaction to the mention of his father, but the young prince, already skilled in diplomacy, gave no sign of having heard.

  “Can you walk or do I have to carry you?” The boy swayed, but appeared to be getting stronger all the while.

  “I’m going nowhere.”

  “Then you can die where you stand.” Thomas turned away.

  “No,” Yusuf said. “I promised you would save him.”

  “I save those who want to be saved, not fools.”

  “I order it!”

  This time Thomas did smile, drawing his tagelmust across to hide the expression.

  “Oh, I see. In that case…” Thomas grasped the boy’s arm, bu
t he pulled away and started shouting, calling on the passing soldiers to save him from the butcher.

  Thomas grabbed him again, but already five men had stepped from the line and formed a barrier between him and the tent.

  Yusuf moved to stand between Thomas and the men, believing his position as the Sultan’s son protection enough. “Let them pass.”

  “The boy doesn’t want to go,” one said.

  “Let him loose,” said another.

  There was no leader here, Thomas saw, only soldiers protecting one of their own. All five were scarred, stone-faced, experienced in battle, their tunics stained with blood and worse. Thomas had seen their kind many times over the years, grown up alongside them in a distant land he no longer called home. He wasn’t afraid. There were only five of them. He took a step forwards, dragging the boy alongside.

  Two of the soldiers blocked the way, jostling against him. One of them tried to remove his grip on the boy but failed. Thomas was stronger than he looked, and didn’t plan on releasing this prize. He knew where Yusuf stood. If any of the men drew their swords he could step back and pull the prince’s weapon. Yusuf himself would be no use—Thomas had treated his shoulder a year earlier and the right arm remained weak. The prince pretended he could fight with his left, but it was a poor substitute. It was fortunate he was the younger son and had no need to rule.

  Thomas pushed.

  Behind the two blocking him someone drew a sword.

  Thomas released his grip on the boy and stepped back. The man on his right grinned, seeing only weakness. Thomas stepped back again and his hand found the hilt of Yusuf’s sword, drawing it fast before the prince knew what was happening.

  Now they were grinning, as if they hadn’t seen enough fighting already today. But these were hardened troops—killing is what they did, and a chance to kill the foreigner was too good an opportunity to pass over.

  “Stop this now!” Yusuf stepped between them. Thomas grabbed the prince’s robe and tossed him aside. The boy he had been trying to save swayed and his legs went. He sat hard on the ground, head hanging down.

  Thomas decided the first would be the one to his right. A fast thrust to the thigh, then a backswing to disable the other before stepping past them to the last three. He expected them to run, but sometimes he was surprised. He didn’t want to kill anyone who had no need to die.

  Other soldiers stopped to watch the entertainment, forming a barrier around which some passed and some stuck to the edges like flowing blood to a scab.

  Thomas relaxed, his mind stilling. It was time.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Or not time. Not today. Not here. But he knew these men would remember him.

  Olaf Torvaldsson sat astride a small Arabian horse, his bulk making it look like a mule. The Sultan’s general wore chain armour, marking him as someone of importance, but unlike that of his master, it was workmanlike, unpolished, nicked here and there from a hundred battles.

  “Our friend doesn’t want to go with the qassab.”

  “This is Thomas Berrington. He will not harm the boy.”

  “I know who he is.”

  Olaf dismounted and bullied his way between Thomas and the soldiers.

  “And you know who I am.”

  The speaker nodded. Of course he did.

  “I order you to let them pass.”

  “He’s—”

  “Let. Them. Pass,” Olaf repeated, each word spoken slowly, each word accented and thick against his tongue.

  Thomas reached back and handed Yusuf his sword. There was no need of it now. Already his thoughts had turned from the soldiers to the injured boy.

  Thomas left the boy with al-Baitar and escorted Yusuf outside to his horse. The sky had leached itself of light while they were inside the tent, both from the setting sun but also from clouds that gathered above the Sholayr, dark and threatening. Occasional flashes of lightning played, distant for the moment, followed a long time later by soft thunder.

  Beyond the tent the line of returning men moved slower, the last gasp of returning victors, their weary steps leading them into the city. The knot of onlookers had dispersed but Olaf remained, talking to a group of well-dressed men. Thomas knew he couldn’t simply ignore the old soldier. They had a link of blood now.

  “Where is your father?” Thomas asked Yusuf.

  “He’s coming. You know he always wants to be last through the gate. And there is entertainment planned.”

  “In that case I think I’ll leave.” Thomas could guess the manner of the entertainment and wanted nothing to do with it. “Stay with Olaf until he comes.”

  “I don’t need protecting,” Yusuf said.

  “Of course not. Stay with him all the same, to please me.” Thomas knew how the young prince felt about him even as he wished it were not so, but saving the boy’s life couldn’t be taken back.

  “You are eager to return to your wife,” Yusuf said. Fourteen was old enough to know of such things, particularly if you were a member of the royal household and had lived within the harem most of your life.

  “Not my wife…” Thomas started to object then gave up, knowing it was useless.

  “She has been with you half a year now,” Yusuf said. “Isn’t it time you made her your wife?”

  “I don’t need a wife.”

  “Then throw her out.”

  Thomas shook his head. He couldn’t do that.

  “You can’t leave yet,” Yusuf said, forgetting about Thomas’s companion. “Father wants to see you.”

  “Then I have stayed too long.”

  A fresh wave of cheers sounded, some almost enthusiastic, and Thomas raised his eyes as Yusuf’s father approached, surrounded by the usual entourage of guards and hangers-on. It was a large group, swelled by several members of Gharnatah’s elite. Yusuf’s older brother Muhammed rode beside his father.

  “I see you are repairing the dead again, my friend.” Abu al-Hasan Ali, Sultan of Gharnatah, ruler of the remaining territories of al-Andalus not yet taken by the Spanish, pulled his stallion to a halt and dismounted.

  “Malik.” Thomas used the usual honorific given to the Sultan as he bowed from the waist, making ornate gestures with his hands. “Congratulations on a magnificent victory. Allah has been kind.”

  “Stand straight, surgeon. You have no need to bend your knee in my presence.”

  Thomas straightened, but his gaze remained lowered.

  The Sultan clapped Thomas on the shoulder. He was a little shorter than Thomas, who bent his knees to offer the man an advantage. Abu al-Hasan tossed his reins aside. Someone would be there to lead his mount into the city.

  “I need to talk with you, but first there is a matter of honour to attend to.”

  Thomas had seen the two men tied back to back on a single horse, but could not summon enough curiosity to wonder what crime they had committed.

  “You’re going to the bathhouse, Malik? I will find you there later.” It was a tradition for the victorious Sultan to make himself seen among the common soldiers at the baths below the Albayzin, where many of those soldiers maintained houses and families.

  The Sultan put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder to prevent him moving away. “Stay. We might have need of you.” He turned and raised a hand. “Untie them. Form a circle.”

  Thomas knew his hoped for escape was no longer possible. Around him soldiers laughed and cheered, moving out to leave an open space. The Sultan moved with them, stood at the front of the crowd as they gathered. Returning men slowed and stopped, the crowd growing, noise rising. Men started laying bets even before they saw who was fighting.

  “What did they do?” Thomas asked, knowing there would be little logic behind whatever answer came.