A Tear for the Dead Read online

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “And show me this book of positions you claim to have, perhaps there is something Belia and I have not yet tried.”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “Yes … you are probably right.”

  The fact Baldomero de Pamplona’s house had so far failed to yield a single piece of useful information continued to nag at Thomas, which was why he and Jorge once more stood within its walls. For how much longer the house might remain unoccupied, he didn’t know, which was why he had made it his first task to visit there as soon as everyone was settled in his house on the Albayzin. Belia had told him she went through every item brought from Baldomero’s house on the cart, and there was nothing unexpected amongst the tools of the trade for a cook. She did comment on the presence of unusual herbs and spices, but none that could kill someone, not even make them slightly ill. Which left papers.

  Thomas sent Jorge to examine the other rooms while he searched the kitchen, but the search took barely any time at all. De Pamplona seemed to make no notes. All his knowledge must reside in his head. Thomas searched again, lying flat to reach deep into drawers and cupboards, but with the same result. He was starting to wonder if the cook had not been responsible for Theresa’s poisoning. If so, it raised a whole new set of questions. Which of the cooks used by Isabel might be? He didn’t even want to consider the danger she was in if that was the case.

  He went in search of Jorge, expecting he would have had the same result, but couldn’t find him. When Thomas went out to the street, he saw him talking with a woman of middling years with a wash-basket of clothes at her feet. Jorge raised a hand to beckon Thomas over.

  “This beautiful maiden collects washing from the street. She told me she saw something you need to hear.” Jorge turned to the woman. “Tell him, my sweet. He is not dangerous, despite how he looks.”

  The woman didn’t seem so sure.

  “I told you everything, can you not tell him? Baldomero was a good man, and I may have been mistaken.”

  “Mistaken how?” Thomas watched the woman take a step back and knew he had been too abrupt. He glanced at Jorge to recover the situation.

  “Everyone we have spoken with confirms what you say. Baldomero is a paragon of virtue. How old was this woman you saw?”

  The woman looked between them before nodding at Jorge.

  “Your age, I would say, and almost as handsome.”

  “You are too kind. How was she dressed?”

  Thomas was sure Jorge knew all this information, but he waited to hear it from the woman.

  “She dressed in expensive silks and satins. Her hair was dark and shone like polished fire.”

  “You said you overheard their conversation on one occasion, did you not?”

  “I was not eavesdropping, but I called for Baldomero’s washing and he invited me in while she was there. He spoke to me in Arabic, but then as I was loading my basket, they conversed in an unfamiliar language.”

  “Castilian?” Thomas asked.

  “No, I would have recognised that, I speak a little of it myself, we all do these days. It was familiar, but I could not say from where.”

  “Did it sound like this, or did it sound like this, or did it sound like this?” Thomas spoke in English, the tongue of Naples, and finally the language of the south of France.

  “That one,” said the woman.

  “Which?”

  “The last. Speak them again, but use different words this time.”

  Thomas looked at her a moment, then said, in each of the languages, “How many of the mushrooms do I need to give her?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Yes, that one, the last. And I am sure those are the same words I heard. What is their meaning?”

  “You are fortunate Baldomero knew you didn’t understand what they were talking about,” Thomas said. “My thanks, you have been of great help.” He held out a coin for the woman.

  “We need to visit the hill,” Thomas said, and Jorge nodded. There was only one person they knew who both matched the description given and spoke the language of southern France.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thomas knocked on the door of Eleanor’s house, expecting a servant to answer, but instead Yves opened it.

  “Is your mother home?”

  “She left early this morning. Do you want me to tell her you called when she returns?”

  Thomas heard a hesitation at the end of his words, as if he had meant to add something. Father perhaps, though he doubted it. Certainly not sir. He was starting to think Yves no longer hated the idea of an estranged father as much as he once had.

  “Tell her, but I would like to talk with you as well if I can.”

  “About what?”

  “That is an excellent question, to which I am sure I will soon work out an answer.”

  “Do you need me?” asked Jorge, who had stood beside Thomas the whole time. “If not, I would like to visit some people on the hill while we are here.”

  “No, I don’t need you. Go see Bazzu.”

  “That may not be who I meant.”

  Thomas smiled and sent Jorge away before turning back to Yves.

  “May I come in?”

  “If you want to talk, I need something in return.”

  “Ask, and if it is mine to give, you can have it.” It occurred to Thomas that Yves and Eleanor might be running short of funds. They had been in Spain a long time and had no obvious source of income.

  “Mother tells me you live in the city.”

  “I do. Not all the time, but at the moment, I do.”

  “I would like to see your house.”

  “Why?”

  “Curiosity. I am growing used to the idea of having a father, and would like to learn more about him.” Yves met Thomas’s gaze, something different in his own. He had grown in confidence since their first encounter in Qurtuba. Thomas wondered how much he knew about his mother’s actions.

  “Are you sure you want to see the city’s sights and charms, such as they are? I could take you to the Hammam baths, unless you are like most of your countrymen and forgo such pleasure.”

  “Mother bathes in the palace. It might be where she has gone today, she didn’t tell me.” Yves smiled. “And yes, take me to the baths, and then your house.”

  “The house will be busy,” Thomas said. “Everyone is there.”

  “Who is everyone? Wait a moment, I will fetch a cloak.” Yves stopped and turned back. “Will I need a sword?”

  Thomas held his hands out from his sides.

  “Am I wearing one?”

  “But you know this city, and no doubt its people know you. Both Mother and I keep hearing your name mentioned.”

  Before Thomas could ask who by, Yves disappeared into the house. Thomas peered along the corridor, half-expecting Eleanor to be hiding somewhere inside, but if she was, she continued to hide. Yves returned within a moment, pulling a cloak around his shoulders. It was dark red, almost black, with a fine sheen. At least it told Thomas he had no need of funds.

  Within the hour, they had explored a little of the city and Aamir found them a private chamber. Thomas led the way through the humid, scented air. Yves followed slowly, his head turning this way and that as he took in the unfamiliar sights.

  “You said Eleanor has used the baths in the palace, but I take it you have not?”

  Yves shook his head, then stopped in his tracks as a slim girl came towards them carrying a pot of oil. Her shift barely fell to mid-thigh, and the thin cotton clung against her youthful body.

  “I have not, but I am not as averse to the habit of washing as many of my countrymen.”

  “Would you prefer we spoke French rather than Castilian?” Thomas asked in that tongue.

  “It would be easier for me, I admit, but no, I need the practice. Mother tells me we will need to be fluent before long. As it seems you already are.”

  “Better than I was a few years ago, but you are right, it will
become the language of the whole of Iberia soon. But won’t you be returning home then?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Thomas turned into the chamber Aamir had assigned them, aware he had let his feet carry him without thought. He had bathed here so often, he knew every corner and niche.

  “How does this work?” asked Yves as he stood in the doorway. His newfound confidence appeared to have deserted him.

  “We undress and stand under that pipe and let hot water cascade over us, then use the soaps to wash ourselves.” Thomas pointed to where a round stone pipe emerged from the wall, a slow drip falling. Over many years, that steady drip had created a hollow in the stone beneath. “And then we float in the water here for a time.” Thomas nodded at a recessed bath filled with clean water, a faint steam rising from the surface. It was eight paces by four, deep enough to cover a man to the waist if he stood. “But the bath is optional. We will be clean by then.”

  “I want to try everything.” But Yves made no move to remove his clothes. “Is there no door to afford privacy?”

  “No, no door. One or two of the servants might pass, but they have seen enough naked men and women to last them a lifetime. I expect you hold no surprises for them. Though a Frenchman might be a cause for curiosity.”

  Thomas hung his cloak on a peg set opposite the pipe and removed the rest of his clothes. When he turned to face Yves, he did so deliberately. His son had yet to remove his own cloak. Thomas saw his eyes track his body, but felt no shame. He had been naked in front of Jorge and others often enough to no longer care who saw him. It was only flesh, and in this case it was family flesh.

  “Stay dressed then, but I intend to wash.”

  “Where did you get those scars?” asked Yves.

  Thomas pushed his leg out and touched a raised line above the knee.

  “See this?”

  Yves nodded, eyes wide.

  “This happened when soldiers sent by the man you believed to be your father broke my leg. I was seventeen years old, the same age as your mother, and she was carrying you inside her.”

  Yves continued to stare at the scar.

  “Did it hurt?”

  Thomas laughed. “It was the most painful injury I have ever experienced, before or since. So yes, it hurt a great deal. I thought I was going to die.”

  “And yet here you are.” Yves came to a decision and unbuckled his cloak. He walked past Thomas and hung it on a peg, then removed his shirt, keeping his back turned.

  Thomas walked to the spout and pulled a lever. Hot water cascaded over his head. He reached into a niche cut in the stone for soap and washed himself, his eyes closed. He assumed Yves would watch, and when he next opened his eyes, they confirmed his assumption. His son, a man of thirty-five years, stood naked. Thomas shook his head to clear it of water and surveyed him. Yves was as tall as him, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He was a handsome man, and Thomas wondered why he remained unmarried. He stepped away from the cascade of water and handed the bar of soap to Yves.

  “Pull on the lever and rub hard.”

  He moved past him and slid into the welcoming heat of the bath itself. He watched Yves wash himself, seeing him grow more at ease with the situation until a young girl entered and Yves covered his manhood with his hands.

  “Do you need anything else, Thomas?” She glanced at Yves and suppressed a smile. “Does your friend want a woman?”

  “Ask him yourself, though you will need to use Castilian. His name is Yves.”

  The girl turned to face Yves.

  “Do you want a woman when you finish, Yves?” The name emerged with an exotic twist in the unfamiliar language.

  He shook his head hard, splashing water.

  “No, no woman.”

  “A man, then?”

  “Gods, no!”

  “Take a coin from my cloak, Asha,” Thomas said.

  “You know Aamir says everything is free for you.”

  “This is not for Aamir, but you. Take something.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Should I not?”

  She grinned. “Thank you, Thomas. Is Jorge coming?”

  “Not today.”

  When she was gone, Yves straightened up. He used his hands to sluice excess water from his belly and sides.

  “Why do you let a slip of a girl like that call you by name?”

  “Because she is as worthy to do so as anyone else in this city. She works hard and does her job well. She is no worse than me and I no better than her. Tell me what you have heard about me.”

  Yves stepped away from the water that was slowing. He looked uncertain about what to do next, even though it was clear what was expected. In the end, he slid into the pool opposite Thomas and sank to his chest.

  “That you are the best physician in the city, perhaps in the whole of Iberia and beyond.”

  “And the negative?”

  “That you are arrogant and cold. They call you the butcher, do you know that?”

  “I am sure it is a term of affection.”

  “It did not sound that way when it was told to Mother. They also say you get involved in matters that are none of your business. Like you have done now.”

  “Where has Eleanor really gone?” Thomas knew an opportunity would come if he relaxed Yves enough and judged now was the time to press for answers.

  “I don’t know. Truly, I do not know, but I suspect she is with the Sultan again.”

  “Again?”

  “I think she likes him, and he her.”

  “Are they lovers?”

  “Would it make you jealous if they were?”

  Thomas laughed. “When we go to my house, you will see why I am not jealous.” His smile faded. “I loved your mother once, it is true. Loved her more than anything in this world. But we were wrong for each other. I think we both knew it, but could not accept the truth. I would have liked to have seen you grow up, though.”

  “I would have been a different man if you had,” said Yves.

  “Yes, you would. Why have you never married? Have you ever lain with a woman? Or a man? I would not judge you if you had.”

  “I have. With women, that is. But marriage is difficult for someone in my position. Mother says we must find the right match.”

  “Perhaps she can arrange something with Queen Isabel. She has a surfeit of daughters, though I believe most are spoken for, and Juanna is not suitable.”

  “I do not know who you speak of, but a princess would be far too elevated for someone such as myself. Mother says someone will come along, eventually.”

  “Perhaps you can marry one of Abu Abdullah’s daughters. He has several, all exquisite and all young. The single ones, anyway.”

  “They are Moors,” said Yves.

  “True, they are. I was once married to a Moor.”

  “You were?”

  “Someone will no doubt have told you that.”

  Yves said nothing, which was answer enough.

  “What business did your mother have with Baldomero de Pamplona?” Thomas was unsure if the time was right for the question, but he had held on to it as long as he could. Soon they would begin the climb through the Albayzin, and he didn’t know if there would be an opportunity once they entered his house.

  “Who?”

  Thomas was disappointed.

  “You will meet your half-brother and sister when we go to my house. Neither would ever lie to me. Why do you do so now? I know Eleanor met with Baldomero more than once. I want to know to what purpose.”

  “Mother never tells me anything.” Yves turned sulky.

  “How adept is she at using herbs these days?”

  “She told me it was you who first taught her about them.”

  “I did.”

  Yves smiled, starting to relax again, perhaps believing they were on safer ground.

  “She claims she outstripped her tutor. She is called on by a host of people who want her to consult for them.”

  “In their a
ilments?”

  Yves’ gaze shifted away as if fascinated by the bathhouse. He looked up to where openings at the top of the walls were cut in the shape of stars, moons and circles.

  “Yes, in their ailments. Perhaps you and she should have stayed together. You would have been a formidable team.”

  “Yes, I believe we would. Unfortunately, we would almost certainly have killed each other. Is Baldomero staying at your house?”

  “No.”

  “So where is he? I was told he was seen leaving at dawn one morning in the company of a man and woman. Was that you and Eleanor?”

  “It was not me.”

  “But it could have been her?”

  “How early in the morning?”

  “A little before dawn.”

  “In which case, I would no doubt have still been asleep. I do not rise early, I have no need to. When was this?”

  “It was several weeks ago.”

  “Why do you want to find this man so much?”

  “Because he almost killed a friend of mine. A good friend. The poison was not meant for her, but for Isabel. Queen Isabel. It was only good fortune she didn’t eat the poisoned tarts.” Thomas splashed his hand into the water, making Yves jump. “Tarts poisoned with the same mushrooms I taught your mother about all those years ago.”

  “She had nothing to do with what happened.”

  “But she knew about it, didn’t she? She spoke with Baldomero, and she led him away from his house. His wife is also missing. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know, and neither does Mother. You are mistaken, Thomas, and will be making an even greater mistake if you accuse her without proof of any kind.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “He knows something, but I won’t get any more out of him today.” Thomas sat in the courtyard of his house with Jorge. A jug of wine rested on the low table between them, almost empty now, and it was late. Yves had returned to the house on the Alkazaba. Thomas had sent Usaden to ensure his safety. Gharnatah was normally safe enough, but these were not normal times.

  On this side of the Hadarro, everyone else slept.

  “Do you believe Eleanor had something to do with the attempt on Isabel?”