A Tear for the Dead Page 2

  “What sort of wine? Do I take it from the Queen?”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind or quality, whatever you find first.” He clapped his hands together. “Quickly. Go!”

  The woman raced outside, lifting her skirts to keep the hem clear of the thick mud. Thomas went to Theresa and gripped the top of the blanket. He was about to draw it down when he hesitated, then lowered it to reveal only her shoulders. He leaned closer, examining her skin. He was looking for any sign of discolouration, relieved when he found none. He would examine Theresa in full later once the woman returned and he had forced the charcoal and wine into her. He lifted Theresa’s eyelid to discover the pupil even wider than before. Sweat pricked her brow and her skin was pale. Thomas leaned close and sniffed at her mouth as she exhaled. All he sensed was the residue of the spice she had consumed.

  “What are you doing?”

  Thomas jerked upright, aware it would appear as if he had been trying to kiss the comatose Theresa.

  “Did you get the wine?”

  The woman held up a flagon. Thomas rose and took it, poured a little across the charcoal and mixed it to a paste. He set half aside, then added more wine to create a liquid. He brought the mixture back.

  “Sit her up.”

  “She is naked,” said the woman.

  “I am aware of that. I am a physician and have seen a thousand women naked.”

  “But not Theresa!”

  Thomas stared at the woman. “How can you be so sure? Sit her up if you want to see her live the day out.”

  For a moment, he thought she would disobey him, then she came and supported Theresa. Thomas ignored the display of her breasts and tilted her head back. He poured some charcoal and wine into her open mouth, then held it shut. He waited for her body to do what he knew it would. After a moment, she swallowed, and he gave a smile before pouring more of the liquid into her mouth. Satisfied it would stay down for now, he went for the thicker paste and did the same with that, alternating between paste and liquid until both were all used up.

  “What is that for?” The woman accepted Thomas’s skill now, her voice softer.

  “It will gather any poison still in her belly and prevent more being absorbed. In a short while, I will give her another liquor that will make her bring everything up. Then I will see how she is in an hour.” He glanced at the woman. “I need to examine her more delicately now. Sit at the desk and ensure I do nothing inappropriate.”

  “Is seeing her naked not inappropriate?”

  “I have already told you, I am a physician. I have seen the—” Thomas stopped himself from saying what he had been about to reveal. What he had seen of Isabel was none of this woman’s business.

  Thomas waited until she was seated before removing the blanket covering Theresa. He leaned close without touching, checking for discolouration or rash, relieved when he found none. He turned her over, having to touch her skin. It was warmer than normal, but she had no fever. He checked her back, her buttocks and legs, satisfied when he found no sign the poison had passed into her blood. He would need to check again in an hour and every hour until morning. He wondered if Isabel could find somewhere better for Theresa to recover. If she recovered.

  Thomas rolled her onto her side and covered her with the blanket again.

  “I need to fetch some things. Stay with her.”

  Before the woman could answer, Thomas left the tent. He had little time, so Isabel first, he thought, as he made for the terrace where they had eaten. As he approached, he saw three men standing guard in front of the entrance. They moved to block his way.

  “Queen Isabel ordered us to allow entry to nobody but one man.”

  “It is me who asked her to do that.”

  “You are the one called Berrington?”

  “I am. Can I pass now?”

  The men stepped aside to allow Thomas entry. “Your name was given.”

  Thomas was pleased to discover the table left exactly as it had been. There was no sign of Isabel, but he was not expecting her to be here. So much had changed since he and Theresa last walked on these flagstones. Thomas rested his knuckles on the smooth wood of the table-top and surveyed the remains of the meal. He had eaten some, Isabel less, Theresa possibly more than either of them, and he wondered which of the items had caused her sickness. That the cause might lie elsewhere did not even occur to him. Though if that was true, why had it only affected Theresa? He leaned over each of the items of food, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He had eaten the pigeon breast, but saw nothing different to what remained, so pushed it aside. He reached for the glass goblet Theresa had been drinking from and sniffed. It smelled of wine and nothing else. He dipped his finger and ran it along the bottom of the glass, but found no residue. He sucked on his finger. No taint. No bitterness. He set the three wineglasses and the two flagons of wine next to the meat. A significant amount of food remained. Rice cooked different ways, some spiced, some sugared, some mixed with vegetables, more mixed with meat. He closed his eyes and thought back before pushing all the rice away. He had no recollection of Theresa eating any.

  Which left the sweet dishes and jellies, but they had not started on them when she showed symptoms, so he rejected those, too. Now only the mixed pastries and nuts remained. Thomas picked up three almonds and tasted each, wondering if the bitter sort had been used by mistake, but all were sweet. Apart from which, Theresa would have needed to eat several handfuls of bitter almonds to see any ill effects.

  Thomas reached for the knife he had been using and cut open each of the pastries. He was half way through the task when he stopped and leaned closer. He used the tip of the knife to separate the pastry from its contents, then spread them across a plate. He looked around and reached for another pastry of the same kind. The same as he himself had eaten, as had Isabel. In fact, he recalled it had been she who had recommended the mushroom pastry to Theresa. When Thomas cut into another, he discovered what had poisoned her. He cut each of the mushroom tarts in two and placed them in separate piles. In one sat five containing poison mushrooms; in the other, seven with only the expected benign contents. Thomas had eaten one, Isabel two, and Theresa three. How many of those three had been the wrong kind? He had no idea. One at least, perhaps all.

  Thomas reached for a jug of water. He spread the poison mushrooms across the plate, then washed them. He gave a nod. Amanita—the slightly yellow flesh and red top pitted with white spots could be nothing else. They were not usually fatal unless consumed in significant quantity, unless whoever had created these deadly delicacies had steeped even more of them in water, then distilled the liquor to increase its potency. Thomas recalled doing the same as a seventeen-year-old on the verge of turning from boy to man. He had been taught about the effects of the mushrooms by someone he had considered an old man at the time, back in the sleepy Marches town of Lemster he had once called home. Until he had been accused of murder, and then the town lost half its number to the pestilence. The old man had been a monk. Brother Bernard—the name came to Thomas in a rush of memory, together with green fields and hedges painted white with hawthorn flowers in the spring. The River Lugge and a girl by the name of Bel Brickenden. At one time, he thought they might marry, but that was before death came to the town and scrubbed the innocence from his soul.

  The present returned only slowly to him. He smiled and shook his head. The boy he had been then would never have believed he could stand here, looking down at the detritus of a meal shared with the Queen of Castile. If he prayed, he would pray all three of the pastries Theresa had eaten were not tainted. He pushed away from the table, ignored the guards still positioned at the door, and made his way to the interior of the farmhouse. At least the rain had stopped so the soldiers outside would get no wetter—though it might take them until the morning to dry out.

  Thomas saw no one as he walked through corridors dimly lit by small windows. Even on a bright day, the illumination would be scarce enough. Though he lacked someone to ask, he
knew where he wanted to be, and his nose led him in the right direction with only one false turn. He came to a forking of ways, hesitated, sniffed and turned right. He was rewarded when he walked into a large room where seven women stood around a table that filled over half the space. Three fires burned, making the air almost shimmer with the heat from them. All the women were dressed in thin cotton, their sleeves rolled back, sweat beading their brows.

  “Are you lost, señor?” The largest of the women turned from where she had been issuing instructions to two younger girls. Thomas thought of Bazzu, the head cook in al-Hamra. The girls reminded him of those who scurried to her command. He tried not to think of one whose death he still felt responsible for.

  “I believe I have found the place I need to be.”

  “Are you a cook?” She eyed Thomas up and down, unimpressed with what she saw. No doubt he lacked the girth a good cook was meant to possess. She shooed the girls away. “You know what to do, so make sure you do it well. Now, señor, what can I do for you?”

  “Did you cook for the Queen at midday?”

  “We all did. There was a great deal of food, but it seems she and her guests must have eaten it all for none has come back.” She appeared disappointed.

  “That was my doing. Some of the food was poisoned.”

  The cook stared at him, her mouth working as if trying to swallow a lump of gristle. “You are wrong, señor. I oversaw every single item taken to the Queen. It was of the highest quality, even if most was of Moorish recipe.” The gristle appeared to be stuck again.

  “I am sure you believe it to be so.” Thomas made at least some attempt at smoothing her ruffled feathers, alien though it was to him. He had been forced to learn a whole range of new skills since working alongside Isabel. “Who oversaw the making of the small mushroom pastries?”

  “That was Baldomero. In fact, he oversaw most of the dishes because the Queen instructed us to provide Moorish food.” She glanced around at her workers. “None of us here are familiar with such … delicacies. We followed his instructions, but as I recall, the mushroom tarts he insisted on preparing himself. He said they were delicate and needed special handling.”

  Thomas looked around, but he was sure he had seen no man among those in the kitchen.

  “Where is this Baldomero?”

  “He left soon after we took the food out. He came to do a job, did it, and left.”

  “Show me where he worked.”

  For a moment, Thomas thought the cook was about to refuse him.

  “I was a guest of Queen Isabel when her companion was taken ill. She has asked me to investigate.” It was only a slight stretching of the truth. Isabel had not forbidden him to investigate, which as far as he was concerned was permission enough.

  The cook stared at him, a spark of fear in her eyes Thomas was familiar with. “Are you the Berrington?”

  “I am Thomas Berrington, yes.”

  The cook clapped her hands. “Show him where Baldomero worked. Do it now.”

  A slim girl of little more than fifteen years darted forwards and waited for Thomas to follow, her body quivering from either tension or fear. Fear most likely, the same as he had seen in the head cook. Thomas knew his reputation, even here where he tried to soften his reactions, but old habits died hard. He gave a curt nod. The girl skipped away, and he followed.

  Chapter Three

  The table where Baldomero had worked was set to one side, separated from the other preparation areas by a good six feet. Thomas suspected the others had not wanted the Moorish spices to taint their dishes. As the girl turned to leave, considering her task complete, Thomas stopped her with a touch against her thin shoulder.

  “What was he like?”

  “Baldomero?” As if he had asked about someone else. “Kept to himself. Brought his own ingredients with him. Thought he was better than the rest of us.”

  “What did the head cook think of him?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “Did you try his food?”

  The girl nodded.

  “What was it like?”

  “You ate it, didn’t you? You tell me. You look like a man more used to spices than I am, or any of the rest of us here.”

  “But you tried it, didn’t you?” Thomas nodded towards where the head cook was trying to ignore their conversation. “Your mistress must have done so to employ him.”

  “I heard he came recommended.”

  “Who by?”

  Another shrug to show she didn’t know. Thomas had no other questions, so turned away, but the girl was not quite finished.

  “It was good, I liked it—the spice.”

  Thomas turned back. “So did I.” He offered a smile and knew he must have got it almost right when the girl smiled back. She gave a bow and moved away to return to her work.

  Thomas examined the few items remaining on the work-table, which had been cleaned when the man finished cooking. Three knives of varying lengths sat in a wooden block, and Baldomero had brought his own pans. A small array of stoppered pots sat on a shelf. Thomas reached for each, twisted the tops loose and sniffed. He recognised the herbs and spices used by Belia when she cooked for them, the same Lubna had used, and which even Thomas himself had used on the rare occasion he cooked for himself.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary—at least nothing that would be out of the ordinary a league north in Gharnatah. Thomas turned and spoke loud enough for the head cook to hear.

  “Did Baldomero bring his own ingredients?”

  The woman made a show of being interrupted. “Most of them. He asked for lamb and beef and we supplied the pigeon and flour, but he brought everything else.”

  “There is nothing here anymore other than a few spices.”

  “He took most away with him and we threw the rest out. We would use none of it.”

  “Threw it where?”

  The cook spoke to the girl again. “Show him.”

  She hurried across. Thomas followed her outside to where two piles sat at a distance from the rear of the farmhouse. Three dogs were searching through the discards, but ran off as soon as Thomas and the girl approached.

  Thomas ignored the pile the dogs had been scavenging in and knelt to examine the discarded vegetables. The girl hovered nearby, and he told her she could go before picking up a stick and starting his search. He saw beans, peas, sugar cane, beets and carrots. He also saw an array of mushrooms. These he picked out and set aside. Then he found what he was looking for. The unmistakable red and white cap of amanita. There was one entire mushroom and one quarter piece. He rose and took them back inside.

  “Did you see Baldomero using these in his tarts?” he asked the head cook.

  She examined the mushrooms resting in Thomas’s palm.

  “Never seen them. Why?”

  “Do you recognise them?”

  She gave a shake of her head, which made Thomas wonder at her ability as a cook.

  “These are what poisoned Theresa.”

  “Theresa? It was she who was poisoned? You did not say.”

  “I am saying now.”

  The cook looked down at the red and white mushrooms again. “Will she die?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  When the cook met his eyes again, she said, “You are the physician, are you not? The one who repaired Prince Juan’s leg? The one who assisted at the birth of Princess Catherine? I see now why Queen Isabel has taken you into her employ.”

  “This Baldomero, do you know where he lives? Among the soldiers or somewhere apart?”

  “He comes from Granada whenever the Queen requests Moorish food, but I do not know where he lives.”

  “So how do you ask him to come?”

  “I send a message to the head cook in the palace and she passes it on.”

  “Bazzu?” Thomas said.

  “Do you know her? I heard a rumour you used to live in Granada.”

  “More than a rumour. How do you know Bazzu?”

  �
��I worked alongside her many years ago, before she went to the palace. She was already well thought of, and I doubt she even remembers me.”

  Thomas heard something in her voice. Jealousy perhaps, or something else? He knew he lacked Jorge’s skill to understand what it was.

  “I will remember you to her if you tell me your name.” It was irrelevant, and Thomas knew he had more important things to do, but asked anyway.

  She hesitated a moment. “Maria de Henares.” She spoke in a low voice, as if she didn’t want her staff to hear. Perhaps she feared they might start calling her by name.

  Thomas returned to find Theresa still unconscious. The woman sat at the table, though her eyes looked heavy.

  “Has she moved?” Thomas asked.

  “Not a muscle.”

  He went and checked, but found no change from when he left. At least she was no worse. He took the other chair at the table, opposite the woman.

  “I have prepared something that is going to make Theresa sick. You can stay or you can leave. I can manage on my own for this. But I will need you to return in an hour because I have something else I have to do.”

  The woman stared at him. She was pretty, fine-boned with luxurious dark hair. Her clothing set her apart as one of the ladies who attended Isabel. Most of the time, Thomas ignored them.

  “I will help,” she said. “I have children, and a husband who likes wine too much, so someone vomiting is nothing I have not seen often enough before. I will stay as long as you need me.” She looked around the tent. “I will have another bed brought in, if that is acceptable to you?”

  “It is.” Thomas rose and went to where the liquor had been steeping long enough. He swirled the glass jar before returning with it. “Help me sit her up.”

  The woman knelt beside the bed and lifted Theresa, the tendons standing out in her slim arms.

  Thomas put two fingers into Theresa’s mouth and opened it. Theresa gave no sign she was aware of what he was doing. Thomas poured a third of the liquid into her mouth, then held it shut. He waited. Waited a little longer. Theresa’s automatic response came and she swallowed. Thomas repeated the process until all the liquid was gone.