A Tear for the Dead Page 5

  “Get up, we’re going to Gharnatah.”

  “It’s not even dawn.”

  “It will be by the time you’re ready. Come on, I need you.”

  “I know you do, but I need sleep more than I need you.”

  “Are we going home?” The conversation had woken Will, and his sitting up woke Amal beside him, though she lay on her back, only her eyes open.

  “Not yet, if Belia will look after you until I return. And then I will see if I can find a bigger tent.”

  Will rose to his feet and stretched. “Can I go find Usaden and talk to the soldiers? I’d like to find out how good they are, what armaments they have.”

  “So you can report back to Olaf?” Thomas tried to hide his amusement. “You will find out nothing because most of these are men of Castile.”

  “I speak their language well enough,” said Will. “And I saw other banners when we arrived. There are men of England, Francia, Germania and Italia. I think I might also have seen some Turks. I admit I don’t speak all their languages, but you have taught me a little of yours, Pa. I like to know about different places in the world, about different people. Is there anything wrong in that?”

  “No, there is nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Make sure Usaden is happy with the idea, I don’t want you wandering around on your own.”

  “Pa…”

  Thomas knew Will was growing up. Soon, if not already, he would no longer listen to his father’s advice. Just as Thomas had not listened to his own father’s—though he hoped he was a better father than his own had been to him.

  The sun was still obscured behind the snow-capped peaks of the Sholayr as Thomas and Jorge made their way back the way they had come only the night before.

  “I don’t welcome another night in that tent,” said Jorge.

  “I intend to find us somewhere better as soon as I can.”

  “If you can’t, we might just return to your house on the Albayzin.” Jorge looked around. “Where are we going, anyway? I thought you got everything you needed from Da’ud yesterday.”

  “We need to visit the palace and your friend the cook.”

  “Bazzu? Why?”

  “I want to find out what she knows about the man who poisoned Theresa, and where he lives. Isabel’s head cook said she is known to Bazzu and sent a message for the man who baked the poisoned food.”

  “He’ll have run by now,” said Jorge. “But I have no objection to seeing Bazzu. You should call on Olaf and Fatima while you are there. They miss you too. You have responsibilities, Thomas. Don’t neglect them.”

  It amused Thomas that Jorge should lecture him on responsibility. How the world had changed.

  As they approached the inner gate to the palace, two guards moved to block their path, but when they saw Jorge, they stepped aside to allow them entry. One glanced at Thomas and offered a nod of recognition.

  “I didn’t expect that to be so easy,” Thomas said.

  “I come often enough, they are used to me by now.”

  “To visit Bazzu?”

  Jorge laughed. “Despite what Belia says, and what I like the world to believe because it is good for my reputation, Bazzu and I have not enjoyed the pleasure of each other’s bodies in over a decade.”

  Thomas slowed. “Truly? That is not the impression she gives.”

  “Bazzu likes to tease, you know she does. And where is the harm in a little innocent teasing? You and Theresa have done enough of it these last years, and I suspect it is the same with Isabel, is it not?”

  Thomas recalled her playfulness of the night before. “She is always proper with me.”

  “Of course.”

  “So why do you come here?”

  They entered the outer gardens. Dark yew and cypress ran in perfect lines to frame distant hills. Water shimmered and flowers grew in abundance.

  “I like to keep an eye on the harem. The eunuchs Abu Abdullah has put in place are competent enough, but none care as much as I do. And I’m helping Helena.”

  “Helena?”

  “You remember Helena, don’t you? Beautiful? Wanton? Scarred?”

  Thomas slapped Jorge on the belly with the back of his hand.

  “Help Helena how?”

  “She has returned to the harem, but not as a concubine. I believe she approached Abu Abdullah and he agreed.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did he agree, or why did she approach him?”

  “The second, though both are a mystery to me.”

  “Helena wants to help the women, I believe in two ways. The first is simple enough and even you can guess her purpose, but in case you have grown even more stupid since you went to work alongside Isabel, she trains them in how to act with a man. Nobody knows how to please a man better than Helena, but you are already aware of that. Second, she is advising them on what to do when the war is over. Their choices are limited, of course. Some wish to travel to Africa or the East. Arabia and the Ottoman Empire are Islamic, so they may find places there. Others want Castilian noblemen as husbands or lovers. It’s not as if any of them expect fidelity in a man.”

  Thomas walked in silence for a moment, trying to work through what Jorge had told him before responding.

  “All of this was Helena’s idea?”

  “It was.”

  They entered the outer corridors, the words of praise for Allah inscribed in a continual line of tiles above head-height. Cold words that might prove false: There is no victor but Allah. A claim that was soon to be put to the test.

  “Abu Abdullah agreed to it?”

  “He did.”

  “I don’t understand. He held her captive for over a year. Mistreated her. Gave her to Abbot Mandana and his son as a plaything. And still she wants to serve him?”

  “Not him,” said Jorge, “the women. She wants to serve the women.”

  “We are talking of the same Helena, are we?”

  Jorge laughed. “It took me by surprise, I admit. You should talk to her. She has changed. Changed more than I thought possible.”

  “She is still Helena,” Thomas said as they turned into a wide corridor rich with the scent of cooking. “Besides, they would never allow me into the harem now I am no longer the Sultan’s favoured physician.” They entered the kitchen, passing through it to where Bazzu, the head cook, had her rooms. Bazzu claimed to know everything that went on in the palace. Thomas hoped she would also know where he could find the man he sought.

  “Jorge! My sweet!” Bazzu rose from behind her desk and bustled around. She took Jorge’s face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth. He appeared to enjoy the experience. “And Thomas—where have you been?” She came towards him and Thomas submitted to the same treatment, knowing resistance was impossible.

  “He works for the Spanish Queen now,” said Jorge.

  “Why?”

  “I believe he wants to be on the winning side.”

  “I do not want—”

  Jorge waved Thomas’s response aside. “He seeks your wise advice.”

  “And not my body? Is he of sound mind?”

  “I wonder that myself, but you know how he is. Too serious for his own good.”

  Bazzu continued to stand in front of Thomas, her ample figure pressing against his. He recalled when she would not have shown him such affection, but it appeared she might have finally forgiven him for the death of a young woman, Prea, many years before. If so, he had not yet forgiven himself.

  “Tell me what you want of me, then. Have either of you broken your fast yet?”

  “Thomas dragged me from my bed before I was even awake.”

  Bazzu clapped her hands together loudly. After a moment, a young woman appeared in the doorway.

  “Fetch sweet rolls and … what would you each like?”

  “Bread is fine for me,” Thomas said, but Jorge had a long list which he went to pass on to the woman.

  “I seek a man,” said Thomas.

  “You do? For any specific purpose?”

&nb
sp; “As Jorge said, I serve Queen Isabel now. Someone tried to poison her.”

  Bazzu stared at him for a long moment before saying, “Is she all right?”

  Thomas wondered what answer she might prefer, but Bazzu was too intelligent to believe Isabel’s death could stop the war.

  “Isabel is unharmed, but her servant, a friend of mine, almost died.”

  “I sympathise,” said Bazzu, “but cannot see what help I can be in this matter.”

  “The cook who prepared the food lives in Gharnatah. His name is Baldomero de Pamplona. Isabel’s head cook told me she sent word to you asking for someone who knew spices. She told me to send her regards.”

  “Isabel’s cook? I do not believe I know her.”

  “Her name is Maria de Henares. She said she worked alongside you a long time ago, but told me you would likely not remember her.”

  Bazzu stared into space for a while before shaking her head. “The name is not familiar, but I worked with many cooks when I was young and lithe. Perhaps if I met her, I would recall. How long ago did she say?”

  “She didn’t, but I got the impression it was some time ago. You made an impression on her, it seemed.”

  “So why does she cook for the Queen of Castile?” Bazzu patted his cheek. “No matter. Is she happy in her work? Fulfilled?”

  “She cooks for Isabel, so I expect she is fulfilled. As for happy, I could not say, but she remembers you. She told me she has asked for your help before when Isabel wants spiced food.”

  “I have no recall, but my girls protect me from most such requests. They do not wish to trouble me with trivial matters. Did you say she asked for Baldomero specifically?”

  “She wanted someone expert with spice.”

  “That would be Baldomero. Most here know him and would have contacted him directly. He has worked for me in the past, not so long ago, in fact.” She leaned against the table and tapped at the pale wood with a finger. “He cooked for the Sultan two weeks since when he had visitors from Turkey.”

  “Turkey?” Thomas thought of the Ottoman delegation Isabel wanted him to be present for.

  “It is east of Greece and north of—”

  “I know where Turkey is. Do you know where this Baldomero lives?”

  “Not exactly, but…” She rose and went to a set of shelves. Bazzu ran her finger along the journals sitting there. She pulled one out, took a look, then replaced it. “Somewhere here … yes, this one.” She withdrew another and brought it back to the table. She leafed through the pages before giving a grunt and turning the journal around. “He lives here. At least he did when I first used him, which was several years ago now. He is a skilled cook in great demand.” She glanced up to meet Thomas’s eyes. “Are you sure it is Baldomero who prepared this poisoned dish?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “Then I have misread him all these years. You cannot trust men, Thomas, I learn that even more the older I grow. You and Jorge are the exceptions, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Thomas read the location of Baldomero’s house. He knew where it lay, surprised it was not in the jumble of the Albayzin, but on this side of the Hadarro.

  “Is he much in demand?”

  “Very much so. He is skilled in many cuisines, but in particular that of North Africa. He is an artist with spice. What poison did he use?”

  “Amanita,” Thomas said, and saw Bazzu nod.

  “Then perhaps he meant not to kill. He may only have wanted the Spanish Queen to have visions and change her mind about destroying Gharnatah. I have partaken myself occasionally and it can be a most pleasant experience, especially if shared with the right man.”

  Thomas made no mention of his own experience with the mushrooms. The girl Bazzu had sent away returned alongside Jorge with an armful of sweet pastries. She scattered the delicacies on the table, oblivious of the papers already there, then ran out.

  “And bring coffee for these two beautiful men,” Bazzu shouted after her.

  Jorge perched on the edge of the table and picked through the offerings until he found one that met with his approval. He took a large bite and chewed, pastry flaking onto his chest.

  “I had a woman here recently asking after you, Thomas,” said Bazzu.

  “Jorge told me Helena had returned to the hill.” He reached out and picked up a soft roll. The bread was fresh, still warm, and delicious.

  “Oh, Helena comes all the time. And yes, she also talks a great deal of you. I believe she has changed, but this was another woman. She claimed to be a Countess.”

  Thomas stopped chewing and swallowed with difficulty. “A Countess? Did she give a name?”

  “She may have, but if she did, I forget what it was. Do you want me to ask one of the girls if they recall it?”

  “Was she tall, around my age, and beautiful?”

  “She was all of those things, though I would have put her as at least a decade younger than you.”

  “I have had a hard life. Are you sure she mentioned me?”

  “I am. She came here because she was told I know you.” She glanced at Jorge. “She also asked after you, my sweet, but mostly about Thomas. I am sorry. She must be a fool if she prefers him over you.”

  “Did she say what she was doing in the palace?” Thomas asked.

  “She did not, but after she had gone, I asked. Rumour has it she is sleeping with Abu Abdullah, so it intrigued me why she wanted to know about you. She even asked where your house was on the Albayzin.”

  Thomas felt a finger of dread creep through him.

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I said I did not know. I think she believed me, but her son may not have.”

  “Yves was here as well?”

  Bazzu smiled. “So you already know their names?” She glanced at Jorge. “Is there some delicious mystery I need to know about?”

  “No mystery,” said Thomas. “We were lovers once, when we were young. I had sixteen years when we first met, seventeen when she was taken from me. And then we met again less than two years ago in Qurtuba.”

  “Did you become lovers again?”

  Thomas saw no reason to hide the truth, aware Jorge would take pleasure in telling Bazzu his own version of events.

  “Briefly … but then she betrayed me.”

  “She had the appearance of a woman who might betray a man, as well as delight him. She attended the meal Baldomero prepared for the Turks, as a guest of Abu Abdullah. Except she uses his title. She called him Muhammed in my hearing. No doubt he likes her to call him that. I expect it makes him feel important when she lies with him.”

  “Abu Abdullah is important, he is the Sultan of Gharnatah. You are sure they are lovers?” Thomas examined his feelings about the news, but found he had none.

  Bazzu waved a hand at the idea. To her, the Sultan was still the young boy she used to chase from her kitchens and try to keep away from her girls.

  “Helena told me they are lovers, and she is the expert in such matters. The son was handsome. He reminded me a little of you. Apart from the handsome part, obviously. It was in the way he held himself. He had a confidence.”

  “Possessing a title can do that even for a weak man.”

  Bazzu waited, but when Thomas offered no more, she glanced at Jorge.

  “Don’t look at me,” he said. “If Thomas wants you to know more, he will have to tell you himself.”

  The girl returned with coffee, set it down with a clatter and ran out again.

  “The reason he looks familiar is he is my son,” Thomas said. “Eleanor was carrying my child when she was taken from me and I was left for dead on the side of a road.”

  “Does he know?” asked Bazzu.

  “He didn’t, but he does since Qurtuba.”

  “What is he like?”

  “Spoiled. Privileged. Lacking in spirit.”

  Bazzu smiled. “I like that you always say what you think.”

  “Should I not?”

  “
No, continue doing so. It is refreshing in a man.”

  A quarter of an hour later, as Thomas descended from the palace beside Jorge, he said, “I wonder what Eleanor is really doing here? I thought she had returned to France after what happened in Qurtuba.”

  “Perhaps she did and has come back, like half the nobles in Christendom. They are here to witness the end of al-Andalus. She seduced Fernando back then, remember? Perhaps she wants to balance things out by seducing a Sultan. You know he likes pale-skinned women, and she does have the most luxurious red hair.”

  “I don’t doubt she could lure him into her bed, or more likely herself into his bed, but for what reason? There is no advantage in it for her. She can’t possibly believe Gharnatah will win the coming battle.”

  “Perhaps she remains Fernando’s lover and he sent her as a spy or assassin. I wouldn’t put anything past him. He’s sly, that one.”

  “You could be right.” Thomas tried to push thoughts of Eleanor from his mind. Other matters demanded his attention. “I hope this Baldomero is at his house and we can get back to living our lives again.”

  Jorge laughed. “We will not do that until Gharnatah falls.”

  Chapter Seven

  Baldomero de Pamplona’s house sat in a row of identical dwellings that ran south from al-Hattabin square towards the Hadarro. At the far end, a low wall offered a view of racing water, cold with snow-melt.

  “What if he puts up a struggle?” asked Jorge.

  “Then I will knock him down.” Thomas shook his head. “I might be Isabel’s plaything, but I can still knock a man down. Besides, he’s a cook. He’s probably fat and slow. No doubt even you could defeat him, but he will not put up a fight.”

  “I hope we are not going to find him dead. You have a habit of doing that, you know.”

  “Killing people? Only when they are trying to kill me.” Thomas slowed. There was nothing on any of the identical doors to show which house was which, and he tried to recall Bazzu’s instructions. He counted down from the square and moved to a door two further on before hammering on it.

  “Not killing people,” said Jorge. “Finding dead bodies. I have lost count of how many you have discovered. You are a dangerous man to know.”