A Tear for the Dead Page 7

  “He cooked a meal for Eleanor?”

  Bazzu smiled. “Nothing passes you by, does it? Was she a good lover?”

  Thomas ignored the question. “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “She is living in a house in the Alkazaba, conveniently close to the palace whenever Abu Abdullah wants her. If he wants her. You know how fickle he can be. The house is on the southern edge, perched above the slope. It has an arched terrace front and back. You cannot miss it because it is painted pink. Not her doing, I expect, but not to my taste.”

  “What are we doing here?” asked Jorge. “I know Eleanor betrayed you in Qurtuba, but you cannot suspect these matters involve her, can you?”

  “The man we spoke to saw Baldomero going off with a handsome woman.”

  Jorge gave a laugh. “I expect there is more than one handsome woman in Gharnatah—I could name at least four score. I still think you are making too great a leap.”

  “Mushrooms,” Thomas said. “Amanita mushrooms.”

  “Mushrooms?”

  “I taught Eleanor about them when I first knew her. Warned her of the dangers if she ate too many. I know it was a long time ago, but what if she built on the little knowledge I gave her? What if Baldomero is in there and we don’t check?” Thomas stared across at the house Bazzu had described. It was indeed pink, but less garish than Thomas had expected. There was a connection between the walls and the red of the soil surrounding them that was pleasing to the eye.

  “That’s a lot of what ifs,” said Jorge. “If Baldomero is in there, she may not let us talk to him, and certainly won’t allow us to take him away.”

  “She can’t stop us. Not unless she has half a dozen soldiers in there with her.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  Neither of them moved.

  “You don’t want to see her, do you?” said Jorge.

  “I don’t, but I am going to have to or abandon my search.”

  “What is the worst she can do—seduce you again? And I recall you telling me you enjoyed the experience.”

  “Once.”

  “Is once not enough?” Jorge punched Thomas on the arm. “Come on, let’s get it done, then we can return to our families.”

  The door was opened by a slim woman who trotted back inside to see if her mistress was accepting visitors. She did not ask their names, so when Yves accompanied her back to see who was there, he stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open.

  “What are you doing here? Mother wants nothing to do with you.”

  “And I her, but I have some questions. The first you might be able to answer and we will be gone. Do you know a man named Baldomero de Pamplona?”

  Thomas watched Yves take half a step backwards and knew the answer.

  Yves decided to lie. “Who?”

  “He is a cook. I was told Eleanor hired him to prepare a meal.”

  Yves shook his head. “We have a cook already.”

  “Why do you lie to me?” Thomas stepped across the threshold, pushing past the servant who attempted to stop him.

  “Who is there, Yves? Don’t stand all day talking, bring them in.” Eleanor appeared at the end of the hallway, and once more Thomas felt the world shimmer with memory and pain. A beautiful woman now, he still saw details of the girl he had fallen in love with. Except that girl no longer existed. Eleanor had betrayed him in Qurtuba, and her deceit was unforgivable. At least it meant he didn’t have to care about hurting her feelings.

  “Our son is lying to me.” He raised his voice so she could hear him, pleased when he saw Yves wince at the word son. “He is telling me you did not employ a cook by the name of Baldomero.”

  Eleanor stared at Thomas for a long time. Eventually, she said, “Come through. Your man can amuse Yves while we talk.”

  “Your man?” said Jorge.

  “She’s only trying to anger you, but it’s not a bad idea. Things will go quicker between the two of us.”

  Thomas left Jorge beside Yves and strode into a wide room. A second terrace jutted out into what appeared to be thin air, but as he approached the railing, he saw heavy wooden posts set into the slope to support it.

  Eleanor smiled at him. “I apologise for Yves. In some ways he is still very young.”

  “He has thirty-five years. It’s time he learned to act like a man.”

  “He had no father figure for most of those years, and my husband barely acknowledged him. There were times I was convinced he knew Yves was not his son. He said nothing, but he was always cold with the boy.” Eleanor reached out as though to touch Thomas’s hand, then withdrew before completing the move.

  “What are you doing here?” Thomas asked.

  “Passing the time with an old, dear friend.”

  “In Gharnatah. What are you plotting now?”

  “I am plotting nothing. You know everything that happened in Córdoba was the fault of Castellana, her son, and her mad husband. They deceived me as much as you. It broke my heart to see how much I hurt you. Is it too late to rekindle our friendship?”

  “Friendship? Friends don’t lie to each other. What did you want with Baldomero?”

  “I ate his food when he cooked for the Sultan and his guests. I wanted him to cook for me and Yves.”

  “You are attracted to power, aren’t you?”

  Eleanor gave a faint smile. “If that is true, why am I still attracted to you, Thomas? And I am attracted to you.”

  “You are attracted to a memory, nothing more. We had love for each other once, I acknowledge, but we possess it no longer. Tell me what you know of Baldomero.”

  “I liked him. He was competent. I like men who know what they are doing, you know I do.”

  “Did Abu Abdullah eat here or in the palace?”

  “Who is Abu Abdullah?”

  “The Sultan, Muhammed.”

  Eleanor frowned. “Why does he have two names?”

  “Because he is the Sultan. His father was Muhammed before him, and his father’s fathers going back twelve generations. Abu Abdullah is Muhammed XII and…” Thomas stopped his explanation, aware Eleanor had distracted him from his questioning. He wondered if it was deliberate or nothing more than her nature. “I take it there were no ill-effects from eating Baldomero’s food?”

  “None. It was delicious, though a little too highly spiced. I ate the blander foods and they were excellent. Yves said he enjoyed them all.”

  “Exactly when did he cook this meal for you?”

  Eleanor stared out across the vista.

  “Ten days since? Near enough ten days.”

  “Did he say what other work he had?”

  “It never occurred to me to ask. I employed him to cook, not provide conversation. You should ask Yves. He spent time with him in the kitchen. He is interested in food and its preparation. I told him the skill is beneath him, but he doesn’t listen to me. Have you returned to Gharnatah now?”

  “I am still in the employ of Isabel.”

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “Of what? Did you know where Baldomero lived?”

  “How would I know that? Everything was arranged through Fatima. Again, you should ask Yves, he might know. Is it important?”

  “Where does this Fatima live? I would like to talk with her.”

  “She should be easy enough to find. She is the wife of the Sultan’s general.”

  “Olaf Torvaldsson?”

  “If she told me his name, I have forgotten it. Is it important?”

  “Olaf is my father-in-law,” Thomas said. “Grandfather to my children, as Fatima is their grandmother.”

  “You know so many people of power, don’t you? You have changed from the boy I ran wild with, and I am not sure which I find the more exciting.”

  “That one, I am sure, and he is dead to me now. Baldomero was seen talking with a man and woman early this morning, then leaving with them. There is nobody in his house. His wife is also missing.”

  “Well, it was not me he left
with,” said Eleanor, her expression closed. “I was asleep in my bed. Alone. But that state of affairs can easily be remedied.” All at once, she was closer to him, her scent enveloping him, and Thomas cursed the weakness of his body as it responded to her. He turned and strode away, angry at himself.

  Chapter Nine

  “Why are we going to the barracks?” asked Jorge.

  “I want to talk to Fatima. What did you find out from Yves?”

  “Only that he has become intrigued by you since he and his mother came to Gharnatah. He is even trying to learn Arabic, though I told him not to bother. Castilian will be all he needs soon enough. He’s not stupid, and he has changed since we met him in Qurtuba.”

  “He looked the same to me—weak and controlled by his mother.”

  “You are wrong in that. I believe him more confident, more sure of himself, a man who knows his place in the world. Why he has changed so much, I don’t know, and I was not with him long enough to find out the reason. Is it strange to have a son you knew nothing about?”

  Thomas slowed as they entered the cobbled barracks yard. It was almost deserted. He had given Yves’ existence little thought and wondered if that was a mistake. The boy was his son, after all. Was there at least some small connection that could be forged? In Qurtuba, Yves had been all weak bluster, but perhaps people could change. If they wanted to.

  “Did you really think him different to the last time we saw him?”

  “I thought him grown into himself. Perhaps he has accepted you being his father and it has changed him. He told me he has learned a great deal about you since they have been living on the hill. Hearing of your exploits. Your skill. Your persistence.”

  “More like my stupidity, I expect.”

  “It depends who he has asked. He has spoken to Olaf about you, and Fatima. He told me he heard about Lubna from her. I gained the impression he is sorry not to have been able to meet her. He is different to how he was when you first met him.” Jorge chuckled. “Perhaps he wants to turn into a copy of you.”

  “I can think of better role models to choose.”

  They reached Olaf’s small house, which sat on the edge of the barracks yard. Thomas entered without knocking and stopped dead in his tracks. Helena stood in the middle of the room, half-turned to see who had entered. For a moment, they stared at each other, then Jorge pushed past and went to embrace the woman who had once shared Thomas’s bed. The woman he had grown to despise, and then put himself in danger to save, more than once.

  Olaf Torvaldsson’s second wife, Fatima, emerged from the kitchen. She made a sound and bustled across to Thomas, crushing the breath from his lungs with the strength of her embrace.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to call. Too long, but I forgive you.” She patted his cheek. “Olaf will be sorry to have missed you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Off fighting, or watching someone else fight. You know how he is. I barely see him these days and I worry about him.” She did not need to explain why. As the Sultan’s general, Olaf would be involved in the coming battle when it came. Strong and skilled as he was, he was still only one man, but at least he had the advantage of an army standing behind him.

  Thomas took Fatima’s arm and led her back into the kitchen. Jorge had already drawn Helena to one side. Now they sat on cushions arranged in the corner where bright light fell through finely glazed windows. Thomas was aware of Helena watching him as he crossed the room.

  “Why have you brought me in here?” asked Fatima. “Are you hungry? I was preparing lunch for the two of us, but there is enough for four.”

  Thomas wondered when his life had started to revolve around food, but had to admit he was hungry. He also remembered how good Fatima’s cooking was.

  “I expect we can stay. I wanted to ask you what Helena is doing here.”

  “She is Olaf’s daughter, she has a right to be here.”

  “I thought she didn’t like you.”

  Fatima glanced at the door, then crossed the room and closed it.

  “She has changed.”

  “Jorge claimed the same, but I don’t believe Helena capable of change.”

  “Do not judge her too soon. I believe being held captive by Abu Abdullah changed her.”

  “She would have to change a great deal before I could forgive her.”

  “Perhaps she has, and perhaps you will. How long are you staying? Olaf may return tonight. He usually does.”

  “I doubt we can stay that long. I have a question for you.”

  “Ask, then.” Fatima busied herself with rolling out flatbreads.

  “There is a woman staying in the Alkazaba by the name of Eleanor. I know her from long ago. She tells me you recommended a cook to her, Baldomero de Pamplona.”

  “I did. It was before he went to cook for the Sultan, and she wanted to know whether to attend the meal. I told her there was nothing to worry about. She would enjoy the experience.” Fatima opened the lid of a clay oven and slapped the dough against the inner walls.

  “Have you ever had any doubt over his probity?”

  “Baldomero? Why do you ask?”

  “He was sent for by Isabel to prepare a meal for her.”

  “Your Isabel? The Queen of Castile?”

  “Not my Isabel, but yes. She enjoys Moorish food when her husband is away, as he is at the moment.”

  “The King is away? Do you think I should pass that information on to Olaf?”

  “Pass on what you want, but no doubt he already knows. Olaf misses nothing.”

  “He will miss not seeing you. Why are you asking about Baldomero? Was there something wrong with the meal he prepared for the Queen?”

  “It was tainted. Poisoned.”

  Fatima left the stew to simmer and turned her full attention on Thomas.

  “Baldomero would never do that.”

  “It could have been no one else. He created mushroom tarts, but used amanita in some of them.”

  “He poisoned the Queen?”

  “He meant it for Isabel, but it was her friend who almost died.”

  “Were you there?”

  “I ate the same food as they did, but not all of it was tainted. Theresa was unlucky, but I know he intended the poison for Isabel.”

  “Baldomero is a good man,” said Fatima.

  “Who has since gone missing. Jorge and I went to his house this morning, but he was seen leaving with a man and woman shortly before dawn.”

  “What did his wife say?”

  “She wasn’t there either.”

  “Perhaps he has another commission. Baldomero is much in demand. He cooked for your friend, and yes I recommended him, and he cooked recently for the Sultan and his guests. He has cooked for myself and Olaf. I tell you, he is a good man. An honest man.”

  “And I tell you it can have been no other.” Thomas had no wish to upset this woman who had become a mother to him. This woman whose daughter he had married and lost. But he knew she was wrong.

  “If you speak true then he was forced to do what he did,” said Fatima. “It is the only explanation. Who were this couple he was seen going with?”

  “Nobody knew them. A man and a woman, that was all I was told. Baldomero appears to have gone willingly enough. There was no force involved. I thought they might be Eleanor and her son, but now I am not so sure.”

  “So they are nothing to do with what you seek, are they? They will be clients taking him to their house to prepare a meal.”

  “And his wife?”

  “She goes with him often enough, particularly if it involves travel. Sometimes he will be away for a month or more. Now, are you staying to eat or not?”

  “Is Helena staying?”

  “Does that make any difference?”

  Thomas was unsure if Fatima had forgiven his suspicions of Baldomero or not, but he and Jorge needed to eat, and he also needed time to think.

  “How long has she been visiting?” Thomas perched on the edge of a
small table and watched as Fatima fussed over her final preparations, aware of the strong connection between them.

  “Ever since she moved back to the harem.”

  “Jorge told me she is instructing the women there.”

  Fatima smiled. “She is preparing them for what comes next.”

  “The end of the war. Have you told the same to Olaf?”

  “Olaf isn’t stupid. Neither is Helena. The women of the harem are exquisite, and she is teaching them the language of Castile and its manners. In a year, two at most, Olaf tells me, there will be many men of Castile pleased to take a beautiful wife. Particularly one with the skills these women possess.”

  “Has Olaf said what he is going to do when that day arrives?”

  “He has mentioned the north.” Fatima gave a mock shiver. “Is it cold there?”

  “I only know England. It is warm enough in summer, but the winters are long and wet. Olaf is from further north again, so it is no doubt even colder. He can stay here if he wants. I might even find a place for him under Isabel’s command. She will need loyal men.”

  “Even a man loyal to a Sultan?” asked Fatima.

  “Olaf is no fool, he serves whoever rules. I have heard him say it often enough. Let Isabel be his Sultan. Or he can retire. I will ensure she finds him land somewhere, and you and he can while away your years in comfort.”

  “Are you talking about the same Olaf? Can you see him whiling away anything, or seeking comfort? Olaf was born to lead. Born to kill other men. Born to serve.”

  “Then he can serve me,” Thomas said, not knowing where the words came from.

  “You?”

  “When the war ends, I will have a position. I have a position now, alongside Isabel. When she triumphs, there will be honours for those close to her.”

  “She will make you a duke or some-such, I suppose.” Fatima looked him up and down. “She has already changed how you look and how you dress. What happened to the Moorish Englishman who married Lubna? What would she say?”

  “She told me to serve Isabel when she lived. She would tell me the same again now if she could. Your daughter was clever. Cleverer than me. She would see the way events are turning.”