A Tear for the Dead Read online

  “Catherine is there,” Thomas said, teasing.

  “So is Juan.”

  “I thought you and he got along.”

  “We did, once.”

  “And now?”

  “He is turning into a prince.”

  Thomas laughed. “He is a prince, and one day he will be King of Castile.”

  “And he wants everyone to know it. You don’t see it, Pa, because he likes you.”

  Thomas recognised the truth in Will’s words, gratified his son could read Juan so well.

  “Am I right in thinking you still want to see Catherine? Or does she believe herself a princess?”

  “I see her now and again. We—” Will broke off. He dropped a hand to curl his fingers through the long hair on Kin’s neck.

  Thomas considered pressing Will for more, then thought better of it. Will was a handsome boy on the cusp of turning into a handsome man. Catherine was a good few years younger than him, but the daughters of kings and queens had to grow up faster than those of ordinary men. Not too fast, Thomas hoped.

  He glanced at Jorge, wondering if he should ask him to advise Will. Wise words regarding the ways of men and women would come better from him than Thomas, who had little experience to base any advice on. No good experience, in any case.

  “Can I take Kin hunting while you talk with the Turks?” Will asked. “Usaden said there are good rabbits in the woods, and we might even get a boar.”

  “Boars are dangerous.”

  “I know.” It was clear Will felt no need to point out that he could also be dangerous. It was a judgement Thomas didn’t doubt. He would wager his son against almost any man except Usaden, Olaf or himself, and he wasn’t so sure about himself anymore.

  The last of the Castilian camp fell behind. Ahead, a cluster of tents stood on a low rise. They were of a more ornate design than those used in Castile, with higher peaks, their walls fashioned of silk rather than canvas or cotton. They were meant to impress, and it worked. Thomas wondered if they were also intended to keep out the weather. No doubt those using them would have discovered the proof of that last night.

  Three men left the group gathered on the ground and started down the slope. A dozen more remained, together with three women, one of whom stood apart from the others. Already Thomas knew Jorge would evaluate her, though little evaluation was needed. She was achingly beautiful.

  “You had better leave now if you want to hunt,” Thomas said to Will. “I think my work is about to begin.”

  “Give them hell, Pa.”

  Thomas laughed as he watched his son run away—agile as a deer and strong as an ox. Also stubborn as a mule sometimes. He shook his head at the simple comparison to beasts. Will was Will. His son. Unique, as all people are.

  “Do you have business with us?” The lead man spoke accented Arabic that differed from the language used by Thomas, but it would suffice. He stopped six paces away. The man glanced to where Will was about to enter the tree-line. “Or are you joining your man to hunt? I like his dog.”

  “I like his dog, too. You are the Ottoman delegation?”

  “Who wants to know? We have no time to pander to casual curiosity. We have sent scores away since we came, but I admit none of them spoke passable Arabic. Where did you learn? You do not look like a Moor.” The man glanced at Jorge, then away, mistakenly regarding him as unimportant.

  “My home is in Gharnatah.”

  The man narrowed his eyes as he regarded Thomas.

  “So what are you doing here? Is that not the army of Castile spread out behind you?”

  “I am a seeker of knowledge,” Thomas said. “My companion is a seeker of experience. We search out both wherever we can. I am curious about you and would welcome finding out more.”

  The man laughed. He looked at his companions, who also laughed, as though an expectation had been placed on them. Thomas assumed the man was their leader and took a moment to judge him. Tall and slim, handsome, with a black beard neatly tended and black hair cut long. He wore a wrap of cloth around his head in the Turkish manner, his clothes fashioned of fine cotton and silk.

  “Perhaps I can propose an exchange of information,” he said. “I will provide the knowledge you seek in exchange for the knowledge I seek.”

  “And if I am not a knowledgeable man?”

  The man looked into Thomas’s eyes.

  “I doubt that. I doubt that very much. Your name?”

  “I am Thomas Berrington, and my companion is Jorge Olmos. The youth you saw entering the woods is my son, Will.”

  “And the dog?”

  “His name is Kin. He was my dog, but now he is my son’s.”

  “I am Koparsh Hadryendo, and I lead this sorry band of exiles. We too are searchers after knowledge. You are welcome in our camp, Thomas Berrington. You too, Jorge Olmos. Come, we will talk and drink coffee, then you can report back to your mistress.” The man laughed. He appeared to laugh a great deal. “Yes, I recognise your name and I know who you work for. I also know who you used to work for. My party spent a pleasant week in Gharnatah in discussion with the Sultan, and he mentioned you. As did his guest, a rather beautiful Frenchwoman.”

  Thomas fell into step beside Koparsh Hadryendo as they started towards the largest of the tents.

  “I suspect Abu Abdullah may have given you the wrong impression of me, as would the woman, if she is who I think.”

  “It was not flattering, I am afraid, but then I believed little the Sultan said. Perhaps you are a paragon of virtue and not a snake who bites the hand of his betters. I make my own mind up about men. The woman spoke of you only with affection.”

  They reached the tent, but rather than enter, Koparsh indicated where carpets and cushions were set on the ground. Thomas waited for him to sit first, then followed, his movements awkward. He had been too long in Isabel’s service and grown accustomed to tables and chairs.

  Koparsh made small-talk until the beautiful woman brought coffee. She was slim, with dark eyes and even darker hair that hung loose. Beneath the silks of her robe, it was clear there lay a body that could offer the promise of delight. Her eyes offered a promise of even more. She wore a scarf, but it hung loosely around her neck rather than over her head. The tails of the scarf touched the ground as she knelt to set a jug and cups on the carpet.

  “Is there anything else, My Lord?” She remained on her knees, looking as if she could maintain the position all day. Thomas stared at her because such beauty deserved attention. When he glanced at Jorge, it was to see him also studying her.

  “Do we have any of those small cakes you made last night? I always think they taste better the next day.”

  “I will go and see.” She rose and moved away, her movement lithe.

  “She is a wondrous cook,” said Koparsh. “And she makes the best coffee in the world. Turkish coffee is the best in the world, and Salma’s is the best in Turkey.”

  “Is she your wife?” asked Jorge.

  “My companion, but also her own woman. Do you have a wife?”

  “A companion also.”

  “And you, Thomas?”

  “She died.”

  “My sympathies.” Koparsh nodded to one of his men, who poured the coffee. Only the three of them would be drinking it, though a fourth cup remained empty. When he had finished, the man retreated to stand at a distance. Salma reappeared with a tray holding sugared cakes, which she set down. Instead of leaving, she settled on the ground between Thomas and Jorge despite there being not enough room, so her shoulders touched against theirs. She reached out and poured coffee for herself.

  “Why are you here among the army of Castile?” Thomas had grown tired of small-talk. The day was passing, and soon Isabel would talk with these men. More than likely this man, their leader. He half expected Koparsh to avoid a direct answer, so it surprised him when he did not.

  “My master sent me to this land, to this war, to judge what action he should take. Sultan Muhammed sent a request for our help, but
the Sultan Bayezid, the second of that name, all honour be upon him, does not make impetuous decisions. He sent me here to discover the truth of the matter.”

  “Surely the war will be over before you can report back?”

  “Which is why Sultan Bayezid sent a man he can trust. A man who can decide on his own. Gharnatah is Islamic, as is Turkey and the lands she now rules. It makes sense that we should support the Sultan Muhammed. But what makes sense does not always make sense.” He raised his eyes to meet Thomas’s. “You understand this, of course.”

  Thomas made no reply other than a brief nod. He sipped at his coffee. He hated to admit it, but Koparsh was right. He had never tasted better. He reached for one of the small cakes which Jorge had already consumed two of. Jorge now leaned even closer to Salma as they whispered together.

  “What is your opinion of Abu Abdullah?”

  Thomas expected a political response, so it surprised him when Koparsh once again answered honestly.

  “He is a fool. Even worse, he is a weak fool. It is only those around him who keep him in power. I met his general, the big Northman. Now there is a man who knows what power means.”

  Thomas suppressed a smile. “Olaf doesn’t care for power. He does what he is told by his master. Whoever that master might be.”

  “What will happen to him when Gharnatah falls? My master could find a place for such a man.” Koparsh glanced at Jorge and Salma. “I see your friend fascinates Salma.”

  “She is safe with him. He is a eunuch, but he does so love to beguile a woman. Or a man, for that matter.”

  “He does not look like any kind of eunuch I have ever seen. Is he clever? Ottoman eunuchs are usually clever. Is it the same here?”

  “Jorge is clever enough, but his intelligence takes a different form to that of other men. And I would not approach Olaf with any offer if I were you, he believes in total loyalty.”

  “He must know the war with Castile can end in only one way?”

  “He does. But until that day arrives, Abu Abdullah has his unwavering loyalty.”

  “Very well. And what about you, Thomas Berrington, are you loyal to Queen Isabel? I hear you are closer to her even than her husband. It is a shame Fernando will not be here for our talks today. He too is a good general, is he not?”

  “Fernando likes to fight, which I expect does make him a good general,” Thomas said. He hoped Koparsh would not pursue his question regarding Isabel, because he was unsure where his own loyalty lay. “What will you be proposing at this meeting we are to have?”

  “For that you will have to wait until we have it. You will be present, I assume?”

  “I will. It might help if I had some idea why you are here, other than to observe Castile’s forces.” Thomas watched Koparsh, looking for some tell on his face, but the man showed nothing. Why he was here was something he was keeping to himself. Why he was here was a matter of confusion for Thomas, because it made no sense. The lands controlled by the Ottoman Empire were too distant to threaten Castile, or for Castile to threaten them. Then an answer occurred to him. He reached for another small cake and popped it into his mouth. Beneath a crisp pastry shell, sour cherries burst, tart against his tongue.

  “Naples,” he said. “You want to discuss Naples.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Turkey already controls lands east of Italia and south into Africa. It controls almost the entirety of Greece, which has lain claim to Naples for centuries. Roma is home to the Pope. An Ottoman outpost on the same land would send a powerful signal.”

  “I admire a man who can conjure tales from the air, whether they have any basis in reality. Perhaps you are a poet and not a physician, as I was told.”

  “I am no longer sure what I am anymore.” Thomas rose to his feet, wondering if he had revealed too much of himself, but he liked the man even if he did not understand him. “Come on, Jorge, we have work to do. I will see you after noon, Koparsh.”

  “Why did we leave so soon?” asked Jorge once they were at a distance from the Turkish camp. “That woman Salma is exquisite, but strange.”

  “You already have an exquisite woman, and Belia can also be strange.”

  “Do you think Belia is exquisite? Yes, of course she is. You were a fortunate man last year when I allowed you to share her.”

  “You wanted a child, didn’t you? Both of you wanted a child.”

  “I would have liked a girl,” said Jorge. “I love Jahan, but I would still like a girl.” He glanced at Thomas. “Perhaps you can help us again. I expect it was not such an arduous task, was it?”

  “What did you think of Koparsh?” Thomas wanted the subject changed. “Despite appearances to the contrary, I know you were watching him, as he was you.”

  “He is a clever man. Perhaps he is even as clever as you, or more so. Tell Isabel to be careful. He will charm her, for he is a handsome man, good with women, and she is not used to such. You were right to ask why he is here, but you cannot have expected an honest answer.”

  Thomas glanced at the trees where Will had disappeared, half-expecting to see him, but both son and dog had forgotten about them in the thrill of the chase.

  “I will warn her, but she is no fool. She can see through flattery for herself. Nothing will deflect her from the course she is pursuing.”

  “Do you think he seduced Eleanor when he was in Gharnatah?” asked Jorge.

  “Possibly, for as you say, he is exceedingly handsome and urbane. If he did so, it is no business of mine. Eleanor is nothing to do with me anymore, and I wish she was not here.”

  They were two hundred paces from the edge of the Castilian camp when Jorge said, “What is all that smoke?”

  Thomas looked up from being lost in his own thoughts. Jorge pointed to the right, then again to the left.

  “Fire,” he said. “Some idiot has been drying their tent too close to a flame. If they’re not careful, the entire camp will go up.”

  Thomas ran, but he knew they were too late. The fire was spreading fast, the sound of it a deep roar. Flames rose high, smoke already starting to shade the sun. He left others to their attempts at saving the camp and ran hard for where Isabel was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jorge leaned close and whispered into Thomas’s ear.

  “Salma is over there.”

  “I see her, but you are to stay here beside me. Talk to her later if you must, but I need you at my side. I need your skill in understanding people. Say nothing and watch Koparsh. I want to know when he lies, and I want to know what he is hiding.”

  “She has already attracted Fernando’s attention. Can I at least stare at her while I do your bidding?”

  “Not if I want you to watch Koparsh.”

  Ten days had passed before the meeting between Isabel and the Ottoman delegation finally took place. Once the fires had been extinguished and the damage assessed, the Turks had broken camp. Nobody knew where they had gone, or whether they would return. Isabel decided their current position was no longer tenable, and moved the entire army to where the new town of Santa Fe was being built. Thomas hoped it might confuse Fernando when he found the army gone, but he rode into the growing town four days before the Turks returned.

  Now Koparsh Hadryendo sat on a chair, looking as uncomfortable on it as Thomas had on the cushions at their last meeting. Isabel sat in a more ornate chair, not quite a throne but built to impress. Fernando stood a little behind her and to one side. His face wore a scowl, as if his intention was to protect his wife from these heathens. Thomas saw Jorge had spoken true, because the King’s eyes drifted often to take in Salma.

  Isabel had dressed in one of the Moorish outfits she increasingly favoured, and Thomas suspected it was in deference to their guests as well as her own comfort. There were almost a score on the Castilian side, men of God, statesmen, dukes and duchesses. Theresa stood at the rear beside Martin de Alarcón.

  Isabel’s interpreter stood to her right, facing the man who would translate Isa
bel’s words into Arabic. There would be no trust from either side. Isabel had told Thomas to say nothing unless one or other interpreter failed to convey her words accurately, and even then not to interrupt unless he heard a major failure. He was to go to her afterwards and tell her his opinion.

  The work began with slow progress towards the crucial matters. The rules had to be followed. Those surrounding Isabel would ensure that. They were, in the main, men who valued things done in the correct manner, however much time it added to proceedings. Koparsh Hadryendo showed himself as a man with no patience for such niceties.

  “I want to talk about Naples,” he said, his eyes on Fernando. He would know Naples was a vassal to Aragon.

  “Naples is not a subject open for discussion,” said Isabel, after Koparsh’s words had been translated, her own words passing back in the same way. “I need to know your intention in coming here.” She glanced briefly towards Thomas. “I hear you have already been in discussion with the Sultan of Granada. That I can understand. What interest do you have in Castile?”

  “My master, Sultan Bayezid, wishes to offer the hand of friendship to Your Majesties.”

  “A hand with a sword in it, more like.” Fernando took half a pace forward, ignoring a stern look from his wife. “Where is your army, sir? Is it massed in Tunis waiting for us to show weakness so you can invade?”

  “I have no army. Who you see here are my only companions. Neither I nor my master bear Castile any ill will. I have gifts for the Queen, fine spices and herbs from the east, gold, silver and myrrh. I have watched events in this land and know there can be only one victor in the long and valiant war you have fought. There are gifts for you also, King Fernando.” Koparsh held his hand behind him without looking. One of his men reached beneath his robe and drew a sword. Within an instant, four men of Castile did the same. Martin was the first, striding to put himself between Isabel and Koparsh.

  “It is a gift,” said Koparsh, smiling. He nodded at the man holding the sword, who placed it on the tiles. Koparsh pushed it with his foot so it slid to lie between the two parties.