A Tear for the Dead by David Penny

Author:David Penny [Penny, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ten days passed before Thomas dragged a grudging acceptance from Abu Abdullah to meet with Isabel and Fernando. With the King’s return, the original plan to involve only Isabel on the Castilian side had been forced to change.

Now Thomas sat on the narrow terrace of his house and looked across at the gathered army. There were fewer men than two weeks earlier because a third had moved east and now camped almost at the walls of Gharnatah. The skirmishing continued, but it was only a pretence at war even as men died on both sides. Mostly those of Castile, Thomas heard. So many that Isabel had sent an order the invitations to combat must cease. Unlike most of Isabel’s orders, it seemed this one was being ignored.

A man on horseback emerged from the throng and Thomas narrowed his eyes. He was expecting Martin de Alarcón, either today or tomorrow, so they could ride in search of a suitable location for the meeting between opposing leaders. As the figure approached, it shocked Thomas to recognise not Martin, but his own son, Yves. Apart from the brief sighting on the ridge the day Will fought the Turks, he had been absent since his mother’s death at the farmhouse. Thomas assumed he had scurried back to his holdings in France. Or been killed by the same men who murdered his mother.

Thomas rose and went into the house to find Belia to see if there was any food left from their morning meal. He asked her to bring it to the terrace, then returned and watched his son close the final distance.

Yves dismounted and tied his horse to a rail. As he walked up to the house, Thomas examined his face. It was pale, and circles shadowed his eyes. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes the entire time since running away and found nowhere to wash. A conclusion confirmed as he came closer.

“I have sent for food, but you might like to bathe first.”

“I was wrong,” said Yves, ignoring Thomas’s words. “My mother lied to me my entire life.” Yves’ head dropped and his shoulders shook.

Thomas took a step closer, unsure what to do, and then, as always in such situations, he asked himself what Jorge would do. He closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around Yves, letting him sob against his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do, Father.”

Thomas pushed Yves away and stared into his son’s eyes, wondering if his manner was an act or not.

“There was a man at the farmhouse with his throat cut,” he said. “Did you do that?”

Yves returned the stare, his own less certain. “What man?”

“I knocked him out, intending to question him. After you rode off, I found him dead, half hidden among the bushes. He was alive when I left him.”

“It will have been one of the others. They were vicious. It would not surprise me they killed one of their own if they thought he might talk.”

“Perhaps. Why did you not keep riding north to France?”

“I was afraid to.

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