Scoundrel's Kiss (33 page)

"Maghreb Arabic, from the Moorish
territories." She leaned nearer and scratched at an ink smudge before
beginning to translate. "It's addressed to Muhammad an-Nasir."

"The young Almohad caliph,"
said Gavriel. "His father was their leader at Alarcos but died two years
ago. Control fell to an-Nasir, his son."

"Seems Lord de Silva is none too
pleased with how he has led his people. 'The time to strike is at hand, with
summer and the end of the trace.'" She sat away from the scroll and rubbed
her eyes. "What truce?"

Gavriel sat heavily on the floor, his
back to the parchment containing his father's words. "After the bloody
year following Alarcos, a truce was declared between the Christian kings and
the Almohads. This summer marks the end of that five-year peace. Without it,
the Almohads will be free to resume their invasion."

"But the motivation is not theirs.
It comes from de Silva. This says, Matters in Africa have diverted your
attention away from the Peninsula.'"

Blanca shook her head. "A Leonese
nobleman conspires with the Moors? Is this how politics work?"

"It shouldn't be," Gavriel
said. "A long-standing feud between my father and King Alfonso meant he
sided with the Moors at Alarcos."

Ada had opened the second scroll.
Silent, her eyes danced over the text until a single gasp echoed across the
tiny chamber. Gavriel rose from the floor and knelt beside her, seeing nothing
more from this parchment than from the last. He resented the language he could
not understand, even as he admired her singular knowledge.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What if Lord de Silva wasn't the
only one who sided with the Moors?"

"Who?"

"King Ferdinand of Leon."

His mouth went dry. "It's
possible. More than possible."

Blanca shook her head. "The kings
of Leon and Castile are cousins. First cousins. And they are both Christian,
charged by the Pope to defend the Peninsula against the Moors. Everyone on the
frontier knows that"

"But the blood between the two
halves of the royal family, Leonese and Castilian, is very bad," he said.

"Here." Ada pointed at the
line of address. "This one is also written by de Silva, but to Ferdinand.
It reads, 'Next time, when the moment comes to crush the Castilian opposition,
you will do more than drag your feet' What does that mean?"

Gavriel sat back on his heels, eyeing
that parchment as if it flashed venomous fangs. "Ferdinand was to
reinforce his cousin's troops on the battlefield at Alarcos, but he strayed in
Leon. His delay helped the Almohad armies gather momentum. We had the battle in
hand, entirely and decisively, before the Leonese arrived."

"Then he was purposefully
late?"

"Impossible to know for
certain," Gavriel said. "But it seems Lord de Silva wants Ferdinand
to take a more active role against the Castilians this time, not leaving the
dirty work to the Almohads. A show of faith in their conspiracy."

Blanca touched the dried ink. "Can
he write such things to a king?"

"Perhaps that explains the trouble
we've had," Ada said. "Not La Senora or my debts, but men sent by de
Silva to retrieve these missives."

She continued to read, her eyes dashing
along every line.

"Anything else?" he asked.

She shook her head and rolled the
parchment, shoving the scrolls back into her satchel. "Jacob or his men
must have intercepted them. You said he was returning to Segovia, yes?"

Gavriel stared at her, suddenly certain
that she hid something from him. The idea of her deception—more lies from
Ada— stuck in his gut "He was to speak with Dona Valdedrona, and
possibly to Alfonso."

"He works for Her Excellency to
collect information. Maybe he left them to Daniel for safe-keeping while she
was away at Alarcos."

Blanca smiled wide. "He's a spy?
Is he truly?"

"It's been quite some time since I
held such enthusiasm for his profession. Mostly it meant long absences and
secrets." A blush tinted her cheeks and she ducked her gaze. "I could
abide neither."

"He would have been in great
danger carrying these scrolls with him," Gavriel said. "As we learned
for ourselves."

"Unwittingly. He'll be very
disappointed in me."

Her overcast face had him wondering
again, with more intensity, as to the nature of her relationship with Jacob.
Young, English, educated, devoted—Gavriel could not begin to duplicate
their connection. But he touched her shoulder nonetheless, as if touch could
banish the doubts and barriers.

"You're not the same woman he left
in my care."

Her lips turned up in a wobbling smile.
"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends on what he wants from
you," he said, recalling Ada's description of how Jacob provided her with
opium, how he doted on her. "As for the scrolls, we'll keep them safe and
let King Alfonso decide what to do with my despicable family. And his
treacherous Leonese cousin."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Dress for travel, both of
you," he said, standing. "We should not stay here to be
discovered."

Ada began to collect possessions for
her satchel. Blanca nodded, seemingly childlike, but the expression on her face
was one of resolve. "Since you've beaten Fernan, they'll watch you. All of
us."

Fernan. The man was a boil, a terrible
wretch of a human being. After what he had done to poison Ada, he deserved
better acquaintance with Gavriel's fists. But those cryptic comments about
Pacheco had splintered under Gavriel's skin, prickling into every decision he
tried to make. None of his former certainty and purpose remained. Fernan seemed
the only person who might be able to answer his questions. Whether Gavriel
could believe the replies remained a mystery. "Find Fernan," he said
to Blanca. "Please. For once in his miserable career as a novice, he'll
attend Mass. Tonight"

Chapter 26

That Brother Telles stood ready to
conduct Mass in the fortress cathedral meant Grand Master Rodriguez was still
absent. The
Trecenezago
had yet to meet.
Los caballeros
would
wait until given the command to seize him by force, ready to stand accused for
Fernan's beating.

As villagers streamed into the
cathedral for midnight Mass, Gavriel looked for Ada. If all went smoothly, they
would be clear of the village, clear of the threat by dawn. Beyond that...

He closed his eyes to the assembling
congregation and saw only blackness behind his lids. No clear path. No certain
future. Terrifying as that was, he breathed easier than he had in a year.
Perhaps the time had come to imagine and fill that black void with a new
future.

He opened his eyes, disoriented by the
sight of several hundred parishioners gathered from the village below. The vast
cathedral ceiling arched high above, adding strength to the echo of voices. His
loneliness among all those people crushed into his chest, but Ada was there.
From the pews where the canonesses sat, she had turned to look across the
aisle. She smiled when she found him, tentatively, as if asking permission for
the liberty.

Where had she gone, the woman who had
stripped bare before him in the bathhouse? He knew little of people, less of
women, and barely a thing about Ada. The closer they drew together, the more
hesitant she became. Shedding the unnatural freedom of her drug had made her a
different woman. Or was it his constant rejection?

Blanca tugged Ada's sleeve, and he
caught sight of where she subtly pointed: Fernan sat four rows up from Gavriel,
his white robes and shaven head nearly anonymous. Only when he turned his head
did Fernan display the array of purple and blue bruises on his face.

Gavriel did not like or trust the thin
clown of a man, and he did not find any shred of forgiveness within him for
what Fernan had done to Ada. But the sight of those bruises made him ill, even
as his knuckles ached from the beating he had dispensed.

The Mass began with a sermon aimed
squarely at Gavriel, extolling the necessity of love and gentleness toward
one's brethren. Countless eyes touched his face and flickered away, likely
bouncing between him and Fernan. Smoke from torches and candles stung his
nostrils, and the shuffle of hundreds of bodies murmured in his ears.

As the congregants moved toward the
altar to receive communion, one pew at a time, he saw Blanca slip away from the
canonesses. Ada kept her eyes forward, her face serene. Row by row, the
ceremony dragged deeper into the night—until a shout and a scream whipped
heads to the back of the cathedral.

Gavriel and Ada took Blanca's cue and
shuffled in opposite directions away from the scattering throng. Another
scream, not Blanca this time. The sudden confusion intensified the villagers'
frightened rush for the exits. Gavriel elbowed past wide-eyed congregants and
caught up with Fernan. He pushed him into a confessional.

With a hand over the man's mouth,
Gavriel stared into startled, fearful eyes. "Why did you do it?"

Fernan glanced down at the hand
muffling his reply. Gavriel crooked his knee and wedged it between his
captive's legs. "Words only, understand? If you cry out or call for help,
you'll be less of a man for it"

Fernan's eyes widened slightly, then he
nodded. Gavriel loosened his hand but pinned his forearm over his windpipe.

"Talk."

"Now
you
demand details," Fernan said. "You wanted nothing but the bare facts
before turning me into a walking bruise. Do you know how hard it will be to
find a decent harlot now?"

"You'll heal, unless you continue
these jests." He pressed deeper. Fernan grasped at the unyielding forearm
at his throat "Why did you do it? What does Pacheco know about you?"

Fernan inhaled through his nose, a
wheezing draw of breath. "I have a son."

"What?"

"A son," he said, gasping.
"I fell in love with a Moorish girl last spring, just after I arrived
here."

"And you bedded her? Relations
between a Christian and a Moor—that's not legal."

"You should have been a scholar,
Gavriel. Such a wit. And so quick."

Gavriel shifted, pressing more of his
body weight against Fernan's groin. "And you confessed to Pacheco?"

Sweat beaded across Fernan's scalp.
"I did. He threatened to tell my father if I did not do as he asks. I
stand to inherit one quarter of my family's estate, just as my brothers will,
and my father would never permit me to name a half-Moorish heir to those
lands." He grunted, the bones in his throat pushing against Gavriel's
skin. "I did it to protect them."

"Where are they now?"

"On my last trip to market, I gave
her money enough to flee to Toledo with her family. I'd hoped to meet them
there when... when—"

"When?"

"When you had gone. That's why
Pacheco wanted me to hurt Ada, so that you would leave the Order."

Gavriel restrained the need to use his
fists. He relinquished his grip and stepped away.

Blood flooded back to Fernan's face and
he gasped, massaging his throat. "I speak the truth," he said.

"Why? What does Pacheco
want?"

"I have no notion."

Gavriel watched his wide eyes, reading
both fear and resolution. The man who had defied the law to fall in love with a
Moorish woman pressed against the back wall of a confessional in the midst of a
mob scene, but he did not cower.

"Come away with us," Gavriel
said at last. "Ada and Blanca are securing horses. We can get you to
safety outside of Ucles."

"As long as you keep various body
parts to yourself. Even if I don't see Abez again, I'd rather do without your
knee between my legs."

"Abez?"

Fernan inhaled, standing straighter.
"Yes. I'll make her my wife if I can."

Knocked aback by the unexpected
strength in Fernan's posture, in his voice, Gavriel merely nodded. From bawdy
buffoon to sacrificing family man—the change was too much to be borne.

"Strip your robes then, brother.
Our tenure at the Order of Santiago is at an end."

Fernan crossed himself and ducked free
of the white linen. "At last."

* * *

Like a boat riding a wild, cresting
wave toward shore, Ada moved with the maddened crowd toward the arched double
doors on the cathedral's eastern side. Blanca's single scream had been enough
to excite the entire congregation to senseless action and reaction. Bodies
crushed and pressed against hers. She breathed through her nose, deliberately,
slowly, to help stem the rising panic.

Nearer the exit, she found space enough
between the villagers to breathe easier. She pushed into the clear, crisp
night, the cool darkness whipping her frayed senses. Men led their wives and
children down the steep path toward Ucles, moving hastily but without the same
mindless fright of escaping the cathedral. Torches held aloft lighted the way
for the river of people returning home.