WHISPERS OF THE PAST
Chapter 2
November 21st, 1454
The cold, relentless days grew shorter as autumn left the island, leaving the way for the snow and ice. Cadherra saw winter nearing as the mountaintops had already turned white some weeks ago. The nobles and royals kept inside Adelton Hall as the fires in the grand chimneys were lit. Lavish parties were held by the monarch and his doting wife. It was a way to keep the aristocrats occupied during the dark nights-when stepping foot outside the castle was not an option.
But, what the king enjoyed the most, was spending quality time with his family.
His quick steps brought him from the throne room to his chambers, eager to see his spouse and child after a long and tedious day. The assemblies always drained him of energy, for his advisers never seemed to agree on anything.
When the monarch arrived at his quarters, he was caught by surprise as a small boy jumped right into an embrace.
"Father!" the youngling said, the little time they had been separated had been too much for the boy who admired his father so. Philip let out a small chuckle and looked to the corner of the vast chamber where the queen, his wife, sat reading by candlelight.
"Were you bored without me, Edmund?" he asked.
"Mother does not wish to play. She only reads," the young prince said, wrinkling his nose. His auburn hair tousled and fell into wide blue eyes. Marianne looked up from her book and smiled mischievously. Her dark blonde tresses fell in small waves around her face—the silky curls long and luscious. She looked lovingly at the scene of her son and husband playing.
Marianne Urdun was the daughter of Duke Jeremiah Urdun, lord of the north. Their marriage had been a political one at first where Philip—then the prince—had sought to ask for her hand to stabilize the power in the country.
Marianne put aside her book and went to her husband, letting him embrace her and plant a kiss on her front. Outside the frosted window, bathing in the silver beams of the moon, big snowflake floated down to cover the meadow bellow the castle. The lights from Hayes were obscured as the snowfall grew thicker—the winter winds gently coaxing the flakes to dance in the silence of the night.
She whisked something hidden from her wide sleeve, giving it to him as a sly smile spread across her fair features. It was a sketch, a small portrait that had been framed in light cedar wood and outlined in gold leaf. The sketch was formidable and the very likeness of Philip. Even though he had had many portraits made of him as he took the crown, they all showed the king, not the man. But this portrait was humane, showing another side to the king, more toned down, more caring and patient. Truth shone in his eyes; truth, and understanding.
"You have seen 39 winters, my love. I cannot give you much for I know you care little for gold or riches, so I give you this," Marianne said as she pushed the small portrait into his hands.
"A gift?" Philip asked bewildered. He stared at the face on the parchment as if he were staring into a mirror. Edmund reached for the sketch, for the eager child wanted to see as well.
"Remember our trip last summer to the Italian peninsula? I had that young painter you liked so much draw a sketch of you," she smiled, pleased that her husband liked her present.
"Bellini," he remembered. Philip looked at it again and his cold body turned warm at the memory of their early summer spent on the coast of the peninsula. It had been a brief visit to get away from their secluded island. He had gone through Rome and later up north. Marianne had come with him. Magnus had stayed in Angloa, taking care of matters of the court while Philip took a break from being king. He was allowed some weeks of freedom and peace that court could not offer him.
He gently pried away the picture from his son as Marianne went to pick up the young boy. "I shall always treasure it." Philip put it with care on the table next to their wide bed. "As I treasure and love you both," he said huskily, going in for a loving kiss.
March 16th, 1459—Wessport
"You have to keep him steady, Edmund!" came the powerful voice of the monarch as he watched his son on the horse. The young prince let out a heartwarming laugh as the beige stallion took an eager jump forward, happy to be running on the meadow.
Philip, Magnus, Marianne and some courtiers attended their first picnic of the year. The snows had melted a week ago and the last few days had been uncommonly warm. Some flowers had already sprouted, not that usual for that time of year. Philip had decided that it was time to get out of the constricting castle walls. He took one look around him and felt his heart swell at the warming sight of his family.
The king sighed at his luck. Nothing could compare to what he felt when he saw the joy spread on his wife's face as she conversed with one of her ladies-in-waiting. Nor would he change anything for the laughter his son emitted as he sat astride the cheerful stallion. The eager horse carried him in circles around the meadow bellow the castle. A pageboy ran at his side, keeping a steady hand on the animal so that it would not run away with the prince.
Philip's and Magnus' gazes crossed for a brief moment where both saw in their eyes the unexplainable love and joy they held for that moment. Magnus had married only a few weeks earlier, to a modest beauty from a northern region named Rebecca Trienne. She was already with child. When Philip saw his brother, his heart swelled. He felt pride then as well.
But it seemed a balance needed to be kept in that joyful splendor that was his life. Where Philip found happiness, worry and trouble soon followed. The early spring day turned darker as a new presence made itself known to him.
"Your Majesty," came the harsh and slow voice from his left. Philip turned around to see one of his advisors, someone he did not care much for. Lord Adam Flannigan had been sitting on his father's council and he was a powerful man best not trifled with.
"What is it, Adam," the king muttered. He did not hide the despise he held for the Lord. He had presented trouble ever since Philip's father's reign. The old lord was vicious and selfish at his best. He rarely took action unless it would benefit him. Philip was grateful that the old man had no children—no pesky heirs that would keep their father's bothersome presence in his life.
"I hear you have yet to give an answer considering our proposal on moving court," Flannigan said haughtily.
"I am yet to decide, my lord." Philip turned around. "But I can promise you that it will not be New London." There was almost a hint of malice lacing the monarch's voice. Lord Flannigan was from New London—where he held powerful connections. Philip had no wish to move court where he would give the old lord a more powerful playing-ground. Adam seemed irritated by the answer, but whatever other emotions had surfaced he kept in check. His hazel eyes squinted as he continued speaking.
"You should at least bring it up today during the council meeting. We all know Cadherra is not a suitable place to hold court," he said, almost daringly.
"My father seemed to think so. Are you saying my father—the late king—was wrong?" Philip asked, enjoying the flustered look growing on the old man's face as he questioned him.
"Of course not, Your Majesty, I deeply respected your father—may his soul rest in peace. But when his life started reaching its end, even he realized that he could have moved court to a more strategic place," Adam said.
Philip frowned, his relaxing morning had been ruined then, for thoughts of the court and his kingdom corrupted his mind. All he wanted was some time with his family.
"I will consider it during this meeting. But nothing is definite yet," Philip said and thus concluding their conversation. Adam understood the cue and swiftly moved away.
February 24th, 1520 – Málaga
He was awoken by the light tapping of a windowpane. The curtains were drawn back as the fresh morning air seeped into the room. Tristan opened his eyes and was met by a blue sky, not a cloud in sight.
His first thought was the chill that came in through the window. But it was not unpleasant. The wind felt good on his naked skin—it made him feel alive. He moved his head away from the window and stared at the ceiling. Tristan's blue eyes scoured the rustic beams, observing a spider building its web, preparing its trap for any flies that would enter the room. But it was futile, he thought—the day was still too cold for flies. The spider would have to wait a bit more—until the warmth of the sun reached the earth.
He was disoriented at first. The shirt he wore was still slightly wet from the previous night's sweat, making him shiver slightly at the chill in the room. His limbs ached to move and as he did so, Tristan felt a dull ache in his left arm and shoulder. It was nowhere near the pain he had felt the previous night and it indicated that the severity of the infection was slowly dying away. He would heal, but not fast enough.
The masked man rested his head against the pillow, giving up on leaving his bed—for now. Instead, he opened his ears. For if he could not look out the window, he could at least listen; to the people walking on the streets, to the chatter of the Spaniards. A twinge of nostalgia washed over him. He had lived here with Sofia once, a long time ago. Tristan had been but a commoner during that time, but he'd taken the burdens of much more. Seven years seemed a lifetime to him.
The door creaked open slowly as a head peeked in. Zoráida went gracefully to his side and sank down next to Tristan as she saw that he was finally awake.
"How long have I slept?" his voice croaked. It was stiff from lack of use and there was till weakness in it. Zoráida's hands went to his shoulder, and they pushed aside the thin cotton shirt. She started removing the bandages, steadily, setting into a rhythm as she worked.
"It is midday. We did not wish to wake you," the young woman explained the words rolled off her tongue, and she sounded like Sofia when she spoke.
"Joseph, Lucius and Ashiq?" he asked as he looked around the room, noticing for the first time that they were absent.
"I sent them with my brother to go see the city. They were getting restless." She drew away the final bandage and revealed the open wound. The swelling had gone down considerably and there was no new formation of puss. Zoráida released the breath she'd been holding. When she had arrived with Lucius the previous night, the young woman had feared for Tristan's life, certain that he would not last the night. She was glad that she was wrong.
As she continued taking care of him, her eyes went up and down, looking at a friend who had changed much since they had last met. He had been a young man then, just out of his teen years. He had been tall and lean, still growing into his limbs—they had been too long and his step awkward. Seven years seemed to have done him good when it came to his physique. He was as tall as ever, but through his soaked and torn shirt she saw lean muscle—a defined torso and arms. His countenance had changed as well. He was no longer the hothead with the temper of a fury, who would get into fights, to get away from the stigma his mask held. Last time she met him, he had arrived from the east with a gypsy.
"Where is Sofia?" she asked casually as she slowly started removing the herbs from the wound and cleaning it once more with alcohol.
"We went our separate ways a few months ago. I do not know where she went after that." Tristan grimaced at the memory of Sofia. He missed her—every moment of being in such a familiar place reminded him of her. Zoráida's caring hand came to rest on his arm.
"You will see her again, if Allah wills it," she reassured him. Her words made him smile.
"You still don't talk like a Christian," he scolded. "I thought you said you and your family converted."
A sad smile spread on her plump lips. To Tristan, the young girl he once knew had grown up to be a fine woman and there was a certain sadness that her situation held.
"My family did convert, but we can never leave centuries of traditions behind. I trust you, I will not pretend here, Tristán," Zoráida said, turning serious as she placed a thin needle with tongs over a lit candle before drenching it in alcohol. She placed the thread in the clear liquor as well.
"Is that why your father was taken by the inquisition? Because they unmasked you?" A stiff silence followed as she waited for the needle to cool down. Somewhere a bird chirped, landing on the windowsill—looking around for some food it might steal. When it found none, it flew away.
"No. Even if we remain true to our roots in our hearts, we try to blend in as much as possible. We go to mass like the rest of you, I even sneak in a confession here and there," she said, threading the needle, preparing to prick it into his skin. She spoke openly with Tristan, knowing he would not judge her. Zoráida knew that he had never been one to follow religion tediously or blindly like so many others. He had been accepting of her family's way of life. She always felt a sense of peace as a child, knowing she did not have to act whenever she'd be in his presence.
"Is this what you must suffer, for the love you possess for this land?" he asked, looking at her dark eyes as she started sewing. He ignored the small stabbing pain of the needle as it plunged into his skin.
"This city fell to the Christians many decades ago. I have never known anything else but this; living in secrecy, afraid that every day will be my last." A church bell rang somewhere in the distance—a lone bell that sounded once. It ripped through their conversation like a dagger ripping through fabric. "You will understand, to some degree," she said after the bell had died down, nodding at the mask.
"I hide my face to spare everyone the sight of it," he muttered, a hiss escaping him as the needle plunged deeper than Zoráida intended.
"You once told me that when I was old enough, you'd show me your face."
"Don't change the subject, continue with what you were saying. I like hearing your stories," he argued as if scolding a sister. Tristan felt fatigue rush over him as he settled back into the fluffy pillows.
"They're not stories, Tristán," she retorted angrily. A fiery passion bubbled under the surface, something that had not gone away since her childhood.
"You know what I mean," his dark voice spoke.
"Málaga was taken when my parents were young, I'm certain my father told you all about it when you were here," she continued.
"It was all Musa would ever talk about," Tristan sighed, remembering the light that shone in his old friend's eyes as he spoke of another era, another time. "He said that he frequented Granada under the reign of Boabdil."
"He would tell me stories as well, every night before bed," she lamented as she sewed monotonously. They both turned silent as they remembered the past, a past that now seemed foreign to them. The world was slowly changing into something new, something they had never seen before and they did not know what to make of it.
"Why was he killed?" Tristan insisted. Knowing why a great and kind man like Musa had been executed by the inquisition would give the masked man closure after finding out about his death.
Zoráida hesitated as her hands froze mid-air. She let her dark green eyes wander over to meet his blue ones. They waited for her answer, for her to reveal what she had been trying to ignore since the loss of Musa.
"He was a great physician. But whenever he failed to cure a patient, he would be blamed for it. Even if the illness was great or the wounds deep—it did not matter. So a few years ago my father decided to retire. But one night a wealthy merchant came running to our house, saying his pregnant wife was dying. My father went with him, alone, and did all he could to save the woman and child, but it was no use, they both died. The merchant blamed my father and said that he killed them deliberately because they were Christian and therefore my father must hate them. The inquisition got wind of these accusations and came one night, taking him with them. They said they just had some questions and that he would most likely be back in the morning. But he never returned." Zoráida spoke with a strange detachment as she gently guided the needle, slowly closing the wound on his shoulder.
"They tortured him for days, or so they told my mother. He died after his heart gave out on the third day, the pain was too overwhelming for him," she whispered. An empty look spread in her eyes as something akin to hatred emerged from it. "I hope those priests end up in a similar situation someday so that they will feel the same pain they inflicted on him." Her jaw squared and her voice shook slightly as the words shot like arrows from her mouth.
"There is a saying in the east," Tristan began, his own thoughts grim after having heard of Musa's demise. "They believe that whatever you do—good or bad—it comes back to you." There was a slight pause as he let the meaning sink in. "I am sorry to hear what happened, Musa never deserved such treatment. He was one of the best men I ever knew," Tristan said, watching intently as she finished stitching his wound and proceeded to put an herbal paste on it.
"I hope that saying is true," she murmured softly, placing clean bandages over the wound. She was satisfied with her work and used it to push away the recent feelings of sadness and nostalgia that had emerged.
Both wallowed in the other's company. They felt like children, unaware of the world around them, protected by their innocence.
"I hear you are chasing after your fiancée," Zoráida whispered as she stared out the window, the song of the seagulls turned louder as the day continued its mellow pace.
"I wish to set sail tomorrow or the day after. I…must find her," he said trough gritted teeth. Zoráida felt him tense next to her. Determination and a hint of fear reflected in the way he held himself. She did not ask the specifics. Tristan had never been the one for explanations or long conversations, especially not when it came to his own personal life.
"I never thought you the marrying type," she continued. His masked head snapped up from the pillow, his eyes looking intently at her.
"You knew me when you were thirteen, how much could you have perceived then?"
"The mask only hides your face, but it cannot hide who you are—or were. You have greatly changed, Tristán. But I also saw what you were; a free soul, searching to flee the constrictions that society would put on you. That is why you stayed with Sofia—that is why the mask tormented you so. I never thought anyone would manage to tie you down."
When she had known him, he and Sofia would travel from town to town, province to province, country to country. They never stayed for long. Tristan would speak of his travels to her, speak of the wonders he had seen in France, Portugal, Italy and, even, North Africa. But her favorite stories were when he told her about the Far East, about a monastery he had spent the better part of his teenage years. He spoke of men with amazing fighting abilities, of a way of life very different to what he had seen in Europe. He spoke of philosophers and warriors.
Tristan remembered back on that time as well. When he had first met Sofia, she had taken him east, to the Ming Kingdom. Far up in the mountains, an old acquaintance of hers gave them hospice and the young boy was taught and trained with the rest of the students his age at the monastery. When he became older, they would frequent a large neighboring city and he made friends with an old retired general who lent him heaps of tomes about the art of war. Through sheer curiosity and will, Tristan would read those books day and night, having heated discussions with his friend who was amused that such a young boy would be interested in strategy. But, in the end, his studying had served him well.
"She is just a woman I am to marry, Zoráida," Tristan muttered.
"No, she is much more than that, or you wouldn't blindly chase after her in such a state."
"I care for her, yes. I made a promise, I gave my word to her that I would return to her, and I do not plan on breaking that word."
Zoráida scoffed at his weak explanation. "You cannot lie to me, Tristán. I see that there is more than care in your heart. For you to sacrifice the freedom you have guarded for so many years means she must be more to you."
February 25th
There came a moment where Christine could no longer move due to her back. She continued resting on her bed, never moving a muscle when Braun came to check on her. Her eyes would wander to the thick glass windows that stared at the never-ending sea.
Tristan was dead.
The thought hurt more than she could bare. Christine felt how she slipped, how she stopped caring about everything. At first, she had fought against it—the only fuel was her hatred for Braun. But soon she embraced it. Her mother would live out her life well in Adelton Hall—the only person left that she truly cared for was safe and it was all that mattered.
It was morning when Braun entered her quarters, the golden rays of the sun gliding across her face, warming her features. Behind him entered the ship's barber and physician. The man was barely a physician, he was a barber that had found an easy job working at ships with a decent pay and housing. When he saw the blonde young woman sprawled on the bed, her back and shoulders bare where her beige dress had been torn, his eyes widened. Christine's eyes locked with his for a moment as he neared her, but she made no move to turn away from him.
"I've been sent by his lordship, miss," he said nervously, feeling the intense stare of Braun on his back. She never answered him.
The barber sat down next to her and viewed the damage. He could remove the splinters, but there was little he could do for the infection. As he explained this to Braun, Christine stared at the rolling waves, letting herself be calmed by the motions they made. She was surprised when two rough hands started removing the embedded splinters. The young woman screamed out in pain as the hands forcefully plied away the pieces of wood.
When all was done, she let out a painful breath of air, biting back tears of pain that threatened to spill. The wounds had reopened and droplets of blood spilled from them. The barber frowned at the sight.
"She will need a real physician, my lord. I cannot treat these wounds as they should be treated here." He turned to face Braun and gathered new courage. "We should dock in the nearest harbor and search for someone there," he said.
"The nearest port is Malaga. That damned storm a few days ago set us off course," Braun murmured pensively. He looked at Christine's small form and his brows furrowed with slight worry. He did not wish to lose her to infection. Sleepless nights of worrying and thinking had finally given him an answer; he had other plans for her. "Let us dock there then," he decided, almost as if on a whim. The barber nodded and scurried away, leaving the two alone.
As soon as the door closed, Braun came over with a bowl of fresh water and some clean cloths.
"Keep still," the older man murmured as he plunged the white cloth into the cold water and then carefully cleaned the reopened wounds. She shuddered at the cold touch and gritted her teeth. Christine never showed her face, for the disgust it held at having Braun so near would be evident.
"I never meant for this to happen to you," he muttered softly, relishing in the sight of her lithe body. Braun could not help his hungry eyes wander over her form—she would do just fine, he thought. Christine did not believe in his words of comfort.
"Is the mighty Lord Braun apologizing?" she spat, flinching as she moved to look him. Christine fought hard to keep a mask of indifference when she saw dark eyes drill into hers. His thinning brown hair fell into his thin face, over his high forehead. He had found time to trim his goatee despite their situation. He looked as polished as she remembered him to be. Braun never answered her, instead he let out a dry laugh.
The disgraced lord put away the metal bowl and cloth and turned to leave. "Rest. I shall have someone take care of that back of yours," he reassured her.
When the door closed Christine let her head fall down. She bit her lip and moved around on the bed, fighting to sit up—a feat she couldn't accomplish for the last few days. She took the bowl and cloth, taking a part of the white fabric that was not stained with her blood—that was clean—and started washing her skin. It felt good when the cool water came in contact with her flesh.
Her heart clenched in a painful way as thoughts of Tristan popped into her mind. She knew of her care for the masked man, of how much she enjoyed his company. She never knew her care had grown so much. Now that they were parted—never to be seen again, Christine confessed to herself that she had grown to like Tristan, in her own way. She admired him, even though he was arrogant and frightening at times. The fact that the man she had kissed—the man who had promised to come back to her was dead ripped her heart open.
Christine had never felt heartbreak before. She had read about it, heard about it, and even seen it. Never had the young woman expected it would be so painful; mentally and physically.
During the day it was easy to distract herself, listening to the men above deck, shouting, talking, and singing. But not during the long hours of the night. When the ship turned quieter than a graveyard in the early hours of the morning, she could not help as images of her fiancé's body slipped into the crevices of her mind. She imagined he lay on the cold palace floor, alone and ignored. She saw an unmasked face—twisted and disfigured, leaving him in shame. His face had been something he'd guarded for so long.
But, soon, another voice in her mind scolded her. How could she do this to herself? How could she be so pathetic? Yes, Tristan, the man she had grown to like so was dead, he was gone. But she was alive, her mother was alive, Angloa was safe—thanks to Tristan. There was something to return to. And what was more important, she found that she wanted to carry on, not for her father or her mother or even her country. No. This time it was different: Christine wanted to live for herself.
As she washed away the dirt and blood, she washed away her indetermination and fears. They were replaced by stronger, more determined feelings. Her eyes wandered to the glass windows that looked out over the vast ocean. Christine Vega would not give up. The young woman decided that whatever Braun had in store for her she would bear it— because she trusted herself. Because, beyond that horizon, something awaited her.
February 27th
"We have already wasted enough time. A ship sails for Rome later today and I want to board it," Tristan said through gritted teeth. He lay in the confinements of the small chamber, Zoráida paid little heed as she looked over the stitches and reapplied more herbs to the area.
Lucius sat in the small, uncomfortable chair and scratched his head. He knew Tristan was right, they had spent too much time in Malaga. If they wanted to see Christine again, they would have to leave soon. Joseph lay on the other bed, sleeping with his mouth open, a slight snore escaping now and then; he was exhausted. The young man had spent the whole night awake, first walking Zoráida and Ashiq home, then getting lost in the narrow streets. He had after returned in defeat, letting his shoulders sink further down as Lucius asked him to fetch the young Morisco girl.
"You have grown more impatient since I last saw you," the young woman muttered, bandaging the shoulder. "But I guess it cannot be helped. You have a duty and a word to keep," she continued, staring off into the distance. The wound would be fine, Tristan could have left the previous day. Yet, she had asked him to stay. He reminded her of her past, of a time she had been happy—when her father and older brother had been alive. The masked man recognized the look in her eyes and his own expression turned grim. Lucius read the eyes of his friend and got up from the chair. He went over to wake Joseph. It was time to leave the city.
"We will wait for you outside, Tristan," he said, motioning for Ashiq to come. They were soon left alone and for the first time, Zoráida grew shy around him. She had always known what to say, how to look at him. Now she found no words. The reality was that he would leave. Tristan had no wish to stay with her or her family—as was expected.
"I hope you find the happiness that has escaped you for so long." She placed a hand on his masked face. "I hope you will be able to discard this prison you live in and truly be free, Tristán." Her words of wisdom drifted by him like a distant wind, stirring something that he always tried to ignore. How could such a young woman understand so much just by looking into his eyes?
"When we return, you should come with us, Zoráida. You and your whole family can live in peace in Angloa. No one will bother you under my roof," he said, ignoring words that rattled his core. Her piercing green eyes grew sadder as she looked away from him, out the window. He did not know what she was looking at—probably nothing—but he knew the look in those orbs, the emotions it held. It was something he had never truly gotten to feel.
"This is and always will be my home." The light of day reflected on her tan face. "The way of life for my people has been extinguished long ago. But this land; its sky, its earth, its winds, and trees—everything—is part of me and I will never be able to leave it." She turned to face him. "I stand like a tree here, with roots deeper than you can imagine. I was born here and I will die here. Even if I have to live in fear of expulsion, I will fight to remain here with all my strength," she said with such conviction that Tristan felt a twinge of guilt having asked her to come with him.
"You could never understand, you have always roamed this earth with Sofía, a free spirit. There is nothing tying you down."
"There is now, and she is being taken across the sea to a world she does not know," Tristan said as he stared straight into her eyes. He could not help Zoráida; a sentiment that weighed heavily on his shoulders. But he could help Christine.
Tristan got up from where he lay, feeling renewed after having rested. He turned to the bed, where his now clean shirt and doublet lay folded, courtesy of Hala. Zoráida looked away as the bare-chested man started dressing his upper body. She started packing her own things together, realizing that this was their goodbye.
They moved slowly, forcing their movements as neither wanted to part ways again. They both were like estranged brother and sister and as they walked out of the inn. After Tristan paid the innkeeper they stood, face to face. His mask, deep within the hood, managed to peek from underneath it, allowing her a view of his eyes. In the distance, her brother returned with Lucius and Joseph.
"I was never too good with goodbyes, you know that," Zoráida said, a faint smile spreading across her lips.
"I know." Tristan saw his friends approaching, wading through the masses of people that kept to the slightly wider main street. "I will try to stop by on the way back," he continued. Zoráida stepped in closer, a determined look spread across her features.
"When you come back, I will see your face," she said. It was not a request, nor a plea; so much was evident in her eyes. Instead, the words sounded like a premonition, a knowing that sparkled in her eyes. She caught him off guard and when he remained silent, she gave out a lighthearted laugh.
The wounds on her back had—as the barber predicted—festered. Christine had become delirious with a fever and she kept hallucinating. There was a time where Braun would not leave her side, making sure she survived. He kept muttering that it was of utmost importance that she remained alive.
They docked in the Spanish port early that morning, the sun was not yet up. Braun and his fellow men were on alert as he sent out one of the crew members to find a physician. The older man, Antoine Beauvais, was a Frenchman who had lived in Barcelona for a few years. He was familiar with the Spanish language and customs.
Antoine scoured the inner city, trying to find a suitable physician for the young woman the Angloan lord had in the main chamber. Many of the crew members who had decided to join Braun wondered who this noble lady was. A ship like theirs was not suitable for a woman like her, much less in the company of so many men. They had not been surprised when one of the men had broken in and almost raped the girl.
He stalked the streets, the sky brightening every second. Antoine paid little attention to the pedestrians that he pushed elbows with. There was one moment where, without looking, he bumped into someone.
"¡Perdón!" he exclaimed, looking up. His face dropped slightly as he was met by a tall man, hiding his face deep within a hood. Yet, Antoine spotted the throat—the skin hidden by what appeared to be dark leather. The man muttered something and walked past him. He was flanked by two other men. A blond, well-dressed man looked back at him.
"Did he get your shoulder?" the blond asked, a look of worry spread across his features.
"Yes, but the wound didn't open," the low voice said from within the hood. When the other's expression did not change, Antoine heard an audible sigh. "You worry too much, Lucius," he muttered. The Frenchman's eyebrow rose, he recognized the accent: Angloan. It was always strange to see Angloans leave their ships in foreign ports, especially if they were from higher classes. However, Antoine paid little heed to the strange trio.
He stalked through the narrow streets. Antoine kept his head low, keen on not getting mugged or getting into trouble. He knew it would be difficult to find a decent physician. Braun had told him that money was not a problem—not that it was what worried him. It was Sunday, soon everyone would attend mass; somewhere he should be too, but he guessed that Braun would not appreciate his sudden devoutness to God. Angloans and their lack of devotion. He would not be surprised if the whole island soon reformed its religion like some of the other European countries were speculating on doing.
Alas, it was still Sunday. It would be hard to get ahold of people now. Not that Christian physicians were that good, anyway. All knew that the Jewish and even the Moors were more refined and knowledgeable when it came to medicine.
So, without wasting much time, Antoine set out for the Jewish and mudéjar quarters to see if a kind—or greedy—soul would come back to the ship with him. It wasn't an ideal situation; like many other Europeans, he was prejudiced against those who weren't like him.
A/N: Thanks for those who reviewed! Much appreciated! Next chapter will be up soon. I have no posting shedule, I post when I can since I'm working hard over the summer.
Cheers!