Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  John grunted but knew better than to provoke his master. Thomas smiled faintly. ‘He must have come a long way to find me. The least we can do is offer him the hospitality of the house. Now go and see to his needs.’

  John bowed his head and left the study, closing the door behind him. As his footsteps echoed down the oak-panelled hall, Thomas stroked his beard thoughtfully. He recognised John’s description of the seal only too well. It was the emblem of the Knights Hospitaller. After all the long years of waiting, the Order had at last broken its silence.

  As soon as Thomas opened the door and entered the kitchen he knew that all the routine and isolation of recent years was over. Sitting with his back to the cooking fire, the messenger was stooped over a steaming bowl. His eyes flickered up as the master of the hall entered, and he quickly rose, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. He had a swarthy complexion, with a livid white scar across his brow. His face was weathered and his expression firm but polite and yet Thomas saw that he could not have been much more than twenty. A soldier old before his time, as were all novices who survived their first few years in the Order. The messenger still wore a thick dark riding cloak. At the shoulder was a stained and bespattered white cross whose arms broadened out and then divided into two points, one for each of the languages of the Order.

  ‘Sir Thomas Barrett? I have a message for you. From the Grand Master.’ The English was good but the accent was thick — from the southern region of France, he guessed. Thomas nodded and gestured for the man to sit down.

  He spoke in French. ‘We’ll use the language of the Order, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘It would please me,’ the messenger replied in the same tongue.

  Thomas nodded towards the two servants. ‘They know little of my previous life. I would not have them spread any gossip down in the local vallage. Things .are hard enough for those who keep faith with the Church of Rome

  Thomas turned to John. ‘You may leave us. And you too, Hannah.’

  Once the door closed behind them, Thomas stood on the far side of the table and stared down at the messenger. ‘So?’

  ‘The Grand Master—’

  ‘Who is he?’ Thomas interrupted.

  ‘Who?’

  The younger man was caught off guard. ‘I’m sorry,’ Thomas explained. ‘I have been somewhat removed from the affairs of the Older. I have no idea who leads it at present.’

  ‘Oh...’ The messenger did not hide his surprise. ‘I serve Grand Jean de La Valette.’

  ‘La Valette.’ Thomas nodded. ‘I remember him . . . He must be an old man.’

  The messenger stared back, frowning, and Thomas smiled. ‘He always had an old head on his shoulders. And the hardest constitution of any man I have ever met. Tell me, does he still lead the first endurance march of the novices?’

  The messenger grimaced. ‘Oh yes. And still he marches us into the ground.’

  They both laughed and some of the tension between them was eased. Thomas pulled a stool out from under the table and sat down, smiling at the memory of a slender man in his forties, striding out ahead of a straggling column of youngsters gasping to keep pace with the veteran knight. Then the smile faded as Thomas’s gaze fixed itself on the cross on the messenger’s cloak again.

  ‘Where are you from, brother?’

  ‘My family have an estate near Nmies.’

  ‘Ah, I thought I recognised your accent, Philippe de Nanterre. You have a message for me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Thomas felt his heart quicken inside his chest. ‘They’ve finally made a ruling then. Am I to continue to be excluded from the Order or am I to be recalled, I wonder.’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  Thomas stared at him, to see if the youth was foolish enough to make fun of him. But the messenger’s confusion seemed genuine enough and Thomas waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just give me the message.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The youth reached down to the small leather satchel resting on the flagstones by his riding boots. He placed it on the worn cross-hatching of the kitchen table and then paused to examine the buckle suspiciously. He glanced at the door leading out of the kitchen and shook his head before undoing the buckle. He reached inside and withdrew a folded parchment bearing a wax seal. He handed it across to Thomas who took it from his hand after the slightest hesitation. Thomas held it up to his eyes and turned slightly so that the kitchen fire could illuminate the seal of the Order and the words inscribed close by. To Sir Thomas Barrett, Knight of the Order of St John. His heart quickened as he read the last phrase a second time.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Sir Oliver Stokely gave me directions, sir.’

  ‘Sir Oliver must have won himself a high position by now. Assuming he is still the same man I once knew.’

  Philippe nodded and replied evenly, ‘Sir Oliver is secretary to the Grand Master.’

  ‘Quite something, isn’t he?’ Thomas laughed. ‘For an Englishman, that is.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Never mind. Finish your gruel.’ Thomas turned his gaze back to the parchment. He slipped a finger under the fold and broke the seal. The parchment crackled as he unfolded it and flattened it out on the table. Then he began to read.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The opening of the message was crisp enough and the distaste and disdain of Sir Oliver Stokely were immediately apparent.

  Sir Thomas,

  I am required by the Grand Master, Jean Parisot de La Valette, to write this message to you by virtue of our common language. You will be aware, as am I, that under normal circumstances your suspension from the Order cannot be reversed. Given the grievous nature of your conduct some twenty years ago it has always been my view that exclusion from the Order was the very least penalty that you deserved. However, the current crisis requires that the Grand Master now rescind your exile. Furthermore, in accordance with the oath you swore when you entered the Order, you are herewith summoned to Malta and shall make your passage as expeditiously as possible or suffer pain of disgrace in the eyes of your peers and before God.

  I need hardly convey to you the depth of the shame you brought to our English brothers. The peril in which the Order and, indeed, the whole of Christendom currently stands presents you with the chance to redeem yourself and your countrymen. Having known you, I hold out little hope that you will honour your oath and think that your contribution to our defence would be little enough in any event. Nevertheless, I am under instruction from the Grand Master to issue this summons and hereby do so in accordance with his wishes.

  The bearer of this message will provide further information about the situation here in Malta. You may question him for details it would be imprudent to commit to writing.

  Y ours,

  Sir Oliver Stokely, Knight of Justice of the Order of St John Hospitallers, on this day, November 6th.

  Thomas looked up at the messenger. ‘This was written in November. You’ve made good time.’

  Philippe shrugged. ‘Time is not a luxury the Order can afford.’

  ‘So it would seem. Are you familiar with the contents of this letter?’

  ‘No, sir. The messengers were briefed on the danger and then handed letters to distribute to our brother knights. You are the fifth on my list. After you, there are two more. One in York and the last in Denmark. God willing I shall return to Malta before the enemy arrives.’

  ‘I see. How many knights are being recalled?’

  Philippe stared at him for an instant, and a look of despair flickered across his face before he replied, ‘All of them.’

  Thomas laughed. ‘All of them? Come now, don’t humour me, boy.’

  ‘Sir Thomas, I said we could not afford to waste time. Within the next six months, a year at the most, the Order may be utterly erased from God’s earth by the infidel.’

  Thomas was more than familiar with young men who had a passion for rhetorical flights of fancy, but out of politeness to his guest he ke
pt his opinion to himself.

  ‘The letter says you can tell me the full details. So out with it.’ Philippe pushed his bowl away. ‘Last October our spies reported that Sultan Suleiman had called a meeting of his advisers to discuss strategy for the coming campaign season. Although the spies weren’t able to penetrate the meeting, they saw a great many viziers, admirals and generals arrive at the palace. They came from every corner of the Ottoman empire. There were even envoys from Dragut and the other corsairs and Barbary pirates. It was clear that the Turks were planning something on a vast scale for the coming year. Later, we began to receive reports from other agents telling of vast stockpiles of weapons, gunpowder and supplies of grain and salted meat. Scores of new artillery pieces have been cast in the Sultan’s foundries, and his best gunners and engineers have arrived in Constantinople. Then there was news of shipping massing in harbours all along the Aegean coast, and the arrival of columns of soldiers into camps close by.’ Philippe leaned slightly across the table. ‘It is clear enough. They mean to attack the Order. To wipe us out.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘It is clear they intend to attack someone. But why Malta? Why now? Surely Suleiman has more pressing business elsewhere. I fear that our friend the Grand Master is jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘No.’ Philippe slapped his hand down heavily. ‘How dare you question his word!’

  Thomas stared at him and lowered his voice. ‘Careful, lad. I will not be spoken to in that manner, least of all in my own home.’

  For a moment the messenger glared back at him, brazenly challenging Thomas. But then he saw the cold, ruthless glint in the older man’s eyes and recalled the few words he had heard back in Malta concerning the reputation of Sir Thomas. His gaze wavered and fell back to the worn surface of the kitchen table.

  ‘Sir, I apologise. It has been a long journey and my mind is weary. I meant no disrespect to you. I only sought to defend the honour of my master . . . and yours.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘I understand well enough. It’s good to see that La Valette still has the power to inspire such fierce devotion amongst his men. But why is he so certain that Suleiman is turning his sword on the Order? And why now, when he is poised to strike at Christendom through the Balkans?’ He frowned. ‘I cannot see the sense of an attack on Malta.’

  ‘It is clear enough, sir. From the beginning of his reign, over forty years ago, Suleiman has claimed the titles “King of Kings” and “Supreme Lord of Europe and Asia”. It has always been his plan to bring every kingdom of Christendom under his sway and impose Islam on all his subjects. Now he grows old and fears that he may die before his ambition is fulfilled.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘That is the stuff of fantasy. I have been a soldier long enough to know that such a plan is beyond even the reach of the Sultan.’

  ‘Fantasy or no, it is his plan, sir. The spies of the Grand Master heard it from Suleiman’s lips. And it begins with Malta, and our Order of knights. We have been a thorn in his side these long years and now he is minded to destroy us.’ The young knight collected his thoughts and continued. ‘The immediate cause of the Sultan’s resolve to take Malta was born from our seizing one of his most prized trading carracks last summer. Commander Romegas took the ship off the coast of Egypt. She was carrying a lady of high rank, and the Sanjak of Alexandria. In the ship’s hold was a vast fortune in silk and precious metals. The value was estimated to be the equivalent of eighty thousands ducats . . .’

  Thomas shook his head in wonder that so much treasure could possibly be contained within the wooden confines of even the greatest of ships.

  Philippe smiled briefly. ‘Exactly my response, sir. And one can only imagine how the Sultan reacted at the news. The Order has been raiding Suleiman’s commerce for decades. We have been growing ever bolder and now he is determined to crush us.’

  ‘For revenge?’ Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘The Suleiman I recall would not let his mind be ruled by his heart.’

  ‘Nor has he,’ agreed Philippe. ‘It is not for revenge alone that he seeks to add Malta to his empire. Once Malta is his, Sicily will be next. From Sicily he can strike into Italy and seize Rome, the very heart of our faith. Even then his appetite will not be slaked. Not until he has crossed the Alps and killed or enslaved every last Christian.’ Philippe leaned forward again and he tapped a finger on the table. ‘Do you think even this far island is safe from the jaws of his ambition?’

  Thomas chuckled. ‘Fine words. I think I can hear the voice of Sir Oliver in them.’

  Philippe leaned back with a wry smile. ‘Well, I tried. And you are clearly as wily a fox as they say.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Those brothers who remember you from the time of your service in the Order.’

  ‘There can’t be that many of them,’ Thomas mused.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And those who truly remember me will recall the manner of my departure from the Order.’

  ‘That is true, sir. But now past grievances must be put aside.’ Thomas wagged a finger at the messenger. ‘Clearly you have little understanding of the depth of feeling that divides the Order’s nationalities. In my day we were at each other’s throats almost as often as we were at the throats of the infidels.’

  ‘Then I think you will notice that not much has changed when you reach Malta, sir.’

  ‘Reach Malta?’ Thomas looked up sharply. ‘Do not presume, boy. What makes you think I will come running back to the service of those who exiled me? If they’ve been honest with you, Philippe, then you must know the circumstances of my departure from Malta. ’ Philippe shook his head. ‘I’ve only heard that you were responsible for some scandal. That’s all they will say.’

  ‘Then they are as tight-lipped and as stiffly righteous as ever. I owe them nothing.’

  ‘You swore an oath. There is no release from the oath, sir . . . The only release is death.’

  Thomas glanced into the shadows in the corner of the kitchen for a moment and then smiled bitterly. ‘It seems that everyone in the Order may be granted release from that oath very soon.’

  ‘We won’t be alone, sir. The Grand Master has sent for help to every Christian kingdom. If they answer, then we must triumph over the infidel.’

  The young man’s simple-minded faith filled Thomas with great sadness. Philippe, and hundreds like him, would go to their deaths clutching such idealistic notions to their hearts like the holy relics they fought and died for. Thomas had hoped that he would never be a part of such foolishness again, and out of compassion for his guest he tried to explain.

  ‘Tell me, Philippe, since you left Malta to come here, did you not once cross a Christian kingdom locked in some conflict or other with its neighbour? Are you ignorant of the fate suffered by thousands of Catholics in this country? While we Christians are so determined to destroy each other, what chance is there of us joining ranks to resist the infidel? There will be no more crusades. We have

  forsaken the true church of God and Suleiman is our punishment. Our judgement.’

  Philippe opened his mouth to protest but Thomas raised a hand to silence him, and after a moment continued in a quiet, weary tone. ‘Go back to the Grand Master and tell him I will come. I will not die for those who cast me out. I will not die for the faith. But I will come for reasons of my own.’ He stood up. ‘Now, I’m to bed. My servant will find you quarters for the night. I imagine that you wish to leave for York at first light.’

  Philippe nodded, and as Thomas strode towards the door, the young messenger cleared his throat. ‘Sir Thomas. You have my gratitude, and that of our brothers in Malta.’

  Thomas paused at the door but he did not turn back. Instead his shoulders sagged and he sighed deeply. ‘Gratitude? I have nothing here to keep me, and I would see Malta one more time before I am done. That is all.’

  He left the kitchen and saw John rise stiffly from a bench against the wall of the corridor. Thomas gestured towards the kitchen as he strode past. ‘See to his needs. He intends to lea
ve the hall before I rise on the morrow.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  Thomas went straight to bed, consumed by a swirling host of memories that the messenger had reawakened. Beneath the covers Hannah had earlier placed a warming pan but even with that comfort, Thomas remained restless and sleep eluded him, chased away by a succession of images and emotions that would not be banished from his mind. At length he gave up and stared at the ceiling of his bedchamber, while a light moaning came from the fireplace as the wind rose outside. The prospect of a return to Malta was bittersweet. That was where he had once been certain that he belonged. That was where he had loved Maria. Perhaps, by some miracle, she lived there still, and nursed the same love that he had over all the years they had been apart. Then he cursed himself for being an old fool and turned on his side and eventually fell asleep.

  When he woke, the wind had died down and bright sunlight beamed into his room through a gap in the curtains. The fire in the grate had long since died and the leaded glass on the windows was laced with frost. Thomas rose stiffly and sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, recalling the details of the previous evening. He was convinced of the rightness of his decision. In any case, the messenger would have left by now and would carry his reply back to Malta. It was too late to change his mind. He would need to prepare for war yet again. Grasping that conviction, he dressed himself and made for his study where John would bring him his breakfast the moment he heard the heavy tread of his master’s boots descending the stairs.

  John confirmed that the young knight had left at first light, with a small basket of pies and cheese to sustain him for his next day’s ride.

  After a bowl of porridge, Thomas pulled on a thick hooded cloak and set off on foot across the fields of his estate to the farm of one of his tenants. There were trees that needed felling in one of the copses that grew on his land and he had arranged to join the farmer and his burly sons to cut them down. It was hard labour that Thomas might easily have left to them, but he relished the exercise and the warm glow of satisfaction at seeing the pile of logs that had been amassed by noon. After bidding the others farewell, Thomas strode back to the hall, feeling purged of the thoughts that had troubled him the previous night. He resolved to leave for Malta within the week.