‘Here.’ Richard had some folded blankets balanced against his chest and he held one out. ‘Found them in a cupboard. Spare bolsters too if you need one.’
‘I’ll be comfortable enough without.’ Thomas nodded his thanks and took the blanket, quickly shaking it out and then draping it around his shoulders before he added some of the smaller split logs to the growing blaze.
Richard took a blanket for himself and sat on the edge of the bed that Thomas had chosen for himself, leaning forward slightly to get closer to the warmth of the fire. There was a brief silence before he spoke.
‘Those scars. Did you get them in the service of the Order?’
‘Some. Others came from my service elsewhere.’ Thomas eased himself back and round so that he could face the younger man. He touched his left shoulder. ‘An arrow cut through me there while I was in Flanders. ’Twas a flesh wound, but I bled like a stuck pig, as I recall.’ He moved his hand down to his left breast. ‘This is where a dagger cut me deeply. This other I got on an expedition in the harbour at Algiers. La Valette did not want us to be hampered by armour. There was a skirmish aboard the galleon we seized and a corsair leaped out of the shadows in front of me and struck. I’d have been cut down with his second blow if La Valette had not come between us and killed the fellow.’ Thomas looked down into the fire, his brow creasing at the memories. He tapped the inside of his left elbow. ‘The scar there was from a bum, when we attacked a corsair fort near Tripoli. The enemy were using incendiary pots. One burst on the wall beside the ladder I was climbing and the naphtha burned through the chain mail and the gambison beneath and on to my flesh.’ He winced at the memory of the terrible, intense pain that he had endured during the long night it took to capture the fort.
‘What about that one, on your forehead?’ Richard asked quietly.
‘This?’ Thomas raised his hand and traced the thin scar an inch below the hairline. He was silent for a moment as he slowly ran the finger backwards and forwards along the scar and Richard watched him expectantly, eyes glinting with reflection from the fire that was wanning the room. Thomas cleared his throat. ‘This one I got when I slipped on some ice and hit my head on the door of an inn.’
Richard’s jaw sagged and then he burst into laughter and Thomas joined in, filling the room with a hearty sound. The laughter continued for longer than it might have done now that the tension between the two men had eased for the first time since meeting. And then, as it died away, Richard became self-conscious and stood up and pulled two chairs over towards the fire and hung his clothes over them to dry, hesitating a moment before he did the same for Thomas’s cloak, jerkin and shirt. Meanwhile, Thomas took out the small knife he carried in a sheath at his back and cut the bread into hunks and sliced the cheese and offered half to Richard.
‘Thank you.’ The young man stood up and gestured to the bed. ‘Yours, I think.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Have it.’ He thumped the sleeping mat beneath him. ‘This will serve well enough.’
Richard sat and they both began to eat. It was the first meal in weeks that Thomas had eaten that was not infused by the salty tang of the sea, nor spoiled by the nauseating roll of the galleon as it clawed its way across murky waves under a grey sky. Consequendy, simple bread and cheese as it was, the taste was unrivalled and as his stomach filled and his body was warmed Thomas felt content. Partly, he realised, because now there was a prospect of some companionship where before there had been only a frosty tolerance between himself and Richard. Thomas wanted to find out more about Cecil’s agent, partly out of a desire to learn what he could about the document and the precise nature of Richard’s orders but also out of simple curiosity and a wish to know the man better. Yet he knew that to presume too much too quickly might risk having Richard raise his guard once again. He reached for the jug of wine and poured them each a cup. He handed one across to Richard. The clothes had begun to steam and a musty aroma filled the room.
‘You were well chosen for this mission,’ said Thomas. ‘If you speak your other languages as well as you do Spanish then you will be very useful indeed.’
Richard gave a quirky smile. ‘Useful? Perhaps a man of my social station should consider that a compliment.’
Thomas was tempted to ask more but there was a touch of anger and, more, shame in the young man’s voice and he decided not to pursue the matter for the present.
‘You have played your part well enough,’ Thomas continued. ‘But we will both be called upon to perform like the best players in London if we are to convince the other members of the Order when we reach Malta. It is not enough that you behave like a squire. You must begin to think like one. You must do whatever I ask of you without hesitation and without any of the resentment you occasionally show. You will keep my armour, equipment and wardrobe clean. You will behave with due courtesy to everyone you encounter, no matter what their class. You must, at all times, deport yourself as a gentleman who aspires to become a knight. And not just any knight, but one of the Order. If you can do that then you will pass for a squire.’
Richard’s expression became bitter. ‘Then I shall pass for what I shall never become, nor ever a knight.’
‘How so?’
‘Nobility is the preserve of those with no stain on their past. It matters not what the worth of a man is if there is a blemish against his name which nothing can erase.’
‘But you are of gentle birth,’ Thomas replied. ‘That is self- evident. You are as much a gentleman as I am, I can see that.’
‘Save for the fact that I was born on the wrong side of the sheet, Sir Thomas. That is something that no one can change. I am a bastard, known as such by those who raised me. That is why I have chosen this course in life. Now, if you will excuse me, I am tired and would sleep well before we journey on the morrow.’ He drained his cup and lay down on the bed, turned on his side, so that his back was towards Thomas and the fire.
For a while Thomas gazed at him, wondering about his origins. What must it be like to bear the burden of such a stigma in a world in which such things counted so deeply, despite the manifold wickedness and immorality of many who laid claim to the mantle of nobility? No wonder the young man was bitter. Nature had clearly blessed him with a fine mind, fair body and sound constitution. Society had cursed him with a label which would blight him until the day he died. For a moment Thomas began to feel pity for his companion, and then he caught himself. There was no need to add to Richard’s difficulties with such an unworthy sentiment.
He sighed softly and then built up the fire. Turning the clothes drying on the backs of the chairs, he placed the boots beside them and then climbed into his own bed and lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. Sleep no longer came to him as easily as it once did and a church bell in the port sounded midnight before Thomas closed his eyes and drifted off.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The road across the north of Spain passed through the rocky terrain of Navarra and Aragon before reaching Catalonia. It rained frequently and the high passes over the hills were laden with snow and ice that slowed their pace. Most nights Thomas and Richard stopped in small villages, paying to sleep in barns when they could not find a room. Twice they had to sleep in the open, horses tethered to stunted trees while the two men huddled round a fire in the shelter of a rocky outcrop. They took it in turns to sleep, wary of the small bands of robbers who preyed on passing travellers. Once they were followed for half a day by a group of men on small unkempt ponies. Thomas and Richard stopped briefly to strap on their swords and made sure that the weapons were clearly visible. Shortly after, the men reined in and watched them ride out of sight.
The two Englishmen attracted attention in every village and town they passed through. The King and Church had been assiduous in their efforts to ensure that their people considered the island ruled by the Protestant Queen Elizabeth a godless realm of evil and depravity. As such the knight and his squire excited a degree of suspicion and fear and while they were never thre
atened or turned away, thanks to the travel warrant issued by the port master of Bilbao, there was no warmth or hospitality in the way they were received.
The conversation that they had enjoyed on their first night in Spain was not repeated; Richard had once again retreated into a quietly hostile demeanour, even though he did as Thomas had asked and made sure that he fulfilled his role as a squire faultlessly. After a few attempts to return to the warm moment of companionship they had shared, Thomas gave up trying and they rode on, exchanging a handful of words only when necessary and eating in silence each night as they sat by a fire or hunched in the shelter of a barn.
At noon on the fifth day of the new year they crested the last ridge in the hills that overlooked the narrow plain where Barcelona nestled against the Mediterranean. The clouds had cleared that morning and the sun shone down from a brilliant blue sky. Even though it was the depth of winter the sea somehow looked bright and inviting and Thomas felt a warm ache in his heart for the island in the very centre of the Mediterranean, a place he had once believed to be his home for life, amongst a band of brothers in arms fighting for God against impossible odds. It had all seemed so clear and noble back then, before Maria had stepped into his life and the realisation had slowly dawned that there was little nobility to be won in a never-ending war where progress consisted in visiting new horrors upon the enemy. For all its sparkling beauty, this sea was a battlefield as old as history. Long before the present conflict had begun, the Mediterranean had been fought over by Romans, Egyptians, Carthaginians, Greeks and Persians. Who knew how many thousands of warships lay rotting in the deeps? This was a sea watered by the tears and blood of generation upon generation of human beings, Thomas reflected with a shudder.
He clicked his tongue and nudged his heels into the flanks of his horse. ‘Come on, let’s not tarry.’
Richard took in the view for a moment longer before he followed and they picked their way along the track that looped back and forth down the side of the hill. Below them the city of Barcelona lay in the shadow of the fortified citadel. In the harbour some thirty or forty galleys lay at anchor and two more rested on timber rollers in front of the royal shipyards, a series of long sheds with high roofs that dominated the shoreline. On the parade ground outside the fortress several companies of pikemen were drilling beneath the billowing colours of their standards. Preparations were clearly in hand to confront the threat rising at the other end of the Mediterranean. But would it be enough? Thomas wondered. From experience he well knew how the Turks could field vast forces of men and ships. They had the finest gunners and siege engineers in the world in their ranks and the size and destructiveness of their cannon were without equal.
As they approached the city walls the track joined a coastal road. A short distance ahead the two horsemen passed a trundling line of wagons laden with kegs of gunpowder and cast-iron shot. Thomas spurred his horse on so that they were in front of the convoy by the time they reached the city’s main gateway. Gesturing to Richard to come to his side, Thomas drew out his travel warrant and handed it to one of the soldiers on duty. The Catalan stared uncomprehendingly at the document before he ordered them curtly to wait and then turned away to find his officer, disappearing through an arched doorway into the gate’s guardroom. Thomas eased himself out of the saddle and slipped on to the ground with a weary grunt. A moment later Richard followed suit and took the reins of both horses, as any squire would have done, Thomas noted with satisfaction.
The guard emerged a short time later with a portly man dabbing at his mouth with one hand as he looked at the warrant in the other. He glanced at the two Englishmen before addressing Thomas, who gestured to his squire.
‘Richard, if you please.’
As the two conversed, Thomas tried to follow the sense of what was being said, but the Catalan language was strange to his ears. It made him feel uncomfortable and even vulnerable; he did not yet trust the young man who had been foisted on him by Cecil and Walsingham. Richard knew a good deal more about the purpose of this mission and the nature of the sensitive document at the heart of it. If the document was located and recovered then what, Thomas wondered, were his companion’s orders at that point? He himself would be of no more use to Cecil; perhaps Richard’s orders included the quiet elimination of a man whose knowledge of the mission, limited as it was, might prove to be an embarrassment at a later date. He must be on his guard against such treachery, even as he faced the Turk in battle. The thought made him feel bitter towards Richard and his spymasters back in London.
Richard interrupted his thoughts. ‘Sir, I have explained our purpose to the captain. He says that since we are to voyage to Malta then it would be best to announce our arrival at the citadel. That is where we will find Don Garcia de Toledo. His army is making ready to embark for Sicily and we may be able to travel with the fleet.’
‘Sicily?’
‘It is where King Philip is gathering his forces to face the Turk. The Spaniards will be joined by mercenaries from Italy, including the galleys of the Doria clan. The captain here says that he has heard it will be the largest army ever amassed to fight in the name of Christ. And Don Garcia is the finest general in all Europe. The Turks, he says, will be utterly crushed.’
Thomas looked at the Catalan officer, fat and too used to good living. He would not last long in any strenuous campaign. ‘Tell him that I pray to God that he is right. We will go to the citadel now.’
‘He says that he will have his men take us there.’ Richard glanced warily at the Spaniard before he continued. ‘There have been rumours that the enemy have spies in Barcelona. I don’t think he trusts us.’
‘Spies?’ Thomas laughed. ‘Do we look like Turks?’
‘We are English, sir. It seems that there are many here who think that their enemies share a common cause. It is understandable. They have never forgiven the French for fighting alongside the Turks twenty years ago.’
Thomas nodded with feeling. It had been an alliance that had scandalised the rest of Christendom as little more than a pact with the devil. It had endured only briefly. The French had been shamed by the massacres carried out by their new allies against the Christians along the coast of Italy. Thomas could imagine the horror that it would have brought to the French knights of the Order, and La Valette most of all.
‘Very well, thank the captain for providing us with an escort.’ With two men leading the way and another pair following on behind, Thomas and his squire walked their horses through the sturdy walls and into a wide thoroughfare. The towers of the cathedral of Santa Eulalia rose up above the roofs of the closely packed buildings lining the route. The recent rains had washed away much of the filth that covered the streets and the more offensive smells of the city were mild in comparison to the stench of London. It had been many years since Thomas had last seen Barcelona but for Richard it was clearly the first time, judging from the way he gazed at his surroundings with frank curiosity. With his dark looks he might have passed for a local if not for his lack of a Catalan accent. Cecil and Walsingham had chosen their man wisely, Thomas mused.
As they entered the square in front of the cathedral, Thomas’s attention shifted to the ornate facade with the three towers constructed from a sturdy latticework of stone. So different from the cathedrals back in England, he thought. Craning his head, he squinted at the crosses thrusting up towards the azure heavens. A handful of seagulls circled above, black against the glare. For a moment Thomas felt his heart lift at the sight, before he was struck by the thought that at the other side of this sea, in Constantinople, the great city that the Turks had renamed Istanbul, a man like him, a warrior, might be standing in front of the great mosque, staring up at a golden crescent - a man he might face in battle one day soon. The thought sent a cold tremor down his spine. It was not fear, just a brooding sense that he was fated to be consumed by the coming clash of faiths and empires.
The small party crossed the square and soon they had left the confines of the city behind
and were making their way up the steep hill to the citadel. A fresh breeze was blowing in off the sea, carrying a salty tang with it. When they reached the entrance to the citadel, once again they had to explain their business. While the escort was sent back to the city wall, the knight and his squire were admitted to the outer courtyard where they tethered their horses and sat down on a bench to wait.
They were not kept long. An officer dressed in red velvet hurried out of the governor’s headquarters and approached them.
‘Sir Thomas Barrett? It is an honour to meet you, sir,’ he announced in good French and bowed deeply. Thomas and Richard rose to their feet and inclined their heads in return.
‘May I introduce myself?’ He flashed a pleasant smile. ‘I am Fadrique Garcia de Toledo, and I am at the service of you and your squire, Sir Thomas.’
The young man looked to be in his early twenties at most and Thomas exchanged a brief glance with Richard before clearing his throat and replying in French.
‘Are you the commander of the force that King Philip is sending against the Turks?’
‘Me?’ The Spaniard’s eyebrows rose in amusement. ‘Decidedly not, sir. That would be my father. I have sent him word of your arrival. He will be pleased to greet another member of the Order who is answering the call to arms.’
‘Have there been many of us?’ asked Thomas.
Fadrique’s smile faded. ‘Not as many have passed through Barcelona as we had expected, sir. You are, in fact, only the fifth knight we have seen. Of course many will have taken ship from other ports. I am sure that no member of your Order will deny himself the chance to partake in the glorious victory we shall celebrate over the Turk.’
‘Let us hope that you are right.’
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