Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  The boom of the Turkish cannon across the harbour broke the spell. La Valette rose from his chair and came round the table and embraced Colonel Mas.

  ‘I thank you, Colonel. You are a good soldier. A good man. I am sorry that I recruited you to our cause. You deserve a better end than this.’

  ‘There is no need to apologise. I am a mercenary, sir. I go where the fighting is, and in truth, my end is long overdue. Besides, not many of us find such an honourable exit. It’s usually sickness or syphilis that does for us in the end. This is better.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Just be sure my contract is paid. I have a wife and children in Barcelona.’

  ‘I will see to it. You have my word.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Mas stood to attention, bowed his head in a final salute, and turned and strode from the room, leaving Thomas alone with the Grand Master. There was a moment of awkward silence as the older man regarded the English knight. A pained fondness filled his eyes.

  ‘I count it a great pity to have lost your services for so many years, Thomas. I knew you had potential from the very first day you joined my galley. I had plans for you even then. I have given my life to the Order. I have denied myself a wife, a family.’ His gaze dropped and his voice faltered. ‘When you left, it felt as if I had lost a son . . . When you returned, it warmed my heart, for the first time in a long while. And now?’ He looked at Thomas again. ‘It is not too late to change your mind. I said that I need men like you at my side. I meant it.’

  ‘Sir, my path is set before me. I will follow it to the end . . . But it does my heart good to know that I have meant something to you.’ He took the hand that La Valette offered him and clasped it firmly for a moment and felt the tremor in the other man’s touch. Then Thomas withdrew his hand. ‘Goodbye, sir. Like the colonel,

  I too have affairs that I must setde before I leave.’

  I le stood outside the gate and stared at the brass knocker before him. He had been standing there for a little while in the thin light of dawn. A patrol of soldiers had passed him, with a curious glance, before continuing on their way, not willing to question a knight of the Order. Thomas breathed deeply, resolved in what he would do blit unsure of the words he would use, and fearful of the manner in which he might be received. He had reached the house in the hour before dawn and remained out of sight inside a narrow alley between the houses standing opposite. Stokely had left the house at sunrise, wrapped in a cloak, and strode up the street in the direction of St Angelo. Once he was out of sight, Thomas emerged and slowly stepped across the street towards the courtyard wall and the stout wooden door framed by a limestone lintel.

  He grasped the knocker and rapped it twice.

  There was a short delay before he heard a door opening, muttering, and the patter of footsteps on cobbles and then the sound of the bolt being drawn back. The door opened just wide enough for a face to look out and Thomas recognised the maid who had accompanied Maria at St Elmo.

  ‘The master isn’t here,’ she said.

  ‘I know. I have come to see Lady Maria.’

  The maid looked surprised. Then she shook her head. ‘No one comes to see my lady.’

  ‘I have. Please tell her that Sir Thomas Barrett is at her gate. Say that he begs a moment of her time and nothing more.’

  The maid cocked an eyebrow and closed the door. The bolt slid back and her footsteps retreated towards the house. Despite his desire to control his feelings, Thomas felt his heartbeat quicken and a clamminess in the palms of his hands as he waited. When the bolt was drawn back again he was startled; he had not heard any footfall. The door opened and there was Maria. She wore an indigo gown and her long hair was tied back. Bare feet showed beneath the hem of the gown, an inch from the ground. She stared at him for a moment, without expression, and he feared that she might simply turn him away. But then the door opened wider and she stepped to one side.

  ‘Please, enter.’

  Thomas crossed the threshold and Maria closed the door behind him. He looked round briefly and saw that the courtyard was no more than a small square in front of the house. But it was filled with potted plants and hanging baskets where flowers of every shape and colour waited to gleam in the full light of the coming day. To one side was a long, low seat, shaded by a trellis upon which bougainvillea had been trained. He looked at Maria again and saw a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth before she turned to the maid. ‘Lucia, leave us. Sir Oliver’s boots need polishing. See to it.’

  The maid bowed her head and primly hurried back up the small flight of steps into the house. Maria turned to Thomas and gestured towards the seat. They sat down at either end, leaving a gap of perhaps a yard of rich velvet cushion between them.

  ‘Why did you not wait for me in the chapel at St Elmo?’ Thomas asked gently.

  She stared at him for a moment before replying hesitantly, ‘I had time to think, and I became afraid.’

  ‘Afraid? Of me?’

  She shook her head. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then who? Sir Oliver?’

  ‘No.’ She tore her gaze away from him and looked at her hands, neatly folded in her lap. ‘I was afraid of what I might do. That I might behave in a way I would regret.’

  ‘What do you mean, Maria?’

  She looked up again. ‘You are not a fool, Thomas. You know precisely what I mean. And I know that you still feel for me as you did all those years ago. I could see it in your eyes, in your expression.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘And you? Do you feel the same?’

  ‘Why should I after all that you caused to happen to me?’ Her voice was suddenly cold and hard-edged. ‘Before I met you I was destined to marry into one of the great houses of Sardinia. I would have had a palace and wanted for nothing. But then you stole my heart. I was publicly shamed and cast aside by my own family. I lost them, you and my child, and would have spent the rest of my days confined in a nunnery, or worse, had it not been for Oliver coming to my rescue. I owe that man a great debt. And so do you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For the fact that I am here before you, and that you do not have more to trouble your conscience than you do.’

  Her words struck deep into his heart and he glanced down at his hands lying limply in his lap. There was a silence between them that stretched out unbearably in the close warmth of the Maltese night before Thomas spoke again. ‘I would give anything to have my time again and put right the grievous wrong I have done you.’

  ‘But we cannot have our time again. What’s done is done.’

  He looked up quickly. ‘Then what would you have me do to make amends?’

  ‘It has gone beyond making amends, Thomas,’ she said sadly. ‘There is only living with the consequences left to us now.’

  He swallowed. ‘I understand. Then I should leave you be.’

  As he made to rise, Maria quickly reached across to lay a restraining hand on his arm. ‘You give in so soon? What has happened to the fearless knight I once knew?’

  ‘Why should I stay?’ Thomas asked bitterly. ‘There is no love in your heart for me.’

  ‘No?’ She leaned across and kissed him gently on the lips, and then drew back as a smile flickered across her face. ‘How can you doubt it?’

  He felt a warm wave of relief and joy swell up inside his breast and his lips parted in a smile as he half rose to move closer to her. Maria’s eyes widened in alarm and she raised a hand to stop him ‘No. Stay there.’

  ‘But. . .’

  ‘Stay there, I said. I mean it. Thomas, for the sake of the love you have for me, and for the love I still bear for you, keep your distance. I beg you.’

  He sat back heavily, confused and anxious. ‘Maria, you are my all. It has been a lifetime since I last held you. Please.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘As you say, it has been a lifetime. Another life has been given to each of us since then. You had your life back in England, and in many campaigns across Europe, so I hear. A rich life, no doubt.’

  ‘
An empty life, without you.’

  ‘But a life none the less. And I have made another for myself. Once I had forced myself to accept that I would never see you again.’ She paused and her smile faded. ‘It was two years before I was ready to live again. In all that time Oliver took care of me. Despite being a knight, he has a gentle soul, Thomas, and he is a good man. I knew he loved me, and I was fond of him . . . more than fond. So we were married. In private, of course. The Order will turn a blind eye to many things but not to everything, as you and I have discovered. I have been his wife ever since. I have even learned to be happy.’ She stared hard at Thomas. ‘And then you came back into my life, and it was like ... a storm breaking in my heart. I will not lie. My first impulse was to take you in my arms and kiss you. I would have done if I had waited for you in the chapel. Instead I had time to think. Time to consider how much I would hurt Oliver. How you and I could never be happy as we once were.’

  ‘Why not?’ Thomas demanded in a strained tone. Every word she had uttered had been like a stone set about his neck.

  ‘We are living under the shadow of a Turkish scimitar, my love. What life I have left I do not want sullied by being the cause of grief and suffering. I could not bear that. Nor could you, if you are honest with yourself.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘You must know that I am right.’

  He shook his head. ‘It need not be that way.’

  It was a lie that seared his heart even as he spoke it. That very night he would be joining the doomed men of St Elmo and he would not be coming back. There were scant hours left in which to make his peace with Maria. He should not flame their feelings into a false promise for the future. She was staring at him, waiting. He nodded slowly.

  ‘Thank you, Thomas.’ She eased herself closer and then reached out and took his hand. The touch of her skin set off a tremor that rippled through his body. ‘Now, let us talk. Without rancour. Without regret. There are things you should know.’

  ‘I know. Oliver told me about the fate of our child.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Fate?’

  ‘That he died in infancy.’

  Maria frowned and a glimmer of anger shone in her eyes. ‘He said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He said that our son was dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he lives. He lives.’ She looked confused. ‘I could not raise him. I was not allowed. For the first years of his life we kept him a secret and Oliver told the Order that my child had died a few days after he was born. We passed him off as the child of one of the serving girls. Then we were betrayed. They were going to take him from me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The knights. The Order was going to send the boy somewhere I would never find him. Where he would not bring shame on them. I begged Oliver not to let them. I begged him, and he promised he would find a solution.’

  ‘What kind of solution?’

  ‘He sent the boy to England to be raised by one of Oliver’s cousins. That was the last time I saw him. But I have had news of him from time to time. I am told he has grown into a fine young man. Wait here

  Maria rose quickly from the seat and walked back into the house. A moment later she returned and sat down and held out her hand. Opening it, she revealed a small locket on a delicate silver chain. She opened the locket with a warm smile and stared at a miniature portrait inside. Then, still smiling, she offered it to Thomas.

  ‘This was sent to me when he turned sixteen. This is your son. This is our Ricardo.’

  With a cold shiver of premonition Thomas took the locket and gazed down at the familiar features it contained. Younger, yes, and the wavy dark locks of hair that he had inherited from his mother were now tamed and neatly trimmed, but there was no mistaking the dark eyes and dark features of the man he had become.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Dear God . . .’ Thomas muttered through gritted teeth. His mind seethed with the currents of deceit and betrayal that had caught and used him. Then he looked up at Maria and her expression changed from the injured fondness of a moment before to anxiety.

  ‘What is it? Thomas, tell me.’

  ‘Have you ever shown this to anyone else? Has Oliver seen it?’

  Maria looked confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to know. Have you ever shown this locket to Oliver?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there any chance that he knows of it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I do not think so. I keep it hidden from him. He is a good man, and has always been kind to me. Why should I wound his heart by reminding him of the past, of my affection for you?’

  His heart was filled with fear as he closed the locket and placed it back in her hand. ‘Keep this safe and let no one see it. I have to go. Now. I will try to return later today if I can, I swear it.’

  She looked dismayed. ‘What is it? What’s the matter? Thomas, tell me!’

  ‘I can’t. Not yet. Trust me.’ He stood up, made to leave, then turned and took her hand and pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of her skin, holding it deep in his lungs before he was forced to exhale. Then he released her hand and turned away and walked swiftly towards the gate. He wrenched it open and stepped out into the street. As the gate closed behind him, Thomas had one last glimpse of Maria rising from the chair with a look of anguish etched on her face.

  He strode quickly down the street and turned at the junction leading to the auberge. His mind was in turmoil over what he had just discovered and he was not paying particular attention to his surroundings. So it was that he missed the figure at the end of the street, partially hidden by shadow and standing still in the doorway of a baker, as if part of the small crowd of customers waiting their turn. For a moment the man stared after Thomas and then walked slowly towards the gate of the house.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Thomas said coldly as he closed the door to the cell behind him.

  Richard looked up from the small desk where he had been writing. He was stripped to the waist and his skin gleamed where perspiration prickled out. He laid down his pen and casually drew an ink-stained rag across the sheet of paper to conceal several lines written in a small, neat hand.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked calmly.

  Thomas closed his eyes briefly and saw the image in the locket again, and Maria’s face. He knew more than his heart could bear and was uncertain of his feelings now, and what precisely he should say to the young man before him. Walsingham’s agent, his squire, his son. Even now, against all the certainties that filled his mind, it was still difficult to accept - to believe - it was real.

  ‘Richard . . . Ricardo. I saw your picture in the locket that was sent to your mother.’

  Richard frowned. ‘What are you talking about? My mother? What madness is this?’

  ‘I know the truth. There is no time for playing games. You may be in great danger.’

  Richard cocked an eyebrow. ‘Really? Why would I be in any danger in a town surrounded by Muslim fanatics?’

  Thomas felt a burst of anger. ‘Enough! I know that you are my son.’

  Richard’s eyes widened briefly and then his features fixed into a neutral expression. ‘And what makes you think that?’

  ‘I saw your portrait in the locket. Just now when I was speaking to your mother.’

  Richard smiled coldly. ‘That would be something of a one-sided conversation. My mother died years ago, when I was a child.’ His expression hardened. ‘But I know who you are well enough, Father. The man who used a serving girl for his pleasure and then cast her aside when she was with child. And never acknowledged that he had a son for fear of the shame of it. ’

  Now it was Thomas who was frowning. ‘What?’

  Richard narrowed his eyes. ‘This locket, who showed it to you?’

  ‘Maria, of course. Your mother.’

  Richard breathed in sharply. ‘No. That cannot be. My mother was a servant. I remember her. I was told she died after I was
sent to England, to be raised by Stokely’s family, as an act of charity.’ He clenched his teeth in bitter resentment at the memory. ‘I suppose it was inevitable that you would discover my identity before the time was ripe for me to reveal the truth. Once the mission was over, and I had in my possession what I came here for, that was when I would tell you, so that you knew all, before I decided whether I would kill you.’

  ‘Kill me?’ Thomas felt an icy fist clench round his heart. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Richard let out a cheerless laugh. ‘Why not? You abandoned my mother, forced her to abandon me. Had me sent to be raised by strangers who treated me as if I should be ashamed to be alive. If it had not been for Sir Oliver’s family and their patronage, I would never have gone to Cambridge and drawn the attention of Sir Robert Cecil.’ Richard paused. ‘He was more of a father to me than you ever were.’

  ‘I swear to God, I never knew,’ Thomas replied, ‘else I would have moved heaven and earth to find you and raise you myself.’

  ‘Of course. Like every other noble who takes on his responsibilities with respect to his bastard offspring.’

  ‘No. It would have been different. You were — are — my son.’

  ‘I am the sour fruit of your brief union with my mother, and neither of you ever wanted me.’

  ‘That is not true.’ Thomas took a step forward in anguish. ‘I did not know of you, and your mother was forced to give you up. And she lives still.’

  Richard snorted. ‘Save your thin lies, Father. I know the truth. Walsingham told me, after he had investigated my past. He told me everything years ago, and when the chance for this mission came up, he chose me for the task and told me that I was free to do with you as I wished when it was all over.’

  Thomas winced. ‘You seek revenge?’

  ‘Of course. It was the prospect of revenge that sustained me over the years. That was the reward that Walsingham offered me, as well as a most generous payment.’

  Thomas was chilled by the cold-blooded calculation in Richard’s voice, even as he swiftly reflected on the shadowy thinking that lay behind Walsingham’s schemes. Then it struck him. ‘My God, he has been planning this for years.’