Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  Thomas shook his head, not wanting to believe it but knowing that the wound was mortal. The numbing impact of the shot began to fade and a terrible pain spread through his stomach. He staggered towards his son, stumbling into his arms before the strength in his legs gave out. A dark veil blurred his vision and he wanted to vomit as he felt his consciousness slipping away.

  Richard held him under the arms, struggling towards the shore. Thomas was dimly aware of his son’s voice as he called out desperately, ‘Over here! Help me! For pity’s sake, help me!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  ‘There’s nothing that can be done to save him,’ La Valette said gently as they approached the door to the infirmary. Maria did not reply but stared fixedly ahead. The glow of the rising sun lit up the battlements on the wall above them, and in Birgu the bells of every church continued to ring, as they had done ever since news of the defeat of the Turks had reached the town. The courtyard of St Angelo was filled with the wounded who had begun to arrive from Naxxar the night before.

  ‘It is a miracle that he has lived through the night,’ La Valette continued. ‘When his squire brought him in, he had lost much blood. But all he said was that he wanted to see you. I sent for you at once. I can only imagine the strength of will that is still keeping him in this world. He has made a final request of me.’ La Valette stopped on the threshold of the infirmary and turned to face Maria. ‘A strange thing, and you should know of it before you see him.’

  ‘What is it?’ Maria frowned.

  ‘He asks for two things. That you are married here and now, and that I prepare and sanction the adoption of his squire as his legal son and heir. That young man has not left his side since he brought Sir Thomas back from the battlefield, but there is more to this than merely rewarding loyal service, I think.’ La Valette shook his head. ‘A peculiar situation. But the Order owes a great debt to Sir Thomas and I am happy to fulfil his wishes. The question is, are you?’

  Maria said nothing, her lips pressed together in a thin line as she nodded.

  ‘Well then. All is in readiness. I have a priest at hand and I shall witness the ceremony, together with his squire. But it grieves me that you should become a widow so soon after becoming a wife.’ Maria swallowed and held her head high as she responded, ‘I can think of no greater happiness than being the wife of Sir Thomas. Now take me to him.’

  An hour later the ceremony was over. Thomas slipped back on his bolster with a smile of contentment as his wife and son sat either side of him, each holding one of his hands. His hair was plastered to his scalp and sweat gleamed on his pallid skin and the scar tissue on his face. He felt cold and what was left of his strength was steadily failing. Only the agony in his stomach kept his thoughts coherent. He knew that there was little time left to him and felt a burst of rage until he recalled that because he was dying his son was still living. He nodded to himself and whispered, ‘It is a fair fate.’

  He turned his head towards Richard and moistened his lips so that he might speak clearly. He found the effort a strain and his voice was thin and frail. ‘Swear to me that you will look after your mother. She has been wronged all through her life. Swear to me that you will care for her.’

  ‘I swear it.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘I am proud of you. Any man would be honoured to call you his son.’

  Richard swallowed hard and gently laid a hand on his father’s chest. ‘I know. And to you I owe it all.’

  ‘No. I should have been a better father. A better man.’ Thomas turned to Maria, his eyes filled with pain and longing. ‘A better husband.’

  She tried to fight back tears, then leaned forward to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, ‘There is no better man. You are my all . . . my love.’

  Thomas’s vision began to blur and he had barely enough strength to breathe. His expression twisted in agony. ‘And you . . . are mine. Always . . . Always. Forgive me.’

  Then his eyes closed as his breathing became more laboured, and with a last sigh, he lay silent and still. There was no mistaking the moment of his death; that final stillness of body and spirit from which there was no return. His son and wife stared in silence and each shed tears. Their grief was raw and they sat a while together as the hours passed.

  As dusk closed over the island, La Valette returned to the infirmary to pay his respects. Maria eased her hand away from the growing chill of Thomas’s fingers and rose stiffly. She stared down at his scarred face and leaned to kiss him on the brow before she turned and walked slowly away, her hand resting on Richard’s arm. La Valette accompanied them outside.

  ‘Rest assured, Sir Thomas will never be forgotten. Nor will any who endured the siege.’ La Valette breathed in deeply as if savouring the air. ‘When the rest of Christendom hears that the Turks have been thrown back from Malta they will gain heart and common purpose. Suleiman and his empire have been humbled, but soon he will be back. Yet Europe will no longer fear the prospect of living under the shadow of the crescent. Because of what happened here, on Malta. Because of those who died, like Thomas, and those who fought and lived, like you, Richard.’

  He embraced the young man, then stood back and smiled curiously. ‘You are a worthy heir to Sir Thomas’s name. It is almost as if you were born to take on the mantle.’

  La Valette turned to Maria and bowed deeply. ‘My lady, I wish that this had ended more favourably for you. But God’s will be done.’

  Maria’s lips parted as she made to reply, but she could only nod.

  ‘There is one more thing.’ La Valette reached inside his doublet and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, sealed with the Barrett crest. He offered it to Richard. ‘Sir Thomas gave me this several days ago. He requested that I give it to you, should anything happen to him.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I doubt that he really expected the worst, but. . . here.’

  Richard took the letter hesitantly and nodded his thanks. La Valette bowed his head and then strode back towards his quarters where the end of the siege had produced an endless list of new problems that needed urgent resolution. Richard waited until he was out of sight before he turned to Maria.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No. I’ll wait for you on the wall. There’s a pleasant breeze tonight.’ She bowed her head and slowly walked over to the bottom of the stairs leading up on to the wall of the fort. Richard moved into the pool of light cast by a torch flickering in an iron bracket and opened the letter and began to read.

  My dearest Richard,

  I am not a man of great learning. Nor am I any more a man of noted deeds and actions. Nor, I fear, do I have much time left to me to be a man at all. If I should die then let this brief note be my testament to you. If I should live, then perhaps these poor thoughts might still carry some of the weight and value that I purpose for them.

  I would have you know, and tell your mother, that she was right about the incorruptible truth that lives in our hearts. Tell her she was always what I loved most in the world, though you, my son, are what I valued most. The two sentiments are not the same, but nor are they mutually exclusive. Indeed, they both form part of the bond between lovers and the product of their love. This alone is what matters. Everything else is a poor shadow by comparison.

  My son, you have become as dear to me in a few short months as any son could have become in a lifetime. I have come to look on you with well-earned pride. You have great courage, and compassion and wisdom. I would not have you squander such gifts in the ignoble service of a reptile like Walsingham. There is a better path for you, should you choose to take it. If there has been any worth to have come out of the trials that we have endured here on this barren rock it is that the real document that fate intended for you to bring away was not that for which you were sent, but this that you now hold in your hands.

  I have lived a full life. I have done much that I regret and I have learned something of the limits of the ambitions and beliefs that men, and women, live by. Know that I have tried to be a good man, and that the m
easure of that goodness is wholly human. I have forsaken the idea that there is any God in this universe, let alone a Christian one, or one conceived by the Muslims. There is nothing godly in the bloodshed and cruelty that we have both witnessed.

  Of all the causes that preoccupy the minds of humanity, of all the works of science and faith that have been set down in words, in my life there is only one truth of any value that I have learned and now entrust to you.

  It is this: that I have loved, and been loved. And I have sired a child. That is all the divinity that any man requires in this world.

  Your adoring father.

  Richard read the letter again, more slowly, and then folded it carefully and placed it inside his doublet, next to his heart. He climbed the stairs to join his mother and gazed out across the harbour towards the ruined mass of St Elmo.

  He felt the touch of her hand on his shoulder. ‘Richard, are you all right?’

  Richard swallowed his bitter grief at the unrequited gratitude he owed the man who had been his father, and friend. Then he turned to her with a forced smile and nodded. ‘I am.’

  He leaned forward and kissed her cheek and then held her hands. ‘Mother, let us go home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘England.’ Richard felt a pang of longing as he uttered the word. But there was one final task he must perform before he could put his affairs to rest. ‘There is a gentleman I have to see in London first. After that there is a fine house awaiting us. And a family name and a title.’ He opened his hand to look at the ring, a painful lump in his throat. ‘I shall do all that I can to be a worthy son of Sir Thomas Barrett, Knight of the Order of St John.’

  She forced a smile but could no longer meet his eyes and looked away. ‘I am sure he would have been proud of you.’

  ‘I wish for nothing more.’ Richard was silent for a moment before he cleared his throat. ‘You will have to make preparations for the journey. I will leave you to it.’

  Maria turned back to him anxiously. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘There is something I must attend to. Something important. I’ll come to your house as soon as it is done.’

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘I swear it, Mother.’

  She was silent for a moment before she nodded. ‘Very well. But don’t be long. You are all that I have now . . . my dear son.’

  Richard felt a pang of affection swell up in his breast and he took her hand and squeezed it very gently. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  He shut the heavy door of the auberge behind him, muffling the sounds of the bells that pealed across the rooftops of Birgu and echoed in the streets filled with excited people, still stunned by the realisation that they had come through the greatest trial of their lives and survived. The hall was still and gloomy, the only light coming from the window high up in the wall. Richard stared round briefly, and then made his way down the corridor leading to the kitchen. There he took a candle and lit it, using Jenkins’s tinderbox. With the small flame held out before him, he descended into the cellar that ran beneath the auberge, a greater place of safety for King Henry’s will. In a small, neglected alcove he removed a loose brick and set it aside before he groped into the cavity beyond and extracted the aged piece of parchment that he had been sent to find and take back to England. It seemed strange that this had once seemed a great and dangerous treasure to him. Richard held it in his hand and gazed at the smooth vellum by the wan glow of the candle for a while. Then, without any further hesitation, he held the corner of the will to the flame and watched as the flickering yellow tongue licked along the edge of the document in a bright line that spread rapidly and left grey and black ash in its wake. He held it for as long as possible before the heat caused him to release his grip and the letter dropped to the floor, flaring briefly before it struck the ground with a small flurry of sparks and then quickly faded into darkness as the last of it was consumed by flame. With a sigh, Richard turned away and headed back up into the kitchen.

  As he passed down the corridor he was aware of the sound of movement from the hall. He continued as quietly as he could until he emerged from the corridor and saw Jenkins struggling to set a ladder up against the wall.

  ‘Jenkins.’

  The old man started and turned round. He puffed his cheeks in relief as he saw Richard and then smiled. At once the smile faded and he shook his head sadly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Master Richard . . . though I wish that Sir Thomas was with you.’

  ‘You know then?’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘I heard it from one of the servants at St Angelo, while we were offering our thanks to God at the cathedral. I came back here as soon as the service was over. There was something I had to do.’

  ‘As did I.’ Richard smiled. ‘What are you about?’

  Jenkins stepped over to the table and picked up a small bundle of red wool. He unwrapped the folds and took out a small wooden shield bearing a coat of arms and held it up for Richard to see. ‘I put it safely aside after the auberge received the instruction to take it down. I hoped that one day it would be returned to its rightful place, sir. It has been a long wait. I think there is no better time than now. Would you give me a hand, sir? My limbs are not as steady as they once were.’

  ‘Of course.’ Richard held out his hand. ‘Let me do it.’

  Jenkins stood still for a moment before he gave the small shield to Richard. ‘Thank you, sir. You can see there’s a small hook on the back.’

  Richard turned it over to look.

  ‘You can hang it on that nail up there.’ Jenkins pointed to the gap on the beam, a short distance from the ladder. ‘Where it used to be.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Richard climbed, one-handed, holding his father’s coat of arms in the other. When his head drew level with the beam he reached out and carefully slipped the hook over the nail and then adjusted the shield so that it hung straight. Satisfied, he climbed back down and then stood beside Jenkins. They looked up at the coat of arms. The paint had not faded during the long years of storage and the design seemed as fresh as the day it first hung in the hall.

  ‘It is good to have things in their rightful place,’ said Jenkins.

  Richard nodded.

  They were silent a moment longer before Richard turned and offered his hand to the servant. ‘I have come to say farewell, Jenkins. I’m returning to England.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ The old man looked disappointed. ‘I had hoped that you might stay. Now that the last of the knights has gone, the auberge needs new blood.’

  Richard’s expression hardened at the unfortunate choice of word. He forced himself to smile faintly. ‘Perhaps one day. Not for some years. I have earned a respite from war. But if ever the Order calls on me, I shall come. Look for me then.’

  Both men smiled, knowing full well that Jenkins would be long in his grave before that day.

  ‘Goodbye then, sir.’ Jenkins bowed his head, and shuffled over to open the door. Richard stepped out into the bright sunlight bathing the town. As the latch clacked behind him, he felt a lightness in his being, as if all manner of burdens had been lifted from his shoulders. He breathed in deeply, then glanced over his shoulder for one last look at the auberge before he turned away and went to join his mother.

  For Tom

  After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.

  Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison,

  Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing

  Can touch him further.

  William Shakespeare

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Few sieges in history are as significant as that of 1565. It took place at a time when the Ottoman Empire was at its height and there was little doubt that Sultan Suleiman ruled the superpower of the age. The kingdoms of Europe did not dare stand in his way and lived in fear of his all-conquering armies. For those nations with a shore on the Mediterranean Sea - or the White Sea as the Ottoman Turks referred to it — there was the added terror of the Sultan’s se
a power, often exercised by his proxy fleets of corsairs led by legendary characters such as Barbarossa and Turgut, whose very names caused Christians to quail in terror. Descending by night, the corsairs raided coastal villages and towns, killed countless thousands and carried many more off into slavery.

  There is little doubt about the Grand Strategy of Suleiman. He aimed to crush his Christian enemies between the pincers of his army and his fleet. He believed he had been divinely chosen to complete the long-standing ambition of the Muslim world — to subject all other nations to the will of Allah, under the rule of the Ottoman Empire. The Kingdom of Spain was a mirror image of the same ambition, and just as ruthless, and equally ready to use religion to justify its actions. It was fitting that the most celebrated act of the great struggle between the two powers should be played out on Malta, the island in the very heart of the sea so bitterly contested for hundreds of years.

  At that time the Order of St John was little more than the garrison of an outpost in the Christian world. The Order was in decline, its numbers falling as the wars in Europe claimed knights it might once have attracted. It was comprised of many nationalities and there were always tensions within its ranks, which was not helped by a long history of defeats and retreats in the face of the forces of Islam. Given that the knights of the sixteenth-century Order were single-minded fanatical warriors, it is hard to believe that their origins date back to the twelfth century when a simple priest wished to offer food and shelter to pilgrims travelling to the Holy Land. As part of that service the Order soon extended its scope to offering armed escort to pilgrims, before evolving into an extensive paramilitary force that went over to the offensive with considerable relish.

  Ultimately, the military Orders proved insufficient to the challenge they faced and were driven from the Holy Land in 1291 (when they were all but annihilated). Regrouping on Cyprus they invaded Rhodes in 1310 and used the island as a base for naval operations against the enemies of Christendom. Eventually, in 1523, the newly crowned Sultan, Suleiman, sent a powerful fleet and army to overwhelm the Order. It was not an easy task since the knights had built a vast array of fortifications around their head¬quarters, which visitors to Rhodes can still see today. Suleiman was young at the time, and inclined to rather more chivalry than was wise. Instead of crushing the Order that had been a constant threat to the Turks, he took pity and permitted them to quit the island alive, taking with them their portable belongings. It was a mistake that would cost him dearly, for the knights went back on to the offensive the moment they secured a new base on Malta.