A Queen's Knight

by Sam Burnell

  Lizbet pulled the stopper out again and looked at the brown ground mixture inside aghast. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Jack sounded grim.

  “I didn’t mean to,” Lizbet sobbed

  “It’s not your fault. He knew.” Then addressing his brother where he lay on the bed, he said, “Didn’t you? You knew damned well what she was giving you.”

  Richard did not reply.

  Jack’s temper snapped. Reaching down, he grabbed Richard by the shoulders and tore his shirt open. Jack could count his ribs, and the skin was sunk and taught around his shoulders and collarbones. “When was the last time he ate?”

  “He’s no appetite. He has a little sometimes. You’ve seen me trying to get him to eat.” Lizbet had tears in her eyes.

  “Are you listening to me?” Jack shook his brother hard. “You’ve an appetite for this, haven’t you?” Jack held the half empty cup he himself had just drunk from in front of Richard’s face. That did get a reaction and Richard reached for it. Before he could take it, Jack hurled it across the room to smash against the wall spreading a dark stain across the stone.

  Richard’s eyes followed its flight. “Please,” was all he said.

  “No, damn you.”

  “Will he be alright?” Lizbet was wiping tears from her eyes.

  “Not while he’s drinking that he won’t be,” Jack said, pushing his hands roughly through his already untidy hair. He dropped heavily into the chair. “Tomorrow we set off back north.”

  “North?” Lizbet said, shocked. “What about Andrew? What about the flintlocks?”

  Jack shook his head. “Richard couldn’t even convince a merchant to give him more than a few coins.” Jack spoke to Richard, fury in his voice. “Those few coins were all you were getting, weren’t they? You had to tell us there was more coming so we’d buy you more of this.”

  Lizbet looked at Richard horrified.

  “How well do you think he will fare with the Knights of St John? They’ll take one look at him and recognise the opium in his blood, then they’ll not deal with him charitably that I can tell you. Look at him, for God’s sake!”

  Lizbet did, and like Jack, she saw what they both hadn’t wanted to see. A wasted body, black sunken hollow eyes and a demeanour that she knew was that of an addict.

  Richard was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in hands. “They’ll trace the letter here. I don’t care how you sent it, they will trace it.” The effort of speaking was evident.

  “We will be gone in the morning,” Jack said, with finality.

  †

  Venice had long been home to various Orders of Knights. The Templars, before their fall, had land, property and churches, some of which had been bequeathed to the Knights of St John of Jerusalem. This surviving Order had headquarters in the Venetian state, a church dedicated to St John the Baptist, along with a convent attached to it with a hospital and barracks. The Knights of St John now had a permanent home on Malta, granted to them by The Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, in 1530. From there, they continued their running battle with Suleiman the Magnificent who had ejected the Knights from their original base on the island of Rhodes in 1522. Suleiman had no intention of letting them remain in the Mediterranean on Malta.

  Dragut, Suleiman’s corsair prince, attacked Malta in 1551, however the siege lasted only a few short weeks and he had turned his attention to easier pickings – carrying away most of the population of the neighbouring isle of Gozo as slaves and then ousting the Knights from Tripoli on the North African coast. The hatred between the Turks and the Knights ran deep.

  Provisioning an Order the size of the Knights of St John was an administrative task, that was coordinated from their headquarters in Venice. This southern European port, a centre for trade between east and west, was the perfect place to stockpile provisions and ship them to the Mediterranean island of Malta.

  Brother Franco put his pen down, reaching for the cool cup of lemon water that had just been placed on his desk. It was August and it was hot. Franco was originally from Northern France, where the summers were comfortable pleasant affairs to be enjoyed, where a man could sit in the sun and soak up the warmth. He resented Venice in the summer. It was too hot to go out in the afternoons, the sun burnt his tonsure and to wear a hood was to suffer even more. The city was pleasant only in the very early mornings, before the real heat of the day took hold, then again late at night.

  Franco also resented the smell. On his desk, scented oil burnt steadily in a brazier, the aroma just about enough to mask the stench rising from the canal outside his window. Franco regularly lamented that it could not be much worse if he had been forced to conduct the Order’s business from the middle of a rotting fish market. The canals through Venice were liquid rubbish dumps, the summer sun fermenting them to eye-watering levels. In the central canals, the sea did not flow as easily as it did nearer the outskirts. The filth of daily living failed to wash away into the open lagoon. Instead it remained, festering and rotting beneath his shuttered windows.

  The shutters were a necessity for a second reason as well. The flies. In the hot summer months the air-borne pests multiplied and Brother Franco had found that he was one of life’s less fortunate people when it came to insect bites. The small red pinpricks from the fly bites would spread in hours, becoming hot and painful swollen welts that could take weeks to dissipate.

  The uniform of the Order, covering his skin from neck to toe, should have afforded his body some protection. However, the flies still managed to penetrate the layers, delivering their painful poison to his arms and legs. On his desk lay a fly swat and his Venetian serving boy, Angelo, was now well acquainted with Franco’s hatred of insects. He would diligently, morning and evening, inspect the walls and ceiling in his office, and later his sleeping quarters, flattening any of the biting, flying insects he found. As far as Franco was concerned they were the Devil’s own creatures on earth and he hated them.

  The Order required all kinds of provisions, and when the requisitions came in from Malta, they were all processed in his office. Goods were ordered before being stored in the Order’s warehouses in Venice, until such time as there were enough to fulfil a shipment. Then Franco either sourced a merchant ship, or the Order’s own vessels would come and collect the stores. As such, there was constant traffic between Malta and mainland Europe. Although the island did have its own resources, there were a lot of items they lacked, and these came through Venice.

  Two letters had been delivered that morning for Franco. One he recognised immediately. Heavy, bearing the seal of the Order, it was a requisition for stores to be procured that could not be found on the Mediterranean isle. Franco broke the seal, his eyes quickly scanning the list. Oak, pig skins, leather hides, brass billets, nails and sail cloth. Nothing difficult.

  Most of the items on this latest order could be dispatched immediately from stores, the rest Franco had good supply contacts for. The second letter he did not recognise, the seal being unfamiliar to him. Turning it over in his hand Franco regarded it carefully. The paper was still bright and uncreased, the ink wasn’t smudged, and the corners of the letter were still crisp and angular. It had not been penned long ago and it had not travelled far.

  Reaching into his top drawer, Franco pulled out a thin flattened blade, the end of which he applied to the candle flame on his desk. The strong, wafer thin steel heated quickly. Judging the moment right, Franco slipped the hot blade under the seal, the wax melting to the touch of the metal and the seal lifting from the page intact. If he wanted to trace the impression on it he still could, having avoided breaking it.

  Dropping the blade back into the drawer, Franco read the letter from Richard Fitzwarren.

  Franco let the letter drop back to the desk in front of him and stared at the closed shuttered windows. A moment later Franco pulled open a drawer and drew out two other letters carefully tied together. One was from Thomas Tresham, alerting him to the fact that a man would be contacting
the Order regarding the missing Italian arms shipment, a Master Garrett, by all accounts. The second had been from Richard Fitzwarren a few weeks ago, announcing his intention to open negotiations with the Order for the same shipment and requesting a meeting.

  The meeting had indeed taken place with Brother Franco, and Fitzwarren, his men and the arms he had brought with him, should have arrived in Malta by now.

  So Brother Franco had no idea why he had received a second letter from another, purporting to sell the same shipment, and using the same name – Richard Fitzwarren. Franco tapped his fingers on the table, the puzzle for the moment taking his mind off the infernal flies.

  Jack had signed the letter in his brother’s name, unaware that Richard had used the name Garrett as an alias.

  Richard had been right, the missing munitions had caused ripples. Indeed, had he known it, more than he could have guessed. The finger had already been pointed at the Knights for having plundered them for themselves almost two years ago. It was well known that if they had ended up on Malta, then there would be very little anyone could do to prove otherwise. For all intents and purposes they would have permanently disappeared and this was generally what was assumed to have happened to them.

  The Knights however, on this occasion, were not guilty. Two years ago when such accusations had been levelled at the Grand Master, by an emissary from the Pope, he had been ejected from Malta with abject fury. Quiet orders had then been sent out. Find out where the arms are. Find out who has them. However, nothing had been found.. The trail was cold. Senor Monsinetto had taken the arms to England and then lost his life on the return journey, along with everyone else on the ship. It had been supposed that he had the shipment with him, although quiet enquiry and a stolen copy of the bill of lading for the vessel suggested that this was not the case.

  Franco had received a copy of the dispatch enquiring after them two years ago. He had contacts in Europe for everything, and knew who would deal in such items. Those that were less than honest in their dealings he had pressed, hoping that one of them would have heard of the location of the arms. Nothing.

  Now here they were. Thomas Tresham in England had been alerted that they were for sale if the Order was interested. A Master Garrett would be in touch shortly and would have with him examples of the wares he was trafficking. Franco found himself quite annoyed with Tresham who had let this man, Garrett, walk free. Franco had no contact details for Garrett, no idea who his master was. There was just a vague promise that Garrett would be in touch with the Order in Venice. Tresham’s communication alerted the Order to the fact that a possible deal was on the way, and nothing more.

  Was the Order interested? Franco snorted. Of course the Order was interested!

  Franco re-read Tresham’s letter.

  Tresham obviously had no idea what these munitions were worth. Garrett could be anyone. The only piece of information he could glean from this was that the arms were probably in England. That was where they had been destined for in the first place, but Franco had no idea who would have held them for nearly three years. Greed was, Franco knew, generally not that patient.

  Now Franco had two men, it seemed, both trying to sell the same missing shipment to the Order, and both laying claim to the same name. Richard Fitzwarren he had spoken to himself a few weeks ago. Franco had been shown samples of the full cargo and had despatched the men and the samples under heavy guard to Malta. Franco had felt little liking for Fitzwarren, the man was boastful and overly confident. Brother Franco had little doubt that his manner would change once he found himself on the Knights’ island fortress.

  Little did Andrew know that the name Richard had used in his dealings with the Order had been Garrett when he assumed the guise of Fitzwarren in his meeting with Brother Franco.

  Franco was about to reach for a pen to send a note to the Order’s barracks. Then, grumbling, he threw the pen down, knowing he was going to have to go himself. The matter was too important to trust to a note.

  “Angelo…” Franco called the boy into his rooms and Angelo diligently knelt at his feet helping him on with his sandals.

  Brother Franco, as controller in Venice, arrived at the barracks with an escort that befitted his rank. Angelo had run ahead, with a note, letting them know of his master’s imminent arrival.

  The barracks were positioned next to the Order’s hospital, and although number of men stationed here were small by the standards of the Order’s Maltese force, they gave the Knights a well-respected presence in Venice. Their principal role now was to ensure the safety of Brother Franco’s precious stores in the Order’s warehouses adjacent to the barracks, before they were despatched to Malta.

  The commander was an Italian Knight, Brother Emilio, and he had no liking for Franco. Emilio was in his prime, and resented his current posting guarding Franco’s storehouses. Emilio longed to be on Malta, fighting the Turk, side by side with his brother Knights. Nothing happened in Venice. None of the local criminal class were stupid enough to take on the Knights over their provisions, not when there were easier pickings in the city.

  “Brother Emilio, how good of you to see me,” Brother Franco acknowledged, as he was shown into Brother Emilio’s sparely furnished office. A table, two chairs, and a portable shrine to the Virgin against one wall were all it contained.

  Emilio nodded in acceptance of his words and motioned for Franco to take one of the chairs. “How can I help you, Brother Franco? It is not often I receive two personal visits from you in such a short time.”

  Franco had been forced to visit Emilio and employ his services several weeks ago, to keep Richard Fitzwarren and his men close until they could be secured on one of the Order’s ships.

  Franco didn’t miss the hint of sarcasm in Emilio’s words, but he chose to ignore it. It was true that normally he communicated with the Barracks by note or messenger, rather than take the hours-long journey himself. “I need the services of some of your men at my offices.”

  Emilio raised his eyebrows when he heard the request. “Don’t you have your own security?”

  “We do,” Brother Franco was forced to admit. “However there is a man about to approach the Order, and when he does, it is very much in our interests not to let him slip through our fingers. My Venetians are not as dedicated as your men are, as I am sure you are aware.”

  Emilio’s attention was riveted on Franco. Very little ever happened in Venice that was not simply the day to day mechanics of trade. The recent brief internment of Fitzwarren and his men had been the closest Emilio had got to using his military skills for nearly a year.

  “If this is a matter of security of the Order, I would of course lay at your disposal as many men as you need,” Emilio affirmed.

  Franco nodded. “Good, I hope to meet with him soon. Release him and find out who he travels with before taking him back into our keeping.”

  “One man?” Emilio repeated.

  Franco confirmed. “There is not time to contact my superiors about this, so I propose a small number of your men billet themselves at my offices, then when he arrives, or we find out where he is, they can follow him. I want anyone he travels with, and everything he travels with, in our custody. He has sent me a letter announcing his intention, and I have men trying to trace whoever it was delivered it. We might be able to find him before he approaches us.”

  “May I ask why you want this man?” Emilio enquired.

  “You may not, just know that it is important to the Order, and have men posted today,” Brother Franco snapped. He had no liking for Emilio, who had the blaze of youth that had long since abandoned Franco and an Italian arrogance that he loathed. Franco was sure, though, that Emilio would follow his orders.

  Brother Franco made his way back to his offices, a feast for the flies as he went, despite Angelo’s best efforts to keep them at bay. On his return he penned a letter to Malta and sent it directly to the Grand Master de la Sengle informing him that there appeared to be a second person in the market to
sell the Order the missing munitions. And more, that the seller was in Venice and about to approach the Order to negotiate a sale, and that this second seller also laid claim to the name Richard Fitzwarren.

  There was little else Franco could do now but wait, until either he was contacted or his own men traced the origin of the letter. Within the hour Franco’s quiet offices had been overrun with Emilio and his men, and he found he had a lot more irritations to deal with than just the flies.

  Chapter 9

  Forced Duplicity

  It had been a sobering evening, the three of them in the room, all alone with their own thoughts. Richard had lain back on the bed again, his face turned towards the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. Jack was sat at the table, his head in his hands, desperately trying to think of a way forward and Lizbet was left to sit on the floor, back to the wall watching them both.

  Eventually it was Jack who broke the silence. “Well, we can’t spend the rest of the night like this. I’m hungry and I dare say you are as well, lass.”

  Lizbet, raising her head, nodded.

  Jack shook out the coins he had left onto the table and viewed the sorry selection. It would, he mused, have been more had he not been a fool and let himself be duped by the prostitutes. Casting a sour look towards the figure on the bed, he asked, “Do you want something to eat? Or is it something else you’d like?”

  Richard rolled over, regarding him with dull dark rimmed eyes. “Something else,” he admitted.

  “I should let you have all of it, damn you.” Jack’s anger with his brother had not dissipated yet. “You swore an oath – remember?”

  “I swore to live, I didn’t say how I’d do it,” Richard replied, wearily.

  “This isn’t living, you’re killing yourself. You’ll last another month like this and then you’ll be a sack of shaking bones. That’s all that will be left of you,” Jack shot back.