by Sam Burnell
Richard didn’t reply. His gaze had dropped to the earthenware jar that held the opium. It had rolled to the floor when Jack had dragged his brother from the bed earlier and none of them had picked it up.
Jack saw Richard lick his lips and followed his brother’s gaze. Rising, he crossed to the wall to where the jar had ended up, scooping it from the floor. “This is all you care about, isn’t it?” When Richard didn’t reply Jack pulled the stopper from the jar and held it close to his brother’s face so he could smell it.
Richard, unable to resist, reached out with a shaking hand to take the jar. Jack, taunting him, moved it quickly out of his reach.
“If you want this, get on your knees. Beg for it. I want you to show me how much you need this rather than me,” Jack growled, holding the jar just out of Richard’s reach.
“No, Jack, stop it.” Lizbet was on her feet, trying to push in front of Jack.
“I won’t stop it,” Jack snapped in Lizbet’s face. Then pushing the jar back towards Richard, he watched with delight, as his brother reaching for it, missed and fell forwards from the bed. “On your knees, damn you.”
Lizbet lunged for the jar, wrapping both her hands around it. “Stop it, Jack. This isn’t helping.”
“I should have let you go. I should have let you bleed out like a pig.” Jack ripped his own shirt open so his brother could see the healed scar that lay on his chest. “I would have gone to Hell with you.”
Lizbet tightened her hold on the jar, pleading with him, “Please, Jack, let go. He’s ill. Please stop it.”
Jack suddenly let go of it and clamped his hands to his face. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Jack, please. It’s not you. He’s doing this to himself.” Lizbet put the jar on the table and wrapped her arms tightly around Jack.
Bending his neck Jack lay his cheek on the top her head and returned her embrace fiercely. “I just want to hurt him as much as he’s hurting me.”
“I know you do. But please stop, you’re both hurting me as well.”
Jack squeezed his arms tighter around her. “I’m sorry,” he muttered into her hair.
“Christ! Let me go, you oaf! I can hardly breathe,” Lizbet said, with mock seriousness after a moment.
Jack loosened his hold, but still kept his arms around her.
“That’s better,” Lizbet said. “I think you’ve cracked at least two of my ribs.”
If Jack made a reply, Lizbet didn’t hear it. A moment later she was spinning backwards, Jack’s hand in her chest pushing her hard away from him. Staggering, her feet banged into Richard who was still kneeling on the floor and she cannoned over him, bringing them both down in a heap. From where she lay on her back, her feet above her head resting on Richard, she saw why.
When Jack’s head had rested on Lizbet’s, he’d heard the unmistakable sound of a blade rattling from a sheath, beyond the door. Jack had needed his arm free. In the same instant he’d pushed Lizbet from him, he’d drawn his sword, which had stood propped against the wall.
The door came in at Jack. Kicked hard from the outside, swinging back and cracking loudly against the stone wall.
“Thomas Gent.” Jack regarded the man who stood in the open doorway from along the length of his blade. “You have chosen the right moment to step back into my life.”
If Jack’s words were disconcerting, or the fact that his prey was not as surprised as he would have liked, it did not show on Gent’s face. Steel in his own hand, he advanced into the room and, taking in the scene before him, he grinned. “See you’ve still got your whore of a sister with you. Share her, do you?”
Jack knew better than to engage in banter. His blade was already coming up under Gent’s, sending it back in his face. The move forced Gent to take a step backwards, stopping the two men behind him from entering the room.
Gent’s face darkened as he felt the steel in his hand reverberate from the impact. He growled at Jack, “Still full of tricks?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Tricks?” he repeated. “I don’t think you and I ever sparred together, did we?”
Gent was looking past Jack and Jack snorted. “Now who is trying the tricks?” He lunged as he spoke and the blade point went though Gent’s sleeve and cut through his arm. Gent screamed, his own blade point embedding itself in the wood floor as the sword dropped from his grasp.
Jack, his sword withdrawn, quickly leant forward and with his left hand took a hold of Gent’s doublet, hauling him into the room. Gent stumbled forward, tripped over his own blade and landed awkwardly on his knees, his left hand pressed hard over the bleeding cut.
The two men behind him faltered on the threshold. There were shouts behind them from the rooms below. Jack couldn’t hear them as clearly as they could. Both men exchanged a quick glance and darted away from the open doorway.
Jack dropped to his knees facing Gent. There’d been a knife in Gent’s belt and as he’d stumbled forward Jack had neatly extracted it. He held it now, none too gently, against Thomas Gent’s stomach.
“Where’s Dan?” Jack demanded, increasing the pressure on the point.
Gent grinned through the pain, his face contorted and ugly. “Where do you think he is?”
Jack’s fist, tightening around the hilt of Dan’s knife, drove it straight into Gent’s stomach. Gent fell against him, eyes popping from his head, mouth open in a silent shocked scream. The blade was still tight in Jack’s hand, and he twisted it viciously. This time he was rewarded by a piercing shriek of pain from the dying man.
Jack pushed Gent away, and he collapsed on the floor, blood pouring to form a dark pond beneath his body as he writhed on the floor.
Lizbet still on the floor on her back, feet on top of Richard, stared open mouthed as three men, armed and wearing the unmistakable emblem of the Knights of St John strode into the room. Richard pushed himself up onto the edge of the bed. Lizbet shuffled back on the floor until she felt the wall behind her. Only Jack remained on his knees, immobile and staring at Dan’s knife still held firmly in his hand.
A third Knight entered the room, taking in the scene before him, his eyes running over both the dying and living occupants.
“Richard Fitzwarren?” the new arrival enquired of the room in general.
“I’m Richard Fitzwarren,” a voice replied.
The Knight looked towards the man who had spoken, disgust plain on his face. “Bring them all,” were his final words before he strode from the room.
†
Brother Franco’s offices were in the Castello district, in the centre of Venice, accessed down one of the narrow streets near St Mark’s Square. The door was not a conspicuous one, although a plaque attached to the wall next to it told that these were the offices of the Order of St John of Jerusalem.
As instructed, Emilio and his men returned with the prisoners. Their bang on the outer dusty door was answered quickly. It was opened by an elderly serving brother, who admitted both Emilio and Richard Fitzwarren, leading them quickly up a flight of stairs to Franco’s room.
The controller sat. He didn’t offer the man before him a chair, but stared at him with hard eyes. Franco was, after all, a Knight of St John. Emilio had been forced to wait outside. The questions Franco wanted to put were not ones he wished to share with the younger Knight.
“So, Richard Fitzwarren, I assume?” Brother Franco said, steepling his fingers.
The man before him nodded in acceptance of the name.
Franco ran an assessing gaze over him. The Knight leant back in his chair, his bright eyes locked with those of the man who stood before him. His stare was returned in equal measure.
“I am surprised to say the least,” Franco said, eventually. “You do not appear to be a man who would have anything to trade. We’ve searched your rooms and found nothing. Nothing at all.”
“I did not bring them with me,” came the poor reply.
“Why was that then? Perhaps someone else did?” Franco said. The man before him open
ed his mouth to speak, but Franco held up his hand to still his words. “Satisfy my curiosity, if you will. Why did a man using your name, travelling with both men and these flintlocks you seek to sell, stand before me not that very long ago?”
The man who stood before Franco stiffened. “The explanation is simple.”
“Come on then, if it is so, simple supply it,” Franco said, his eyes widening, anticipation plain on his face.
Discomfort flitted across the face of the man before he spoke. “It was a thief who laid claim to my name. He stole the arms he has with him from me. However, he only has with him samples. He does not know where the main shipment is stored. Only I have that information.”
“How unfortunate for you,” Franco said, sarcastically.
“As you say, unfortunate,” came the acid reply.
“You had the audacity to trade in stolen goods with my Order? Then you were betrayed by your own men. This is not a good stand point, is it?” Franco’s voice sounded slightly incredulous.
“I can assure you, these are not stolen property,” Fitzwarren countered, ignoring the point about betrayal.
“Alright, shall we use the term lost property then? Would that offend your sense of right and wrong a little less?” Franco said pointedly.
Fitzwarren inclined his head. “Lost property,” he said, in agreement.
“Well, if it is lost, why not take the Godly path, and return it to the owner?” Franco asked.
“If the Order is not interested then I will have to find someone else who might be. It may very well be that they could find their way back home again,” Fitzwarren supplied smoothly.
Franco laughed loudly. “You are currently my prisoner. A man is dying at the moment. You indeed still have his blood on your shirt. Shortly your crime will be one of murder. Your fate should, by rights, lead you into the Piombi.” Franco leant forward, his elbows planted on the desk, watching the man in front of him closely. “You are not in a position to negotiate.”
There was a slight nod of acceptance from Fitzwarren.
Franco, satisfied, continued. “One of these you sent, and it bears the Fitzwarren seal. The other doesn’t. So which of these is the true bearer of the name?” He reached into a drawer and dropped two letters onto the desk.
“I have the seal, here.” The man held his hand so Franco could see the signet ring.
“Possession of a seal is little proof, is it? You could very easily have butchered the owner, just like the man we found bleeding to death at your feet earlier today,” Franco pointed out accurately. “Which does bring me round to asking the question of why you tried to kill the man?”
There was a pause. “He had remained in Venice with the sole purpose of preventing me from contacting the Order.”
“And why was that?” Franco put the question quickly.
“Kineer, Andrew Kineer, is the name of the man who has taken my name and who purports to trade with your Order.”
“Perhaps he has good reason?” Franco said, thoughtfully. “Perhaps you were a poor leader. It does seem that he also has all of your men with him. Did none at all think to remain with you? Did all of them desert you?”
Franco did not receive an immediate answer, so he added, “Your brother and sister appear to be the only unfortunates travelling with you. Was that their choice, I wonder?”
The reply was quick and automatic. “Can I trust the Order with their safety?”
“And the dying man you were found with – are we charged with his safety as well?” Brother Franco said, smoothly.
“I have access to a something of significant value. It is of interest to many parties. I am sure you can understand how it is when you are dealing with something so valuable.”
Franco raised his eyebrows again. “I can see how it might be problematic. Your brother, and your sister, will be safe. You have the word of the Order, and my word.”
Relief showed plainly on the man’s face as he stood before the Monk.
Franco said accurately, “So they are of importance to you? From the look on your face you hold them in higher regard than the flintlocks you are in the marketplace to sell?”
“I hold my family in higher regard than money,” Fitzwarren replied, carefully.
“It is a shame this interview will be so brief. I must say I prefer you to your namesake who stood where you do now some weeks ago.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Where he is now?” Fitzwarren asked.
“No, that is not something I can discuss. Sit down,” Franco gestured to the seat opposite him. “You are to be our guest, just for a few days. Then you can go and plead your case before the Grand Master. He is more than a little intrigued by the cargo you allegedly have for sale. I can imagine that soon you may well be wishing yourself in the Piombi in Venice rather than in Malta. The Order does not like to be treated like fools.”
“And my brother and sister?” Fitzwarren asked, still standing.
“Will go with you. Brother Emilio will escort you. A task I am sure he is suitably looking forward to. He has a great desire to serve the Order and finds his posting in Venice a tedious one.”
“You assured me…”
“I assured you they would be safe, sir. And they are safe. They are not, however, free. I think you are about to find out the price of impudence,” Franco replied, curtly.
“Where is the impudence in trade?” Fitzwarren asked, from where he still stood before Franco, having ignored the invitation to take the seat.
“And you are a merchant, are you?”
“I have goods to sell, and trade is…”
Franco cut him off. “Trade, sir, demands that you have a right to the title of the goods. You have no right to the title of these goods. We both know that. I do not know how, or where you think you have got them from, but I can assure you, very soon you are going to regret that you ever had the slightest idea of trying to sell them to the Order. What kind of fools do you think we are?”
“No fools at all.” Fitzwarren held Franco’s eyes with this own. “But this cargo needs to be in safe hands, and if I can assist with its delivery then I would hope to be recompensed.”
“Where is it?” Franco knew he would not get an answer, but it was a question he badly wanted to put.
The man before him smiled.
“Very well, smile now. However I fear that you’ll not be keeping that information to yourself for overly long,” Franco finished wearily, then rising he opened the door and called loudly, “Brother Alfonso.”
One of the armed men who had escorted Fitzwarren appeared.
“Make sure a close guard is kept on him until Brother Emilio collects him.”
The room they took him to was cool and quiet, both of which he was thankful for. Apart from the door that had closed behind him, there was just one small grilled window, high in the wall, letting in a narrow streak of sunlight. The floor was damp. Up to waist height the plaster had fallen away, exposing brickwork bristling with salt petre. The wall beneath the window on the far side of the room was running with water and he guessed this one faced the canal. On the drier side of the room was a low lying bed frame, topped with a packed straw mattress. There was little else in the room.
He had known that this was coming from the moment he had found out about the flintlocks. That seemed a very long time ago. The interview thankfully was over, and his breath came easier now. The moment they had closed the door behind him, a pressure that had felt like a leaden weight on his chest had lifted. That he had got through it, without betraying himself, seemed a miracle. How long he could keep up the ruse was another matter entirely.
Pulling the bed away from the damp wall, he lay down on his back. Pushing blond hair from his eyes, he cast an arm across his face to block the light from the grilled window. Soon his breathing became even and shallow as sleep claimed him.
†
Claude de la Sengle was the Order’s forty-eighth Grand Master, and he was nobody’s fool. Under his hand, th
e Order’s military strength on Malta had increased, as had her defences. Completing Fort St Elmo and expanding Fort St Michael, de la Sengle had created powerful bastions at the mouth of Grand Harbour, as he tightened his hold on the Mediterranean. A lifetime of sea and land battles against the Turk had taught him to never underestimate his enemy. As a leader of one of the foremost fighting forces in Christendom, de la Sengle was a man who knew his trade, and his trade was war.
De la Sengle had received Franco’s report and there was a fury burning within his chest. It was already assumed that the Knights’ armoury was stocked with the missing Italian munitions. The Grand Master had little intention of paying in coin for what the Order had already paid for in diplomatic humiliation. That they had the flintlocks had, of course, been denied. There were no powers on earth that were going to open the Order’s armoury doors for anyone to check. And even if they had and the missing Italian weapons were not on show, then it would have been assumed that, for the time of the visit, they had been stored elsewhere.
De la Sengle had not been able to win. Having drawn their conclusions, and the weapons never having surfaced anywhere else, the powers that be in Europe had satisfied themselves that their suspicions had been correct. The military Order of St John of Jerusalem, along with some of its more questionable procurement methods, was to blame.
Monsinetto had died when his return ship had sunk off the coast of Spain, which was no longer viewed as a freak accident of weather and poor seamanship. It was indeed the perfect cover for the removal from the ship of its lucrative cargo, and then, God rest their souls, the consignment to the deep of the crew and Monsinetto. Piracy was not a crime beyond the Order, they had an unfortunate record that bore that out.
In 1553 Emperor Charles V had offered the Order the city of Mahdia on the Tunisian coast. In 1551 the Knights had lost their hold on Tripoli to the Ottoman Turk. The cost had been extreme. Mahdia had looked very much like another Tripoli, difficult to defend, at the end of very long supply route and splitting the Knight’s resources from Malta. They declined the offer. Charles knew Mahdia would fall to the Turks and the Spanish garrisoned there sacked and burned their own citadel before leaving it to its Ottoman fate.