A Queen's Knight

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A Queen's Knight Page 15

by Sam Burnell


  It was then that Jack realised, all of Emilio’s men, rather than being deployed on the ship were instead standing close, and Jack realised why.

  “I’ll not hide behind your swords.” Jack pushed Emilio’s hand roughly away.

  “You cannot fight with us.” Emilio sounded aghast, standing now in front of Jack. “I am tasked with bringing you to Malta. Alive.”

  “Let me stay. Surely you’ll not deny me that?” Jack’s eyes flashed bright in the sun.

  Emilio gave rapid orders. Two of his men moved to flank Jack. He was, it seemed, going to be allowed to remain on deck, and he grinned his thanks to Emilio.

  Returning his eyes back to the incoming ships, he saw they had drawn apart, both heading straight for the Santa Fe. Their intention was now obvious. Both ships intended to pass close to her, one on her port side, the other to starboard.

  “Christ! Are we just going to sit and wait for them?” Jack blurted.

  “The Captain has her in hand. He will not bring her within range of the Turkish guns,” the man to Jack’s right replied.

  There was plenty happening on the Santa Fe. Commands, which Jack did not understand, were being relayed, men obeying, shinning up the rope ladders, running along the decks, coiling ropes around the bollards. But so far the ship had remained set on its course. In the very near future it would pass between the two Turkish ships and be in range of their guns. The two men stood with him pressed him back so they were out of way of the sailors now all employed on deck.

  “Their cannon are already out. Look!” Jack said, pointing. They could see the doors along the side of the Turkish ship off the Santa Fe’s port side open, ready.

  The raised voices of those in command issued an order which was repeated along the length of the ship. There was a rumble that Jack felt through the soles of his boots, one that made the sweat run cold down his back. The canvas from the topsail was released, blocking the sun. Jack found himself suddenly in the shade. The hemp ropes cracked tight at the bottom and the white canvas bearing the cross of the Knights bellowed and then snapped taut in the wind. The sudden deployment of the sail made the masts creak as the rigging strained against the shackle blocks and chains anchored on the decking.

  No one had told him to take hold of anything. Emilio’s men were holding on and braced. Moments after the canvas took the wind, it felt as though the Santa Fe’s stern was lifted out of the water. The deck beneath Jack rose and he lost his balance, hands flailing wildly as he grabbed hold of the rail facing the galeotti to stay his fall. The wind drove her on and brought her in a sudden move straight into a firing line with the Turkish ship that had been about to run down her port side.

  Below him, the ship emitted a fierce drumming. It was the sound of cannon wheels on wood, but sounded more like rumbling thunder, close and guttural and from the bowels of the Santa Fe. Jack was still trying to secure a good hold on a guardrail when the first volley of cannon fire left the ship.

  The noise was cataclysmic.

  “Jesus!” Jack swore. The deck shook from the blasts. The cannon recoiled, the ship dipping heavily against the blast, the firing side rising from the water.

  “Hold on, there’ll be a second as soon as the guns are lower.” The warning came from Emilio, appearing suddenly at his side.

  The smoke from the cannons had engulfed one side of the ship. The wind whipped it skywards to smother the deck, the acrid smell of burnt powder already reaching Jack’s nose. Emilio was right, and this time Jack was ready. As the ship settled back after being lifted by the recoiling cannon, a second series of blasts rang out.

  From where Jack was, he could see nothing through the smoke, and neither could anyone else on the deck. They relied wholly on information relayed from the men clinging to the masts above the smoke layer. There were calls from aloft followed by immediate orders from the Captain. Jack could hear above him the high pitched buzzing noise as rope reeled at speed through the wooden pulley blocks attached to the spars. Instinctively he took a step back but nothing fell through the smoke to the deck. The whirring whine stopped suddenly with a jarring clunk, the sails jolted the Santa Fe around, hauling her port side from the first Turkish ship and swinging her starboard side towards the second. Only half of the cannon had the target in their sights.

  The first twelve of the Santa Fe’s starboard guns fired. The recoil through the complaining timbers was less this time, the ship’s deck not tilting skyward as much. The Santa Fe was still changing course when the second half of the gun deck came in range a moment later, and another volley of cannon balls left the ship. The deck was still shrouded in smoke. All Jack could hear was a steady stream of information relayed from above and the Captain’s loud barked replies issued from the rear deck.

  “What’s happening?” Jack demanded, sliding down the rail towards Emilio.

  “They have badly damaged the Turkish ship,” Emilio supplied, and as the breeze cleared the smoke, he added, “Look, she is listing to the port side. The other is coming to her aid.” Emilio’s voice was breathless with excitement. The other Turkish ship was sliding through the blue waters directly behind its stricken sister, intent on turning its guns on the Santa Fe.

  Emilio exchanged quick words with his second in command, ducked under the barrier and headed across the deck.

  “Where’s he going?” Jack grasped the soldier’s arm, but his hold was briskly shaken off. Whatever liking Emilio had for Jack was one not shared by all his men, it seemed. A moment later he could hear arguing from the deck above their heads, then suddenly the Santa Fe’s sails turned to take the wind in full. Jack felt the tug beneath his feet. The Santa Fe was turning from the Turkish ships. Within moments she was out of range of the Turkish guns, and they did not give chase, the Turkish ship remaining to defend the listing one.

  Emilio returned a moment later, his face serious and his expression dark. Behind him, attended by two of his men, came the Captain. The look on his face was murderous.

  Jack straightened, preparing himself for whatever it was that was coming in his direction.

  The Captain came to stand in front of Jack, eying him closely, taking in the stained and crumpled linen shirt, the unshaven face, and the grey boots with their frayed stitching.

  “You have brought shame on the Order, on myself and on my men.” His words betrayed a temper that Jack would rather not see released. “As you are such a precious cargo, you will stay below.” Jack could tell that there was much more he wanted to say, but his next words were directed at Emilio. “See to it.” With that, he turned on his heel and left them.

  Emilio’s face was a mirror of the Captains. “Below decks. Now!”

  His men, as unhappy as their leader, prodded Jack hastily towards the door and the ladder leading below, and soon Jack was interred inside the stifling cabin with Lizbet and Richard. The key turning on the outside of the door made the final point that they were to stay put.

  “What’s happened? I thought we were about to sink,” Lizbet said, standing quickly.

  “We’ve been attacked by Turkish ships,” Jack replied.

  “Christ! Are we safe?” Lizbet said, taking a tight hold of Jack’s arm.

  “Yes, the Santa Fe’s guns ripped through one of the ships and the Turks aren’t pursuing us. And now the Knights are acting as if we attacked their bloody ship.”

  An hour later, Emilio appeared briefly at the door. Richard and Lizbet watched the quick exchange before the door was closed again and the key turned on the other side.

  “Well? What’s he said?” Lizbet demanded.

  “It seems we have brought shame on the Order. The Captain has never backed away from a conflict with the Turk, until today. Emilio’s orders are that we must be presented to the Grand Master. No risk should be taken during our passage that will lead to us not arriving in Malta,” Jack said bleakly. “We are to blame for the Santa Fe retreating from the fight. Every man onboard would happily see us beneath the waves for that. The guns hit the Turkish
ship, and they could have easily delivered a final blow, but Emilio insisted the Captain follow his orders and they disengaged.”

  “Bloody hell,” Lizbet said. “So are they going to keep us down here until we get to Malta?”

  “There are a hundred men outside that door who would like to see you dead right now. So behind this door with Emilio’s men guarding the other side is probably the safest place we could be,” Jack explained sarcastically.

  Chapter 12

  A Role for Apate

  It had been weeks now since Andrew’s first interview with Brother Caron, the Grand Master’s aide, The haste with which Andrew and his men had been transported to Malta had given him hope that the reception he would receive would be a favourable one.

  After Andrew’s brief interview with Brother Franco in Venice, they had been swiftly transferred to a fast caravel, which was about to make the return trip to Malta. Within a week, as the Mediterranean skies had turned an impossible blue, they had sailed into the harbour, past Fort St Angelo, and the construction site that was to be the matching fort on the opposite side of the inlet, Fort St Elmo. If Andrew had expected the name he had used, and the cargo and men he brought with him, to have afforded him some recognition on his arrival, he had been wrong. He had found himself stored, like a letter, waiting the attention of their master. Andrew was left in no doubt about the power and superiority of the Order, and of the Grand Master.

  He was given good accommodation in Mdina, but it soon became evident that it was just a comfortable prison. After two days alone, pacing the rooms, he was interviewed by Brother Caron, a Knight of advancing years, who concerned himself with the administration of the Order on Malta, leaving its defence to his younger and more able brothers He had with him a brother acting as silent scribe, fastidiously recording Andrew’s answers provided. When Andrew had asked where the rest of his men were, he had been told smoothly that they were billeted in accommodation fitting their rank. Andrew certainly got the feeling that he was supposed to be grateful for his cool, white-walled prison. The rooms gave him a view over a lemon garden and of the rocky expanse of Malta as it sloped towards the glinting sea in the distance.

  Andrew’s story was a simple one. He had the sense not to deviate from it, nor elaborate upon it. He had the weapons in England, but he carried samples with him and was more than willing to demonstrate their use. He also offered a new method of shot manufacture. He had with him a munitions manufacturer from Antwerp, formerly Head of Ordnance at the Tower in London, who possessed the knowledge to improve the recipe and usage of black powder. He stuck with the original story that he had used in Venice, that he was Richard Fitzwarren.

  Andrew’s gnawing worry was that his men had turned against him. He had growled at them on the caravel, before they landed, that if they ever wanted to get back off the burning rock that was Malta, then they needed to back him or they would be facing the legendary wrath of the Knights. However, he had not envisaged that he would be parted from them. Separated and locked away, with no idea where they were, or where the cargo he had brought with him had gone, Andrew found it difficult to believe that they seemed to have so little interest in him. Something had gone wrong.

  His temper would have snapped had he known that what he offered was already being tested. The men had elected Froggy as their temporary leader. Under his guidance they had provided well-schooled and effective demonstrations of the flintlocks they had brought with them when requested to do so by their captors. Master Scranton had spent hours closeted with the most knowledgeable men the Order had on the subject of black powder, until they were in agreement and could report back that there indeed might be some worth in what the man had to offer. Soon he was working in the powder stores, setting up a workshop outside Mdina’s bastion walls, to manufacture his new form of powder.

  †

  Master Scranton muttered under his breath and Froggy Tate continued to ignore him. Scranton had been set to work to produce his own recipe for black powder. At his disposal were the required ingredients, the quality of which Scranton could not dispute, but he lacked able hands. The quantity he needed to produce to prove the process was large, and Scranton, to his annoyance, was having to work rather than direct. Froggy Tate had some experience with powder, and so he had been drafted in to help, while the other men, Marc and Pierre, remained behind bars in Mdina.

  “We’ll be here for weeks before we have made enough,” Scranton said, a little louder this time.

  Froggy, casting a black look towards the little man, unable to ignore him any longer, replied through gritted teeth. “Then the sooner we make it, the sooner we’ll be finished.”

  Scranton, a hand on his aching back, straightened. He glowered in the direction of their guards where they sat relaxed in the shade beneath a stunted pine tree. “If those men worked with us rather than just sitting and idly watching us then we would be finished sooner.”

  Froggy moved his head closer to Scranton’s before he spoke. “They’re Knights. They’re not going to get their hands dirty doing this. Don’t annoy them again. Remember what happened yesterday?”

  Scranton opened his mouth to speak, then seeing Froggy’s face harden, closed it abruptly. The day before, the disrespectful observations he had cast in the direction of the two Knights acting as their guard had led to a denial of water all through the heat of the afternoon.

  Froggy was erecting the wood trestle tables they were to use to produce the powder on. At the end of each day they were sluiced clean of the charcoal dust and left on their sides to dry. The dust got into everything; every fibre of their clothing was coated with the fine black powder. As they ground it up to reduce it to the consistency needed, it made the air thick, the charcoal catching in their throats, making their eyes water and clogging their noses. The Knights posted as guards had wisely positioned themselves away from this hazard. They were working outside of the bastion walls on a patch of naked weathered limestone near the entrance to the catacombs. These had been requisitioned by the Knights for use as their own powder store and inside their black depths were the ingredients and the part-worked powder that Scranton was making.

  “Here they come,” Scranton remarked, as the two local Maltese he had been allocated to assist him arrived. There was a barrier of language and, Scranton insisted, of intellect. Froggy felt sorry for the two young men. They were trying their best and it was not their fault that they lacked clear instructions. The Maltese had their own language although they knew a little Italian, which was unfortunately more than Scranton did. Scranton issued his instructions in the form of hasty and impatient demonstrations with Froggy attempting to act as his interpreter.

  “I’ll go and bring up the casks we made yesterday,” Froggy said, setting his step towards the entrance to the catacombs.

  “Let them do it. I need you to help me with this,” Scranton said, as he made a bad job of righting the last of the wooden benches. Then, turning to the two young men, Scranton pointed towards the entrance to the catacombs which lay at the bottom of a steep set of stone steps carved into the limestone. “Go on, get down there and get the jars.” Scranton, grumbling, turned his back on them and made his way towards the Knights and the shaded tree where the water was kept. The men continued to watch Scranton’s retreating back, blank expressions on their faces.

  “Vesetti, vesetti,” Froggy provided in Italian from where he knelt behind the table, pulling straight the wooden supporting legs. The two men smiled at Froggy in thanks and disappeared down the steps. No one saw them emerge a few moments later, collecting an oil lamp that had been used at night by the guards, and go back into the powder store.

  The stone catacombs contained most of the blast. Scranton and the Knights were under the trees that gave them some protection from the falling stones when a section of the roof was blasted into the sky. Froggy, behind the wooden table, was blown backwards but suffered nothing more than bruises and a temporary loss of hearing. The two Maltese in the catacombs did not fa
re so well.

  †

  Shortly after the explosion, a letter arrived on Malta. A letter from Venice, telling the Order that Richard Fitzwarren, who had been delivered by the caravel, was perhaps not who he claimed to be. The Order had rapid communication lines, and Brother Franco’s letter had been relayed along the length of Italy by riders. It had then taken the short sea crossing to Malta from Sicily, arriving before the Santa Fe and before Jack and Richard.

  It had taken only a little investigation to reveal that the seal used on the letter Jack had written was the Fitzwarren seal. Andrew had already confirmed his identity as the son of William Fitzwarren. One of the Order’s Langues in Birgu had a knight by the name of Edward Fitzwarren, cousin of the interred Richard. When the Grand Master’s aide next questioned Andrew, he was attended by a Knight, who, had Andrew known it, was looking at him very closely, but not for reasons related to his proposed deal.

  †

  Brother Caron, the Grand Master’s aide, threw his hands up in the air. “I have no idea what is going on. There is a man here, claiming to be Richard Fitzwarren. He clearly isn’t, but he has in his possession the flintlocks, or at least some of them. Brother de Bisset has been working closely with his powder expert and feels that there is indeed a process here that we should have control of. However, after the explosion at the powder store, they can do little more as all the supplies were destroyed.”

  “It is tempting to lay the blame for the loss on these men,” Claude de la Sengle, the Order’s current Grand Master growled. “But even de Bisett has told me that the fault of this lies with the control Brother Carew exercised over the men working for him. None of them should have been allowed near the powder store with naked flames. The fault of that lies squarely with him.”

 

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