by Sam Burnell
Elizabeth might look like she was reading as she sat on the cushion-clad stone bench in the arbour in the garden, but Catherine now knew better. The look on the delicate fine face and the furrowed brow told of a woman deep in thought. The book on her lap was not her focus. The sharp eyes flicked round at the sound of footsteps on the path and her gaze met those of the younger woman’s. Without a word she beckoned Catherine over.
Obediently, Catherine curtsied and remained, head bowed, standing in front of the princess.
“Have there been any more messages?” was all Elizabeth said, her eyes locked onto Catherine’s face, watchful for lies.
“None, my lady,” Catherine replied, both quietly and truthfully.
Elizabeth let out a noisy breath. “Sit next to me.”
Dutifully Catherine sat.
“I am trapped, just as you are. Neither of us currently has a certain future.”
Catherine wisely remained silent.
“If you hear from Richard Fitzwarren… or his brother, you will tell me immediately.”
Catherine nodded.
“He cannot be in England.” Elizabeth spoke to herself. Her eyes wandered back to the book in her lap and then after a few moments she seemed to realise that Catherine was still seated close on the bench next to her. “Leave me.”
Chapter 13
A Stormy Reception
It was Emilio who unlocked the door, his face bright and excited. “We’re here. I have persuaded the Captain to let you all on deck so you can see the majesty of the Order in Malta.”
Jack had no idea then how grateful he would be for Brother Emilio’s pride in his Order. He followed the Knight up onto the deck, shielding his eyes against the Mediterranean sun as he emerged from the relative darkness. He had been below decks confined with the others since the encounter with the Turkish ships three days ago. It had been three days too long for Jack. Richard was still poor company and Jack’s mood was dark.
Jack’s first view of Malta was not one he had expected. Sun-bleached and gleaming, the angular limestone walls of the Knight’s defences threw the bright light back in his face. The sun flung its rays towards the island, but the sky beyond was bruised with angry storm clouds, darkening the backdrop to that of night. The Santa Fe sailed in the bright sunlight of day and towards the safe confines of the harbour.
The opening was a wide one, overlooked by a newly built fortification on the right, scaffolding and builders ladders clinging to the outer walls.
“That’s Fort St Elmo.” Emilio proudly pointed to the building under construction. “The Grand Master demolished the watchtower on St Elmo’s point and now we shall have this great fort. It is laid out as a star, each point making it the perfect defence for the harbour. ”
Jack could clearly see the towering limestone walls, smooth and flush. Even though they were still being built, their height already looked unassailable. He’d seen nothing like it in England or even Europe before. It was built with one purpose in mind, and the scale of it made Jack stare at it in wonder.
“The lower bastion walls are all finished and the central fort is nearing completion. It will give us complete control over this entrance.” Emilio waved expansively.
Jack had to agree. The guns from the fort could hardly miss anything coming into the harbour. On the opposite promontory was a watchtower.
Emilio saw the direction Jack’s eyes were looking, and he continued in his role as guide. “That is Gallows Point,” he grinned.
“Is that a threat?” Jack replied dryly.
Emilio laughed and clapped him on the back. “There is just a watchtower there now. Why would we want to do such a thing to you?”
“There is a phrase, isn’t there – never trust a knight?” Jack’s tone was still flat.
“Surely, that is one is for ladies who court non-chivalric knights. The Order of St John is a Holy Order, we are…”
“Chaste monks?” Jack leant his head close to Emilio’s. “You should thank me for keeping you that way.”
Emilio smiled, providing an equally quiet reply. “God, in his way, has placed you as a temptation. It is not you who has kept my vows intact.”
“Aye, I’ll bet.” Jack words were laden with sarcasm, but his attention was being drawn by the black backdrop that Malta now wore like mourning weeds haloing her bright white countenance. Jack felt the first breath of wind, heralding a change in the weather. His hands tightened on the rail he held.
God, he hated boats.
At least he was back within swimming distance of the shore again. As he watched, the flat water before the Santa Fe crested and rose, as the wind whipped the surface, and in moments the slight breeze had became a forceful wind. Above him he heard shouted orders as the ship’s sails felt the first lick of the gales. She was coming into the harbour under oars but the main sails bearing the crest of the Order were lowered. In the breathless summer air, they had not felt the tug of the wind. Suddenly the canvas flapped violently then cracked taut, the wind pulling the Santa Fe to her port side.
“That’s a bad storm coming in. Do you get them often?” Jack felt the deck dip beneath him as the boat heeled to the pull of the wind.
“Around the feast of Santa Maria, we always have bad storms. Jack, you look worried. We will be docked soon and you can kiss the ground and give praise for a safe passage.”
Jack shot him a dark look. “That, I will give praise for.”
Moments later his attention was caught by a splatter of water on his face. Turning his head, he looked for the source without realising that it was rain. As they watched, a curtain moved towards them, black, blocking out the vision of the land and in its centre something Jack’s eyes could not even believe. A column, a black funnel of water was coursing across the harbour towards them.
The main sail, filled now with the force of the swirling gale, was pulling the ship further round, as the crew on the deck and above him fought to take the sail down. But every rope, every pulley, every chain was taut and fast and the Santa Fe continued to lean over to her port side.
The Santa Fe heeled even further to the left in an abortive attempt to move from the path of the incoming water-born tornado. Such was the change of course, Jack felt his feet sliding on the deck. Screaming came from the crew, orders relayed now by raised voices. Jack read panic in their faces, and for once, open uncertainty on Emilio’s face.
“What is it?” Jack took hold of his arm in a vice-like grip.
“I don’t know.” Emilio stared transfixed at the black mistral headed towards the ship.
The wind had arrived with force now and whipped the deck in a gale. Canvas was grabbed by her pull and the Santa Fe already in a tight turn was pushed over even further, the starboard side rising out of the water. A bucket cannoned across the deck, narrowly missing Jack and disappearing over the side into the black angry water.
“Christ! It’s going to go over!” Jack yelled. The noise around him was enormous. The spout had veered away from the Santa Fe and towards the land, but the ship was still caught in her vicious swirling skirts. The wind was driving her mercilessly on, in the direction she wanted to go, but in a turn too tight for her. Masts wearing full canvas were tipped to such an angle, the sailors trying to furl the sheets were now hanging on for their lives, their tasks forgotten.
There was a scream from above. Jack looked up. A sailor, half of his grip hopelessly lost, was holding on with one hand thirty feet above him. There was a second scream as his hand slipped from its precarious hold, ending when he landed with a sickening crunch on the guardrail before rolling over into the sea.
The screams from the galleoti were even louder. The oars on the starboard side were now raised at such an angle, they were no longer held by the locks. Thirty seasoned oak shafts slithered through the sea of flesh, their journey halting when they battered into the portside inner hull. Slaves, chained and captive, clung to the benches. As the angle increased, some lost their hold, swinging on their chains and dislo
dging others.
A moment later the sea licked at the open doors of the port side gun deck, and the Santa Fe was doomed. The water had a hold on her now, and she would not right again. The main mast gave way and ripped a splintering gouge through the deck, collapsing across the stricken ship and bringing with it a tangle of ropes, canvas and men. Like thunder beneath him, Jack could feel the starboard side guns rumbling and then crashing into their counterparts on the port side, further weighing the Santa Fe down.
A sailor falling to the steeply angled deck rolled into Emilio, taking the knight straight over the guardrail and into the sea. Jack made a grab for him. Emilio was falling too fast. Jack’s hand slithered down his arm until he had hold of nothing. His eyes were not fastened on the startled face of the Knight, but on his chest.
Jesus Christ! He’s wearing a bloody cuirass.
Jack took one quick glance over his shoulder, at the chaos on the ruined deck of the Santa Fe, then followed Emilio into the sea.
The Knight had landed on his back. For a blessed moment the billowing robe of the Order kept him afloat. Then, as the fibres sucked up the sea, and borne down by the weight of the cuirass and sword, he began to sink helplessly. His mouth opened to scream and salted water, cold, harsh and choking closed his throat.
Emilio’s body convulsed, as a knife bit painfully into the flesh covering his ribs. The leather straps holding the metal plate in place were slashed and the cuirass fell away. It was a firm and ungentle grip that propelled his head back to the surface. Emilio’s starved lungs tried to gulp in air but they met only the water still choking his throat. For a moment he might as well have still been beneath the surface, as his own body forbade him the air he needed. Eyes bulging, his vision closing, his body expelled the water and let in the air, first a little making its way to his lungs, then a little more.
“Come on.” Jack’s voice was desperate. He had a tight hold on Emilio’s shoulder and he was dragging him backwards. A second later Jack’s head hit something hard behind him. It was the top half of the mizzen mast which had snapped away and was floating surrounded by the billowing canvas sheets. Emilio wrapped his arms around the wood, his face white with shock and beyond words.
“She’s going down. Look.” Jack could see the Santa Fe behind Emilio. On her side now completely, with the stern already well below the water, as he watched, the prow raised high out of waves. If Richard and Lizbet were on the deck he could not see them.
“Christ! Tell me you can swim.” Jack had a hold on Emilio’s arm. “The mast is still roped to the ship. She’s going to pull this down as well. Get that bloody sheet off you and let go of the mast or you’ll be going with her.”
Emilio’s robe was already sliced through on one side where Jack’s knife had cut the cuirass away and with help he pulled it free, leaving him in hose only. Jack’s nails bit into his shoulder, and he shouted, “Kick, breathe evenly and if you bloody panic I’ll let you go. Do you hear me?”
Emilio didn’t answer, but Jack took his shaking nod as acceptance.
All around them was the tangle of rigging and canvas, all carnage now, and lethal traps just beneath the surface ready to snare a leg or arm. The labyrinth writhed on the wind beaten surface. Jack couldn’t even see the shore through the rain. It seemed that there was as much water coming down upon them as there was below them. Even the stricken remains of the Santa Fe were stolen from view, the cries of those on her ripped away quickly by the elements.
It was a luzzu that found them eventually. A small painted local fishing boat which had also been struggling to make a safe return to port when the storm hit. Emilio was draped over the floating remains of a smashed barrel that had been jettisoned by the sinking Santa Fe. Jack had one hand firmly under his arm, holding him up and he was towing them slowly through the water, praying he was not heading out to sea.
The fishermen hauled Emilio up into the boat and he dropped onto the floor of the boat, his head banging heavily off the wooden hull.
The people on the boat were speaking, someone holding out a bladder to him. Jack couldn’t understand what the words were, but their intent was clear. The man knelt before him had a face that looked as if it was made from screwed up leather, it was so dark, creased and wrinkled. He poured water from the bladder into his own open palm, drank it, and then quickly poured in more so Jack could see what it was. The bladder was full of water. It was warm, but it was water, and they sensibly wanted him to drink.
Jack nodded and cupped his hands. The man grinned broadly, placing into Jack’s hands a wooden cup into which he poured a steady stream of water.
Jack washed the salt out of his mouth then drank quickly. The warm water purged the last of the salt from his mouth and throat and he knew it would, in time, rid him of the pounding in his head. He drained the cup and held it out for more. The second cupful went down just as swiftly as the first. He met the man’s eyes and was holding the cup out for another fill when he realised that Emilio was laid out cold on the boat floor.
Scrambling from his seat, shakier than he would have ever liked to admit, Jack dropped to his knees next to the Knight.
On any other day he could have bodily picked him up and shaken him, but after the seas ordeal he could do little other than rock his shoulders. Jack was rewarded with a groan and the relief was palpable that he still lived. He could elicit little else from the Knight and in his own exhausted state was forced to sit back and let the fishermen take them ashore. He tried to ask them if others had escaped from the ship but his enquiries in whatever language he placed them were met with blank expressions and he was forced to give up.
It was dark when the fishing boat reached the rocky Maltese coast. There were shouts from the land and replies from the boat, excited voices, and Jack realised they were the reason. Emilio still lay in a stupor.
Helping hands grasped his arms and steadied him as he clambered over the boat sides and onto the rocking quay. It was a support he needed. On land, his weight back on his feet, he soon realised his legs were not going to support him. Only the grasping hands, holding his arms, prevented him from sinking to his knees.
He couldn’t understand the fishermen's their language, but the faces were friendly and the voices equally so. It was now the blackness of night and not of the storm that stole the light from the land. The fisherman had poor torches and used these to light the way from the boat to their huts. Clasping hands helped guide him up the rocky steps. The chattering voices seemed to be aimed at him, although Jack could not understand a word. They held him, guided him, stopped him from tripping and eventually led him through a low stone doorway and into a badly lit room smelling overly of fish.
The fishermen lived away from their families and the cave, not too distant from their boats, was home. Nets sat in folded heaps, a cooking pot leaked a noxious smell from where it sat on a shallow fire. Jack allowed them to lead him to one of the benches hewn out of the limestone wall and he dropped gratefully onto it and watched as Emilio was carried in and laid carefully on the white dusty floor.
Jack rubbed his hands with care over his face. His lips were blistered from the salt and his eyes, gritty and watering, could focus on very little in the gloom. They brought him some more water for which he was grateful and then exhaustion claimed him and delivered him to oblivion. His final thoughts were a desperate hope that Richard and Lizbet had freed themselves from the sinking Santa Fe.
†
When he woke, he could hear Emilio’s voice shouting.
God! Why did the bloody man have to make such a noise!
The piercing sound seemed to split his skull in two. The pain rattled inside his head. Jack raised his hands to his ears to block the sound. The cooking fire was out, and the cave felt cold. Jack lay on the floor, arms tight around himself, trying to stop the shivers that ran through his body.
“Up, Jack, come on.” Emilio’s soft Italian voice cut through his mind.
Jack let them help him, and stooping, men on either
side of him, he staggered on unsteady feet from the cave and into the hot white light of the Mediterranean sun. His eyes clamped shut as the pain sliced through his head.
“Be careful with him!” Emilio shouted in Italian, as they hefted the unresponsive form of his rescuer onto the back of the cart they used to take catch to the market.
Emilio laid a warm hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Soon we will be with my Order. You will be well, Jack.”
Jack wanted to tell him there was nothing wrong with him, but he couldn’t.
†
The Santa Fe served her crew and passengers well, remaining afloat long enough for their rescuers to take them ashore, along with much of her cargo. Richard and Lizbet had made it together into one of the small boats and through the storm to the safety of land. From there they were taken to the island’s capital, Mdina.
Riding in the back of the jolting cart, Lizbet and Richard could see the citadel in the centre of the island long before they arrived. Perched high up on hill, the white bastion walls reflected the sun, the fortifications looking formidable. Inside those vertical stone walls was the Order’s Grand Master, and soon there would be a meeting that neither of them were looking forward to.
One of Emilio’s men, whom Richard recognised, pulled his horse level with the cart.
“Is there any news of my brother?” Richard asked quickly.
“I’ve heard of your brother’s bravery,” the Captain replied, slowing his horse for a moment, keeping it level with the cart. “There are men searching the coves. If there is news we shall have it soon. It was a godly act, and we shall pray for his soul.”
“I doubt very much if Jack would take any solace from that,” Lizbet said, quietly in Richard’s ear.
They did not have much longer to worry. A messenger made it to Mdina the next day with the news that the missing Knight, Emilio, was safe, along with his rescuer. Both were bound for the Order’s infirmary at Birgu.