by Sam Burnell
Chapter 14
The Reckoning
The men who had brought Richard to Mdina hung back. The Grand Master stood on one side of a makeshift desk and opposite was a man in dusty apparel, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, pointing repeatedly at a diagram laid out between them. Finally there came a break in the conversation. The dusty man, replacing a worn cap on his head, walked away muttering, a plan rolled up and tucked under his arm.
One of the men who had escorted Richard from Venice walked towards the Grand Master. He bowed, and spoke quietly before indicating towards Richard who stood behind him. De la Sengle straightened and cast a dark assessing gaze over Richard, before issuing short orders. As Richard was taken from the room, de la Sengle returned his attention to the table and the curled plans, held down with lumps of dusty limestone, one in each corner.
Richard, obviously dismissed, was taken through Mdina’s narrow streets to one of the Order’s houses, and there left, under guard, awaiting the Grand Master’s pleasure. If he had thought he would find out news of Jack, or Andrew, soon after arriving in Mdina, he was going to be disappointed. Richard waited in quiet solitude until the light was beginning to dim in the sky. Then the door to the spartan room opened and he was beckoned to follow the Knight who was stood on the threshold.
“You have, it seems, a cousin in the Order,” the Knight said. “For us the Order must come first, but we do not overlook family ties.”
If Richard was confused, it did not show on his face.
“The Fitzwarren name is a respected one on Malta. Your cousin is a serving member of our Order,” he continued, reading the expression on Richard’s face.
Richard nodded. “It has been a long time since I last met Edward Fitzwarren.”
“My name is Brother John. I am a close friend of your cousin. It is ten years, he tells me, since he last saw you,” Brother John agreed.
Richard inclined his head, accepting the words, and added, “At least.”
“He is posted in Fort St Angelo, but the Grand Master has summoned him here and explained your situation. It seems you have found yourself an unlikely sponsor.”
“My situation?” repeated Richard carefully.
Brother John smiled, his eyes holding Richard’s for a moment. “I have been told why you are here, and that you are assisting the Order with your ordnance skills and that your ship was wrecked on the journey, leaving you with only what you stand in now.” Brother John led him to another room. Opening the door, he moved to one side to admit Richard, closing it behind him leaving the two men alone.
The Knight who had stood before Richard now, was not the Edward Fitzwarren he remember. This was a man hardened by the tough discipline and exacting standards the Order demanded. A scar, a pronounced white line on his tanned skin, ran from the corner of his eye across his cheek bone ending on his jaw. The frame that filled the jack he wore beneath the Order’s surplus was a solid muscled one and Richard had no doubt as to the level of the man’s skill. The Order’s reputation was not based on the size of its ample coffers alone. It was the premier fighting force in Europe and that fact was based on the skill of the Order’s members, who came from the elite, drawn from all the ranking houses in Europe.
Edward Fitzwarren didn’t smile. He shook his head slightly as his eyes ran over the man stood before him. “Richard Fitzwarren. What a sorry state you appear to be in.”
Richard inclined his head and folded his arms before him, and returned Edward’s gaze in equal measure. “Times have been better.”
“I’ve seen galley slaves with more meat on them.” Edward hitched himself up onto the end of the table. That he was a man at ease with his surroundings and used to the role of command was evident. “My father still writes on occasion. I’ve heard you were disinherited some years ago, wanted for treason and murder no less.”
“Treason can be a crime wiped clean by the passage of time,” Richard replied carefully.
Edward grunted. “And murder? Is that a crime that lessens with time as well? How England must have changed since I left.”
“That crime lacks a trial, so I’d have to argue it is not one I bear a conviction for,” Richard replied coolly.
“Yet!” scoffed Edward, then changed the subject. “You and my brother have a lot in common. He’s spent his life avoiding being brought to book for his ways.”
Richard met his gaze. “I saw your brother earlier this year.”
“Harry!” Edward replied loudly. “I don’t suppose he was doing anything that would make our father proud.”
The look on Richard’s face was answer enough, but he said, “He is little changed.”
Edward regarded him for a long moment before he spoke again. “I have been told you have come to Malta to offer some service to the Order, but have somewhat fallen on difficult times on the way.” Edward’s eyes took in the oversized clothes, the unstitched boots and the spare frame of the man who stood before him. It was a long time since he had seen him. Had he not been told that this was Richard Fitzwarren he would have passed him in the street.
Richard spread his arms wide in acceptance of the words. “It has not been an easy journey.”
“And you travel with your bastard brother? I remember him, one of Harry’s servants. His birth and bearing make him not fit to break bread with. You keep poor company,” Edward spoke scathingly, watching Richard carefully.
“I choose my company well,” Richard replied, his tone hard.
“Perhaps, in your poor eyes, but not in the Lord’s.” Edward delivered the rebuke and continued to stare at Richard. “I don’t know if you even know where you are, or who you are going to stand before. I would guess not. As a member of the Order, I have little. But I would not see a Fitzwarren, and a cousin of mine, stand as you do now.”
“Your charity is appreciated, and undeserved,” Richard replied.
Edward snorted. “Undeserved is right. Shortly you will stand before The Grand Master and make an account of yourself. I’ll not help you save your neck, but I’ll not have my name tarnished by the sack of shit you look like at the moment. You are my cousin, remember that. It would please me if you would act with humility and reverence before the Grand Master.”
Edward pushed himself up from the table and left Richard alone. Richard remembered him well enough from his younger years in England. Edward, older than Richard by half a score, had been a man when he was still a boy. His Uncle’s eldest son, and the heir, it had been a family scandal when he had declared he was to join the Order of the Knights of St John. Richard remembered clearly a heated conversation between his father and his uncle as they planned to try and stop Edward from leaving.
Joining the Order was a commitment for life. It also committed his inheritance as well. His Uncle’s estates, lands and property when they finally vested in Edward would be passed into the care of the Order of St John, and his family, his brother Harry and any remaining descendants would be left impoverished. The Order were not known for leniency when it came to enforcing their fiscal policy. Edward had joined anyway and some sort of trust, if Richard remembered rightly, had been concocted to protect Edward’s father and his family from any property claims the Order lay upon them. Harry squandered his father’s money and his father let him; it would, Richard reflected, have been little loss if the Order had taken it.
He was not alone for long. Within the space of an hour, Edward’s own servants had provided him with new clothes that fitted, under strict orders to make him presentable. They did not however treat him well. Edward had left them in no doubt that the man they were to deal with might be related to him, but he had little liking for him. They made clear Edward’s dislike with their shoves, jabs and pitiless jeers.
†
It had been a relief when she had first arrived, but it had been one that was short lived. Assured that she was being found suitable quarters in the citadel, Lizbet had been immediately escorted, upon her arrival, away from the Master. She had fervently hoped tha
t the meeting he was about to have would set her world, and his, back to rights. Lizbet held the simple hope that if Andrew was exposed for what he was, then the Master would be back in charge, and they would be back in the position they had hoped to be. Any misgivings she had about whether Richard was equal to this task, Lizbet had tried not to dwell upon. He had remained withdrawn, but during the journey to Malta he had stopped taking the opium and his senses had returned, even if he was not overly communicative. She had not thought that they would be separated. Lizbet fervently hoped it was not going to be for long.
Mdina was a tight-walled city, high on a rocky hill, surrounded by closely-packed terraces. The bastion walls were enormous, and those that had faced her when she arrived at the citadel seemed unassailable. They had entered through a side arch, a wooden ramp leading up to the gateway, one that could be removed in times of crisis. It was then, travelling through the arch, that Lizbet fully realised how thick the walls actually were. The passage between the outer and inner gates would fit five men lying head to toe, and at the end of it was another huge wooden gate clad with iron panels. It had stood open, but if it was closed she could not see how anyone could make an assault on the two doors and enter Mdina. Looking up in the passageway between the two doors, she had seen the opening above. The defenders, could rain down all manner of objects on the assaulting troops’ heads from the safety of the room above.
Soon after she arrived, Lizbet was escorted to a wooden door, large, with a polished marble step. Upon entering, a smiling nun, in the habit of a Benedictine, guided her quietly to a garden that Lizbet could not believe existed inside that small packed city. The noise from the town outside was excluded. The ring of shod hooves on the stone cobbles was banished by the stone walls of the building. The tiny, well-kept garden was peaceful. She was left alone and found a bench in the shade of two elderly lemon trees, the plump yellow fruit weighing down the branches. In the middle of the small garden, a cooling pond with a constant trickle of water from an upturned urn was the only real noise.
Lizbet waited.
And waited.
Expecting Richard’s meeting to be over in a few hours, Lizbet had thought she would be soon collected from the care of the Benedictines and not left here. When the heat of the day began to wane, she was beckoned silently from the garden, to follow a short stooped nun into a long cool shaded corridor. The floor, tiled in brown ceramics, led into the house. Lizbet contained her impatience, forcing herself to walk slowly behind the old lady’s shuffle. Coming to a door, the elderly nun pressed it open. Stepping into the interior, she tripped on the bottom of the doorframe.
Lizbet’s quick grasp at the woman’s arm saved her fall. “God love you, woman! You nearly ended up on your backside!” Lizbet exclaimed in her native English, loudly as she wrapped a supporting arm around the woman and pulled her back upright.
The look on the old lady’s face was one of stricken horror. Her mouth opened and watery eyes regarded Lizbet with something akin to terror. Feeble hands tried to push away the supporting hold.
A nun, wearing the same black habit and with a white apostolnik on her head, sat at the desk in the room and rose suddenly. “Sister Agatha!” She spoke in soft Italian, and provided another pair of strong hands, hands that were more acceptable help than Lizbet’s, to guide the old woman into a chair.
“I will find out who sent you on this errand,” the nun said, letting go of Sister Agatha. A strand of wispy grey hair had escaped the old lady’s wimple. Tenderly, the nun smoothed it straight, and tucked the straying hair away again, smiling. “There we go. You sit there while I get you a cup of water.”
Lizbet stepped back and watched as the nun held a cup of water to the lips of the aged lady, her Italian was thankfully slow and measured and Lizbet's sharp ears followed her words. The hands that she tried to grasp the cup with were clawed, the nails turned in and the fingers folded and bent back, rendering them practically useless.
“Please, wait with Sister Agatha while I get someone to take her back,” the nun said, and in an efficient flurry of black serge, she was gone and Lizbet was left alone with the old lady. Lizbet tried another bright smile, but she could read only uncertainness in the woman’s face and still a trace of fear.
Lizbet decided to venture a few words, this time in her halting Italian. “My name is Lizbet. Sorry if I scared you.”
The old lady looked around the room as if seeking help, and then biting her lip with her top teeth pushed herself hard against the back of the chair.
Lizbet reverted to English, and took a step forward, her hand out in a gesture of friendship. “Please, don’t be afraid.”
There was a choked whimper from the lady and at that moment the nun, attended by two younger women, appeared at the doorway.
“Sister Agatha is scared of her own shadow,” the nun said, soothingly in Italian. “Your voice, your accent is all too unfamiliar for her.” Lizbet did not fully understand her quick Italian and looked confused, and the nun added more slowly, “Sister Agatha may be an old lady, but she has the mind of a child.” Then turning back to the elderly lady, she helped to lift her from the chair. “Come on, Agatha, the sisters will take you back to your cell. Find out who sent her.”
Lizbet watched as the other two nuns took an arm each, easing the little lady from her chair and guiding her from the room. The nun watched her departure with a grim expression on her face. “Someone has been cruel to poor Agatha.”
Lizbet waited and watched while Sister Agatha and her escorts left. The nun quietly closed the door, gesturing to the seat recently vacated by Agatha. Lizbet, hopeful of good news, sat down turning an eager look towards the nun who seated herself at the desk opposite from her.
“It seems you have been left in our care for the moment,” the nun said, smiling slightly.
“I am sorry,” Lizbet said, shaking her head in halting Italian. “I understand only a little Italian.”
The nun sat at the desk looked at her thoughtfully. “You will learn more while you are with us no doubt. I will show you to your room.”
“I won’t need one,” Lizbet said, rising suddenly, a look of panic on her face. “I’m not stopping for very long, just today, I would think.”
†
The call of Monsinetto’s cargo was too much for the normally patient Grand Master, but with many pressures on his time, it was late evening before he could interview the new arrival to Malta. Richard was shown into a room where the Grand Master was sluicing the dust from his hands into a bowl held by a serving brother. Sat on a chair against the wall was Lizbet, her eyes wide. As he entered, she made to get to her feet, but a command barked at her from the man stood at her side made her sit down heavily again.
De la Sengle took his vows seriously. The food laid at his table was simple, sufficient and not at all flamboyant. The Order could easily afford tableware that would surpass the best the Kings of Europe could lay on any table, but de la Sengle’s table was humble. And this austerity showed that de la Sengle represented a power that needed no ostentation to underline its position in the world. The Order of St John needed to woo no one, elicit favours from none of the powerful European houses and sway no great leaders with shows of worldly wealth. De la Sengle’s simple pewter plate, the cut bread resting on a wooden board and his earthenware cup were the statement of poverty and a military might that did not need to be proved. De la Sengle was one of the most powerful men in Christendom and Richard knew it. Christian Carter had warned him to take care, and if there was a moment when that advice applied it was now when Richard was stood before the Grand Master.
“I can assure you that your brother has been found safe. He is in our infirmary at Birgu, but he has suffered no lasting injury and he will soon be in Mdina.” De la Sengle cast disapproving eyes over Richard. “It seems he is a man of some courage. Brother Emilio owes his life to him after the Santa Fe was hit by the storm.”
There was relief on Richard’s face, a fact noted by de la Se
ngle. His tone changed abruptly when he delivered the next sentence. “Have you any idea of the shit you are in? What kind of wastrel are you?”
“I am hoping to prove to you that you might have a use for this wastrel,” Richard said calmly.
De la Sengle flung the loose drops of water from his hands and took the proffered towel from the serving brother, and passing it back to him dismissed him from the room.
“Two men, both claiming the same name and both claiming the right to trade in stolen arms in as many weeks. You, however, have an advantage.”
“How so?” Richard asked, carefully.
“I know that you are in fact Richard Fitzwarren. Your cousin has confirmed as much.” De la Sengle sat, leant back in the chair, regarding the man before him. He had already read a communication from Emilio and knew the man before him had been ill, and the signs of it he could see plainly stamped upon his skin.
“Explain your current situation to me,” de la Sengle said, and then added slowly, “And I would advise you to use more than a sprinkling of truth.” He cast his eyes towards Lizbet, and the threat was clear.
Richard was not afforded a chair, and holding the Grand Master’s gaze, he began, keeping his hands behind his back to disguise their slight tremble, that Lizbet, seated behind him, could see only too clearly.
The account, when he was finished, was a more than accurate description of the trials of the last six months along with an honest confession of his own failings. If de la Sengle was surprised by anything he heard, it did not show on his face.
“It seems a punishment has already been meted out for your impudence,” de la Sengle said, at length after he had considered the younger man’s words. “And you travel with your bastard brother and a woman. I am told she is also one of your father’s by-blows.” He cast a disparaging look in Lizbet’s direction where she sat immobile. “Am I to envisage that this is some kind of charity on your behalf? Or do you collect bastards, sir, like some collect hounds?” de la Sengle’s words were not kindly put.