A Queen's Knight

by Sam Burnell

  “I could not leave her in England, and I had not intended to bring her this far. However, my circumstances changed, and I could not abandon her,” Richard replied.

  “From the sound of it, this was quite the reverse. You are perhaps lucky she did not abandon you.”

  “I owe her a debt,” Richard confessed. Still standing, he shifted his weight slightly, the strain of remaining immobile apparent on his face.

  “Duty we owe our family, but it should never be a debt,” de la Sengle observed coldly.

  Richard took the rebuke in silence.

  “It seems you are surrounded by family trying to save you. Emilio has also told me of the shame that led your brother to assume your place. He did so, I believe, to shield yourself and your sister. He is a man of some honour, I am told.”

  “Both of them are here because of my actions. Their fate was not of their making,” Richard supplied quietly. “I would ask for an assurance of their safety, if that would not be an impudence.”

  “It would,” de la Sengle replied curtly. “Would it ease your soul if you knew that their fate was no longer tied to yours?”

  “It would,” Richard conceded.

  “Your brother is owed a debt by the Order. He has some knowledge of the powder processes it seems, so he been despatched to work with Master Scranton. Your sister will stay with the Benedictine Order, here in Mdina,” de la Sengle supplied, matter of fact.

  “Then it remains only for you to mete out your punishment against me,” Richard said, his eyes meeting those of the Grand Master.

  “That might be so, however that does rather miss the fact that you are privy to a great deal of information regarding Monsinetto’s missing arms shipment. The papers that accompanied the man who came to me first to strike a deal confirmed that,” de la Sengle replied, turning the conversation back to the cargo he was interested in.

  “It is true. They are in London,” Richard provided.

  “Can you send for them?” de la Sengle asked. “How did you intend to bring them to us?”

  “I would have returned to England then arranged a shipment aboard a merchantman. There must be a safe port in Europe where we could have transferred them to one of your ships.” Richard said.

  De la Sengle rose from his chair. Walking to the door, he opened it. A moment later, a Knight entered carrying some of the flintlocks Richard had brought with him from England. The noise of them being laid on the wooden table made Richard’s nerves jump. Beside them, they laid his notes and the mould he had made that could produce countless musketballs in a day. Two more men, finely dressed, entered as well and took seats next to de la Sengle, at ease and casting enquiring looks at Richard. Both were wearing the insignia of the Order and one of them Richard recognised instantly as Edward Fitzwarren, but there was no friendly greeting written on his cousin’s face.

  “So where shall we begin,” de la Sengle said, retaking his seat. The man to his left had taken one of the flintlock pistols from the table and was busy examining the mechanism. Edward Fitzwarren, his feet crossed and arms folded across his chest, leant back in his chair. The eyes that regarded Richard Fitzwarren standing before them were those used to assessing the worth of men.

  Richard shifted his weight again, wondering with academic curiosity how long he would be able to remain standing. “What I had to sell was not the flintlocks, but the knowledge and the expertise I brought with me.”

  “I have heard this already.” De la Sengle reached for the notebook, pulling it towards him and flipping it open. “Your writing?”

  Richard nodded in acceptance of de la Sengle’s words. “I recorded as much as I can of Master Scranton’s process plus the results of the tests we carried out with the bombard.”

  The interview continued relentlessly. Questions followed, discussion ensued. The notes and calculations were assessed by the three men, whose skills in the art of the war were amongst the finest the fighting world had ever known. None of them doubted the advantage this could provide. If the firing range of weapons could be increased then this would give the ships in the Order an incredible advantage. They could turn their guns upon the Turks and keep their galleys and men out of firing range.

  The questions continued.

  Did it diminish accuracy? How many tests had been carried out? Was the powder stable? Did its effectiveness reduce over time? Did the pellets crumble? What storage conditions were needed? How long did the manufacture process take?

  Richard answered the questions honestly.

  “Did you test this only with the one bombard?” de la Sengle asked. Turning his eyes upon Richard, he frowned as he watched the man stood before him sway on uncertain legs. There was, however, little compassion in his voice. De la Sengle turned to Lizbet, who still sat quietly behind them. “Bring him your chair. I have not finished with him yet and I would rather not have to talk to him laid on the floor at my feet.”

  Lizbet was up in a moment, the chair in her hand dragging noisily behind her. “Can’t you see how unwell he is?” Her voice was loud in the small room. She said to Richard, “Here, the chair is behind you,” and with her arm firmly on his, she helped him lower himself onto it. Richard’s hands, held clamped behind his back, had gone numb and it was with difficulty that he placed his weight on the chair arm.

  “Yes, madam, and we are also aware of the cause of his illness,” de la Sengle said, addressing her directly for the first time.

  “That was not his fault.” Lizbet’s temper, contained for hours, as she had listened to Richard’s interrogation, snapped. “And it doesn’t mean you’ve the right to treat him like an animal.”

  Richard tried to reach for her to still her words, but he missed her arm. Lizbet took a pace towards them. “You might be the messengers of God but you act with cruelty.”

  It was Edward, on de la Sengle’s right, who stepped forward and struck her with the back of his hand sharply across the face. Her reaction was immediate and quick, but Richard’s was quicker. Leaping out of the chair, he threw his arms around her and stopped her advance.

  “Bastards and curs to a man,” Lizbet screamed at them, her arms pinioned to her sides by Richard.

  “Get her from here!”

  The guard at the back of the room took a savage hold on Richard’s arm and dragged Lizbet from his grasp, pushing him hard into the chair so that it rocked back as he landed. Lizbet, freed, turned round and her nails gouged three red lines across the man’s cheek.

  “No!” The shout came from Richard. Rising, he tried to get between her and the guard.

  Edward, moving quickly forward, delivered an abrupt kick to the back of Richard’s legs and a moment later he was on his knees on the floor.

  Lizbet had turned at the sound of his voice. Dropping to the floor, she flung her arms protectively around him. “Leave him be!”

  “I said get her out of here,” de la Sengle growled.

  Lizbet was dragged from Richard and then from the room. All of them could hear her sobbing in the corridor even when the door was closed back in the frame.

  On his knees still, Richard spoke. “Show her some kindness, damn you.”

  De la Sengle ignored his words and continued as if Lizbet had never been in the room. He addressed Richard where he knelt still, one hand palm down on the floor supporting his body. “Did you only test this powder on one piece?”

  “Show her some mercy, please,” Richard said, ignoring the Grand Master’s question.

  “How she fares rests very much in your hands, do you not think?” de la Sengle said. His voice bore a hard edge.

  “Get up off the bloody floor, and answer the question, damn you,” Edward Fitzwarren commanded.

  Richard, using the chair as a support, made it back to his feet, and returned to stand and face them, his hands once again behind his back. His face was ashen, his body shaking, but his voice was once more under his control. “We only had one bombard to use. You will have a wide range of ordnance. It had been my hope to demo
nstrate the powder here, using your guns.”

  De la Sengle turned to the man on his left. “The powder manufacturer they brought with them, has he produced any more of this yet?” His finger stabbed at the notebook on the table.

  “We have removed Master Scranton and his assistant to a more remote location. Powder production is a hazardous process. The method that Fitzwarren has brought to Malta might not be one we can trust. It seemed wise not to risk a second explosion. I have not had a report that he has produced more yet.”

  De la Sengle looked directly at Richard. “We lost not only the powder your Master Scranton had made in that explosion, but also our own stock for the defence of the citadel.” After a lengthy pause he added, “You wish for my gracious wishes and goodwill, Fitzwarren?”

  “I do, sir,” Richard replied, his eyes holding de la Sengle’s intense gaze.

  “Mmm… So tell me, what makes you think I should give it? So you have access to all of Monsinetto’s cargo? Remind me of what this comprised.”

  “I believe you are well apprised already of what was included,” Richard replied.

  “Don’t try and play games. Tell me what there is,” de la Sengle stated, bluntly.

  “There are thirty cases of flintlocks with fifty in each case, five cases of pistols with one hundred in each case, all the weapons matched. Seven cases of crossbows, with thirty in each case. In addition there are ten cases containing two thousand rods for the muskets and one thousand for the pistols. So there are sufficient for each gun plus spares. There are two cases of powder holders, one for each gun plus another two hundred spares. For each flintlock there is a hand mould plus another fifty additional ones. There are three cases with spares for the muskets and flintlocks, with one hundred of each of the moving parts, hammers, frizzens, and triggers and then fifty sets of spares for the muskets. And I wish nothing more for it than the freedom of my men,” Richard finished, holding the Grand Master’s gaze as he delivered it.

  “You have a good memory. And so do the Italians,” de la Sengle replied, sarcastically. “What makes you think that they will not take this cargo from you?”

  “Simply because no one knows where it is,” Richard replied, honestly.

  “Everyone, it seems, had an interest in the whereabouts of these arms, and unfortunately for you it has long been assumed that they have found their way into my armouries. So if we accept that you have them, where are they now?” De la Sengle pressed the question.

  “I would respectfully ask that I keep that location to myself. It would not take long to bring them into the safe keeping of the Order,” Richard replied, guardedly.

  “You think I would let you leave here, after your outlandish promises of free weapons? I would wager you would soon disappear,” de la Sengle scoffed.

  “I would not want you to let me leave without a sizeable escort of your men, to ensure the safe passage of the weapons to your armoury,” Richard replied. He stood, ignoring the chair, his hands behind his back, but despite his best efforts, he could feel his balance beginning to evade him.

  “You do realise that by standing before me and bartering in stolen goods you are willing to wager your life?” de la Sengle said, observing him quietly over the rim of a cup he had just taken from the table. “So perhaps not only impudent, but a fool as well.”

  “I would try to change your mind,” Richard said. “I have also a group of men. I am sure they are in your keeping. They are well trained in using these weapons. They can train your men and share their skills.”

  “These were your men. Now another claims their leadership,” de la Sengle said, closely watching him. “Perhaps we have already tested them. You do not have much of a bargain to strike.”

  “The bargain I wish to strike is a cheap one for the Order. The arms, all the knowledge I can offer, in exchange for the freedom of my brother and sister.”

  De la Sengle dropped back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the arm for a moment, before he answered. “That all depends on whether we judge if you have, or have not something to trade with.”

  “I will share as much knowledge as I have with you,” Richard said. His voice was quiet now and was edged with tiredness.

  De la Sengle leant forward and flipped the notebook closed. “We have your notes, we have your expert. The question that remains, at the moment, is whether indeed we need you?”

  “I wish only, sir …”

  “To trade in stolen goods,” de la Sengle cut in.

  “I’d argue that they are not stolen,” Richard replied, quickly.

  “Hah, well I think with some certainty that they do not belong to you. Is this impudence all of your own unfortunate making?” de la Sengle asked.

  “The impudence is of my own making,” Richard said, levelly.

  De la Sengle nodded. “You have a very short span of time, so make good use of it. I want to know where these arms are. I suggest you tell me exactly where they are, and how they managed to disappear for nearly three years.”

  “Sir, I will gladly give them to you, but I ask only…”

  “You are in no position to ask for anything. We have your brother, your sister and your men. Before you leave this room, you will answer the Grand Master’s questions,” Edward Fitzwarren said, his voice threatening.

  It took another hour of close questions before Claude de la Sengle was satisfied he knew as much as he was likely to ever know from Richard Fitzwarren. By the end of the interview it was plainly obvious that the other man laying a claim to the Fitzwarren name was of little use to them.

  Richard finally found himself dismissed, and in silence they led him from the room, down the narrow hall and into the blinding white light in the narrow Mdina street outside. The interview had run through the night and the morning sun was now cresting the hill behind Mdina. He was taken for another interview with Brother Rodrigo, the order’s Ordnance expert. Suffering another three hours of questions, it was midday before they were finished with him.

  The heat in the room had been tolerable, but outside it was as if he was warmed by a fire from all sides at once. With the sun blazing down from overhead, ridding the streets of shadows, the island’s inhabitants had long since taken shelter from the hot rays, dozing until the worst of the summer heat had passed. Wordlessly he was shown into another room, where the walls, bare of plaster, were cream limestone, cool to the touch. The only furniture a bed, a small worn altar, and on the wall, painted on cracked wood, a picture of the Madonna.

  The door closed. There was a keyhole. Richard didn’t hear the lock turning, but he had more sense than to try the door. He had been told to wait, and wait he would. He was housed comfortably, that he could not dispute, and his welfare was obviously of some concern as he was allocated a serving brother whose permanent home was usually the infirmary in Birgu.

  Brother Augustus had introduced himself sourly, his dislike for his task evident in both his speech and his manner. Richard attempted to refuse Brother Augustus’s examination, and found himself moments later, pinned to the wall by two of the physician’s assistants. The incident left him with bruised ribs and a split lip. He was forced to undergo a dispassionate review and answer Augustus’s searching questions. The experience taught him that there was little point in resisting and that compliance with the elderly man’s wishes and requests was a less painful route. Augustus, who never smiled, remained in Mdina, with the sole purpose of restoring the health of his unwilling patient.

  Chapter 15

  Trial by Lawyer

  Within a week, Robert had the papers he had demanded Clement produce for him. The document, Clement assured him, would give him authority over any of his father’s stewards and retainers. And importantly, access to his property and control of the rents and dues. It seemed the only thing that Robert could not do was dispose of any of his father’s lands. The last point had come as a blow to Robert. The house in London and the Sussex Manor Robert had every intention of keeping, but William Fitzwarren had acquired we
althy tracts of land from Henry VIII after the dissolution, when he had paid a low price for them. Although they provided a good income, he planned to sell them off and use the money for his own purposes. Robert had never even laid eyes on the land, and had little interest in his father’s investments.

  Robert currently received a stipend from his father. In addition, he had been granted a manor of his own near Chichester when he reached his majority. However he never visited, deeming it too lowly a place for his accommodation, preferring his father’s manor in Sussex, or when in London, his Town House. William had given the Chichester manor into the keeping of one of his stewards, the lands were rented out and the property maintained with a minimum of staff. The income from this Robert received, but his eyes were now on his father’s title and all the money that went with it. The London and Sussex houses, plus the money from the sale of the monastic parcels, would supply Robert with full coffers and sufficient money to allow him to do as he pleased. Or so he thought.

  †

  William knew why he was in the room as soon as he walked through the door. The sheaf of lawyer’s papers in his hand and the evil smile on his son’s face told him of Robert’s excited anticipation.

  “I want you to read these, old man. I want you to know what you are about to lose.” Robert strode across the room and put the papers on William’s lap.

  “I have no need to read them,” William said, his voice surprisingly steady and his temper in check. “You give me no choice. Know this, Robert, that what really saddens me is that you have not the wit to do anything with it.”

  In a quick movement, Robert retrieved the papers from William’s lap, slapping his father hard across the face with them. “Old man, remember who you are talking to.”

  William’s temper snapped. “You owe everything you have to chance! To a mistake! To my mistake. Oh yes, I recognise my folly now.”