by Sam Burnell
Jack’s mark was no more than five paces from him.
If they left it any longer, he would not be able to get in position in time.
The man beside him must have sensed Jack’s body readying to act, and held onto him for one more vital moment.
Emilio shouted. The hold was released. Jack’s sword flew neatly up, and in a pace it had found its mark. The front line of Turks, taken by surprise, unaware of the hidden assailants, crumpled onto the rocky hillside, dying. The ten behind were a different matter.
While their companions had been attacked, they had had time to draw their swords. The group split into two, moving on the two positions held by the Knights.
Withdrawing his blade, Jack stood shoulder to shoulder with men whose skill at arms was unquestioned. The Knight beside Jack dragged him back. They would make the Turks step over their own dead before they could level their blades at the Knights. The hillside was steep enough to give them an advantage, and Emilio’s men needed every one they could make.
Five of Emilio's men were left. The ten Turks advanced, blades drawn and with blood lust in their eyes. Behind them, moving quickly to defend their comrades, came another line of twenty Turks.
The Turks to his right had stepped quickly over their dead, and Jack heard the sound of blades engaging. A moment later the Turkish line near him pressed their attack. Coming towards Jack was not one, but two silvered and shining blades with red silk hilts, making them look as if they already streamed with blood.
Jack became unaware of anything but the need to stop the steel. A hard lateral swipe with his own blade severed the yatagan nearest him, a move which risked breaking his own blade, but the odds demanded higher risks. Taller and broader than both his opponents, Jack knew of the target he was offering them. A moment later, the razored point of a Turkish blade scythed across the front of his thick leather cuirass. Jack recoiled, unharmed, from the impact.
As he stepped back, his eyes caught the closing row of Turkish reinforcements, now no more than fifteen paces beyond. A second later he cursed himself, and his lack of a buckler, as he was forced to deflect a blade with his poniard. The impact numbed his arm and the blade was jarred from his grasp.
How long would Emilio leave it before he ignited the powder?
Not long!
Jack brought his sword up automatically to protect his chest, blocking the scimitar, the lethal arc rattling down the length of Jack’s blade. At the same time, the Turk with the broken blade thrust his shortened weapon straight towards Jack’s exposed left side.
The shattered blade never made it to him. The expression on the man’s face turned from a vicious leer to one of sudden shock. Eyes widening, the scimitar tumbled from his opening grip. He caught the attention for a moment of his companion and that gave Jack the opportunity to land a blow. Not a lethal one, it lacked the velocity for that, but the cold steel bit into the fleshy shoulder of his attacker who emitted a howl of pain.
Jack took two brisk paces back.
The Knight to his left had a man down and was engaged with a second who suddenly fell backwards, arms flung wide and mouth open in a howling scream. A red plume was opening on his chest like a flower.
He’d been shot with a musket ball. Jack recognised behind him now the unmistakable sound of flintlocks being fired in unison.
The line behind the front row of attackers had stopped its advance. Some of their number were already down, and the line, now broken and uncertain, faltered. A moment later it crumbled and broke as de la Sengle’s force from Mdina showed themselves on the ridge.
Then he heard a voice he recognised.
“Jack! No one told me you had been recruited.”
Jack spun on the spot, his eyes scanning the ridge behind him, where he found faces he recognised. Marc, Pierre, Froggy, and next to them, a flintlock resting on his shoulder, his brother. Jack was about to speak when a hand in the back pushed him hard towards the top of the hill.
“Move now! They are bringing their archers up.”
Jack ran to the top of the hill, his breath coming in ragged gasps. If he thought the fight was over, he was wrong. Froggy clamped a flintlock against Jack’s chest.
“They are re-forming their archers just beyond that line of trees,” Richard said, coming to stand next him and pointing towards a sparse row of Aleppo pine.
“We need them closer.” Froggy was reloading as he spoke.
“At the moment, they don’t know what attacked their front line, so we expect them to press forwards,” Richard replied, then to Jack, “We are on display it seems. Can we repel fifty men with five flintlocks?”
“I bloody hope so.” Quickly he had his weapon primed and ready to fire.
Richard settled himself next to Jack. “Acquit ourselves well and we might have a life outside of Malta.”
“And if we don’t?” Jack was busy ramming home a musket ball.
“You might learn to like boats!” his brother supplied, quietly as he hoisted the flintlock to his shoulder. Then to the whole group, he said, “On my orders, fire and reload.”
“On your orders,” Jack muttered under his breath, suddenly realising what his brother had meant about boats.
Richard had been right. The few deaths they had delivered with the musket balls had not been attributed to firearms and the Turks pulled forward a line of archers, far enough away to avoid physical contact but close enough to land lethal arrows into the line at the top of the hill.
The first shots rang out in unison. A slight breeze took the acrid smoke blessedly behind them and the firing line remained clear. Each man lowered their weapon, and reloaded. Their actions were matched, the pace measured. Then as one they lifted the flintlocks, picked their marks and fired on the order, attention immediately returning to the reloading process.
Shot dropped in the barrel.
Rod to press it home.
Hammer back.
Powder added to the frizzen.
Mark selected.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Fire on command.
Jack selected the third musket ball. It had been a long time since Froggy’s training at the camp, but the actions, the timing were all still second nature. After five rounds, Richard held his hand up and stood. Their targets had retreated, and the rocky hillside had another six bodies to add to the total.
Without a word Edward Fitzwarren took the flintlock from Marc’s hands and facing Richard, said, “You will bring me these. All of them.”
“All of them,” Richard agreed.
†
The Knights gave chase, picking off more of the Turks as they retreated towards the boats while Richard and his men were returned to Mdina with an escort.
Jack watched his brother closely throughout the ride to the Citadel. He rode in front of Jack, who could see only his back and little else. When the track allowed, Edward Fitzwarren pulled his horse level with Richard’s. It was obvious that he was placing a series of questions, and Richard, turning his head to reply, was answering them. Jack was too far back to hear any of the words but Richard sat straight in the saddle and was, it seemed, providing coherent and reasonable replies to Edward. He’d been provided with good clothes and wore a dark doublet over a white linen shirt. But it was still obvious that the man beneath them was painfully thin. However Richard had, it seemed, thankfully recovered his wits.
Jack remembered Edward Fitzwarren well. He had little liking for him. Cast very much in the same mould as Robert, he was vicious, violent and had treated servants with little more than contempt. Jack had been on the receiving end of his temper many years ago, before Edward had left England to join the Order. It had been during a hunting expedition when he was carrying Edward’s hawk. A beautiful goshawk named Mardy. He’d known the hunting was to be in the forest and the shorter winged goshawk was a better bird to fly in the woods. The goshawk was the lesser bird by far than the long winged peregrine. Edward, feeling shamed at the bird Jack had offered him, beat him senseless fo
r the mistake. Jack doubted that Edward had changed much; the members of the Order were not known for their generosity of spirit and kindness despite the tenets that they declared they lived by.
Jack had no opportunity to talk to Richard on the ride back to Mdina, and once there Jack found he was escorted to where Marc and Pierre had been kept during their time in Malta along with Froggy Tate. It did not seem like he was going to be admitted to his brother’s company any time soon.
Chapter 19
The Queen’s Crusade
Cecil was not present when Green’s sentence was carried out. Morley, for once, was harbouring bitter thoughts towards his employer. His mood was not helped by the weather. Storm clouds had gathered over London. It had rained heavily over night and the ground around Smithfield was mired. Ponds gathered in the ruts and holes left by cartwheels and hooves, and the air was still laden with a fine wet mist. Water dripped in a constant stream from the front of Morley’s hat.
Morley had difficulty believing that the idiots of the borough, charged with this task, had left all the kindling and boughs exposed overnight to the torrent from the Heavens. The chances of them raising pyres from the wet branches were fairly poor. He needed to find out who was in charge and make sure this did not happen again. It was a difficult enough task to organise the victims for these public executions, and to have the end result marred by such poor organisational planning was unacceptable. Morley had no doubt that if the day was not a success then Cecil would be laying the blame for the failure squarely at his door.
Then there was the matter of the crowds. There weren’t any. Smithfield would normally be a packed mass of Londoners, but not today. He doubted it was just the damp weather that was keeping them away. After Mistress Harrington’s execution, it seemed the city had little stomach for watching more of its citizens writhe in agony and beg for mercy. Today there were only a few dozen present. Many were workers from the stalls set up on the staging around the edge of the open space, selling food and wares to those attending the execution. London’s merchants, keen to make the most out of the event, selling to the assembled onlookers.
Today’s burnings had been organised to send a message to the city. Mary would not tolerate the Protestant subversion of the Catholic faith from any strata of society. Apart from Green and the debtor Morley had found to take the role of the archer who killed Mistress Harrington, those to be executed today were common folk, drawn from the main parishes in London. And it seemed that London had received the message and did not want to watch Mary’s justice.
For a few moments Morley wondered if it might be possible to postpone the event. The fires were not going to light easily, Londoners had not turned out to witness the event. It was on the brink of turning into a failure. Rather than delivering a harsh message and reinforcing Mary’s will, there would be whispers through the city that the rain soaking the faggots was a show of God’s displeasure with the event. That the city had shunned the spectacle as well would send a message back to the Court that they no longer cared for this royal justice.
Morley knew that he could not intervene. If he did, it would be he who would find the full force of Mary’s displeasure aimed at him. None would see the sense in what he had done. It was, sadly, a better and safer route to let it run its sorry course and deal with the results later. It was unfortunate that Cecil had decided to shun the occasion. Morley wondered if this was a politic move rather than just a desire to remain both warm and dry.
As the year drew to a close, it seemed that England’s tolerance for her Spanish-styled Queen was also waning. Philip had persuaded Mary in March of this year to join her forces to his and England had declared war against France. It was a move the Privy Council knew England could ill afford, and towards the end of the year the effects were now being felt by the population as well. The lack of support for the burnings at Smithfield was also a measure of public sentiment toward the war with France.
†
Christopher Morley sat patiently waiting for Catherine de Bernay. He was in no rush, his mind applied to the latest of Cecil’s problems that had been delivered to him to solve. The failure of Green’s execution had been quickly forgotten. , Mary’s attention was drawn to a new problem, and Cecil was helping to ensure that it remained the centre of focus. The war with France and Philip’s absence had placed another issue before Mary that she could not now avoid. The question of the succession. Whilst she had been able to claim that she was with child, they could not press her on the issue, but Philip had been away fighting with the Spanish and English forces against France, and any hope Mary had for a child was now lost. The Privy Council, with Philip absent, were uncharacteristically united with a single-minded purpose, and that was to resolve the issue of the succession.
Philip had pressed his wife to join his war against France. What would happen if he lost? Would he sacrifice England? There was a real fear that by involving the country in the fight with France, England’s oldest enemy, that they were at serious risk of losing their sovereignty to Henry of France. There needed to be an answer to the question of the succession, there needed to be an assurance that if the worst happened, England would not become a part of France.
The options were limited. The final name that they had, the only real answer, was Elizabeth. It was known that she favoured the Protestant cause, disliked Philip, had shunned a foreign match and was eminently a better prospect to provide the country with an heir than her older half sister, Mary. If the succession was vested in Elizabeth, there were a number of names that could be suggested as marriage prospects. It was an issue of control, and the Privy Council were in agreement that they could control Elizabeth. The key issues now were how to secure this situation, how to persuade Mary to vest the succession in Elizabeth. They would soon raise the question with Elizabeth. Cecil was keen to ensure that the Tudor temper was kept in check and knew that a forewarned Elizabeth would be a subdued Elizabeth. Given time to consider the facts, he was sure she would see this as a vital opportunity to secure her safety and immediately improve her situation.
Catherine saw Morley sat in the arbour where the statue of Apate stood, and her mouth formed a hard line.
Morley’s face split into a wide smile at the sight of her. “Why so serious? We are, my dear, on the same side.”
“Are we?” Catherine replied. Realising she had no choice, she took a seat on the bench, as far away from Morley as possible.
“Of course we are, your help was really appreciated.” Morley held out his hand and in his palm were two coins.
Catherine’s eyes flicked from the coins to his face and back again. This time she voiced no refusal and held her own hand out next to his. Morley, smiling, tipped his hand and let the two coins slide into Catherine’s keeping. Her small hand closed around them and in a moment they were out of sight.
“What have you for me to do now?” Catherine asked.
“Straight to business,” Morley grinned. “This is why we get on so well.”
“We don’t get on.” Catherine shot him a dark look. “I have no choice, you have made that very clear.”
“Profit where you can, when you can,” Morley said. “It is not a bad motto to live by.”
“I don’t want to profit, I just want what is mine,” Catherine replied, sourly.
Morley sighed. “And that might happen, but at the moment I need you to pass a message to Elizabeth.”
“A message? Like last time when poor Libby was arrested,” Catherine shot back.
“And Libby is safe and well, remember. That as yet has come to nothing,” Morley reminded her, adding, “and it kept Kate Ashley safe as well, so your actions have helped your mistress.”
“Hardly!” Catherine spat back. “Remember how Kate ended up in the Fleet prison in the first place, or have you forgotten?”
Morley grimaced. “Oh Catherine, times change.”
“So you keep telling me,” Catherine said, grimly.
“My message for your mistress cann
ot be written down, and I trust you to deliver it well. There’s no action required of you other than that.” Morley waited for Catherine to nod in acceptance of his words before he continued. “The Privy Council are to press Mary to vest the succession in Elizabeth. She will shortly be summoned to discuss this, and my master simply wishes your mistress to consider this opportunity before it occurs.”
“Is that it?” Catherine replied, confusion wrinkling her brow.
“Yes, that is all. Now, repeat the message to me, please,” Morley requested.
It was an hour later, when Catherine had given Morley’s message to Elizabeth where she sat alone in the garden. She listened silently. Then, her eyes fastened on Catherine’s face, she quizzed her in detail about how the message had been delivered and by whom. Catherine kept her answers basic and consistent.
Elizabeth waited, and waited.
Christmas at Court came and went.
In January, Mary promised 150,000 ducats for the war Philip was waging with Spain, along with troops. The price of her support for his war was for him to visit England, which Philip dutifully did. Mary immediately imagined herself to be pregnant again. She would tolerate no advances from her Council imploring her to settle the succession upon Anne Boleyn’s bastard.
Catherine was also forced to wait. She put the coins from Morley with those she already had, along with a gold chain that had belong to Kate Ashley, who was still not present to report it missing. It was over a year now since Richard had deposited her with Elizabeth, and she had accepted that the Fitzwarren brothers had truly forgotten about her.
Chapter 20
The Final Proof
Ten members of the Order, including its Grand Master, Edward Fitzwarren and Brother Rodrigo were all gathered on the Mdina bastion. A canopy had been erected to protect the powder from the heat, and pointing out over the wall was a carriage-mounted culverin. In attendance at the demonstration were Richard, Jack and a trembling Master Scranton.