by Sam Burnell
“Don’t you worry. I’ll stop right here!” Jack replied, sarcastically.
In the room above he heard noises and wished dearly that he could see what was going on. But the hatch was small and the view it afforded was only of a white plastered wall in the room above. Suddenly the ladder reappeared and began to descend back towards him. The bottom rung dangled above his head.
Richard’s head appeared over the edge. “I’ve tied it to a meat hook in the ceiling, that’s as far as I can get it to you. The rope’s not long enough.”
Jack could just reach the bottom rung.
“Will it hold?” Jack asked, shaking his shoulders out.
“Who knows?” came the honest reply. “I’ve tested it with my weight but you’re quite a bit heavier.”
“What are you trying to say?” Jack fumed as he prepared to jump for the ladder.
“Get on with it. It’ll hold or it won’t,” Richard replied. “Anyway it’s not the hook I’d worry about but the rat-chewed rope I’ve had to use. If I was you, I’d make haste getting up that ladder.”
Jack jumped. He hung by his arms from the bottom rung. The ladder swung and twisted on the rope making the climb a difficult one. Hauling himself up the first three rungs, he was able to press a toe to the bottom rung, and with his weight now thankfully on his feet, he was up the rest of the ladder in a moment.
“It did hold!” Richard, annoyingly, sounded both genuinely surprised and delighted. “But can you squeeze through the trap? It would make a comic scene, wouldn’t it, if you got stuck there during your escape. Come on, hurry up. Someone somewhere must have heard the noise that door made when it opened.”
“Will you shut up? You’re enjoying this!” Jack growled as he began to fit his shoulders through the opening.
“Undoubtedly.”
Jack, hands on the floor, levered himself over the edge of the hatchway, and knelt, breathing heavily, next to his brother.
“Lounging on Malta has made you quite unfit!” Richard remarked. Neatly, he untied the rope, lowering the ladder back into the cellar.
Jack, glaring at him murderously, closed the trap door a lot more quietly than when it had been opened.
“Do you have any idea how to get out of here?” Jack hissed in Richard’s ear as they emerged from the room into a corridor beyond. “There will be a guard on the main door.”
“I’ll think of something. Will you just keep your voice down? This way,” Richard replied, his voice sounding annoyed as they set off down the narrow dim corridor.
As they got to the end, Richard laid his hand on the door, but before he could press it open, they both heard a voice they recognised behind them.
“Fortunately for you, we need your services.” It was Edward Fitzwarren.
Richard stopped. His hand dropped to his side and he turned back to face his cousin. “We wished only to set on a course to bring you Monsinetto’s cargo as soon as we can.”
“You were told to wait three days,” Edward growled. There were three other men standing behind him. “Those were our terms. What made you believe you could vary them?”
“If we delay, you might not get the cargo you want,” Richard pointed out. “To leave sooner is to lessen the risk.”
Edward ignored Richard and pointed to Jack. “Bring him to my room and put the other back in the cellar. And make sure they cannot get out this time.”
Jack shook off the hand of the man who took a hold on his arm to lead him down the corridor. Richard, pinioned between the other two, was dragged back towards the cellar they had recently escaped.
Edward stood with his arms folded. Jack was pushed hard in the small of the back and stumbled into the room. The door closed noisily behind him.
Edward waited until Jack recovered and stood straight before he spoke. “I know who you are.”
Jack nodded, and replied, “And I you.”
“I’ve seen the papers that were taken from you. I’ve no reason to doubt them,” Edward stated, eyeing him coldly. “I don’t care overly for my family anymore.”
Jack squared his shoulders and matched Edward’s stare. “I’m not enamoured of them either. I have been shown little kindness.”
Edward regarded him silently for a moment. “You seem to be a man of honour. You fought well against the infidel, even though your case was hopeless.”
Jack was past being intimidated. “I was curious!”
“Curious?” repeated Edward.
“I wished to see if the Order was as good as the tales Brother Emilio tells,” Jack supplied.
Edward’s eyebrows raised at that. “And were you disappointed?”
Jack shook his head. “No.”
“You have an inheritance you could gift to the Order. Its significance could offset your circumstances,” Edward replied, bluntly.
Jack smiled. So this was what he wanted. He swallowed the rebuke he was going to make and said instead, “A kind offer, and one worth considering.”
“You would do well to consider it. No matter what you think, a man raised as you have been could never have a place in society.” Edward then added, “And the company you keep does not help your cause.”
That was too much for Jack. “I choose my company well.”
“I think time will prove you wrong.” Edward’s voice bore a hard warning edge.
Jack, wisely, backed down. “Life is a lesson. I have much to learn.”
“And the Order has much it could teach,” Edward pronounced.
The interview was soon over and Jack was escorted back to the cellar. And into the company of his brother.
“I will be happier when we are no longer on this island,” Jack said as the door closed behind him.
“What did Cousin Edward want?” Richard said, from where he was sat on the floor, his knees drawn up.
Jack crossed the room and dropped down onto the floor next to him. “Not a lot. He smelled a profit for the Order, that’s all.” When he saw the questioning look on his brother’s face, he added, “They have the papers proving my inheritance and they’d like a share.”
“I’m sorry, Jack. It’s my fault that they have a hold over you,” Richard said, quietly.
“They have a hold over me while I am on Malta, but when we’re off this island they won’t,” Jack replied, “and if they think I’ll come back here willingly after this is over, they’re fools. I’d rather die a poor man in England than spend the rest of my life shackled to this burning rock and subject to the whim of the likes of Edward Fitzwarren.”
Richard didn’t reply. The cellar was dark and Jack couldn’t see the look on his brother’s face.
After two and half days, they were finally allowed to leave Malta. During the late evening, after curfew in the Citadel, accompanied by Emilio and three of his men, they made their way quickly through the silent blackened narrow streets of Mdina to the gate on the western side. At a quiet word from Emilio the gate opened, and a moment later they emerged into the warm night air of Malta. A short distance away, two of Emilio’s men waited, and beside them five saddled horses ready to take them to Birgu, where a carrack was readying to take to the sea and set her prow towards Sicily, and then to the Italian coast.
The Italian Knight carried with him written orders from the Grand Master that would lay at their disposal the resources of the Knights throughout Europe to transport them north, and back to England a lot faster than they had made the journey south. De la Sengle wanted the contents of Monsinetto’s cargo in his armoury as quickly as possible. Releasing Kineer would, he knew, add a sense of urgency to their journey that otherwise it might have lacked. He had no doubt at all that the group escorted by Emilio would arrive first.
†
Robert had resigned himself to having to wait until William’s demise before he could sell any of his property. Although he was now legally in charge, not as much money seemed to flow in his direction as he had hoped. There might be rents and dues, but there were also high expenses for maintenan
ce, upkeep and wages for William’s staff. There was not as much left as Robert had wanted, and worse, what money did arrive trickled in.
His father had given him a manor near Chichester when he reached his majority. It had been his father’s before him and as the Fitzwarren heir it had passed to him. Robert never used it. The accommodation was poor and the hunting even worse. However the Chichester estate was an answer to a more immediate problem. Robert had debts, and selling this estate would clear them and leave him with a full purse.
The adjacent landowner was Henry Merton and he had already offered to buy the manor twice, but William had turned him down. The property had always vested in the Fitzwarren heir and his father had no intention of selling it, or of allowing his son to sell. Now though, things were different. Robert’s father was out of the way, locked behind doors in his London House. The manor belonged to Robert, the title documents were vested in his name, so he could legally sell it.
Henry Merton had agreed a price and Robert had set Clement the task of transferring the title to the property and managing the transaction. Robert might not like his lawyer, but he needed to ensure that Merton did not cheat him on the transaction. The deeds to the Chichester property were with his father’s lawyer, Luttrell. Clement had prepared the Deed of Feoffavi, for the bargain and sale of the manor, sending this to Luttrell for him to action. It should have been a simple process from there. Clement’s addendum would have been attached to the deed roll for the property, and all of it would have been passed to Merton’s lawyer in exchange for the agreed sum.
However it was not going as Robert had planned. Clement’s bargain and sale deed, headed in Latin “dedi concessi feoffavi et vendidi,” had been returned to Robert. Attached to it was another sheet of parchment, and the words at the top had made Robert’s stomach twist.
“Title indigentiarum.”
His hands shook as he read the words Luttrell had added to Clement’s addendum before he returned it.
“Title indigentiarum.”
No title.
William’s lawyer, Luttrell, was refusing to execute Clement’s deed because Robert lacked the legal capacity to sell the manor. Robert had balled the parchment, and, howling, sent the creased sheets towards the wall before storming through the house towards his father’s rooms.
†
William sat back and looked at the portrait of his long dead wife. Tonight, the severe gaze she laid upon him seemed to have softened. He was sure he could detect a smile in her eyes. William found himself smiling back at the painting.
“Eleanor, lass, you always did get your way. No matter how long it took.” William spoke quietly, his eyes gazing adoringly at the face of his wife. William had always harboured a secret worry that she had known what he had done all those years ago. On reflection, he could see there had been little he had gained from it. She had resented his mistress, a woman whose name he could not even remember, never mind recall what she had looked like. She had been one of Eleanor’s servants, who had provided for his needs for a few nights while Eleanor had been pregnant. He’d had no feelings for the woman, he’d have given her bastard little thought either, if it had not been for Eleanor. Eleanor, who wanted them both gone. Eleanor, who pitted her will against his. William could not let her win. The fault of it was hers. She’d been furious that he wanted to keep his bastard son as well as their child and her temper had risen. Lord, what a temper she had. William smiled. It was so easy to make her mad.
William could now see that his victory had been a feeble one. To spite his wife, he’d swapped the children, sent away her son, their son. He’d meant to tell her what he had done, reinstate her child and teach his wife a lesson. But that had never happened. He’d gone to Court, Eleanor was pregnant again, and when he came back there was a new child in her crib. Eleanor had nearly died, he remembered her surrounded by her ladies and a priest. They’d told him she’d not live to see the morning. They’d been wrong and Eleanor had recovered, but that had not been the time to tell her what he had done with her first child. William had resolved to deal with the situation later.
His wife took such pride in their first born, Robert. Eleanor doted upon Robert, marvelled as he learnt to walk, to run, to ride a horse. He was the heir, and William had realised that there was little he could do about it. He had pushed the issue to the back of his mind and forgotten about it.
Or at least he had tried to.
He wasn’t often at his brother’s house, but he could remember seeing Eleanor’s son there when he had visited once. Even though it was shoulder length, filthy and matted, he’d recognised the blond hair as belonging to Eleanor’s son. It had the quality of white gold, and his face, beneath the grime, was hers. He’d heard the child calling the other boys, heard his rough peasant’s voice, his ripped breeches showing his backside, and he’d known then that it was too late to take this child back into his house.
Now he’d met the man that boy had become.
The first time he’d taken him to be a thief, poorly dressed, nervous, and Jack had fled from his house. The second time however, he had stood before William with an air of confidence, the eyes that had met William’s full of reserve. William remembered the meeting well. He’d seen the man’s temper flare easily – just like his mother’s.
In the lonely hours, William, more and more, began to fashion this man he had briefly met into the son he did not have in Robert. Into an ally, a man of honour, possessing the best traits from his beautiful wife and from himself. Robert’s character was tainted, ruined by the curse of his bastardy and there was nothing, William told himself, that he could have ever done to have remedied that.
He was drawn from his reverie by the sound of the door being pulled open. There was no knock, no announcement. Looking up, he saw Robert standing on the threshold glaring at him.
“It didn’t take you long to find out, did it?” William said, with clear satisfaction in his voice.
“What have you done?” Robert growled the question for the second time.
“What I should have done a long time ago. Clipped your wings,” William spat back.
“You’ve breathed your last, old man.” Robert advanced towards William and snatched the counterpane from the bed. It was plain on his face that he meant to suffocate his father with it..
“Do that and you’ll inherit nothing,” William snarled. “Nothing. Do you hear me?”
Robert stayed his advance.
“Kill me and everything I own vests in your brother,” William said, slowly and clearly. “And there is nothing you can do about it.”
“But he is a traitor,” Robert spat back. “He can’t inherit.”
“I didn’t vest it in Richard, you fool,” William replied, his voice cold.
Realisation struck Robert with the force of a physical blow. His hand opened and the counterpane slipped from his grasp to the floor. “You left it to him, to that bastard?”
William’s smile was answer enough.
Robert’s hand’s covered his face and he let out an anguished howl.
“Kill me and you’ll end on your arse on the street,” William growled.
“I let you live so you can toy with me like this?” Robert shouted, through his fingers before dropping his hands from his face and staring deep into William’s eyes.
“You have no choice,” William stated, and Robert knew he didn’t.
†
Lizbet had cried. It was just the once, and they were tears of frustration. Imprisoned within the precincts of the Benedictine Order in Mdina, she had no news at all of what had happened to Jack and Richard. She’d asked and asked, then after weeks of receiving the same answer, she finally gave up asking. Lizbet was trapped, and in more ways than one.
Physically she was trapped inside the walled confines with the nuns, unable to see or hear beyond the walls, forced to live within the narrow limits of their world. She was also trapped by her body as it began to betray her. That she carried a child was now unmis
takable. Lizbet was also held captive by her own thoughts. They lurked at the back of her mind. The truth of the child she carried was a truth she did not want to face, one she did not want to dwell upon. The abhorrent reality was that she carried the child of a man whom she hated, a man who had tried to kill Richard, who had driven him to the edge of his reason.
Had she been in London it would have been a simple matter, coins would have been exchanged and weeks ago she’d have taken a mixture of henbane and milkwort that would have purged the child from her before it had even become one. Now it was too late. It had a form within her. It was beginning to possess her.
The steps down to the garden were white marble, their edges rounded and smooth. In total there were fourteen. Lizbet stood looking down at them for a long time before she finally moved, taking three careful slow steps back away from them. Reaching out a hand, she steadied herself against the wall.
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” Lizbet’s words, spoken aloud to herself, sounded around the garden, her alien English accent seeming incongruous amongst the lemon trees, white tiles and vine clad walls. Lizbet knew she did not belong here.
She ran forwards on light feet. The first two steps landed on the marble slabbed balcony. The third connected with nothing as she flung herself from the top of the stairs and into the void.
Lizbet’s fall was only broken when she hit the ninth step down, the noise of it rattling around inside her head. For a moment she was reminded of another time, beneath the water when her head, with a seeming finality, had struck a rock. Strong hands had pulled her free. Now there were no hands, no help, only helplessness.
EPILOGUE
Both brothers agreed, in the few moments when they found themselves alone on that journey north, that the Knights had impressive resources at their disposal. The days they had waited in Malta had allowed time for the logistics of their onward journey to be put into place. Their stops were planned, provision had been made for changes of horse, their accommodation was excellent and their safety guaranteed. They left each stop after what was considered sufficient time for food and sleep, with an escort that would take them further north through Europe and hand them on to the next escort. None of the men they met were interested in who or what they were. The men strictly and efficiently obeyed their orders: “Move them north – quickly.”