Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon - Страница 33
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‘I see. Chivalry was not a part of the curriculum, I imagine.’
‘Far from it. We were trained to kill quickly and quietly.’ Thomas nodded, and then concentrated on making the next stitch before he continued. ‘But you have never had cause to kill a man before this day, I think.’
The young man was silent and then looked down at the deck. ‘No.’
‘It is not a step taken lightly, Richard. The real tragedy is that now you have killed, it will weigh less on your conscience the next time. The greatest challenge you will face is trying to remember the man you were before your soul was stained with the blood of another. The more you kill, the harder it is to remember.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘It is what I know. What I endure,’ Thomas added quietly.
‘Is that why you left the Order?’
‘That is my business, not yours. But I will admit to it being one reason why I could not continue in its service. Killing was so commonplace to us that it lost all meaning. And so it is with the enemy. It is all either side has come to know and the only profit on it is that we have perfected the very idea of hatred and revenge.’ The squire thought for a moment, until the prick of a fresh stitch made him wince. ‘Then how is it that you are here again? You could have refused Sir Robert and Sir Francis. They would have found another man.’
Thomas glanced up and chuckled. ‘I was summoned by my Order, to which I am bound by oath. As for your masters finding another man, there are few as well suited to their needs as I am. They need a man who is of the Order of St John yet does not carry its credo in his heart. Your masters are shrewd men, young Richard. They read me as easily as the pages of a book.’ He paused and reflected briefly on the other reason he had been ready to return to Malta: the need to know what had become of Maria. Had the Queen’s spymasters understood that too? He looked at Richard. ‘And perhaps even more shrewd than I give them credit for.’
‘Sir?’
‘’Tis nothing. Now, the last stitch and we are done here.’ Richard gritted his teeth again as Thomas pierced the skin and drew the last of the thread through. He carefully used Richard’s dagger to cut the needle free, and then tied off another knot. He inspected his handiwork and then took a strip of linen from the chest and covered the wound with a bandage.
‘There. That will heal within the month, provided you rest the arm and don’t disturb the stitches.’
Richard looked at his arm and then lowered it. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Thomas rose to his full height and rubbed the small of his back as he looked round the deck. The bodies had been removed, thrown over the side, and water sluiced across the deck to wash the worst of the blood away. The parted sheets had been repaired and the galley was ready to get under way. Already the other galleys had resumed their formation around the galleons and only the prize crew were now on board the captured vessel.
Thomas wiped his hands on a rag and patted Richard on the shoulder. ‘Come, we must return to the flagship.’
The squire picked up his gambison and armour and then stared at Thomas for a moment. ‘It seems that we both have our secrets, sir.’
Richard nodded. ‘And perhaps on Malta the truth will out.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ten days later, after the soldiers aboard the galleons had been safely landed on Sicily, Don Garcia’s small squadron of galleys reached Malta. The sun was setting in the western sky, half hidden by a thin veil of sea mist, as the slim warships entered the mouth of the natural harbour that Malta had been blessed with. Or cursed, Thomas mused. The sheltered waters stretched deep into the heart of the small island and were separated by a peninsula with a rocky ridge running along its spine. To the north of the peninsula was the Marsamxett harbour, and to the south the Grand Harbour that had become home to the Order of St John. Such a fine harbour and the location of the island at the centre of the Mediterranean had drawn the attention of every naval power across the centuries, even back to the ancient empires of Rome and Carthage.
Over twenty years had passed since Thomas had last seen the vista of the Grand Harbour and much had changed. A new fort had been constructed at the end of the peninsula to command the entrances of the two harbours, and additional defence works had been added to St Angelo, the fort that was the headquarters of the Order. The red standard bearing a white cross floated above the highest towers of each fort. Beyond St Angelo lay the village of Birgu, which had steadily grown to serve the needs of the knights and their soldiers in their eternal war against the hordes of Islam. As he gazed at the thick limestone walls and squat towers of St Angelo, Thomas felt a slight ache in his heart as he recalled the years he had served there and the men he had counted as brothers, some of whom had died before his eyes and whom he had mourned. And those others he had known, like La Valette, who had inspired devotion and fanatical zeal.
And then there had been Maria. He had tried to put off thinking of her but there had never been a moment in all the years he had since spent in England when memory of her had not been lodged in his heart like a splinter, a constant reminder of what he had lost. If she still lived, he prayed that she would be here. There was little reason to suppose that she had chosen to remain on this dry rock in the middle of a war-torn sea, but Thomas could not help hoping. Many times he had allowed himself to imagine seeing her again, untarnished by the passage of time, still slender, dark and with the serious expression that belied her fiery spirit. Such fantasies always left him feeling vulnerable for fear that she would reject him, as he had once been forced to abandon her.
‘A formidable prospect.’
Thomas thrust his troubled reverie aside and turned to see Richard standing a short distance further along the galley’s rail, gazing at the defences of St Angelo. The sun had been lost behind the high ground beyond the harbour and to Thomas’s eyes both St Angelo and the fort at the mouth of the harbours seemed somehow diminished by the gloom of the gathering dusk.
‘Formidable?’ Thomas pursed his lips. ‘Not so formidable to our Turkish friends, I think. There is not a fortress in all Christendom that can stand before the great cannons of the Turks. And when the walls come down, the outcome will be decided by the quality and quantity of the men who face each other.’
‘The quality is spoken for.’ Richard smiled. ‘There are no better warriors in this world than the knights of the Order of St John.’
‘That may be true, but the Sultan has quantity on his side,’ Thomas replied wearily. ‘Tell me, Richard, which is more important, quality or quantity? From your experience, as a warrior?’
It was a barbed question, and Thomas regretted it at once. Richard had only intended an amiable exchange but Thomas was irritated by his complacent comment.
Richard frowned and his lips set into a tight line as he stared fixedly at St Angelo. Thomas decided that the most practical form of apology would be to change the subject.
‘How is your arm today?’
‘The worst of the pain has passed,’ Richard replied tersely, without shifting his gaze.
‘And you have changed the dressing each day?’
‘Just as you ordered.’
‘And there was no sign of putrefaction?’
‘None.’
‘Good.’ Thomas nodded.
There was a long silence in which neither man showed any sign of being willing to move from the galley’s rail and be the first to give way in their tacit confrontation. Thomas could sense the tension, anger and even hatred seething in the breast of his companion, but there was no question of assuaging it with an open apology and so he said nothing and acted as if he was alone as he watched the harbour open up on either side of Don Garcia’s flagship. The remaining galleys of the squadron were in line astern and glided across the quiet waters of the harbour as the oars stroked the surface with graceful symmetry. From St Angelo a gun boomed out in salute as the flagship drew level and there was a brief pause before one of the galley’s guns replied, the deep rumble echoing back from the limestone walls of the fort as a host of gulls swirled into the air, disturbed by the noise.
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