Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

There was no sadness or regret in Thomas’s heart as he stared back, just anger at the needless loss of life the corsair had inflicted on his followers. He felt fire flow in the sinews of his muscles as he locked his fingers round the handle of his sword and nodded sombrely. ‘If that is his wish, then so be it.’ He cleared his throat and drew a deep breath that all might hear him. ‘No quarter! Strike the dogs down!’

On either side, the Spaniards surged forward, swords and pikes thrusting at the corsair officers. Thomas swept his arms wide and shouted, ‘Not him! Not the one in green. Their captain is mine!’ The men on either side drew back and a small space opened out for the corsair and Thomas as they paused to size each other up. Then the instant was past and Thomas lunged forward with all his strength. There was no attempt to feint, the blow was intended to finish the fight at a stroke. The corsair nimbly stepped to the side and parried the blow, and Thomas could sense the considerable strength of his opponent through the contact between their blades. The parry, having done its work, continued into a glittering swing upwards and then a slash at Thomas’s face. He just had time to throw up his sword hand and block the blow with the guard. Sparks flickered into the air between the two men. He stepped in, close to the corsair and inside the sweep of his sword. His left hand grasped the corsair’s throat and he clenched his fingers in the silk cloth wound round the other man’s neck. The corsair dropped his scimitar and snatched at Thomas’s hand, struggling to wrench it away. At the same time the fingers of his other hand locked round Thomas’s sword to thrust it away. They stood there straining for advantage, staring into each other’s faces. A sweet musty scent filled Thomas’s nostrils, vying with the stink of the rowers below deck and the tang of the sea. Then he felt his left hand drawn back a fraction and he knew that the corsair was stronger than he was. It was only the thought of an instant but it was enough for the first chill of dread to trickle down his spine.

‘No,’ Thomas hissed, and dipped his head and smashed it forward. The curved peak of the morion helmet caught the corsair on the forehead, tearing a flap of skin from his skull. He howled with pain and rage, and his grip slackened enough for Thomas to free his left arm. He splayed his fingers and thrust them against the other man’s chest with all the force he could muster. The corsair staggered back, then stumbled and fell heavily on to the deck. Even before the impact drove the air from his lungs, the tip of Thomas’s sword took him low in the stomach, under the breastplate he wore beneath his green jacket, the point driving deep into his guts before Thomas was at the end of his reach. The corsair let out a deep groan and sagged back, mouth agape as his single eye rolled up and fixed on the blue heavens above.

Thomas pulled his blade free and turned to Richard. ‘Tell his men to surrender. Tell them their captain has fallen. Do it!’

Richard cupped a hand to his mouth and cried out, above the sounds of fighting. At his words the corsairs closest risked a glance in his direction and saw the body. They broke away from the engagement as best they could and stood by the steps leading up to the aft deck. A handful of Spaniards pressed forward until Thomas commanded them to stop. Richard continued to shout, and turned to repeat the call towards the men still engaged towards the bows. The clash and clatter of weapons died away and the two sides drew apart and watched each other anxiously.

‘Order the corsairs to drop their weapons,’ Thomas instructed.

As the swords and pikes fell to the deck, Thomas turned his attention back to the enemy commander. He lay writhing on the deck, his hands clasped over his stomach. Blood oozed from between the dark skin of his fingers and he groaned through clenched teeth.

The sergeants amongst the Spanish soldiers began to bellow orders for their men to gather the prisoners around the foremast. Those corsair officers still standing looked down at their stricken leader before they were roughly shoved towards the bows. Thomas turned to look at Richard who was standing a short distance away. The young man was looking down at the blood smeared on the weapons in his hands and Thomas could see the telltale tremor of one who had survived his first experience of battle. He sheathed his sword and gently rested a hand on his squire’s shoulder.

‘You fought very well.’

Richard pressed his lips together and nodded.

‘A credit to whoever trained you in the use of rapier and dagger,’ Thomas continued. There was no reaction and Thomas stepped closer and spoke in an undertone. ‘Richard, you are alive and you have triumphed over your fears. You have passed the test. You are one of us, a fighter. ’

Richard looked up. ‘I was afraid, sir. More than I ever thought I would be.’

‘I understand.’ Thomas offered a kindly smile. ‘Do you not think it was the same for me? For all those who enter battle?’

Then something caught Thomas’s eye and he glanced down to see a small puddle of blood at Richard’s feet, and another drop fell from a dark rent in the sleeve of his sword arm. ‘You are wounded.’

The young man looked confused. ‘Wounded? I—I don’t recall.’

‘Look there.’ Thomas gestured towards the bloody sleeve. ‘Your arm. Put your weapons up and see to the wound. There will be time to talk of your thoughts later, when the danger has passed.’ Thomas left his squire to sheath his weapons with trembling hands, and made his way over to the side of the galley. The crews of the nearest corsair vessels were looking on, as yet unsure of the outcome of the duel between the two galleys. Any doubt was extinguished as one of the Spaniards freed the halyard attached to the broad green pennant billowing above the deck. A moment later the pennant came fluttering down towards the deck and came to rest in an untidy heap amid the bodies of the dead and wounded. Thomas watched anxiously as the other corsair vessels held their positions for a while, before one of the other Spanish vessels opened fire, the chain shot shredding the foresail of the nearest corsair vessel and shearing off the end of one of the spars. Before the escort could fire again the galley began to turn away, towards the open sea. The neat line of oars swept forward, dipped down and thrust the corsair vessel away from the battle. One by one the other corsairs broke away and retreated to the north. Their comrades to the south continued their attack for a little longer before they ceased fire and drew back out of range in case the escort vessels turned on them.

The sound of boots thudding on to the deck caused Thomas to turn and he saw Don Garcia and his officers crossing one of the boarding planks on to the corsair galley and jumping down. The relief in the Spaniard’s face was clear to see and he grinned as he caught sight of the English knight.

‘We have them on the run, Sir Thomas! They flee like whipped curs now that we have their commander. Where is he?’

‘There, sir.’ Thomas gestured towards the figure lying on his back, the soft leather of his boots scraping the deck as he continued to writhe in his agony. To one side, Richard unbuttoned his gambison and laid it down on top of his breastplate. The sleeve of his white shirt was slick with blood and he peeled it back cautiously to reveal a deep gash on his forearm.

Thomas lifted Richard’s arm to examine the wound. ‘It’s a clean cut. Have it sewn up and bandaged.’

Richard nodded, his face drained of blood as he stared at the tom flesh. Fearing that his squire might faint, Thomas steered him over to a small chest on the deck. ‘Sit there. I’ll see to the wound myself directly.’

Don Garcia and his entourage picked their way over the bodies and discarded weapons on the deck and approached the stem. Don Garcia nodded with gratification.

‘There’s one less of the vermin to trouble our people. Well done, Sir Thomas. I saw you strike him down.’

Thomas bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Don Garcia’s officers grasped the corsair by the arms and dragged him over to the steps leading to the stern deck and propped him up. The corsair’s face contorted in agony for a while before he fixed his eye on the Spanish aristocrat and spoke through gritted teeth in Spanish.

‘You have . . . your small victory today, infidel ... I am dead. Paradise awaits me . . .’

‘So, you speak my tongue.’ Don Garcia smiled faintly. ‘I assume then that you are a Morisco, or some such traitor.’

‘I am no traitor . . . but a martyr, ready to ascend to heaven.’

‘There is no heaven for you, only eternal torment for what soul you may have,’ Don Garcia replied coldly. ‘That is all that awaits you, and all other followers of the false prophet. It is God’s will.’ The corsair’s lips flickered into a smile. ‘We shall see the truth of it. . . soon enough, Christian. Your days are . . . numbered. Soon you will be as I am ... You and all these about you ... A great power is rising. One that shall sweep before it... all the enemies of the Sultan . . . and the true faith. ’

Don Garcia leaned forward and grasped the corsair’s beard, pulling his head closer. ‘Where will the Sultan strike first? Speak, you dog.’

He released the beard and the corsair’s head thudded back against the steps. He winced and then smiled again.

‘Is it Malta?’ demanded Don Garcia. ‘Or Sicily? Tell us.’

‘Go to the devil.’

‘No. It is you who will go to the devil!’ He turned to his officers. ‘Chain his feet together.’

Thomas stepped between Don Garcia and the dying corsair. ‘What do you intend to do, sir?’

‘I intend to teach these scum a lesson, Sir Thomas. Now, out of the way, if you please.’

One of the officers retrieved a length of chain from the hold and thrust the corsair’s booted feet into the iron hoops before sliding the locking bar through the eyelets and forcing the locking spindle into place. Then he wound the rest of the length of chain round the corsair’s ankles. The man groaned in agony at his rough treatment. When the order had been carried out, Don Garcia addressed the corsair again.

‘Your wound is mortal. I can make the end painless, if you tell us where the Sultan intends to strike first. Otherwise I will cast you into the deeps.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Sir, this is without purpose. He will not tell you.’

‘Then he will drown, in the darkness, alone.’ Don Garcia kicked the man in his side, close to the wound, and he cried out in torment. ‘I give you one last chance. Tell me.’

For a moment the corsair clenched his remaining eye shut and sweat pricked from his brow until the wave of agony had passed. Then he looked up, his chest rising and falling swiftly as he gasped for breath. There was blood on his lips now, and a faint gurgling as he spoke again. ‘You will die ... all die . . . Your women and children too . . . Your bodies will be carrion for the dogs.’

‘Enough!’ Don Garcia turned to the nearest of his officers and snapped, ‘Get rid of this vermin!’

Fadrique and another officer bent down and reached under the corsair’s arms to wrench him on to his feet. Then they dragged him to the bulwark. Spaniards lined the side to get a good view of his end, and began to jeer. By the foredeck the prisoners cried out, some in protest and grief. But others cried in terror and fell to their knees, praying for salvation.

Fadrique was holding the corsair tightly by the arm and he looked towards his father. Don Garcia nodded and Fadrique released his grip and gave the corsair a firm push that sent him tumbling over the rail. Thomas was close by and saw the tranquil blue of the sea explode into white spray and flailing green cloth. Then through the disturbed surface of the water he watched as the corsair swiftly sank into the depths, his robes billowing gracefully like reeds in the flow of a river. Then, with a last dull waver of colour, there was nothing to see, just the blue of the ocean.

‘One less unbeliever to deal with.’ Don Garcia nodded with satisfaction, before he turned to the captain of the flagship. ‘Send some men below to free any Christians at the oars. Have them brought on deck to be fed and watered. The prisoners can take their place. The wounded who will recover will be chained in the hold. The others can be disposed of.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the captain nodded.

Don Garcia paused to look around the galley. ‘A fine-looking vessel. His Majesty’s navy can always use a new addition.’

As the first of the wretched creatures was helped up on to the sunlit deck from the living hell of the rowing benches, Thomas paused from his cleaning of Richard’s wound. The sight of the emaciated figures, stooped from having to bend below the low deck of the corsair galley, filthy and covered in sores, awoke a painful chain of memories in Thomas.

‘It’s hard to believe those creatures are men,’ Richard muttered. The rowers that had been marched down to Don Garcia’s flagship from the dungeons of the citadel in Barcelona had been pitiful enough but at least they had been rested, fed and given a chance to scrub themselves clean over the winter. The men stumbling on to the deck had endured far greater privation and degradation. They tore into the bread and cheese that was brought to them. Some of the Spanish soldiers looked on in pity while others stripped the robes off the prisoners and handed them to the freed men. Then, when the last of the Christians had been brought up, the corsairs were forced below and put in chains, destined to be worked to death in the vessel that had so recently been their own.

‘Such reversals of fortune are commonplace in this sea,’ said Thomas. ‘You’ll grow accustomed to it, I’ll warrant, if you live long enough. Now hold still, this will hurt.’

He had taken some thread and a needle from the well-stocked medical chest in the cabin that had belonged to the galley’s captain. Squinting, Thomas threaded the needle and tied the ends into a knot. ‘Hold your arm up and keep it still.’

Richard did as he was told and took one last look at the puckered lips of his wound before he turned and fixed his gaze on the nearest of the galleons where the crew were busy splicing some of the sheets that had been severed by the corsairs’ chain shot. Thomas gently pinched the sides of the wound together with his left hand and then pressed the needle through the skin, across the wound and out through the flesh on the far side of the cut. He pulled the thread through until the knot pressed lightly against the skin and then began the second stitch. Richard clenched his teeth and fought against the pain.

‘For a moment I thought you might not follow me into the fight,’ said Thomas, trying to take the young man’s mind off the stitching. ‘Back there, before we boarded. You were afraid?’ Richard shot him a quick glance. ‘You know I was.’

‘And yet you fought like a lion.’

‘I have been trained to fight.’

‘And right well. Who was your teacher?’

‘Another of Walsingham’s men.’

‘A soldier?’

‘Hardly.’ Richard smiled thinly. ‘He used to be a leader of a London gang. He was due to hang for murder but Walsingham offered him the chance to live if he was prepared to serve and obey orders without question. When he wasn’t questioning those Walsingham suspected of treachery, he was tasked with training the rest of the agents in the use of blades and street fighting. ’

‘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.

The flagship rounded the end of the promontory and steered into the creek between Birgu and the bare twin promontory of Senglea where a handful of windmills stood on its highest point. Ahead lay the masts of dozens of cargo ships and fishing boats, packed close to the quay lined with the warehouses of Birgu. The walls of St Angelo continued along the creek a hundred yards before reaching the channel that had been painstakingly cut across the promontory to provide a last line of defence before the fort. Thomas’s eyes were drawn to a large galleon riding at anchor in the channel. The forecastle, sides and high poop deck were painted green and decorated in gold leaf and the figurehead was a veiled woman in black robes picked out with stars and moons in gold and silver. There was no mistaking the origins of the vessel and Thomas realised that this must be the galleon that Philippe had told him of, the loss of which had provoked the Sultan’s rage.

‘Ship oars!’ ordered the captain and the dripping blades were raised clear of the sea and rumbled into the hull.

‘Port the helm!’

The flagship slowly swung in towards the length of quay closest to the fort. Thomas could see a small party of men waiting there, several wearing the cloaks of the Order, adorned with the distinctive cross motif. To one side a servant held the leashes of two magnificently conditioned hunting dogs. Standing alone a short distance in front of the others was a tall figure with silver hair and beard who was dressed in a plain black doublet, breeches and half-cloak. He watched the approaching galley without expression as the last of the steerage way carried it towards the quay.

Thomas felt his pulse quicken and an old affection stirred in his breast. He recognised the man, even though the passage of twenty years and the burden of command had wrought their changes on the weathered features.

‘Jean Parisot de La Valette,’ he said softly.

‘Him? The old man?’ Richard stared, comparing the man’s appearance with the more richly finished attire of the men behind him. ‘I would not have taken him for the Grand Master of the Order of St John.’

‘Clothes do not make the man.’

‘Nor does great age. I hope his mind is sound.’

‘The High Council of the Order would not permit him to remain in office if it wasn’t.’

Sailors tossed coils of rope towards men on the quay and the galley was hauled in until it bumped softly against the tarred rope buffers. A section of the bulwark swung open and the gangway was extended to the quay as Don Garcia and his entourage approached. The Spaniard saw Thomas a short distance further along the deck and beckoned to him.

‘It would please me if you and your squire joined us.’

Thomas bowed his head. ‘As you will, sir.’

Four of Don Garcia’s soldiers hurried ashore and formed a small guard on either side of the gangway. When they were standing to attention, Don Garcia led his entourage ashore, followed by Thomas and Richard. Glancing over the faces of the men at La Valette’s back Thomas could only recognise Romegas, the foremost of the galley captains when Thomas had campaigned with the Order. He, too, had grown old, but no doubt his bitter feelings towards Thomas endured.

Don Garcia and La Valette exchanged a bow and brief greetings in French before they took turns to introduce their subordinates. When he waved Thomas forward, Don Garcia could not suppress a small smile.

‘Grand Master, I think you may have heard of my English companion, Sir Thomas Barrett.’

La Valette’s eyes were still clear and piercing, even though they had set deeper into his countenance. He strained them a little as Thomas approached and bowed his head respectfully.

‘Thomas... I hoped that you would answer the call.’

‘I have been waiting for twenty years, sir.’

A brief look of pain flitted across the old man’s expression before he continued. ‘Due to the circumstances there was not much I could do, you understand. But you are here now. Back at my side, where your talents are most needed.’

The kindly tone affected Thomas deeply and memories of their comradeship flooded back. ‘I will do my duty, sir.’

‘I am sure you will. Tell me, are you still as fierce and deadly a fighter as you were when you last served the Order?’

‘In truth? No, sir. But I can still wield a sword as well as most men.’

‘That is good.’ La Valette smiled and gestured to his retinue, none of whom seemed any younger than Thomas. ‘As you see, few of us are men in the prime of life, but we are unequalled in experience and wisdom, the more so since you have rejoined us. For which I give thanks to God.’

‘I suspect that some in the Order will not be as grateful, sir,’ Thomas replied, avoiding the temptation to glance at Romegas.

‘Only a handful survive that still remember, Thomas, and now they are answerable to me and obey my will.’ He paused and then clasped Thomas’s hand gently. His skin was dry and the bones beneath the mottled flesh were pronounced. ‘Your place will not be questioned. It does my heart good to see you again.’ He looked beyond Thomas and his gaze rested on Richard for the first time. ‘And who is your young companion?’

‘My squire, sir. Richard Hughes.’

‘You, too, are welcome.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Richard bowed.

‘Sir Thomas, I will have my servants fetch your baggage. You can retire to the English auberge once you have eaten.’ La Valette turned back to Don Garcia who had been following the brief exchange with a curious expression.

‘I had no idea that my passenger was held in such regard by the Order,’ the Spaniard remarked.

La Valette’s expression was strained for a moment before he responded. ‘Sir Thomas was one of our most promising knights, before his. . . absence. He has proved himself before, and I do not doubt that he will perform valuable service for the Order again in the great trial that we face. Now the light is dying and we have much to discuss. A meal is being prepared in my lodge for you and your officers, Don Garcia. Some of the senior officers of the Order will arrive later. They were not present in Birgu when your ships were sighted. I have sent for them. There is much to discuss.’

‘Indeed.’

La Valette glanced towards the last of the Spanish galleys approaching the quay. ‘Only six galleys? The main body of your reinforcements is following on behind, I take it?’

Don Garcia looked round at the faces of the local people who had gathered behind the Grand Master and his retinue. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘It is best that we talk about such matters in more . . . private surroundings. If you would lead the way?’