Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

La Valette’s expression had hardened. He and Don Garcia were seated together at the head of a long table running down the centre of Fort St Angelo’s banqueting hall, but every man present had sat in silence and listened intently as Don Garcia outlined the instructions he had received from King Philip. The pair of hunting dogs lay asleep by the modest fire burning in the iron grate along one wall, a luxury on an island where wood was scarce enough to be sold by the pound weight. Thomas was halfway down the table and had eaten lightly of the first good meal he had had since leaving Barcelona – honeyed chops of mutton and freshly baked bread. The tension between Don Garcia and La Valette had been palpable and the sour mood had spoiled the appetite of those in the hall. For a moment Thomas envied his squire who was eating at the lower table with the other junior officers of Don Garcia’s small force.

La Valette pushed his platter aside and shifted in his chair so that he might face his guest more directly as he spoke.

‘Last year I sent warning to His Majesty about the Sultan’s plan to strike west, and that Malta would be the Turks’ first target. I said that if Malta was to be held I would need five thousand fresh men, cannon, powder and supplies of food. So far he has sent me nothing but messages of support.’

‘His Majesty shares your concerns,’ Don Garcia countered calmly. ‘However, Malta is just one of the territories he is obliged to defend. While it is true that you present the most obvious line of attack, the enemy may yet mean to surprise us by striking elsewhere – Sicily, the coast of Italy or even Spain itself.’

‘And thereby leave Malta sitting astride their supply lines?’ La Valette replied acidly. ‘His Majesty appears to be in need of a lesson in strategy.’

‘His Majesty is my sovereign lord, just as he is yours, Grand Master. Your Order was given this island in return for your fealty to the King. His Majesty has appointed me as his Captain of the Sea and placed all his forces, including yours, under my command. I would therefore request that you temper your opinions accordingly.’ Don Garcia met the Grand Master’s bitter glare steadily before he continued. ‘I, in my turn, am obliged to follow the instructions laid down by King Philip. He has stated that I am to meet the enemy in battle only when I enjoy numerical advantage, at sea and on land.’

‘Then you will never fight them. The ships and men of the Sultan will always outnumber those of Spain.’

Don Garcia shrugged. ‘I cannot help that. But I am doing all in my power to gather support from our allies and concentrate our forces on Sicily, from where I will be best placed to counter the enemy, wherever he chooses to strike. I agree that it is likely that the Sultan casts his gaze towards Malta and I will do what I can to provide you with the wherewithal to counter the blow if it falls here. At the moment I can do little but provide you with some companies of Spanish soldiers and Italian mercenaries. In time, as my strength grows, I will send you more men.’

‘By then it may be too late.’ La Valette took a breath and calmed his voice before he spoke on. ‘There are but six hundred knights in the Order. I have nearly five hundred here and pray that the others answer the summons, as Sir Thomas did. In addition we have a thousand soldiers, and I have sent men from the Order to Italy to recruit more.’

‘And you have the local people. The Maltese will fight with you.’

‘The Maltese . . .’ La Valette could not hide his scorn. ‘It is true that there are some militia but they are of poor quality. I dare say that they will break and run the first time they see any Janissary point a weapon at them.’

‘I think not. It is true that they are not professional fighters but a man may fight like a Hon to defend his home and family. You have but to train them to use weapons and lead them by good example and they will fight well.’

‘Even so, I can expect to raise little more than three thousand men from the local population. So we are no more than five thousand in all to face the horde that will descend on us from the east. Our last report from our agent in Istanbul is that a vast fleet is gathering to carry fifty thousand men, together with their arms and supplies for the entire campaign. No one can withstand such odds, Don Garcia.’

There was a pause and Thomas watched as Don Garcia folded his hands together and rested his forehead against them.

‘The hour is late, and our voyage has been tiring,’ he said. ‘Let us talk of our preparations to face the Turks tomorrow. I would see the defences at first hand, Grand Master, if you would take me over them.’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ La Valette replied curtly.

‘Then I will eat some more, drink and then sleep.’ Don Garcia smiled politely. ‘As will my officers.’

Their exchange was interrupted as the main door into the hall was opened by one of the servants and a small group of men entered. Thomas looked over his shoulder. They wore plain cloaks with the badge of the Order over their hearts and Thomas realised that these must be the knights La Valette had summoned from the interior of the island earlier on. Some were young but looked tough enough. The rest were veterans, scarred by wounds and the passage of the years. As they made for the chairs and spaces on the benches that were still untaken, Thomas’s eye was caught by one of the older knights, a man roughly his own age, tall and sinewy with dark hair receding towards his crown. At almost the same moment the new arrival spied Thomas and he paused mid-stride, and then slowly approached.

Thomas eased himself on to his feet and advanced a few paces towards the man. The other knight looked him over and then breathed in sharply through his nose before he spoke.

‘Sir Thomas. So you got the message.’

‘As you see. It’s been a long time, Oliver. A very long time.’

‘I had hoped you would stay away. The Order does not need you.’

‘The Grand Master thinks otherwise.’

Sir Oliver Stokely glanced towards the head of the table. ‘The chevalier has a short memory. He forgets the damage that you did to us.’

Thomas felt another pang as the tendrils of past sins tightened round his heart again. ‘I was a different man then. So were you. I have suffered and repented every day since. Can you not forgive me?’

‘Never.’

Thomas shook his head sadly. ‘I am sorry to hear you say that. ’

‘Why? Did you think that I would forget all just because you were willing to answer La Valette’s call?’

‘Oliver, there are greater matters that should concern us both. I cannot change the past, but I pledge that I will do whatever I can to preserve the future of our Order. ’

Sir Oliver shook his head. ‘Do what you will. Just stay away from me. Or I will not answer for my actions.’

Thomas nodded, a weariness settling on him like a heavy shroud. ‘I would it were otherwise between us. You were once my friend.’

‘Until I discovered your true nature. I have said all I wish to say to you. You are here. Fight for the Order, then when it is over, leave and never return.’

‘Very well. . . But I would know one thing more.’

Sir Oliver’s lips pressed into a thin smile. ‘I thought you might ask.’

‘Then tell me.’ Thomas hesitated before he continued, eager to finally know yet afraid of the answer. ‘Does Maria still live?’

‘She is dead.’

‘Dead?’

For an instant there was a flicker of emotion in Sir Oliver’s features, then his expression hardened. ‘Yes, Maria is dead. She has been dead to you, Thomas, ever since that time. Do not ask me about her again or as God is my witness, I shall strike you down and kill you with my bare hands.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After the meal was over, Thomas and Richard were escorted by one of the Grand Master’s clerks to the auberge of the English knights. The house had belonged to a wine merchant before the Order had arrived on Malta and commandeered the property. The clerk set down their bags and rapped on the door and waited. Presently they heard the sound of footsteps within and then the door opened. As Thomas entered the hall which he had once known so well, he turned to look at the servant – a stooped man in a cotton shirt and black breeches and boots. He held a brass candleholder aloft and his face was illuminated by the pale flame.

‘What is your business, sir?’ he asked in a thin voice.

‘I am an English knight of the Order. I need quarters for myself and my squire.’

‘English?’ The old man started. ‘You’re the first English knight to arrive at the auberge for . . . nearly ten years. There’s only one knight left here now.’

As the old man had been speaking Thomas recognised him and smiled. ‘The saints be blessed! Is that you, Jenkins?’

‘Aye, Jenkins is the name.’ The old man squinted and he leaned closer to inspect the late arrival. ‘How is it that you know my name, sir?’

‘Come now, surely you remember me.’

The old man raised his candle up and scrutinised Thomas’s face. Then his eyes widened. ‘No . . . surely not. Sir Thomas ... Sir Thomas Barrett! Good Lord above. I, I had never thought to see you again, sir.’

‘And yet here I am.’ Thomas laughed. ‘But what of the other servants? Harris? Chapman?’

The gap-toothed smile that had formed on the old servant’s face faded. ‘They have all gone, sir. I am the last of the retainers.’

‘But you must be nearly seventy if you are a day.’

‘Sixty-eight in December, sir.’ He frowned briefly.

‘Then why are you still in service, Jenkins?’

‘Where else would I be, sir? There is nowhere for me to go. Not while there is still an English knight to serve at the auberge.’

‘What the devil’s all that noise?’ a voice shouted from the shadows. ‘Jenkins, what is it? Speak up, man! Who are those fellows?’

A shadow emerged from a corridor leading off the hall and a powerfully built man with a bull neck – if the transition between his close-cropped head and muscled shoulders could be described as a neck – strode into the pale loom cast by the servant’s candle. He looked to be some ten years younger than Thomas and in need of a close shave about the jowls. He scowled at the new arrivals and Thomas caught a waft of acid wine on his breath as he introduced himself.

‘Sir Thomas Barrett, eh?’ the man repeated. ‘I’ve heard the name. Can’t recall when. Well then, I’m Sir Martin Le Grange, from Wickle Bridge, near Hereford. Ever hear of it?’

‘Alas not.’

‘That’s a great pity – for you. Anyway, make yourself at home. Jenkins will see to your needs. I’m off to bed. I was about to go before you arrived. Speak to you in the morning, eh?’ He nodded and turned, disappearing back into the corridor.

‘Not the most charming salutation I’ve ever received,’ Richard muttered. ‘Is he always so . . . hospitable?’

‘Only when he’s in his cups,’ Jenkins replied.

Thomas coughed. ‘Would you be kind enough to show us to our quarters?’

‘Yes, Sir Thomas. My apologies. If you would follow me, sir.’ Jenkins made to pick up the bags in one hand while he held the candle aloft with the other. Thomas took his arm and gently eased him away from the cumbersome bags.

‘Richard can see to those. He is young and strong.’

‘And tired,’ Richard added.

‘Besides, you should not strain yourself at your age, Jenkins.’ The old man straightened his back and raised his chin proudly. ‘But I am a servant of the English auberge, sir. It is my duty.’

‘Quite so, and how would you carry out your duties if you were to injure yourself by carrying too heavy a burden?’ Thomas asked with a grin.

Jenkins opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged and turned away. ‘Please follow me, sirs.’

Thomas followed while Richard muttered bitterly and picked up the baggage and strode as quickly as he could to catch up and stay within the small pool of light provided by the wavering candle flame. The servant led them to the accommodation corridor leading off the hall. Glancing up to the rafters, Thomas could see the small wooden shields fixed to the cross-beams, each one bearing the coat of arms of an English knight who had served the Order. There were a handful of gaps where the icons had been removed when the knight in question was judged to have brought dishonour upon the Order. His eyes hurriedly sought out the position where the Barrett icon had once hung. Now there was just a wooden peg and he looked away with a heavy sense of guilt, and shame.

‘Are you and Sir Martin the only men living here?’ asked Richard.

‘Yes, young master. There is one other who keeps quarters here, Sir Oliver Stokely, but he rarely visits the auberge. I haven’t seen him here for several months. He has a house near the base of the Sciberras peninsula. That’s where he lives these days. Here we are, sir.’ Jenkins stopped outside a door and lifted the latch and led them inside. ‘It’s not the cell you used to have, sir. After you left, that became a storeroom. I hope this will suit you.’

He raised the candleholder up and Thomas saw that the chamber was perhaps ten feet wide by fifteen long. There was a bed, a chest, a small table and chair, and pegs for his clothes. High up on the rear wall was a shuttered window.

Thomas nodded. ‘This will do. Richard, you may leave my bags here.’

The young man glanced round. ‘And where do I sleep . . . sir?’ The servant chuckled. ‘Rest easy, young master. It’s not the floor for you. There’s a squire’s cell next door. In the old days you’d share that with three others but you’ll have it to yourself.’

‘Does Sir Martin not have a squire?’ asked Thomas.

‘He can’t afford one, sir. His family lost everything when King Henry took their lands many years ago. That’s why Sir Martin joined the Order in the first place. He looks after his own weapons and armour. Insists on it. I just feed him, tend to his fire and cook his food. Of course, now that we have another squire at the auberge, perhaps young Master Richard could serve some of Sir Martin’s needs.’

Richard looked sharply at Thomas and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

‘Of course.’ Thomas smiled. ‘I will see what can be arranged.’ Richard glared at him before he spoke. ‘If you will excuse me, sir, I’ll take the other bags to my cell.’

Thomas nodded.

‘Just a moment.’ Jenkins crossed to the table where a stout candle stood in a hardened pool of wax on top of a small platter. He lit the wick and it sputtered a moment before growing into a steady flame that added to the illumination of the cell. ‘There, young master. Follow me.’

‘When my squire is settled, bring me ajar of heated wine,’ said Thomas. ‘There is much I would know about what has happened during the years of my absence.’

Jenkins nodded. ‘Aye, sir. I’d be pleased to tell you, and hear the news from England.’

The servant gestured to the squire to leave the room and then followed him out and shut the door quietly behind them. Thomas looked around the cell, dimly recalling that it had once been occupied by Sir Anthony Thorpe, a surly older knight from some obscure village in Norfolk who had insisted on sleeping with the door open. His loud snoring had echoed down the corridor, disturbing the sleep of his comrades.

Once he had removed his cloak and hung it on a peg Thomas picked up the plate holding the candle and trod quietly towards the door. The muffled sounds of conversation came from the next cell as Jenkins attempted to engage Richard in conversation. Thomas eased the latch up and stepped into the corridor, raising the candle so that he might see better. To one side the corridor led off towards the kitchen, with doors on either side for the cells of the knights and their squires. A dim glow under the door opposite revealed where Sir Martin had his quarters. Turning the other way, Thomas retraced his steps to the hall.

Despite his careful pace the sound of his footsteps was clearly audible as he made his way across to the hearth opposite the entrance and only served to make the hall seem more empty and still. He stopped to look round slowly, and remember. There was a hint of roast meat in the air, a common enough smell in England but in this place it suddenly evoked in the most tangible way a memory of his first feast day at the auberge. He had been knighted at seventeen and joined the Order a year later and his heart had swelled with pride as he sat at the table to one side of the fire, together with a score of English knights, eating and drinking while the warm fug of the hall was filled with the sound of their loud conversation and laughter. He could even recall their faces. Sir Harry Beltham, whose red-blotched complexion matched the fiery red hair and beard on his round face. His laughter had been deep and infectious, and when he had slapped Thomas on the back, the young knight had been shot halfway across the hall. Sir Matthew Smollett, a Welshman, tall, sinewy and so darkly featured that rumours were spread that he surely must have Moor blood in him. He had been quiet and content to observe his companions with a wry smile and make the occasional dry quip that served to remind the others of his superior intelligence. There were others Thomas recalled with affection. And finally Sir Oliver Stokely, the comrade he had once considered a friend and who had become a bitter enemy by the time they had parted. The earlier icy encounter with his former comrade had shaken Thomas.

The memories faded and then there was only the cold and the dark shadows around him. For a moment Thomas tried to draw the memory of his feasting comrades back before his mind’s eye, but the desire seemed false and he gave up. With an aching heart Thomas returned to his cell and opened his bag. In it were a few changes of clothes and a handful of personal effects. He took out his brushes and the silver crucifix – a family heirloom – he had once prayed before every day, at dawn and dusk. He held it in his hands and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment before placing it on the small table, against the wall. He deliberately left the leather pouch until last. He eased open the drawstrings and tenderly took out the gold locket. After a brief hesitation he opened the lid and stared at the dark lock of hair inside. He was still for a moment and then he pressed his lips together and lightly touched the hair with his little finger, slowly stroking the silky strands.

‘Maria

There was a knock at the door. Thomas snapped the locket shut and hastily replaced it in the pouch and put that in the table’s one drawer.

‘Come.’

Jenkins entered, carrying a tray bearing the candleholder, a small stoppered jar and two brass cups. He turned and nudged the door closed before he crossed the cell and set the tray down. Thomas sat on the bed and gestured to the chair. Jenkins nodded his thanks and eased himself down with a sigh and then pulled out the stopper and poured the first cup which he handed to the knight before pouring his own. Thomas raised the cup and smiled.

‘To old comrades and absent friends.’

The wine was warm and pleasant to the palate and felt comforting in the stomach as Thomas drank. Then he lowered the cup to his lap and held it in both hands as he gazed fondly at the auberge’s remaining servant. Jenkins drained his cup and set it down with a sharp rap before he wiped his lips on the back of his bony hand.

‘A good drop, that.’

‘Drop?’ Thomas arched an eyebrow. ‘Rather more than a drop, I’d say.’

The servant shrugged. ‘When you’re on your own, sir, the lack of conversation leaves nothing but drink to occupy a man.’

Thomas nodded, knowingly.

Jenkins leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. ‘Your squire doesn’t seem very content with his lot, if I may say so, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘I showed him his cell, tried to talk to the fellow, but he was in sour spirits. Didn’t seem to know much about looking after your kit either. The leather of your boots was too dry and there was rust on the blade of your sword and his. Would have been unthinkable in the old days. He’d have been soundly beaten for less. He’s no boy, he’s old enough to know better.’

‘That may be but he was the best I could find before setting out from England. There are not many young men willing to jeopardise any future they might have at home by serving the Order.’

‘Really?’ Jenkins pursed his lips. ‘Things must be bad for the true faith then. That’s to be expected with one of them heretics on the throne.’

‘I’d hardly call Queen Bess a heretic.’ Thomas chuckled. ‘Especially not to her face, or in front of anyone who is likely to report the remark.’

‘It is of no concern to me, sir. I shall not return to England. I will die here, in Malta. One way or another. So I am free to say what I like about a Protestant queen.’

Thomas considered Richard in the next room, and the masters in London he served. The young man had been trained to kill and this was his first important mission and he was anxious to succeed, and no one would be allowed to get in the way of that, the elderly servant least of all.

He took another sip from his cup and spoke thoughtfully. ‘Protestant she may be but the Queen has avoided executing quite as many of her religious opponents as Mary did before her. She is taking steps to draw our people together again and may well prove to be as good a monarch as any.’

‘Pfftt!’ Jenkins sniffed with contempt. ‘Her mind has been poisoned against the Church of Rome. She will be damned to a well-deserved eternity of torment alongside all those who embrace heresy. Her Majesty is as much our enemy as the Sultan.’

‘Even though she is a Christian?’

‘Even so.’ Jenkins nodded resolutely.

Thomas looked at the old man with a heavy heart. ‘I see that those who serve the Order have not lost any of their zeal since I was last here.’

‘Zeal is our strength, sir. It is all that has sustained the Order in the centuries since we last held the Holy Land. We need it now more than ever.’ Jenkins stroked his chin wearily. ‘The truth is that the Order is in poor shape to make its stand against the Turks. Thanks to the wars in Europe, there has been little fresh blood to fill out the ranks of the knights. Captain Romegas has barely enough fighting men and sailors to man half of the Order’s galleys. Too many of the knights are past their prime, sir. Oh, their faith and their courage are as strong as ever but their poor bodies are worn out. The Grand Master most of all. He is older than I am, and his sight and strength are starting to fade, according to one of my friends who serves in his private quarters.’

‘That’s just gossip,’ Thomas retorted. ‘He appeared to be fit and sound of mind when I saw him earlier this evening.’

Jenkins smiled faintly. ‘Of course he did, sir. The Grand Master knows that everyone looks to him to lead them through the coming peril, his knights and soldiers most of all. But he cannot hide the true condition of his age from those closest to him.’ He shrugged. ‘Powerful men never seem to take account of their servants.’

Thomas was struck by the harm that could be done to the morale of the Order, and those who depended on it, if they came to see La Valette as his servants did. ‘It would be best if you did not repeat what you have heard about the Grand Master.’

‘Yes, sir. I did not mean to speak out of turn.’

‘In the normal course of events I would not mind, Jenkins. But we are all in the gravest of dangers, and La Valette is the rock upon which all hope is placed. It is a cruel burden to be laid upon the shoulders of an old man who has given his life to the service of the Order. This is the hour of his greatest challenge and even if his body is a shadow of what it once was, his heart, mind and spirit are as keen as they ever were, and tempered by his vast experience. If anyone can lead us to victory over the Turk then it is surely Jean Parisot de La Valette.’

Jenkins stared at him for a moment before he responded. ‘Fine words, sir. But do you truly believe them? It would be better if the Order elected a younger man to replace the Grand Master and let La Valette retire in peace.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Who would not want to be at the heart of such a moment in history? If the Order triumphs then none shall forget his name, and if they are crushed then he will have won the glory of fighting to the last in the name of our faith.’

‘For my part, sir, I’d rather he won his glory some other way. I’ve no desire to be put to the sword by the Turks if they take Birgu. None of us common folk have.’

‘I am sure that some of the knights share your point of view. As for me, I would rather survive than be butchered. I am not yet convinced that God has determined a hopeless heroic end for me.’ There was an awkward silence and then Thomas drained his cup quickly and reached for the jar. ‘But enough of that. If it happens, it happens. I want to know more of what has passed in the years since I left the Order.’

Jenkins’s expression hardened and he looked down, refusing to meet the knight’s eyes. When he spoke again his voice was low and strained. ‘Must we talk of that, sir? I feared you would ask.’

‘I would know what happened.’

‘Perhaps it would be best if you sought out Sir Oliver, sir. He can tell you more than I can.’

‘I met Sir Oliver earlier,’ Thomas replied coldly. ‘He does not want to speak to me. That is why I ask you, Jenkins. There are questions I must ask. Answers I must have.’

‘Sir, please, ask me not. It does my heart good to see you again. You were always one of my favourites amongst the knights before . . . you were made to leave. I pray you, do not open old wounds. What was done is over with. Nothing can be changed. It is best to forget.’

‘Yet I cannot forget!’ The anguish in his voice caused Jenkins to start and he looked up with a fearful expression.

Thomas leaned closer, his eyes blazing. ‘When I was banished, I lost everything that counted with me, everything. My comrades, my honour, my faith and . . . my love.’ The last word was uttered through clenched teeth. ‘Twenty years I have endured this. At first I tried to set my heart like stone and exile emotion.’ And he had failed pitifully in the attempt. ‘Then, when I knew I could not, I turned to the service of the warlords of Europe and yet still endured the memories that filled the void between work and sleep. Time, finally, assuaged the worst of the burden, and then I am summoned back here. Jenkins, I cannot tell you how the very sight and scent of this island have torn at my heart. To walk the streets of Birgu and enter the auberge once again has wounded my soul. Here I was once happy. That which I had prized above all else in life is gone. Maria is dead.’

‘Who says so?’

‘Sir Oliver.’ Thomas eased himself back and rubbed his brow slowly. ‘In England I had considered it, and tried to make myself believe it. What else could I do? I had no way of knowing what happened here. Every member of the Order was forbidden to communicate with me, and it would have been death for me to set foot on the island. I had come to accept that Maria was gone from my life, if never from my heart, and now I am returned and discover she is dead and it is as if I must learn to live without her all over again. Forgive me.’ Thomas looked up at the joists and took a deep breath. He had never intended for his feelings to find such expression, only to ask for the bare details of the knowledge he sought. But now it was too late and the cold, hard face he had presented to the world had melted like late snow in spring.

‘My poor master,’ said Jenkins. ‘I did not know that she, that Maria, was dead. Only that after you were banished she left Birgu.’ Thomas felt his heart lurch. ‘Where? Where did she go?’

‘I do not know, sir. All I knew was that she had gone into confinement, until the child was born. After that I heard nothing for several months. It was the following winter, when Sir Oliver was entertaining La Valette in his quarters here at the auberge. As I brought them more wine I overheard them speak of the matter. Sir Oliver said that the child, a boy, had been born, but had been sickly and died shortly afterwards.’

‘I had a son . . .’ Thomas felt an ache in his heart at the news. A son. Maria had borne his son. He was caught between the pain of knowing what he had lost and anger over never having known of it until now. It was a while before he could control his thoughts enough to speak again. ‘And Maria? What became of her?’

‘I know not, sir. There was a rumour that she had left Malta for a convent at Naples. I have not seen her since she left Birgu. If she is dead then it will have been in Naples.’ He paused and continued in a cautious tone, ‘Sir Oliver knows more than I. Ask him.’

‘I would ask but he will not speak to me of her. He hates me.’

‘Are you surprised? It was well known that he, too, had lost his heart to the lady. She chose to love you.’ Jenkins shook his head sadly. ‘It is a hard thing for a man to accept without growing bitter and hateful. I have lived long enough to see more than enough of it. Envy is a cruel master.’

‘Even so, she left our lives a long time ago, long enough, surely, to heal the wound in Sir Oliver’s heart.’

Jenkins eyed the knight warily. ‘Your heart is not yet healed.’

‘That is true,’ Thomas admitted.

‘And your arrival has reopened Sir Oliver’s wound.’

Thomas nodded his understanding and felt a great weariness settle upon him. He was tired of this life with its ceaseless burdens of suffering and memory. He craved to forget and begin anew, or simply to have an end to it all. He closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.

‘Leave me, old friend. I must rest.’

‘Yes, sir. I know.’ Jenkins rose stiffly from the chair and made to pick up the cups and jar, hesitated a moment and then left them alone and quietly made his way towards the door. He glanced back at the knight wrapped in his inner torment, and then closed the door behind him.