Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

CHAPTER THIRTY

They made their way through silent darkened streets where only cats prowled now, no longer keeping a wary eye out for the dogs that used to challenge them. It would be the turn of the cats in due course, Thomas reflected, if the siege endured and food supplies began to be severely rationed. As they neared the channel that separated Birgu from the fort, the ground began to rise. This was the poorest quarter of the town where the fishermen lived in two-storey hovels, a living space above with a room beneath to dry and store their nets, and where fish were salted for winter. Ahead, the narrow street gave out onto a levelled area of gravel where the men of the garrison drilled. Beyond was the drawbridge that led into the fort. There was only one guard visible at the entrance to the fort, clutching a pike in one hand, his soft cap dipped towards his chin with weariness. There were a handful of others in the towers of the fort that overlooked the harbour on three sides.

‘Time to prepare,’ Richard said softly as they crouched beside the last of the fishermen’s houses. They removed their boots and pulled the hoods of their cloaks up. Richard reached into the haversack he had been wearing beneath and took out two bleached lengths of rope which they tied about their middles in the manner of friars. Then he hefted the leather cosh he had carefully packed into the bottom of his baggage before leaving England. He slipped the loop over his wrist and gave it an experimental swing to feel its weight and recall the feel of the weapon. He glanced at Thomas. ‘Ready?’

‘As ready as I can be for such business.’

Richard flashed a grin in the gloom. ‘This is the business I am trained for. Trust me and follow my instructions and you will be fine.’

They stood up and with Richard in the lead began to cross the level ground. Thomas was uncomfortable with this reversal of positions but knew that he must trust Richard. He was no longer playing the squire and had reverted to being one of Walsingham’s agents, skilled in the dark arts of subterfuge and stealth. The sound of the cannonade was much louder away from the town and the flames spurting from the batteries on the high ground above St Elmo lit up the crest of the ridge brilliantly as each round was fired. As Thomas stepped on to the weathered timbers of the drawbridge he was aware of the dark void on either side. Glancing down he saw the deck of the Turkish galleon that had been captured the year' before and had done much to provoke the Sultan’s decision to finally obliterate the Order of St John.

The two men had almost reached the end of the drawbridge before the guard roused from where he had been leaning against the wall beside the gate.

‘Who goes there?’ he demanded, lowering the point of his pike a fraction and grasping the shaft firmly in both hands.

‘Friar Gubert and Friar Henri, from the cathedral,’ Thomas called back, as calmly as he could.

‘What is your business? You should be at the sermon.’

‘We’ve come from there,’ Thomas continued as they approached the man. ‘With orders from the Grand Master. He is to entertain Robert of Eboli afterwards and sent us to tell his steward to prepare a meal.’

‘His steward is at the sermon,’ the guard replied. ‘I saw him leave myself.’

‘Are you certain, my son?’ Thomas stepped closer, and then suddenly shot his arms out and grabbed the wrists of the astonished guard. An instant later Richard stepped round the man and swung his cosh in a savage arc towards the back of his skull. It connected with a solid thud before the man could cry out. He went limp and Thomas took up his weight and then eased him on to the ground, just inside the gate where he would be least visible.

‘No, not there.’ Richard lifted the guard under the shoulders and dragged him towards the drawbridge.

‘What are you doing?’ Thomas whispered.

‘He might recognise us.’

‘Wait.’ Thomas stepped between Richard and the drawbridge. ‘It’s dark, and we’re wearing hoods.’

‘He heard your voice.’

‘Then that’s a risk I am willing to take. Leave him,’ Thomas said firmly.

Richard was still for a moment. ‘What if he comes round? Or he’s discovered?’

Thomas knew that Richard’s caution was sound, from a cold– hearted point of view, but he was not prepared to see the man killed. ‘Leave him, and let’s get on with it.’

‘You’re being foolish,’ Richard growled. ‘You’ll get us killed.’

‘Not if we move fast. Now leave him be.’

‘Damn you!’ Richard let the guard drop then, before Thomas could intervene, viciously hit him again with his cosh. ‘There, just to make sure.’

Without waiting for Thomas to respond Richard turned and padded through the arch of the gatehouse. Thomas breathed in deeply to calm his anger and followed. On the far side of the arch they entered a narrow passage overlooked by murder holes, then passed under the iron points of a portcullis before the passage turned at right angles towards another portcullis and then opened out on to the fort’s small courtyard.

All was still and quiet; the enemy guns across the harbour were slightly muffled by the mass of the walls rising up towards the stars overhead. They waited a moment, hearts beating swiftly as their senses strained to detect any sign of movement. Then, satisfied that they had not been noticed, the two men crept round the edge of the courtyard towards the entrance to the storerooms and dungeons cut into the rock beneath St Angelo. Pausing on the threshold, they looked down the staircase and saw that the main guardroom was dimly lit by a handful of candles. There was no sound from below. They descended warily until they stood on the flagstone floor and looked around. The musty air was noticeably cooler and the sweat on Thomas’s forehead felt chilly. There were two large tables with benches on either side. A few bare wooden platters remained, together with some brass cups decorated with Islamic verses, part of the loot the Order had taken over the decades following their arrival in Malta. Three corridors led off the guardroom.

‘Which way?’ whispered Thomas.

Thomas recalled the last time he had stood in the same spot, twenty years before, when he had overseen the soldiers tasked with carrying a chest of silver coins from the hold of La Valette’s galley to the security of the dungeons. Then there had only been one corridor opening off the guardroom.

Richard gestured to the left passage. ‘Follow me.’

They crossed the room and entered a tunnel. A candle guttered halfway along and dimly illuminated the regularly spaced doors on either side. As Richard led the way, Thomas felt a chill tremor of anxiety ripple down his spine. If they were discovered here, there would be no explaining away their presence. Ahead, the corridor came to a junction with yet more passages leading off to either side. The stale smell of dogs filled Thomas’s nostrils.

‘We’re close now,’ said Richard. ‘We go right here, then it’s perhaps twenty yards to the chamber where the sentries guard the entrance.’

‘And then?’

‘We’ll deal with whatever we find the same way we did with the guard on the gate.’

‘Assuming one guard is all there is.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Some plan.’ Thomas shook his head. ‘And if there are four of them, like you saw before?’

‘Then we have to deal with four of them.’

They slipped round the corner and crouched low as they approached the door at the end of the passage where the Grand Master had kept his hounds. The doors to the kennels were open and by the light of another candle Thomas saw the wooden pegs on which hung the collars and leashes of the animals that had been destroyed on La Valette’s orders. Ahead stood an arched doorway. The door was ajar and a brighter light burned within. There was no sound as Richard and Thomas stole silently along the passage. Richard readied the cosh in his right hand and quietly drew out his dagger with the other. Thomas reached into his side bag and took out his own cosh, and slipped the loop over his wrist.

They were perhaps ten feet from the door when there was a light rattle and clack from the room beyond and a brief cry of triumph that was answered by a gruff curse. Thomas and Richard froze. Richard held up his hand to signal Thomas to wait. Then he crept forward towards the door and peered round very slowly. A moment later he backed away and spoke softly into Thomas’s ear.

‘Two of them, playing at dice. No more than two paces from the door. We’ll have to rush them. Ready?’

‘Yes, but no killing unless we have to, understand?’

Richard frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it and shrugged instead. ‘Very well, on three.’ The two men braced themselves behind the door. In the gloom Richard glanced at Thomas who nodded, then as the dice rattled again he counted softly. ‘One . . . two . . . three.’

Springing forward, Richard thrust the door aside and burst into the small chamber, with Thomas right behind him. The two guards were hunched over a table. Their heads turned at the intrusion, eyes wide with surprise.

Richard leaped towards the nearest man, his cosh arcing through the air. The guard tried to throw up his arm to block the blow but he was too slow and the heavy leather bag cracked into his skull and he tumbled off his stool and on to the floor. Thomas ran past and round the end of the table and swung his cosh at the other guard’s head. The second guard had time to scramble off the stool and the cosh struck the edge of the table, the shock of the impact sending the cups leaping into the air, spilling their contents over the coins and the dice that had been laid out. The guard snatched a dagger from a small scabbard hanging from his waist and thrust the point at his attacker. Thomas threw himself to the side to avoid the deadly blade. The guard slashed wildly from side to side, forcing Thomas back. Sensing the wall at his back Thomas leaped forward, grasping the man’s knife hand and punching his right fist, still clenching the cosh, into the guard’s jaw. It was a solid impact and the man’s head snapped back. Thomas hit him again, hard, and with a deep grunt he stumbled, tripping over his upturned stool so that he crashed on to the floor. He lay blinking, still holding on to his dagger, and then passed out. Richard stepped round the body and made for the dungeon entrance, a thickly timbered door studded with iron nail heads and with a small grille in its surface.

‘We need to find the keys,’ Thomas muttered.

Richard shook his head. ‘I doubt the guards will be troubled with them. ’ Reaching into his haversack he felt for something and then pulled out a set of small metal tools on a brass ring. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly as he saw Thomas’s enquiring expression. ‘Tools of the trade.’

He shifted to one side to allow the light of the candles to illuminate the lock. He chose two of the tools which he inserted into the lock and probed gently, delicately exploring the mechanism. Thomas watched him with the faint admiration of those witnessing an arcane skill. Then his attention shifted from the lock to the rapt concentration on the young man’s face.

There was a series of soft clicks from the lock and then Richard withdrew his tools and lifted the latch. The door edged open soundlessly on well-greased hinges and a waft of cooler air came from the dark space beyond.

‘Get the candles,’ Richard instructed.

Thomas fetched them from the wall brackets of the guardroom and passed one to Richard.

As soon as they stepped through the arch, Thomas sensed the vastness of the space, even before the wavering glow of the candles began to reveal its dimensions. The ceiling arched overhead and the walls were lined with sturdy buttresses to take the weight of the fort above. The ceiling was low but the dungeon was long and wide and interspersed with stout columns that divided the chamber into two. Rows of wooden shelves stretched out before the two men, beyond the loom of the candlelight and on into the darkness. The shelves were laden with baskets of scrolls, ledgers, logs and chests, many of which were sealed with wax to keep the contents safe from dampness. There was a slight movement in the air and little of the musty odour that Thomas had been expecting and he realised that the dungeon must be ventilated to prevent the onset of mould.

‘There must be hundreds of chests here . . . thousands,’ Richard muttered. ‘We have to search quickly, before the sermon ends and the rest of the garrison returns.’

‘Then you take this half of the chamber,’ Thomas decided. ‘I’ll search the other.’

They separated and began to work their way along the narrow space between the shelves, crouching now and then to see what lay on the lowest levels. There were many chests amongst the archives, and Thomas carefully checked each of those that were black or constructed of dark wood with brass fittings, looking for the crest on the lid. All the while he was conscious that time was running out for them. Depending on the passion and stamina of Robert of Eboli, the sermon might last for two or more hours. But given the weariness of the defenders it might well be concluded earlier.

At the end of the first row of shelves was a caged area with thick iron bars that were set into the floor and extended to the ceiling. The door had two locks, with thick bolts and sturdy receivers. Beyond lay dozens of small chests and by the wall were stacked thick bolts of silk that shimmered in the faint glow of Thomas’s candle. On a rack to one side hung a collection of scimitars with jewel-encrusted guards and handles of gold and silver. This was the treasury of the Order, Thomas realised, looted from the ships and coastal towns and estates of the Islamic world. A fortune to rival the treasures of any of Europe’s monarchs. Paid for with the blood of hundreds of knights and tens of thousands of soldiers and common people, all for the sake of their religion. Thomas felt a tingle of nausea as he beheld the riches and contemplated the centuries of suffering it represented, right up until the present moment, and the weeks and months to come until the siege was resolved. Even then, the conflict would be handed on from generation to generation until the end of time. Or until mankind cured itself of religion.

If there was a divine presence in the world, it would surely look 011 the works that were carried out in its name in abject horror, Thomas reflected. He had never felt such a presence, never sensed it in the slightest; he was only aware of the heedless elements of a natural world that embraced men, animals and faiths with abiding disinterest. Such thoughts were dangerous, he knew. More than dangerous, lethal. So he tried to keep them at bay, and even prayed along with the faithful as if in an attempt to hide his true thoughts from himself as much as other people.

Something clattered to the floor a short distance away and Thomas flinched and turned towards the sound. A glow amid the shelves revealed Richard’s position.

‘Richard?’ he called out as loudly as he dared.

‘I think I’ve found it. Yes. . . Yes! Over here.’

Thomas hurried round the end of the lines of shelves and saw his companion bent over a chest he was pulling out from the lowest rack in front of him. As Thomas approached, he saw the crest of the ill-fated Sir Peter de Launcey in the light of the candle Richard had placed on the shelf above. It was neatly painted on a shallow relief, carved with some skill. The gleam of the lacquer was visible where Richard’s fingers had wiped off the decades of dust that had accumulated in a dull skein across the lid of the chest. Sturdy brass straps bound and protected the fine craftsmanship. A small, delicate– looking lock sat in the front of the chest and Richard fished out his picks again.

‘Hold your candle over the lock. And hold it steady. This one’s going to be something of a challenge, I fear.’ Richard selected one of the finest of his picks and carefully inserted it in the keyhole. His face was frozen in concentration as his fingers made tiny adjustments to the tool. ‘Can’t quite feel the tumblers . . . It’s as fine a piece of work as I have ever encountered . . . Damn.’

He eased the pick out and chose another, the smallest on the ring, and tried again, closing his eyes as he felt for the mechanisms that would release the lock. Thomas watched for a moment and then glanced anxiously in the direction of the entrance to the dungeon.

‘How long do you need?’

Richard paused and opened his eyes. ‘As long as it takes. Now, please, let me concentrate.’

‘Fine. But hurry.’

Richard focused on his work for a while longer, teeth gritted as he tried to build up some picture of the workings inside the lock. At length he extracted the pick and wiped his hand across his brow.

‘I can’t do it. The locksmith who built this was a better man than I. It’s a work of genius

‘Perhaps, but genius is no match for steel, as Archimedes discovered.’ Thomas drew his dagger and squatted beside Richard. He set the point into the slight gap between the lid of the chest and main body.

‘What are you doing?’ Richard demanded.

‘This.’ Thomas balled his left hand into a fist and pounded the haft of the knife with all his strength. There was a sharp metallic snap and the blade leaped into the gap as the lid suddenly lifted. ‘There.’

Richard glared at him. ‘Oh, very well done indeed! Anyone who looks at this will see the lock has been forced.’

‘Who’s going to notice? From the dust I’d say no one has touched this in years. Now get what we came for, put the chest back in place and let’s get out of here.’

Richard bit back on his anger and eased the lid back. The light from the candles revealed a small leather purse, tightly packed with coins. The small opening at the top revealed the warm lustre of gold. Beside it lay a gold cross on a chain, with a ruby set in its centre. There was also a Bible, some letters and a leather tube. Richard picked the latter up and inspected it. A cap at the end of the tube was sealed with wax which had been imprinted with a design. He nodded and muttered, ‘This is it. This is what we came here for.’

Thomas’s eyes were fixed on the seal. ‘That’s the royal seal. The Great Seal of England.’

Richard made no reply but quickly and carefully placed the leather tube in his haversack. ‘Let’s go.’

He closed the lid and eased the chest back on to the shelf. He made a minor adjustment to its position so that it covered the clear area it had screened from long years of settling dust. Then he straightened and retrieved his candle. ‘Come.’

After Richard had locked the door behind them they hurried out of the dungeon and past the two men sprawled beside the table. One of the guards moaned feebly for a moment then lapsed into silence. His assailants set down their candles and left the room, padding back along the passage to the main guardroom and then up the steps into the courtyard. They paused to ensure that it was deserted as before and then left by the main gate where the sentry still lay in the shadows, breathing in faint shallow gasps. Their haste to get away from the fort caused their footsteps to echo dully as they crossed the drawbridge.

‘Who’s there?’ a voice called from the wall above. ‘Michel? Is that you?’

Richard froze but Thomas pushed him on. ‘It’s too late for that. Keep going.’

They crossed the bridge and set off across the parade ground at a brisk pace.

‘Michel?’ the voice called out again. Then a moment later: ‘You there! Stop!’

They ignored the command and broke into a trot, then a dead run, until they reached the cover of the fisherman’s hovel where they had left their boots. From the direction of the cathedral the sound of singing carried across the rooftops of Birgu; close by they heard footsteps approaching, and voices muttering. Thomas waved Richard back out of sight against the wall and then pulled a length of fishing net over his body. Several shadows approached along the narrow street.

‘Don’t care what he says,’ one grumbled. ‘There ain’t no help coming. We’re in this alone. Long as we last.’

‘Always looking on the bright side, eh, Jules?’ another laughed. ‘Even after that performance by Robert of Eboli?’

‘What, you think the Lord himself, and his cohort of angels, are really going to descend on a wave of celestial light and smite the followers of the false prophet and deliver us from the ambitions of Suleiman and his hordes?’

‘They might, if we pray hard for it and perform our Christian duty,’ someone responded defensively. ‘If we are righteous.’

‘Oh, good luck to you!’ the first man growled. ‘Me? I’m trusting in a sharp pike and dry gunpowder.’

They continued past the two Englishmen and set off across the parade ground towards the drawbridge. Thomas knew that they would come across their unconscious comrade as soon as they reached the far side. He slipped out from under the net and pulled on his boots. As soon as Richard had followed suit, they slipped into the street and hurried away from the fort. They had not gone more than twenty paces when there was a cry of alarm, instantly lost in the boom of a gun as it fired a shot at St Elmo. They increased their pace and soon they came across another party of men and exchanged nods as they passed by. Then they reached the main street leading towards the cathedral. The singing had ended and the street was filling with small groups of townspeople and soldiers returning to their homes and billets. Conscious that they were heading against the flow, at least as far as the side street on which the auberge stood, they kept to the edge of the street and slipped along as unobtrusively as possible. They overheard snatches of conversation, most of which was in praise of Robert of Eboli, and some spoke in confidence about the great army that Don Garcia was mobilising in Sicily to bring to Malta and crush the forces of the Turkish Sultan.

They had almost reached the side street they wanted when Thomas saw Stokely a short distance further along. He was in earnest conversation with Romegas. Walking a pace behind him was Maria, together with a maid. Thomas froze for an instant and then hurriedly turned off the main thoroughfare and stood against the corner.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Richard.

‘I need to find something out. You go back to the auberge. I’ll join you later.’

‘Why?’ Richard glanced round but could see no obvious danger.

‘Just go!’ Thomas ordered fiercely and pushed him down the street.

Richard stumbled a few paces and turned to stare at Thomas with a concerned expression. Then, touching his haversack to make sure that the leather tube was still safe, he strode away.

Thomas stood still and watched the figures passing by the end of the street. He heard Stokely’s voice and a moment later he and Romegas paced by, followed by the tall slender form of Maria, staring fixedly at the ground in front of her. Thomas felt an impulse to step out behind her, speak her name and tell her to follow him into another street but he feared she would refuse, or that she, or her maid, might cry out in alarm and alert Stokely. So he kept his mouth shut and instead slipped into the crowd and followed them at a short distance, making sure that he kept his head bowed enough for the hood to conceal his features in case she turned to look back for any reason. Stokely and Romegas continued for another hundred yards along the wide thoroughfare before Romegas halted, made his farewells and took the street that led to the fort. Stokely took Maria’s arm and turned into a side street. Thomas paused at the edge of the junction and then risked a quick look round the corner and saw Stokely approach the gate of a courtyard. Beyond, the walls of a modest town house rose up into the darkness. Stokely paused and looked back to see if they were being followed. Satisfied that there was no one stalking them, he rapped on the door to the courtyard. It was opened a moment later and Stokely led his small party inside and the door closed behind them.

Thomas waited for a moment before entering the narrow street and walking slowly past the gate. The walls were perhaps ten feet high and there were no obvious foot– or handholds. The gate itself was solid-looking and reinforced with lengths of oak. He walked on and then turned back and waited. It did not take long for others to enter the street and make for a neighbouring property. Thomas strode up to a rotund man who, like most of those who had attended the sermon, wore a sombre cloak.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ Thomas addressed him in French. ‘But I have a message to deliver to the house of an English knight.

‘I was told he lives in this street but I don’t know which house is his.’

‘Sir Oliver Stokely?’ The neighbour arched an eyebrow. ‘Yes, he lives here. That house, next to mine.’

‘I thank you, sir. But the message is not for him, but a lady. Maria, I believe she is called.’

‘Yes.’ The man nodded his head. ‘That would be his wife.’

‘Wife . . .’

The man tapped his nose. ‘What these knights claim to believe and what they do are as different as chalk and cheese, eh?’ Thomas was silent for a moment and the man frowned. ‘Is that all?’

‘Yes.’ Thomas forced a smile. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll bid you good night. It’s late. I’ll deliver my message another time.’

He turned and walked away, back towards the auberge, his heart as heavy as a rock.