Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

‘This is what we do to the pigs who dare to defy Suleiman and Allah.’

He raised the dagger above Stokely’s chest. Summoning the last of his strength, Stokely opened his mouth and screamed out, ‘God save the Holy Religion!’

Then the blade slammed down, cutting into his breast. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and Stokely rolled his head to one side as he felt the blade rip down through his breastbone to expose his heart. Blackness rushed over him as he felt the Turk’s fingers close round his living heart. Sir Oliver Stokely’s lips moved one final time as they framed the words, ‘Dear God, protect Maria . . .’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Down in the drain Richard heard Stokely’s last cry of defiance and glanced back in the direction of the grille. At any moment some Turk was bound to become curious and search the drain. His only hope was that the overpowering stench of human waste would put the enemy off long enough for him to drag his father out of the tunnel and into the cover of the rocks beside the path leading down to the jetty. He reached under Thomas’s shoulders, took firm hold of the gambison and pulled. The material caught on the burned flesh of his arms and Thomas let out a groan.

‘Quiet!’ Richard hissed. ‘Do you want to get us killed?’

Thomas clamped his jaws tightly shut to bite off the urge to cry out. He began to tremble as the shock hit home and his strangled moans echoed faintly along the drain. Richard bent down close to his ear.

‘Father, for pity’s sake, please be quiet.’

He pulled on the dead weight of Thomas’s body, dragging him through the trickle of fluids that ran amid the stinking slurry along the bottom of the drain. It was only a short distance to the screen that concealed the opening where the drain passed under the wall. Easing his father down, Richard gently moved the screen to one side and peered out into the daylight. The sounds of cheering came from above, carrying over the walls of the fort. Occasional shots added to the enemy’s celebrations, but there was no one to be seen on this side of the fort which faced across the harbour towards Birgu and Senglea. Richard pushed the screen aside and crawled from the drain. He glanced quickly to both sides and saw only a handful of men some distance away, too far for them to make out any detail of Richard’s attire. He stood up and waved his arm casually. A moment later one of the enemy waved back and then turned his attention back towards St Elmo.

Richard pulled Thomas out, eased him on to his feet and raised his unburned arm across his shoulder.

‘Not far to go. Hold on to me.’

They picked their way across the rocks and stepped on to the path. At any moment Richard expected to be seen from the walls above and hear the alarm raised. But they continued their slow progress without being discovered and Richard guessed that the Turks were busy hunting down the last of the defenders inside the fort and looking for the loot that many of them had been promised in return for joining the campaign. There would be scant pickings, he reflected. Almost everything of value had been thrown into the fort’s well the night before when the defenders had accepted that all was lost.

Richard was steering Thomas towards the steps that led down to the jetty when he heard the scrape of boots on rocks. A figure stepped out immediately in front of them and Richard’s hand flew to his sword handle. Then he let out an explosive sigh of relief as he saw it was one of the Maltese militiamen. The man stared wildly at the two Englishmen and then turned towards the sea.

‘Wait!’ Thomas called after him in Maltese. ‘I need help.’

‘Too late,’ the man replied. ‘It’s every man for himself now.’

‘Help me,’ Richard pleaded. ‘For pity’s sake, help me.’

The man hesitated and then stepped to the other side of Thomas and lifted his arm before Richard could stop him. At once Thomas threw his head back and let out a cry. Before they reached the top of the steps a voice called down to them from the wall. ‘Don’t look back!’ Richard hissed. ‘Keep moving.’

The voice called out again, louder this time. Then there was a short pause before a challenge was shouted down to them. They kept going, Thomas’s feet bumping down the steps between the rocks until they reached the jetty.

‘Oh no . . .’ Richard muttered in despair. There were no boats moored alongside the jetty. Only the bows of a sunken craft bobbed low in the water, all that remained of a boat pounded to pieces by the enemy guns that had been sited to sweep the sea between the Christian forts. There were more shouts from the direction of the wall and Richard glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of a pursuit yet. They continued to the end of the jetty and set Thomas down against a post before stripping off their clothes, down to their loincloths. Then Richard did the same for his father, wincing as he saw for the first time the full extent of the bums on the exposed flesh. Much of the right side of Thomas’s face and neck was raw and red, like freshly butchered meat. So was most of the left side of his body. Patches of skin had peeled back and now lay on his flesh in puckered skeins of white and grey. The removal of most of his clothes caused fresh agonies and Thomas bit down as hard as he could to fight the urge to cry out.

‘We’re going to have to swim for it,’ Richard said.

‘Leave me,’ Thomas said through his teeth.

‘No. Not now.’ Richard shook his head and forced a quick smile. ‘I would not lose a father so soon after finding him.’

Then he took Thomas’s right arm and leaped into the sea. The Maltese soldier dived in close by. The water closed briefly over Thomas’s head and then his face burst clear of the surface. The water was cold and instantly dulled the sharpness of his agony. Even so he could not move his left arm or leg to swim without being tormented by pain.

‘I can’t make it, Richard. Please . . . please save yourself.’

‘Float on your back,’ Richard ordered. ‘You there, take his other arm, and let’s get moving.’

Thomas lay staring up as his companions struck out for the far shore, some four hundred yards across the harbour. For a while Thomas let himself be borne slowly along, then he strained his neck and looked towards St Elmo. He could see the full extent of the side of the wall facing Birgu and Senglea. The parapet was filled with figures shaking their swords and spears in the air, shadows against the morning sunlight. A few thin trails of smoke lifted a short distance into the sky before dispersing. Then, as he watched, the flag of the Order gracefully billowed away from its staff, and was pulled down rapidly. A short moment after, the green flag of Islam rose up above the fort to renewed cheers.

‘What happened to Sir Oliver?’ Thomas blurted. ‘Where is he?’

Richard lifted his head clear of the water to reply. ‘Dead. He made his stand in the chapel.’

The three men edged across the channel and were already a hundred yards from the jetty when Thomas saw a party of Turks armed with arquebuses running down the steps. They rushed to the end of the jetty where two of them set up the stands for their weapons and took aim. A small cloud of smoke engulfed the first man and the bullet slapped into the sea six feet to Thomas’s side, throwing up a tall plume of water. The second shot was closer, in line, but overhead and it struck the surface some distance in front of the swimmers. More shots followed, some missing by a wide margin while a handful struck close by.

The Maltese soldier suddenly cried out, ‘Look there! The Turks are coming!’

Richard craned his head and stared across the light swell. A boat had set out from one of the small batteries running along the shore of the Sciberras peninsula. There were men armed with arquebuses on board. More were filling a second boat.

‘Damn,’ Richard growled. ‘They’re certain to reach us before we gain the other side.’ He turned to the Maltese man. ‘Swim for your life!’

They struck out, dragging Thomas through the sea behind them, his mind slipping in and out of lucidity. They were halfway across when there was a rolling boom from the direction of St Angelo and Richard looked up to see a cloud of smoke swirling from one of the towers. He turned his head quickly and saw a pillar of water collapse close to the nearest of the Turkish boats, less than a hundred yards away. The near miss shook the men at the oars and the drag on the blades to one side caused the boat to swing round. The soldiers crowding the bows struggled to retain their balance and one dropped his arquebus which bounced off the side and splashed into the sea. An officer drew his sword and shouted orders at the crew. They swiftly took up their oars again and the boat turned back towards the swimmers and resumed the chase.

The cannon in the fort fired again and this time Richard saw the shot slap into the sea just behind the stern of the boat, throwing up a column of spray and sending a small wave over the transom. Still the officer urged the rowers on and the boat rapidly closed the distance. The next time Richard looked back he was horrified to see the enemy a scant thirty yards away. One of the men in the bows lowered his barrel and took aim, bracing his legs to take account of the movement of the boat beneath him. His right eye squinted as he raised the length of smouldering match up to the pan above the barrel.

At that moment the boat seemed to leap from the sea and lengths of wood and water exploded into the air. With cries of terror the Turks were pitched into the harbour. There was a flurry of splashing as the soldiers thrashed about and wreckage dropped into the water about them. Richard saw the officer struggling to stay afloat as his robes and armour dragged him down. His hands thrashed to the surface before he disappeared, along with the other soldiers who were encumbered by their equipment. But the second boat was still rowing hard, some distance behind.

Richard felt a painful cramp seize his right leg but forced himself to swim on. It seemed that every muscle in his body ached and felt heavy and for the first time he feared that he did not have the strength to reach the far side of the harbour, still some two hundred yards away. He could see men on the walls of St Angelo waving them on and the cannon fired again, aiming for the second boat.

‘Richard. . .’ Thomas spoke feebly, spluttering as seawater washed across his face. ‘Son . . . Leave me.’

‘No.’

‘I am in such pain ... I would rather die. Save yourself.’

‘No, Father, I will not leave you.’

‘I am dead already. I will not survive these wounds.’

Richard tightened his hold on his father and kicked out, using every last reserve of his failing strength to move forward.

‘Leave me.’

‘I will not. You will not die.’ Richard spat out a mouthful of seawater. ‘Think of Maria. She is there in Birgu. Waiting for you. Hold to that thought.’

‘Maria . . .’ Thomas muttered, barely conscious.

‘Sir!’ The Maltese soldier raised a hand above the water and pointed. ‘Look!’

Richard craned his neck and followed the direction of the man’s finger and saw a boat putting out from St Angelo. Sunlight glinted off armour and weapons as the craft surged across the slight swell in the morning sun. Richard took renewed hope from the sight and forced himself to continue on even as his lungs and muscles burned from the effort. As the cannon fired again, he glanced back and saw that the enemy had not given up the pursuit, clearly intent on running down their prey and ensuring that not one man of the garrison of St Elmo survived its destruction. The men on the boat from St Angelo were equally determined to save their comrades and rowed desperately. It was impossible for Richard to guess who would win the contest as he struggled on, with increasingly feeble strokes. The rocks at the foot of the fort and walls rising up still seemed impossibly far away.

Then he heard a voice cry out to them, urging them on, and soon there were splashes close at hand and a surge of water and then the long overlapping planks of the boat filled Richard’s field of vision.

‘Get ’em aboard! Quickly does it!’

Hands grasped his arms and hauled him bodily out of the water, over the side and down. He lay on his back staring into the blue heavens, gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest. There was a crash as an arquebus fired, and then another. The fire was returned from the enemy and bullets cracked into the prow of the boat. More shots were exchanged and then a chorus of jeers filled Richard’s ears.

‘They’re bolting! Good shooting, lads. Now, back to St Angelo.’

As he felt the boat turn, a shadow loomed over Richard. He took a deep breath and propped himself up and saw that it was Romegas, the Order’s senior captain.

Romegas nodded grimly. ‘You’re Sir Thomas’s squire.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your master is in a poor way.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you all that’s left of the garrison? Did no one else get out?’

‘I didn’t see anyone else. There may be some who also managed to hide in rocks or the caves down by the water. I don’t know, sir.’

‘I see.’ Romegas handed him a wineskin. ‘Here. Take this.’

‘Not yet.’ With great effort Richard sat upright and saw his father lying on his back, trembling. Beyond him the Maltese soldier was sitting upright, arms wrapped round his knees. Richard crawled over to his father’s side and took his hand. Thomas’s eyes flickered open and he turned his head with a wince and squinted at his son.

‘We’re safe?’

Richard nodded, averting his gaze from the terrible burns on his father’s body.

‘Safe?’ Romegas shook his head as he turned to gaze across the harbour at St Elmo, battered and ruined beneath the flags and standards of the enemy. ‘The prelude is over. Now Birgu and Senglea will face the full weight of the enemy. Unless Don Garcia comes to our aid soon, I fear the worst is yet to come.’

CHAPTER FORTY

Many days passed before Thomas became coherently aware of his surroundings. He sensed the daylight through his eyelids and heard the irregular boom of artillery and the distant crash of heavy iron shot striking home. His body felt so weak that he could barely move his fingers, and any attempt to move his head caused a sharp stabbing pain down the side of his face and neck. So he lay still and silent, breathing deeply in a steady rhythm as his mind attempted to take stock of his situation. He knew where he was well enough, but the last thing that he could recall in detail was the final assault on St Elmo. The charge of the enemy up into the breach, the deaths of Miranda and Mas, and the burst of fire as the incendiary struck him and set him alight. After that, all sense of time was lost.

He recalled the burning agony that had consumed every fibre of his being, the fleeting impressions of the wounded lying in the chapel, Stokely, his expression waxen, leaning on his sword as he struggled for breath. Then the stench of a dark enclosed space, the relief of the sea as it cooled his burns and then a brief moment of confused serenity as he floated on his back staring into a peaceful azure sky and accepted that he was dying. Then agony as he was dragged from the sea.

After that he lost consciousness and his existence became a long, delirious nightmare of pain and fever. His head was swathed in bandages and there were long days when he lay sweltering in the heat, staring at a plaster ceiling curving overhead and a shaft of sunlight falling through a window behind him. He remembered voices, one that was stern and matter-of-fact as it discussed his treatment, then another, Richard, and last that of a woman, unmistakably Maria. Their words were confused and he could make no sense of what had been said. When he was alone his mind was filled with troubled images of fire, blood, sword and smoke, of terrible injuries. His head swelled with a cacophony of imagined noises of drums and cymbals, harsh cries of men locked in deadly combat and the screams of the dying . . .

Now all of that had begun to fade and Thomas was aware that his mind had emerged from a dark period of chaos. He took a long, deep breath and opened his eyes. At first his vision was blurred and the light coming through the window was too bright and painful and he blinked and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again, more cautiously this time. Slowly, the vision in his left eye cleared and he saw the stained white plaster of the ceiling. His right eye merely detected patches of light and shadow without any specific form. He moved his limbs carefully and winced at the tightness and pain that lanced down his left arm and side. Around him Thomas was aware of other men lying on beds, some in silence, while others moaned or mumbled incoherently to themselves. Now and then figures moved amongst them, men in the robes of friars and monks. Finally one came to Thomas and bent down to examine him.

‘You’re awake again.’ The monk spoke French and smiled as he dabbed at the sweat pricking out at his hairline. ‘And your fever finally seems to have broken.’

‘Finally?’ Thomas frowned and tried to speak again but his throat was too dry and he could only make a soft croaking sound. ‘Where

‘You’re in the infirmary of St Angelo. Quite safe. Here, let me help you.’

There was a faint gurgle of liquid and then the monk gently slipped a hand under Thomas’s head and raised it slightly. With the other hand he held a brass cup to his patient’s lips and helped him to drink. Thomas gratefully swilled the water around his dry mouth and swallowed. He took a few more mouthfuls before he nodded and let his head slump back. The monk eased it down on to the bolster and withdrew his hand and placed it on Thomas’s forehead.

‘Yes, the heat has gone from your brow. That’s good.’ He smiled again. ‘When you were first brought in here 1 was certain that you would not survive. Your burns are severe and there is a bullet wound to your leg. It seems you were struck as they pulled you from the water. Between the bums and the loss of blood I fully expected you not to survive through the night. You have a strong constitution, Sir Thomas. Even so, it was a close thing. You developed a fever and for many days I feared we might lose you. That you survived is due to the tireless efforts of the woman who nursed you.’

‘Woman?’

‘She’s the widow of the late Sir Oliver Stokely, as I understand it. She also claims to be your friend.’ The monk tried to stifle a knowing smile and Thomas felt a passing irritation at the man. ‘What is your name, brother?’ Thomas asked huskily. ‘Christopher.’

‘Well then, Christopher, Lady Maria is indeed my friend, and a woman who is beyond reproach.’

‘Of course. I meant no offence.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Resting. She has hardly left your side these last weeks. She saw to all your needs, though she did have the help of your squire from time to time, when he could be spared from his duties. She fed you, washed and bathed you and changed your dressings. The poor lady is exhausted. Once I saw that your fever had abated I sent her home to rest. That was this morning. She said she would return at dusk.’

Thomas nodded. Then he looked at the monk. ‘You said weeks. How long have I been here? What date is it? What month?’

‘Why, it is the twenty-second day of August, sir.’

‘August?’ Thomas started in alarm. ‘Then . . . then I have been here almost eight weeks.’

The monk nodded. ‘And for four of those weeks it was doubtful that you would live, despite your solid English constitution. For the last two weeks we have been fighting your fever. It was only a few days ago that I became confident that you would recover. Though when I say recover, you will have to live with the consequences of your injuries.’

‘But what of the siege?’

The monk pursed his lips. ‘The Turks are pounding us from all sides. At night they fire into the heart of Birgu and have killed scores of women and children. We still hold every one of the bastions and the wall, though barely. The Grand Master has less than a third of the men with which he started. Food and water are running short and morale is poor. There was a rumour that Don Garcia and his army would land at the end of July, but nothing came of it. And every day the guns continue to reduce the walls. Each time the Turks open a new breach they launch an assault, and we throw them back.’ The monk paused and shook his head in wonder. ‘God knows where they get the courage to hurl themselves on us time and again. They’ve tried everything. They even hauled their small galleys over the Sciberras ridge to attempt a landing on Senglea. They were cut to pieces along the shore, and their boats blasted by our cannon. Those we didn’t cut down, or shoot, drowned in their hundreds ... At least morale is as much a problem for the Turks as it is for us. According to the prisoners we’ve taken, Mustafa Pasha is finding it increasingly difficult to get his men to attack. There is sickness and hunger in his camp. Soon I fear that the dead will outnumber the living on this Godforsaken rock.’ He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his jaw wearily. Then he sighed and forced a smile. ‘But enough of the siege. You need to rest.’

‘No. I need to know about my wounds. When will I be fit to fight again?’

‘Fight?’ The monk seemed taken aback.

Thomas felt a chill course down his spine. He struggled for a moment to sit up in order to see his body but he was too weak and slumped back with a hiss of frustration. He reached out with his left hand and clasped the monk’s arm. ‘Tell me.’

The monk sucked in his breath. ‘You had extensive burns to your left leg and hip and on your left arm and the right side of your neck and face. Your eye was scorched and damaged and I doubt that you can see much out of it. Am I right?’

Thomas nodded. ‘Just shadows.’

‘As I feared.’ The monk gestured down Thomas’s left side. ‘Your skin and muscle tissue were badly damaged and will take many more months to heal. There will be a permanent tightness in your arm and leg and they will not flex as fully as they once did. And they will be painful. I would say your fighting days are behind you, Sir Thomas. Even though the Grand Master is short of men and is filling out the ranks with boys, dotards and any man still fit enough to hold a weapon, I have to say that this present conflict will be over before you recover enough to play any useful part.’

‘Bring me a mirror,’ Thomas said quietly.

‘Later. You should rest. Then I shall bring you soup, and some bread.’

‘I want a mirror. Now.’

The monk hesitated a moment, and then nodded. ‘As you wish, Sir Thomas. A moment then.’

He stood up and walked out of the chamber. While he was gone, Thomas gritted his teeth and edged himself up the bed so that his shoulders were on the bolster and his head rested against the stone wall behind his bed. For a moment he had to fight off the pain from his side. The monk returned with a small square mirror of polished steel and handed it to Thomas.

‘There. Though you may not like what you see.’

Thomas raised the mirror above his face and stared at his reflection. A short distance from the mid-line of his features the skin was tight and glossy like highly polished marble streaked with red and purple. The skin round his right eye was swollen and red, and the eyeball was bloodshot and the lens appeared milky. He adjusted the angle and saw that there were only tufts of hair on that side of his skull and his ear looked withered. Moving the mirror again he drew the sheet covering him aside and examined the left of his body, shocked by the tortured flesh he saw there. Swallowing, Thomas handed the mirror back and covered himself again.

‘She saw me like this?’ he asked softly.

‘You looked far worse for the first two weeks.’ The monk gestured towards his head. ‘The scarring is permanent but the colour will fade. Most of the hair will grow back but some patches will remain bald. You may find that your vow of chastity will be a little easier to keep from now on.’ He smiled to show that he was making a joke, albeit a harsh one.

Thomas turned his face to the wall at his side. ‘I am tired. I need to sleep.’

‘Yes. Of course, Sir Thomas. Do you wish me to send a message to Lady Maria to say that you are awake?’

‘No,’ he replied quickly. ‘Let her rest too.’

‘Very well. I’ll bring you food later, once you have slept.’ Thomas heard the scuffing of the monk’s sandals as he moved off, and then he shut his eyes tightly as they filled with tears of grief. He no longer felt like a man. He felt repulsed by what he had seen in the mirror, and shamed by the idea that he would no longer be fit enough to fight or hunt or take part in the myriad pastimes of other men. Worse still, if the Turks carried the day and captured Birgu, then he and all the others too helpless to defend themselves would be butchered where they lay, like swine.

He eventually fell back into a troubled sleep and awoke close to midday, as far as he could calculate from the angle of the light streaming in through the window. As he stirred and his eyes flickered open, he saw Richard sitting on a stool beside his bed. The young man’s head was slumped on his chest and a thick stubble of dark hair covered his jaw. His hair was matted with sweat and dust and the skin round his eyes was dark with fatigue. His doublet was filthy and torn in several places and there were scabs from cuts and scrapes on his hands and face.

Thomas reached out his left hand, wincing at the sting the movement caused, and gently touched his son’s cheek. Richard twitched as if to discourage some bothersome insect and Thomas could not help smiling at the gesture as he let his hand drop back to his side.

‘Richard . . .’

The young man’s eyes flickered open at the mention of his name and he stirred wearily, then his lips parted in a warm smile. ‘You’re back with us at last.’

‘Did you doubt I would be?’

‘Not me.’ Richard chuckled. ‘Just that monk. He was certain we were wasting our efforts and that you should just be given the last rites. I told him I had served you long enough to know that you would not die half so easily.’

Thomas glanced round the room and saw that they would not be overheard. ‘Does he know that I am your father?’

‘No. Any more than he knows that you are a man without faith.’ Thomas nodded with relief. Either one of those truths could be dangerous and it was impossible to know what he might have revealed in his delirious condition. He gestured to the table beside Richard. ‘Some water please.’

He managed to drink it unaided this time and once his throat and lips were moistened, he felt more able to converse. ‘The monk gave me some idea of what has happened since I have been recovering, but tell me, how is the Grand Master coping?’

‘Him?’ Richard smiled thinly. ‘La Valette is as hard as steel through and through. He is everywhere, encouraging the men and promising that we shall live through this trial. I tell you, he is a man possessed by the idea of confounding the will of Sultan Suleiman. He has also made it impossible for there to be any thought of surrender.’

‘How so?’

Richard chewed his lip briefly. ‘It was something that happened after St Elmo was taken. The next morning, at first light, a lookout on St Angelo saw some objects floating in the water close to the wall. They turned out to be the bodies of four knights and that of Robert of Eboli, nailed to crosses, all of them beheaded. When they were fished out of the sea we saw that plaques had been nailed to the crosses naming the men – Mas, Miranda, Stokely and Monserrat, as well as Robert of Eboli. Besides hacking their heads off, the enemy had torn their hearts out.’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Thomas muttered. ‘What happened then?’

Richard pursed his lips. ‘La Valette repaid them in kind. He had all of the Turkish prisoners brought from the dungeons and taken up on to the walls of St Angelo where the enemy could see them. There they had their throats cut, one by one, and when it was over La Valette gave the order for their heads to be loaded into cannon and fired across the harbour into the enemy lines . . . A day later Mustafa Pasha sent a herald to announce that henceforth there would be no quarter given. If Birgu and Senglea fall, he promises to kill every living thing his men encounter.’ Richard paused. ‘So it is death or victory for us now.’

‘It always has been. La Valette was at Rhodes when it surrendered to Suleiman. I think he resolved then never to taste such a defeat ever again.’ Thomas was silent for a moment before he reached out and took his son’s hand. ‘You saved my life. I am in your debt. And it is one I fear I shall never be able to repay with this body.’

‘Father, you gave me life. What man can ever repay that? Think no more on it. It was my duty, as your squire, and as your son.’ Thomas gently squeezed Richard’s hand. ‘If only I deserved to be your father . . .’

Richard looked away and withdrew his hand. ‘I would not take too much pride in me. I have done questionable things in my time. Don’t forget, I am Walsingham’s man. I came here for Henry’s last will and testament, and I have it. Stokely told me where to find it. If I live, then Walsingham will expect me to take it back to him.’ Thomas thought for a moment. The will would always be a potent weapon in the hands of whoever possessed it. The Catholics would use it to shatter the grip that Elizabeth held over many of the most powerful men in her realm. Walsingham would be only too willing to use it to blackmail the Queen into sanctioning his persecution of the Catholics in England, whom he saw as his enemy.

Thomas looked directly at his son. ‘You could take it back. Or you could destroy it. You understand full well the implications of the will. The choice is yours. I trust that you will make the right decision.’ There was a moment of silence before Thomas went on. ‘No man is beyond redemption. Just as no man is immune from doing the wrong thing. Son, I know this better than most. Think on it. I would not have you go through life carrying a burden like I have. Learn from me.’