Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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Текущая страница: 32 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

‘That’s Mustafa Pasha.’ Thomas breathed heavily through cracked lips, his voice hoarse. ‘If he is taken, then the Sultan’s humiliation is complete.’

‘Come then.’ Richard started down the slope, holding his pike in a firm grip. ‘Let us take him.’

‘Wait!’ Thomas rasped as he followed his son. ‘Wait for me.’

The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, and cast long shadows across the carnage and burnished the grime and blood-spattered armour of the Christian soldiers as they went about their murderous business. Thomas saw a handful of Turkish boats setting out from the enemy flagship, steering towards their commander and his bodyguards. As the boats approached the shallows, scores of men converged on them, surging through the bloodied tide. Those on the boats were clearly under orders to permit only the Janissaries to board; they ruthlessly slashed out with their scimitars at any man who came within reach as they approached the shore. Mustafa’s standard had drawn the attention of his pursuers and a vicious struggle was taking place between the Spanish pikemen and the Janissaries.

‘We must hurry,’ Richard panted. ‘Before he escapes.’

Despite their leaden limbs, the two of them broke into a trot, their scabbards slapping at their sides. Only a handful of the Turks were still resisting along the edge of the bay. Some threw down their arms and dropped to their knees to surrender but were cut down without mercy. Other boats were picking up the last of those still in the water and Thomas could see activity on the bows of the galleys as their gun crews loaded the cannon ready to fire on the Christians in one last act of defiance before the Sultan’s humiliated host was driven from the island.

Mustafa Pasha, accompanied by his standard bearer and two other men, waded out towards the flagship’s boats. Behind him his bodyguards fought on, to buy him time.

‘This way!’ Thomas panted, striking out at an angle towards the enemy commander. They splashed into the shallows and then waded towards the personal standard of the Sultan, the horsehair tail flicking from side to side as the man carrying it struggled towards the boat. Mustafa turned towards the splashing in the water nearby and saw the two knights making directly for him. He snapped an order to the two bodyguards protecting him and they instantly turned towards Thomas and Richard, raising their scimitars. Richard held his pike clear of the water and feinted towards the nearest of the Janissaries. The Turk made to dodge to one side but failed to make allowance for the drag of the water and the pike tore into his side. Richard thrust home, and then worked the tip free. Thomas caught up with him and waded past to engage the other bodyguard. There was no finesse to his actions as he struck out at the Janissary, just brute force and determination. He hacked again, and again, driving the man back. Then the Turk missed his step on the seabed and fell back with a splash. At once Thomas pushed forward and pressed the man down with his left hand, holding him under the surface of the bay as he stabbed with his sword, and blood billowed up through the water.

Thomas turned to see that Mustafa had reached the prow of the nearest boat, not twenty feet away, and two of the sailors were struggling to drag him aboard. Richard, too, saw that the enemy commander was on the verge of getting away; he cast his pike aside and the water boiled around him as he reached out for the shoulders of the standard bearer waiting in the water behind his master. Richard grasped the man roughly and turned him round before striking his fist into the Turk’s face. The man clung on to the shaft of the standard with one hand and lashed out at Richard with the other. Richard blinked, momentarily disorientated, and then he growled angrily and struck the man again in the face with all his strength and the Turk’s head snapped back. His grasp on the standard slipped and with a triumphant shout Richard ripped it from his hands and raised the standard up so that all could see it had been captured.

Thomas saw that Mustafa Pasha had been hauled into the boat and sat in an undignified heap near the bows as the crew lowered the oars and began to pull away from the shore. Just beyond Mustafa a soldier stood up, bracing his legs as he raised a light arquebus and took aim at Richard.

‘No!’ Thomas shouted, his voice cracking. Without thinking he pushed Richard aside and surged between his son and the boat as the flame flashed out. There was a small ring of smoke, a loud crash in the hot air, and Thomas felt a blow, like a vicious punch, in his stomach. The impact drove the breath out of him. He saw Mustafa Pasha’s lips part in a cold grin as the boat drew away.

Richard burst out of the sea with an enraged expression. He still had the standard clasped in both hands and he glared at Thomas.

‘What are you doing? Why did you . . His words dried up as he stared at the hole in Thomas’s breast-plate.

With a sick feeling of certainty, Thomas was aware that he had been shot. He looked down and saw the indent in his armour, just above where it curved towards the flange above his groin. Blood oozed from the hole and dribbled down the polished steel.

‘Oh God, no,’ he muttered. ‘Not this. Not now.’

‘Father!’ Richard hurled the standard towards the shallows and waded towards him. ‘Father, you’re hit.’

Thomas shook his head, not wanting to believe it but knowing that the wound was mortal. The numbing impact of the shot began to fade and a terrible pain spread through his stomach. He staggered towards his son, stumbling into his arms before the strength in his legs gave out. A dark veil blurred his vision and he wanted to vomit as he felt his consciousness slipping away.

Richard held him under the arms, struggling towards the shore. Thomas was dimly aware of his son’s voice as he called out desperately, ‘Over here! Help me! For pity’s sake, help me!’

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

‘There’s nothing that can be done to save him,’ La Valette said gently as they approached the door to the infirmary. Maria did not reply but stared fixedly ahead. The glow of the rising sun lit up the battlements on the wall above them, and in Birgu the bells of every church continued to ring, as they had done ever since news of the defeat of the Turks had reached the town. The courtyard of St Angelo was filled with the wounded who had begun to arrive from Naxxar the night before.

‘It is a miracle that he has lived through the night,’ La Valette continued. ‘When his squire brought him in, he had lost much blood. But all he said was that he wanted to see you. I sent for you at once. I can only imagine the strength of will that is still keeping him in this world. He has made a final request of me.’ La Valette stopped on the threshold of the infirmary and turned to face Maria. ‘A strange thing, and you should know of it before you see him.’

‘What is it?’ Maria frowned.

‘He asks for two things. That you are married here and now, and that I prepare and sanction the adoption of his squire as his legal son and heir. That young man has not left his side since he brought Sir Thomas back from the battlefield, but there is more to this than merely rewarding loyal service, I think.’ La Valette shook his head. ‘A peculiar situation. But the Order owes a great debt to Sir Thomas and I am happy to fulfil his wishes. The question is, are you?’

Maria said nothing, her lips pressed together in a thin line as she nodded.

‘Well then. All is in readiness. I have a priest at hand and I shall witness the ceremony, together with his squire. But it grieves me that you should become a widow so soon after becoming a wife.’ Maria swallowed and held her head high as she responded, ‘I can think of no greater happiness than being the wife of Sir Thomas. Now take me to him.’

An hour later the ceremony was over. Thomas slipped back on his bolster with a smile of contentment as his wife and son sat either side of him, each holding one of his hands. His hair was plastered to his scalp and sweat gleamed on his pallid skin and the scar tissue on his face. He felt cold and what was left of his strength was steadily failing. Only the agony in his stomach kept his thoughts coherent. He knew that there was little time left to him and felt a burst of rage until he recalled that because he was dying his son was still living. He nodded to himself and whispered, ‘It is a fair fate.’

He turned his head towards Richard and moistened his lips so that he might speak clearly. He found the effort a strain and his voice was thin and frail. ‘Swear to me that you will look after your mother. She has been wronged all through her life. Swear to me that you will care for her.’

‘I swear it.’

Thomas smiled. ‘I am proud of you. Any man would be honoured to call you his son.’

Richard swallowed hard and gently laid a hand on his father’s chest. ‘I know. And to you I owe it all.’

‘No. I should have been a better father. A better man.’ Thomas turned to Maria, his eyes filled with pain and longing. ‘A better husband.’

She tried to fight back tears, then leaned forward to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, ‘There is no better man. You are my all . . . my love.’

Thomas’s vision began to blur and he had barely enough strength to breathe. His expression twisted in agony. ‘And you . . . are mine. Always . . . Always. Forgive me.’

Then his eyes closed as his breathing became more laboured, and with a last sigh, he lay silent and still. There was no mistaking the moment of his death; that final stillness of body and spirit from which there was no return. His son and wife stared in silence and each shed tears. Their grief was raw and they sat a while together as the hours passed.

As dusk closed over the island, La Valette returned to the infirmary to pay his respects. Maria eased her hand away from the growing chill of Thomas’s fingers and rose stiffly. She stared down at his scarred face and leaned to kiss him on the brow before she turned and walked slowly away, her hand resting on Richard’s arm. La Valette accompanied them outside.

‘Rest assured, Sir Thomas will never be forgotten. Nor will any who endured the siege.’ La Valette breathed in deeply as if savouring the air. ‘When the rest of Christendom hears that the Turks have been thrown back from Malta they will gain heart and common purpose. Suleiman and his empire have been humbled, but soon he will be back. Yet Europe will no longer fear the prospect of living under the shadow of the crescent. Because of what happened here, on Malta. Because of those who died, like Thomas, and those who fought and lived, like you, Richard.’

He embraced the young man, then stood back and smiled curiously. ‘You are a worthy heir to Sir Thomas’s name. It is almost as if you were born to take on the mantle.’

La Valette turned to Maria and bowed deeply. ‘My lady, I wish that this had ended more favourably for you. But God’s will be done.’

Maria’s lips parted as she made to reply, but she could only nod.

‘There is one more thing.’ La Valette reached inside his doublet and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, sealed with the Barrett crest. He offered it to Richard. ‘Sir Thomas gave me this several days ago. He requested that I give it to you, should anything happen to him.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I doubt that he really expected the worst, but. . . here.’

Richard took the letter hesitantly and nodded his thanks. La Valette bowed his head and then strode back towards his quarters where the end of the siege had produced an endless list of new problems that needed urgent resolution. Richard waited until he was out of sight before he turned to Maria.

‘Do you mind?’

‘No. I’ll wait for you on the wall. There’s a pleasant breeze tonight.’ She bowed her head and slowly walked over to the bottom of the stairs leading up on to the wall of the fort. Richard moved into the pool of light cast by a torch flickering in an iron bracket and opened the letter and began to read.

My dearest Richard,

I am not a man of great learning. Nor am I any more a man of noted deeds and actions. Nor, I fear, do I have much time left to me to be a man at all. If I should die then let this brief note be my testament to you. If I should live, then perhaps these poor thoughts might still carry some of the weight and value that I purpose for them.

I would have you know, and tell your mother, that she was right about the incorruptible truth that lives in our hearts. Tell her she was always what I loved most in the world, though you, my son, are what I valued most. The two sentiments are not the same, but nor are they mutually exclusive. Indeed, they both form part of the bond between lovers and the product of their love. This alone is what matters. Everything else is a poor shadow by comparison.

My son, you have become as dear to me in a few short months as any son could have become in a lifetime. I have come to look on you with well-earned pride. You have great courage, and compassion and wisdom. I would not have you squander such gifts in the ignoble service of a reptile like Walsingham. There is a better path for you, should you choose to take it. If there has been any worth to have come out of the trials that we have endured here on this barren rock it is that the real document that fate intended for you to bring away was not that for which you were sent, but this that you now hold in your hands.

I have lived a full life. I have done much that I regret and I have learned something of the limits of the ambitions and beliefs that men, and women, live by. Know that I have tried to be a good man, and that the measure of that goodness is wholly human. I have forsaken the idea that there is any God in this universe, let alone a Christian one, or one conceived by the Muslims. There is nothing godly in the bloodshed and cruelty that we have both witnessed.

Of all the causes that preoccupy the minds of humanity, of all the works of science and faith that have been set down in words, in my life there is only one truth of any value that I have learned and now entrust to you.

It is this: that I have loved, and been loved. And I have sired a child. That is all the divinity that any man requires in this world.

Your adoring father.

Richard read the letter again, more slowly, and then folded it carefully and placed it inside his doublet, next to his heart. He climbed the stairs to join his mother and gazed out across the harbour towards the ruined mass of St Elmo.

He felt the touch of her hand on his shoulder. ‘Richard, are you all right?’

Richard swallowed his bitter grief at the unrequited gratitude he owed the man who had been his father, and friend. Then he turned to her with a forced smile and nodded. ‘I am.’

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek and then held her hands. ‘Mother, let us go home.’

‘Home?’

‘England.’ Richard felt a pang of longing as he uttered the word. But there was one final task he must perform before he could put his affairs to rest. ‘There is a gentleman I have to see in London first. After that there is a fine house awaiting us. And a family name and a title.’ He opened his hand to look at the ring, a painful lump in his throat. ‘I shall do all that I can to be a worthy son of Sir Thomas Barrett, Knight of the Order of St John.’

She forced a smile but could no longer meet his eyes and looked away. ‘I am sure he would have been proud of you.’

‘I wish for nothing more.’ Richard was silent for a moment before he cleared his throat. ‘You will have to make preparations for the journey. I will leave you to it.’

Maria turned back to him anxiously. ‘Where are you going?’

‘There is something I must attend to. Something important. I’ll come to your house as soon as it is done.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I swear it, Mother.’

She was silent for a moment before she nodded. ‘Very well. But don’t be long. You are all that I have now . . . my dear son.’

Richard felt a pang of affection swell up in his breast and he took her hand and squeezed it very gently. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

He shut the heavy door of the auberge behind him, muffling the sounds of the bells that pealed across the rooftops of Birgu and echoed in the streets filled with excited people, still stunned by the realisation that they had come through the greatest trial of their lives and survived. The hall was still and gloomy, the only light coming from the window high up in the wall. Richard stared round briefly, and then made his way down the corridor leading to the kitchen. There he took a candle and lit it, using Jenkins’s tinderbox. With the small flame held out before him, he descended into the cellar that ran beneath the auberge, a greater place of safety for King Henry’s will. In a small, neglected alcove he removed a loose brick and set it aside before he groped into the cavity beyond and extracted the aged piece of parchment that he had been sent to find and take back to England. It seemed strange that this had once seemed a great and dangerous treasure to him. Richard held it in his hand and gazed at the smooth vellum by the wan glow of the candle for a while. Then, without any further hesitation, he held the corner of the will to the flame and watched as the flickering yellow tongue licked along the edge of the document in a bright line that spread rapidly and left grey and black ash in its wake. He held it for as long as possible before the heat caused him to release his grip and the letter dropped to the floor, flaring briefly before it struck the ground with a small flurry of sparks and then quickly faded into darkness as the last of it was consumed by flame. With a sigh, Richard turned away and headed back up into the kitchen.

As he passed down the corridor he was aware of the sound of movement from the hall. He continued as quietly as he could until he emerged from the corridor and saw Jenkins struggling to set a ladder up against the wall.

‘Jenkins.’

The old man started and turned round. He puffed his cheeks in relief as he saw Richard and then smiled. At once the smile faded and he shook his head sadly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Master Richard . . . though I wish that Sir Thomas was with you.’

‘You know then?’

Jenkins nodded. ‘I heard it from one of the servants at St Angelo, while we were offering our thanks to God at the cathedral. I came back here as soon as the service was over. There was something I had to do.’

‘As did I.’ Richard smiled. ‘What are you about?’

Jenkins stepped over to the table and picked up a small bundle of red wool. He unwrapped the folds and took out a small wooden shield bearing a coat of arms and held it up for Richard to see. ‘I put it safely aside after the auberge received the instruction to take it down. I hoped that one day it would be returned to its rightful place, sir. It has been a long wait. I think there is no better time than now. Would you give me a hand, sir? My limbs are not as steady as they once were.’

‘Of course.’ Richard held out his hand. ‘Let me do it.’

Jenkins stood still for a moment before he gave the small shield to Richard. ‘Thank you, sir. You can see there’s a small hook on the back.’

Richard turned it over to look.

‘You can hang it on that nail up there.’ Jenkins pointed to the gap on the beam, a short distance from the ladder. ‘Where it used to be.’

‘Very well.’

Richard climbed, one-handed, holding his father’s coat of arms in the other. When his head drew level with the beam he reached out and carefully slipped the hook over the nail and then adjusted the shield so that it hung straight. Satisfied, he climbed back down and then stood beside Jenkins. They looked up at the coat of arms. The paint had not faded during the long years of storage and the design seemed as fresh as the day it first hung in the hall.

‘It is good to have things in their rightful place,’ said Jenkins.

Richard nodded.

They were silent a moment longer before Richard turned and offered his hand to the servant. ‘I have come to say farewell, Jenkins. I’m returning to England.’

‘Really, sir?’ The old man looked disappointed. ‘I had hoped that you might stay. Now that the last of the knights has gone, the auberge needs new blood.’

Richard’s expression hardened at the unfortunate choice of word. He forced himself to smile faintly. ‘Perhaps one day. Not for some years. I have earned a respite from war. But if ever the Order calls on me, I shall come. Look for me then.’

Both men smiled, knowing full well that Jenkins would be long in his grave before that day.

‘Goodbye then, sir.’ Jenkins bowed his head, and shuffled over to open the door. Richard stepped out into the bright sunlight bathing the town. As the latch clacked behind him, he felt a lightness in his being, as if all manner of burdens had been lifted from his shoulders. He breathed in deeply, then glanced over his shoulder for one last look at the auberge before he turned away and went to join his mother.