Текст книги "Sword and Scimitar"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

Соавторы: Simon Scarrow
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CHAPTER EIGHT

The opening of the message was crisp enough and the distaste and disdain of Sir Oliver Stokely were immediately apparent.

Sir Thomas,

I am required by the Grand Master, Jean Parisot de La Valette, to write this message to you by virtue of our common language. You will be aware, as am I, that under normal circumstances your suspension from the Order cannot be reversed. Given the grievous nature of your conduct some twenty years ago it has always been my view that exclusion from the Order was the very least penalty that you deserved. However, the current crisis requires that the Grand Master now rescind your exile. Furthermore, in accordance with the oath you swore when you entered the Order, you are herewith summoned to Malta and shall make your passage as expeditiously as possible or suffer pain of disgrace in the eyes of your peers and before God.

I need hardly convey to you the depth of the shame you brought to our English brothers. The peril in which the Order and, indeed, the whole of Christendom currently stands presents you with the chance to redeem yourself and your countrymen. Having known you, I hold out little hope that you will honour your oath and think that your contribution to our defence would be little enough in any event. Nevertheless, I am under instruction from the Grand Master to issue this summons and hereby do so in accordance with his wishes.

The bearer of this message will provide further information about the situation here in Malta. You may question him for details it would be imprudent to commit to writing.

Y ours,

Sir Oliver Stokely, Knight of Justice of the Order of St John Hospitallers, on this day, November 6th.

Thomas looked up at the messenger. ‘This was written in November. You’ve made good time.’

Philippe shrugged. ‘Time is not a luxury the Order can afford.’

‘So it would seem. Are you familiar with the contents of this letter?’

‘No, sir. The messengers were briefed on the danger and then handed letters to distribute to our brother knights. You are the fifth on my list. After you, there are two more. One in York and the last in Denmark. God willing I shall return to Malta before the enemy arrives.’

‘I see. How many knights are being recalled?’

Philippe stared at him for an instant, and a look of despair flickered across his face before he replied, ‘All of them.’

Thomas laughed. ‘All of them? Come now, don’t humour me, boy.’

‘Sir Thomas, I said we could not afford to waste time. Within the next six months, a year at the most, the Order may be utterly erased from God’s earth by the infidel.’

Thomas was more than familiar with young men who had a passion for rhetorical flights of fancy, but out of politeness to his guest he kept his opinion to himself.

‘The letter says you can tell me the full details. So out with it.’ Philippe pushed his bowl away. ‘Last October our spies reported that Sultan Suleiman had called a meeting of his advisers to discuss strategy for the coming campaign season. Although the spies weren’t able to penetrate the meeting, they saw a great many viziers, admirals and generals arrive at the palace. They came from every corner of the Ottoman empire. There were even envoys from Dragut and the other corsairs and Barbary pirates. It was clear that the Turks were planning something on a vast scale for the coming year. Later, we began to receive reports from other agents telling of vast stockpiles of weapons, gunpowder and supplies of grain and salted meat. Scores of new artillery pieces have been cast in the Sultan’s foundries, and his best gunners and engineers have arrived in Constantinople. Then there was news of shipping massing in harbours all along the Aegean coast, and the arrival of columns of soldiers into camps close by.’ Philippe leaned slightly across the table. ‘It is clear enough. They mean to attack the Order. To wipe us out.’

Thomas smiled. ‘It is clear they intend to attack someone. But why Malta? Why now? Surely Suleiman has more pressing business elsewhere. I fear that our friend the Grand Master is jumping to conclusions.’

‘No.’ Philippe slapped his hand down heavily. ‘How dare you question his word!’

Thomas stared at him and lowered his voice. ‘Careful, lad. I will not be spoken to in that manner, least of all in my own home.’

For a moment the messenger glared back at him, brazenly challenging Thomas. But then he saw the cold, ruthless glint in the older man’s eyes and recalled the few words he had heard back in Malta concerning the reputation of Sir Thomas. His gaze wavered and fell back to the worn surface of the kitchen table.

‘Sir, I apologise. It has been a long journey and my mind is weary. I meant no disrespect to you. I only sought to defend the honour of my master . . . and yours.’

Thomas nodded. ‘I understand well enough. It’s good to see that La Valette still has the power to inspire such fierce devotion amongst his men. But why is he so certain that Suleiman is turning his sword on the Order? And why now, when he is poised to strike at Christendom through the Balkans?’ He frowned. ‘I cannot see the sense of an attack on Malta.’

‘It is clear enough, sir. From the beginning of his reign, over forty years ago, Suleiman has claimed the titles “King of Kings” and “Supreme Lord of Europe and Asia”. It has always been his plan to bring every kingdom of Christendom under his sway and impose Islam on all his subjects. Now he grows old and fears that he may die before his ambition is fulfilled.’

Thomas smiled. ‘That is the stuff of fantasy. I have been a soldier long enough to know that such a plan is beyond even the reach of the Sultan.’

‘Fantasy or no, it is his plan, sir. The spies of the Grand Master heard it from Suleiman’s lips. And it begins with Malta, and our Order of knights. We have been a thorn in his side these long years and now he is minded to destroy us.’ The young knight collected his thoughts and continued. ‘The immediate cause of the Sultan’s resolve to take Malta was born from our seizing one of his most prized trading carracks last summer. Commander Romegas took the ship off the coast of Egypt. She was carrying a lady of high rank, and the Sanjak of Alexandria. In the ship’s hold was a vast fortune in silk and precious metals. The value was estimated to be the equivalent of eighty thousands ducats . . .’

Thomas shook his head in wonder that so much treasure could possibly be contained within the wooden confines of even the greatest of ships.

Philippe smiled briefly. ‘Exactly my response, sir. And one can only imagine how the Sultan reacted at the news. The Order has been raiding Suleiman’s commerce for decades. We have been growing ever bolder and now he is determined to crush us.’

‘For revenge?’ Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘The Suleiman I recall would not let his mind be ruled by his heart.’

‘Nor has he,’ agreed Philippe. ‘It is not for revenge alone that he seeks to add Malta to his empire. Once Malta is his, Sicily will be next. From Sicily he can strike into Italy and seize Rome, the very heart of our faith. Even then his appetite will not be slaked. Not until he has crossed the Alps and killed or enslaved every last Christian.’ Philippe leaned forward again and he tapped a finger on the table. ‘Do you think even this far island is safe from the jaws of his ambition?’

Thomas chuckled. ‘Fine words. I think I can hear the voice of Sir Oliver in them.’

Philippe leaned back with a wry smile. ‘Well, I tried. And you are clearly as wily a fox as they say.’

‘They?’

‘Those brothers who remember you from the time of your service in the Order.’

‘There can’t be that many of them,’ Thomas mused.

‘No.’

‘And those who truly remember me will recall the manner of my departure from the Order.’

‘That is true, sir. But now past grievances must be put aside.’ Thomas wagged a finger at the messenger. ‘Clearly you have little understanding of the depth of feeling that divides the Order’s nationalities. In my day we were at each other’s throats almost as often as we were at the throats of the infidels.’

‘Then I think you will notice that not much has changed when you reach Malta, sir.’

‘Reach Malta?’ Thomas looked up sharply. ‘Do not presume, boy. What makes you think I will come running back to the service of those who exiled me? If they’ve been honest with you, Philippe, then you must know the circumstances of my departure from Malta. ’ Philippe shook his head. ‘I’ve only heard that you were responsible for some scandal. That’s all they will say.’

‘Then they are as tight-lipped and as stiffly righteous as ever. I owe them nothing.’

‘You swore an oath. There is no release from the oath, sir . . . The only release is death.’

Thomas glanced into the shadows in the corner of the kitchen for a moment and then smiled bitterly. ‘It seems that everyone in the Order may be granted release from that oath very soon.’

‘We won’t be alone, sir. The Grand Master has sent for help to every Christian kingdom. If they answer, then we must triumph over the infidel.’

The young man’s simple-minded faith filled Thomas with great sadness. Philippe, and hundreds like him, would go to their deaths clutching such idealistic notions to their hearts like the holy relics they fought and died for. Thomas had hoped that he would never be a part of such foolishness again, and out of compassion for his guest he tried to explain.

‘Tell me, Philippe, since you left Malta to come here, did you not once cross a Christian kingdom locked in some conflict or other with its neighbour? Are you ignorant of the fate suffered by thousands of Catholics in this country? While we Christians are so determined to destroy each other, what chance is there of us joining ranks to resist the infidel? There will be no more crusades. We have

forsaken the true church of God and Suleiman is our punishment. Our judgement.’

Philippe opened his mouth to protest but Thomas raised a hand to silence him, and after a moment continued in a quiet, weary tone. ‘Go back to the Grand Master and tell him I will come. I will not die for those who cast me out. I will not die for the faith. But I will come for reasons of my own.’ He stood up. ‘Now, I’m to bed. My servant will find you quarters for the night. I imagine that you wish to leave for York at first light.’

Philippe nodded, and as Thomas strode towards the door, the young messenger cleared his throat. ‘Sir Thomas. You have my gratitude, and that of our brothers in Malta.’

Thomas paused at the door but he did not turn back. Instead his shoulders sagged and he sighed deeply. ‘Gratitude? I have nothing here to keep me, and I would see Malta one more time before I am done. That is all.’

He left the kitchen and saw John rise stiffly from a bench against the wall of the corridor. Thomas gestured towards the kitchen as he strode past. ‘See to his needs. He intends to leave the hall before I rise on the morrow.’

‘Yes, master.’

Thomas went straight to bed, consumed by a swirling host of memories that the messenger had reawakened. Beneath the covers Hannah had earlier placed a warming pan but even with that comfort, Thomas remained restless and sleep eluded him, chased away by a succession of images and emotions that would not be banished from his mind. At length he gave up and stared at the ceiling of his bedchamber, while a light moaning came from the fireplace as the wind rose outside. The prospect of a return to Malta was bittersweet. That was where he had once been certain that he belonged. That was where he had loved Maria. Perhaps, by some miracle, she lived there still, and nursed the same love that he had over all the years they had been apart. Then he cursed himself for being an old fool and turned on his side and eventually fell asleep.

When he woke, the wind had died down and bright sunlight beamed into his room through a gap in the curtains. The fire in the grate had long since died and the leaded glass on the windows was laced with frost. Thomas rose stiffly and sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, recalling the details of the previous evening. He was convinced of the rightness of his decision. In any case, the messenger would have left by now and would carry his reply back to Malta. It was too late to change his mind. He would need to prepare for war yet again. Grasping that conviction, he dressed himself and made for his study where John would bring him his breakfast the moment he heard the heavy tread of his master’s boots descending the stairs.

John confirmed that the young knight had left at first light, with a small basket of pies and cheese to sustain him for his next day’s ride.

After a bowl of porridge, Thomas pulled on a thick hooded cloak and set off on foot across the fields of his estate to the farm of one of his tenants. There were trees that needed felling in one of the copses that grew on his land and he had arranged to join the farmer and his burly sons to cut them down. It was hard labour that Thomas might easily have left to them, but he relished the exercise and the warm glow of satisfaction at seeing the pile of logs that had been amassed by noon. After bidding the others farewell, Thomas strode back to the hall, feeling purged of the thoughts that had troubled him the previous night. He resolved to leave for Malta within the week.

It was at that moment that the second messenger arrived.

The rider came through the arched gateway just as Thomas was kicking the snow from his boots by the porch of the main entrance to the hall. The hooves of the messenger’s horse had been muffled by the snow so there was no warning of his approach. Thomas looked up quickly as he sensed movement and saw the rider jerk the reins to direct the horse across the courtyard towards him. He wore a blue cloak and the new breeches that had become fashionable in London. The blue of the cloak marked him out as the servant of a wealthy household. As he approached he raised a gloved hand and pointed at Thomas.

‘You there! A word with you.’

Thomas straightened up and folded his arms as the rider’s mount trotted across the snow, the hooves of the horse kicking up little sprays of white crystals in their wake. He stopped a dozen yards from Thomas and plumes of breath swirled from the muzzle of the horse.

‘Can you tell me if this is Barrett Hall?’

‘It is.’

The rider nodded with relief and then swung himself down from the saddle and landed softly in the snow, still holding the reins in one hand. He offered Thomas a smile. ‘Been on the road from London since dawn. Turned off at Bishops Stortford on to some forsaken track. It’s taken me hours to find this place. Hardly anyone on the road had ever heard of it.’

‘We like to keep to ourselves,’ said Thomas. ‘The fewer visitors the better.’ His tone was not hostile yet the rider’s expression hardened at the presumed insult and he addressed Thomas with a haughty look.

‘Fellow, is your master home? I am told he rarely ventures far from this place in recent years.’

‘That is true.’ Thomas nodded.

‘Is he within?’ the rider asked tersely. ‘I have no time for games. I must away to London as soon as my duty is done.’

‘The master is not yet within. What is your will with him?’

‘That is for me to say directly to his face, not to his servant.’

‘Then speak it.’

The other man’s irritable expression darkened for an instant before realisation struck him and at once his demeanour changed and he bowed his head. ‘My apologies, sir. I did not know.’

‘Then why presume to treat me as an inferior?’

The man raised his head and gestured towards Thomas. ‘Sir, your apparel is not that of a gentleman. I assumed—’

‘Assumed? Presumed? Do you always judge a man by his appearance?’

‘Sir, I ... I ... I can only apologise.’

Thomas stared hard at him, until the rider looked down. The man had made an honest mistake and no ill will had been meant, yet it rankled with Thomas. The rider was typical of the society that filled the royal court and those lesser circles that clung to its periphery. The appearance of a person was everything, while the substance of their character was largely ignored. It offended Thomas’s understanding of men and the world, and he felt a sour resentment settle on his spirit over the fact that his privacy had been invaded twice in less than a day.

‘Very well, what news for me?’

‘A summons, if you please, sir.’ The rider looked up again, and spoke in a respectful tone this time. ‘From my master, Sir Robert Cecil. He requests that you attend him at his house on Drury Lane in London tomorrow, at six of the clock.’

‘He requests? And if I say no?’

The servant’s jaw slackened momentarily, as if he had not understood, as if there was no question of an alternative to simple acquiescence to his master’s will. He swallowed nervously before he replied. ‘I have no instructions concerning your refusal of his request, sir.’

‘A pity.’ Thomas shrugged. ‘Then it is a command that you bring me. In which case I am compelled to attend. Very well, tell your master that I will be there at the appointed time.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Thomas looked at him for a moment. The servant had been in the saddle for over half the day and would not return to the capital before dark. The gates would be shut and like as not he would be compelled to find a place to sleep outside the walls of London. It would be a kindness to offer him refreshment and rest before he left the hall, as he had done for the Frenchman. But then he had not had to endure such haughtiness from his other guest. For that reason Thomas did not move from his place in front of his door.

‘I have your message and you may go.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The servant nodded, willing enough to quit his presence. He grasped the pommel of his saddle in one hand and placed his boot in the stirrup. He made to rise into the saddle but the cold had made his joints stiff and he slipped back on to the ground. With an irritable grunt Thomas stepped up, bent down and hoisted the servant up into the saddle.

‘My thanks, sir.’

Thomas nodded and the servant took in the reins and wheeled his mount round, spurring it into a trot back across the courtyard and out through the arch, the soft thump of the hooves fading swiftly away. Thomas stared at the gateway for a while, and then turned and strode into his home, calling out loudly, ‘John! John! Damn you, man! Where are you?’

‘I’m coming, sir!’ came the reply from the kitchen. A moment later the door opened and the old retainer came hurrying out, wiping crumbs from his chin.

‘I shall need my saddlebags, riding cloak, boots and sword for the morrow. See that they are cleaned and ready for the morning. I ride to London.’

‘Yes, sir.’ John tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Might I ask how long you will be gone?’

‘Who knows?’ Thomas smiled faintly. ‘It would appear that it is not in my power to say when I will return.’

CHAPTER NINE

London

Dusk was gathering as Thomas approached the capital which sprawled across the landscape like a dark stain some miles ahead. The Great North Road had frozen hard and the heavily rutted surface had forced Thomas to slow his horse to a walk as he settled in behind a wool merchant’s cart in the long column of wagons, riders and travellers on foot making their way to London before the gates closed for the night. Thomas had been content to ride at the pace of the column, unlike the handful of post riders who had hurried past during the day. On either side of the trampled snow and exposed streaks of frozen earth a blanket of white lay over the fields and copses. The sky was overcast and there had been brief flurries since noon and a fresh fall of snow looked likely. Thin skeins of smoke trailed into the sky from the chimneys of isolated farmhouses and villages that dotted the landscape. Here and there a rosy glow shone through a window and made the travellers long for the comfort of a warm hearth.

Even though the day had been long and the cold had seeped into his flesh so that he hunched into his thick cloak, Thomas’s thoughts were elsewhere. Only a small amount of his attention, as much as was needed, was fixed on guiding his mount and paying occasional attention to his surroundings. For the rest, he was concerned with the reason behind this summons to the home of Sir Robert Cecil, the Queen’s Secretary of State. Thomas knew that Cecil had been a firm supporter of Elizabeth in the difficult years before she had succeeded to the throne. Like her, Cecil was a devout Protestant and the prime mover behind efforts to suppress the influence of Catholics in England. He wielded great power and was the foremost statesman in the country, so what could he possibly want with an obscure knight who had not shown his face in London these last three years?

Since his return from the wars in Europe Thomas had mostly remained on his small estate and overseen the planting of crops and the raising of his sheep and tending to the welfare of his tenants. On the rare visits he had made to London he had attended the royal court on a handful of occasions and, with the one exception during the reign of Catholic Queen Mary, he had not drawn any attention to himself. Even then, when he had shed a small amount of blood for which the penalty was the severing of a hand, he had not made any claim on his religion to assuage his punishment. In the event, he had been given only a small fine which some might well attribute to Mary’s preferment of a fellow Catholic. Thomas could hardly believe that his summons several years later could be due to any settling of such an old score.

He had not made common cause with any of those who protested for the rights of Catholics in public, or who plotted in private. That was a very dangerous game. Sir Robert Cecil’s spies were numerous and the rewards for those who informed against Catholics most tempting for anyone who bore a grudge or whose greed ruled them. There were some aristocrats whose faith had been used to justify the confiscation of their estates, and even their condemnation for treason. Many men had acquired great fortunes as a result of persecuting Catholics, just as many men had become rich during the earlier dissolution of the monasteries by King Henry. The same men now supported Elizabeth, as long as she guaranteed their rights over their recently acquired fortunes.

It was hard for Thomas to credit that his modest wealth had attracted the attention of Cecil or one of his faction. The only motive Robert Cecil could have for requesting his presence in London must concern the visit of the young knight from the Order. Thomas felt a shiver trace its way down his spine. If that was the reason then he had been deluding himself if he had thought that his quiet retreat in the depths of the countryside had removed him from scrutiny. It seemed that little escaped the far-seeing eyes of Cecil and his men, Thomas reflected irritably, and muttered a curse at the knights who had forced him to leave the Order. Long after he had resigned himself to spending his remaining days living a quiet life, they had grudgingly asked for his help. No doubt they would cast him out the moment the crisis passed and they felt able to dispense with his services.

The tolling of a distant bell announcing the fourth hour of the afternoon sounded and broke into Thomas’s train of thought. He stretched himself up in the saddle and eased his horse to the side of the road to see the way ahead more clearly. The loose column of travellers and wagons had just crested a low ridge which afforded a view of the capital beneath a thick pall of wood smoke. The snow resting on the rooftops already looked dirty. Half a mile away stood the great market of Smithfield where the meat traders brought in their flocks from across the country to be sold and butchered. A short distance from the pens and long rows of stalls was an open patch of ground where several thick charred timbers rose up above small mounds of compacted ash. In one place the ash was fresh and still smouldered, melting any snow that fell on it.

This was where heretics were put to death by being burned alive, Thomas knew. Once, ten years before, he had been in a vast crowd that witnessed the execution of three Protestant priests who had defied Queen Mary’s edicts by preaching in public after their licences had been revoked. The Queen had inflicted the spectacle on her entire court and had watched with prim satisfaction from an ornately padded chair set up on a dais erected for the event. Thomas could well recall the piercing screams of the men. The priests had writhed amid the flames spreading rapidly through the faggots piled below the small plinth on which their feet rested. In minutes a whirling torrent of brilliant yellow and red engulfed the bodies, which could yet be seen – blackened figures squirming against the chains that bound them as their cries of torment rose above the crackle of burning wood. The memory, still vivid even now, chilled Thomas’s heart. He averted his gaze from the stakes and clicked his tongue to urge his horse into a trot.

Beyond Smithfield was the city wall. Once it had been a formidable line of defence but had long since fallen into neglect. There were gaps in its length where sections had collapsed, and the ditch that had once surrounded the city was now filled in with generations of rubbish and human waste. A powerful stench filled the chilly air as Thomas passed through the wide arch at Newgate and entered London. The sounds of the great city assaulted him from all sides. The cries of street traders, the bawling of infants and the shouts of those striving to be heard above the din filled his ears, just as the odours of baking bread, cooked and rancid meat, and the stink of sewage filled his nostrils. The main thoroughfares of London were crowded by the buildings pressing in from each side and looming overhead where each storey of a building projected out above the one beneath, lending the streets a murky gloom that depressed Thomas’s soul.

It was with some relief as the light faded beyond the jagged lines of the rooftops and cast London into the realm of shadows that he turned on to the wider road along Holborn. Thomas ignored the hawkers who hurried alongside his horse trying to sell him snacks or handkerchiefs, and he kept a close eye on his saddlebags to ensure that no cutpurse attempted to snatch anything as he rode by. At length, he saw the entrance to Drury Lane and turned his mount into a somewhat quieter street. The shops on either side were well appointed and neatly painted signs advertised a variety of expensive goods: fine cloth, wines and cheeses, silverware and glassware imported from Europe. In between the shops were large houses, increasing in size and opulence as the lane approached Aldwych and the Thames a short distance beyond.

As the last of the daylight faded, Thomas stopped a boy running an errand with a small parcel tucked securely under his arm. He asked for Cecil’s house and was directed to an imposing property occupying the comer that Drury Lane shared with another street. The facade fronted Drury Lane with finely carved timbers and geometric patterns of brickwork. A gate to the side led into a small courtyard with stables and a pair of burly servants barred Thomas’s way until he announced his appointment with their master, having dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to a groom. He was led through a door into the rear of the house and handed over to one of the neatly dressed house servants wearing the same blue as the messenger who had arrived at Thomas’s estate the day before.

Once more Thomas explained the purpose of his visit and was taken through the main hall of the house and up a flight of stairs and along a corridor illuminated by candles that dimly revealed paintings hanging on the panelled walls, almost every one of them depicting a hunting scene or a dour-looking family member. There was only one painting depicting a religious scene, Thomas noted, before he was led into a small waiting room lined with wooden benches and warmed and illuminated by a fire. A slender young man was busy adding several fresh logs to the modest blaze. He looked over his shoulder as Thomas was shown into the room. His features were dark and delicate-looking, and his eyes were brown and lent his gaze a piercing aspect that Thomas found vaguely unsettling.

‘I will inform the master’s secretary that you have arrived, sir,’ the servant announced. ‘Do you wish me to bring you any refreshment while you wait?’

‘I would be grateful for a cup of warmed mead. ’

‘Mead?’ The servant’s eyebrows rose a fraction and Thomas could not help being amused by the man’s inability to place him neatly in some niche on the hierarchy of London’s social classes. His clothes were well made but unadorned and his hair was close cut, like his beard, with no attempt at the precise styling of the more fashionable type of gentleman. Thomas could have passed for a well-to-do tradesman or a country yeoman, but his business with Sir Robert Cecil hinted at something more and the servant bowed his head. ‘As you wish, sir. Mead it is.’

He closed the door behind him while the man by the hearth looked Thomas over with keen eyes before he nodded a respectful greeting and turned his attention back to building up the fire. When he had finished he brushed his hands together and eased himself down on to a small bench next to the fireplace. To his side was the room’s only other door. Thomas removed his cloak, gloves and hat and set them down beside him as he settled on a bench opposite. For a moment he relished the rosy atmosphere and let the warmth gradually penetrate his garments and take the chill off his flesh.

At length he looked up to examine the young man more closely and was surprised to find him staring back at him. Far from being discomforted by having this scrutiny discovered and lowering his gaze, the man continued to study Thomas in a manner he found overfamiliar.

‘Do I know you?’ asked Thomas.

‘No.’

‘Then do you know me?’