CHAPTER SIX
The expression on the face of Grand Master Jean d’Omedes darkened as he listened to Stokely. The Grand Master had been roused from his slumber shortly after the second hour and had berated his servant angrily until the cause of his disturbance eventually penetrated his sleep-encumbered mind. Then he had dressed hurriedly and summoned Romegas, his senior galley captain, and Jean de La Valette to the council chamber of the Order in the heart of Fort St Angelo.
Flickering candles illuminated the hurriedly assembled hearing. Thomas stood between two armed guards in front of the three men sitting behind a long table. To one side Stokely stood and gave his account. When he had finished there was a tense silence before the Grand Master cleared his throat and glared at Thomas.
‘Do you have any idea how much damage you have done to the Order? The Venici family will never forgive us when they hear what has happened. Nor will the Duke in Sardinia to whose son Maria was betrothed. Our position is precarious enough without making new enemies.’
Romegas growled, ‘If we are denied permission to replenish our galleys from the ports of Naples and Sardinia then our ability to strike at the corsairs and the Turks will be hit hard, sir.’
The Grand Master sucked in a breath. ‘What are we to do?’
‘I don’t think there’s any choice, sir,’ Romegas replied. ‘We must punish Sir Thomas, in an exemplary fashion. The Venici family will expect nothing less.’
‘Wait.’ La Valette half turned to address the other men seated at the table. ‘There is no need to act rashly. It is not too late to hide this affair from outside eyes.’
‘I wonder,’ the Grand Master mused and then looked at Thomas shrewdly. ‘Is it too late? Sir Thomas, is the lady’s honour still intact?’
Thomas flushed and his defiant gaze dropped and he stared at the stone floor in front of the table.
‘I see,’ d’Omedes said flatly. ‘Then we must do as Romegas says. Punishment must be swift and severe. The Order must be seen to have acted against this miscreant.’
‘He has broken a sacred oath,’ said Romegas, ‘and betrayed the honour of the Holy Religion. The Venicis will want his head. I suspect nothing short of that will assuage their anger.’
La Valette snorted with derision. ‘You are not seriously suggesting that we execute Sir Thomas?’
Romegas nodded. ‘That is precisely what I am suggesting.’
‘For what? For succumbing to the weakness of the flesh? That is no reason to hang a man. By God, if it were then half the knights of the Order should be strung up alongside him for having mistresses or ravaging the women of our enemies.’
The Grand Master raised a hand. ‘Pray, be quiet. We are not here to judge other knights. Just Sir Thomas.’
‘Unless there is a common standard then I suggest that we have no code of honour worth preserving, sir.’
The Grand Master’s brow furrowed angrily. ‘You go too far, La Valette.’
‘No, sir. It is you who are stepping beyond the bounds.’ La Valette gestured towards Thomas. ‘I know this knight well. He has fought at my side for these last two years. I have not seen his equal for courage and devotion to the Order. Sir Thomas is one of the most promising knights of his generation. It would be foolhardy to eradicate such talent when we are in sore need of fighting men. Punish him, yes. A public flogging perhaps. That should do to remind our men of the need to act with honour and chivalry. That is all that is necessary.’
‘It is not enough,’ Romegas replied. ‘If we did that and permitted Sir Thomas to stay in the Order, he would be a constant reminder of our shame and, worse, our leniency and indulgence of ill discipline and lax morality. Our younger knights need to be taught a lesson. They need a reminder of the depth and solemnity of the oaths that bind the Order together. Let Sir Thomas’s death reaffirm the bonds that tie us. I urge you to have him executed, sir.’
La Valette shook his head. ‘Kill him, and you risk discouraging other good young men from joining the Order. Sir Thomas’s crime is that he is a young man, and we all know full well the powerful desires and needs that we once shared with Sir Thomas. If he is executed for a temporary lapse of judgement then men like him, men whom we need, will refuse to join us. There is a better way,’ La Valette continued. ‘A way that shows we will not tolerate such indiscretions. I say that we expel Sir Thomas from the Order.’
‘Expel him?’ The Grand Master frowned. ‘What kind of punishment is that?’
‘There is nothing more shameful.’ La Valette turned towards Thomas. ‘I believe I have the measure of this man. He counts his membership of the Order the highest honour a man can attain in this life. It is the Order that gives shape and value to his existence. Withdraw that and he lives on in shame, and knows the full weight of his loss every day. That is the punishment that should be imposed. Besides, while he lives, he can still put his talent for war to use in the service of Christendom somewhere, if not here.’
Thomas was grateful for La Valette’s intervention. It might save his life. But the words of his mentor were true enough. There was no dishonour greater in his mind than being cast out of the Order. What would he do then? His honour would be held cheap in the eyes of all those who came to know his fate.
The Grand Master was silent as he pondered the young knight’s fate. At length he drew a deep breath and spoke. ‘I have reached a decision. Sir Thomas Barrett will be stripped of his rank and all privileges pertaining to his membership of the Order. His coat of arms is to be removed from the quarters of the English knights and he will be taken from the island as soon as passage on a ship can be arranged for him. He is never to return here upon pain of death, save by express permission of the Order. He is an exile, and shall remain so until death claim him or it is the will of the incumbent Grand Master to remit his exile, on terms set out in such an eventuality.’ He rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘Take the prisoner away.’
‘No!’ Thomas cried out. ‘Let me see Maria first.’
‘How dare you?’ Romegas said furiously. ‘Take the insolent swine away! At once.’
Thomas felt his arms grasped by the soldiers on either side once again. He struggled as they dragged him towards the door. ‘Let me see her! One more time. I must see her. For pity’s sake!’
‘Get him out of here!’ d’Omedes shouted.
Thomas writhed but the men held him tightly and thrust him towards the door. ‘What is to become of her? What are you going to do with Maria?’
‘Her turn will come,’ the Grand Master told him. ‘She, too, will be judged and punished accordingly. You can be sure of that.’ Thomas felt as if his heart was being torn asunder and he looked pleadingly towards Stokely as he was led away. ‘For the sake of our former friendship, Oliver, swear that you will take care of her. It is I who deserve your wrath, not Maria. She is innocent. Swear that you will protect her!’
Stokely stood still and silent, and only a faint smile of satisfaction betrayed his feelings as Thomas was dragged outside and the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Barrett Hall, Hertfordshire 13 December, St Lucia’s Day, 1564
The first message arrived at dusk, on a cold, bleak evening. Thomas was sitting on an old carved chair in his study, gazing out through leaded windows. A blanket of snow covered the meadow that stretched down from the hall. Distorted glimmers of red and gold shimmered on the panes of glass as they reflected the glow of a dying fire in the hearth. Outside, the light was cool and blue and comfortless and he stared into its depths without moving or, indeed, showing any sign of life. It was as if his heart was as cold and still as the world outside, wrapped in a shroud, waiting for a rekindling of warmth and growth when the season changed. Though spring would return, just as sure as the rising and the setting of the sun, the prospect was of little cheer to Thomas. The years had unravelled around him like old worn cloth and he cared little for their passing. His spirit had long since turned to stone — hard, unyielding and unfeeling. But even
if his heart had shrivelled, he still cared for his physical well-being and ate sparingly and exercised every day whatever the weather or his state of health. He was a creature of habit.
In all the years since he had been banished from the Order of St John, Thomas had kept himself lean and fit and put his considerable fighting skills to use. He had spent much of the time as a mercenary fighting in the interminable wars that raged across Europe. Death, from disease, hunger and battle, had been at his side throughout and yet had spared him, a few wounds notwithstanding. In addition, continual reading and studying kept his mind agile. He would not succumb to the self-indulgent foolishness that seemed to consume the English nobility who lounged indolently in their ornamental gardens and great houses. They called themselves lords and knights yet not one in ten was capable of taking his place in the battle line.
At forty-five Thomas still moved with an easy grace. Even though there were streaks of grey at his temples and in his beard, and his face was weathered and starting to wrinkle, most people instinctively knew he was not to be trifled with. There were times, though fewer and fewer these days, when he attended a court event and attracted the unwanted attention of a drunken fop, who had heard some story about Sir Thomas and determined to put the quiet knight to the test. But Thomas had long since mastered the art of deflecting fools in a polite and self-effacing manner. Sooner a display of mature tolerance than any confrontation that could only result in a very public humiliation of a younger man. Thomas had tasted the bitter shame of humiliation himself in his youth and had learned the value of self-restraint. It was a lesson paid for alone in the darkness when he had buried his face in a coarse bolster to hide his misery from others. He had no wish to win new enemies so he let the oafishness amongst these soft English aristocrats ride over him and did his best to ignore it.
Only once had he been forced to harm another in order to defend himself. It was over ten years before, at a feast for the Lord Mayor in London. Thomas had been confronted by a loudspoken youth, tall and broad and far too full of some misguided sense of his martial prowess. Yet even he had been nervous when he confronted Thomas. His young eyes were wide and alert, his hand trembling ever so faintly as it slid from the pommel of his rapier and grasped the handle. Before his blade had rasped more than a few inches from its finely decorated scabbard, Thomas’s hand had clamped round the boy’s wrist like an iron manacle, and he shook his head with a gentle, warning smile, before turning away. But the fool had shouted with affronted rage and continued to draw his sword. Thomas spun back and pinned the youth’s arm to his thigh with a slender dirk that had seemed to come from nowhere, so quickly had it materialised. The boy had collapsed to the floor. Thomas had calmly retrieved his blade and dressed the wound, before making his apologies to the host and quitting the feast.
He shook his head at the memory, still angry with himself for not reading the lad’s expression in time to prevent the incident. There was enough blood on his hands already and he had no desire to add to the suffering he had already caused so many others, heathen and Christian alike. The memory of it had tormented him in the years after his return to England. Now it had become just another scar fading with age and familiarity.
Thomas drew his coat closer about his shoulders and rose from the window seat, crossed to the hearth and carefully placed two more split logs on the fire. He watched them for a moment in idle fascination as steam hissed from cracks in the wood, and then there was a sharp pop and flurry of sparks before a bright yellow flame flickered up from the glowing embers below the logs. He returned to the window seat and sat down again, staring into the gathering shadows outside.
Above the crackling of the firewood he heard sounds of a commotion in the hall and his curiosity was piqued. Only a handful of servants still lived in the hall. He had no need for more. Certainly no need for the dozens that had waited on his parents and brothers long years ago, in childhood, before his father had secured him a place in the Order. Both parents had died shortly after Thomas had left England, and he had received only a terse letter from his older brother, Edward, informing him of the illness that had killed them within days of each other. Then Edward had been killed in a hunting accident and, a year later, young Robert had died at sea, serving on a privateer whose only booty had been the dysentery that had swept through the crew and left in its wake a handful of skeletal figures who finally reached Dartmouth several months later. On his return to the hall Thomas had been told the story by the maid who had served as Robert’s nurse. Robert had always been the family favourite, fair-haired and fair-humoured with a wild adventurous streak, quite unlike the dour, quiet Thomas. Thomas had never resented him, nor wished to emulate his popularity. He had simply loved his brother.
Now he was the last of them. He lived alone, apart from his manservant, John, the elderly maid, Hannah, and a young stable lad who managed the remaining six horses and riding tackle in the yard behind the hall. Stephen rarely spoke to the others, and was more horse than man, according to Hannah. Beyond that, the only other family retainer was the steward of the estate who now lived in Bishops Stortford and oversaw the tenants on Thomas’s land, collected their rents and banked the income for his master, sending him a statement of the accounts twice a year.
The hall in Hertfordshire had been in the family for eight generations. Thomas was the last in the line of the Barrett family. He had not married and had no heirs. On his death, the estate would pass to a distant cousin, a man Thomas had never met, and cared nothing about.
From time to time attempts had been made by friends of his father to arrange a union for Thomas. He had politely but insistently declined the opportunities that were steered his way. Some of the women had been well connected, attractive enough, and even intelligent. But not one had borne a moment’s comparison to Maria and they only served to remind Thomas of what he had lost and could never regain in this life. And such was the nature of their parting that there was little prospect of any divine power permitting their reunion in the afterlife. It was in this spirit of perpetual loss that Thomas lived out his life. After Maria there was nothing, only the gnawing ache of recollection of touch, gesture, smile, expression and fragments of moments shared in each other’s arms.
For an instant the memories were overwhelming and Thomas shook his head angrily, clenching his fists and glaring sightlessly through the window at the quiet serenity beyond. Then the moment passed and he sighed, the tight exhalation of one who has just come out from under the surgeon’s knife.
There was a quiet knock at the door of the study and Thomas turned away from the window.
‘Yes?’
The latch lifted and the dark oak door gently swung into the room as John entered. He nodded to his master and gestured back towards the darkened corridor outside the study.
‘A messenger has arrived, sir.’
‘Messenger?’ Thomas frowned. ‘Who is he?’
‘A foreigner, sir,’ John said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘He called himself Philippe de Nanterre.’
Thomas was silent for a moment. ‘I do not know the name. Did he say who sent him, or what the message concerns?’
‘He said the message was for your ears alone, sir.’
Thomas felt a faint pang of anxiety. What was a Frenchman doing here in England, in his house, if not to stir up some aspect of a past life long buried?
‘Where is he now?’ Thomas raised his eyebrows.
‘In the lobby, sir.’ John shrugged. ‘I thought it best.’
‘Bid him enter and let him warm himself at the fire in the hall. It is only Christian to offer him some token of hospitality, especially at this time of year.’
Thomas did not welcome the intrusion. In recent years few had come to see him for social reasons, still less send him an invitation to a masque or banquet. He usually treated unexpected visitors as an irritant, something he could deal with swiftly and then ignore. He felt a terrible weariness in his bones and did not wish to be disturbed now that he h
ad settled by his fire for the evening. If this man, Philippe de Nanterre, had come with an offer of military service then he would leave disappointed. Thomas had made his peace with the world, and with his enemies, and wanted to be left alone. He stroked his neatly cut beard and stared at his servant.
‘Did you divine anything of his business with me?’
‘I did.’ John smiled. ‘He has a letter for you, master. I saw it in his saddlebag while I led his horse to the stable yard. It has now been safely returned to him.’
Thomas could not help a small smile of his own. ‘His bag just happened to be open, no doubt.’
‘It is no fault of mine if the buckle was not adequately fastened, sir. I merely sought to bring you more information.’
‘Then you have done well. And what of his letter that you just happened to see?’
‘It is a folded parchment, sealed. The sender left no name on the outside.’
‘So, did you recognise the seal?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then describe it.’
‘It is a cross, sir. A cross with an indent at each end.’
Thomas felt a ripple of lightness in his head and he closed his eyes briefly and fought down the tide of memories and images that swelled up unbidden and unwanted. Yet there was also a spark of hope in his chest, fanned by his curiosity. He drew a deep breath before he opened his eyes and regarded his servant. ‘Take him to the kitchen and feed him.’
‘Sir?’ John raised his eyebrows. ‘But he’s a foreigner, sir. Not to be trusted. I’d send him on his way, if I were you, sir.’
‘Then it is as well that you are not. It will be dark soon and the track to Bishops Stortford is icy. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be safe. If he chooses, he can stay here for the night. Feed him and offer him a bed. And tell him I will speak with him shortly.’
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