Over twenty years had passed since Thomas had last seen the vista of the Grand Harbour and much had changed. A new fort had been constructed at the end of the peninsula to command the entrances of the two harbours, and additional defence works had been added to St Angelo, the fort that was the headquarters of the Order. The red standard bearing a white cross floated above the highest towers of each fort. Beyond St Angelo lay the village of Birgu, which had steadily grown to serve the needs of the knights and their soldiers in their eternal war against the hordes of Islam. As he gazed at the thick limestone walls and squat towers of St Angelo, Thomas felt a slight ache in his heart as he recalled the years he had served there and the men he had counted as brothers, some of whom had died before his eyes and whom he had mourned. And those others he had known, like La Valette, who had inspired devotion and fanatical zeal.
And then there had been Maria. He had tried to put off thinking of her but there had never been a moment in all the years he had since spent in England when memory of her had not been lodged in his heart like a splinter, a constant reminder of what he had lost. If she still lived, he prayed that she would be here. There was little reason to suppose that she had chosen to remain on this dry rock in the middle of a war-torn sea, but Thomas could not help hoping. Many times he had allowed himself to imagine seeing her again, untarnished by the passage of time, still slender, dark and with the serious expression that belied her fiery spirit. Such fantasies always left him feeling vulnerable for fear that she would reject him, as he had once been forced to abandon her.
‘A formidable prospect.’
Thomas thrust his troubled reverie aside and turned to see Richard standing a short distance further along the galley’s rail, gazing at the defences of St Angelo. The sun had been lost behind the high ground beyond the harbour and to Thomas’s eyes both St Angelo and the fort at the mouth of the harbours seemed somehow diminished by the gloom of the gathering dusk.
‘Formidable?’ Thomas pursed his lips. ‘Not so formidable to our Turkish friends, I think. There is not a fortress in all Christendom that can stand before the great cannons of the Turks. And when the walls come down, the outcome will be decided by the quality and quantity of the men who face each other.’
‘The quality is spoken for.’ Richard smiled. ‘There are no better warriors in this world than the knights of the Order of St John.’
‘That may be true, but the Sultan has quantity on his side,’ Thomas replied wearily. ‘Tell me, Richard, which is more important, quality or quantity? From your experience, as a warrior?’
It was a barbed question, and Thomas regretted it at once. Richard had only intended an amiable exchange but Thomas was irritated by his complacent comment.
Richard frowned and his lips set into a tight line as he stared fixedly at St Angelo. Thomas decided that the most practical form of apology would be to change the subject.
‘How is your arm today?’
‘The worst of the pain has passed,’ Richard replied tersely, without shifting his gaze.
‘And you have changed the dressing each day?’
‘Just as you ordered.’
‘And there was no sign of putrefaction?’
‘None.’
‘Good.’ Thomas nodded.
There was a long silence in which neither man showed any sign of being willing to move from the galley’s rail and be the first to give way in their tacit confrontation. Thomas could sense the tension, anger and even hatred seething in the breast of his companion, but there was no question of assuaging it with an open apology and so he said nothing and acted as if he was alone as he watched the harbour open up on either side of Don Garcia’s flagship. The remaining galleys of the squadron were in line astern and glided across the quiet waters of the harbour as the oars stroked the surface with graceful symmetry. From St Angelo a gun boomed out in salute as the flagship drew level and there was a brief pause before one of the galley’s guns replied, the deep rumble echoing back from the limestone walls of the fort as a host of gulls swirled into the air, disturbed by the noise.
The flagship rounded the end of the promontory and steered into the creek between Birgu and the bare twin promontory of Senglea where a handful of windmills stood on its highest point. Ahead lay the masts of dozens of cargo ships and fishing boats, packed close to the quay lined with the warehouses of Birgu. The walls of St Angelo continued along the creek a hundred yards before reaching the channel that had been painstakingly cut across the promontory to provide a last line of defence before the fort. Thomas’s eyes were drawn to a large galleon riding at anchor in the channel. The forecastle, sides and high poop deck were painted green and decorated in gold leaf and the figurehead was a veiled woman in black robes picked out with stars and moons in gold and silver. There was no mistaking the origins of the vessel and Thomas realised that this must be the galleon that Philippe had told him of, the loss of which had provoked the Sultan’s rage.
‘Ship oars!’ ordered the captain and the dripping blades were raised clear of the sea and rumbled into the hull.
‘Port the helm!’
The flagship slowly swung in towards the length of quay closest to the fort. Thomas could see a small party of men waiting there, several wearing the cloaks of the Order, adorned with the distinctive cross motif. To one side a servant held the leashes of two magnificently conditioned hunting dogs. Standing alone a short distance in front of the others was a tall figure with silver hair and beard who was dressed in a plain black doublet, breeches and half-cloak. He watched the approaching galley without expression as the last of the steerage way carried it towards the quay.
Thomas felt his pulse quicken and an old affection stirred in his breast. He recognised the man, even though the passage of twenty years and the burden of command had wrought their changes on the weathered features.
‘Jean Parisot de La Valette,’ he said softly.
‘Him? The old man?’ Richard stared, comparing the man’s appearance with the more richly finished attire of the men behind him. ‘I would not have taken him for the Grand Master of the Order of St John.’
‘Clothes do not make the man.’
‘Nor does great age. I hope his mind is sound.’
‘The High Council of the Order would not permit him to remain in office if it wasn’t.’
Sailors tossed coils of rope towards men on the quay and the galley was hauled in until it bumped softly against the tarred rope buffers. A section of the bulwark swung open and the gangway was extended to the quay as Don Garcia and his entourage approached. The Spaniard saw Thomas a short distance further along the deck and beckoned to him.
‘It would please me if you and your squire joined us.’
Thomas bowed his head. ‘As you will, sir.’
Four of Don Garcia’s soldiers hurried ashore and formed a small guard on either side of the gangway. When they were standing to attention, Don Garcia led his entourage ashore, followed by Thomas and Richard. Glancing over the faces of the men at La Valette’s back Thomas could only recognise Romegas, the foremost of the galley captains when Thomas had campaigned with the Order. He, too, had grown old, but no doubt his bitter feelings towards Thomas endured.
Don Garcia and La Valette exchanged a bow and brief greetings in French before they took turns to introduce their subordinates. When he waved Thomas forward, Don Garcia could not suppress a small smile.
‘Grand Master, I think you may have heard of my English companion, Sir Thomas Barrett.’
La Valette’s eyes were still clear and piercing, even though they had set deeper into his countenance. He strained them a little as Thomas approached and bowed his head respectfully.
‘Thomas... I hoped that you would answer the call.’
‘I have been waiting for twenty years, sir.’
A brief look of pain flitted across the old man’s expression before he continued. ‘Due to the circumstances there was not much I could do, you understand. But you are here now. Back at my side,
where your talents are most needed.’
The kindly tone affected Thomas deeply and memories of their comradeship flooded back. ‘I will do my duty, sir.’
‘I am sure you will. Tell me, are you still as fierce and deadly a fighter as you were when you last served the Order?’
‘In truth? No, sir. But I can still wield a sword as well as most men.’
‘That is good.’ La Valette smiled and gestured to his retinue, none of whom seemed any younger than Thomas. ‘As you see, few of us are men in the prime of life, but we are unequalled in experience and wisdom, the more so since you have rejoined us. For which I give thanks to God.’
‘I suspect that some in the Order will not be as grateful, sir,’ Thomas replied, avoiding the temptation to glance at Romegas.
‘Only a handful survive that still remember, Thomas, and now they are answerable to me and obey my will.’ He paused and then clasped Thomas’s hand gently. His skin was dry and the bones beneath the mottled flesh were pronounced. ‘Your place will not be questioned. It does my heart good to see you again.’ He looked beyond Thomas and his gaze rested on Richard for the first time. ‘And who is your young companion?’
‘My squire, sir. Richard Hughes.’
‘You, too, are welcome.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Richard bowed.
‘Sir Thomas, I will have my servants fetch your baggage. You can retire to the English auberge once you have eaten.’ La Valette turned back to Don Garcia who had been following the brief exchange with a curious expression.
‘I had no idea that my passenger was held in such regard by the Order,’ the Spaniard remarked.
La Valette’s expression was strained for a moment before he responded. ‘Sir Thomas was one of our most promising knights, before his. . . absence. He has proved himself before, and I do not doubt that he will perform valuable service for the Order again in the great trial that we face. Now the light is dying and we have much to discuss. A meal is being prepared in my lodge for you and your officers, Don Garcia. Some of the senior officers of the Order will arrive later. They were not present in Birgu when your ships were sighted. I have sent for them. There is much to discuss.’
‘Indeed.’
La Valette glanced towards the last of the Spanish galleys approaching the quay. ‘Only six galleys? The main body of your reinforcements is following on behind, I take it?’
Don Garcia looked round at the faces of the local people who had gathered behind the Grand Master and his retinue. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘It is best that we talk about such matters in more . . . private surroundings. If you would lead the way?’
La Valette’s expression had hardened. He and Don Garcia were seated together at the head of a long table running down the centre of Fort St Angelo’s banqueting hall, but every man present had sat in silence and listened intently as Don Garcia outlined the instructions he had received from King Philip. The pair of hunting dogs lay asleep by the modest fire burning in the iron grate along one wall, a luxury on an island where wood was scarce enough to be sold by the pound weight. Thomas was halfway down the table and had eaten lightly of the first good meal he had had since leaving Barcelona - honeyed chops of mutton and freshly baked bread. The tension between Don Garcia and La Valette had been palpable and the sour mood had spoiled the appetite of those in the hall. For a moment Thomas envied his squire who was eating at the lower table with the other junior officers of Don Garcia’s small force.
La Valette pushed his platter aside and shifted in his chair so that he might face his guest more directly as he spoke.
‘Last year I sent warning to His Majesty about the Sultan’s plan to strike west, and that Malta would be the Turks’ first target. I said that if Malta was to be held I would need five thousand fresh men, cannon, powder and supplies of food. So far he has sent me nothing but messages of support.’
‘His Majesty shares your concerns,’ Don Garcia countered calmly. ‘However, Malta is just one of the territories he is obliged to defend. While it is true that you present the most obvious line of attack, the enemy may yet mean to surprise us by striking elsewhere - Sicily, the coast of Italy or even Spain itself.’
‘And thereby leave Malta sitting astride their supply lines?’ La Valette replied acidly. ‘His Majesty appears to be in need of a lesson in strategy.’
‘His Majesty is my sovereign lord, just as he is yours, Grand Master. Your Order was given this island in return for your fealty to the King. His Majesty has appointed me as his Captain of the Sea and placed all his forces, including yours, under my command. I would therefore request that you temper your opinions accordingly.’ Don Garcia met the Grand Master’s bitter glare steadily before he continued. ‘I, in my turn, am obliged to follow the instructions laid down by King Philip. He has stated that I am to meet the enemy in battle only when I enjoy numerical advantage, at sea and on land.’
‘Then you will never fight them. The ships and men of the Sultan will always outnumber those of Spain.’
Don Garcia shrugged. ‘I cannot help that. But I am doing all in my power to gather support from our allies and concentrate our forces on Sicily, from where I will be best placed to counter the enemy, wherever he chooses to strike. I agree that it is likely that the Sultan casts his gaze towards Malta and I will do what I can to provide you with the wherewithal to counter the blow if it falls here. At the moment I can do little but provide you with some companies of Spanish soldiers and Italian mercenaries. In time, as my strength grows, I will send you more men.’
‘By then it may be too late.’ La Valette took a breath and calmed his voice before he spoke on. ‘There are but six hundred knights in the Order. I have nearly five hundred here and pray that the others answer the summons, as Sir Thomas did. In addition we have a thousand soldiers, and I have sent men from the Order to Italy to recruit more.’
‘And you have the local people. The Maltese will fight with you.’
‘The Maltese . . .’ La Valette could not hide his scorn. ‘It is true that there are some militia but they are of poor quality. I dare say that they will break and run the first time they see any Janissary point a weapon at them.’
‘I think not. It is true that they are not professional fighters but a man may fight like a Hon to defend his home and family. You have but to train them to use weapons and lead them by good example and they will fight well.’
‘Even so, I can expect to raise little more than three thousand men from the local population. So we are no more than five thousand in all to face the horde that will descend on us from the east. Our last report from our agent in Istanbul is that a vast fleet is gathering to carry fifty thousand men, together with their arms and supplies for the entire campaign. No one can withstand such odds, Don Garcia.’
There was a pause and Thomas watched as Don Garcia folded his hands together and rested his forehead against them.
‘The hour is late, and our voyage has been tiring,’ he said. ‘Let us talk of our preparations to face the Turks tomorrow. I would see the defences at first hand, Grand Master, if you would take me over them.’
‘It would be a pleasure,’ La Valette replied curtly.
‘Then I will eat some more, drink and then sleep.’ Don Garcia smiled politely. ‘As will my officers.’
Their exchange was interrupted as the main door into the hall was opened by one of the servants and a small group of men entered. Thomas looked over his shoulder. They wore plain cloaks with the badge of the Order over their hearts and Thomas realised that these must be the knights La Valette had summoned from the interior of the island earlier on. Some were young but looked tough enough. The rest were veterans, scarred by wounds and the passage of the years. As they made for the chairs and spaces on the benches that were still untaken, Thomas’s eye was caught by one of the older knights, a man roughly his own age, tall and sinewy with dark hair receding towards his crown. At almost the same moment the new arrival spied Thomas and he paused mid-stride, an
d then slowly approached.
Thomas eased himself on to his feet and advanced a few paces towards the man. The other knight looked him over and then breathed in sharply through his nose before he spoke.
‘Sir Thomas. So you got the message.’
‘As you see. It’s been a long time, Oliver. A very long time.’
‘I had hoped you would stay away. The Order does not need you.’
‘The Grand Master thinks otherwise.’
Sir Oliver Stokely glanced towards the head of the table. ‘The chevalier has a short memory. He forgets the damage that you did to us.’
Thomas felt another pang as the tendrils of past sins tightened round his heart again. ‘I was a different man then. So were you. I have suffered and repented every day since. Can you not forgive me?’
‘Never.’
Thomas shook his head sadly. ‘I am sorry to hear you say that. ’
‘Why? Did you think that I would forget all just because you were willing to answer La Valette’s call?’
‘Oliver, there are greater matters that should concern us both. I cannot change the past, but I pledge that I will do whatever I can to preserve the future of our Order. ’
Sir Oliver shook his head. ‘Do what you will. Just stay away from me. Or I will not answer for my actions.’
Thomas nodded, a weariness settling on him like a heavy shroud. ‘I would it were otherwise between us. You were once my friend.’
‘Until I discovered your true nature. I have said all I wish to say to you. You are here. Fight for the Order, then when it is over, leave and never return.’
‘Very well. . . But I would know one thing more.’
Sir Oliver’s lips pressed into a thin smile. ‘I thought you might ask.’
‘Then tell me.’ Thomas hesitated before he continued, eager to finally know yet afraid of the answer. ‘Does Maria still live?’
‘She is dead.’
‘Dead?’
For an instant there was a flicker of emotion in Sir Oliver’s features, then his expression hardened. ‘Yes, Maria is dead. She has been dead to you, Thomas, ever since that time. Do not ask me about her again or as God is my witness, I shall strike you down and kill you with my bare hands.’
Sword and Scimitar Page 15
