Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  This last was a new weapon conceived by La Valette and demonstrated to his advisers only the day before. Barrel hoops were covered with multiple layers of linen which had been soaked in fat and tar and then steeped in boiling water. Thomas and the others had watched as two soldiers held one of the hoops in iron tongs at arm’s length while a third soldier set it alight. The fiery hoop was released and flared brilliantly as it ran down the wall of St Angelo and into the narrow channel that had been cut between the fort and Birgu. Thomas could imagine the terrifying effect that such a weapon would have on the Turks as they assaulted the crumbling walls of St Elmo.

  As Dragut made his way round the harbour to the main camp sprawling across the landscape at the base of the Sciberras peninsula, La Valette dismissed his advisers and sent for the archbishop of Malta.

  ‘A penitentiary procession?’ Sir Martin scratched the stubble on his chin as Jenkins relayed the brief message that had been given to him by one of the Order’s servants a moment earlier. The Englishmen and the Italian mercenaries had only just sat down to their evening meal after labouring throughout the afternoon on the inner wall of the town’s defences. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Aye, sir. At eight, from the steps of the cathedral, around the town and then into the market square for the sermon. Everyone in Birgu is to attend. All the civilians, and every soldier who can be spared from his duties.’Jenkins’s eyes sparkled with keen expectation. ‘Robert of Eboli is to speak.’

  Richard exchanged a brief look with Thomas.

  ‘Should I have heard of this Robert of Eboli?’ asked Thomas. ‘Oh, yes, sir! He is a simple friar but he speaks with such passion and fervour that it is as if the Lord himself has blessed his tongue. I have heard him deliver two sermons in the cathedral and not one of the congregation failed to feel touched by a divine presence. Truly, sir.’ Jenkins lifted the wine jug, glanced at the Italians and scowled. ‘The other gentlemen appear to have worked up a thirst. At the rate they are working through the cellar, our present stocks may not last much longer.’

  ‘Nor may we,’ said Sir Martin. ‘Carpe calix et non postulo credo, eh? Just refill the jug.’

  ‘Let us hope that the procession and sermon help to bolster morale,’ said Thomas. ‘With Don Garcia not able to send a relief force for some months, the arrival of Dragut, and the likelihood that St Elmo will fall any day, it is hardly surprising that La Valette is appealing to God for help. Piety may be the only thing that can save us now.’

  ‘Piety, and a sharp sword.’ Sir Martin chuckled as he mopped up the last of the stew with a hunk of bread. ‘Who would have thought that dog meat could be so tender? Jenkins made a fine job of it.’ He popped the bread in his mouth and chewed. When he was done he pushed the bowl away and sat back and stretched. ‘Your squire is a sombre fellow tonight.’

  Thomas glanced at Richard who was staring fixedly at the table as he mechanically spooned stew into his mouth. Catching his name, Richard glanced up. ‘I am tired, sir.’

  ‘As are we all, young man.’ Sir Martin swung his legs over the bench and swivelled round. ‘And so I shall rest before the procession. Tell Jenkins to rouse me at half past the seventh hour.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sir Martin rose to his feet and walked stiffly towards his cell. Richard waited until he was out of earshot before turning urgently to Thomas.

  ‘This is our chance to get into that dungeon at St Angelo. The dogs have been dealt with and there will be only a handful of men on duty. When are we likely to find a better opportunity?’

  Thomas was doubtful. ‘There is the drawbridge to cross, the courtyard and the entrance to the stairwell, and then the sentries outside the dungeon itself. How do you propose to pass through all of that unobserved? Besides, we shall be expected at the procession.’

  ‘The procession, yes. But we could easily slip away before the sermon starts. The streets will be empty and there are ways to deal with sentries. We have to take our chances when we can. Getting into the archive’s what we were sent here to do.’

  ‘So you keep reminding me,’ Thomas replied flatly. ‘Very well, then. Tonight it is.’

  The main streets of Birgu were brilliantly illuminated by the torches and candles held aloft by those taking part in the procession. The archbishop paced slowly at the head of the rest of his flock, holding a gilded cross above his head in both hands. Behind him came the Grand Master and the senior knights of the Order, bare-headed and dressed in plain black tunics with no belts or any other adornment. Instead of the usual boots, they wore sandals. Each man had his hands clasped together, head bowed as they chanted the Order’s penitent oaths, learned by heart when they had first joined the Order many years before. Behind them came the other knights, soldiers and civilians in a stream of humanity silently offering up prayers to God to forgive them their sins and show them divine mercy and deliverance from their enemy. Thomas and Richard had merged with the tail end of the knights and adopted the same humble posture as they wound their way through Birgu. The boom and rumble of cannon continued in the distance, accompanied by a brief red loom against the night sky above the Sciberras peninsula. While those in Birgu prayed, their comrades in St Elmo still lived under the guns of the Turks and the threat of imminent assault.

  The night air was warm and the hooded cloaks that Thomas and Richard wore to conceal their identities were stifling. Even though he accepted his companion’s argument that this night presented their best chance to find the document, Thomas had grave doubts about Richard’s plan. It lacked detail and depended far too much upon good fortune for Thomas’s liking. And they would have to live with the risk of discovery afterwards, until the day when they were able to quit Malta and return to England. Or the day when they perished amid fire and sword along with the rest of the people trapped behind the defences of Malta.

  Having paced around the limits of the small town, the archbishop led his people into the open square at the heart of Birgu. As they emerged from the street into the pool of light before the cathedral, Kichard gently tugged Thomas’s sleeve and edged towards the arched entrance of a bakery on the comer of the square. There they stopped, half concealed by the shadow of the arch, and let the rest of the people flow past and begin to fill up the square in their thousands. The archbishop reached the top of the steps leading up to the cathedral entrance and turned to begin praying. La Valette and the senior knights took up position on either side and then the most affluent and influential of the local people stood on the steps.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Richard.

  ‘Not yet. Wait until the last of them have passed by us. No point in drawing attention to ourselves by heading the wrong way.’

  Richard nodded and eased himself back into the shadow of the arch. Glancing down the street, Thomas could see that there were still several hundred more people to come, and he returned his attention to the square. It already seemed to be filled but the crowd steadily pressed forward. Children and young men climbed on to statue pediments and clung to the pillars of the more prestigious buildings fronting the square. By the entrance to the cathedral the archbishop stepped aside to give his place to a tall, thin friar whose angular face was framed by a white beard and tonsure. He gazed steadily round the square and then raised a hand to quell the last of the murmured talk and prayers.

  ‘Brethren! Hear me!’ He addressed them in French, the common tongue of those who fought and lived in Malta since the Order had first arrived. His voice was high-pitched and carried clearly across the square. ‘Beloved brethren, we are blessed to be here this day. There are amongst us those who feel accursed that they are beset by enemies whose false belief and cruel nature are works of evil. That they are, and it is right that we should fear them. In the place of faith and virtue their hearts are filled with cruelty, lust, avarice and mindless obeisance to the tyrant Suleiman and the false prophet.’ Robert of Eboli paused briefly to let his words sink in. ‘So much for the character of our enemy. That is why they are not worthy of victory,
that is why they shall not triumph. God is merciful to the good and the pious, to those who know their sins and freely and openly repent of them in the loving sight of the Lord. They shall know his love, and his protection through the travails and fortunes of life ... We few, we devout few are indeed fortunate. This place has been chosen to fight the greatest battle between the light of Christianity, and the darkness of Islam. The great test of the age is upon us, and only complete devotion to our cause can ensure our victory. In the time to come, the Christian world will look on our great feat in wonder, and each of you will hold close to your hearts the inestimable treasure of knowing that you were here, at the side of the Grand Master, fighting in the battle of battles. There are kings and queens in Europe who will hold themselves accursed that they could not be where you now stand.’ The friar threw his arms out. ‘Who here would shame themselves to change places with such a king or queen? WHO?’

  His words echoed round the square and Thomas saw that not a hand was raised against the force of such rhetoric and the fear of being shamed in the eyes of their peers. As his eyes ran over the people on the steps below the friar, they abruptly stopped at a figure standing in the light of a torch. A woman. Though she wore a dark veil over her hair, her face was clearly visible and Thomas felt his heart lurch. He took half a step forward.

  ‘What is it?’ Richard demanded. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Maria, there.’ Thomas pointed.

  She was standing next to a man in a knight’s cloak. His head was bowed so that his features were hidden, but his proximity to Maria made it clear that they were not strangers.

  ‘I must speak to her. ’

  ‘No!’ Richard seized his arm and held it firmly. ‘Not now. We have work to do.’

  Thomas’s eyes were fixed on Maria and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

  ‘You cannot go to her tonight,’ Richard hissed. ‘This might be the only chance to find what we came here for.’

  ‘She is what I came here for.’

  ‘And she will still be here after tonight. Our chance to get the document will not. Sir, be strong. Fail me here and now and thousands may die in England.’

  Thomas felt tom between his conscience and his heart. ‘I do not know what is in that document you seek but I know that I must speak to Maria.’

  ‘And you will. I swear that I will do all that I can to make it so,’ Richard said earnestly. ‘Now come, we should leave, at once.’ Thomas was still staring across the square. The man raised his head and the light of the nearby torch revealed his features clearly. Sir Oliver Stokely. He bent his head to whisper something to Maria and she smiled briefly, as if to humour him.

  The raw emotion that burned in Thomas’s breast twisted violently like a blade and after an instant of confusion, a torrent of thought, of possibilities, coursed through his fevered mind. Recent exchanges and events fell into place and the hope of a moment before crumbled before a tide of anger and a bitter sense of betrayal. ‘Sir Thomas. Come. Before the moment is lost.’

  He allowed himself to be steered out of the archway and down the darkened, empty street, and a moment later Maria, Stokely, the friar and his rapt audience were lost from sight. As their footsteps echoed lightly off the walls of the buildings lining the street, Robert of Eboli’s voice came after them.

  ‘All must ask for forgiveness, or perish in the fires of hell . . .’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  They made their way through silent darkened streets where only cats prowled now, no longer keeping a wary eye out for the dogs that used to challenge them. It would be the turn of the cats in due course, Thomas reflected, if the siege endured and food supplies began to be severely rationed. As they neared the channel that separated Birgu from the fort, the ground began to rise. This was the poorest quarter of the town where the fishermen lived in two-storey hovels, a living space above with a room beneath to dry and store their nets, and where fish were salted for winter. Ahead, the narrow street gave out onto a levelled area of gravel where the men of the garrison drilled. Beyond was the drawbridge that led into the fort. There was only one guard visible at the entrance to the fort, clutching a pike in one hand, his soft cap dipped towards his chin with weariness. There were a handful of others in the towers of the fort that overlooked the harbour on three sides.

  ‘Time to prepare,’ Richard said softly as they crouched beside the last of the fishermen’s houses. They removed their boots and pulled the hoods of their cloaks up. Richard reached into the haversack he had been wearing beneath and took out two bleached lengths of rope which they tied about their middles in the manner of friars. Then he hefted the leather cosh he had carefully packed into the bottom of his baggage before leaving England. He slipped the loop over his wrist and gave it an experimental swing to feel its weight and recall the feel of the weapon. He glanced at Thomas. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As ready as I can be for such business.’

  Richard flashed a grin in the gloom. ‘This is the business I am trained for. Trust me and follow my instructions and you will be fine.’

  They stood up and with Richard in the lead began to cross the level ground. Thomas was uncomfortable with this reversal of positions but knew that he must trust Richard. He was no longer playing the squire and had reverted to being one of Walsingham’s agents, skilled in the dark arts of subterfuge and stealth. The sound of the cannonade was much louder away from the town and the flames spurting from the batteries on the high ground above St Elmo lit up the crest of the ridge brilliantly as each round was fired. As Thomas stepped on to the weathered timbers of the drawbridge he was aware of the dark void on either side. Glancing down he saw the deck of the Turkish galleon that had been captured the year' before and had done much to provoke the Sultan’s decision to finally obliterate the Order of St John.

  The two men had almost reached the end of the drawbridge before the guard roused from where he had been leaning against the wall beside the gate.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he demanded, lowering the point of his pike a fraction and grasping the shaft firmly in both hands.

  ‘Friar Gubert and Friar Henri, from the cathedral,’ Thomas called back, as calmly as he could.

  ‘What is your business? You should be at the sermon.’

  ‘We’ve come from there,’ Thomas continued as they approached the man. ‘With orders from the Grand Master. He is to entertain Robert of Eboli afterwards and sent us to tell his steward to prepare a meal.’

  ‘His steward is at the sermon,’ the guard replied. ‘I saw him leave myself.’

  ‘Are you certain, my son?’ Thomas stepped closer, and then suddenly shot his arms out and grabbed the wrists of the astonished guard. An instant later Richard stepped round the man and swung his cosh in a savage arc towards the back of his skull. It connected with a solid thud before the man could cry out. He went limp and Thomas took up his weight and then eased him on to the ground, just inside the gate where he would be least visible.

  ‘No, not there.’ Richard lifted the guard under the shoulders and dragged him towards the drawbridge.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Thomas whispered.

  ‘He might recognise us.’

  ‘Wait.’ Thomas stepped between Richard and the drawbridge. ‘It’s dark, and we’re wearing hoods.’

  ‘He heard your voice.’

  ‘Then that’s a risk I am willing to take. Leave him,’ Thomas said firmly.

  Richard was still for a moment. ‘What if he comes round? Or he’s discovered?’

  Thomas knew that Richard’s caution was sound, from a cold- hearted point of view, but he was not prepared to see the man killed. ‘Leave him, and let’s get on with it.’

  ‘You’re being foolish,’ Richard growled. ‘You’ll get us killed.’

  ‘Not if we move fast. Now leave him be.’

  ‘Damn you!’ Richard let the guard drop then, before Thomas could intervene, viciously hit him again with his cosh. ‘There, just to make sure.’

  Wi
thout waiting for Thomas to respond Richard turned and padded through the arch of the gatehouse. Thomas breathed in deeply to calm his anger and followed. On the far side of the arch they entered a narrow passage overlooked by murder holes, then passed under the iron points of a portcullis before the passage turned at right angles towards another portcullis and then opened out on to the fort’s small courtyard.

  All was still and quiet; the enemy guns across the harbour were slightly muffled by the mass of the walls rising up towards the stars overhead. They waited a moment, hearts beating swiftly as their senses strained to detect any sign of movement. Then, satisfied that they had not been noticed, the two men crept round the edge of the courtyard towards the entrance to the storerooms and dungeons cut into the rock beneath St Angelo. Pausing on the threshold, they looked down the staircase and saw that the main guardroom was dimly lit by a handful of candles. There was no sound from below. They descended warily until they stood on the flagstone floor and looked around. The musty air was noticeably cooler and the sweat on Thomas’s forehead felt chilly. There were two large tables with benches on either side. A few bare wooden platters remained, together with some brass cups decorated with Islamic verses, part of the loot the Order had taken over the decades following their arrival in Malta. Three corridors led off the guardroom.

  ‘Which way?’ whispered Thomas.

  Thomas recalled the last time he had stood in the same spot, twenty years before, when he had overseen the soldiers tasked with carrying a chest of silver coins from the hold of La Valette’s galley to the security of the dungeons. Then there had only been one corridor opening off the guardroom.

  Richard gestured to the left passage. ‘Follow me.’

  They crossed the room and entered a tunnel. A candle guttered halfway along and dimly illuminated the regularly spaced doors on either side. As Richard led the way, Thomas felt a chill tremor of anxiety ripple down his spine. If they were discovered here, there would be no explaining away their presence. Ahead, the corridor came to a junction with yet more passages leading off to either side. The stale smell of dogs filled Thomas’s nostrils.