Sword and Scimitar

by Simon Scarrow

  The monk sucked in his breath. ‘You had extensive burns to your left leg and hip and on your left arm and the right side of your neck and face. Your eye was scorched and damaged and I doubt that you can see much out of it. Am I right?’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Just shadows.’

  ‘As I feared.’ The monk gestured down Thomas’s left side. ‘Your skin and muscle tissue were badly damaged and will take many more months to heal. There will be a permanent tightness in your arm and leg and they will not flex as fully as they once did. And they will be painful. I would say your fighting days are behind you, Sir Thomas. Even though the Grand Master is short of men and is filling out the ranks with boys, dotards and any man still fit enough to hold a weapon, I have to say that this present conflict will be over before you recover enough to play any useful part.’

  ‘Bring me a mirror,’ Thomas said quietly.

  ‘Later. You should rest. Then I shall bring you soup, and some bread.’

  ‘I want a mirror. Now.’

  The monk hesitated a moment, and then nodded. ‘As you wish, Sir Thomas. A moment then.’

  He stood up and walked out of the chamber. While he was gone, Thomas gritted his teeth and edged himself up the bed so that his shoulders were on the bolster and his head rested against the stone wall behind his bed. For a moment he had to fight off the pain from his side. The monk returned with a small square mirror of polished steel and handed it to Thomas.

  ‘There. Though you may not like what you see.’

  Thomas raised the mirror above his face and stared at his reflection. A short distance from the mid-line of his features the skin was tight and glossy like highly polished marble streaked with red and purple. The skin round his right eye was swollen and red, and the eyeball was bloodshot and the lens appeared milky. He adjusted the angle and saw that there were only tufts of hair on that side of his skull and his ear looked withered. Moving the mirror again he drew the sheet covering him aside and examined the left of his body, shocked by the tortured flesh he saw there. Swallowing, Thomas handed the mirror back and covered himself again.

  ‘She saw me like this?’ he asked softly.

  ‘You looked far worse for the first two weeks.’ The monk gestured towards his head. ‘The scarring is permanent but the colour will fade. Most of the hair will grow back but some patches will remain bald. You may find that your vow of chastity will be a little easier to keep from now on.’ He smiled to show that he was making a joke, albeit a harsh one.

  Thomas turned his face to the wall at his side. ‘I am tired. I need to sleep.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, Sir Thomas. Do you wish me to send a message to Lady Maria to say that you are awake?’

  ‘No,’ he replied quickly. ‘Let her rest too.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll bring you food later, once you have slept.’ Thomas heard the scuffing of the monk’s sandals as he moved off, and then he shut his eyes tightly as they filled with tears of grief. He no longer felt like a man. He felt repulsed by what he had seen in the mirror, and shamed by the idea that he would no longer be fit enough to fight or hunt or take part in the myriad pastimes of other men. Worse still, if the Turks carried the day and captured Birgu, then he and all the others too helpless to defend themselves would be butchered where they lay, like swine.

  He eventually fell back into a troubled sleep and awoke close to midday, as far as he could calculate from the angle of the light streaming in through the window. As he stirred and his eyes flickered open, he saw Richard sitting on a stool beside his bed. The young man’s head was slumped on his chest and a thick stubble of dark hair covered his jaw. His hair was matted with sweat and dust and the skin round his eyes was dark with fatigue. His doublet was filthy and torn in several places and there were scabs from cuts and scrapes on his hands and face.

  Thomas reached out his left hand, wincing at the sting the movement caused, and gently touched his son’s cheek. Richard twitched as if to discourage some bothersome insect and Thomas could not help smiling at the gesture as he let his hand drop back to his side.

  ‘Richard . . .’

  The young man’s eyes flickered open at the mention of his name and he stirred wearily, then his lips parted in a warm smile. ‘You’re back with us at last.’

  ‘Did you doubt I would be?’

  ‘Not me.’ Richard chuckled. ‘Just that monk. He was certain we were wasting our efforts and that you should just be given the last rites. I told him I had served you long enough to know that you would not die half so easily.’

  Thomas glanced round the room and saw that they would not be overheard. ‘Does he know that I am your father?’

  ‘No. Any more than he knows that you are a man without faith.’ Thomas nodded with relief. Either one of those truths could be dangerous and it was impossible to know what he might have revealed in his delirious condition. He gestured to the table beside Richard. ‘Some water please.’

  He managed to drink it unaided this time and once his throat and lips were moistened, he felt more able to converse. ‘The monk gave me some idea of what has happened since I have been recovering, but tell me, how is the Grand Master coping?’

  ‘Him?’ Richard smiled thinly. ‘La Valette is as hard as steel through and through. He is everywhere, encouraging the men and promising that we shall live through this trial. I tell you, he is a man possessed by the idea of confounding the will of Sultan Suleiman. He has also made it impossible for there to be any thought of surrender.’

  ‘How so?’

  Richard chewed his lip briefly. ‘It was something that happened after St Elmo was taken. The next morning, at first light, a lookout on St Angelo saw some objects floating in the water close to the wall. They turned out to be the bodies of four knights and that of Robert of Eboli, nailed to crosses, all of them beheaded. When they were fished out of the sea we saw that plaques had been nailed to the crosses naming the men - Mas, Miranda, Stokely and Monserrat, as well as Robert of Eboli. Besides hacking their heads off, the enemy had torn their hearts out.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Thomas muttered. ‘What happened then?’

  Richard pursed his lips. ‘La Valette repaid them in kind. He had all of the Turkish prisoners brought from the dungeons and taken up on to the walls of St Angelo where the enemy could see them. There they had their throats cut, one by one, and when it was over La Valette gave the order for their heads to be loaded into cannon and fired across the harbour into the enemy lines . . . A day later Mustafa Pasha sent a herald to announce that henceforth there would be no quarter given. If Birgu and Senglea fall, he promises to kill every living thing his men encounter.’ Richard paused. ‘So it is death or victory for us now.’

  ‘It always has been. La Valette was at Rhodes when it surrendered to Suleiman. I think he resolved then never to taste such a defeat ever again.’ Thomas was silent for a moment before he reached out and took his son’s hand. ‘You saved my life. I am in your debt. And it is one I fear I shall never be able to repay with this body.’

  ‘Father, you gave me life. What man can ever repay that? Think no more on it. It was my duty, as your squire, and as your son.’ Thomas gently squeezed Richard’s hand. ‘If only I deserved to be your father . . .’

  Richard looked away and withdrew his hand. ‘I would not take too much pride in me. I have done questionable things in my time. Don’t forget, I am Walsingham’s man. I came here for Henry’s last will and testament, and I have it. Stokely told me where to find it. If I live, then Walsingham will expect me to take it back to him.’ Thomas thought for a moment. The will would always be a potent weapon in the hands of whoever possessed it. The Catholics would use it to shatter the grip that Elizabeth held over many of the most powerful men in her realm. Walsingham would be only too willing to use it to blackmail the Queen into sanctioning his persecution of the Catholics in England, whom he saw as his enemy.

  Thomas looked directly at his son. ‘You could take it back. Or you could destroy it. You understand full wel
l the implications of the will. The choice is yours. I trust that you will make the right decision.’ There was a moment of silence before Thomas went on. ‘No man is beyond redemption. Just as no man is immune from doing the wrong thing. Son, I know this better than most. Think on it. I would not have you go through life carrying a burden like I have. Learn from me.’

  Richard gazed at him and then glanced towards the door. ‘I had better go. I need to prepare my men for a patrol tonight. I’ll come again, when I can. Goodbye, Father.’

  He stood up and walked away. At the door he paused and then Maria stepped into view and held his arms and kissed him on the cheek. Richard received the kiss awkwardly before he raised a hand to touch her arm gently. Then he bowed his head and eased himself from her grasp and strode off down the corridor. Maria stared after him fondly, then turned back towards the room, towards Thomas, a smile lighting up her face as she saw that he was awake. The image he had seen earlier in the mirror was still fresh in Thomas’s mind and he angled the scarred side of his face away from her as she approached and sat down.

  Neither spoke at first and then Thomas swallowed nervously and cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry for your loss. Oliver was a good man.’

  ‘Yes. . . Yes, he was.’ The sadness in her tone was genuine. ‘He was kind to me, until the end. It was your presence that changed him. It could not be helped. I was never able to give him what he wanted from me. What you always had.’ She reached out and tentatively cupped his cheek. Her skin was smooth and cool and Thomas closed his eyes as he breathed in the faint scent of her.

  ‘I should have been a better wife to him.’ Maria glanced in the direction Richard had gone. ‘And Oliver should have let me be a better mother to my . . . our son. He knows the truth but he cannot forgive me for past wrongs.’

  Thomas laughed drily and she turned to look down at him with a frown. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just that we have all made such a mess of things. Me, you, Oliver, Richard. There is no escaping the past. Not for us. Nor for La Valette or Suleiman. We are all the prisoners of our history, Maria.’

  ‘Only if we choose to be.’ She leaned closer to him and kissed his brow. ‘There is time to change.’

  A shot struck the fort and the impact was felt by all in the room and dislodged some plaster. Thomas could not help a wry smile. ‘Not for those involved in this struggle.’

  ‘For us, and for Richard, there is still a chance to mend the bonds that were broken. I would have that. I would hold you in my arms again, my love.’

  ‘Even like this?’ Thomas said harshly as he turned his head for her to see the livid scars on his face and scalp. He flicked the sheet back to reveal his left side. Maria’s calm expression never wavered.

  ‘Do you think I have not seen your injuries? It was I who changed your dressings and cleaned your wounds. I saw to your most base needs. I know your body more intimately than your own mother ever did. I grieved for your suffering even as I tended you and I prayed each night that you might live. And God, in his infinite mercy, has answered me.’

  Maria’s words struck a cold chord in Thomas’s heart. ‘If it is God’s will that we should have endured all that we have, then what does God know about the quality of mercy? I am done with God, Maria. All that now matters to me is you, Richard and the men at whose side I fight.’ He paused and smiled grimly. ‘Though I should say, fought. For I am destined to be a poor soldier now.’

  Maria stared at him. ‘You have no faith?’

  ‘Not in God. And, until recently, precious little in people. Yet I have seen the best and worst in men these last months. I count it a great pity that it takes a conflict over something as insubstantial as faith to test the valour and venality of men.’

  ‘It is God’s test then,’ Maria countered fervently. ‘His test of our resolve. He still has a purpose for you, Thomas.’

  He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. ‘Maria. I am what you see before you and that is all. I would not be a burden to you. I love you, and always have. But I am a changed man from the young knight you once knew. To me, you are still the same Maria and I wish nothing more than to be at your side until the end of my life. But I would not want to be there under any degree of sufferance. Not for my body, or my character, or my beliefs. I would have you think on that before you choose to be my wife, if that is your desire.’

  ‘But it is, my love.’

  Thomas touched her lips with his fingers. ‘Hush now. I would not have you give an answer before you have thought it through. And I am tired. Very tired. Go now and we can speak again when I have rested, and you have reflected.’

  She made to speak, then stopped herself. Her lips pressed together in a thin line and she nodded. Maria leaned forward to kiss the puckered skin of his scarred cheek and stood up. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow then.’ He nodded.

  She smiled and left the room hurriedly, cuffing her cheek as she passed through the door and out of sight. The soft slap of her sandals quickly faded and Thomas stared up at the ceiling, his heart heavy.

  Until Maria had considered the realities of what he had become, he would not have her. To accept her as his wife, only for her to come to wish she had chosen differently, would be the worst fate of all, Thomas reflected.

  ‘I see your visitors have gone.’

  Thomas opened his eyes and saw Christopher smiling down at him. He held a small wooden tray bearing a bowl, cup, spoon and a meagre hunk of dry bread.

  ‘The meal I promised you. Can you sit up, or should I help?’

  ‘I can do it myself.’ Thomas gritted his teeth and eased himself up the bed until he was propped against the wall. The monk placed the tray on the stool beside him and Thomas found that the pleasant odour of the soup made him feel hungry. As he carefully took a few sips with the spoon, the monk looked out of the window.

  ‘There are clouds to the north. There’s rain coming. A storm perhaps. Yes, a storm, I think. The end of the season is almost upon us. Pray God we hold out until the autumn arrives.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  For the next two days Maria returned each morning and on the third day Thomas felt strong enough to venture on to the walls of St Angelo. The air was still and the flags and standards of both sides hung limply. Dark clouds loomed over the island, a sign of the abrupt change in the weather that portended the end of the summer. The enemy guns were concentrating their fire on what was left of the defences that protected Birgu and the walls of the fort were safe to walk, for the moment. Maria had not mentioned the exchange that had taken place between them that first day after Thomas had recovered from his fever, and such talk as there was between them was pleasant enough as they cautiously felt their way towards each other. It only became halting when they spoke of the future.

  The last time he had beheld the vista of the harbour and the surrounding landscape from St Angelo, the peninsulas of Senglea and Birgu had been largely untouched by the siege. Now Thomas gazed out over an apocalyptic panorama of death and destruction. The outworks of St Michael and Birgu had been flattened and the main walls were little more than piles of rubble stretching between the battered bastions. Nearly all the buildings in the town of Birgu had been damaged by roundshot and many had collapsed. Masts and rigging emerged from the sea off the eastern shore of the peninsula where La Valette had given orders for ships to be sunk to prevent the Turks attempting to land there. Although it had been a month since the Turks’ failed seaborne assault on Senglea, the channel between the two peninsulas held by the defenders was still littered with the shattered remains of galleys, and hundreds of bloated and discoloured corpses which created a nauseous stench in the streets of Birgu when the hot breeze blew in from the open sea.

  Turkish batteries had been sited on every vantage point and kept up a steady fire on the defenders, levelling what remained of the out defences and occasionally lobbing a shot into the town to harass the civilian population and eat away at what was left of their morale. The landscape
between the walls and the Turkish trenches was scarred by the passage of cannonballs and scorched by the incendiary weapons hurled by each side. The usual courtesies of war had been abandoned; any parties that dared to venture out to collect and bury the bodies were immediately fired on. As a result, thousands of corpses and shattered limbs lay beyond the walls of Birgu, carrion for the gulls to feed on.

  Thomas beheld the scene in shocked silence. Even though he had witnessed the savage struggle for St Elmo, that had been on a small scale compared with what now lay before him. It seemed hard to believe that the enemy could not easily scale the rubble that was all that was left of the defences of Birgu. Only the hastily constructed inner works that blocked off the streets leading into the town would then stand in their way.

  Maria had been watching his reaction to the sight of the battlefield. ‘It’s hard to remember what this island looked like before the Turks came. It seems a long time ago now. Sometimes I find it hard to remember that there was a life before all this. Or to believe that there will ever be a life after it that is not forever in its shadow. ’

  ‘It will pass from memory,’ Thomas replied. ‘A hundred years from now this will all be forgotten save for a brief mention in historical accounts of our time. We are good at forgetting such things, else there would be an end to war.’

  ‘Some things are not forgotten,’ Maria said quietly. ‘Nor can they be, no matter how hard the mind wills it.’

  Thomas was silent for a moment, and then nodded. ‘That is true.’

  ‘Then why deny the consequences of it?’ she asked in a plaintive tone. ‘If you find something in life that is true and pure, and know it to be so in the depths of your heart, surely it should be embraced? As surely as one believes in God.’

  Thomas turned his gaze away from the devastation beyond the walls of St Angelo and fixed her with his one good eye. ‘Are you as sure of our affection for each other as you are certain of your faith?’

  ‘Of course.’