The Dream and the Glory

by Barbara Cartland

  “If you think I am going to wait until I am twenty-four,” David exclaimed, “you are very mistaken. When I come of age in October, I will be in control of my fortune and I can then give instructions to the shipyard.”

  Cordelia was silent.

  She was well aware that a ship would cost a great deal to build.

  While it was accepted that David’s personal fortune should become the property of the Order on his death, she knew that their relatives and Trustees were hoping that on attaining his majority he would spend his wealth carefully.

  They had heard that many of the Knights were wildly extravagant.

  “Of course I realise,” David was saying, “that I cannot touch any of my inheritance that is entailed for the benefit of the estate, but equally my own fortune will be in my hands on the 12th of October and after that no one need try to dissuade me from doing what I wish to do.”

  He spoke truculently and Cordelia responded gently,

  “Any opposition you may have encountered, David, has only arisen because our relatives love you and wish perhaps to safeguard you against yourself.”

  “I have no wish to be safeguarded,” David retorted. “Ludwig tells me thart the Order are very grateful for privately owned vessels because their own Navy is not as large as it was and is insignificant compared to those of the British or the French.”

  Cordelia gave a little sigh.

  She was quite certain that, headstrong as usual, David would do as he wished and she thought that maybe the only person who could make him see sense was Mark Stanton.

  Ever since they had come on board and David had seen his cousin in a position of authority, his attitude showed a respect that had not been there previously.

  ‘In fact,’ Cordelia told herself with a little smile, ‘I am certain that by the time we reach Malta, David will be hero-worshipping Mark.’

  She had been so intent on listening to her brother that she had not noticed that, having left the bridge, Mark was approaching them.

  She was aware of his presence without turning round and then she felt his hand on her shoulder.

  “You are all right?” he asked, “and quite comfortable?”

  “It’s wonderful being at sea,” she replied, “and travelling in such a magnificent ship.”

  She saw the pleasure in his eyes.

  He sat down beside her as David jumped to his feet and hurried to look at something that had attracted his attention.

  When he was out of earshot, Cordelia said in a low voice,

  “As I think you must have realised, David is determined to buy a ship of his own.”

  “There is no reason why he should not do so when he can afford it,” Mark Stanton replied.

  “That will be in October when he comes of age. I am sure you think that it would be better to wait a while.”

  He looked at her with a little smile.

  “You sound like a mother hen fussing over her obstreperous chick,” he teased. “Don’t concern yourself unduly. I will look after David and not allow him to make too many expensive mistakes during his first year in Malta.”

  Cordelia gave a little sigh of relief.

  “Thank you. You are so kind and I cannot imagine what we would have done without you.”

  She spoke without thinking and then she remembered how he had saved her from the Duca and the colour rose in her cheeks.

  His uncanny perception where she was concerned made him know what she was thinking and he said gently,

  “Forget it. It’s all over. One should never look back, but always forward.”

  “Is that your philosophy?” she asked curiously.

  “There is always so much to do ahead of us,” he answered. “It seems to me an incredible waste of time to regret the past when we can do nothing about it.”

  “How wise and sensible you are!”

  “Unfortunately wisdom comes only with age. When I was young, I was like David. I acted first and thought afterwards.”

  Cordelia laughed.

  “You speak as if you are already grey-headed.”

  “One grows old quickly when one is at sea,” he answered.

  As if what he was saying alerted him to the responsibility of his command, he rose to his feet and walked back to the bridge shouting at the look-out in the crow’s nest at the top of the mast to keep good watch.

  Cordelia realised that the ship’s crew must always be alert and this was essential for their own protection. To be taken by surprise was to lose everything they valued including their lives.

  But there were no incidents on the voyage to Malta and, when at last they had their first sight of the island bathed in sunshine, it seemed to be the Golden Paradise that David had yearned to reach.

  Cordelia knew from her maps that the archipelago was small. In fact Malta, Mark had told her, was but seventeen miles long and nine miles broad.

  He had made David work out the longitude and the latitude of the group of islands that lay at the crossroads of the Mediterranean, halfway between Gibraltar and Egypt.

  But it was not its strategical position that was exciting as the St. Jude drew nearer, but the mile upon mile of fortified curtain and bastion rising out of the sea itself.

  It gave an impression of strength and impregnability that was indescribable.

  The powerful shapes of the massive Forts dominated the craggy outline of the coast and when they were nearer still Cordelia could see that the high surfaces of the Valetta fortifications seemed to form a plinth for the lace-like intricacies of Baroque Palaces and Churches.

  “Malta! Malta at last,” David cried at her side.

  There was a note of exaltation in his voice and his eyes held the expression of a Visionary.

  “Don’t expect too much, dearest,” Cordelia begged him. “I could not bear you to be disappointed.”

  “It will not only be what I see and hear in Malta that matters,” David replied, “but what I feel in my soul.”

  Cordelia slipped her arm through his.

  “Your dream will come true because you believe.”

  “Yes, I believe,” David repeated and she felt that it was in the nature of a vow.

  Cordelia was to discover that Malta was an island of contrasts.

  Although the impressive Auberges and Palace commanded her admiration, she found Valetta’s narrow streets teeming with life were so fascinating that she wanted to spend hours just looking at them.

  When they docked, Mark Stanton insisted on taking her immediately to the house where she would be staying and introducing her to her host and hostess with whom he was already acquainted.

  Count Manduca was Maltese and his ancestors had lived in Malta long before the Knights had been granted Sovereignty by Charles V, the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

  The Count was married to an Englishwoman and their three sons, who had been brought up in Malta, now lived abroad.

  “We are delighted to welcome you, Lady Cordelia,” the Count said with an old world grace that made Cordelia think of Sir William Hamilton.

  “It is for me a pleasure I cannot express to entertain one of my countrywomen,” the Countess told her. “I am only afraid I shall bore you with all my questions about England, which I have not visited for twenty years.”

  “I shall be only too happy to tell you anything you wish to know,” Cordelia replied, “if you will answer my questions about Malta.”

  The Countess laughed and showed Cordelia around her beautifully furnished house, which stood in one of the main streets of Valetta.

  “We have also a Villa in the country,” she said, “where we will stay later in the summer when it becomes too hot in the City.”

  Cordelia said ‘goodbye’ to David and Mark and she knew that she would not see them again until the following day.

  But because she was so eager to explore Valetta she was up early in the morning and the Countess showed her the outside of some of the famous Auberges with their magnificent stone carvings and the shops
, which were unlike any she had seen before.

  The goods that were brought to Malta as a great trading Port, either legitimately or because they had been captured on the high seas, made the City a melting pot of East and West that was unique.

  There were goldsmiths and silversmiths and vendors of rich Eastern brocades, curios and precious stones. There were makers of carved and inlaid furniture, bird-fanciers and cobblers.

  What fascinated Cordelia most were the stands on which sweets, spices and rare tropical fruits were displayed, but there were other stalls with glittering rapiers, enamelled poniards and gold-hilted swords.

  “I never imagined anything could be so fascinating,” she told the Countess.

  Her hostess smiled.

  “These people pander to the luxurious tastes of four hundred noble warriors,” she replied, “and many of the Knights are very wealthy.”

  It seemed somehow incongruous to Cordelia when she remembered that all the Knights took the vow of poverty. But she remembered that their possessions only passed to the Order when they died and many were not prepared to deny themselves every comfort during their lifetime.

  Meanwhile she contented herself with trying to take in all the beauty, the colour and the unusualness of Valetta.

  She knew, of course, that David had first to be a Novice and that he would not take part in the solemn Ceremony of Investiture for some months.

  Then he would become a Knight of St. John, which was the final profession of his faith. It could be dissolved only by death, dispensation or disgrace.

  The afternoon after they had arrived David came to visit her, thrilled with everything that he had seen and the welcome he had received in his Tongue.

  Cordelia felt that she had already lost him as a brother, that she now only belonged to his past and could take no part in his future.

  The Anglo-Bavarian Tongue, which had only been opened for six years, overlooked the Marsamuscette harbour and was a fine building, which had been the Palace of the Bailiff of Acre.

  David was very impressed by its magnificence and he also informed Cordelia that the Knights of his Tongue had a special Military Post, a Chapel, a playground and a Gallery.

  “We are trained in the discipline of arms on the ramparts,” David enthused, “and we have to attend military practice and shooting at least three times a week.”

  “You will enjoy it,” Cordelia smiled.

  “It is very important that we should be proficient in the art of war,” David said seriously. “Everyone here seems to talk of nothing else.”

  “Oh, David, I hope not!” Cordelia said impulsively.

  “I only hope hostilities don’t start before I have a chance to learn everything that the instructors can teach me.”

  He chattered away and was so excited that Cordelia did not like to dampen his enthusiasm with her own apprehensions.

  He had brought with him a servant whom Mark had recommended to him and he wanted Cordelia to meet the man.

  Giuseppe Vella was small, dark-skinned and aged about thirty. Cordelia liked his honest eyes and respectful attitude and she was sure that David could trust him.

  She was also certain that no one could be a more reliable judge of a man’s character than Mark.

  ‘“Vella can inform me of many things I want to know,” David told her.

  “I am sure that will be a great help,” Cordelia smiled and said to the Maltese, “I am so glad that you will be looking after my brother.”

  Vella bowed.

  “I will serve my Master faithfully and to the best of my ability.”

  When David had gone and Mark Stanton called, Cordelia thanked him for finding David a servant and she asked if it was true that Malta was anticipating enemy action.

  Mark Stanton hesitated before he replied, for he did not wish to admit to Cordelia of all people that he was extremely perturbed by the situation in Valetta.

  When he had last been in Malta, he had been well aware that there were French spies moving about the defences and doubtless sending reports if not actual plans to Bonaparte.

  It must have been impossible for the Grand Master not to realise the dangers of Malta’s position.

  It was almost incredible that von Hompesch should have done nothing about it.

  Mark Stanton had expected to find a great deal of activity taking place, but to his astonishment von Hompesch had made no attempt to remedy any deficiencies or to strengthen the fortifications.

  The previous March Mark Stanton had been in Malta when the French Admiral de Brueys requested some repairs to one of his Battleships while his fleet waited offshore.

  Uncertain of the intentions of the French, von Hompesch had ordered a general alert.

  Everyone in Malta had noticed that the muster of men amounted to little more than a third of what was considered necessary to defend the island.

  But Admiral de Brueys, however, had set about allaying the fears of the Garrison, making himself particularly pleasant to the Grand Master.

  It was beautiful spring weather and curious watchers from the rooftops of the old Capital of Notabile could see and admire a flotilla of seventeen Warships anchored a mile out to sea.

  That was three months ago and Mark Stanton had felt certain that while he had been away von Hompesch would have trained more artillerymen.

  When this morning he had asked for an audience with the Grand Master, he found that he had in fact spent the three months since the French Admiral’s visit reviving old Ceremonies and religious festivals that had long been abandoned as being out of date.

  Speaking quietly, without allowing any sign of his surprise or dissatisfaction at the Grand Master’s behaviour to show in his voice or in his bearing, Mark Stanton had told him the secret information that had been imparted to him by the Princess.

  “Can you really credit that Napoleon Bonaparte would attempt to acquire Egypt?” von Hompesch asked almost contemptuously.

  “I cannot conceive for what other reason he is building so large a fleet in the Mediterranean, Your Eminence,” Mark Stanton replied. “If he needed ships to defend the Northern coastline of France against the British, he would have used the shipyards of Boulogne or Le Havre.”

  “I see your point,” the Grand Master conceded.

  “On his way to Egypt,” Mark Stanton went on, “Bonaparte will pass directly by Malta. It is obvious that he will wish to water and perhaps to re-victual his ships.”

  “You know the regulations of 1756 as well as I do, Captain Stanton,” the Grand Master replied. “Only four ships can enter the Grand Harbour at one time.”

  “And you are able to enforce such a regulation, Your Eminence?”

  “There is no reason to believe that any force will be necessary,” the Grand Master said coldly. “We have the support of Russia and Austria, neither of whom would allow Malta to be attacked.”

  “I hope you are right, Your Eminence.”

  Mark Stanton bowed formally, thanked the Grand Master for granting him an audience and left the Palace.

  He wended his way through the magnificent rooms with their Gobelin tapestries and frieze of frescoes illustrating the Grand Siege of 1565 and thought bitterly that he would have been treated in a very different manner if de Rohan had been alive.

  The Prince had been a Grand Master that Mark Stanton could really admire.

  He used to smile at his own family motto, which when translated read, “I cannot be King, I will not be Duke, I am Rohan!” He was so progressive, so broad-minded. He kept the latest scientific and economic works beside his bed and rose at daybreak to read them.

  He was accessible and affable to everyone, but he would never have faced the position as it was at the moment with the limp apathetic optimism of von Hompesch.

  ‘He is living in cloud-cuckoo-land,’ Mark said to himself.

  But there was no point in explaining all this to Cordelia. It would only worry her and he wanted her to enjoy Malta.

  He had not yet decided what
should be done when she was ready to leave, but he had already told himself that his young cousin was his responsibility and it would be up to him to find some way of transporting her safely back to England. The Countess Manduca not only wished to show Cordelia the architectural beauties of Malta, she also wished to entertain her socially.

  That Cordelia was staying with a Maltese family was due to an arrangement made by the Grand Master de Rohan before his death.

  It was quite usual for relatives to accompany prospective Knights to Malta and, as David had no father or mother, he had decided that Cordelia should be his companion.

  De Rohan had for some years tried to bridge the gulf that existed between the Maltese Nobility and the Knights.

  In every office of the island, except that of the Bishop and the Grand Prior who were sometimes Maltese, the lowest Knight was of more consequence than the highest Maltese.

  De Rohan held soirées that Maltese ladies were invited to and he encouraged them to patronise the theatre of which he was an enthusiast.

  He even created new titles and held all-night balls.

  He knew it would please the Maltese community if the sister of an Earl and a member of one of the noblest families in England stayed with the Count and Countess Manduca.

  It was, however, Mark Stanton who arranged that Cordelia should be shown the Auberges by one of the Conventional Chaplains, a Priest of the Order who knew more about the treasures collected over the centuries than anyone else.

  She was entranced by the Council Chamber lined with magenta and canary brocade, with the walls and ceilings of the Auberge de Provence painted with green, crimson, beige and blue arabesques and flowers.

  The cut-glass chandeliers from Murano, rugs from Damascus, carved sideboards from Amsterdam, china from Dresden and closets from Lisbon had all been presents to the Order.

  She also admired the huge stone staircases with heavy Baroque carvings and garlandings, and the enclosed courts where there were fountains and orange trees.

  In every Auberge, she learnt, the Knights ate their meals off solid silver dishes.

  “Have you known my cousin Captain Stanton, for long, Father?” she asked the Chaplain as they walked from one to another.

  “For several years, Lady Cordelia,” he replied. “He has a high standard of seamanship that is an example to all our young Knights.”