Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon - Страница 38

‘I met Sir Oliver earlier,’ Thomas replied coldly. ‘He does not want to speak to me. That is why I ask you, Jenkins. There are questions I must ask. Answers I must have.’

‘Sir, please, ask me not. It does my heart good to see you again. You were always one of my favourites amongst the knights before . . . you were made to leave. I pray you, do not open old wounds. What was done is over with. Nothing can be changed. It is best to forget.’

‘Yet I cannot forget!’ The anguish in his voice caused Jenkins to start and he looked up with a fearful expression.

Thomas leaned closer, his eyes blazing. ‘When I was banished, I lost everything that counted with me, everything. My comrades, my honour, my faith and . . . my love.’ The last word was uttered through clenched teeth. ‘Twenty years I have endured this. At first I tried to set my heart like stone and exile emotion.’ And he had failed pitifully in the attempt. ‘Then, when I knew I could not, I turned to the service of the warlords of Europe and yet still endured the memories that filled the void between work and sleep. Time, finally, assuaged the worst of the burden, and then I am summoned back here. Jenkins, I cannot tell you how the very sight and scent of this island have torn at my heart. To walk the streets of Birgu and enter the auberge once again has wounded my soul. Here I was once happy. That which I had prized above all else in life is gone. Maria is dead.’

‘Who says so?’

‘Sir Oliver.’ Thomas eased himself back and rubbed his brow slowly. ‘In England I had considered it, and tried to make myself believe it. What else could I do? I had no way of knowing what happened here. Every member of the Order was forbidden to communicate with me, and it would have been death for me to set foot on the island. I had come to accept that Maria was gone from my life, if never from my heart, and now I am returned and discover she is dead and it is as if I must learn to live without her all over again. Forgive me.’ Thomas looked up at the joists and took a deep breath. He had never intended for his feelings to find such expression, only to ask for the bare details of the knowledge he sought. But now it was too late and the cold, hard face he had presented to the world had melted like late snow in spring.

‘My poor master,’ said Jenkins. ‘I did not know that she, that Maria, was dead. Only that after you were banished she left Birgu.’ Thomas felt his heart lurch. ‘Where? Where did she go?’

‘I do not know, sir. All I knew was that she had gone into confinement, until the child was born. After that I heard nothing for several months. It was the following winter, when Sir Oliver was entertaining La Valette in his quarters here at the auberge. As I brought them more wine I overheard them speak of the matter. Sir Oliver said that the child, a boy, had been born, but had been sickly and died shortly afterwards.’

‘I had a son . . .’ Thomas felt an ache in his heart at the news. A son. Maria had borne his son. He was caught between the pain of knowing what he had lost and anger over never having known of it until now. It was a while before he could control his thoughts enough to speak again. ‘And Maria? What became of her?’

‘I know not, sir. There was a rumour that she had left Malta for a convent at Naples. I have not seen her since she left Birgu. If she is dead then it will have been in Naples.’ He paused and continued in a cautious tone, ‘Sir Oliver knows more than I. Ask him.’

‘I would ask but he will not speak to me of her. He hates me.’

‘Are you surprised? It was well known that he, too, had lost his heart to the lady. She chose to love you.’ Jenkins shook his head sadly. ‘It is a hard thing for a man to accept without growing bitter and hateful. I have lived long enough to see more than enough of it. Envy is a cruel master.’

‘Even so, she left our lives a long time ago, long enough, surely, to heal the wound in Sir Oliver’s heart.’

Jenkins eyed the knight warily. ‘Your heart is not yet healed.’

‘That is true,’ Thomas admitted.

‘And your arrival has reopened Sir Oliver’s wound.’

Thomas nodded his understanding and felt a great weariness settle upon him. He was tired of this life with its ceaseless burdens of suffering and memory. He craved to forget and begin anew, or simply to have an end to it all. He closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands.

‘Leave me, old friend. I must rest.’

‘Yes, sir. I know.’ Jenkins rose stiffly from the chair and made to pick up the cups and jar, hesitated a moment and then left them alone and quietly made his way towards the door. He glanced back at the knight wrapped in his inner torment, and then closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Shortly after first light the next morning Thomas and Richard were roused by a servant of La Valette with an order to attend the Grand Master at his headquarters. Sir Martin was still snoring as they hurriedly left the auberge and made their way through the quiet streets and across the drawbridge into the fort of St Angelo. Don Garcia was with the Grand Master, impatient to begin his inspection of the defences. While La Valette’s expertise lay in naval warfare, Don Garcia had considerable experience of the battlefield and siegecraft.

They started with the fortifications of St Angelo which commanded the harbour approaches to the Birgu promontory. Don Garcia had insisted on climbing every tower, and then descending into the bowels of the fort to examine the store chambers and cisterns before he announced his satisfaction.

‘A well-founded structure. If the Turks break into Birgu, then the remaining knights can fall back here and hold out until relieved.’

‘Or until they — we — are pounded to pieces by the enemy’s cannon,’ the Grand Master responded.

Don Garcia ignored the comment and requested to be shown the defences of Birgu. These he was much less satisfied with. Work parties of galley slaves, chained together, were labouring to raise the height and depth of the walls and bastions that protected the base of the promontory. More slaves, under the watchful eyes of soldiers, were busy breaking up the rocky ground outside the wall to deepen the shallow ditch that lay in front of the defences.

A short walk to the south brought the party to the ditch and wall that protected the Senglea promontory. Behind stood the fort of St Michael, guarding the bare finger of land that stretched out beside the creek where the galleons, fishing boats and the Order’s seven galleys lay at anchor. Once again, Don Garcia thoroughly explored the fort and made his observations about the defences from the tower that afforded the best view.

‘The weak point is that shore facing those heights over there.’ He pointed across the strip of water known to the locals as French Creek. Beyond the water the ground was level for a short distance before it rose steeply a quarter of a mile from the fort. ‘The Turks could mount heavy guns there to enfilade the outer defences. There’s not much that we can do about that.’

Thomas cleared his throat. ‘There’s a rather bigger danger, sir.’ Don Garcia turned to look at him with a slight frown.

‘What’s that?’ asked the Spanish commander.

Thomas pointed towards the shore of the Senglea promontory facing the heights. A few small redoubts constructed from rock were spread along the water’s edge. ‘There’s not much to stop a landing there. If the Turks seize the point then they can land cannon and bombard St Michael from the rear. They will also be able to destroy the ships in Dockyard Creek and fire on Birgu.’

‘You’re right.’ Don Garcia stroked his beard. ‘It would be a disaster.’

‘The threat has already been taken in hand,’ La Valette intervened. ‘I have given orders for a line of stakes to be driven into the seabed ten paces from the shore. There will be an iron loop on each stake for a chain to pass through. Any boats attempting a landing there will run up on the chain and those on board will have to swim ashore.’