William Napier: The Great Siege

‘War has changed,’ murmured the old knight sadly. ‘Oh to have fought and died at Krak des Chevaliers! But now guns and gunpowder reign over all, and chivalry is no more.’

‘There is always chivalry,’ growled Blackbeard unexpectedly.

‘Suleiman’s army numbers perhaps forty thousand men,’ said the fairhead, ‘and his corps of Janizaries — well, you know the Janizaries.’

‘No warriors more ferocious under heaven,’ murmured the old knight.

‘They long to die for the faith, and go straight to their promised Paradise. They champ at the bit for war like maddened horses. Suleiman’s navy is the greatest fleet seen on the Mediterranean since the days of Ancient Rome. And over this vast force presides Suleiman himself, seventy years of age, and not a whit more peaceable for his white hairs. Scarce one decade of his life has been spent at peace. And he is in a hurry now to finish the job. Before he dies. To destroy Christendom once and for all.’

Sir Francis’s old face, battered and weather-beaten, furrowed with disbelief. ‘You really believe he could do this?’

‘I do,’ said the fairhead quietly. ‘He has planned all his life for it. Once he has taken Malta, then he will fall on the rest of Europe like a ravening wolf. And as we squabble and fight amongst ourselves, weakened and vulnerable, he will devour us one by one. The entire conquest could be achieved in no more than … five years?’

A heavy silence oppressed the small oak-dark room. Suddenly it seemed as if even here, in this peaceful corner of a quiet English shire, the shadow of an evil power in the East was arising.

‘His entire army,’ resumed the fairhead, ‘this numberless armada, will soon be sailing. As soon as spring comes, and the seas quiet, this army of fanatics will sail west, and descend on Malta. And you know how crude the defences of our barren island home, compared to our beloved Rhodes before. Or Acre-’

‘Or Krak des Chevaliers.’

‘And you know how many we are. Even with all our scattered European brothers, eight or nine hundred at most. Against forty thousand. Valorous we may be, but that is no fight we can win. We need all aid, brother. And we need it now.’

Ingoldsby looked from one to the other. Nicholas felt invisible. ‘You are not men for wild exaggeration. And if Jean de la Valette has heard from his spies that the Turkish fleet is sailing soon, and the Sultan’s evil eye has fallen on Malta — then I do not doubt it. But you know that I am no longer a knight, though a thousand times I have wished I were. You know that when King Henry, and the entire realm of England, broke from Rome, the Catholic Order of St John was suppressed throughout this kingdom. And you know that each and every Knight of the English Langue was forced to make the most dreadful decision of his life. To abandon the Order — or to abandon his country.’

His father trembled with emotion.

‘My Brother Knights, you are my brothers no longer. I chose my country, for I am as proud and loyal an Englishman as any. You will understand the agony of that choice. I returned to my ancestral shire, and my family, I married and became a father. Infants on my knee, daughters kissing my old grizzled cheek, tearaway sons.’ He glanced at Nicholas. ‘A very different destiny from that of a warrior monk, you will agree. Yet in my youth I fought my way through the bitter Siege of Rhodes, shoulder to shoulder with Jean de la Valette himself, against that same devil’s son Suleiman who now threatens Malta.

‘After some happy years, my beloved young wife … went to a better place. I farmed. I raised my children. And I worshipped my Lord and Saviour in the Catholic faith. Though this is now a Protestant country, it has been so for only six years, since Mary Tudor died. Her Majesty, Elizabeth, does not wish to pry too deeply into the private faith of her subjects, so long as they are obedient. In her own words, she does wish to make windows into men’s souls . Here among our quiet Shropshire hills, we worship as we see fit, in secrecy but not in shame. Loyal to both the Queen of England and His Holiness in Rome.’

‘And the knights are sworn never to draw their sword against a fellow Christian,’ said the fairhead.

‘Quite so. I have nothing but contempt for these damned plots to assassinate our Queen and have a Catholic monarch on the English throne once more. The People of England have ever gone their own way.’

Blackbeard drained his wine in a single gulp. The fire crackled. The wind was subsiding a little.

‘Any aid you can send, brother,’ said the fairhead. ‘Gold. Guns. Prayers.’

They drew their cloaks from the back of the chairs, still heavy with rain.

‘Stay one night under my roof, at least.’

The fairhead shook his head with a sad smile. ‘Walls have ears, wells talk. We have put you in danger even coming to your door. And as I said — there is no time. I dream the same dream every night now. The vast shadow of an approaching army.’

‘Well,’ said Sir Francis. ‘Tomorrow I will make contact with what few English brothers remain, and set about raising what aid I can for my old order.’ He inhaled deeply, thrusting his chest out in pride. ‘Nicholas, you are looking at two of the finest knights of the venerable Order of St John. Knights Hospitaller. Crusaders.’

The very words, so strange and antique, thrilled Nicholas to the bone.

‘This,’ he said, indicating the fairhead, ‘is Sir Edward Stanley, Knight Grand Cross. And this is Sir John Smith, likewise Knight Grand Cross. Knights of St John of Malta, warriors of Christ, and among the most courageous and chivalrous soldiers in all Europe.’

Blackbeard — John Smith — remained expressionless. Stanley smiled faintly and looked at his boots.

‘I speak the truth,’ cried Sir Francis, clapping his hands on their shoulders like a proud father. ‘The Last Crusaders in Christendom!’

They clasped hands, and without another word, the two rode away into the night.

Nicholas was nearly bursting with questions. He had never known half the truth about his father’s long life before he was born.

Ingoldsby saw his youthful eagerness and gave a great loud bark of a laugh.

‘Ha! So you never thought your rheumy, crabbed old sire was once a young gallant who fought like the Lionheart himself against the Saracens, eh? Eh? Ha!’ And he took up his sheathed sword and began to thwack Nicholas on the back and legs with it.

‘Ay!’ yelped Nicholas. ‘Ow!’ The thwacks were hefty.

‘Ha! Have at thee, thou swart infidel!’

His father was moonstruck, an aged knight suddenly thinking he was on the battlefield once more.

Nicholas ran upstairs.

‘Tomorrow, boy!’ his father roared after him, still swinging his sheathed sword dangerously around the narrow hallway. ‘I’ll tell thee more about the youthful battles and travails of your aged sire! There’s tales will make your lilywhite ears burn!’

A door opened above and a female voice hissed angrily, ‘Ssshhh! You’ll wake the whole household with your noise and rumpus!’

It was Mistress Copstick, the housekeeper.

After that there was no more noise. Even old Ingoldsby himself, slayer of Saracens, was afraid of Mistress Copstick.

It was Hodge who came running, red-faced, saying there were soldiers riding down the hill towards the village. Nicholas’s younger sister Susan, already something of a scold at thirteen, flicked him with her cleaning cloth and told him not to be such a clodpoll. What would soldiers want with a village like this?

She stared at her brother.

‘Unless … it’s to do with those strangers last night.’

Nicholas froze.

His father was in his library.