Simon Scarrow: Sword and Scimitar

I would have you know, and tell your mother, that she was right about the incorruptible truth that lives in our hearts. Tell her she was always what I loved most in the world, though you, my son, are what I valued most. The two sentiments are not the same, but nor are they mutually exclusive. Indeed, they both form part of the bond between lovers and the product of their love. This alone is what matters. Everything else is a poor shadow by comparison.

My son, you have become as dear to me in a few short months as any son could have become in a lifetime. I have come to look on you with well-earned pride. You have great courage, and compassion and wisdom. I would not have you squander such gifts in the ignoble service of a reptile like Walsingham. There is a better path for you, should you choose to take it. If there has been any worth to have come out of the trials that we have endured here on this barren rock it is that the real document that fate intended for you to bring away was not that for which you were sent, but this that you now hold in your hands.

I have lived a full life. I have done much that I regret and I have learned something of the limits of the ambitions and beliefs that men, and women, live by. Know that I have tried to be a good man, and that the measure of that goodness is wholly human. I have forsaken the idea that there is any God in this universe, let alone a Christian one, or one conceived by the Muslims. There is nothing godly in the bloodshed and cruelty that we have both witnessed.

Of all the causes that preoccupy the minds of humanity, of all the works of science and faith that have been set down in words, in my life there is only one truth of any value that I have learned and now entrust to you.

It is this: that I have loved, and been loved. And I have sired a child. That is all the divinity that any man requires in this world.

Your adoring father.

Richard read the letter again, more slowly, and then folded it carefully and placed it inside his doublet, next to his heart. He climbed the stairs to join his mother and gazed out across the harbour towards the ruined mass of St Elmo.

He felt the touch of her hand on his shoulder. ‘Richard, are you all right?’

Richard swallowed his bitter grief at the unrequited gratitude he owed the man who had been his father, and friend. Then he turned to her with a forced smile and nodded. ‘I am.’

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek and then held her hands. ‘Mother, let us go home.’

‘Home?’

‘England.’ Richard felt a pang of longing as he uttered the word. But there was one final task he must perform before he could put his affairs to rest. ‘There is a gentleman I have to see in London first. After that there is a fine house awaiting us. And a family name and a title.’ He opened his hand to look at the ring, a painful lump in his throat. ‘I shall do all that I can to be a worthy son of Sir Thomas Barrett, Knight of the Order of St John.’

She forced a smile but could no longer meet his eyes and looked away. ‘I am sure he would have been proud of you.’

‘I wish for nothing more.’ Richard was silent for a moment before he cleared his throat. ‘You will have to make preparations for the journey. I will leave you to it.’

Maria turned back to him anxiously. ‘Where are you going?’

‘There is something I must attend to. Something important. I’ll come to your house as soon as it is done.’

‘Promise me.’

‘I swear it, Mother.’

She was silent for a moment before she nodded. ‘Very well. But don’t be long. You are all that I have now . . . my dear son.’

Richard felt a pang of affection swell up in his breast and he took her hand and squeezed it very gently. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

He shut the heavy door of the auberge behind him, muffling the sounds of the bells that pealed across the rooftops of Birgu and echoed in the streets filled with excited people, still stunned by the realisation that they had come through the greatest trial of their lives and survived. The hall was still and gloomy, the only light coming from the window high up in the wall. Richard stared round briefly, and then made his way down the corridor leading to the kitchen. There he took a candle and lit it, using Jenkins’s tinderbox. With the small flame held out before him, he descended into the cellar that ran beneath the auberge, a greater place of safety for King Henry’s will. In a small, neglected alcove he removed a loose brick and set it aside before he groped into the cavity beyond and extracted the aged piece of parchment that he had been sent to find and take back to England. It seemed strange that this had once seemed a great and dangerous treasure to him. Richard held it in his hand and gazed at the smooth vellum by the wan glow of the candle for a while. Then, without any further hesitation, he held the corner of the will to the flame and watched as the flickering yellow tongue licked along the edge of the document in a bright line that spread rapidly and left grey and black ash in its wake. He held it for as long as possible before the heat caused him to release his grip and the letter dropped to the floor, flaring briefly before it struck the ground with a small flurry of sparks and then quickly faded into darkness as the last of it was consumed by flame. With a sigh, Richard turned away and headed back up into the kitchen.

As he passed down the corridor he was aware of the sound of movement from the hall. He continued as quietly as he could until he emerged from the corridor and saw Jenkins struggling to set a ladder up against the wall.

‘Jenkins.’

The old man started and turned round. He puffed his cheeks in relief as he saw Richard and then smiled. At once the smile faded and he shook his head sadly. ‘It’s good to see you again, Master Richard . . . though I wish that Sir Thomas was with you.’

‘You know then?’

Jenkins nodded. ‘I heard it from one of the servants at St Angelo, while we were offering our thanks to God at the cathedral. I came back here as soon as the service was over. There was something I had to do.’

‘As did I.’ Richard smiled. ‘What are you about?’

Jenkins stepped over to the table and picked up a small bundle of red wool. He unwrapped the folds and took out a small wooden shield bearing a coat of arms and held it up for Richard to see. ‘I put it safely aside after the auberge received the instruction to take it down. I hoped that one day it would be returned to its rightful place, sir. It has been a long wait. I think there is no better time than now. Would you give me a hand, sir? My limbs are not as steady as they once were.’

‘Of course.’ Richard held out his hand. ‘Let me do it.’

Jenkins stood still for a moment before he gave the small shield to Richard. ‘Thank you, sir. You can see there’s a small hook on the back.’

Richard turned it over to look.

‘You can hang it on that nail up there.’ Jenkins pointed to the gap on the beam, a short distance from the ladder. ‘Where it used to be.’

‘Very well.’

Richard climbed, one-handed, holding his father’s coat of arms in the other. When his head drew level with the beam he reached out and carefully slipped the hook over the nail and then adjusted the shield so that it hung straight. Satisfied, he climbed back down and then stood beside Jenkins. They looked up at the coat of arms. The paint had not faded during the long years of storage and the design seemed as fresh as the day it first hung in the hall.

‘It is good to have things in their rightful place,’ said Jenkins.

Richard nodded.

They were silent a moment longer before Richard turned and offered his hand to the servant. ‘I have come to say farewell, Jenkins. I’m returning to England.’