Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

Don Garcia looked round at the faces of the local people who had gathered behind the Grand Master and his retinue. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘It is best that we talk about such matters in more . . . private surroundings. If you would lead the way?’

La Valette’s expression had hardened. He and Don Garcia were seated together at the head of a long table running down the centre of Fort St Angelo’s banqueting hall, but every man present had sat in silence and listened intently as Don Garcia outlined the instructions he had received from King Philip. The pair of hunting dogs lay asleep by the modest fire burning in the iron grate along one wall, a luxury on an island where wood was scarce enough to be sold by the pound weight. Thomas was halfway down the table and had eaten lightly of the first good meal he had had since leaving Barcelona - honeyed chops of mutton and freshly baked bread. The tension between Don Garcia and La Valette had been palpable and the sour mood had spoiled the appetite of those in the hall. For a moment Thomas envied his squire who was eating at the lower table with the other junior officers of Don Garcia’s small force.

La Valette pushed his platter aside and shifted in his chair so that he might face his guest more directly as he spoke.

‘Last year I sent warning to His Majesty about the Sultan’s plan to strike west, and that Malta would be the Turks’ first target. I said that if Malta was to be held I would need five thousand fresh men, cannon, powder and supplies of food. So far he has sent me nothing but messages of support.’

‘His Majesty shares your concerns,’ Don Garcia countered calmly. ‘However, Malta is just one of the territories he is obliged to defend. While it is true that you present the most obvious line of attack, the enemy may yet mean to surprise us by striking elsewhere - Sicily, the coast of Italy or even Spain itself.’

‘And thereby leave Malta sitting astride their supply lines?’ La Valette replied acidly. ‘His Majesty appears to be in need of a lesson in strategy.’

‘His Majesty is my sovereign lord, just as he is yours, Grand Master. Your Order was given this island in return for your fealty to the King. His Majesty has appointed me as his Captain of the Sea and placed all his forces, including yours, under my command. I would therefore request that you temper your opinions accordingly.’ Don Garcia met the Grand Master’s bitter glare steadily before he continued. ‘I, in my turn, am obliged to follow the instructions laid down by King Philip. He has stated that I am to meet the enemy in battle only when I enjoy numerical advantage, at sea and on land.’

‘Then you will never fight them. The ships and men of the Sultan will always outnumber those of Spain.’

Don Garcia shrugged. ‘I cannot help that. But I am doing all in my power to gather support from our allies and concentrate our forces on Sicily, from where I will be best placed to counter the enemy, wherever he chooses to strike. I agree that it is likely that the Sultan casts his gaze towards Malta and I will do what I can to provide you with the wherewithal to counter the blow if it falls here. At the moment I can do little but provide you with some companies of Spanish soldiers and Italian mercenaries. In time, as my strength grows, I will send you more men.’

‘By then it may be too late.’ La Valette took a breath and calmed his voice before he spoke on. ‘There are but six hundred knights in the Order. I have nearly five hundred here and pray that the others answer the summons, as Sir Thomas did. In addition we have a thousand soldiers, and I have sent men from the Order to Italy to recruit more.’

‘And you have the local people. The Maltese will fight with you.’

‘The Maltese . . .’ La Valette could not hide his scorn. ‘It is true that there are some militia but they are of poor quality. I dare say that they will break and run the first time they see any Janissary point a weapon at them.’

‘I think not. It is true that they are not professional fighters but a man may fight like a Hon to defend his home and family. You have but to train them to use weapons and lead them by good example and they will fight well.’

‘Even so, I can expect to raise little more than three thousand men from the local population. So we are no more than five thousand in all to face the horde that will descend on us from the east. Our last report from our agent in Istanbul is that a vast fleet is gathering to carry fifty thousand men, together with their arms and supplies for the entire campaign. No one can withstand such odds, Don Garcia.’

There was a pause and Thomas watched as Don Garcia folded his hands together and rested his forehead against them.

‘The hour is late, and our voyage has been tiring,’ he said. ‘Let us talk of our preparations to face the Turks tomorrow. I would see the defences at first hand, Grand Master, if you would take me over them.’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ La Valette replied curtly.

‘Then I will eat some more, drink and then sleep.’ Don Garcia smiled politely. ‘As will my officers.’

Their exchange was interrupted as the main door into the hall was opened by one of the servants and a small group of men entered. Thomas looked over his shoulder. They wore plain cloaks with the badge of the Order over their hearts and Thomas realised that these must be the knights La Valette had summoned from the interior of the island earlier on. Some were young but looked tough enough. The rest were veterans, scarred by wounds and the passage of the years. As they made for the chairs and spaces on the benches that were still untaken, Thomas’s eye was caught by one of the older knights, a man roughly his own age, tall and sinewy with dark hair receding towards his crown. At almost the same moment the new arrival spied Thomas and he paused mid-stride, and then slowly approached.

Thomas eased himself on to his feet and advanced a few paces towards the man. The other knight looked him over and then breathed in sharply through his nose before he spoke.

‘Sir Thomas. So you got the message.’

‘As you see. It’s been a long time, Oliver. A very long time.’

‘I had hoped you would stay away. The Order does not need you.’

‘The Grand Master thinks otherwise.’

Sir Oliver Stokely glanced towards the head of the table. ‘The chevalier has a short memory. He forgets the damage that you did to us.’

Thomas felt another pang as the tendrils of past sins tightened round his heart again. ‘I was a different man then. So were you. I have suffered and repented every day since. Can you not forgive me?’

‘Never.’

Thomas shook his head sadly. ‘I am sorry to hear you say that. ’

‘Why? Did you think that I would forget all just because you were willing to answer La Valette’s call?’

‘Oliver, there are greater matters that should concern us both. I cannot change the past, but I pledge that I will do whatever I can to preserve the future of our Order. ’

Sir Oliver shook his head. ‘Do what you will. Just stay away from me. Or I will not answer for my actions.’

Thomas nodded, a weariness settling on him like a heavy shroud. ‘I would it were otherwise between us. You were once my friend.’

‘Until I discovered your true nature. I have said all I wish to say to you. You are here. Fight for the Order, then when it is over, leave and never return.’

‘Very well. . . But I would know one thing more.’

Sir Oliver’s lips pressed into a thin smile. ‘I thought you might ask.’

‘Then tell me.’ Thomas hesitated before he continued, eager to finally know yet afraid of the answer. ‘Does Maria still live?’

‘She is dead.’

‘Dead?’