Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘You might as well wish for the moon.’ Richard gave a hollow laugh. ‘Don Garcia’s force is only ever going to be a paper army. His king will not let him take any risks with what men he has, and I would wager my soul that less than half of the men and ships promised to him by the other powers will be forthcoming. There is no chance of the Turks turning tail. If Suleiman has ordered that Malta be reduced, then do you think for one instant that those to whom the command is given would dare risk his wrath if they failed?’ Richard paused to see if his words had struck home but Thomas kept his silence and the younger man hissed with exasperation before he continued.

‘Sir Thomas, I have been with you long enough to see that you are a good man. There is sure to be a place for you within Walsingham’s service when we return to England having carried out our mission successfully. Don’t throw your life away in some futile gesture.’

Thomas stirred. ‘Firstly, this was never really our mission, just yours. I was simply the pretext to get you inside the Order. Secondly, this is no simple gesture, Richard. Whatever that precious document may turn out to be, there are times in a man’s life when he must stand for something. When I was forced to leave the Order I lost my place in the world, as well as the woman I loved. Now she is gone, and all that I have left is the chance to do something right.’

‘I thought you had grown tired of the Order’s endless war.’

‘And so I had. But the situation has changed. The very existence of these knights and the islanders who stand with them is under threat. If the Order is annihilated and Malta falls, you know well enough the danger posed to every Christian kingdom in Europe. Even England may fall under the sway of the Sultan. The coming battle is the very fulcrum upon which the fates of two civilisations are balanced. Even one man might make a difference to the outcome.’

‘One man?’ Richard shook his head. ‘You have drunk too deeply at the well of the Order’s fanaticism, Sir Thomas. That, or . . . perhaps I see a more simple truth. It is the Grand Master’s offer to take you into his confidence that has clouded your judgement. You feel flattered by his request, and now you cannot face letting him down. Is that it?’

‘There is some truth in that. But it matters not.’ Thomas splayed his hand over his heart. ‘All I know is that I must make my stand along with the rest of the Order. There is no reason to it. Just a certainty that brooks no doubt. I will stay and fight, and die, if that is my fate.’

‘Then you disappoint me. I had taken you for a wiser, more rational man than that.’

‘Well, I am content to disappoint you. But I will do what I can to help you complete your mission and escape before it is too late to flee, if you do not choose to fight at my side.’

Richard thought for a moment before he replied in a world- weary manner, ‘I would count it an honour to fight at your side. Believe me. But I would not share a certain death without good purpose. I must let you have your glorious death alone, or at least in the ranks of your precious band of brothers.’ He scraped the bench back and stood up. ‘There is nothing more to be said. We can talk in greater detail on the morrow and plan our next step. Good night, sir.’

They exchanged a brief nod and Richard turned and strode off towards his cell, leaving Thomas alone in the hall decked with the mementos of the English knights who had devoted their lives to the Order. He stared up at the heraldic devices on the small wooden shields and the faded banners that hung from the beams. In his heart lie knew, as surely as a man can know, that his decision to remain and fight with his comrades was the right and only path for him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

18 May

When he had listened to the strength returns of each of the garrison posts, and the report on the output of the gunpowder mills, the Grand Master rose from his chair and walked over to the window. His favourite hunting dogs, Apollo and Achilles, jumped up from beneath the table and padded over to their master. He reached down and stroked their silky ears as he stared out at the view from the keep of St Angelo, gazing over the thick walls and across the glittering blue water of the harbour towards the peninsula where the ridge of Sciberras dominated the small fort of St Elmo. It was a clear morning, the sky was a deep blue and the low rays of the sun washed the stone of the fort with a brilliant yellow hue. A light air lifted the flag of the Order flying from the mast above St Elmo so that the white cross on the red background fluttered lazily. The faint chink of picks from those working to deepen the ditches in front of the fort carried across the harbour. Despite the continuing preparations, the scene looked peaceful enough and the fair weather heralded the arrival of summer, and the dreadful heat that came with it.

From his chair Thomas scrutinised La Valette and saw that the hard work of the previous months, far from exhausting the Grand Master, had given him renewed strength and energy. He stood erect, and moved with purpose. Only the white curls of his hair gave indication of his true age, for his face, though weathered and creased, seemed to belong to a man fully ten or fifteen years younger, and his grey eyes gleamed beneath his heavy brows. Glancing to his side, along the line of chairs where the other members of the war council sat, Thomas noted that Romegas and Sir Oliver Stokely looked tired and tense. Only Colonel Mas seemed at ease. That could be misleading, though; the colonel was a professional soldier to his core and rarely showed any emotion except anger at any sign of inefficiency or laziness in the men under his command.

With a sigh La Valette turned away from the window and faced those he had chosen as his closest advisers, his eyes flicking over each man in turn before he spoke.

‘I cannot accept that it will take at least another month before the defences of Birgu and St Michael are complete.’

Colonel Mas tipped his head slightly to one side. ‘They would have been completed by now if you had given the order to start when I first arrived, sir. As I advised.’

‘Thank you, Colonel, I remember. However, we cannot go back and change that. We must work the people harder. Add another hour to each shift. That applies to everyone, including me. Starting from this afternoon.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll have my clerk draft the declaration after the meeting.’

‘And what of the harbour chain?’

Romegas folded his hands together. ‘It is set in place between the points of Senglea and Birgu. The ring bolts were secured to the sturdiest posts we could find to drive into the seabed and they in turn have been chained to the rocks on each shore. There is a small section in the centre where the chain can be slackened to allow for the passage of a galley, if that becomes necessary. Otherwise nothing but the smallest of boats will be able to get across the chain. The enemy’s galleys will not be able to penetrate Dockyard Creek, sir.’

‘Very good. That at least is one line of defence we can count on.’ La Valette turned his attention back to Colonel Mas. ‘Assuming that the enemy does decide to attack St Elmo first, there should be enough time to prepare the defences of Birgu and St Michael. With the unfinished condition of the fortifications on this side of the harbour it is essential that we delay the enemy at St Elmo. How long can the fort hold out?’

Mas thought for a moment before he responded. ‘From the time the enemy invests the fort? Say ten days to cut approach trenches, then another two days to construct gun batteries. After that it’s a question of how much weight their guns can throw against the walls before they create a breach large enough to risk an assault. With the poor design of the fort and the weakness of the ravelin, I’d say that the Turks will reduce St Elmo within three weeks.’