Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

If there was a divine presence in the world, it would surely look 011 the works that were carried out in its name in abject horror, Thomas reflected. He had never felt such a presence, never sensed it in the slightest; he was only aware of the heedless elements of a natural world that embraced men, animals and faiths with abiding disinterest. Such thoughts were dangerous, he knew. More than dangerous, lethal. So he tried to keep them at bay, and even prayed along with the faithful as if in an attempt to hide his true thoughts from himself as much as other people.

Something clattered to the floor a short distance away and Thomas flinched and turned towards the sound. A glow amid the shelves revealed Richard’s position.

‘Richard?’ he called out as loudly as he dared.

‘I think I’ve found it. Yes. . . Yes! Over here.’

Thomas hurried round the end of the lines of shelves and saw his companion bent over a chest he was pulling out from the lowest rack in front of him. As Thomas approached, he saw the crest of the ill-fated Sir Peter de Launcey in the light of the candle Richard had placed on the shelf above. It was neatly painted on a shallow relief, carved with some skill. The gleam of the lacquer was visible where Richard’s fingers had wiped off the decades of dust that had accumulated in a dull skein across the lid of the chest. Sturdy brass straps bound and protected the fine craftsmanship. A small, delicate- looking lock sat in the front of the chest and Richard fished out his picks again.

‘Hold your candle over the lock. And hold it steady. This one’s going to be something of a challenge, I fear.’ Richard selected one of the finest of his picks and carefully inserted it in the keyhole. His face was frozen in concentration as his fingers made tiny adjustments to the tool. ‘Can’t quite feel the tumblers . . . It’s as fine a piece of work as I have ever encountered . . . Damn.’

He eased the pick out and chose another, the smallest on the ring, and tried again, closing his eyes as he felt for the mechanisms that would release the lock. Thomas watched for a moment and then glanced anxiously in the direction of the entrance to the dungeon.

‘How long do you need?’

Richard paused and opened his eyes. ‘As long as it takes. Now, please, let me concentrate.’

‘Fine. But hurry.’

Richard focused on his work for a while longer, teeth gritted as he tried to build up some picture of the workings inside the lock. At length he extracted the pick and wiped his hand across his brow.

‘I can’t do it. The locksmith who built this was a better man than I. It’s a work of genius

‘Perhaps, but genius is no match for steel, as Archimedes discovered.’ Thomas drew his dagger and squatted beside Richard. He set the point into the slight gap between the lid of the chest and main body.

‘What are you doing?’ Richard demanded.

‘This.’ Thomas balled his left hand into a fist and pounded the haft of the knife with all his strength. There was a sharp metallic snap and the blade leaped into the gap as the lid suddenly lifted. ‘There.’

Richard glared at him. ‘Oh, very well done indeed! Anyone who looks at this will see the lock has been forced.’

‘Who’s going to notice? From the dust I’d say no one has touched this in years. Now get what we came for, put the chest back in place and let’s get out of here.’

Richard bit back on his anger and eased the lid back. The light from the candles revealed a small leather purse, tightly packed with coins. The small opening at the top revealed the warm lustre of gold. Beside it lay a gold cross on a chain, with a ruby set in its centre. There was also a Bible, some letters and a leather tube. Richard picked the latter up and inspected it. A cap at the end of the tube was sealed with wax which had been imprinted with a design. He nodded and muttered, ‘This is it. This is what we came here for.’

Thomas’s eyes were fixed on the seal. ‘That’s the royal seal. The Great Seal of England.’

Richard made no reply but quickly and carefully placed the leather tube in his haversack. ‘Let’s go.’

He closed the lid and eased the chest back on to the shelf. He made a minor adjustment to its position so that it covered the clear area it had screened from long years of settling dust. Then he straightened and retrieved his candle. ‘Come.’

After Richard had locked the door behind them they hurried out of the dungeon and past the two men sprawled beside the table. One of the guards moaned feebly for a moment then lapsed into silence. His assailants set down their candles and left the room, padding back along the passage to the main guardroom and then up the steps into the courtyard. They paused to ensure that it was deserted as before and then left by the main gate where the sentry still lay in the shadows, breathing in faint shallow gasps. Their haste to get away from the fort caused their footsteps to echo dully as they crossed the drawbridge.

‘Who’s there?’ a voice called from the wall above. ‘Michel? Is that you?’

Richard froze but Thomas pushed him on. ‘It’s too late for that. Keep going.’

They crossed the bridge and set off across the parade ground at a brisk pace.

‘Michel?’ the voice called out again. Then a moment later: ‘You there! Stop!’

They ignored the command and broke into a trot, then a dead run, until they reached the cover of the fisherman’s hovel where they had left their boots. From the direction of the cathedral the sound of singing carried across the rooftops of Birgu; close by they heard footsteps approaching, and voices muttering. Thomas waved Richard back out of sight against the wall and then pulled a length of fishing net over his body. Several shadows approached along the narrow street.

‘Don’t care what he says,’ one grumbled. ‘There ain’t no help coming. We’re in this alone. Long as we last.’

‘Always looking on the bright side, eh, Jules?’ another laughed. ‘Even after that performance by Robert of Eboli?’

‘What, you think the Lord himself, and his cohort of angels, are really going to descend on a wave of celestial light and smite the followers of the false prophet and deliver us from the ambitions of Suleiman and his hordes?’

‘They might, if we pray hard for it and perform our Christian duty,’ someone responded defensively. ‘If we are righteous.’

‘Oh, good luck to you!’ the first man growled. ‘Me? I’m trusting in a sharp pike and dry gunpowder.’

They continued past the two Englishmen and set off across the parade ground towards the drawbridge. Thomas knew that they would come across their unconscious comrade as soon as they reached the far side. He slipped out from under the net and pulled on his boots. As soon as Richard had followed suit, they slipped into the street and hurried away from the fort. They had not gone more than twenty paces when there was a cry of alarm, instantly lost in the boom of a gun as it fired a shot at St Elmo. They increased their pace and soon they came across another party of men and exchanged nods as they passed by. Then they reached the main street leading towards the cathedral. The singing had ended and the street was filling with small groups of townspeople and soldiers returning to their homes and billets. Conscious that they were heading against the flow, at least as far as the side street on which the auberge stood, they kept to the edge of the street and slipped along as unobtrusively as possible. They overheard snatches of conversation, most of which was in praise of Robert of Eboli, and some spoke in confidence about the great army that Don Garcia was mobilising in Sicily to bring to Malta and crush the forces of the Turkish Sultan.

They had almost reached the side street they wanted when Thomas saw Stokely a short distance further along. He was in earnest conversation with Romegas. Walking a pace behind him was Maria, together with a maid. Thomas froze for an instant and then hurriedly turned off the main thoroughfare and stood against the corner.