Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

Thomas closed his eyes briefly and saw the image in the locket again, and Maria’s face. He knew more than his heart could bear and was uncertain of his feelings now, and what precisely he should say to the young man before him. Walsingham’s agent, his squire, his son. Even now, against all the certainties that filled his mind, it was still difficult to accept - to believe - it was real.

‘Richard . . . Ricardo. I saw your picture in the locket that was sent to your mother.’

Richard frowned. ‘What are you talking about? My mother? What madness is this?’

‘I know the truth. There is no time for playing games. You may be in great danger.’

Richard cocked an eyebrow. ‘Really? Why would I be in any danger in a town surrounded by Muslim fanatics?’

Thomas felt a burst of anger. ‘Enough! I know that you are my son.’

Richard’s eyes widened briefly and then his features fixed into a neutral expression. ‘And what makes you think that?’

‘I saw your portrait in the locket. Just now when I was speaking to your mother.’

Richard smiled coldly. ‘That would be something of a one-sided conversation. My mother died years ago, when I was a child.’ His expression hardened. ‘But I know who you are well enough, Father. The man who used a serving girl for his pleasure and then cast her aside when she was with child. And never acknowledged that he had a son for fear of the shame of it. ’

Now it was Thomas who was frowning. ‘What?’

Richard narrowed his eyes. ‘This locket, who showed it to you?’

‘Maria, of course. Your mother.’

Richard breathed in sharply. ‘No. That cannot be. My mother was a servant. I remember her. I was told she died after I was sent to England, to be raised by Stokely’s family, as an act of charity.’ He clenched his teeth in bitter resentment at the memory. ‘I suppose it was inevitable that you would discover my identity before the time was ripe for me to reveal the truth. Once the mission was over, and I had in my possession what I came here for, that was when I would tell you, so that you knew all, before I decided whether I would kill you.’

‘Kill me?’ Thomas felt an icy fist clench round his heart. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Richard let out a cheerless laugh. ‘Why not? You abandoned my mother, forced her to abandon me. Had me sent to be raised by strangers who treated me as if I should be ashamed to be alive. If it had not been for Sir Oliver’s family and their patronage, I would never have gone to Cambridge and drawn the attention of Sir Robert Cecil.’ Richard paused. ‘He was more of a father to me than you ever were.’

‘I swear to God, I never knew,’ Thomas replied, ‘else I would have moved heaven and earth to find you and raise you myself.’

‘Of course. Like every other noble who takes on his responsibilities with respect to his bastard offspring.’

‘No. It would have been different. You were — are — my son.’

‘I am the sour fruit of your brief union with my mother, and neither of you ever wanted me.’

‘That is not true.’ Thomas took a step forward in anguish. ‘I did not know of you, and your mother was forced to give you up. And she lives still.’

Richard snorted. ‘Save your thin lies, Father. I know the truth. Walsingham told me, after he had investigated my past. He told me everything years ago, and when the chance for this mission came up, he chose me for the task and told me that I was free to do with you as I wished when it was all over.’

Thomas winced. ‘You seek revenge?’

‘Of course. It was the prospect of revenge that sustained me over the years. That was the reward that Walsingham offered me, as well as a most generous payment.’

Thomas was chilled by the cold-blooded calculation in Richard’s voice, even as he swiftly reflected on the shadowy thinking that lay behind Walsingham’s schemes. Then it struck him. ‘My God, he has been planning this for years.’

Richard frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Walsingham. He has been grooming you for this task. And watching me closely. He must have inherited the prospect from the men who served before him. Always waiting for the opportunity to put us both into play.’ Thomas shook his head in wonder at the depth of the schemes hatched out by England’s spymasters. It was a giddying realisation and with difficulty Thomas pushed it aside for the moment. He stared at Richard. ‘He lied to you. Maria is your mother. He told you different to spur on your hatred towards me. It is your intention to kill me, then?’

His son stared back in silence for a moment before he replied, ‘It was. . .’

‘And now?’

Richard breathed deeply and dabbed the sweat from his face with a strip of cloth. There was a slight droop to his shoulders as he spoke. ‘Alas, I have spent too long in your company. Whatever your sins, and faults, as a father, I have come to know you as a man. I have seen your courage and recognised your sense of honour, and even your compassion for others. Walsingham warned me that to spend time with an enemy endangers the resolve to kill him. He expected this, and I was foolish enough to swear to him that I would not bend. That my thirst for revenge would not be quenched by such weakness. He was right, alas. I no longer wish to kill you. But I still wanted to hurt you, to punish you. That was my new intention. To tell you all, whether or not we survived the siege. I would have related how you had blighted my life, and cursed you.’

‘And I am cursed,’ Thomas replied, his throat strained with the tension of fighting back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. ‘I have twice lost a son. Once when told he had died as an infant, and now when I know of the years I have been denied as his father.’

‘You are no father to me and never will be.’ Richard shut his eyes for a moment. ‘But, if you speak true, my mother still lives . . . My God, she is alive.’

‘You must speak to her,’ Thomas said gently.

‘And what would I say? Where would I begin?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘That I do not know, but perhaps the words will come when you are face to face.’

‘I need time to think . . . Even if my mother lives, that changes nothing between us. I spurn you as a father. But, for all that, I admire you as a man. And that is all that can be between us now.’ Thomas stopped himself from pursuing the matter. There was still hope that his son might change his mind, there was still time for reconciliation. Then bitter self-reproach swept over him. Of course there was no time. Just as there was none for Maria. In a matter of hours he would leave for St Elmo, and there were preparations he must make before then.

He sat down wearily on the end of Richard’s cot and gazed at his son, pained that he had not recognised those features he had inherited from Maria. He felt an urge to reach out and touch the young man’s cheek, but stilled his hand for fear of the inevitable rebuff and that it would make him look like a foolish, desperate old man.

‘Richard, I have volunteered to join the garrison at St Elmo, along with Colonel Mas. We leave tonight.’

His son stared at him and then his gaze wavered as he replied quietly, ‘That is almost certain death.’

‘It seems so. Unless Don Garcia and his army arrive in time.’

‘That is unlikely.’

‘Yes.’

There was a brief, agonising silence before Richard swallowed nervously. ‘I will come with you.’

Thomas shook his head firmly. ‘No. You will stay here, where you have a chance to survive. Besides, you have an obligation to return to Walsingham with your prize.’

Richard nodded. ‘That is so. But I can make arrangements for it to find its way back to England if I die before Malta is saved from the Turks. And if it falls, then it is well enough hidden for the enemy not to find it. Does my . . . mother know that I am here?’