Simon Scarrow - Sword and Scimitar

‘You’re awake again.’ The monk spoke French and smiled as he dabbed at the sweat pricking out at his hairline. ‘And your fever finally seems to have broken.’

‘Finally?’ Thomas frowned and tried to speak again but his throat was too dry and he could only make a soft croaking sound. ‘Where

‘You’re in the infirmary of St Angelo. Quite safe. Here, let me help you.’

There was a faint gurgle of liquid and then the monk gently slipped a hand under Thomas’s head and raised it slightly. With the other hand he held a brass cup to his patient’s lips and helped him to drink. Thomas gratefully swilled the water around his dry mouth and swallowed. He took a few more mouthfuls before he nodded and let his head slump back. The monk eased it down on to the bolster and withdrew his hand and placed it on Thomas’s forehead.

‘Yes, the heat has gone from your brow. That’s good.’ He smiled again. ‘When you were first brought in here 1 was certain that you would not survive. Your burns are severe and there is a bullet wound to your leg. It seems you were struck as they pulled you from the water. Between the bums and the loss of blood I fully expected you not to survive through the night. You have a strong constitution, Sir Thomas. Even so, it was a close thing. You developed a fever and for many days I feared we might lose you. That you survived is due to the tireless efforts of the woman who nursed you.’

‘Woman?’

‘She’s the widow of the late Sir Oliver Stokely, as I understand it. She also claims to be your friend.’ The monk tried to stifle a knowing smile and Thomas felt a passing irritation at the man. ‘What is your name, brother?’ Thomas asked huskily. ‘Christopher.’

‘Well then, Christopher, Lady Maria is indeed my friend, and a woman who is beyond reproach.’

‘Of course. I meant no offence.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Resting. She has hardly left your side these last weeks. She saw to all your needs, though she did have the help of your squire from time to time, when he could be spared from his duties. She fed you, washed and bathed you and changed your dressings. The poor lady is exhausted. Once I saw that your fever had abated I sent her home to rest. That was this morning. She said she would return at dusk.’

Thomas nodded. Then he looked at the monk. ‘You said weeks. How long have I been here? What date is it? What month?’

‘Why, it is the twenty-second day of August, sir.’

‘August?’ Thomas started in alarm. ‘Then . . . then I have been here almost eight weeks.’

The monk nodded. ‘And for four of those weeks it was doubtful that you would live, despite your solid English constitution. For the last two weeks we have been fighting your fever. It was only a few days ago that I became confident that you would recover. Though when I say recover, you will have to live with the consequences of your injuries.’

‘But what of the siege?’

The monk pursed his lips. ‘The Turks are pounding us from all sides. At night they fire into the heart of Birgu and have killed scores of women and children. We still hold every one of the bastions and the wall, though barely. The Grand Master has less than a third of the men with which he started. Food and water are running short and morale is poor. There was a rumour that Don Garcia and his army would land at the end of July, but nothing came of it. And every day the guns continue to reduce the walls. Each time the Turks open a new breach they launch an assault, and we throw them back.’ The monk paused and shook his head in wonder. ‘God knows where they get the courage to hurl themselves on us time and again. They’ve tried everything. They even hauled their small galleys over the Sciberras ridge to attempt a landing on Senglea. They were cut to pieces along the shore, and their boats blasted by our cannon. Those we didn’t cut down, or shoot, drowned in their hundreds ... At least morale is as much a problem for the Turks as it is for us. According to the prisoners we’ve taken, Mustafa Pasha is finding it increasingly difficult to get his men to attack. There is sickness and hunger in his camp. Soon I fear that the dead will outnumber the living on this Godforsaken rock.’ He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his jaw wearily. Then he sighed and forced a smile. ‘But enough of the siege. You need to rest.’

‘No. I need to know about my wounds. When will I be fit to fight again?’

‘Fight?’ The monk seemed taken aback.

Thomas felt a chill course down his spine. He struggled for a moment to sit up in order to see his body but he was too weak and slumped back with a hiss of frustration. He reached out with his left hand and clasped the monk’s arm. ‘Tell me.’

The monk sucked in his breath. ‘You had extensive burns to your left leg and hip and on your left arm and the right side of your neck and face. Your eye was scorched and damaged and I doubt that you can see much out of it. Am I right?’

Thomas nodded. ‘Just shadows.’

‘As I feared.’ The monk gestured down Thomas’s left side. ‘Your skin and muscle tissue were badly damaged and will take many more months to heal. There will be a permanent tightness in your arm and leg and they will not flex as fully as they once did. And they will be painful. I would say your fighting days are behind you, Sir Thomas. Even though the Grand Master is short of men and is filling out the ranks with boys, dotards and any man still fit enough to hold a weapon, I have to say that this present conflict will be over before you recover enough to play any useful part.’

‘Bring me a mirror,’ Thomas said quietly.

‘Later. You should rest. Then I shall bring you soup, and some bread.’

‘I want a mirror. Now.’

The monk hesitated a moment, and then nodded. ‘As you wish, Sir Thomas. A moment then.’

He stood up and walked out of the chamber. While he was gone, Thomas gritted his teeth and edged himself up the bed so that his shoulders were on the bolster and his head rested against the stone wall behind his bed. For a moment he had to fight off the pain from his side. The monk returned with a small square mirror of polished steel and handed it to Thomas.

‘There. Though you may not like what you see.’

Thomas raised the mirror above his face and stared at his reflection. A short distance from the mid-line of his features the skin was tight and glossy like highly polished marble streaked with red and purple. The skin round his right eye was swollen and red, and the eyeball was bloodshot and the lens appeared milky. He adjusted the angle and saw that there were only tufts of hair on that side of his skull and his ear looked withered. Moving the mirror again he drew the sheet covering him aside and examined the left of his body, shocked by the tortured flesh he saw there. Swallowing, Thomas handed the mirror back and covered himself again.

‘She saw me like this?’ he asked softly.

‘You looked far worse for the first two weeks.’ The monk gestured towards his head. ‘The scarring is permanent but the colour will fade. Most of the hair will grow back but some patches will remain bald. You may find that your vow of chastity will be a little easier to keep from now on.’ He smiled to show that he was making a joke, albeit a harsh one.

Thomas turned his face to the wall at his side. ‘I am tired. I need to sleep.’

‘Yes. Of course, Sir Thomas. Do you wish me to send a message to Lady Maria to say that you are awake?’

‘No,’ he replied quickly. ‘Let her rest too.’

‘Very well. I’ll bring you food later, once you have slept.’ Thomas heard the scuffing of the monk’s sandals as he moved off, and then he shut his eyes tightly as they filled with tears of grief. He no longer felt like a man. He felt repulsed by what he had seen in the mirror, and shamed by the idea that he would no longer be fit enough to fight or hunt or take part in the myriad pastimes of other men. Worse still, if the Turks carried the day and captured Birgu, then he and all the others too helpless to defend themselves would be butchered where they lay, like swine.