Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗
The conversation that they had enjoyed on their first night in Spain was not repeated; Richard had once again retreated into a quietly hostile demeanour, even though he did as Thomas had asked and made sure that he fulfilled his role as a squire faultlessly. After a few attempts to return to the warm moment of companionship they had shared, Thomas gave up trying and they rode on, exchanging a handful of words only when necessary and eating in silence each night as they sat by a fire or hunched in the shelter of a barn.
At noon on the fifth day of the new year they crested the last ridge in the hills that overlooked the narrow plain where Barcelona nestled against the Mediterranean. The clouds had cleared that morning and the sun shone down from a brilliant blue sky. Even though it was the depth of winter the sea somehow looked bright and inviting and Thomas felt a warm ache in his heart for the island in the very centre of the Mediterranean, a place he had once believed to be his home for life, amongst a band of brothers in arms fighting for God against impossible odds. It had all seemed so clear and noble back then, before Maria had stepped into his life and the realisation had slowly dawned that there was little nobility to be won in a never-ending war where progress consisted in visiting new horrors upon the enemy. For all its sparkling beauty, this sea was a battlefield as old as history. Long before the present conflict had begun, the Mediterranean had been fought over by Romans, Egyptians, Carthaginians, Greeks and Persians. Who knew how many thousands of warships lay rotting in the deeps? This was a sea watered by the tears and blood of generation upon generation of human beings, Thomas reflected with a shudder.
He clicked his tongue and nudged his heels into the flanks of his horse. ‘Come on, let’s not tarry.’
Richard took in the view for a moment longer before he followed and they picked their way along the track that looped back and forth down the side of the hill. Below them the city of Barcelona lay in the shadow of the fortified citadel. In the harbour some thirty or forty galleys lay at anchor and two more rested on timber rollers in front of the royal shipyards, a series of long sheds with high roofs that dominated the shoreline. On the parade ground outside the fortress several companies of pikemen were drilling beneath the billowing colours of their standards. Preparations were clearly in hand to confront the threat rising at the other end of the Mediterranean. But would it be enough? Thomas wondered. From experience he well knew how the Turks could field vast forces of men and ships. They had the finest gunners and siege engineers in the world in their ranks and the size and destructiveness of their cannon were without equal.
As they approached the city walls the track joined a coastal road. A short distance ahead the two horsemen passed a trundling line of wagons laden with kegs of gunpowder and cast-iron shot. Thomas spurred his horse on so that they were in front of the convoy by the time they reached the city’s main gateway. Gesturing to Richard to come to his side, Thomas drew out his travel warrant and handed it to one of the soldiers on duty. The Catalan stared uncomprehendingly at the document before he ordered them curtly to wait and then turned away to find his officer, disappearing through an arched doorway into the gate’s guardroom. Thomas eased himself out of the saddle and slipped on to the ground with a weary grunt. A moment later Richard followed suit and took the reins of both horses, as any squire would have done, Thomas noted with satisfaction.
The guard emerged a short time later with a portly man dabbing at his mouth with one hand as he looked at the warrant in the other. He glanced at the two Englishmen before addressing Thomas, who gestured to his squire.
‘Richard, if you please.’
As the two conversed, Thomas tried to follow the sense of what was being said, but the Catalan language was strange to his ears. It made him feel uncomfortable and even vulnerable; he did not yet trust the young man who had been foisted on him by Cecil and Walsingham. Richard knew a good deal more about the purpose of this mission and the nature of the sensitive document at the heart of it. If the document was located and recovered then what, Thomas wondered, were his companion’s orders at that point? He himself would be of no more use to Cecil; perhaps Richard’s orders included the quiet elimination of a man whose knowledge of the mission, limited as it was, might prove to be an embarrassment at a later date. He must be on his guard against such treachery, even as he faced the Turk in battle. The thought made him feel bitter towards Richard and his spymasters back in London.
Richard interrupted his thoughts. ‘Sir, I have explained our purpose to the captain. He says that since we are to voyage to Malta then it would be best to announce our arrival at the citadel. That is where we will find Don Garcia de Toledo. His army is making ready to embark for Sicily and we may be able to travel with the fleet.’
‘Sicily?’
‘It is where King Philip is gathering his forces to face the Turk. The Spaniards will be joined by mercenaries from Italy, including the galleys of the Doria clan. The captain here says that he has heard it will be the largest army ever amassed to fight in the name of Christ. And Don Garcia is the finest general in all Europe. The Turks, he says, will be utterly crushed.’
Thomas looked at the Catalan officer, fat and too used to good living. He would not last long in any strenuous campaign. ‘Tell him that I pray to God that he is right. We will go to the citadel now.’
‘He says that he will have his men take us there.’ Richard glanced warily at the Spaniard before he continued. ‘There have been rumours that the enemy have spies in Barcelona. I don’t think he trusts us.’
‘Spies?’ Thomas laughed. ‘Do we look like Turks?’
‘We are English, sir. It seems that there are many here who think that their enemies share a common cause. It is understandable. They have never forgiven the French for fighting alongside the Turks twenty years ago.’
Thomas nodded with feeling. It had been an alliance that had scandalised the rest of Christendom as little more than a pact with the devil. It had endured only briefly. The French had been shamed by the massacres carried out by their new allies against the Christians along the coast of Italy. Thomas could imagine the horror that it would have brought to the French knights of the Order, and La Valette most of all.
‘Very well, thank the captain for providing us with an escort.’ With two men leading the way and another pair following on behind, Thomas and his squire walked their horses through the sturdy walls and into a wide thoroughfare. The towers of the cathedral of Santa Eulalia rose up above the roofs of the closely packed buildings lining the route. The recent rains had washed away much of the filth that covered the streets and the more offensive smells of the city were mild in comparison to the stench of London. It had been many years since Thomas had last seen Barcelona but for Richard it was clearly the first time, judging from the way he gazed at his surroundings with frank curiosity. With his dark looks he might have passed for a local if not for his lack of a Catalan accent. Cecil and Walsingham had chosen their man wisely, Thomas mused.
As they entered the square in front of the cathedral, Thomas’s attention shifted to the ornate facade with the three towers constructed from a sturdy latticework of stone. So different from the cathedrals back in England, he thought. Craning his head, he squinted at the crosses thrusting up towards the azure heavens. A handful of seagulls circled above, black against the glare. For a moment Thomas felt his heart lift at the sight, before he was struck by the thought that at the other side of this sea, in Constantinople, the great city that the Turks had renamed Istanbul, a man like him, a warrior, might be standing in front of the great mosque, staring up at a golden crescent - a man he might face in battle one day soon. The thought sent a cold tremor down his spine. It was not fear, just a brooding sense that he was fated to be consumed by the coming clash of faiths and empires.
