Sword and Scimitar - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн полные версии .TXT) 📗

The memories faded and then there was only the cold and the dark shadows around him. For a moment Thomas tried to draw the memory of his feasting comrades back before his mind’s eye, but the desire seemed false and he gave up. With an aching heart Thomas returned to his cell and opened his bag. In it were a few changes of clothes and a handful of personal effects. He took out his brushes and the silver crucifix — a family heirloom — he had once prayed before every day, at dawn and dusk. He held it in his hands and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment before placing it on the small table, against the wall. He deliberately left the leather pouch until last. He eased open the drawstrings and tenderly took out the gold locket. After a brief hesitation he opened the lid and stared at the dark lock of hair inside. He was still for a moment and then he pressed his lips together and lightly touched the hair with his little finger, slowly stroking the silky strands.

‘Maria

There was a knock at the door. Thomas snapped the locket shut and hastily replaced it in the pouch and put that in the table’s one drawer.

‘Come.’

Jenkins entered, carrying a tray bearing the candleholder, a small stoppered jar and two brass cups. He turned and nudged the door closed before he crossed the cell and set the tray down. Thomas sat on the bed and gestured to the chair. Jenkins nodded his thanks and eased himself down with a sigh and then pulled out the stopper and poured the first cup which he handed to the knight before pouring his own. Thomas raised the cup and smiled.

‘To old comrades and absent friends.’

The wine was warm and pleasant to the palate and felt comforting in the stomach as Thomas drank. Then he lowered the cup to his lap and held it in both hands as he gazed fondly at the auberge’s remaining servant. Jenkins drained his cup and set it down with a sharp rap before he wiped his lips on the back of his bony hand.

‘A good drop, that.’

‘Drop?’ Thomas arched an eyebrow. ‘Rather more than a drop, I’d say.’

The servant shrugged. ‘When you’re on your own, sir, the lack of conversation leaves nothing but drink to occupy a man.’

Thomas nodded, knowingly.

Jenkins leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. ‘Your squire doesn’t seem very content with his lot, if I may say so, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘I showed him his cell, tried to talk to the fellow, but he was in sour spirits. Didn’t seem to know much about looking after your kit either. The leather of your boots was too dry and there was rust on the blade of your sword and his. Would have been unthinkable in the old days. He’d have been soundly beaten for less. He’s no boy, he’s old enough to know better.’

‘That may be but he was the best I could find before setting out from England. There are not many young men willing to jeopardise any future they might have at home by serving the Order.’

‘Really?’ Jenkins pursed his lips. ‘Things must be bad for the true faith then. That’s to be expected with one of them heretics on the throne.’

‘I’d hardly call Queen Bess a heretic.’ Thomas chuckled. ‘Especially not to her face, or in front of anyone who is likely to report the remark.’

‘It is of no concern to me, sir. I shall not return to England. I will die here, in Malta. One way or another. So I am free to say what I like about a Protestant queen.’

Thomas considered Richard in the next room, and the masters in London he served. The young man had been trained to kill and this was his first important mission and he was anxious to succeed, and no one would be allowed to get in the way of that, the elderly servant least of all.

He took another sip from his cup and spoke thoughtfully. ‘Protestant she may be but the Queen has avoided executing quite as many of her religious opponents as Mary did before her. She is taking steps to draw our people together again and may well prove to be as good a monarch as any.’

‘Pfftt!’ Jenkins sniffed with contempt. ‘Her mind has been poisoned against the Church of Rome. She will be damned to a well-deserved eternity of torment alongside all those who embrace heresy. Her Majesty is as much our enemy as the Sultan.’

‘Even though she is a Christian?’

‘Even so.’ Jenkins nodded resolutely.

Thomas looked at the old man with a heavy heart. ‘I see that those who serve the Order have not lost any of their zeal since I was last here.’

‘Zeal is our strength, sir. It is all that has sustained the Order in the centuries since we last held the Holy Land. We need it now more than ever.’ Jenkins stroked his chin wearily. ‘The truth is that the Order is in poor shape to make its stand against the Turks. Thanks to the wars in Europe, there has been little fresh blood to fill out the ranks of the knights. Captain Romegas has barely enough fighting men and sailors to man half of the Order’s galleys. Too many of the knights are past their prime, sir. Oh, their faith and their courage are as strong as ever but their poor bodies are worn out. The Grand Master most of all. He is older than I am, and his sight and strength are starting to fade, according to one of my friends who serves in his private quarters.’

‘That’s just gossip,’ Thomas retorted. ‘He appeared to be fit and sound of mind when I saw him earlier this evening.’

Jenkins smiled faintly. ‘Of course he did, sir. The Grand Master knows that everyone looks to him to lead them through the coming peril, his knights and soldiers most of all. But he cannot hide the true condition of his age from those closest to him.’ He shrugged. ‘Powerful men never seem to take account of their servants.’

Thomas was struck by the harm that could be done to the morale of the Order, and those who depended on it, if they came to see La Valette as his servants did. ‘It would be best if you did not repeat what you have heard about the Grand Master.’

‘Yes, sir. I did not mean to speak out of turn.’

‘In the normal course of events I would not mind, Jenkins. But we are all in the gravest of dangers, and La Valette is the rock upon which all hope is placed. It is a cruel burden to be laid upon the shoulders of an old man who has given his life to the service of the Order. This is the hour of his greatest challenge and even if his body is a shadow of what it once was, his heart, mind and spirit are as keen as they ever were, and tempered by his vast experience. If anyone can lead us to victory over the Turk then it is surely Jean Parisot de La Valette.’

Jenkins stared at him for a moment before he responded. ‘Fine words, sir. But do you truly believe them? It would be better if the Order elected a younger man to replace the Grand Master and let La Valette retire in peace.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Who would not want to be at the heart of such a moment in history? If the Order triumphs then none shall forget his name, and if they are crushed then he will have won the glory of fighting to the last in the name of our faith.’

‘For my part, sir, I’d rather he won his glory some other way. I’ve no desire to be put to the sword by the Turks if they take Birgu. None of us common folk have.’

‘I am sure that some of the knights share your point of view. As for me, I would rather survive than be butchered. I am not yet convinced that God has determined a hopeless heroic end for me.’ There was an awkward silence and then Thomas drained his cup quickly and reached for the jar. ‘But enough of that. If it happens, it happens. I want to know more of what has passed in the years since I left the Order.’

Jenkins’s expression hardened and he looked down, refusing to meet the knight’s eyes. When he spoke again his voice was low and strained. ‘Must we talk of that, sir? I feared you would ask.’

‘I would know what happened.’

‘Perhaps it would be best if you sought out Sir Oliver, sir. He can tell you more than I can.’