Sword and Scimitar

‘No!’ Thomas shouted, his voice cracking. Without thinking he pushed Richard aside and surged between his son and the boat as the flame flashed out. There was a small ring of smoke, a loud crash in the hot air, and Thomas felt a blow, like a vicious punch, in his stomach. The impact drove the breath out of him. He saw Mustafa Pasha’s lips part in a cold grin as the boat drew away.

Richard burst out of the sea with an enraged expression. He still had the standard clasped in both hands and he glared at Thomas.

‘What are you doing? Why did you . . His words dried up as he stared at the hole in Thomas’s breast-plate.

With a sick feeling of certainty, Thomas was aware that he had been shot. He looked down and saw the indent in his armour, just above where it curved towards the flange above his groin. Blood oozed from the hole and dribbled down the polished steel.

‘Oh God, no,’ he muttered. ‘Not this. Not now.’

‘Father!’ Richard hurled the standard towards the shallows and waded towards him. ‘Father, you’re hit.’

Thomas shook his head, not wanting to believe it but knowing that the wound was mortal. The numbing impact of the shot began to fade and a terrible pain spread through his stomach. He staggered towards his son, stumbling into his arms before the strength in his legs gave out. A dark veil blurred his vision and he wanted to vomit as he felt his consciousness slipping away.

Richard held him under the arms, struggling towards the shore. Thomas was dimly aware of his son’s voice as he called out desperately, ‘Over here! Help me! For pity’s sake, help me!’

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

‘There’s nothing that can be done to save him,’ La Valette said gently as they approached the door to the infirmary. Maria did not reply but stared fixedly ahead. The glow of the rising sun lit up the battlements on the wall above them, and in Birgu the bells of every church continued to ring, as they had done ever since news of the defeat of the Turks had reached the town. The courtyard of St Angelo was filled with the wounded who had begun to arrive from Naxxar the night before.

‘It is a miracle that he has lived through the night,’ La Valette continued. ‘When his squire brought him in, he had lost much blood. But all he said was that he wanted to see you. I sent for you at once. I can only imagine the strength of will that is still keeping him in this world. He has made a final request of me.’ La Valette stopped on the threshold of the infirmary and turned to face Maria. ‘A strange thing, and you should know of it before you see him.’

‘What is it?’ Maria frowned.

‘He asks for two things. That you are married here and now, and that I prepare and sanction the adoption of his squire as his legal son and heir. That young man has not left his side since he brought Sir Thomas back from the battlefield, but there is more to this than merely rewarding loyal service, I think.’ La Valette shook his head. ‘A peculiar situation. But the Order owes a great debt to Sir Thomas and I am happy to fulfil his wishes. The question is, are you?’

Maria said nothing, her lips pressed together in a thin line as she nodded.

‘Well then. All is in readiness. I have a priest at hand and I shall witness the ceremony, together with his squire. But it grieves me that you should become a widow so soon after becoming a wife.’ Maria swallowed and held her head high as she responded, ‘I can think of no greater happiness than being the wife of Sir Thomas. Now take me to him.’

An hour later the ceremony was over. Thomas slipped back on his bolster with a smile of contentment as his wife and son sat either side of him, each holding one of his hands. His hair was plastered to his scalp and sweat gleamed on his pallid skin and the scar tissue on his face. He felt cold and what was left of his strength was steadily failing. Only the agony in his stomach kept his thoughts coherent. He knew that there was little time left to him and felt a burst of rage until he recalled that because he was dying his son was still living. He nodded to himself and whispered, ‘It is a fair fate.’

He turned his head towards Richard and moistened his lips so that he might speak clearly. He found the effort a strain and his voice was thin and frail. ‘Swear to me that you will look after your mother. She has been wronged all through her life. Swear to me that you will care for her.’

‘I swear it.’

Thomas smiled. ‘I am proud of you. Any man would be honoured to call you his son.’

Richard swallowed hard and gently laid a hand on his father’s chest. ‘I know. And to you I owe it all.’

‘No. I should have been a better father. A better man.’ Thomas turned to Maria, his eyes filled with pain and longing. ‘A better husband.’

She tried to fight back tears, then leaned forward to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, ‘There is no better man. You are my all . . . my love.’

Thomas’s vision began to blur and he had barely enough strength to breathe. His expression twisted in agony. ‘And you . . . are mine. Always . . . Always. Forgive me.’

Then his eyes closed as his breathing became more laboured, and with a last sigh, he lay silent and still. There was no mistaking the moment of his death; that final stillness of body and spirit from which there was no return. His son and wife stared in silence and each shed tears. Their grief was raw and they sat a while together as the hours passed.

As dusk closed over the island, La Valette returned to the infirmary to pay his respects. Maria eased her hand away from the growing chill of Thomas’s fingers and rose stiffly. She stared down at his scarred face and leaned to kiss him on the brow before she turned and walked slowly away, her hand resting on Richard’s arm. La Valette accompanied them outside.

‘Rest assured, Sir Thomas will never be forgotten. Nor will any who endured the siege.’ La Valette breathed in deeply as if savouring the air. ‘When the rest of Christendom hears that the Turks have been thrown back from Malta they will gain heart and common purpose. Suleiman and his empire have been humbled, but soon he will be back. Yet Europe will no longer fear the prospect of living under the shadow of the crescent. Because of what happened here, on Malta. Because of those who died, like Thomas, and those who fought and lived, like you, Richard.’

He embraced the young man, then stood back and smiled curiously. ‘You are a worthy heir to Sir Thomas’s name. It is almost as if you were born to take on the mantle.’

La Valette turned to Maria and bowed deeply. ‘My lady, I wish that this had ended more favourably for you. But God’s will be done.’

Maria’s lips parted as she made to reply, but she could only nod.

‘There is one more thing.’ La Valette reached inside his doublet and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, sealed with the Barrett crest. He offered it to Richard. ‘Sir Thomas gave me this several days ago. He requested that I give it to you, should anything happen to him.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I doubt that he really expected the worst, but. . . here.’

Richard took the letter hesitantly and nodded his thanks. La Valette bowed his head and then strode back towards his quarters where the end of the siege had produced an endless list of new problems that needed urgent resolution. Richard waited until he was out of sight before he turned to Maria.

‘Do you mind?’

‘No. I’ll wait for you on the wall. There’s a pleasant breeze tonight.’ She bowed her head and slowly walked over to the bottom of the stairs leading up on to the wall of the fort. Richard moved into the pool of light cast by a torch flickering in an iron bracket and opened the letter and began to read.

My dearest Richard,

I am not a man of great learning. Nor am I any more a man of noted deeds and actions. Nor, I fear, do I have much time left to me to be a man at all. If I should die then let this brief note be my testament to you. If I should live, then perhaps these poor thoughts might still carry some of the weight and value that I purpose for them.