Sword and Scimitar

Thomas glanced at Richard who was staring fixedly at the table as he mechanically spooned stew into his mouth. Catching his name, Richard glanced up. ‘I am tired, sir.’

‘As are we all, young man.’ Sir Martin swung his legs over the bench and swivelled round. ‘And so I shall rest before the procession. Tell Jenkins to rouse me at half past the seventh hour.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Sir Martin rose to his feet and walked stiffly towards his cell. Richard waited until he was out of earshot before turning urgently to Thomas.

‘This is our chance to get into that dungeon at St Angelo. The dogs have been dealt with and there will be only a handful of men on duty. When are we likely to find a better opportunity?’

Thomas was doubtful. ‘There is the drawbridge to cross, the courtyard and the entrance to the stairwell, and then the sentries outside the dungeon itself. How do you propose to pass through all of that unobserved? Besides, we shall be expected at the procession.’

‘The procession, yes. But we could easily slip away before the sermon starts. The streets will be empty and there are ways to deal with sentries. We have to take our chances when we can. Getting into the archive’s what we were sent here to do.’

‘So you keep reminding me,’ Thomas replied flatly. ‘Very well, then. Tonight it is.’

The main streets of Birgu were brilliantly illuminated by the torches and candles held aloft by those taking part in the procession. The archbishop paced slowly at the head of the rest of his flock, holding a gilded cross above his head in both hands. Behind him came the Grand Master and the senior knights of the Order, bare-headed and dressed in plain black tunics with no belts or any other adornment. Instead of the usual boots, they wore sandals. Each man had his hands clasped together, head bowed as they chanted the Order’s penitent oaths, learned by heart when they had first joined the Order many years before. Behind them came the other knights, soldiers and civilians in a stream of humanity silently offering up prayers to God to forgive them their sins and show them divine mercy and deliverance from their enemy. Thomas and Richard had merged with the tail end of the knights and adopted the same humble posture as they wound their way through Birgu. The boom and rumble of ca

The night air was warm and the hooded cloaks that Thomas and Richard wore to conceal their identities were stifling. Even though he accepted his companion’s argument that this night presented their best chance to find the document, Thomas had grave doubts about Richard’s plan. It lacked detail and depended far too much upon good fortune for Thomas’s liking. And they would have to live with the risk of discovery afterwards, until the day when they were able to quit Malta and return to England. Or the day when they perished amid fire and sword along with the rest of the people trapped behind the defences of Malta.

Having paced around the limits of the small town, the archbishop led his people into the open square at the heart of Birgu. As they emerged from the street into the pool of light before the cathedral, Kichard gently tugged Thomas’s sleeve and edged towards the arched entrance of a bakery on the comer of the square. There they stopped, half concealed by the shadow of the arch, and let the rest of the people flow past and begin to fill up the square in their thousands. The archbishop reached the top of the steps leading up to the cathedral entrance and turned to begin praying. La Valette and the senior knights took up position on either side and then the most affluent and influential of the local people stood on the steps.

‘Let’s go,’ said Richard.

‘Not yet. Wait until the last of them have passed by us. No point in drawing attention to ourselves by heading the wrong way.’

Richard nodded and eased himself back into the shadow of the arch. Glancing down the street, Thomas could see that there were still several hundred more people to come, and he returned his attention to the square. It already seemed to be filled but the crowd steadily pressed forward. Children and young men climbed on to statue pediments and clung to the pillars of the more prestigious buildings fronting the square. By the entrance to the cathedral the archbishop stepped aside to give his place to a tall, thin friar whose angular face was framed by a white beard and tonsure. He gazed steadily round the square and then raised a hand to quell the last of the murmured talk and prayers.

‘Brethren! Hear me!’ He addressed them in French, the common tongue of those who fought and lived in Malta since the Order had first arrived. His voice was high-pitched and carried clearly across the square. ‘Beloved brethren, we are blessed to be here this day. There are amongst us those who feel accursed that they are beset by enemies whose false belief and cruel nature are works of evil. That they are, and it is right that we should fear them. In the place of faith and virtue their hearts are filled with cruelty, lust, avarice and mindless obeisance to the tyrant Suleiman and the false prophet.’ Robert of Eboli paused briefly to let his words sink in. ‘So much for the character of our enemy. That is why they are not worthy of victory, that is why they shall not triumph. God is merciful to the good and the pious, to those who know their sins and freely and openly repent of them in the loving sight of the Lord. They shall know his love, and his protection through the travails and fortunes of life ... We few, we devout few are indeed fortunate. This place has been chosen to fight the greatest battle between the light of Christianity, and the darkness of Islam. The great test of the age is upon us, and only complete devotion to our cause can ensure our victory. In the time to come, the Christian world will look on our great feat in wonder, and each of you will hold close to your hearts the inestimable treasure of knowing that you were here, at the side of the Grand Master, fighting in the battle of battles. There are kings and queens in Europe who will hold themselves accursed that they could not be where you now stand.’ The friar threw his arms out. ‘Who here would shame themselves to change places with such a king or queen? WHO?’

His words echoed round the square and Thomas saw that not a hand was raised against the force of such rhetoric and the fear of being shamed in the eyes of their peers. As his eyes ran over the people on the steps below the friar, they abruptly stopped at a figure standing in the light of a torch. A woman. Though she wore a dark veil over her hair, her face was clearly visible and Thomas felt his heart lurch. He took half a step forward.

‘What is it?’ Richard demanded. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s Maria, there.’ Thomas pointed.

She was standing next to a man in a knight’s cloak. His head was bowed so that his features were hidden, but his proximity to Maria made it clear that they were not strangers.

‘I must speak to her. ’

‘No!’ Richard seized his arm and held it firmly. ‘Not now. We have work to do.’

Thomas’s eyes were fixed on Maria and he felt his heartbeat quicken.

‘You ca

‘She is what I came here for.’

‘And she will still be here after tonight. Our chance to get the document will not. Sir, be strong. Fail me here and now and thousands may die in England.’

Thomas felt tom between his conscience and his heart. ‘I do not know what is in that document you seek but I know that I must speak to Maria.’

‘And you will. I swear that I will do all that I can to make it so,’ Richard said earnestly. ‘Now come, we should leave, at once.’ Thomas was still staring across the square. The man raised his head and the light of the nearby torch revealed his features clearly. Sir Oliver Stokely. He bent his head to whisper something to Maria and she smiled briefly, as if to humour him.