Sword and Scimitar

‘Thank you, Thomas.’ She eased herself closer and then reached out and took his hand. The touch of her skin set off a tremor that rippled through his body. ‘Now, let us talk. Without rancour. Without regret. There are things you should know.’

‘I know. Oliver told me about the fate of our child.’

She looked surprised. ‘Fate?’

‘That he died in infancy.’

Maria frowned and a glimmer of anger shone in her eyes. ‘He said that?’

‘Yes.’

‘He said that our son was dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he lives. He lives.’ She looked confused. ‘I could not raise him. I was not allowed. For the first years of his life we kept him a secret and Oliver told the Order that my child had died a few days after he was born. We passed him off as the child of one of the serving girls. Then we were betrayed. They were going to take him from me.’

‘Who?’

‘The knights. The Order was going to send the boy somewhere I would never find him. Where he would not bring shame on them. I begged Oliver not to let them. I begged him, and he promised he would find a solution.’

‘What kind of solution?’

‘He sent the boy to England to be raised by one of Oliver’s cousins. That was the last time I saw him. But I have had news of him from time to time. I am told he has grown into a fine young man. Wait here

Maria rose quickly from the seat and walked back into the house. A moment later she returned and sat down and held out her hand. Opening it, she revealed a small locket on a delicate silver chain. She opened the locket with a warm smile and stared at a miniature portrait inside. Then, still smiling, she offered it to Thomas.

‘This was sent to me when he turned sixteen. This is your son. This is our Ricardo.’

With a cold shiver of premonition Thomas took the locket and gazed down at the familiar features it contained. Younger, yes, and the wavy dark locks of hair that he had inherited from his mother were now tamed and neatly trimmed, but there was no mistaking the dark eyes and dark features of the man he had become.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

‘Dear God . . .’ Thomas muttered through gritted teeth. His mind seethed with the currents of deceit and betrayal that had caught and used him. Then he looked up at Maria and her expression changed from the injured fondness of a moment before to anxiety.

‘What is it? Thomas, tell me.’

‘Have you ever shown this to anyone else? Has Oliver seen it?’

Maria looked confused. ‘Why?’

‘I have to know. Have you ever shown this locket to Oliver?’

‘No.’

‘Is there any chance that he knows of it?’

She shook her head. ‘I do not think so. I keep it hidden from him. He is a good man, and has always been kind to me. Why should I wound his heart by reminding him of the past, of my affection for you?’

His heart was filled with fear as he closed the locket and placed it back in her hand. ‘Keep this safe and let no one see it. I have to go. Now. I will try to return later today if I can, I swear it.’

She looked dismayed. ‘What is it? What’s the matter? Thomas, tell me!’

‘I can’t. Not yet. Trust me.’ He stood up, made to leave, then turned and took her hand and pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of her skin, holding it deep in his lungs before he was forced to exhale. Then he released her hand and turned away and walked swiftly towards the gate. He wrenched it open and stepped out into the street. As the gate closed behind him, Thomas had one last glimpse of Maria rising from the chair with a look of anguish etched on her face.

He strode quickly down the street and turned at the junction leading to the auberge. His mind was in turmoil over what he had just discovered and he was not paying particular attention to his surroundings. So it was that he missed the figure at the end of the street, partially hidden by shadow and standing still in the doorway of a baker, as if part of the small crowd of customers waiting their turn. For a moment the man stared after Thomas and then walked slowly towards the gate of the house.

‘I know who you are,’ Thomas said coldly as he closed the door to the cell behind him.

Richard looked up from the small desk where he had been writing. He was stripped to the waist and his skin gleamed where perspiration prickled out. He laid down his pen and casually drew an ink-stained rag across the sheet of paper to conceal several lines written in a small, neat hand.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked calmly.

Thomas closed his eyes briefly and saw the image in the locket again, and Maria’s face. He knew more than his heart could bear and was uncertain of his feelings now, and what precisely he should say to the young man before him. Walsingham’s agent, his squire, his son. Even now, against all the certainties that filled his mind, it was still difficult to accept - to believe - it was real.

‘Richard . . . Ricardo. I saw your picture in the locket that was sent to your mother.’

Richard frowned. ‘What are you talking about? My mother? What madness is this?’

‘I know the truth. There is no time for playing games. You may be in great danger.’

Richard cocked an eyebrow. ‘Really? Why would I be in any danger in a town surrounded by Muslim fanatics?’

Thomas felt a burst of anger. ‘Enough! I know that you are my son.’

Richard’s eyes widened briefly and then his features fixed into a neutral expression. ‘And what makes you think that?’

‘I saw your portrait in the locket. Just now when I was speaking to your mother.’

Richard smiled coldly. ‘That would be something of a one-sided conversation. My mother died years ago, when I was a child.’ His expression hardened. ‘But I know who you are well enough, Father. The man who used a serving girl for his pleasure and then cast her aside when she was with child. And never acknowledged that he had a son for fear of the shame of it. ’

Now it was Thomas who was frowning. ‘What?’

Richard narrowed his eyes. ‘This locket, who showed it to you?’

‘Maria, of course. Your mother.’

Richard breathed in sharply. ‘No. That ca

‘Kill me?’ Thomas felt an icy fist clench round his heart. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Richard let out a cheerless laugh. ‘Why not? You abandoned my mother, forced her to abandon me. Had me sent to be raised by strangers who treated me as if I should be ashamed to be alive. If it had not been for Sir Oliver’s family and their patronage, I would never have gone to Cambridge and drawn the attention of Sir Robert Cecil.’ Richard paused. ‘He was more of a father to me than you ever were.’

‘I swear to God, I never knew,’ Thomas replied, ‘else I would have moved heaven and earth to find you and raise you myself.’

‘Of course. Like every other noble who takes on his responsibilities with respect to his bastard offspring.’

‘No. It would have been different. You were — are — my son.’

‘I am the sour fruit of your brief union with my mother, and neither of you ever wanted me.’

‘That is not true.’ Thomas took a step forward in anguish. ‘I did not know of you, and your mother was forced to give you up. And she lives still.’

Richard snorted. ‘Save your thin lies, Father. I know the truth. Walsingham told me, after he had investigated my past. He told me everything years ago, and when the chance for this mission came up, he chose me for the task and told me that I was free to do with you as I wished when it was all over.’