Sword and Scimitar

He recalled the burning agony that had consumed every fibre of his being, the fleeting impressions of the wounded lying in the chapel, Stokely, his expression waxen, leaning on his sword as he struggled for breath. Then the stench of a dark enclosed space, the relief of the sea as it cooled his burns and then a brief moment of confused serenity as he floated on his back staring into a peaceful azure sky and accepted that he was dying. Then agony as he was dragged from the sea.

After that he lost consciousness and his existence became a long, delirious nightmare of pain and fever. His head was swathed in bandages and there were long days when he lay sweltering in the heat, staring at a plaster ceiling curving overhead and a shaft of sunlight falling through a window behind him. He remembered voices, one that was stern and matter-of-fact as it discussed his treatment, then another, Richard, and last that of a woman, unmistakably Maria. Their words were confused and he could make no sense of what had been said. When he was alone his mind was filled with troubled images of fire, blood, sword and smoke, of terrible injuries. His head swelled with a cacophony of imagined noises of drums and cymbals, harsh cries of men locked in deadly combat and the screams of the dying . . .

Now all of that had begun to fade and Thomas was aware that his mind had emerged from a dark period of chaos. He took a long, deep breath and opened his eyes. At first his vision was blurred and the light coming through the window was too bright and painful and he blinked and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again, more cautiously this time. Slowly, the vision in his left eye cleared and he saw the stained white plaster of the ceiling. His right eye merely detected patches of light and shadow without any specific form. He moved his limbs carefully and winced at the tightness and pain that lanced down his left arm and side. Around him Thomas was aware of other men lying on beds, some in silence, while others moaned or mumbled incoherently to themselves. Now and then figures moved amongst them, men in the robes of friars and monks. Finally one came to Thomas and bent down to examine him.

‘You’re awake again.’ The monk spoke French and smiled as he dabbed at the sweat pricking out at his hairline. ‘And your fever finally seems to have broken.’

‘Finally?’ Thomas frowned and tried to speak again but his throat was too dry and he could only make a soft croaking sound. ‘Where

‘You’re in the infirmary of St Angelo. Quite safe. Here, let me help you.’

There was a faint gurgle of liquid and then the monk gently slipped a hand under Thomas’s head and raised it slightly. With the other hand he held a brass cup to his patient’s lips and helped him to drink. Thomas gratefully swilled the water around his dry mouth and swallowed. He took a few more mouthfuls before he nodded and let his head slump back. The monk eased it down on to the bolster and withdrew his hand and placed it on Thomas’s forehead.

‘Yes, the heat has gone from your brow. That’s good.’ He smiled again. ‘When you were first brought in here 1 was certain that you would not survive. Your burns are severe and there is a bullet wound to your leg. It seems you were struck as they pulled you from the water. Between the bums and the loss of blood I fully expected you not to survive through the night. You have a strong constitution, Sir Thomas. Even so, it was a close thing. You developed a fever and for many days I feared we might lose you. That you survived is due to the tireless efforts of the woman who nursed you.’

‘Woman?’

‘She’s the widow of the late Sir Oliver Stokely, as I understand it. She also claims to be your friend.’ The monk tried to stifle a knowing smile and Thomas felt a passing irritation at the man. ‘What is your name, brother?’ Thomas asked huskily. ‘Christopher.’

‘Well then, Christopher, Lady Maria is indeed my friend, and a woman who is beyond reproach.’

‘Of course. I meant no offence.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Resting. She has hardly left your side these last weeks. She saw to all your needs, though she did have the help of your squire from time to time, when he could be spared from his duties. She fed you, washed and bathed you and changed your dressings. The poor lady is exhausted. Once I saw that your fever had abated I sent her home to rest. That was this morning. She said she would return at dusk.’

Thomas nodded. Then he looked at the monk. ‘You said weeks. How long have I been here? What date is it? What month?’

‘Why, it is the twenty-second day of August, sir.’

‘August?’ Thomas started in alarm. ‘Then . . . then I have been here almost eight weeks.’

The monk nodded. ‘And for four of those weeks it was doubtful that you would live, despite your solid English constitution. For the last two weeks we have been fighting your fever. It was only a few days ago that I became confident that you would recover. Though when I say recover, you will have to live with the consequences of your injuries.’

‘But what of the siege?’

The monk pursed his lips. ‘The Turks are pounding us from all sides. At night they fire into the heart of Birgu and have killed scores of women and children. We still hold every one of the bastions and the wall, though barely. The Grand Master has less than a third of the men with which he started. Food and water are ru

‘No. I need to know about my wounds. When will I be fit to fight again?’

‘Fight?’ The monk seemed taken aback.

Thomas felt a chill course down his spine. He struggled for a moment to sit up in order to see his body but he was too weak and slumped back with a hiss of frustration. He reached out with his left hand and clasped the monk’s arm. ‘Tell me.’

The monk sucked in his breath. ‘You had extensive burns to your left leg and hip and on your left arm and the right side of your neck and face. Your eye was scorched and damaged and I doubt that you can see much out of it. Am I right?’

Thomas nodded. ‘Just shadows.’

‘As I feared.’ The monk gestured down Thomas’s left side. ‘Your skin and muscle tissue were badly damaged and will take many more months to heal. There will be a permanent tightness in your arm and leg and they will not flex as fully as they once did. And they will be painful. I would say your fighting days are behind you, Sir Thomas. Even though the Grand Master is short of men and is filling out the ranks with boys, dotards and any man still fit enough to hold a weapon, I have to say that this present conflict will be over before you recover enough to play any useful part.’

‘Bring me a mirror,’ Thomas said quietly.

‘Later. You should rest. Then I shall bring you soup, and some bread.’

‘I want a mirror. Now.’

The monk hesitated a moment, and then nodded. ‘As you wish, Sir Thomas. A moment then.’