all the years he had since spent in England when memory of her had not been lodged in his heart like a splinter, a constant reminder of what he had lost. If she still lived, he prayed that she would be here. There was little reason to suppose that she had chosen to remain on this dry rock in the middle of a war-torn sea, but Thomas could not help hoping. Many times he had allowed himself to imagine seeing her again, untarnished by the passage of time, still slender, dark and with the serious expression that belied her fiery spirit. Such fantasies always left him feeling vulnerable for fear that she would reject him, as he had once been forced to abandon her.
‘A formidable prospect.’
Thomas thrust his troubled reverie aside and turned to see Richard standing a short distance further along the galley’s rail, gazing at the defences of St Angelo. The sun had been lost behind the high ground beyond the harbour and to Thomas’s eyes both St Angelo and the fort at the mouth of the harbours seemed somehow diminished by the gloom of the gathering dusk.
‘Formidable?’ Thomas pursed his lips. ‘Not so formidable to our Turkish friends, I think. There is not a fortress in all Christendom that can stand before the great cannons of the Turks. And when the walls come down, the outcome will be decided by the quality and quantity of the men who face each other.’
‘The quality is spoken for.’ Richard smiled. ‘There are no better warriors in this world than the knights of the Order of St John.’
‘That may be true, but the Sultan has quantity on his side,’ Thomas replied wearily. ‘Tell me, Richard, which is more important, quality or quantity? From your experience, as a warrior?’
It was a barbed question, and Thomas regretted it at once. Richard had only intended an amiable exchange but Thomas was irritated by his complacent comment.
Richard frowned and his lips set into a tight line as he stared fixedly at St Angelo. Thomas decided that the most practical form of apology would be to change the subject.
‘How is your arm today?’
‘The worst of the pain has passed,’ Richard replied tersely, without shifting his gaze.
‘And you have changed the dressing each day?’
‘Just as you ordered.’
‘And there was no sign of putrefaction?’
‘None.’
‘Good.’ Thomas nodded.
There was a long silence in which neither man showed any sign of being willing to move from the galley’s rail and be the first to give way in their tacit confrontation. Thomas could sense the tension, anger and even hatred seething in the breast of his companion, but there was no question of assuaging it with an open apology and so he said nothing and acted as if he was alone as he watched the harbour open up on either side of Don Garcia’s flagship. The remaining galleys of the squadron were in line astern and glided across the quiet waters of the harbour as the oars stroked the surface with graceful symmetry. From St Angelo a gun boomed out in salute as the flagship drew level and there was a brief pause before one of the galley’s guns replied, the deep rumble echoing back from the limestone walls of the fort as a host of gulls swirled into the air, disturbed by the noise.
The flagship rounded the end of the promontory and steered into the creek between Birgu and the bare twin promontory of Senglea where a handful of windmills stood on its highest point. Ahead lay the masts of dozens of cargo ships and fishing boats, packed close to the quay lined with the warehouses of Birgu. The walls of St Angelo continued along the creek a hundred yards before reaching the channel that had been painstakingly cut across the promontory to provide a last line of defence before the fort. Thomas’s eyes were drawn to a large galleon riding at anchor in the channel. The forecastle, sides and high poop deck were painted green and decorated in gold leaf and the figurehead was a veiled woman in black robes picked out with stars and moons in gold and silver. There was no mistaking the origins of the vessel and Thomas realised that this must be the galleon that Philippe had told him of, the loss of which had provoked the Sultan’s rage.
‘Ship oars!’ ordered the captain and the dripping blades were raised clear of the sea and rumbled into the hull.
‘Port the helm!’
The flagship slowly swung in towards the length of quay closest to the fort. Thomas could see a small party of men waiting there, several wearing the cloaks of the Order, adorned with the distinctive cross motif. To one side a servant held the leashes of two magnificently conditioned hunting dogs. Standing alone a short distance in front of the others was a tall figure with silver hair and beard who was dressed in a plain black doublet, breeches and half- cloak. He watched the approaching galley without expression as the last of the steerage way carried it towards the quay.
Thomas felt his pulse quicken and an old affection stirred in his breast. He recognised the man, even though the passage of twenty years and the burden of command had wrought their changes on the weathered features.
‘Jean Parisot de La Valette,’ he said softly.
‘Him? The old man?’ Richard stared, comparing the man’s appearance with the more richly finished attire of the men behind him. ‘I would not have taken him for the Grand Master of the Order of St John.’
‘Clothes do not make the man.’
‘Nor does great age. I hope his mind is sound.’
‘The High Council of the Order would not permit him to remain in office if it wasn’t.’
Sailors tossed coils of rope towards men on the quay and the galley was hauled in until it bumped softly against the tarred rope buffers. A section of the bulwark swung open and the gangway was extended to the quay as Don Garcia and his entourage approached. The Spaniard saw Thomas a short distance further along the deck and beckoned to him.
‘It would please me if you and your squire joined us.’
Thomas bowed his head. ‘As you will, sir.’
Four of Don Garcia’s soldiers hurried ashore and formed a small guard on either side of the gangway. When they were standing to attention, Don Garcia led his entourage ashore, followed by Thomas and Richard. Glancing over the faces of the men at La Valette’s back Thomas could only recognise Romegas, the foremost of the galley captains when Thomas had campaigned with the Order. He, too, had grown old, but no doubt his bitter feelings towards Thomas endured.
Don Garcia and La Valette exchanged a bow and brief greetings in French before they took turns to introduce their subordinates. When he waved Thomas forward, Don Garcia could not suppress a small smile.
‘Grand Master, I think you may have heard of my English companion, Sir Thomas Barrett.’
La Valette’s eyes were still clear and piercing, even though they had set deeper into his countenance. He strained them a little as Thomas approached and bowed his head respectfully.
‘Thomas... I hoped that you would answer the call.’
‘I have been waiting for twenty years, sir.’
A brief look of pain flitted across the old man’s expression before he continued. ‘Due to the circumstances there was not much I could do, you understand. But you are here now. Back at my side, where your talents are most needed.’
The kindly tone affected Thomas deeply and memories of their comradeship flooded back. ‘I will do my duty, sir.’
‘I am sure you will. Tell me, are you still as fierce and deadly a fighter as you were when you last served the Order?’
‘In truth? No, sir. But I can still wield a sword as well as most men.’
‘That is good.’ La Valette smiled and gestured to his retinue, none of whom seemed any younger than Thomas. ‘As you see, few of us are men in the prime of life, but we are unequalled in experience and wisdom, the more so since you have rejoined us. For which I give thanks to God.’
‘I suspect that some in the Order will not be as grateful, sir,’ Thomas replied, avoiding the temptation to glance at Romegas.
‘Only a handful survive that still remember, Thomas, and now they are answerable to me and obey my will.’ He paused and then clasped Thomas’s hand gently. His skin was dry and the bones beneath the mottled flesh were pronounced. ‘Your place will not be questioned. It does my heart good to see you again.’ He looked beyond Thomas and his gaze rested on Richard for the first time. ‘And who is your young companion?’
