‘Until I discovered your true nature. I have said all I wish to say to you. You are here. Fight for the Order, then when it is over, leave and never return.’
‘Very well. . . But I would know one thing more.’
Sir Oliver’s lips pressed into a thin smile. ‘I thought you might ask.’
‘Then tell me.’ Thomas hesitated before he continued, eager to finally know yet afraid of the answer. ‘Does Maria still live?’
‘She is dead.’
‘Dead?’
For an instant there was a flicker of emotion in Sir Oliver’s features, then his expression hardened. ‘Yes, Maria is dead. She has been dead to you, Thomas, ever since that time. Do not ask me about her again or as God is my witness, I shall strike you down and kill you with my bare hands.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the meal was over, Thomas and Richard were escorted by one of the Grand Master’s clerks to the auberge of the English knights. The house had belonged to a wine merchant before the Order had arrived on Malta and commandeered the property. The clerk set down their bags and rapped on the door and waited. Presently they heard the sound of footsteps within and then the door opened. As Thomas entered the hall which he had once known so well, he turned to look at the servant — a stooped man in a cotton shirt and black breeches and boots. He held a brass candleholder aloft and his face was illuminated by the pale flame.
‘What is your business, sir?’ he asked in a thin voice.
‘I am an English knight of the Order. I need quarters for myself and my squire.’
‘English?’ The old man started. ‘You’re the first English knight to arrive at the auberge for . . . nearly ten years. There’s only one knight left here now.’
As the old man had been speaking Thomas recognised him and smiled. ‘The saints be blessed! Is that you, Jenkins?’
‘Aye, Jenkins is the name.’ The old man squinted and he leaned closer to inspect the late arrival. ‘How is it that you know my name, sir?’
‘Come now, surely you remember me.’
The old man raised his candle up and scrutinised Thomas’s face. Then his eyes widened. ‘No . . . surely not. Sir Thomas ... Sir Thomas Barrett! Good Lord above. I, I had never thought to see you again, sir.’
‘And yet here I am.’ Thomas laughed. ‘But what of the other servants? Harris? Chapman?’
The gap-toothed smile that had formed on the old servant’s face faded. ‘They have all gone, sir. I am the last of the retainers.’
‘But you must be nearly seventy if you are a day.’
‘Sixty-eight in December, sir.’ He frowned briefly.
‘Then why are you still in service, Jenkins?’
‘Where else would I be, sir? There is nowhere for me to go. Not while there is still an English knight to serve at the auberge.’
‘What the devil’s all that noise?’ a voice shouted from the shadows. ‘Jenkins, what is it? Speak up, man! Who are those fellows?’
A shadow emerged from a corridor leading off the hall and a powerfully built man with a bull neck - if the transition between his close-cropped head and muscled shoulders could be described as a neck — strode into the pale loom cast by the servant’s candle. He looked to be some ten years younger than Thomas and in need of a close shave about the jowls. He scowled at the new arrivals and Thomas caught a waft of acid wine on his breath as he introduced himself.
‘Sir Thomas Barrett, eh?’ the man repeated. ‘I’ve heard the name. Can’t recall when. Well then, I’m Sir Martin Le Grange, from Wickle Bridge, near Hereford. Ever hear of it?’
‘Alas not.’
‘That’s a great pity — for you. Anyway, make yourself at home. Jenkins will see to your needs. I’m off to bed. I was about to go before you arrived. Speak to you in the morning, eh?’ He nodded and turned, disappearing back into the corridor.
‘Not the most charming salutation I’ve ever received,’ Richard muttered. ‘Is he always so . . . hospitable?’
‘Only when he’s in his cups,’ Jenkins replied.
Thomas coughed. ‘Would you be kind enough to show us to our quarters?’
‘Yes, Sir Thomas. My apologies. If you would follow me, sir.’ Jenkins made to pick up the bags in one hand while he held the candle aloft with the other. Thomas took his arm and gently eased him away from the cumbersome bags.
‘Richard can see to those. He is young and strong.’
‘And tired,’ Richard added.
‘Besides, you should not strain yourself at your age, Jenkins.’ The old man straightened his back and raised his chin proudly. ‘But I am a servant of the English auberge, sir. It is my duty.’
‘Quite so, and how would you carry out your duties if you were to injure yourself by carrying too heavy a burden?’ Thomas asked with a grin.
Jenkins opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged and turned away. ‘Please follow me, sirs.’
Thomas followed while Richard muttered bitterly and picked up the baggage and strode as quickly as he could to catch up and stay within the small pool of light provided by the wavering candle flame. The servant led them to the accommodation corridor leading off the hall. Glancing up to the rafters, Thomas could see the small wooden shields fixed to the cross-beams, each one bearing the coat of arms of an English knight who had served the Order. There were a handful of gaps where the icons had been removed when the knight in question was judged to have brought dishonour upon the Order. His eyes hurriedly sought out the position where the Barrett icon had once hung. Now there was just a wooden peg and he looked away with a heavy sense of guilt, and shame.
‘Are you and Sir Martin the only men living here?’ asked Richard.
‘Yes, young master. There is one other who keeps quarters here, Sir Oliver Stokely, but he rarely visits the auberge. I haven’t seen him here for several months. He has a house near the base of the Sciberras peninsula. That’s where he lives these days. Here we are, sir.’ Jenkins stopped outside a door and lifted the latch and led them inside. ‘It’s not the cell you used to have, sir. After you left, that became a storeroom. I hope this will suit you.’
He raised the candleholder up and Thomas saw that the chamber was perhaps ten feet wide by fifteen long. There was a bed, a chest, a small table and chair, and pegs for his clothes. High up on the rear wall was a shuttered window.
Thomas nodded. ‘This will do. Richard, you may leave my bags here.’
The young man glanced round. ‘And where do I sleep . . . sir?’ The servant chuckled. ‘Rest easy, young master. It’s not the floor for you. There’s a squire’s cell next door. In the old days you’d share that with three others but you’ll have it to yourself.’
‘Does Sir Martin not have a squire?’ asked Thomas.
‘He can’t afford one, sir. His family lost everything when King Henry took their lands many years ago. That’s why Sir Martin joined the Order in the first place. He looks after his own weapons and armour. Insists on it. I just feed him, tend to his fire and cook his food. Of course, now that we have another squire at the auberge, perhaps young Master Richard could serve some of Sir Martin’s needs.’
Richard looked sharply at Thomas and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.
‘Of course.’ Thomas smiled. ‘I will see what can be arranged.’ Richard glared at him before he spoke. ‘If you will excuse me, sir, I’ll take the other bags to my cell.’
Thomas nodded.
‘Just a moment.’ Jenkins crossed to the table where a stout candle stood in a hardened pool of wax on top of a small platter. He lit the wick and it sputtered a moment before growing into a steady flame that added to the illumination of the cell. ‘There, young master. Follow me.’
