‘When my squire is settled, bring me ajar of heated wine,’ said Thomas. ‘There is much I would know about what has happened during the years of my absence.’
Jenkins nodded. ‘Aye, sir. I’d be pleased to tell you, and hear the news from England.’
The servant gestured to the squire to leave the room and then followed him out and shut the door quietly behind them. Thomas looked around the cell, dimly recalling that it had once been occupied by Sir Anthony Thorpe, a surly older knight from some obscure village in Norfolk who had insisted on sleeping with the door open. His loud snoring had echoed down the corridor, disturbing the sleep of his comrades.
Once he had removed his cloak and hung it on a peg Thomas picked up the plate holding the candle and trod quietly towards the door. The muffled sounds of conversation came from the next cell as Jenkins attempted to engage Richard in conversation. Thomas eased the latch up and stepped into the corridor, raising the candle so that he might see better. To one side the corridor led off towards the kitchen, with doors on either side for the cells of the knights and their squires. A dim glow under the door opposite revealed where Sir Martin had his quarters. Turning the other way, Thomas retraced his steps to the hall.
Despite his careful pace the sound of his footsteps was clearly audible as he made his way across to the hearth opposite the entrance and only served to make the hall seem more empty and still. He stopped to look round slowly, and remember. There was a hint of roast meat in the air, a common enough smell in England but in this place it suddenly evoked in the most tangible way a memory of his first feast day at the auberge. He had been knighted at seventeen and joined the Order a year later and his heart had swelled with pride as he sat at the table to one side of the fire, together with a score of English knights, eating and drinking while the warm fug of the hall was filled with the sound of their loud conversation and laughter. He could even recall their faces. Sir Harry Beltham, whose red-blotched complexion matched the fiery red hair and beard on his round face. His laughter had been deep and infectious, and when he had slapped Thomas on the back, the young knight had been shot halfway across the hall. Sir Matthew Smollett, a Welshman, tall, sinewy and so darkly featured that rumours were spread that he surely must have Moor blood in him. He had been quiet and content to observe his companions with a wry smile and make the occasional dry quip that served to remind the others of his superior intelligence. There were others Thomas recalled with affection. And finally Sir Oliver Stokely, the comrade he had once considered a friend and who had become a bitter enemy by the time they had parted. The earlier icy encounter with his former comrade had shaken Thomas.
The memories faded and then there was only the cold and the dark shadows around him. For a moment Thomas tried to draw the memory of his feasting comrades back before his mind’s eye, but the desire seemed false and he gave up. With an aching heart Thomas returned to his cell and opened his bag. In it were a few changes of clothes and a handful of personal effects. He took out his brushes and the silver crucifix — a family heirloom — he had once prayed before every day, at dawn and dusk. He held it in his hands and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment before placing it on the small table, against the wall. He deliberately left the leather pouch until last. He eased open the drawstrings and tenderly took out the gold locket. After a brief hesitation he opened the lid and stared at the dark lock of hair inside. He was still for a moment and then he pressed his lips together and lightly touched the hair with his little finger, slowly stroking the silky strands.
‘Maria
There was a knock at the door. Thomas snapped the locket shut and hastily replaced it in the pouch and put that in the table’s one drawer.
‘Come.’
Jenkins entered, carrying a tray bearing the candleholder, a small stoppered jar and two brass cups. He turned and nudged the door closed before he crossed the cell and set the tray down. Thomas sat on the bed and gestured to the chair. Jenkins nodded his thanks and eased himself down with a sigh and then pulled out the stopper and poured the first cup which he handed to the knight before pouring his own. Thomas raised the cup and smiled.
‘To old comrades and absent friends.’
The wine was warm and pleasant to the palate and felt comforting in the stomach as Thomas drank. Then he lowered the cup to his lap and held it in both hands as he gazed fondly at the auberge’s remaining servant. Jenkins drained his cup and set it down with a sharp rap before he wiped his lips on the back of his bony hand.
‘A good drop, that.’
‘Drop?’ Thomas arched an eyebrow. ‘Rather more than a drop, I’d say.’
The servant shrugged. ‘When you’re on your own, sir, the lack of conversation leaves nothing but drink to occupy a man.’
Thomas nodded, knowingly.
Jenkins leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. ‘Your squire doesn’t seem very content with his lot, if I may say so, sir.’
‘Oh?’
‘I showed him his cell, tried to talk to the fellow, but he was in sour spirits. Didn’t seem to know much about looking after your kit either. The leather of your boots was too dry and there was rust on the blade of your sword and his. Would have been unthinkable in the old days. He’d have been soundly beaten for less. He’s no boy, he’s old enough to know better.’
‘That may be but he was the best I could find before setting out from England. There are not many young men willing to jeopardise any future they might have at home by serving the Order.’
‘Really?’ Jenkins pursed his lips. ‘Things must be bad for the true faith then. That’s to be expected with one of them heretics on the throne.’
‘I’d hardly call Queen Bess a heretic.’ Thomas chuckled. ‘Especially not to her face, or in front of anyone who is likely to report the remark.’
‘It is of no concern to me, sir. I shall not return to England. I will die here, in Malta. One way or another. So I am free to say what I like about a Protestant queen.’
Thomas considered Richard in the next room, and the masters in London he served. The young man had been trained to kill and this was his first important mission and he was anxious to succeed, and no one would be allowed to get in the way of that, the elderly servant least of all.
He took another sip from his cup and spoke thoughtfully. ‘Protestant she may be but the Queen has avoided executing quite as many of her religious opponents as Mary did before her. She is taking steps to draw our people together again and may well prove to be as good a monarch as any.’
‘Pfftt!’ Jenkins sniffed with contempt. ‘Her mind has been poisoned against the Church of Rome. She will be damned to a well-deserved eternity of torment alongside all those who embrace heresy. Her Majesty is as much our enemy as the Sultan.’
‘Even though she is a Christian?’
‘Even so.’ Jenkins nodded resolutely.
Thomas looked at the old man with a heavy heart. ‘I see that those who serve the Order have not lost any of their zeal since I was last here.’
‘Zeal is our strength, sir. It is all that has sustained the Order in the centuries since we last held the Holy Land. We need it now more than ever.’ Jenkins stroked his chin wearily. ‘The truth is that the Order is in poor shape to make its stand against the Turks. Thanks to the wars in Europe, there has been little fresh blood to fill out the ranks of the knights. Captain Romegas has barely enough fighting men and sailors to man half of the Order’s galleys. Too many of the knights are past their prime, sir. Oh, their faith and their courage are as strong as ever but their poor bodies are worn out. The Grand Master most of all. He is older than I am, and his sight and strength are starting to fade, according to one of my friends who serves in his private quarters.’
‘That’s just gossip,’ Thomas retorted. ‘He appeared to be fit and sound of mind when I saw him earlier this evening.’
Jenkins smiled faintly. ‘Of course he did, sir. The Grand Master knows that everyone looks to him to lead them through the coming peril, his knights and soldiers most of all. But he cannot hide the true condition of his age from those closest to him.’ He shrugged. ‘Powerful men never seem to take account of their servants.’
Thomas was struck by the harm that could be done to the morale of the Order, and those who depended on it, if they came to see La Valette as his servants did. ‘It would be best if you did not repeat what you have heard about the Grand Master.’
‘Yes, sir. I did not mean to speak out of turn.’
