Bilbao, Spain
New Year’s Eve, 1565
Thomas looked on in frustration as his squire engaged in a fraught conversation with the port master. It had been many years since he had spoken the tongue, albeit imperfectly even then, and he was only able to catch a few words that passed between Richard and the official, and little sense of what was being said. Meanwhile he stood on the glistening stones of the quay as a chilling drizzle beaded his cloak. They had disembarked from the Danish vessel at midday and were immediately confronted by a patrol. The Spanish sergeant in charge of the men had demanded to know his business and refused to let him proceed unless he could provide documentation that proved Thomas had leave to travel across Spain. The letter from Sir Oliver had been brushed aside and a man had been sent to find the port master.
Thomas, Richard and the soldiers of the patrol had been forced to wait on the blustery quay while behind them the fishing boats and cargo ships bobbed and swayed on the grey swell rolling into the harbour from the Bay of Biscay. After a while the sergeant had retired to a nearby inn and left orders that the two Englishmen were to remain under guard and no one was to move until the port master’s will was known. So the small party had settled down to wait, Thomas and his squire sitting on their bags hunched in their capes while the Spaniards leaned against the mooring posts, the rain dripping steadily from the rims of their morion helmets.
As it was winter, there was little activity in the port and the cargo of glassware from Denmark and wool from London was quickly unloaded into a warehouse before the crew hurried below deck to the relative Comfort of their hammocks. All was quiet along the quay, except for the hiss of rain and the sweep and swirl of the wind when it picked up. A handful of locals passed by, casting suspicious glances at the two Englishmen under guard. For his part, Thomas was glad to be ashore. In the years that he had served on the Order’s galleys he had rarely been to sea in winter, and never in waters exposed to the seasonal fury of the Adantic Ocean.
The Danish galleon had emerged from the mouth of the Thames and crossed the Channel before hugging the French coastline. A violent storm had blown them out to sea and for five days the crew had had little sleep as they battled the heavy sea, losing the main spar and sail in the struggle. Icy sea water sluiced across the deck and soaked through their clothes as the vessel shuddered under the impact of each wave and soared and swooped from swell to swell. The seasickness was the worst that Thomas had ever experienced and after he and his fellow passengers — Richard and three priests returning to Spain from Amsterdam — had thrown up the last contents of their stomachs, they had retreated to the tiny communal cabin they shared. Thomas sat with his back to one of the thick compass timbers and hugged his knees to try and keep warm. Richard did the same a short distance away, head tucked down, while the priests clutched their rosaries and prayed until their voices gave out and then fell to muttering as they beseeched the Lord for mercy.
It was in that moment of greatest vulnerability that Thomas took careful stock of his companion, watching him closely over his folded arms. Despite his youth, no more than twenty years, Thomas estimated, he seemed to have a cool, detached maturity, frequently looking about him, at his surroundings and at those he came into contact with. So far he had said litde to Thomas beyond what was absolutely necessary and civil. Only when the galleon had broached the heavy seas in the Channel did the implacable facade slip for an instant. They had been standing on deck when a wave had crashed over the bows. Richard had been caught unawares and was swept off his feet. As the water carried him several feet along the deck he had cried out in alarm and then looked at Thomas with an instinctive appeal for help. Thomas had braced himself, legs spread to retain his balance, and with one hand clasping the bulwark he had grasped Richard’s hand with the other and hauled him off the deck. A small roller following in the wake of the wave pitched them together, as if they were friends embracing. At once Richard had pushed himself free and his expression returned to its usual coldness, his dark eyes narrowing as he nodded his gratitude before making his way down to the cabin to change into dry clothes. It had been only the briefest of moments, but he had revealed a very human aspect to his character and at the time Thomas could not help smiling at his squire’s shame for having done so.
As soon as the storm had subsided the captain turned his ship towards land and they made for La Rochelle to rest and make repairs before continuing the voyage. The galleon picked its way along the coast of the Bay of Biscay and passed the border between France and Spain on a cheerless Christmas Day. It had been Thomas’s intention to land at San Sebastian, but the port was being besieged by the French and the captain had continued to Bilbao instead, over the protests of the priests who had demanded to be set ashore at San Sebastian.
As Thomas had sat brooding on the quay the soldier finally returned with the port master who launched into a tirade when Richard attempted to explain the purpose of their journey. Behind them the sergeant crept out of the door of the inn and rejoined his men before he was missed. Thomas listened to the angry exchange for a while before he stirred and rose stiffly to his feet. His body was no longer as keen a hound to its master and did not respond willingly. His muscles trembled from the cold and wet and felt heavy as he walked across to interrupt the two men locked in argument.
‘What is the problem with our friend?’
Richard glanced round. ‘He says that all Spanish ports are closed to travellers from England, on the orders of King Philip, in reprisal for the Queen’s continued persecution of Catholics.’
‘Really? Then tell him that I am a Catholic.’
Richard translated and the port master replied shortly and tilted his nose up.
‘He says that you are still an Englishman.’
‘That is true, and it is no cause for apology. Tell him it is he who should be apologising for detaining us here.’
Richard hesitated. ‘We are supposed to pass through Spain as discreetly as possible, sir.’
‘Discretion is one thing, humiliation is quite another. I am an English knight, marching to serve the Order of St John, and defend all Christendom against the Turk. If this man impedes me then he will not only answer to his King, but also to his God.’ He reached into his cloak and took out the leather tube in which he kept the letter from Sir Oliver. He extracted the letter and held it up for the port master to see. ‘This is the seal of the Order, and this letter is my call to arms. Tell him.’
Richard nodded and addressed the Spanish official. The latter’s expression turned to one of alarm as he leaned forward to inspect the seal. He waved the document away and began speaking hurriedly. Then he bowed to Thomas, nodded to Richard and turned away to issue his orders to the sergeant in command of the patrol before striding back into the town.
Thomas carefully replaced the letter and stopped up the tube before he spoke. ‘Well?’
‘He says that we are welcome to stay in the officers’ quarters of the customs house. The sergeant will escort us there. The port master says he will arrange for us to have a warrant to travel across Spain to Barcelona. That is where a fleet, under the command of Don Garcia de Toledo, is being readied to send against the Turks. He will also provide us with two horses for the journey.’
Thomas pursed his lips appreciatively. ‘It is amazing what the threat of a little divine vengeance will do to the motivation of a minor official.’
The corners of the squire’s mouth flickered briefly into a smile. ‘I confess that I embellished the tale a little.’
‘Oh?’
‘I said that the letter was co-signed by the Viceroy of Catalonia.’
Now it was Thomas’s turn to smile. ‘Ah, so it was earthly rather than divine authority that swayed his will.’
‘As is always the case with petty officials.’
The sergeant beckoned to them and gave a curt order to two of his men to pick up the baggage. Finally they left the rainswept quay and made their way up a narrow street into the port.
The customs house was a square building with offices downstairs where merchants were obliged to bring their cargo manifestos and pay the duty owing on them. Few ships ventured on the seas during the winter months and the sole clerk had closed his ledger and was cleaning his quills with an old rag when the two Englishmen arrived. They were led Upstairs to a modest room with four simple beds, a few chairs and a small fireplace with logs and kindling in a basket to one side. The clerk brought them up a lamp and some bread, cheese and a jug of wine before bidding them a good night. They heard the door downstairs close and then the rattle of a lock.
‘That’s that, then.’ Thomas let out a sigh as he looked round the room. ‘I’ll take the bed nearest the fire.’
‘As you wish.’
Now that they were alone Thomas noticed that his companion had dropped the deference due from a squire to his knight.
‘And you can get the fire lit before we eat. We need to get warm and dry our clothes.’
Richard frowned at him but before he could speak, Thomas raised a warning finger. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Then why don’t you tell me?’
‘You were sent on a mission on behalf of Sir Robert Cecil, not to be my squire, and you’re starting to resent it.’
‘I wonder why I might do that? After all, I am an educated man. I have studied at Cambridge, I speak a number of languages, I have performed valuable services for the Secretary of State. All of which is perfect preparation for being the dogsbody of a knight long past his prime.’ He paused and gritted his teeth before saying apologetically, ‘Pardon me, I am cold and exhausted. I spoke out of turn.’ Thomas laughed and shook his head in wonder. ‘That is the most you have said to me since we left England. Truly.’
Richard shrugged, and undid the clasp of his cloak and let the sodden garment drop to the floor.
‘Well, it’s good to know a little of your background,’ Thomas continued in an amused tone. ‘And that you consider that my best years are long behind me.’
‘I apologise.’
‘No need. You are right, I am no longer the warrior of my youth. But I assure you, when I was your age my body was as well shaped as yours. Better perhaps. Even now, who knows?’
The young man had removed his leather jerkin and struggled out of his woollen shirt before he stared at Thomas with an amused expression. ‘You would try your strength against me?’
‘You think I would be afraid to?’
‘No. Not from what I know of you, Sir Thomas. But I think you would be unwise to.’
Thomas cocked an eyebrow but kept his silence as he also removed his wet garments until he was standing in his boots and breeches and his powerful torso was revealed. The knotted white flesh of old scars was clearly visible by the pale glow of the lamp and he saw Richard staring at him curiously, before he looked away in embarrassment.
‘I’ll light the fire,’ said Thomas. ‘There’s another lamp over there. Take it, and go and see if you can find some more blankets. I want to be warm tonight at least, before we continue on our way.’ Richard nodded. Using a length of straw from a tear in one of the mattresses as a taper, he lit the lamp’s wick and left the room. Alone, Thomas eased himself down on to the floor beside the fireplace. His damp skin felt colder still in the chill air and he shivered as he built up the kindling over a small bed of straw and then applied a small flame. It caught readily and Thomas leaned forward, blowing gently to encourage it. Soon there was a soft hiss and crackle as the small flames licked up around the kindling. By the time Richard returned, the room was lit by the rosy glow of the fire and shadows danced on the plaster walls of the room.
‘Here.’ Richard had some folded blankets balanced against his chest and he held one out. ‘Found them in a cupboard. Spare bolsters too if you need one.’
‘I’ll be comfortable enough without.’ Thomas nodded his thanks and took the blanket, quickly shaking it out and then draping it around his shoulders before he added some of the smaller split logs to the growing blaze.
Richard took a blanket for himself and sat on the edge of the bed that Thomas had chosen for himself, leaning forward slightly to get closer to the warmth of the fire. There was a brief silence before he spoke.
‘Those scars. Did you get them in the service of the Order?’
‘Some. Others came from my service elsewhere.’ Thomas eased himself back and round so that he could face the younger man. He touched his left shoulder. ‘An arrow cut through me there while I was in Flanders. ’Twas a flesh wound, but I bled like a stuck pig, as I recall.’ He moved his hand down to his left breast. ‘This is where a dagger cut me deeply. This other I got on an expedition in the harbour at Algiers. La Valette did not want us to be hampered by armour. There was a skirmish aboard the galleon we seized and a corsair leaped out of the shadows in front of me and struck. I’d have been cut down with his second blow if La Valette had not come between us and killed the fellow.’ Thomas looked down into the fire, his brow creasing at the memories. He tapped the inside of his left elbow. ‘The scar there was from a bum, when we attacked a corsair fort near Tripoli. The enemy were using incendiary pots. One burst on the wall beside the ladder I was climbing and the naphtha burned through the chain mail and the gambison beneath and on to my flesh.’ He winced at the memory of the terrible, intense pain that he had endured during the long night it took to capture the fort.
‘What about that one, on your forehead?’ Richard asked quietly.
‘This?’ Thomas raised his hand and traced the thin scar an inch below the hairline. He was silent for a moment as he slowly ran the finger backwards and forwards along the scar and Richard watched him expectantly, eyes glinting with reflection from the fire that was wanning the room. Thomas cleared his throat. ‘This one I got when I slipped on some ice and hit my head on the door of an inn.’
Richard’s jaw sagged and then he burst into laughter and Thomas joined in, filling the room with a hearty sound. The laughter continued for longer than it might have done now that the tension between the two men had eased for the first time since meeting. And then, as it died away, Richard became self-conscious and stood up and pulled two chairs over towards the fire and hung his clothes over them to dry, hesitating a moment before he did the same for Thomas’s cloak, jerkin and shirt. Meanwhile, Thomas took out the small knife he carried in a sheath at his back and cut the bread into hunks and sliced the cheese and offered half to Richard.
‘Thank you.’ The young man stood up and gestured to the bed. ‘Yours, I think.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Have it.’ He thumped the sleeping mat beneath him. ‘This will serve well enough.’
Richard sat and they both began to eat. It was the first meal in weeks that Thomas had eaten that was not infused by the salty tang of the sea, nor spoiled by the nauseating roll of the galleon as it clawed its way across murky waves under a grey sky. Consequendy, simple bread and cheese as it was, the taste was unrivalled and as his stomach filled and his body was warmed Thomas felt content. Partly, he realised, because now there was a prospect of some companionship where before there had been only a frosty tolerance between himself and Richard. Thomas wanted to find out more about Cecil’s agent, partly out of a desire to learn what he could about the document and the precise nature of Richard’s orders but also out of simple curiosity and a wish to know the man better. Yet he knew that to presume too much too quickly might risk having Richard raise his guard once again. He reached for the jug of wine and poured them each a cup. He handed one across to Richard. The clothes had begun to steam and a musty aroma filled the room.
‘You were well chosen for this mission,’ said Thomas. ‘If you speak your other languages as well as you do Spanish then you will be very useful indeed.’
Richard gave a quirky smile. ‘Useful? Perhaps a man of my social station should consider that a compliment.’
Thomas was tempted to ask more but there was a touch of anger and, more, shame in the young man’s voice and he decided not to pursue the matter for the present.
‘You have played your part well enough,’ Thomas continued. ‘But we will both be called upon to perform like the best players in London if we are to convince the other members of the Order when we reach Malta. It is not enough that you behave like a squire. You must begin to think like one. You must do whatever I ask of you without hesitation and without any of the resentment you occasionally show. You will keep my armour, equipment and wardrobe clean. You will behave with due courtesy to everyone you encounter, no matter what their class. You must, at all times, deport yourself as a gentleman who aspires to become a knight. And not just any knight, but one of the Order. If you can do that then you will pass for a squire.’
Richard’s expression became bitter. ‘Then I shall pass for what I shall never become, nor ever a knight.’
‘How so?’
‘Nobility is the preserve of those with no stain on their past. It matters not what the worth of a man is if there is a blemish against his name which nothing can erase.’
‘But you are of gentle birth,’ Thomas replied. ‘That is self- evident. You are as much a gentleman as I am, I can see that.’
‘Save for the fact that I was born on the wrong side of the sheet, Sir Thomas. That is something that no one can change. I am a bastard, known as such by those who raised me. That is why I have chosen this course in life. Now, if you will excuse me, I am tired and would sleep well before we journey on the morrow.’ He drained his cup and lay down on the bed, turned on his side, so that his back was towards Thomas and the fire.
For a while Thomas gazed at him, wondering about his origins. What must it be like to bear the burden of such a stigma in a world in which such things counted so deeply, despite the manifold wickedness and immorality of many who laid claim to the mantle of nobility? No wonder the young man was bitter. Nature had clearly blessed him with a fine mind, fair body and sound constitution. Society had cursed him with a label which would blight him until the day he died. For a moment Thomas began to feel pity for his companion, and then he caught himself. There was no need to add to Richard’s difficulties with such an unworthy sentiment.
He sighed softly and then built up the fire. Turning the clothes drying on the backs of the chairs, he placed the boots beside them and then climbed into his own bed and lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. Sleep no longer came to him as easily as it once did and a church bell in the port sounded midnight before Thomas closed his eyes and drifted off.