Many days passed before Thomas became coherently aware of his surroundings. He sensed the daylight through his eyelids and heard the irregular boom of artillery and the distant crash of heavy iron shot striking home. His body felt so weak that he could barely move his fingers, and any attempt to move his head caused a sharp stabbing pain down the side of his face and neck. So he lay still and silent, breathing deeply in a steady rhythm as his mind attempted to take stock of his situation. He knew where he was well enough, but the last thing that he could recall in detail was the final assault on St Elmo. The charge of the enemy up into the breach, the deaths of Miranda and Mas, and the burst of fire as the incendiary struck him and set him alight. After that, all sense of time was lost.
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 running short and morale is poor. There was a rumour that Don Garcia and his army would land at the end of July, but nothing came of it. And every day the guns continue to reduce the walls. Each time the Turks open a new breach they launch an assault, and we throw them back.’ The monk paused and shook his head in wonder. ‘God knows where they get the courage to hurl themselves on us time and again. They’ve tried everything. They even hauled their small galleys over the Sciberras ridge to attempt a landing on Senglea. They were cut to pieces along the shore, and their boats blasted by our cannon. Those we didn’t cut down, or shoot, drowned in their hundreds … At least morale is as much a problem for the Turks as it is for us. According to the prisoners we’ve taken, Mustafa Pasha is finding it increasingly difficult to get his men to attack. There is sickness and hunger in his camp. Soon I fear that the dead will outnumber the living on this Godforsaken rock.’ He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his jaw wearily. Then he sighed and forced a smile. ‘But enough of the siege. You need to rest.’
‘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.’
He stood up and walked out of the chamber. While he was gone, Thomas gritted his teeth and edged himself up the bed so that his shoulders were on the bolster and his head rested against the stone wall behind his bed. For a moment he had to fight off the pain from his side. The monk returned with a small square mirror of polished steel and handed it to Thomas.
‘There. Though you may not like what you see.’
Thomas raised the mirror above his face and stared at his reflection. A short distance from the mid-line of his features the skin was tight and glossy like highly polished marble streaked with red and purple. The skin round his right eye was swollen and red, and the eyeball was bloodshot and the lens appeared milky. He adjusted the angle and saw that there were only tufts of hair on that side of his skull and his ear looked withered. Moving the mirror again he drew the sheet covering him aside and examined the left of his body, shocked by the tortured flesh he saw there. Swallowing, Thomas handed the mirror back and covered himself again.
‘She saw me like this?’ he asked softly.
‘You looked far worse for the first two weeks.’ The monk gestured towards his head. ‘The scarring is permanent but the colour will fade. Most of the hair will grow back but some patches will remain bald. You may find that your vow of chastity will be a little easier to keep from now on.’ He smiled to show that he was making a joke, albeit a harsh one.
Thomas turned his face to the wall at his side. ‘I am tired. I need to sleep.’
‘Yes. Of course, Sir Thomas. Do you wish me to send a message to Lady Maria to say that you are awake?’
‘No,’ he replied quickly. ‘Let her rest too.’
‘Very well. I’ll bring you food later, once you have slept.’ Thomas heard the scuffing of the monk’s sandals as he moved off, and then he shut his eyes tightly as they filled with tears of grief. He no longer felt like a man. He felt repulsed by what he had seen in the mirror, and shamed by the idea that he would no longer be fit enough to fight or hunt or take part in the myriad pastimes of other men. Worse still, if the Turks carried the day and captured Birgu, then he and all the others too helpless to defend themselves would be butchered where they lay, like swine.
He eventually fell back into a troubled sleep and awoke close to midday, as far as he could calculate from the angle of the light streaming in through the window. As he stirred and his eyes flickered open, he saw Richard sitting on a stool beside his bed. The young man’s head was slumped on his chest and a thick stubble of dark hair covered his jaw. His hair was matted with sweat and dust and the skin round his eyes was dark with fatigue. His doublet was filthy and torn in several places and there were scabs from cuts and scrapes on his hands and face.
Thomas reached out his left hand, wincing at the sting the movement caused, and gently touched his son’s cheek. Richard twitched as if to discourage some bothersome insect and Thomas could not help smiling at the gesture as he let his hand drop back to his side.
‘Richard. .’
The young man’s eyes flickered open at the mention of his name and he stirred wearily, then his lips parted in a warm smile. ‘You’re back with us at last.’
‘Did you doubt I would be?’
‘Not me.’ Richard chuckled. ‘Just that monk. He was certain we were wasting our efforts and that you should just be given the last rites. I told him I had served you long enough to know that you would not die half so easily.’
Thomas glanced round the room and saw that they would not be overheard. ‘Does he know that I am your father?’
‘No. Any more than he knows that you are a man without faith.’ Thomas nodded with relief. Either one of those truths could be dangerous and it was impossible to know what he might have revealed in his delirious condition. He gestured to the table beside Richard. ‘Some water please.’
He managed to drink it unaided this time and once his throat and lips were moistened, he felt more able to converse. ‘The monk gave me some idea of what has happened since I have been recovering, but tell me, how is the Grand Master coping?’
‘Him?’ Richard smiled thinly. ‘La Valette is as hard as steel through and through. He is everywhere, encouraging the men and promising that we shall live through this trial. I tell you, he is a man possessed by the idea of confounding the will of Sultan Suleiman. He has also made it impossible for there to be any thought of surrender.’
‘How so?’
Richard chewed his lip briefly. ‘It was something that happened after St Elmo was taken. The next morning, at first light, a lookout on St Angelo saw some objects floating in the water close to the wall. They turned out to be the bodies of four knights and that of Robert of Eboli, nailed to crosses, all of them beheaded. When they were fished out of the sea we saw that plaques had been nailed to the crosses naming the men — Mas, Miranda, Stokely and Monserrat, as well as Robert of Eboli. Besides hacking their heads off, the enemy had torn their hearts out.’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Thomas muttered. ‘What happened then?’
Richard pursed his lips. ‘La Valette repaid them in kind. He had all of the Turkish prisoners brought from the dungeons and taken up on to the walls of St Angelo where the enemy could see them. There they had their throats cut, one by one, and when it was over La Valette gave the order for their heads to be loaded into cannon and fired across the harbour into the enemy lines. . A day later Mustafa Pasha sent a herald to announce that henceforth there would be no quarter given. If Birgu and Senglea fall, he promises to kill every living thing his men encounter.’ Richard paused. ‘So it is death or victory for us now.’
‘It always has been. La Valette was at Rhodes when it surrendered to Suleiman. I think he resolved then never to taste such a defeat ever again.’ Thomas was silent for a moment before he reached out and took his son’s hand. ‘You saved my life. I am in your debt. And it is one I fear I shall never be able to repay with this body.’
‘Father, you gave me life. What man can ever repay that? Think no more on it. It was my duty, as your squire, and as your son.’ Thomas gently squeezed Richard’s hand. ‘If only I deserved to be your father. .’
Richard looked away and withdrew his hand. ‘I would not take too much pride in me. I have done questionable things in my time. Don’t forget, I am Walsingham’s man. I came here for Henry’s last will and testament, and I have it. Stokely told me where to find it. If I live, then Walsingham will expect me to take it back to him.’ Thomas thought for a moment. The will would always be a potent weapon in the hands of whoever possessed it. The Catholics would use it to shatter the grip that Elizabeth held over many of the most powerful men in her realm. Walsingham would be only too willing to use it to blackmail the Queen into sanctioning his persecution of the Catholics in England, whom he saw as his enemy.
Thomas looked directly at his son. ‘You could take it back. Or you could destroy it. You understand full well the implications of the will. The choice is yours. I trust that you will make the right decision.’ There was a moment of silence before Thomas went on. ‘No man is beyond redemption. Just as no man is immune from doing the wrong thing. Son, I know this better than most. Think on it. I would not have you go through life carrying a burden like I have. Learn from me.’
Richard gazed at him and then glanced towards the door. ‘I had better go. I need to prepare my men for a patrol tonight. I’ll come again, when I can. Goodbye, Father.’
He stood up and walked away. At the door he paused and then Maria stepped into view and held his arms and kissed him on the cheek. Richard received the kiss awkwardly before he raised a hand to touch her arm gently. Then he bowed his head and eased himself from her grasp and strode off down the corridor. Maria stared after him fondly, then turned back towards the room, towards Thomas, a smile lighting up her face as she saw that he was awake. The image he had seen earlier in the mirror was still fresh in Thomas’s mind and he angled the scarred side of his face away from her as she approached and sat down.
Neither spoke at first and then Thomas swallowed nervously and cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry for your loss. Oliver was a good man.’
‘Yes. . Yes, he was.’ The sadness in her tone was genuine. ‘He was kind to me, until the end. It was your presence that changed him. It could not be helped. I was never able to give him what he wanted from me. What you always had.’ She reached out and tentatively cupped his cheek. Her skin was smooth and cool and Thomas closed his eyes as he breathed in the faint scent of her.
‘I should have been a better wife to him.’ Maria glanced in the direction Richard had gone. ‘And Oliver should have let me be a better mother to my. . our son. He knows the truth but he cannot forgive me for past wrongs.’
Thomas laughed drily and she turned to look down at him with a frown. ‘What?’
‘It’s just that we have all made such a mess of things. Me, you, Oliver, Richard. There is no escaping the past. Not for us. Nor for La Valette or Suleiman. We are all the prisoners of our history, Maria.’
‘Only if we choose to be.’ She leaned closer to him and kissed his brow. ‘There is time to change.’
A shot struck the fort and the impact was felt by all in the room and dislodged some plaster. Thomas could not help a wry smile. ‘Not for those involved in this struggle.’
‘For us, and for Richard, there is still a chance to mend the bonds that were broken. I would have that. I would hold you in my arms again, my love.’
‘Even like this?’ Thomas said harshly as he turned his head for her to see the livid scars on his face and scalp. He flicked the sheet back to reveal his left side. Maria’s calm expression never wavered.
‘Do you think I have not seen your injuries? It was I who changed your dressings and cleaned your wounds. I saw to your most base needs. I know your body more intimately than your own mother ever did. I grieved for your suffering even as I tended you and I prayed each night that you might live. And God, in his infinite mercy, has answered me.’
Maria’s words struck a cold chord in Thomas’s heart. ‘If it is God’s will that we should have endured all that we have, then what does God know about the quality of mercy? I am done with God, Maria. All that now matters to me is you, Richard and the men at whose side I fight.’ He paused and smiled grimly. ‘Though I should say, fought. For I am destined to be a poor soldier now.’
Maria stared at him. ‘You have no faith?’
‘Not in God. And, until recently, precious little in people. Yet I have seen the best and worst in men these last months. I count it a great pity that it takes a conflict over something as insubstantial as faith to test the valour and venality of men.’
‘It is God’s test then,’ Maria countered fervently. ‘His test of our resolve. He still has a purpose for you, Thomas.’
He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. ‘Maria. I am what you see before you and that is all. I would not be a burden to you. I love you, and always have. But I am a changed man from the young knight you once knew. To me, you are still the same Maria and I wish nothing more than to be at your side until the end of my life. But I would not want to be there under any degree of sufferance. Not for my body, or my character, or my beliefs. I would have you think on that before you choose to be my wife, if that is your desire.’
‘But it is, my love.’
Thomas touched her lips with his fingers. ‘Hush now. I would not have you give an answer before you have thought it through. And I am tired. Very tired. Go now and we can speak again when I have rested, and you have reflected.’
She made to speak, then stopped herself. Her lips pressed together in a thin line and she nodded. Maria leaned forward to kiss the puckered skin of his scarred cheek and stood up. ‘Until tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow then.’ He nodded.
She smiled and left the room hurriedly, cuffing her cheek as she passed through the door and out of sight. The soft slap of her sandals quickly faded and Thomas stared up at the ceiling, his heart heavy.
Until Maria had considered the realities of what he had become, he would not have her. To accept her as his wife, only for her to come to wish she had chosen differently, would be the worst fate of all, Thomas reflected.
‘I see your visitors have gone.’
Thomas opened his eyes and saw Christopher smiling down at him. He held a small wooden tray bearing a bowl, cup, spoon and a meagre hunk of dry bread.
‘The meal I promised you. Can you sit up, or should I help?’
‘I can do it myself.’ Thomas gritted his teeth and eased himself up the bed until he was propped against the wall. The monk placed the tray on the stool beside him and Thomas found that the pleasant odour of the soup made him feel hungry. As he carefully took a few sips with the spoon, the monk looked out of the window.
‘There are clouds to the north. There’s rain coming. A storm perhaps. Yes, a storm, I think. The end of the season is almost upon us. Pray God we hold out until the autumn arrives.’