The Disorderly Knights (39 page)

*

The chain was across the harbour at Galley Creek when d’Aramon’s galley made to anchor off Birgu. That was the first shock. Then, although in the gathering dusk they could make out the brigantine from Tripoli anchored in the bay, together with another strange boat belonging possibly to the pirate Thompson himself, there was no salute from Fort St Angelo; only a great deal of scurrying visible on the high battlements and a flash of steel, mysteriously, from the wails. The chain remained up.

After waiting, at the Ambassador’s command, the three vessels and the Turkish ships with knights and refugees on board backed and dropped anchor outside the bar. D’Aramon’s nephew said tentatively, ‘It’s late. They dislike admitting ships after dusk.’

‘But the brigantine has arrived. They must know from Malett that we carry sick and wounded and the whole North African Command of the Order.… We have tempted fortune long enough,’ said the French Ambassador, an edge of worry and anger fretting the diplomatic voice. ‘M. de Vallier, can you reach the Grand Master in any way to request him to admit us immediately? We are here by the Turk’s permission and against his instincts. He may well reconsider unless this operation is speedily transacted. And through the Order I
am already the better part of a month behind time in resuming my post.’

‘God will reward you,’ said the Marshal automatically, but his straining eyes were on the towers of St Angelo, with Birgu behind. ‘I cannot understand it. For every returning caravan, however ordinary, the guns fire, St Lawrence is lit; the knights wait; the hospital is warned.…’

‘A boat is coming,’ said Jerott suddenly; and as small lights sprang to life all about them in the new-fallen dark, the Ambassador and his suite waited and watched.

It was Graham Malett, Knight Grand Cross, alone, in a boat rowed by Maltese, and as he came aboard, Jerott noticed with a cold paralysis of nerves that the lifelong serenity associated with this one man had broken. Blanched under the sparse lights, Gabriel’s face was set with shock; his eyes darkened from lucid blue to near-black. Crowding with the others into the small poop cabin Jerott heard d’Aramon say, ‘You have bad news,’ without a query, and Gabriel answered, ‘I am sorry. I have startled you.’ And then, after a moment, ‘I do not know how to tell you, or how to defend my brethren to you.’

The Marshal de Vallier’s voice said harshly, ‘What has happened? Why does the chain remain down?’

Graham Malett said, one steadying hand on the framework above his head, ‘The chain will not lift tonight. The castle guard at St Angelo has been doubled and the Grand Master has ordered every knight to his post as if an enemy had arrived. If you are admitted tomorrow it will be to face imprisonment and worse, Marshal, as a traitor with your accomplices. And the Ambassador, to whom we should be on our knees in thanks … who has done all that man could do to persuade the Turk to raise the siege … who has delivered us all out of slavery and by God’s grace has brought us safely here.… You, sir, are being cursed from house to house in Birgu as the cunning instigator of what they call
this scandalous capitulation
.’

There was total silence, which the Baron d’Aramon at length broke in his quiet French. ‘This is the Grand Master’s doing? What else does he say?’

Gabriel, cap in hand, bent his cropped head. ‘That you obtained the Grand Master’s confidence by pretending an interest in preserving Tripoli. That by exaggerating the weakness of the town and the strength of Sinan Pasha’s forces you discouraged the men and led the Marshal to enter into dishonourable negotiation. That your presence in the Turkish camp was no less than a tacit sanction of Turkish conduct, as proved by the triumphal banquet, and by the vast treasures which passed from your hands to theirs. That your whole purpose in Tripoli was to end the siege quickly and so release
the Turkish troops the French King needed to help him in his present war against Charles V. They have questioned every man aboard my brigantine about this,’ said Graham Malett, his straight gaze on d’Aramon. ‘They accuse you even of inciting the Turk to plunder the knights’ bodies once they had meekly surrendered.’

‘How widespread is this story?’ asked d’Aramon in the same quiet voice.

‘It has been carried of purpose through the whole of Birgu. It will be in Mdina tonight. Already feeling is high against you.’

‘I should not have believed it possible, even of the Order as it is today,’ said d’Aramon. He glanced at de Vallier, who in a kind of stupor gazed back. Behind them voices, singly then in helpless counterpoint, chord, chorus, began to stir into affrighted life. D’Aramon said, ‘For all our sakes, this must not be heard outside Malta. I shall ask to appear before the Grand Council and give a full answer to these lies.’

‘You may,’ said Gabriel. ‘And be sure you will not be unsupported. De Villegagnon and la Valette have risked their lives to defend you. But it is too ‘late. Three of the Order’s galleys left this afternoon for Sicily, Naples and Bône with the Grand Master’s version of Tripoli’s loss, and bearing letters of corroboration written by the Spanish knights to his dictation to all the Order’s commanderies in Europe. The Emperor is being well served. Also …’ he hesitated.

‘My God, is there more?’ said d’Aramon bitterly, and dropping into a chair, leaned one elbow on the littered table and pressed his fingertips to his closed eyes.

‘He will not pay for your hostages,’ said Graham Malett, low-voiced.

But by this time the French Ambassador had jettisoned delicacy. He dropped his hand, and jerking it round the taut, incredulous throng about him said, ‘And are we to send these men back to the slave market? I, their so-called enemy, humbled and impoverished myself to have them raised manacled from the sand and set free, and their own Order will do nothing to redeem their lives?’

‘
What hostages? What payment?
’ Jerott Blyth’s shriek carried above the rest.

Graham Malett turned. ‘When you and the Spanish knights lay unreleased, M. d’Aramon sued for your lives. He obtained them by paying all he had from his own private purse, together with a promise that the Order would in exchange release thirty well-born Turkish prisoners now in Malta. This the Grand Master has now refused to do, so that M. d’Aramon, who has to return to Constantinople to work, is being forced to dishonour his word.’

‘He shall not be allowed to suffer.’ It was the Marshal de Vallier’s elderly voice at last. ‘I and my brethren in Christ will refute this libel in person. Had the castle been garrisoned and fortified as it should
 … had they sent us experienced knights, disciplined soldiers in place of these unfortunate peasants.…’

‘If you enter Birgu, Marshal,’ said Gabriel, ‘it will mean prison. It may mean torture. It may bring degradation. It may even bring death. I do not consider that His Eminence will use impartial witnesses.’

Graham Malett renouncing all hope of justice and all prospect of the triumph of good was as close to ultimate horror as Jerott expected to reach. He said, ‘Have you
told
them? Anyone in their senses will know you at least to be impartial. What about de Villegagnon? He won’t support the Grand Master in downright falsehood. What about la Valette? Romegas?
Isn’t anyone fighting?
’

‘De Villegagnon knows everything I know. He will fight to the death,’ said Gabriel. ‘So will all the others you mention and their following. It makes no difference, as you should know. They are outnumbered. As for my being considered impartial.…’ He smiled, a little bleakly. ‘M. d’Aramon’s mythical sins, I am told, are mine also. For sharing his sly duplicity from the safety of the Turkish camp, I have been warned that I return to Malta at my peril. You and I, Marshal, will be martyred together.’

‘No!’ The exclamation was instant and final, from both the Ambassador and de Vallier. The Ambassador added curtly, ‘Martyrdom will not help the Order. I shall appear before this Council. Whether the Marshal does so or not is his affair. Be sure for my part I shall fully vindicate you. But your duty is amply done in stating our case and in bringing us this warning. To place yourself in the Order’s power while the Order is crazed with fear, obsessed with this feverish need to excuse to the Emperor the fall of his city … desperate possibly to conceal misappropriation of funds which must be the Grand Master’s blame alone … this is self-destruction. Leave de Villegagnon; leave Parisot who cannot at least be made scapegoats for Tripoli to fight what must be a long battle in the Order itself. I suggest to you your duty is quite other.’

‘What is that?’

‘Go with de Seurre here, who is also a knight. Take my letters to France informing the King what has happened. Remedy this spreading poison of falsehood. Tell the truth throughout Europe so that things are shown as they are.…’

‘Betray the rot within the Order?’ said Gabriel.

‘Expose it, Hospitaller, so that it may be cut out,’ said d’Aramon steadily.

‘It is my life,’ said Gabriel blankly, and it was Jerott, striding forward, black, furious, dynamic, who seized his arm and shook it. ‘
You must not go back
. It was my life, too. But if you will leave it, I shall go with you.’

Graham Malett shook his head, a dazed king; a man who had taken so many blows that even feeling had gone dead. ‘If the Marshal and my brothers go, of course I must return. I know what efforts M. d’Aramon made in the Turkish camp.…’

‘You have already testified to that: you told us. And the Grand Master, however much he may wish it, cannot harm me
within
Malta,’ said d’Aramon. ‘It is outside that I need your witness.’

‘I cannot speak against the Order,’ Gabriel repeated. He looked distraught. ‘I cannot subject the Order to question in France. And where else can I go?’

‘There is another ship in the harbour,’ said Jerott; and Graham Malett turned his eyes over the craning heads, broken already into hissing, arguing groups, to where a dark brigantine, lamps ablaze, lay idly on the black water.

For a long time he stared at it, while the tide of dispute and anxiety closed around him; the voices of d’Aramon, the Marshal, de Herrera, de Poissieu echoing and re-echoing meaninglessly as Jerott pushed to his side. Then he saw that Gabriel’s eyes were closed, his lips stirring, and realized that in anguish the other man had turned for his answer to prayer. So, he waited.

*

‘There’s something,’ said Thompson, and jerked his unkempt head across the dark water.

For half an hour he and Lymond had been leaning idly on the brigantine rail, digesting an excellent dinner and exchanging small talk, while across Grand Harbour, the Lilies of France stirred at the masthead of the little cluster of boats which had sailed in at dusk and the round moon, slipping through her black arc, shone on the silver chain stretched hard across Galley Creek: the Order’s whipping post for her fallen.

‘Three rowers,’ said the pirate, gazing. ‘And gey low in the water. That’ll be the gear.’

‘How many passengers?’ said Lymond, and Thompson, who knew better than to believe the sweet insouciance in the query, grinned in the dark, ‘I canna see, just, no bein’ a hoolet. Bide, son; bide.’

Behind them, the boat rustled with movement. Her crew from Tripoli, long since landed, had been replaced by Thompson’s own men, awaiting him on arrival. She had been stocked for her long voyage without question all that day and was now fully laden: the Grand Master was not concerned with what credence the world would give a pirate. And Lymond, for excellent reasons of his own, had not made his presence known.

‘Twa heads,’ said Thompson suddenly.

‘Colour?’

‘Look for yourself.’

High on its prow, the approaching skiff bore a lamp. The swaying glow, low on the sea, shifted over two ghost-like faces, strained, silent, severely withdrawn; and over two heads, one black; one brightest gold.

‘Malett and Blyth, ye unnatural bastard,’ said the pirate Thompson without rancour, and feeling for his purse, threw it into Lymond’s long waiting palm. Lymond caught it without looking. ‘Of course. It’s all been a chastening experience.’

There was a pause, while they both watched the nearing boat. ‘Mind I’m still sailing tomorrow,’ said Thompson at length.

‘That’s all right,’ said Lymond. ‘We’ll all go.’

Thompson was frowning. ‘It’s a bonny mess for a monk to walk out of. If they’re so damned handy wi’ their whingers, you’d think they’d hae the auld devil out o’ the head chair in a wink.’

‘It’s a matter of conscience,’ said Lymond. ‘They can’t kill Grand Masters; only Turks. And if he’s going to be found dead in his bed, I don’t want to be there. Which is one reason, if you must know, why I personally am walking out also.’

‘They’d accuse you?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t want to find out. Remember, these fellows have sworn to obey the Grand Master. It takes a bit of nerve to break that oath and not fly to the other extreme.’

‘So they fly home to mother instead.’

‘If you like,’ Lymond said. ‘Blyth is cleaving to Gabriel and Gabriel is cleaving to.…’

‘You?’ said Thompson, and laughed crudely, having a joyfully crude mind.

‘I was going to say, God,’ was Lymond’s equable answer.

‘And what now,’ said the pirate, a wicked gleam in his sharp eyes. ‘What’s taking the likes of you back to Scotland?’

‘Reports,’ Lymond said. He waved, vigorously, at the silent boat now resting below. ‘Delicious, intriguing reports. Letters from home, and all points north and west.’

‘A girl?’ Thompson was taken.

‘A girl. A girl,’ said Lymond, exquisitely tender, ‘called Joleta Reid Malett.’

P
art
T
hree
THE DOUBLE CROSS

   I:
Nettles in Winter
(Boghall Castle, October 1551)

  II:
The Widdershins Wooing
(Midculter Castle, the Same Day)