The Great Siege

6

They weren’t called the Knights Hospitaller for nothing.

The Sacred Infirmary was one of the most beautiful buildings Nicholas had ever seen. A different world from the heat and blood and dust outside, it breathed the spirit of gentleness, expertise and monastic calm. The great dormitory where the sick lay was a vast, high-roofed hall, blissfully cool, with arched windows down the east and west side, admitting only the soft golden light of morning and evening. The walls were plain whitewashed, the smell clean and soothing. Slop buckets by beds were emptied instantly. Alcohol and turpentine and other disinfectants were widely used. All dishes and instruments were made of silver. The ministering brothers wore white. Forty beds lined each wall, well spaced from each other. Most lay empty for now.

Nicholas lay back on cool white sheets and a young brother, Fra Reynaud, washed his face. He kept dabbing around his nose.

‘It was the back of my head they hit me hardest.’

Fra Reynaud sat him up again and looked. ‘Your skull’s thick.’ He washed off the crusted blood and dabbed on brine and alcohol. Nicholas gritted his teeth and made no sound.

The knight returned to washing his face. He rinsed the cloth in a shallow silver dish, silver being the miraculous enemy of infection and putrefaction. The water spiralled with red.

‘They must have kicked me in the chops or something,’ said Nicholas. ‘When I was out cold.’

‘They slit your nose.’

‘They what?’

‘Just a nick. They might have cut off your nose entire, so give thanks to God. It’s only your left nostril. Not bad, but it’s bled a lot. I’ll put a fine stitch in it. Mostly you need to drink water and then some salted bread. Tonight you’ll get meat broth.’

‘Slit my nose,’ repeated Nicholas, still indignant. ‘When I was out cold? Damned barbarians.’

‘Mind your blaspheming tongue,’ said the Hospitaller mildly. ‘Most knights have suffered a lot worse in their time.’

His hands were huge and strong, yet his touch precise. It was said that a good chirurgeon should have the heart of a lion, the hands of a lady and the eyes of a hawk. This one’s mighty sword-hands were hardly those of a lady, but they were as gentle. He had battle-scars on his face. Over his white soutane he wore a silver cross. Warrior, healer, monk.

Nicholas’s eyes roved over the cool white arches and crossbeams of the lofty infirmary roof above him. Like a cathedral. A refuge, a holy place. What men they were, the Knights. How he was beginning to love them.

La Valette rested grave eyes upon him. ‘Why were you riding with Copier?’

‘As a volunteer.’

‘And only you lived?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘The history.’

Nicholas told him.

La Valette studied some papers, then looked up. ‘You give a good account. Yet it was a grievous loss. Copier died like a young hothead.’ He looked out of the window. ‘But the Turks attacked Castile on De la Rivière’s advisement. Now that I like. Their loss was greater.

‘When the Turks are defeated, we will recover our brothers’ mortal remains and give them good burial. Now go to the church and confess. Your soul is stained with blood, though infidel.’

The Conventual Church of St Lawrence was the church of the knights, filled with their escutcheons and tombs. A church full of noble blood-lines. In the crypt lay the bodies of the former Grand Masters of Malta.

Nicholas took his place in the confessional.

He said he had had lustful thoughts.

‘Was she married?’

‘No, they were-’

‘You have had lustful thoughts about more than one woman?’

‘Yes, Father. Many.’

‘You are young. It is but colt’s evil, and the weakness of youth. Yet lust becomes a habit, and habit becomes character. Pray to God for grace.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘You’re certain they were not married?’

‘No, they were young. There was one in a tavern, in Cadiz, and there is one on the island here. She is very beautiful.’

‘Think not on her. This is hardly the time for gallantry anyway, not with the Turk upon us.’

‘I have killed men. On a ship, and here on the island.’

‘You have already killed a Turk on Malta?’

‘Yes, Father. I rode out with Marshal Copier’s troop. I cut one open across his flanks. I doubt he lived.’

There was a kind of hiss from the other side of the grille. It sounded like exultation. Then sober silence.

‘Also Father — I blasphemed and used foul language.’

‘In the heat of battle.’

‘No, Father. In the cool after. In the Sacred Infirmary here, I said damned barbarians. And before the Turks, as I rode away at their bidding, I … I called their leader, this Mustafa Pasha, a bad thing.’

‘To his face?’

‘Yes. It was dishonourable, and very foolish.’

‘You have insulted Mustafa Pasha of the Ottomans, to his face? And lived?’

‘Yes, Father.’

This time, the sound of exultation was unmistakable. With ill-suppressed excitement, the priest said, ‘What did you say to him? The exact words, boy. I need to know, so I may pronounce appropriate penance.’

Nicholas hesitated, then took a deep breath. ‘I called him a filthy mule-fucker.’

There was silence, and then the unmistakable sound of laughter being poorly stifled in a cassocked sleeve.

Finally the priest controlled himself and said, voice shaking a little, ‘Te absolvo a peccatis tuis, et cetera.’

‘No penance?’ said Nicholas with some surprise.

‘No penance. The Holy Mother Church absolves you of all, though it is God’s to forgive you. And no more lusting either. Now go and do some work. Laborare est orare.’

‘Yes, Father.’

He felt exhausted then, and longed for sleep. But it was yet only late afternoon of a very long day. Everyone worked. Everyone looked exhausted.

‘There will not come a day for another month when we do not feel exhausted,’ said Smith.

‘What encouragement he speaks,’ said Stanley. ‘A natural leader of men and rouser of spirits!’

‘I speak the truth. You speak like a bilge-pump.’

Stanley blew him a kiss.

Towards evening a message came for Nicholas. He was wanted in the infirmary.

Fra Reynaud admitted him. In the beautiful sunset light of St John’s ward, there lay a man with his arms and most of his face covered in fresh bandages. Probably the rest of him too, under the sheets. Some bandages seeped a little blood. It was Marshal Copier.

‘You survived!’ He felt at once overjoyed and stricken with guilt.

‘You too,’ whispered Copier, barely audible.

He communicated with his eyes. Nicholas drew up a stool beside him.

‘They let me go. I didn’t fight free.’

‘You fought, boy. I saw you. You fought.’

‘I am deeply sorry I left you there. I thought you were dead.’

‘So did I.’ Copier’s eyes smiled, since he could not. ‘Better, so did the Turk. I crawled by night, found a horse, rode in under dark. The Baptist himself lit the way, I tell you.’ He paused for rest, swallowed. ‘The starlight was of Christ and the Virgin. It shone like day.’ His eyes settled on the boy with his head bowed in shame. ‘Your help was not needed. You were right to ride back alone.’

Nicholas could have wept. The Marshal was deathly pale with blood loss, even his moustache hanging weakly, beaded with sweat. Yet he lived. His eyes flicked at the silver cup of watered wine by the bed. Nicholas held it to his lips and he drank.

Copier’s head sank back and he closed his eyes. ‘My leg is off.’

Nicholas could think of nothing intelligent to say. Any condolence would sound fatuous.

‘But I have another that will serve.’ His eyes opened again. There was even a soft sparkle in them. ‘They will make me one of best olive wood. Most elegant, and shaped to fit the stirrup when I ride.’

‘You are not finished yet, Sire.’

‘No, indeed. Nor you.’ He breathed deep and painfully. ‘Leave me now, lad. I tire.’

He stood.

‘We fought well though, you and I. All of us.’

Nicholas nodded and went.

He found Hodge and made for the home of Franco Briffa.

‘I could sleep for twelve hours,’ said Hodge. ‘Which is how long I been lugging rocks.’

As they walked back down Margherita Street, someone cried out,

‘Hey! See the Inglis! Insulter of the Pasha!’

Two more cried out in Maltese they did not understand, and then there was a crowd of little barefoot boys and girls running after them. Mateo and Tito, the young sons of Franco Briffa, were running with them.

‘The hero Inglis! The hero Inglis! He lives in our house!’

Women looked out from the balconies above and lifted their veils. ‘It is the fearless Inglis, he escape from the Turks and kill twenty men! Come and see! Hey, Inglis! I kiss you! I kiss you for nothing! You are my hero, my young husband!’

Nicholas and Hodge turned and stared up at them, and back at the clamouring children, their tired minds struggling to comprehend. The children skidded to a halt before them, and Mateo said in macaronic Italian, ‘Is true, Inglis? You are the Inglis insult the Mustafa Pasha to his face?’

Slowly it dawned on Nicholas. Evidently the privacy of his confession had not, in this case, been strictly regarded.

In fact, it was all over town that the young English volunteer, the blue-eyed fairhead handsome boy with no meat on him, the one living with Franco Briffa, had defeated many Turks on his own, and saved a maiden’s life and virginity, and finally called the General of the Ottoman Army, the terrible Mustafa Pasha, hater of Christians, a filthy mule-fucker. To his face! And lived to tell the tale! Nor did he boast of it, but only told the priest in the confessional. He was unbelievable, this Inglis boy. As brave as a lion and as cool as a cucumber.

‘I kiss him!’ cried the girls in Birgu’s brothel. ‘I kiss his Inglis cucumber!’

‘Franco Briffa should look to his daughter,’ muttered an old widow, sitting at the fountain outside St Lawrence Church. ‘That pretty Maddalena. All girls love a hero, and then there will be trouble.’

‘Franco Briffa should put a lock on her loins,’ said another.

Nicholas said to the children, ‘Other men fought more bravely than I. And they died.’

‘Yes,’ said Mateo eagerly, ‘but you called the Pasha a dirty, you know … you said he is a lover of mules.’

Nicholas, tired as he was, couldn’t resist it. He smiled and slowly turned away. ‘Well … maybe,’ he murmured.

‘You’re a one,’ said Hodge.

The children danced in the street.

Franco Briffa’s adulation was exhausting.

‘Tell me again, my beloved Inglis friend, my sworn brother!’ he cried for the umpteenth time. ‘Tell me what you said, and then tell me the look on his face! Was it not as black as the devil with piles?’

‘Exactly,’ said Nicholas. ‘Exactly as black. As that. And now I’ve really got to get some sl-’

‘And his famed Janizary guards, they did nothing! They were too afraid of your lightning sword arm!’

‘Mm.’

On the bench opposite, Hodge was already asleep. They must get to their room.

‘I bring more wine!’ said Franco, staggering to his feet and heading for the cellar.

The moment he was gone, a slim figure in a pale blue dress darted into the courtyard. Nicholas raised his weary head.

She stopped before him and leaned down.

He stared up at her.

She held his gaze with her great brown honey eyes, gleaming with light, and then took the edge of her face-veil and drew it down. Slowly. Her lips were full and ripe, and her eyes were laughing.

Nicholas couldn’t move.

‘Hero,’ she whispered. Then she leaned close and touched her soft lips to his. They breathed each other’s breath, their lips pressed harder. Their mouths opened. She put her slim hand round the back of his neck. He reached out and slid his fingers up through her long black hair. It was scented with oil of orange blossom. There was no one more beautiful in the world.

And then the door to the cellar slammed, and she fled.

‘More wine!’ roared Franco.

She stopped briefly in the doorway opposite and glanced back over her shoulder, her long dark hair half covering her face. His heart might break, she was so beautiful. And how she knew it. He could not look away from her, her face, her dark burning eyes, the way she stood, half twisting, looking back at him like that, showing the swell of her small breasts and her slim hips under her dress. Then she smiled, a quick flash of a smile, and drew up her face-veil again, and was gone.

It was good in a way, he thought, that the priest who heard his confession hadn’t been entirely discreet.

‘Just one more cup,’ he said to Franco.

Hodge snored.

Then both boys staggered to bed, Hodge hardly waking between bench and pallet. Nicholas, exhausted as he was, lay on his back with his mouth dry, his heart hammering. How in the name of all the blessed saints and martyrs in heaven was he supposed to avoid having lustful thoughts now?