Shadow of God (68 page)

The morning light broke the darkness through a single chink in the shutters, falling across Hélène’s face and waking her. She reached out for Philippe and was startled to find him gone, and the hour so clearly late. The bedclothes were tucked tightly about her, the pillow placed under her head.

“Philippe?” she called, hoping to find him in the outer room. There was no answer. In the light coming through the shutters, she could see that his armor and sword were gone as well. She would have to wait for still another chance to talk about the possibility of surrender.

She dressed quickly and grabbed the remains of the bread as she left the office, chewing as she ran down the steps of the Palace. She left the courtyard and turned down the familiar route along the Street of the Knights. As she passed each Inn, she looked around to see if any of the knights she knew were there. The street was filling with knights and mercenaries and citizens readying themselves for another day of fighting. There were enormous obstacles created by the rubble of the bombardment that went on day and night. The crowds moved in small groups, directed more by the rubble than their goal. There was still sporadic firing into the heart of the city, more to unnerve and demoralize the citizens of Rhodes than for strategic destruction. The majority of the artillery still concentrated on destroying the fortress walls.

Hélène continued her way toward the hospital when she came upon a small crowd of people hovering in a tight circle around the debris of a blasted building. There was a lot of agitated conversation, which was nearly drowned out by the sobbing and cries of a Greek woman. Hélène pushed her way into the circle to see what was going on. There, on the pile of stones, sat a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed in rags, holding the body of a small child, perhaps three or four years old. There was blood coming from the child’s forehead and her right arm was twisted at an odd angle near
the elbow. The woman clutched the child to her breast, rocking back and forth making the most awful keening noises. All of the others were talking at once.

Hélène reached for the child, telling the mother in French that she had to get the little girl to the hospital. ‘
Je vous en prie, madam; donnez-moi votre jeune fille.”
But the woman only cried louder and harder, crushing the child to her more tightly. Hélène tried again in Greek.

Just then a door slammed behind the group, and a knight from the Inn of Aragon stepped into the street, trying to push his way past the group of citizens. He appeared angry and flustered by the people preventing him from getting back to his post. He started to shove two of the men aside when Hélène grabbed his sleeve. “
Ayudame, Señor.
” Help me, sir, she pleaded in Spanish. The knight at first tried to shake free, but then realized that this was the Grand Master’s woman. He pulled up short and bowed slightly. “
Si, Señorita?”

“I need your help. We must get this child to the hospital before it’s too late. She could die any minute unless we do.”

Without another word, the knight turned to the woman and placed a hand on her shoulder. He whispered something to her, and took the child from her arms. He cradled the child with his body, and to the mother said, “
Gracias, Señora. Vaya con Dios.”

Then, he hurried with Hélène back toward the hospital. They were walking quickly along the street dodging between the wildly strewn rocks and debris. “What did you say to her?” she asked as they went.

“I told her to give me her child, and that God would help us to heal her. I don’t know if she thinks we’re going to the hospital or to the church, but in any case, she gave me the child, didn’t she?”

Hélène smiled. Then, just as she opened her mouth to speak, the cannonball struck. Neither she nor the knight had heard the blast from that particular cannon. It was just another beat in a background timpani of destruction.

The stone struck the knight and the child directly, crushing them to death in an instant. It shattered into fragments as it hit the
wall of the nearest inn, creating a shower of sharp pieces of rock that flew out in a semicircle, taking down everyone who had been standing in the street at that moment. Among the dozens of wounded and dead, Hélène lay with her back against the remaining stone walls of the inn. A large piece of the cannonball—nearly half its mass—lay resting across her knees, pinning her to the ground like a butterfly. Oddly, she felt little pain in her crushed legs, only a chill spreading rapidly through her body.

Several shards of stone had cut their way into Hélène’s chest, making her breath labored and shallow. Most of the blood stayed inside, leaving her dress free of any sign of her injuries.

She thought of her night with Philippe, glad she had taken him some food; had been able to spend the night in his arms. If only he would surrender the city and stop the dying. She recalled Paris, and the day she broke his nose at the fountain; and the nights secreted away in her room or his. She smiled at the thought at the same time as tears began to roll down her cheek.

Then a warmth suffused her, chasing away the cold that had permeated her body only a minute before.

She saw Philippe’s face staring at her through his open visor. His scarlet cloak was spotless as it was the day she first saw him. His sword was shining in his hand, his eyes clear and rested. He blew her a kiss, then turned his back and strode quickly back down the Street of the Knights.

As soon as Philippe was gone from sight, Hélène closed her eyes and let him go.

Antonio Bosio stepped quietly into Philippe’s office without knocking. The Grand Master was at his desk, his head folded in his crossed arms, asleep on a pile of maps and drawings of the fortress. He stirred as soon as Bosio approached, then sat up rubbing his already red eyes. A few crusts of dried tears of sleep had collected in the corner of each eye, which he wiped away without any thought.

“Antonio,” he said, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Grand Master…”

Philippe looked at Bosio and could see the pain etched in knight’s weathered face. “What is it, Antonio? Not another of our officers killed…dear God, please not another.”

Bosio rounded the corner of the desk as Philippe made to rise from his chair. Bosio placed a hand upon the old man’s shoulder and forced him firmly but gently down into his seat, a gesture unheard of and almost unimaginable in the hierarchy of the Order.

In that momentary contact between their bodies and their eyes, Philippe knew. He slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Bosio could hear only the rasping breath as it escaped Philippe’s lips.

The Grand Master shuddered, his whole body shaking as he tried to hold himself together. Then, after some minutes, the spasms of grief gave way to a numb surrender. His body sank deeper into his chair, his once powerful chest sunken and frail.

“How, Antonio? When?”

Bosio kept a firm hand on Philippe’s shoulders, now comforting more than restraining. “In the past hour, my Lord. A cannonball. She and a knight from Aragon were taking a wounded child to the hospital…”

“Who was the knight?”

Bosio hesitated, then said, “We’re not sure, my Lord. The cannonball was…it was one of their largest. We…we cannot tell who he is, only that he is in the uniform of Aragon.”

Philippe squeezed his eyes more tightly shut as if he could push away the image of his beautiful Hélène, his destroyed Hélène. He thought about their last hours together; how Hélène had been so concerned for his health; how she had fed him and caressed him and tried to convince him yet again to give up the battle. To surrender Rhodes. Had he kissed her goodbye? Had he told her he loved her? He couldn’t remember, and it made his chest feel hollow.

He tried to rise again, but Bosio held him firmly in his seat.

“I need to go to her, Antonio. To see her.” His voice was barely audible, little more than a breath.

But, Philippe was unable to push through Bosio’s grip nor the weight of Bosio’s body. At first, the Grand Master struggled weakly
against the insubordination of his long-time Servant-at-Arms. Then he gave up his struggle.

Bosio said softly and kindly, “Please, my Lord. Remember her as she was when you last saw her. Let me attend to her personally. I will see her prepared for burial in the most Christian way. I will spare nothing for her. When she is ready, I will call you to the chapel where the Bishop will say prayers for her and the knight, and for the little girl. Please, as I am your servant and your friend.”

Tadini stood atop the walls at the Gate of St. John. Wounded again in another skirmish in one of the tunnels, he supported his weight with a rough-hewn crutch made by one of his miners from a supporting beam of a collapsed tunnel. His knee was wrapped in several layers of cloth bandages. Blood had seeped through at several places. Instead of changing them, Tadini merely sought out more cloth, and tied yet another layer on top. He could not bend the limb anyway, so the bulky bandages did not impede his movement further.

At his side was his knight, Valette, and the guards assigned to the Gate. Word had come of the return of the emissary, and Tadini wanted to be there for the exchange.

Valette saw him first. Monile was making his way through the same trench with the same standard and the same large white flag of truce. Again, the musketeers took aim, and again they were told to hold their fire.

Tadini waited as Monile slipped and staggered through the bodies. When, at last, he planted his standard in the mud and looked up, Tadini greeted him in Italian. “
Buon giorno, Signore Monile.”
Monile was startled to be addressed in his own language. “What a fine day for a walk in the country. Eh?” Tadini said.

Monile could not figure out who this maniac was, standing there with his eye patched and blood staining the bulky bandages about his knee. Monile stood beneath the walls and stammered in Italian, “
Signore,
I have a letter from the Sultan Suleiman to the Grand Master Philippe Villiers de L’Isle Adam.”

Tadini smiled at Monile. Without listening to another word, he said, “Take this back to the Sultan, Suleiman.” He turned to the
musketeer nearest him and said, “Send him on his way, but do not hurt him.”

A shot rang out, the blast making Tadini wince. A thud came from the direction of Monile, as the bullet struck the mud next to his feet. Monile dropped the standard with the white flag, and began to scramble back through the trench far faster than he had come.

The knights and the guards watched until he disappeared into the Turkish lines.

Tadini turned and hobbled back along the walls in the direction of the Palace. As he passed the musketeer, he smiled and said, “
Grazie
.”