The Last Crusaders: Blood Red Sea (6 page)

Nicholas looked questioning.

‘Later. But as for England – my friends, my heart is heavy beyond telling.’ De Andrada took a deep breath. ‘Only last year, the Holy Father in Rome, Pope Pius V, issued a bull declaring your Queen Elizabeth excommunicate.’

The words sank slowly in. Excommunicate. Denied membership of the true Church, and eternal salvation. Pronounced a heretic, and so a false claimant to the throne of England. Now it was the duty of every Catholic prince in Europe to bring her down.

And Nicholas and Hodge were Catholics – and therefore traitors. They could never go home.

The silence was bitterly painful to all there. Fra Bernardo and Gil de Andrada could have wept for sorrow. These two were like Odysseus the wanderer, forever kept from his home in Ithaca by the malice of the gods.

At last Nicholas reached out his hand and laid it on the shoulder of his friend and comrade Hodge. Exiles and eternal wanderers together.

Hodge’s shoulders began to shake.

‘Bring them wine,’ rapped Gil de Andrada.

They drank only a little before they felt they could sleep again, heavy with weariness and sorrow.

‘There is more to discuss, but enough for now,’ said Gil de Andrada. ‘What is past is past. What is yet to come is in the hands of God. All things rest in God.’

Hodge and Nicholas lay down in the gently rocking cabin. Perhaps each time they slept would be less nightmare-ridden than the last. Perhaps their minds would heal eventually, along with their bodies.

‘When your skin can bear them,’ said De Andrada in the doorway, ‘there are clothes in that chest. And there is also this trinket that came off your neck.’

He was holding up the diamond necklace. Nicholas had quite forgotten it, a worthless thing compared to life itself.

‘I am no great judge of stones,’ said De Andrada. ‘You’ll need an Antwerp Jew for that. But I would hazard a guess this necklace is worth more than a peso or two.’ He tossed it over with a smile, and then a leather belt. ‘The belt has a hidden pouch within it, like a snakeskin. Hide the thing well in there. Perhaps you might even live long enough to change it into gold one day.’

They had fine sailing westwards to Cadiz, with the shores of Africa a few leagues off to port all the way. At any time another corsair galley might have been spotted, slipping out of some narrow sandy lagoon past the date palms where it had its lair. But they felt little apprehension. No corsair galley would dare to attack a ship flying the standard of the Knights of Malta. Even an entire squadron of them would hesitate. Corsairs were cowards, preying upon the weak and defenceless. And the knights were most certainly not defenceless.

Nicholas took only one look down below, where the captured corsairs were now chained to the benches in their turn, straining under the lash to speed the sails. His eye roved blankly over them as he squatted at the top of the steps, staring down, hearing them groan, his stomach turning at the familiar stench. Other than that, he felt nothing at all. Christ, he wondered, has my heart turned to stone? Suffering turned few men into saints. Most men it simply made hard and unfeeling.

He and Hodge sat out on deck in the shade of the sails and breathed in the fresh salt wind and felt a little stronger each day. They passed the time telling their rapt shipmates tales of Malta. The younger knights had missed out on the Great Siege, to their bitter chagrin, and wanted to hear every moment of the story. Nicholas told them as much as he could bear, and Hodge too was a fine raconteur, plain and clear sighted and with the exact memory for telling detail of the true countryman, having passed his Shropshire boyhood
noting the changing colour of the haws each passing month, or telling the print of a dog otter from a bitch in the riverside mud . . .

He also had his forthright opinions on foreigners, not a whit abashed that, apart from himself and Master Nicholas, everyone on this ship was a foreigner.

‘The Grand Master, this Valette,’ he declared, ‘knew how to give orders, and wasn’t a bad fellow for a Frenchman.’

‘What do you mean by that, friend?’ asked the young Chevalier de Rochefort.

Nicholas smiled and looked away.

Hodge said, ‘Only that your Frenchman, with only a few exceptions, is a deceitful simpering cotquean with not enough blood in him to fill a chicken, and a great friend of the Turk to boot.’

De Rochefort, of impeccably noble ancestry, French to his fingertips and still only a hot-headed nineteen, looked as if he might go below for his sword. But Gil de Andrada near by, enjoying Hodge’s account enormously, called out in stentorian tones, ‘Respect to our heroes of Malta and guests aboard, De Rochefort, sir! Let him speak! If you dislike his harsh opinions about the conduct of France in this great war – and his opinions are by no means unusual – then get below and wad your ears with gun cotton! Speak on, Master Hodge. Fine entertainment.’

‘He has opinions on other foreigners too,’ said Nicholas.

‘I’m heartily grateful you plucked us from the water back there,’ said Hodge. ‘We’d have been dead in a day. But this is what I learned at Malta, among other things. Your Spaniard is full of hot wind and boasting, but he can fight hardily enough if he’s in a corner. They gave a good enough account of themselves at Elmo, those Spanish pikemen, I allow that: almost as good as Englishmen at times. Portuguesers, well, they’re just like Spaniards, only shorter. Your Italian, he’ll fight best if there’s a pretty woman watching to admire, it, or some such reward at the end of it. Otherwise he’s another one full of hot wind, and treacherous and incestuous to boot. We met some Greeks, and they’re a snivelling wretched race. I don’t see how they could ever have been heroes like in the tales of Homer. Frenchmen you know about. Germans are fat, greasy barbarians, as are the Dutch. Others – well, they’re worse. But I don’t care if I am aboard a ship full of foreigners, I won’t fear to
say it – there’s not a dozen foreigners of any nation who would be worth a single Englishman.’

At that, Hodge folded his arms and glared around to meet any challenge.

De Andrada led the applause. ‘You, Master Hodge, are truly one of these dauntless Englishmen we’ve heard about, with hearts made of oak.’

Hodge nodded acceptance.

‘Just promise me – you will never work for your country’s diplomatic service.’

Nicholas asked, ‘Why are you patrolling off Spain?’

The Italian knight, Luigi Mazzinghi, answered him. An elegant young Florentine nobleman with a gentle voice, dark and lustrous hair down to the shoulder, flashing-eyed and with a ready smile, he was one of those knights for whom it must have been hard to keep strictly to the vow of chastity. The ladies would besiege him like the Armies of the Turk.

He explained, ‘The rebellion of the Moriscos in Spain. You know of the Moriscos?’

‘I have heard of them. The last Moorish subjects still living in Andalusia, but converts to Christianity.’

‘Converts in name only,’ interrupted Giustiniani, a grizzled veteran of a knight with a broken nose and a beard peppered black and grey. ‘They are Mohammedans still, and their loyalty to King Philip and to Rome is worth less than nothing. A Mohammedan population among a Christian will always cause trouble. Now with the power of the Ottomans in the East growing once more, the Moriscos have risen in revolt from their mountain fastnesses in the Alpujarras, dreaming of Spain being Muslim again. Perhaps all Europe, under the rule of the Caliphate in Istanbul.’

‘And you are patrolling – because the Turks are trying to supply them by sea?’

‘Correct. In fact the Turks have already supplied them. A previous coastal patrol under the Marquis de Mondejar was wrecked in a storm, and the Turks, or their corsair allies, took the opportunity to slip in under nightfall. They must have made contact, and supplied generously. When the Moriscos rose in revolt, they
were armed with the finest blades, muskets and arquebuses from the Ottoman armouries, and full of confidence under their leader, Aben Humeya. It has taken nearly a year to suppress the revolt, and it is still not done. And now King Philip has made his base-born half-brother, Don John of Austria, commander of his home forces.’

Nicholas could tell from his voice that Giustiniani had no high opinion of Don John of Austria. He said, ‘I met him once.’ He gave an abrupt laugh at the strange memory. ‘In a quayside tavern in Messina. He was making for Malta too.’

‘But he did not quite make it?’

‘King Philip ordered him home.’

Giustiniani harrumphed.

Nicholas said, ‘He was wearing white kidskin gloves, a suit of pure white velvet, and soft white leather top boots to above the knee.’

‘And this is the man charged with extirpating the Morisco rebellion!’ cried Giustiniani.

‘I remember thinking,’ admitted Nicholas, ‘that if he hadn’t mentioned his mistresses at least twice in as many minutes, I would have taken him for a . . . well, the kind of gentleman who prefers the company of other gentlemen.’

Giustiniani’s expression suggested he’d just eaten a bad oyster. ‘Though the truth is, he devours ladies like a fox in a hen coop.’

Mazzinghi smiled.

When he had possession of his feelings again, the older knight said, ‘There have been many atrocities. At times it looked like outright civil war. The Moriscos spread terror across Andalusia. Men, women and children have been burned alive in locked churches, priests tortured to death, their own crucifixes used against them as instruments of torture. Nuns raped and their mouths filled with gunpowder to prevent them uttering the names of the Virgin or of Christ at their moment of death. Then burning linstocks touched to their lips . . .’

Nicholas closed his eyes, but the picture did not improve. War always produced rumours of imaginative savagery. But he had seen enough of war to know that some of these rumours were true.

‘So far,’ said Giustiniani, ‘three hundred Christian villages have been destroyed, and perhaps four thousand people killed. Their
leader, this Aben Humeya, calls himself “King of Andalusia”, and his right-hand man, Aben Farax, is even worse.’

‘The revenge of the Spanish militias will be terrible,’ said Nicholas quietly.

‘That it will,’ said Mazzinghi. ‘Nothing breeds so readily as cruelty.’

‘But it’s a well-timed revolt, however cruel.’

‘Ah,’ said Giustiniani. ‘So you see the wider picture?’

‘I think so. Spain is the only Christian power that could conceivably face up to the might of the Ottoman Empire – though still no match for it, in truth. But if the Turks can ruin Spain from within—’

‘And Spain’s vast possessions in the New World?’

‘You think the Turks dream of taking the New World?’

‘If Spain lay in smoking ruins . . . what would stop them?’

Nicholas felt as if he were looking into an abyss. And he remembered something Stanley had once said. This was not just a war of the Mediterranean. It was a war for the world.

‘Spain is financed by the silver of Peru,’ said Giustiniani. ‘Portuguese ships exchange cannon fire with Turkish off Goa, in the Indian Ocean. The whole world is implicated. And then closer to home, there is still a little island called Malta.’

Nicholas looked at him sharply. ‘The Turks would sail against Malta again?’

‘The Armies of Islam will always come again.’

He felt sickened at the thought. ‘It cannot have all been for nothing.’

‘It wasn’t for nothing,’ said Mazzinghi gently. ‘That summer, six years ago. It was one of the noblest stands against Islam in a thousand years. All Europe was saved by it. Would to God I had been there.’

‘You were still suckling at the teat,’ said Giustiniani. ‘But as you must understand, English comrade – even Malta was but a battle in a far greater war.’ Giustiniani looked out to sea, and even this warrior monk of St John, his austere life dedicated to never-ending crusade for the faith, showed an expression like regret. ‘Cyprus is under siege again. And there is a great sea battle coming soon. I think it is a war that will never be done.’

They sailed into Cadiz harbour as dusk was falling, the whitewashed houses glowing warm in the last rays of the sun. There were fine churches, warehouses, mules and muleteers, a babel of seamen’s voices, wheeling seabirds, huge catches of fish being offloaded on the quayside.

‘It is against the words of the Scripture,’ said Gil de Andrada, smiling broadly and holding a purse out. ‘But here, my sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine. This is for your services, to go and get drunk in a tavern. But try to stay out of trouble.’

‘Our services?’ said Nicholas.

‘Your tales of Malta. They were worth a few ducats.’

Still he hesitated. He hated taking money like this, but then again, stepping ashore on Spanish soil with not a penny to their name might have caused problems, until they found a Jewish dealer in diamonds.

The pragmatic Hodge took the purse anyway. ‘Much obliged, sir. I’m looking forward to a good hot meal myself.’

Gil de Andrada raised a hand, and behind him, Mazzinghi and Giustiniani and Fra Bernardo and the rest. ‘We bid you farewell. Perhaps you will make it back to England, and somehow keep your heads there. Play the scurvy politician and turn Protestant, for comfort’s sake.’

‘Never,’ said Nicholas. ‘My parents were Catholics. Their parents, and theirs. I am a Catholic.’

‘Well, said De Andrada. ‘Just supposing. Then write a letter to the Grand Master in Malta. Though I don’t suppose it will ever get past your English spymaster Cecil, the most cunning in Christendom, they say.’

‘Our thanks again,’ said Nicholas. ‘And fair sailing to Malta.’

They climbed down the ladder.

It was only when their feet touched dry land that they felt truly free again. Back on Christian soil, free men, and with a dozen ducats in their purse. The surge of joy and animal spirits, the warm Spanish night, were almost overwhelming.

‘By God, Hodge, we’ve made it. We’ve actually made it!’

They embraced and danced like madmen on the quayside. Fishermen stared.

‘Food,’ said Hodge.

‘Wine,’ said Nicholas.

They went to a quayside tavern and sat down on a bench in the gathering dusk and wiped their sweating brows. ‘Wine. And fresh water.’