La Valette shook his head. ‘Kill him, and you risk discouraging other good young men from joining the Order. Sir Thomas’s crime is that he is a young man, and we all know full well the powerful desires and needs that we once shared with Sir Thomas. If he is executed for a temporary lapse of judgement then men like him, men whom we need, will refuse to join us. There is a better way,’ La Valette continued. ‘A way that shows we will not tolerate such indiscretions. I say that we expel Sir Thomas from the Order.’
‘Expel him?’ The Grand Master frowned. ‘What kind of punishment is that?’
‘There is nothing more shameful.’ La Valette turned towards Thomas. ‘I believe I have the measure of this man. He counts his membership of the Order the highest honour a man can attain in this life. It is the Order that gives shape and value to his existence. Withdraw that and he lives on in shame, and knows the full weight of his loss every day. That is the punishment that should be imposed. Besides, while he lives, he can still put his talent for war to use in the service of Christendom somewhere, if not here.’
Thomas was grateful for La Valette’s intervention. It might save his life. But the words of his mentor were true enough. There was no dishonour greater in his mind than being cast out of the Order. What would he do then? His honour would be held cheap in the eyes of all those who came to know his fate.
The Grand Master was silent as he pondered the young knight’s fate. At length he drew a deep breath and spoke. ‘I have reached a decision. Sir Thomas Barrett will be stripped of his rank and all privileges pertaining to his membership of the Order. His coat of arms is to be removed from the quarters of the English knights and he will be taken from the island as soon as passage on a ship can be arranged for him. He is never to return here upon pain of death, save by express permission of the Order. He is an exile, and shall remain so until death claim him or it is the will of the incumbent Grand Master to remit his exile, on terms set out in such an eventuality.’ He rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘Take the prisoner away.’
‘No!’ Thomas cried out. ‘Let me see Maria first.’
‘How dare you?’ Romegas said furiously. ‘Take the insolent swine away! At once.’
Thomas felt his arms grasped by the soldiers on either side once again. He struggled as they dragged him towards the door. ‘Let me see her! One more time. I must see her. For pity’s sake!’
‘Get him out of here!’ d’Omedes shouted.
Thomas writhed but the men held him tightly and thrust him towards the door. ‘What is to become of her? What are you going to do with Maria?’
‘Her turn will come,’ the Grand Master told him. ‘She, too, will be judged and punished accordingly. You can be sure of that.’ Thomas felt as if his heart was being torn asunder and he looked pleadingly towards Stokely as he was led away. ‘For the sake of our former friendship, Oliver, swear that you will take care of her. It is I who deserve your wrath, not Maria. She is innocent. Swear that you will protect her!’
Stokely stood still and silent, and only a faint smile of satisfaction betrayed his feelings as Thomas was dragged outside and the door closed behind him.
In all the years since he had been banished from the Order of St John, Thomas had kept himself lean and fit and put his considerable fighting skills to use. He had spent much of the time as a mercenary fighting in the interminable wars that raged across Europe. Death, from disease, hunger and battle, had been at his side throughout and yet had spared him, a few wounds notwithstanding. In addition, continual reading and studying kept his mind agile. He would not succumb to the self-indulgent foolishness that seemed to consume the English nobility who lounged indolently in their ornamental gardens and great houses. They called themselves lords and knights yet not one in ten was capable of taking his place in the battle line.
At forty-five Thomas still moved with an easy grace. Even though there were streaks of grey at his temples and in his beard, and his face was weathered and starting to wrinkle, most people instinctively knew he was not to be trifled with. There were times, though fewer and fewer these days, when he attended a court event and attracted the unwanted attention of a drunken fop, who had heard some story about Sir Thomas and determined to put the quiet knight to the test. But Thomas had long since mastered the art of deflecting fools in a polite and self-effacing manner. Sooner a display of mature tolerance than any confrontation that could only result in a very public humiliation of a younger man. Thomas had tasted the bitter shame of humiliation himself in his youth and had learned the value of self-restraint. It was a lesson paid for alone in the darkness when he had buried his face in a coarse bolster to hide his misery from others. He had no wish to win new enemies so he let the oafishness amongst these soft English aristocrats ride over him and did his best to ignore it.
Only once had he been forced to harm another in order to defend himself. It was over ten years before, at a feast for the Lord Mayor in London. Thomas had been confronted by a loudspoken youth, tall and broad and far too full of some misguided sense of his martial prowess. Yet even he had been nervous when he confronted Thomas. His young eyes were wide and alert, his hand trembling ever so faintly as it slid from the pommel of his rapier and grasped the handle. Before his blade had rasped more than a few inches from its finely decorated scabbard, Thomas’s hand had clamped round the boy’s wrist like an iron manacle, and he shook his head with a gentle, warning smile, before turning away. But the fool had shouted with affronted rage and continued to draw his sword. Thomas spun back and pinned the youth’s arm to his thigh with a slender dirk that had seemed to come from nowhere, so quickly had it materialised. The boy had collapsed to the floor. Thomas had calmly retrieved his blade and dressed the wound, before making his apologies to the host and quitting the feast.
He shook his head at the memory, still angry with himself for not reading the lad’s expression in time to prevent the incident. There was enough blood on his hands already and he had no desire to add to the suffering he had already caused so many others, heathen and Christian alike. The memory of it had tormented him in the years after his return to England. Now it had become just another scar fading with age and familiarity.
Thomas drew his coat closer about his shoulders and rose from the window seat, crossed to the hearth and carefully placed two more split logs on the fire. He watched them for a moment in idle fascination as steam hissed from cracks in the wood, and then there was a sharp pop and flurry of sparks before a bright yellow flame flickered up from the glowing embers below the logs. He returned to the window seat and sat down again, staring into the gathering shadows outside.
Above the crackling of the firewood he heard sounds of a commotion in the hall and his curiosity was piqued. Only a handful of servants still lived in the hall. He had no need for more. Certainly no need for the dozens that had waited on his parents and brothers long years ago, in childhood, before his father had secured him a place in the Order. Both parents had died shortly after Thomas had left England, and he had received only a terse letter from his older brother, Edward, informing him of the illness that had killed them within days of each other. Then Edward had been killed in a hunting accident and, a year later, young Robert had died at sea, serving on a privateer whose only booty had been the dysentery that had swept through the crew and left in its wake a handful of skeletal figures who finally reached Dartmouth several months later. On his return to the hall Thomas had been told the story by the maid who had served as Robert’s nurse. Robert had always been the family favourite, fair-haired and fair-humoured with a wild adventurous streak, quite unlike the dour, quiet Thomas. Thomas had never resented him, nor wished to emulate his popularity. He had simply loved his brother.
Now he was the last of them. He lived alone, apart from his manservant, John, the elderly maid, Hannah, and a young stable lad who managed the remaining six horses and riding tackle in the yard behind the hall. Stephen rarely spoke to the others, and was more horse than man, according to Hannah. Beyond that, the only other family retainer was the steward of the estate who now lived in Bishops Stortford and oversaw the tenants on Thomas’s land, collected their rents and banked the income for his master, sending him a statement of the accounts twice a year.
The hall in Hertfordshire had been in the family for eight generations. Thomas was the last in the line of the Barrett family. He had not married and had no heirs. On his death, the estate would pass to a distant cousin, a man Thomas had never met, and cared nothing about.
From time to time attempts had been made by friends of his father to arrange a union for Thomas. He had politely but insistently declined the opportunities that were steered his way. Some of the women had been well connected, attractive enough, and even intelligent. But not one had borne a moment’s comparison to Maria and they only served to remind Thomas of what he had lost and could never regain in this life. And such was the nature of their parting that there was little prospect of any divine power permitting their reunion in the afterlife. It was in this spirit of perpetual loss that Thomas lived out his life. After Maria there was nothing, only the gnawing ache of recollection of touch, gesture, smile, expression and fragments of moments shared in each other’s arms.
For an instant the memories were overwhelming and Thomas shook his head angrily, clenching his fists and glaring sightlessly through the window at the quiet serenity beyond. Then the moment passed and he sighed, the tight exhalation of one who has just come out from under the surgeon’s knife.
There was a quiet knock at the door of the study and Thomas turned away from the window.
‘Yes?’
The latch lifted and the dark oak door gently swung into the room as John entered. He nodded to his master and gestured back towards the darkened corridor outside the study.
‘A messenger has arrived, sir.’
‘Messenger?’ Thomas frowned. ‘Who is he?’
‘A foreigner, sir,’ John said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘He called himself Philippe de Nanterre.’
Thomas was silent for a moment. ‘I do not know the name. Did he say who sent him, or what the message concerns?’
‘He said the message was for your ears alone, sir.’
Thomas felt a faint pang of anxiety. What was a Frenchman doing here in England, in his house, if not to stir up some aspect of a past life long buried?
‘Where is he now?’ Thomas raised his eyebrows.
‘In the lobby, sir.’ John shrugged. ‘I thought it best.’
‘Bid him enter and let him warm himself at the fire in the hall. It is only Christian to offer him some token of hospitality, especially at this time of year.’
Thomas did not welcome the intrusion. In recent years few had come to see him for social reasons, still less send him an invitation to a masque or banquet. He usually treated unexpected visitors as an irritant, something he could deal with swiftly and then ignore. He felt a terrible weariness in his bones and did not wish to be disturbed now that he had settled by his fire for the evening. If this man, Philippe de Nanterre, had come with an offer of military service then he would leave disappointed. Thomas had made his peace with the world, and with his enemies, and wanted to be left alone. He stroked his neatly cut beard and stared at his servant.
‘Did you divine anything of his business with me?’
‘I did.’ John smiled. ‘He has a letter for you, master. I saw it in his saddlebag while I led his horse to the stable yard. It has now been safely returned to him.’
Thomas could not help a small smile of his own. ‘His bag just happened to be open, no doubt.’
‘It is no fault of mine if the buckle was not adequately fastened, sir. I merely sought to bring you more information.’
‘Then you have done well. And what of his letter that you just happened to see?’
‘It is a folded parchment, sealed. The sender left no name on the outside.’
‘So, did you recognise the seal?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then describe it.’
‘It is a cross, sir. A cross with an indent at each end.’
Thomas felt a ripple of lightness in his head and he closed his eyes briefly and fought down the tide of memories and images that swelled up unbidden and unwanted. Yet there was also a spark of hope in his chest, fanned by his curiosity. He drew a deep breath before he opened his eyes and regarded his servant. ‘Take him to the kitchen and feed him.’
‘Sir?’ John raised his eyebrows. ‘But he’s a foreigner, sir. Not to be trusted. I’d send him on his way, if I were you, sir.’
‘Then it is as well that you are not. It will be dark soon and the track to Bishops Stortford is icy. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be safe. If he chooses, he can stay here for the night. Feed him and offer him a bed. And tell him I will speak with him shortly.’
John grunted but knew better than to provoke his master. Thomas smiled faintly. ‘He must have come a long way to find me. The least we can do is offer him the hospitality of the house. Now go and see to his needs.’
John bowed his head and left the study, closing the door behind him. As his footsteps echoed down the oak-panelled hall, Thomas stroked his beard thoughtfully. He recognised John’s description of the seal only too well. It was the emblem of the Knights Hospitaller. After all the long years of waiting, the Order had at last broken its silence.
As soon as Thomas opened the door and entered the kitchen he knew that all the routine and isolation of recent years was over. Sitting with his back to the cooking fire, the messenger was stooped over a steaming bowl. His eyes flickered up as the master of the hall entered, and he quickly rose, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. He had a swarthy complexion, with a livid white scar across his brow. His face was weathered and his expression firm but polite and yet Thomas saw that he could not have been much more than twenty. A soldier old before his time, as were all novices who survived their first few years in the Order. The messenger still wore a thick dark riding cloak. At the shoulder was a stained and bespattered white cross whose arms broadened out and then divided into two points, one for each of the languages of the Order.
‘Sir Thomas Barrett? I have a message for you. From the Grand Master.’ The English was good but the accent was thick — from the southern region of France, he guessed. Thomas nodded and gestured for the man to sit down.