‘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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Barrett Hall, Hertfordshire 13 December, St Lucia’s Day, 1564
The first message arrived at dusk, on a cold, bleak evening. Thomas was sitting on an old carved chair in his study, gazing out through leaded windows. A blanket of snow covered the meadow that stretched down from the hall. Distorted glimmers of red and gold shimmered on the panes of glass as they reflected the glow of a dying fire in the hearth. Outside, the light was cool and blue and comfortless and he stared into its depths without moving or, indeed, showing any sign of life. It was as if his heart was as cold and still as the world outside, wrapped in a shroud, waiting for a rekindling of warmth and growth when the season changed. Though spring would return, just as sure as the rising and the setting of the sun, the prospect was of little cheer to Thomas. The years had unravelled around him like old worn cloth and he cared little for their passing. His spirit had long since turned to stone — hard, unyielding and unfeeling. But even if his heart had shrivelled, he still cared for his physical well-being and ate sparingly and exercised every day whatever the weather or his state of health. He was a creature of habit.
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.