He took command of six mounted Spanish soldiers, and summoned knight volunteers before the Palace. Soon he was joined by his fellow countryman, the Chevalier Adrien de la Rivière, the Portuguese knight, Pedro Mezquita, sitting high and haughty in his decorated saddle as befitted a knight who was also the nephew of the Governor of Mdina, and the novice of his langue, Bartolomeo Faraone.
Nicholas begged Stanley to let him ride out with them.
‘These are knights and veteran soldiers, boy. This is a cavalry sortie, and very fast moving.’
‘I can ride as well as any in Shropshire.’
‘You have no horse.’
‘Your stables are full of them. I saw a fine white mare.’
‘It is safer out there,’ said Smith, hoping to dissuade the young hothead. ‘This is where the fight will be.’
‘I’ll be back for it,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I want to ride out.’
‘What of Hodge?’
Hodge looked unhappy.
Nicholas said, ‘He can sit on a palfrey and fairly imitate a sack of mangels. Can you not, Hodge?’
‘Me and horses don’t get on,’ said Hodge.
Stanley said, ‘Very well, Hodge, you shall be my squire, and as they say in Rome, the servus servorum dei.’
‘What’s that when it’s put in English then?’
‘It means you’ll do what you’re told.’ He turned on Nicholas. ‘Well, get to the stables, lad. You’ll have no armour, and you know nothing of turning a lance. Only your short sword, which is no cavalry sword. So make sure you choose a fast mount.’
Nicholas ran.
‘Was that wise?’ muttered Smith.
‘He’ll be back in a wink,’ said Stanley with a grin. ‘Grand Marshal Copier will never take him. Let him learn.’
Trotting down to the south gate, Copier reined in his troop of nine and glared back over his shoulder.
‘That man at the back. Ride up, sir!’
Nicholas came up smartly on his white mare.
‘Who the devil may you be?’
‘English gentleman and volunteer, sir!’
‘Good. Now back to your wall, and quick about it.’
‘I was told I could ride with you.’
‘Well, you can’t. Who told you? The Grand Master?’
‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘the Chevalier Edward St-’
‘I only take orders from the Grand Master and from God.’ Copier heeled his horse. The troop moved forward.
Nicholas rode after them.
A few last refugees came in through the gate before Copier and his troop rode out. Infants and aged women, skinny dogs and scraggy chickens in wicker cages, pitiful possessions borne on donkeys and primitive carts, or in wooden wheelbarrows with creaking wheels.
They looked up at the squadron of cavalry with their lances and muskets, long swords and tall helmets, so fine in the sun. One old woman made the sign of the cross in the air.
Outside the gate, Copier looked back again and bellowed with anger. ‘God damn you for a fool and a knave, I ordered you back inside!’
‘I came to Malta as a volunteer,’ said Nicholas. ‘I am not under your command. I ride where I will.’
Just in front of him, Pedro Mezquita suppressed a laugh. This English boy had spirit.
‘Then you are not under my command, and you are not under my protection!’ roared Copier, red-faced and furious. ‘The Turk lands on this island in two hours, and he will have your balls for his breakfast!’
He spurred furiously and his startled horse leapt forward. ‘Troop, at all speed!’
They were just about to leave the walls of San Angelo and row over to St Elmo when Stanley paused. ‘They’re turning.’
‘What?’
‘Look. They’re turning.’
It was true. The Ottoman crescent was sailing southwards, away from the entrance to the Grand Harbour.
‘Why the devil?’
‘They must be going south round to Marsasirocco. It’s the only other bay will take ’em. Then coming back overland.’
Without another word, Smith went to inform La Valette. But La Valette already knew. Smith thought he even saw something like a smile play on the Grand Master’s lips. A rare occurrence indeed.
‘It will be harder for them, Sire,’ said Smith, puzzled. ‘To carry all those great guns overland.’
‘Quite so. But several months ago, I had one of our double agents in Constantinople convince their Admiral Piyale that St Elmo was ferociously served with the best cannon, and that the gregale, our north-east wind, would play havoc with their fleet in the east-facing Marsamuscetto.’
‘But the gregale barely blows in the summer months.’
Now La Valette was unmistakably smiling.
Smith said, ‘Mustafa Pasha must know this. He knows every bay, every wind and current in the Mediterranean.’
‘But Piyale does not. This tells us something of their command structure for the campaign. Clearly Piyale is commander of the fleet, as Mustafa is commander of the land forces.’
‘You can only have one commander.’
‘When Suleiman was younger, he would have commanded himself. But now he is old, and growing foolish. Dividing his command was the first mistake. Sailing for Marsasirocco, they have made two.’
Smith regarded his Grand Master with more reverence than ever, if that were possible. This great battle was one that La Valette had already been fighting for months. Years.
4
The cavalry troop rode south to follow the Ottoman fleet from the high cliffs. Nicholas rode a safe distance behind.
Inland Malta was a bare rocky tableland of stark pueblos, single-storey houses, white cubes glaring in the sun. Shelters for men and shelters for animals often indistinguishable. Many had fled for the safety of Birgu, but some stayed out in these villages, thinking it safer to hide away from the heart of the holocaust.
There were green melon patches, scratching hens, a goat tethered in the shade of a carob tree, nibbling a few hard leaves, its ribs straining beneath the skin. A dull iron bell clanged from a squat church tower. Then the bell-ringer appeared, a skeletal toothless priest in filthy gaberdine. He watched them pass without a word of greeting. There was another goat lying dead among the rocks, its belly bloated. Perhaps it had been slaughtered so at least the Mohammedan devils would not have it. Clouded with excited flies, its rotting stench mingled on the air with the sweet thyme.
There were olives and prickly pear and Fiori de Pasqua, but it was a hard, bitter landscape. Nicholas imagined High Spain and the Castilian plain was like this, only immeasurably more vast. What a land to fight for.
They rode down past the villages of Zabbar and Zeitun, and watched in bafflement as the Grand Fleet still sailed on, past Marsasirocco Bay and north again up the west coast, past the bird island of Filfla, haunted by the souls of the dead. They rode across to Zurrieq, and then north along the forbidding heights of the cliffs of Dingli.
‘Perhaps they sail for Ghain Tuffieha Bay?’ said De la Rivière.
Copier grunted. It was a poor anchorage compared to Marsasirocco.
Night began to fall, and on a millpond sea, the fleet dropped anchor. Nicholas thought of the fleet of Agamemnon off the coast of Troy. The ships rode serenely on their hawsers as if with nothing to fear. Ghain Tuffieha and Gejna were but small bays with golden sand, just enough for them to anchor, and very far from St Angelo. A two or three hour march for a man with a pack. But dragging the siege guns …
‘My fear is they will station between Malta and Gozo,’ said Copier. ‘That way they will cut off any hope of our relief from Sicily.’
De la Rivière hadn’t thought of that. He looked grave.
Laughter and shouts in Turkish sounded over the water. ‘Arkadaş! Akşam yemeği!’ Lanterns were lit, dinners cooked on the steady decks. Spirits were sky-high. ‘Zefer!’ Victory! They would land unopposed.