Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [47]
Then on the eve of Jerott’s wedding, amid the mourning for his father, Elizabeth too had died, and he had barely attended to the rumours of Lymond’s wild subsequent career. Until, long settled in France, where his family were now in business, in course of taking his caravans and his vows to become a knight of Malta, Jerott had wondered now and then what the instant affinity had been that he had felt, nine years ago at Solway Moss, and whether, a man now instead of a boy, he would find it a childhood illusion.
In search of enlightenment, Jerott Blyth attached himself with great firmness that evening to the party which went to dine, after the Council meeting broke up, in the Auberge of France. As well as Lymond, de Villegagnon was there, and Graham Malett, with Nicholas Upton the Turcopilier, refugee from the non-existent English Langue.
For the sake of coolness the meal was set in the courtyard, visible through the crested doorway, its barrel arch lozenged in colour. For sixty scudi a year, the Pilier could clearly serve his knights’ hunger most handsomely. The platter from which each quartet of knights ate was of silver; the food oily but surprisingly varied. Jerott Blyth listened, crumbling his brown, loose-textured bread, to Gabriel’s level and accurate account of all that had happened in Council since they left. Nothing had convinced de Homedès of Malta’s danger, and for his own reasons nothing ever would. He had given sanction for limited safeguards and, short of violence, could be made to do no more. It was for the knights themselves to stretch these as far as possible, and without equipment, without prospect of help from Sicily or the Emperor, to arm the citadel of Malta ‘with straw and sea air’, as de Villegagnon said bitterly, as best they might.
Throughout the heat of the argument Lymond had, Jerott noted, restrained comment. It was, after all, the Order’s own dirty linen which was being turned over. A thought struck him. Leaning over, he said in an undertone, ‘Have you been to Gozo yet?’ From Birgu to the north tip of Malta was only a dozen miles or so, and four miles across the channel from that was the island of Gozo, where that woman was. Or where he supposed she was, if the Governor hadn’t got tired of her.
Hoping for some observable reaction, he was disappointed. Lymond, watching Gabriel as he talked of fortifications, simply shook his head.
‘It will be a little awkward now, surely, that you can’t leave the island?’ Jerott persevered.
He had spoken more loudly than he meant and Gabriel, who had a disconcerting trick of following conversations on several levels at once, broke off and said, ‘If Mr Crawford wants to cross to Gozo, I can take him.’
With no perceptible pause Lymond answered as easily. ‘I should like to see all the fortifications of both Gozo and Malta, but we should perhaps draw up our plan first. The Turcopilier and yourself have all the local knowledge we need.’ And Jerott, noting the evasion, was rather gratified by the results of his impulse.
It was only later, as they settled down to the detail of the defence, that he realized that Lymond had spoken the truth, if not the whole truth. His grasp of the fortifications of Birgu and St Angelo was already uncomfortably accurate; his analysis damning in its lack of colour. Nick Upton, in whose bailiwick the deficient fortresses fell, interrupted once or twice, his colour heightened, until Gabriel in his deep voice said, ‘Nick, this is the fault of no one but the Grand Master. If we are going to make the best of it we must accept the facts as they are. It is too late to make sea palisades; the hoops are rotten and there are no long chains in