Disorderly Knights - Dorothy Dunnett [49]
Gabriel smiled, and forestalling de Villegagnon, said, ‘There is no answer but armour to arquebus shot and scimitars, M. le Comte. Ours is made and seamed like glove leather in Germany, and in our armoury here. With the surcoat of the Order to protect us from the direct sun, we do very well … have done very well, perhaps, for a thousand years.’
He paused. Lymond added nothing. Upton was busily writing on a dog-eared sheaf of notes and de Villegagnon was looking over the Turcopilier’s shoulder. Gabriel said suddenly in a low voice, but with great clarity, ‘Mr Crawford, you have come to us at a time when the Order was never in greater need of friends. You must understand that to men who have taken vows and offered their lives as these have, the Moslem faith is an insult to the Church we adore; a pit into which all that is noble in mankind may well fall and be swallowed. We here on this fragment of rock are the shield of Christianity, of culture, of humanity, of all the great arts for which men have died. Think of that, and don’t despise us. We are not simpletons. We are not poor spirits fled to a cloister. We are men as you are, who have foresworn the pleasures of men; who will forego home and life itself if need be, to defend our heritage from the hosts of the fiend.’
Breathing quickly, Graham Malett suddenly stopped. Sweat, beading the fair skin, sparkled in the lamplight; and below his eyes, clear as seawater, dark shadows remained from the stress of the day. For a moment, raising his cupped hands, he masked his face from the circle of silent eyes. Then, dropping his hands open upon the table he added, his voice not quite clear, ‘Do you not think that I am human too? Do you think my vows are simple to keep?’
For a long moment, alone among the silent men at the table, Gabriel’s strained gaze sustained Francis Crawford’s. Then Sir Graham stirred, glanced quickly round and said, his voice almost normal, ‘God forgive me. I have embarrassed you, and myself too, come to that. What can I do? Gentlemen, I propose to take you back home for the finest wine my cellar can afford. After all, it may be the last chance we shall have to drink it. Nick—you can do nothing till morning. Come, man, and bring your lists with you.’
The passion which had brought Graham Malett to plead with a stranger was now well concealed. With talk sober but easy, Gabriel made the burden of that evening a light one; and later, when they were dispersing to sleep and Lymond and de Villegagnon had already gone, he put his light hand, restraining, on Jerott’s arm.
‘Wait a moment, if you will have patience with me. I think you are a friend of Mr Crawford’s?’
‘I knew him once,’ Jerott said.
Gabriel smiled. ‘Don’t be hard on him. He is young. And he has been embarrassed quite enough. Jerott.… you seemed to know of some wish he had to reach Gozo. Don’t tell me why. But,’ said the great Graham Malett, making a quick, rueful face and holding up in two fingers a folded fragment of paper, torn and dirtied with much handling, ‘this note came this evening from Gozo for Mr Crawford of Lymond, and I am sure he would be much happier if he thought it came through you rather than through me. Someone in Gozo, it seems,’ said Gabriel gravely, ‘heard with half the population this morning of his arrival from Sicily, and sent a hurried message to him addressed through me. Unfortunately, the superscription had been torn off and I have had to read it to discover its destination but, I promise you, I forget already all it contains.’ And handing the dirty note with gravest formality to Jerott Blyth, the merest glint of amusement in his eyes, Gabriel bowed and